Street Lamps

A letter appeared in the Preston Journal on 18 April 1807 from Miserabilis, who complained:
‘You must know, Sir, that 'tis within these six months that I came to reside in Preston, and from the social disposition of its inhabitants, am inclined to prolong my stay.’

But, he went on: ‘The streets in most parts of the Town are so intolerably dark, that I was continually getting my shoes full of water, which God knows what may be its consequences. The medical men will tell you, that it will lead to colds, coughs, rheumatism, palsies, agues, asthmas, or consumptions; and I need not tell you Sir, that 'twill infallibly lead to medicines, doctors' bills, probably undertakers' shrowds, coffins, parsons, clerks, sextons, gravediggers, graves ... all this for the want of lamps in the streets.’

Preston had tried. Back on the 22nd of December, 1699, the Corporation ordered— “ for the better going in the streets of this town, in the winter evenings, in the decrease of the moon or when cloude interfere, it has been thought necessary that some lamps or convex lights bee provided . And there being four such convex lights already bought, provided, and brought down from London... and the said four lights bee taken care of, attended, and supplied with oyle and other necessaries as occasion requires at the town's charge." The light they gave was reported as being wretched.

It took the friendship between Preston's leading Roman Catholic churchman, Joseph Dunn, and the gas engineer, Samuel Clegg to change not only this state of affairs but also enabled Preston to be the first town outside of London to be lit by gas.

In 1815, the Preston Gas-Light Company was formed by Reverend Joseph "Daddy" Dunn, engineer Samuel Clegg, and local printer Isaac Wilcockson. Just one year later, in 1816, Fishergate became the first street in Preston to be illuminated by coal gas, transforming the town after dark.

So how did they manage to light the lamps?

Work on the use of gas for lighting had been going on for several years prior to Preston getting involved. Possibly the most important was done at Stonyhurst College, a Catholic school just outside the town, where Clegg had, in 1808, used lime-water for purification of gas from sulphuretted hydrogen in large quantities.

By its contract the gas company was required to light agreed areas more effectually than was done in other parts with oil lamps. The annual income from these lights was £162. The locations were to be determined by the commissioners. The lamps and lamp irons together with the pipes were to be one foot below the surface of the ground under each lamp were to be provided by the commissioners. The mention of lamp irons sounds as though lamp posts were intended, but the lamps were more probably secured to walls by brackets, which was the usual practice in the early days of gas-lighting.

Now that the contract had been secured it was necessary to decide on a suitable site for the works. It should not be too far from the centre of the town, and it should be on as low a level as possible to allow the gas to flow up into the town under its own pressure.

It was one thing to make plans for buildings and to see that local craftsmen carried them out, quite another to secure the necessary apparatus when there were no established sources of supply near at hand. In September samples of brass burners, chandeliers, pendant lamps, wall brackets, plain pillars, a glass vases were ordered. Delays were not really exceptional. Even in the case of cast iron pipes, for which there had been an enormous demand during the previous decade from the metropolitan water works companies, delivery was slow and the quality variable. At one point they used as service pipes a supply of surplus musket barrels which were joined muzzle into breech.

But they did succeed and the opening ceremony took place in Feb 1816 and to repeat, Preston became the first town outside of London to be lit by gas.

Information on the above was taken from: 'The Introduction of Gas-Lighting to Preston' by Brian G. Awty and from Anthony Hewitson's Preston Chronology 705-1883.

This is the first verse of a poem about the opening of Preston fm studios which used the Grade II listed building from 2008 to 2013.

Turning On St Wilfrid's School

Think of chalk
scraping down slate
a ten times table
and chairs scuffling
for the best view
of the Master blasted
over Pendle Hill
after turning on gas light
for the first time in Preston
the slight sigh of disappointment
lost in the hiss of history.

Thanks for reading, Terry Q

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Abrush With Wisdom

When I was but a toothy youth, I brushed my teeth with Wisdom brushes. Their website proudly proclaims: 

"Few companies can boast a richer history than Wisdom Toothbrushes. The company was established over 240 years ago by its founder William Addis and is globally recognised as the inventor of the modern-day toothbrush."

It's as well they are stressing modernity, because there is ample evidence in the annals that toothbrushes (with handles made of bamboo and brush heads of hog bristles) were in use in China during the Tang dynasty as early as 620 AD, while the rest of us were using rags dipped in salt, or chewing twigs from trees. In fact when European travellers introduced the marvellous Chinese toothbrush to Europe in the 17th century, our fastidious friends in south-east Asia had been using it for a thousand years.

