In pursuit of bodily harm

Horses and fishing rods. At first glance, they don't seem to have much in common. One's got legs and can run like the clappers; the other's good for throwing food to the fishes. Each of these disparate things, however, gives me cause to fear and respect them.

Other than a brief few moments as a tiddler, placed in the saddle of a horse that my sister was about to ride, and a trip along the beach on a donkey a few years later, I have only ridden a horse once. Similarly, I have been fishing on only one occasion that I can recall. It is perhaps significant that I was not the prime mover on either occasion, but was encouraged to take part by well-meaning friends or family.

Memories of my equine experience were brought back only too clearly when watching some youngsters about to disappear on a morning's trail-riding. As each horse-child pair was saddled up, strapped in and otherwise properly prepared for the impending adventure, a number of them gathered in front of me, waiting for the off. I watched the nearest horse plodding around, browsing on the grass at its feet, and generally filling in time. As it did, it turned this way and that, bobbed its head up and down, swayed around, and generally did as it pleased, with the passenger taking no part in the proceedings. It brought back in a vaguely unsettling way, my own experience some 20 years earlier: that horses have their own minds, desires, intentions and agendas, plus the nervous system and musculature to put it all into practice. In short, unless you are absolutely in control, with sufficient authority - and the ability to convey this to the horse - you are on a slippery slope.

With a car, you can generally turn off the ignition and the car will stop what it was doing up to that point; this does, of course, require good judgement, care and attention on the part of the driver to ensure that it is not done at the wrong time, but there is absolutely no doubt who is in control. Any misbehaviour: it's engine off, and bye-byes. With a horse, you have to say, "Look here, I say, would you mind not doing that - YES, THAT!" and so on. Any mistakes and you're cactus. Oh, and by the way - the horse will be quietly laughing at you.

A loaded fishing rod, it has to be said, has similar undesirable qualities in the hands of a novice. To be precise, it has a curved piece of metal with a very sharp barb on the end, flailing about on some very fine nylon. Said barbed metal is furthermore designed to become lodged, and remain firmly embedded, in flesh - nominally piscean flesh, but any flesh will do; the hook's not fussy.

Now, old hands at the fishing game are presumably possessed of at least one of the following: (a) fine motor control - that in a deaf signer would represent perfect enunciation, syntax and fluency - coupled with the eyes of a hawk; (b) a devil-may-care attitude in respect of vicious puncture wounds; (c) no nerve endings below the elbow; or (d) membership of certain recreational clubs involving leather restraints and whips and an associated pleasure in maltreatment of personal tissue. This must be the case, because when a rod is in the process of being prepared with lead weight and hook (some of which, you may be astonished to learn, have more barbs than a caffeine-deprived shock-jock), the business end can develop a mind of its own that a horse would be proud of. It can appear that the hook/weight assembly regards Newtonian physics with utter disdain: there can be much comical to-ing and fro-ing of hand and line, trying to ensure a satisfactory confluence of the two without dermal perforation, while the hand holding the rod gradually joins the rest of the body in a rising panic, ensuring that proper coordination and control become merely wishful thinking. At such times, if my advice be sought, it would be prudent simply to throw the whole contraption in one direction while leaping quickly in the other. Of course, this does not guarantee an injury-free outcome, but at least the torment and uncertainty will be brought rapidly to a conclusion.

If you are determined to give fishing a try, I would suggest fly-fishing, on a day with moderate but steady wind. Simply stand with your back more or less to the wind, then because the fly has no associated lead weight, it will be carried safely off away from your body, should you happen to lose control of it; in that situation, dropping the rod will put everything out of harm's way. Of course, you eventually have to cast your fly towards the fish, which seems to involve waving the rod around in a somewhat cavalier fashion, with the possibility of all manner of mayhem occurring anywhere within umpteen metres of you.

Tell you what: take my advice, and leave horses and fishing rods alone. Photography and aerobic poetry are fairly safe and surprisingly diverting; there is every chance that your body will remain undamaged in such mild pursuits. Afterwards, you can drive your car to the fishmonger.

A little something to keep me going

A gaming table, somewhere in 18th-century southern England...

John Montagu, 4th Earl of Sandwich, sits with a few choice companions – all movers and shakers (either that or just rich and idle). He is holding a handful of playing cards... a shrewd move on his part, as his associates are doing the same, and he does not wish to appear different – or indifferent. There is the aroma of tobacco and of port, walnuts and bandaged gouty feet; a heady mix at any hour. The hour is late, but it is not yet pyjama time or the wytching houre. All eyes are on Sandwich, save for those on the fine bosom of a serving wench, or those searching for a glimpse of a neighbour's cards.

