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One Morning in July…

Monday, July 10th, 2006

(Pics were taken with my little toy-spy camera)

They all gathered. Young and old, Cold War veterans and the new generation of peace protesters—even a contingent of Buddhist monks.

AWEmonk.jpg

By the time I arrived at our friendly Neighbourhood Atomic Weapons Establishment—late after the previous night’s World Cup final—they were all gathered on a gravelly patch by the side of the road to the main gate. It looked like the blockade—if there had been one—was over. But the crowd was neither silent nor invisible. A woman sat in front of the police cordon, blowing a tuba. A young man accompanied her with a violin. The tiny orchestra was drowned out by the thumping beat from a DIY sound system: a heavy mix of drums and Bush sound bites.

AWEpic9.jpg AWEpic4.jpg

It took me a while to cross the road. Blockade or not, the traffic had slowed right down as commuters gawped at the protesters. AWE has been in the news recently and I think I saw a few new faces in the crowd.

A gentle drizzle fell. Nobody seemed to notice.

I wondered if any of the cops or other protesters felt as rough as I did.

Heavy container trucks rumbled past, carrying mounts of sand and earth into the base; the building work no longer clandestine.

I lit another cigarette and when it was finished stubbed it out on a pebble and put the stub back in the box. This isn’t Germany, but I did not want to give the cops an excuse to steam in and arrest me for littering. Not that they seemed about to. Everything was relaxed.

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I day-dreamed and listened to the beat for a while. My reverie was interrupted by one of the police officers jogging past, boots crunching on the gravel. Half-a-dozen others followed him down a grassy path along the fence. I spotted two of the protesters down there, surrounded by their own private cordon of officers. Could it be…?

I walked over to the two official Legal Observers who were chatting to a group of people with their backs turned to us. “I think the cops are about to book someone,” I said. ” You better come.”

It really seemed to be happening. The two protesters had done nothing more than walk down the path, which is a public right of way. People walk their dogs there.

***

‘Three is a Crowd’
The Legal Observer was detained at the edge of the gravel. She waved over at her colleague and the two of them talked earnestly to the cops, soon joined by their own ‘evidence gathering officer’, as identified by her shoulder patches. Eventually, most of the cops came back, but not all of them. I the distance, I spotted the two protesters being led away. They were being arrested for walking down a public path.

The bustle resumed. A few people were getting ready to leave. I considered going as well; it was ten to ten and I might catch John before he left for work.

AWEpic6.jpg

“Shall we go?” A guy nearby asked a friend. I did not catch his reply, but he buttoned up his rain jacket and walked across the pebbles to the road. I was about to follow when one of the cops grabbed him by the collar—and not gently.

A minor fraccas ensued.

“What’s going on?” I asked. “The guy just wanted to go home!”

A woman regarded me gravely: “Apparently we have to stay in this ‘prison’ until twelve o’ clock.”

Suddenly the atmosphere changed. The music stopped. People huddled together in small groups. Worried glances were exchanged.

Were we all under arrest?

AWEpic8.jpg

At least now I had something to write about. I walked up to a patch of grass. Immediately, two of the officers drew close.

“Relax—I just want to sit!”

My hands were trembling when I took out my notebook.

As quickly as the tension had arisen, it was calmed down. While I was scribbling furiously, one of the senior officers made a speech: “…so if any of you want to leave the site, to go home, or go to the loo, that’s fine. But if you start a protest anywhere else—that’s two or more people—you are liable to be arrested…”

He talked on. He did not sound unreasonable: we were free to leave. But I was determined not to walk past one of his more excitable colleagues.

In the end, a few of the women got together. They had been at the peace camp all weekend and were tired after getting up early that morning. The cop nodded at us. “Ladies, if you like to leave, I’ll stop the traffic.”

That’s the police for you—all sweetness and light one minute, and the next…

Aldermaston Action (again)

Friday, July 7th, 2006

Things concerning our Friendly Neighborhood Atomic weapons Establishment are hotting up.

During a recent dinner at the Mansion House (rather than, say, a session in parliament), Prime-Minister-to-be Gordon Brown announced that he will definitely look into options to replace Trident. So now at least it’s official, even though some MPs seemed to be taken by surprise. I suppose those are the ones that snooze through Parliamentary Questions.

Even more recently, a 2005 report released by the MoD under the new Freedom of Information Act ‘fessed up that a terrorist strike on a nuclear arms convoy might have rather more serious consequences than they previously realised admitted. Routes of these convoys are (attempted to be) kept secret, but they are not exactly invisible. And guess where the things end up? Yep, it’s put our little village firmly onto the terrorist radar.