So I looked up the Wiki page about Addis, the man who claimed to have invented it all over again, and what a fascinating story that is. William Addis (rioter and entrepreneur) was in jail in 1770 when he figured there might be a better way of cleaning one's teeth than with a rag dipped in ash (salt being in short supply in prison). He saved a small length of bone from a meal, drilled tiny holes in it and threaded tufts of bristle through. After his release in 1780, he started up in business mass-producing his toothbrushes, and over the next quarter-century he became a very wealthy man by providing the great British public with his must-have personal hygiene offering.

wise woman with toothbrush and wasp waist

His son, also William, inherited the firm on the founder's death in 1808 and it continued to be a family-run concern until the 1990s. Its biggest boost came during WWII when it supplied a million toothbrushes to Britain's armed forces, By then, plastics, injection moulding machines and synthetic bristles had innovated toothbrush manufacture and Wisdom was the brand name given to the new line of Addis brushes from 1940 onwards. Nowadays, the company manufactures some 70 million toothbrushes a year. 

It is received wisdom that everyone should brush their teeth twice a day to maintain good oral hygiene, though the science suggests that at least once every 48 hours is good enough to prevent plaque build up. 

How one brushes is more important than how often. It is beneficial when using a straight bristled brush not to scrub horizontally over the necks of teeth, not to press the brush too hard against the teeth, to choose a toothpaste that is not too abrasive, and to wait at least 30 minutes after meals before brushing. It is also vitally important to manage maximum coverage of teeth and gums. 

Although tooth brushing is the most common preventive healthcare activity, levels of tooth and gum disease remain high, since people clean at most 40% of their tooth margins at the gum line. The main reason most dentists recommend patients to brush twice a day is in the hope that frequent brushing will clean more areas of the mouth. OK, lesson over... rinse and spit. It's poem time.

A poem doesn't have to be 'on theme' does it? I'm not sure about the wisdom of this latest - not even sure it's better than no poem at all - but its inspiration came earlier in the week when I got stuck behind a lorry with two yellow 'registration' plates on the back. One was a standard plate (e.g. SN67 SGV) and the other just read TEZ, which I took to be the nickname of its driver. 

a Derry lorry as driven by Terry 

That got me idly wondering, as we queued, why names that end in 'rry' like Barry or Perry or Terry ever got changed to Bazzer, Pezzer and Tezzer, or their diminutives, Baz, Pez and Tez. If you know, please do enlighten me. Also, while we're at it, why was Charles John Huffam Dickens ever called Boz?

Then I clocked that Terry (Tezzer/Tez) was driving a lorry for a company called Derry and the unfortunate idea for this comic poem was born. It's a shame that Derry doesn't distribute toothbrushes. That would have been the perfect coincidence, "delivering oral products to the furthest reaches of the British mouth." It's actually a refrigerated goods transporter.  Never mind. 

I was going to title it Tezzer Drives A Lozzer for Dezzer, but as we remark wisely in this poetry game, less is frequently more. Of course it's a bit of nonsense with a circular theme. If you need to decode it, just replace all but one 'z' with 'rry'.

Tez's Orrez

starts out driving a loz for Dez

though never a young man to taz

so he's first to sail out on the fez

gets taken on as an equez

living a life without woz

hardly ever has to say soz

out on the piss to get mez

after the pubs shut, a cuz

meets a young lady from Kez

cut a thrust he couldn't paz

and now he's all set to maz

seems she's a girl in a fluz

to have kids, all that jazz

so he needs a new job in a huz

sails back home on the frez

ends up driving a loz for Dez

Thanks for reading, S ;-)

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Wisdom

Maybe because one never finds the cultural icons of the previous generation relevant to one’s own but I’ve never found Norman Wisdom funny but thought I’d have a quick look at his career as other aspects of wisdom were not appealing. I’m glad I did.

Norman Joseph Wisdom was born on 4 February 1915 at 91 Fernhead Road, Maida Vale W9, London where his father, mother, brother and himself shared a single room. The brothers grew up in extreme poverty and were frequently subjected to violence by their alcoholic father, who would sometimes pick them up and throw them across the room. After being expelled from the home entirely by their father, Norman became homeless and was forced to sleep rough on the streets of London.

By the age of 13, he was working long shifts in a hotel. One of his fellow boy workers persuaded him to walk to Cardiff with hopes of becoming a miner. However, the boy’s family was unable to house him, and Norman found himself homeless again.

He later joined the Merchant Navy as a cabin boy, sailing to Argentina. During the voyage, he learned to box. In Argentina, he entered a prize fight, managing to last three rounds before being badly beaten. When he was 14 he was advised to join the British Army, which accepted band recruits at that age. Though he had no musical training, he tearfully persuaded the recruiting officer to let him join and was accepted.