Characteristically, the Earl of Berkshire spoke first: "Come on, Sandwich! You have been sitting there like a haunch of mutton for fully five minutes now. Either play or resign."

Sandwich, being the Noble Fellow that he was – not to mention the holder of such illustrious offices as First Lord of the Admiralty and Postmaster General – dismissed this discourteous interjection with barely a twitch. He moved only let go a silent one and to take a pinch of snuff. After further deliberation and scrutiny of his options, he played a card, sat back in his chair, and gestured for his valet. "Higginbottom," he said, for no other reason than the man's name was Effingham, "I am hungry. Kindly prepare me a plate. I rather fancy the mutton, or roast beef if perchance there is no mutton. Wait though – my hands will be greasy upon the cards, and I cannot bear that, so be creative. Chop chop! I won't have that scoundrel Buckingham winning because I am weak from lack of sustenance."

The play continued, with the Good Earls doing their best to acquire a considerable pot that was there for the taking, gods willing. Presently, Higginbottom/Effingham returned with a large plate, piled high with what appeared to be a compôte of sliced bread and meat.

"What the Devil is this?" demanded Sandwich.

"My Lord," fawned Higgingham, "it is the mutton, as you requested, but I have taken the liberty of enclosing it in some fresh bread, that you may keep the grease enclosed and under control."

"Capital! First rate! You hear that, Buckingham, you old fool? A manservant who can think for himself. I should think you green with envy, if you weren't already green with a bilious attack." Effingbottom relaxed almost imperceptibly, stiffening with pride at the same time. "What do you call this... creation, Effingsworth?"

"My Lord, if I may make so bold, and given that my family name is–"

"Excellent, splendid! 'Sandwich' it is. There you go, Buckers, how are your pork scratchings now, eh? Not only can the man think for himself, but he is also modest and loyal. Har, har. I say, Higginsworth, my goblet appears to be void... as does the bottle, since the Earl of Idiocy here just knocked it over."

"Certainly, My Lord."

Sandwich selected a 'sandwich' from the top of the pile, studied it briefly and then took a hearty bite. "Mmmf... it'f goob; weawy goob!

"I say, you fellows," he declared, once the Noble Mouth was empty, "I think this 'sandwich' thing could be quite something. Possibilities for a business here, don't you think? Damn fine idea."

Moments later, Bottomsworth reappeared with a large boxy-looking affair in his hand.

"What on Earth have you brought me now, Hilary?"

"My Lord, I have been thinking for some time about this, and felt the time was ripe to try it out, if you will pardon the pun."

"Yes, yes, of course, but what is it?"

"My Lord, I have devised a container that can serve in place of a bottle, so when the Earl of – I mean, so that in the event of any mishap at the table, the wine will not be spilled."

"Extraordinary! How does it function?"

"In brief, My Lord, I have contained a fresh – but not too fresh – pig's bladder full of wine inside a case made of stiffened parchment, and fashioned a kind of valve at the base, to allow the wine to be released only when required." Effingham demonstrated for the Good Lords, to quiet muttering and comment. After a few seconds, Sandwich piped up.

"Bottomsworth, I fear you are on a genuine flight of fancy here. Kindly take that contraption from my table and bring me a proper bottle of wine, as God intended. If He had meant us to serve wine from such an abomination, He would have called this land Aus– ... Austral–... oh, something else! It's England, man, England, dammit! Now be off with you, and spare us all your fanciful notions."

***

In due course Effingham, now a humiliated and dispirited shadow of the servile man he once was, fell foul of the law and was transported to the colonies; one of the very last to suffer that fate. Once there though, he applied himself diligently, kept his nose (and many other parts) clean, was granted his freedom in due course, and went on to start a chain of wine dispensaries. Several generations later, a great, great nephew had a brilliant idea based upon an old hot water bottle, a cornflake packet and a bottle of cheap shiraz...

And the winner is...

So. Australia voted. This time, the voice of reason may lie with 3 independent MPs. Will it do us any good? Will the glue hold for 3 years? Will anyone end up insane? Answers on a postcard please, to...

Ah well. It was tedious before, and unexciting now, which might be the best outcome of all. Anyway, while it lasts, why not celebrate and enjoy it with a choice t-shirt? Perhaps this one:



Thanks for fellow-Twitterer @sjb351 for the inspiration.