Time for another blockade. Damn—yet another early start on a Monday morning.
[read on]

Land of Excuses

Saturday, June 10th, 2006

I didn’t miss much when we went shopping during England’s opener against Paraguay.

Before that match even went into injury time—when I thought Paraguay might just equalise, and I have a sneaking suspicion that the commentators did too—the excuses were already forthcoming.

England is the land of excuses. This is the country where trains get delayed ‘because of the wrong kind of snow’. The rainiest country in Europe that has drought orders. The place where—when somebody’s staggering incompetence causes havoc or outright disaster—’more training’ is recommended. Soldiers in Iraq are now offered ‘ethical training’ so that in future they won’t shoot babies and grandpas in wheelchairs through the head. If the American marines get in on the act, it’s the influence of the English rubbing off (note, it’s an English thing, the Scots aren’t like that).

So what was the excuse on offer in the dying minutes of the game?

“Of course, the first match of the tournament is always the most difficult!”

Eh??

Certainly against opponents such as mighty Paraguay. If they hadn’t scored an own goal, who knows what might have happened?

BTW, I’m addicted to the Boots footie blog.

Water Woes

Tuesday, June 6th, 2006

Now that the country has been ‘sveltering’ four days in a row (well, the temperature is in the double figures), after suffering the wettest May in 27 years, the media are resuming their publicity drive to draw attention to the ‘worst water shortage since 1976’.

But disquiet is already mounting after figures reveal that Thames water still loses 1/3 of its supply through leakage—despite reporting a profit of 256.5 million pounds every year. That’s almost a pound for every gallon it leaks out of its ageing pipes every day.

The regulator Offwat is considering imposing the ‘nuclear option’. A £ 100 million fine may help the companies to finally address the problem—for which they are allowed to issue consumers with higher bills, naturally.

Non-payment of bills is one of the evils cited by the providers struggling to meet demands. Meanwhile, last week, we experienced yet another red letter day as the water company threatened to take action for non payment unless we comply within seven days. We have yet to receive the original bill.

English Summer (2)

Wednesday, May 24th, 2006

When I peeled myself out of bed this morning and staggered to the shop across the road to buy some milk, it was sunny. So I bought some olives and tuna as well and put on eggs and beans to make a Salade Niçoise with our last left-over Jersey Royals.

By the time the water came to the boil, the sun had disappeared again.

This is our great English Summer. There hasn’t been a sunny day now since May 11th when I posted to the BNA ‘Food and Travel’ forum to ask for BBQ tips after more than two sunny days in a row.

There is a distinct sense of déja vu about this situation.

This should be enough incentive to get my lazy arse into gear and book a flight to Prague in two weeks time when John is off to another management course. We’ll see.

Re. Big Brother…

Tuesday, May 23rd, 2006

…So much for first impressions.

From this year’s selection it is apparent that the producers thought it hilarious to put mentally ill people on the show. I, for one, ain’t laughing.

Big Brother, we’re watching you.

Friday, May 19th, 2006

Yes, I think I can’t resist, as every summer—for the seventh time—the Big Brother circus rolls into town.

Resistance is futile. Almost everyone I know finds themselves gradually dragged in by the series, so I decided to give in and watch it from the very beginning.

The housemates are the usual bunch of freaks. Or, in the words of 35-year-old Barbie doll Lea: “I don’t consider myself a freak. I just consider myself—you know—something abnormal.” Lea is an ex-23-stone-turned-model and ‘Body Artist’ whose best ever purchase were her boobs. She doesn’t eat cheese. Davina’s words as she entered the house “It’s only Panto.”

This we can be assured of. Among the more memorable characters are a rock singer with Tourette’s syndrome (who may or may not be acting, but we should run a petition to get the guy some Valium in any case), a sociopath, the inevitable ‘sex-terrorist’ (near enough a clone of an earlier housemate who was bi-, but this one’s gay), two toffs and several self-confessed models (but then all of them suffer from narcissistic personality disorder).

Sadly, we seem to be missing the geek factor this time; while two of the female entrants between them manage to lower the average IQ of the 14 housemates by at least ten points. At first I had some hope for Mikey, software developper and model, but he turns out to be just a bigmouth who’s trying too hard to piss people off.

I started jotting down quotes half-way through the opening show.