Norman Wisdom, irrepressible comic

In 1930, Wisdom was posted to Lucknow and during his time there, he learned to ride horses, became the flyweight boxing champion of the British Army in India and taught himself to play a wide range of instruments, including the piano, trumpet, saxophone, flute, drums, bugle, and clarinet.

At the outbreak of the Second World War, Wisdom was assigned to a communications centre in a command bunker in London. There, he handled telephone connections between war leaders and the prime minister. He met Winston Churchill on several occasions while delivering updates on incoming calls.

In 1940, at the age of 25, during a NAAFI entertainment night, he spontaneously stepped out of the orchestra pit during a dance routine to perform shadow boxing. Hearing laughter from his fellow soldiers and officers, he added a duck waddle and a series of comic facial expressions. Reflecting on the moment, he recalled: "They were in hysterics. All the officers were falling about laughing."

Wisdom's ascent in the entertainment world was relatively swift. A highly successful run at the London Casino in April 1948 led to a summer season in Scarborough. He shared the stage with magician David Nixon which resulted in further variety performances together. That Christmas he appeared in the pantomime Robinson Crusoe at Birmingham's Alexandra Theatre.

He then starred in a series of low-budget comedies produced by the Rank Organisation, beginning with Trouble in Store (1953). The film earned him a BAFTA Award for Most Promising Newcomer to Film in 1954, and became the second most popular film at the British box office that year. Exhibitors also ranked him as the tenth biggest box-office star in Britain in 1954.

Norman Wisdom, National Portrait Gallery

It was all the above which I found interesting and not really his film career afterwards except for the fact that he became a cultural icon in Albania, where his films were among the few Western imports permitted under the regime of Enver Hoxha. When he visited the country in 1995, he was astonished to find himself mobbed by fans, including then-president Sali Berisha.

He returned in 2001, coinciding with the England vs Albania match in Tirana. At the training ground, he drew more attention than David Beckham and delighted the stadium crowd by wearing a half-English, half-Albanian shirt and performing one of his signature trips before kick-off. In recognition of his enduring popularity, Wisdom was made an honorary citizen of Tirana in 1995.

Surprisingly, well to me, Wisdom was a lifelong supporter and former board member of Brighton & Hove Albion. He was knighted in 2000 for services to entertainment. The latter part of his life was spent on the Isle of Man where he died on the 4th October 2010. His funeral took place on 22 October in Douglas with an open invitation extended to all island residents.

As I’ve said, it wasn’t the films that I found interesting about him but the tough background he came from and how he succeeded against the odds.

Any excuse to get a bit of Dorothy Parker in the blog:

Wisdom

THIS I say, and this I know:
Love has seen the last of me.
Love’s a trodden lane to woe,
Love’s a path to misery.

This I know, and knew before,
This I tell you, of my years:
Hide your heart, and lock your door.
Hell’s afloat in lovers’ tears.

Give your heart, and toss and moan,
What a pretty fool you look!
I am sage, who sit alone;
Here’s my wool, and here’s my book.

Look! A lad’s a-waiting there,
Tall he is and bold, and gay.
What the devil do I care
What I know, and what I say?

                                             Dorothy Parker

Sir Norman Wisdom, his statue

Thanks for reading, Terry Q.

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Wisdom

“With age comes wisdom.”

It would be nice to think so, but a lot depends on an individual’s lifestyle and experiences. Some people never grow up, in the eyes of others. We are all how we are meant to be, with a few tweaks here and there as we seek knowledge or self-improvement.

Oscar Wilde, “With age comes wisdom, but sometimes age comes alone.”

“A word to the wise.”

Something my dad would say to me, starting a conversation offering advice, brief opinion or more often, a heads-up on a point of interest, usually negative.

Quote from Wikipedia regarding wise owls,

“The perception of owls as symbols of wisdom dates back to Ancient Greece, where the owl was sacred to Athena, the goddess of wisdom and strategic warfare. Owls were often depicted perched on her shoulders representing knowledge, vigilance and intellectual prowess. Greek soldiers even regarded the presence of an owl as a favourable omen before battle, and the bird appeared on coins called ‘glaukes’ reinforcing its symbolic link to wisdom and insight. The Romans later adopted this symbolism through Minerva, Athena’s counterpart, maintaining the owl as a representation of intelligence.”

Between the ages of eight and nine, I attended the village school in Padfield, near Glossop. The head teacher was a formidable looking woman, always wore her cap and gown at school and made me think of a wise, old owl. She was Mrs Swift and at the time, I thought Mrs Owl would be a more appropriate name. She was lovely and kind, not a bit like her appearance suggested. This was a very happy time in my childhood and I have fond memories of the short time my family spent there.