Honeyed Chicken Delight

No, it's not a pet name, it's a recipe. One that my beloved concocted recently, when faced with the need to feed us. So simple, so tasty. Here's the vitals:

• 1 carrot
• 1/2 onion
• 400g chicken tenderloins
• 1 dessertspoon honey
• small sprinkle caraway seeds

Sauté the carrot (thinly sliced) in a little butter or oil until beginning to turn golden. Remove from pan and add chicken. Brown nicely on both sides, sprinkle in a few caraway seeds (1/4 teaspoon max.), add honey and stir around to deglaze the pan. Return carrot to the pan and stir through until heated.

Serve with rice or potatoes and greens.

That's it, apparently, so go to it.

300 Words

Having discovered 300 Words this evening, and finding it a splendid idea, I thought I'd try to rise to the challenge. If I manage to turn it into a habit, I might even become a contributor. Here's a start.

...

I’m a cat person, sort of. I prefer them to dogs, without question – which isn’t to say that I like all cats, or dislike all dogs; far from it, and perish the thought. Why the preference then, when it turns out that I am allergic to the fickle felines?

Let’s see: they amuse me. Well, dogs can do that too, so it’s not just that. They look pretty and feel nice, on the whole. They take care of themselves, without having to be walked, and without one having to pick up biological detritus dropped on said walks. Mind you, I feel somewhat ashamed that they might be nipping over the fence to dig up a neighbour’s precious primulas, but compared to what my son could be doing to their precious daughter, it’s a minor misdemeanour. Not that he lives with us any more, but that’s beside the point.

Maybe it’s an ego-massage-thing: that an animal that can be so aloof if it chooses, might decide to honour your lap with its warm presence, is clearly a comment on your suitability as a host. Have a gold star.

Cats eat quietly. They don’t drool… much. They can’t be heard a couple of hundred metres away, barking at anything that moves – and several things that don’t. They are not inclined to roll in all manner of unspeakable substances that consequently require the donning of protective clothing and a fixed grimace in order to eliminate the offending miasma. They do, however, have minuscule lances on their feet, which they tend to use indiscriminately when young; adulthood eventually puts a stop to that sort of nonsense, unless they are being tormented (or think they are).

Maybe it’s the wide open, love-me eyes, or the I-know-you’re-there-but-I’m-ignoring-you confidence as they walk past, or even that they are a smaller package. Ultimately I’ll just have to admit that Mr Spock would find it illogical. Perhaps I can get some therapy.

Back in the land of the living

It's been a while, and there's been a bit of water under the bridge since I last came this way. I've left behind the work of casual employment, and started a job for which I am eminently suited - which makes a change!

In April we relocated to Brisbane, so that I could take up a post at the Sir Thomas Brisbane Planetarium. There, I am styled a Support Officer, which means I am one of the show presenters. School shows, public shows, observatory sessions - they're all in the mix, as I show the good citizens and tourists of Brisbane the sights of the night sky and the Universe at large.

There is a certain repetitiveness about it, giving the same shows on a weekly basis, but with the changing sky as the year progresses, and the different audiences from 5-year-olds to adults, there is a certain amount of freedom to ad lib in each show and change the focus along the way. Besides, there is an awful lot of Universe to talk about in a 15- or 45-minute talk.

One of the fringe benefits for me as a long-time amateur astronomer, is having access to 2 good telescopes - a Zeiss 6-inch refractor and a Meade 8-inch Schmidt-Cassegrain. The pleasure is somewhat reduced due to the location just a few kilometres from the centre of a large city, but it's good to be back at the sharp end of a decent instrument. While in Edinburgh I had access to the Cooke 6-inch refractor at Calton Hill observatory, although I made far less use of it than I ought to have done, and really became an armchair astronomer over the last 20 years or so.

The Zeiss is particularly interesting, as I can easily mount a camera on it for photography through the telescope. So far I have just done a few tests that need to be built on, but I reckon I shall have fun with it in the future. As well as 'proper' photography with a camera attached securely to the business end (being on a Coudé mount, the scope can support quite a heavy load, which is just as well, since I intend to use my old brass Canons), I have experimented with cameras held against the eyepiece; not the best method, but it can work reasonably well, as this shot of Saturn taken with the mobile phone shows.

Another experiment was shooting both the Sun and Moon with a digital compact - still shooting precariously through the eyepiece while hand-holding the camera, but it worked quite nicely. 2 small sunspot groups are visible at top right and bottom right, and despite fairly poor seeing, the Moon image shows reasonable crater detail.