Shebaz, most certainly not said sex-terrorist: “I think the British public should know that there are gay Muslims out there who are not all terrorists”. He’s 37 and unemployed (“His intelligence is unemployable”), but actually has potential. Of all the guys, he may be the smartest and he can turn on the charm the best, so naturally he’s gay.

Dawn, beautiful and enigmatic, doesn’t like people: “Show me a nice person. Yes, perhaps Ghandi, Mother Theresa, Bob Geldof. Those are nice people. All the others are bastards.” Davina, commentating as she entered the house: “She likes to be reincarnated as either Jesus—or Hitler.” I like Dawn the most. Perhaps fellow sociopaths attract each other.

Glyn, 19 years old, pale and scrawny in his swimming trunks: “I’m a lifeguard. I’ve been voted the most sexiest lifeguard in North Wales.” (!) “I feel I can express myself back there, when I’ve got no clothes on.” Davina: “It’s not quite Baywatch, is it?”

Bubbly Lisa, the unlikely upholsterer. Davina told us that: “The coolest thing she’s ever done is superglue somebody’s toast together—which is quite cool, actually.”

Sezar, the young tycoon: “At 18, I was the youngest guy on the stock exchange floor, at 19, I was the most qualified guy in my company, at 20, I owned the company.” Take note, Sir Alan Sugar!

Yes, I’ll be watching.

The Draught

Tuesday, May 16th, 2006

If you think that England is a country in North Africa, you would be fogiven.

Yesterday, the first Draught orders since 1977 went out to a region just east from Tadley.

We haven’t seen the sun in two days. It is true that England is a lot drier than Scotland, but the lawn is lush and green and I haven’t even had to water our potted herbs yet. If I had to, there wouldn’t be a problem, because our rainwater barrel is brimming.

Back in 1991, I studied for an MSc in Aquatic Resource Management at King’s College London and I learned that the limestone aquifers in the South on England are overmined. Texans will be familiar with the concept. It takes so long for water to percolate back into the aquifers that—to all intents and purposes—mined ground water should be considered a finite resource. Something like 70% of people in the south of England depend on it for their water supplies.

Why is the situation so dire? Because when it privatised the water companies (why, oh why?) the government handed them a license to print money. While the directors and shareholders are lining their pockets, at least a quarter of the water is pissing out of broken pipes. Our lecturer was almost sympathetic—awfully hard to fix the leaks if they can’t be detected.

Meanwhile the little guys can’t use their hosepipes to water their gardens. Cricket grounds and golf courses will henceforth also be unwatered, but that doesn’t bother me a lot. What bothers me was archive footage of feeble grannies with big buckets queuing up at stand-pipes. Yep, stand-pipes may make a come-back.

A bit of investment in R&D has never done any harm. If you can’t invest in the solution, invest in solving the problem. If this was Japan, semi-autonomous robots(modelled on bathtub-toys) would already patrol the pipes and report back on any pressure changes. We had the technology back in the early nineties. Hell, we probably had it back in the Victorian age.

Meanwhile, people living in Israel can still take the odd shower.

Sunny Days are here again

Friday, May 5th, 2006

Girls in string tops and children in splash pools would dominate the headlines today, if it wasn’t for a major government reshuffle. Yet, I’m surprised that the weather wasn’t a main item on the news last night:

“– band of rain drifting in from the continent by Saturday,” the weatherman beamed: “Bad news if you’re planning a BBQ , but at least it will bring welcome relief from the oppressive heat.”

Oppressive heat?

This afternoon—for the first time since returning from SE Asia—I ventured outside without a coat. There is still a chill in the air and I felt oddly naked in my dress; my flip-flops dangled strangely from between my toes, as if I had not worn them continuously for twelve weeks during that trip. It was almost like learning to walk again.

Winter in the UK

Thursday, February 23rd, 2006

So it is grey outside, colder than a fridge, there are no leaves on the trees and wet sleet is falling from the sky. So I’ve had a sore throat since getting back and feel drained of all energy. It’s winter in the UK, and I’ve got no right to complain: I’ve managed to miss Christmas, all of January and most of February. Moreover, I’m making in-roads with my attempts to get John to migrate—after forty years of dark, wet winters (not counting the two I’ve managed to escape from) a few more won’t hurt.

In the meantime, on with happier memories and more Bali entries. They’re being backdated after one day, so that they fit in with the time frame.

PS. It’s just taken me three hours to cook tonight’s curries—and they’re not even particularly good—so the next Bali entry has to wait until tomorrow. So long.