Watch the birdie

About 25 years ago, I bought an old camera in an antique shop in Edinburgh. The owner was tinkering with it as I walked in, and I knew straight away it was mine! It was nothing flash, but the design intrigued me.  It was made in an age when glass plates were still the standard medium for taking photographs. When I later sought an idea of the camera's age, it was suggested around 1870, predating the Eastman Kodak company by a decade or so. However, the design of the camera means that only dry plates would have been usable (it was designed to hold a stack of plates, so plates made with the wet collodion process would have been entirely unsuitable). Dry plates were in development during the 1870s, culminating in George Eastman's success in developing a machine process for mass-producing dry plates. So, I'd say this camera was built somewhat later than 1870.

Camera front; 1 cord for instantaneous exposure, 1 for time exposure

Red cord is for cocking the shutter

I have thought on several occasions that I should try to take a photograph with it, but the design made it a less than trivial task to do so, and I put it to the back of my mind until very recently. I have been tinkering with paper negatives for pinhole cameras, to get the development right for use as a negative, and with this foundation, it was an obvious step to using the old camera, using a small sheet of enlarging paper in a suitable cardboard holder.

Back end of camera

Inside of camera back, showing mechanism for lifting next unexposed plate

I had already established a nominal ISO speed rating for the paper, so with a hand-held light meter (a Weston Master III, since you ask…), measurement of the f/ratio of the lens (about f/14 or f/28, depending on which of the 2 aperture stops is in use) and the 'B' or 'T' shutter setting, I was able to give a long enough exposure, as required. Shooting indoors, in a large antique shop, I decided on 45 seconds - manageable by the sitter I had 'engaged' for the job (the shop owner). The resulting negative was somewhat underexposed, as it turned out - possibly the light had changed after I took a reading, and before making the exposure - but with careful digital post processing after scanning the negative, I was able to get a good enough result. I'd like to compare it with any of the plates taken with the camera soon after it was made, but will have to be happy with this modern product.


Now, if I can make a rollfilm adaptor (taking 118 film, perhaps…), I might have something really usable.

Fishy capers

We don't eat as much fish as we should, so last night a piece of barramundi seemed in order. Eschewing the frying option, I went for steaming it on a bed of vegetables, accompanied with noodles.

Ingredients

• 500g barramundi or firm fish of your choice
  
• 2 largish carrots, shaved, grated or finely chopped
  
• 2 sticks celery, chopped
• 1 large onion, chopped any way you please
  
• good handful of shredded cabbage
  
• 3 cloves garlic, crushe
• sweet soy sauce (about a tablespoon)
  
• malt vinegar (ditto)
  
• oil for frying
• small amount of water or stock
• instant noodles or rice
  

Method

• fry onion in a large pan 'till soft
• add garlic and fry another 2-3 mins
• add carrot and celery, plus water/stock (I used 1/2 a stock cube)
• lay fish on top of vegies, add salt & pepper to taste, cover pan and simmer for 10-15 mins, or until fish is just cooked
• stir in soy sauce, adding more water if necessary
• cover fish & vegies with cabbage, and steam for another few minutes, until cabbage is soft
• start cooking noodles while cabbage is steaming (or if using rice, start cooking rice 5 minutes ago...)
• when noodles are done, the rest should be ready

This works well using a dry white wine instead of water/stock; with a curried preserve instead of soy sauce; with zucchini, shallots/green/spring onions, fresh asparagus, etc.

Was looking forward to leftovers for lunch, but No. 1 Son decided he'd have some after all - and declared it to be very good - success!

Click #2

A moment seized; a fleeting glimpse. Click.
Contemplation. Possibilities; subtle details, obscure even. Click.
Clearer now, focus sharper. New perspective; comes to life. Click.
Different light, shadows new. Chiaroscuro changes mood. Click.
Quiet thrill; a frisson. Tones, texture; composition gels. Click.
Now from here, lower. Detail isolated, highlighted. Click.
Turn a ring; focus narrows, draws the eye. Click.
Close in, tighter frame. Rule of thirds? Break it. Click.
Nailed it.

...

Click

Brass, turning. Click.
Gut drawn tight. Click.
Rhythm punctuates silence. Click.
Drum moves relentlessly. Click.
Tooth meshed with tooth. Click.
Cast iron drops. Click.
Glint of sun on silver. Click.
Shadow sweeps downward. Click.
Motes settle on oak. Click.
Governor spins. Whirr.
Bell rings out. Ding.
And thrice more. Click.
What time is it, Grandad? Click.
Steady beat of time. Click.

...