My photograph is of one of my late aunt’s religious pieces. I have it in the landing window, to keep me in check.

I found this poem by James Joyce, written during his time in Zurich,

Bahnhofstrasse

The eyes that mock me sign the way
Whereto I pass at eve of day.

Grey way whose violet signals are
The trysting and the twining star.

Ah star of evil! Star of pain!
High hearted youth comes not again.

Nor old heart’s wisdom yet to know
The signs that mock me as I go.

James Joyce (1882 – 1941)

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Deal Breaker

One word: Brexit. It's now ten years since the infamous and deeply flawed referendum that not only split the nation in half (52% to 48%) but in many cases divided families, friends and workmates. It was the worst kind of deal breaker, a divorce from a union that had actually benefitted us for over 40 years. 

"What do you mean you voted for Brexit?"

I recognise that no one wants a long-haul analysis of all the whys and wherefores of one of the most crass acts of self-harm we've inflicted on ourselves as a nation, but maybe I can quickly summarise in a few bullets:

- Britain had been in decline and fall as a country since the early 1950s. The swinging sixties only glossed over our underinvestment in manufacturing and technological innovation.

- Joining the EU (or EEC as it was then) in 1973 actually saved Britain from total stagnation. It gave us a bit of a lifeline and an economic boost for a while, but a deep-seated insularity prevented us from making the best of the opportunities on offer. 

- Governments (Conservative for the majority of the time) were not as 'state oriented' as on the continent, so our systemic slowness to modernise, and our deepening infrastructure malaise became stumbling blocks that we have still not overcome. Thatcherism has a lot to answer for.

- Our growing dependence on services and the financial sector to bolster GDP exacerbated a deepening divide between the poorest 30% and the wealthiest 20%, with the rest of us stranded somewhere in the middle.

- Faced with that malaise and its inherent inability to do what was necessary, the Conservative party started to infight, and the Brexit Referendum was Cameron's attempt to try and save the Tories from disintegrating all together. (Just look how that's worked out)

- Those who promised us that "getting our country back" would be in any way better than a dive back into the shrinking insularity and stagnation of the 1950s and 1960s were peddling illusion at best, cynical deception and lies at worst - as I think we've all come to realise after the event. Leaving the EU has been an economic and a social disaster for the UK and Reform/Restore would only lead us deeper into the hole we've dug for ourselves.

Seriously, folks, it's time to start planning to reverse the mistake and rejoin the EU.

"We've all been done."

For my poem, I've written a variant on Martin Niemöller's famous 1946 apology for not speaking out in opposition to the advances of fascism/nazism in 1930s Germany. Several other straightforward pastiches have appeared in recent years, and you can google alternative versions of the 'First they came for...' theme at your leisure.

However, I wanted to flip the narrative and give my rendition a different slant and structure, a more positive and progressive one in the face of the cynical attempt by right-wing billionaires to bankroll the overthrow of our cherished multicultural democratic values, a move that has been gathering pace, as I've intimated above, since the machinations of Brexit.

Specifically it was triggered by remarks by Reform's Zia Yusuf about a Somalian refugee, Sagal Abdi-Wali being put forward as the Labour candidate in the Holborn parliamentary by-election occasioned by the resignation of Sir Kier Starmer. Yusuf warned "The front runner being foisted on the people of Holborn by Labour to replace the former Prime Minister Keir Starmer in our Parliament was born in Somalia. Do you understand what’s happening?"

In point of fact, Ms Abdi-Wali came to the UK in the 1990s as a child refugee. Now in her forties, she is a British citizen, has been a local councillor for a decade and is currently the elected leader of Camden Council. Zia Yusuf is a major Reform donor who has never held political office.

They Came First
They came first to escape war
and I did not freak out,
because I was not a racist.

Then they came for social security
and I did not freak out,
because we are the sixth richest 

country in the world.

They they came for trades and training
and I did not freak out,
because they didn’t “take our jobs”,
often did work we didn’t want to do,
and they paid their taxes.

Then they came up for election
and I did not freak out,
because they had assimilated
into our democratic institutions
and frequently championed

multiculturalism at its best.

Then they came to be demonised

by the lies of wealthy xenophobes
and finally I did freak out,

because we all know

Martin Niemöller's poem

off by heart... 

...and this monstrous tide 

of modern monied fascism 

threatens to tear all that's good 

in our febrile "sceptred isle" apart.

Thanks for reading my stuff, S ;-)

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Deal Breaker

I started an article in Psychology Today about research into what makes a deal breaker in relationships. It was a bit technical but still very well written. And then I happened upon a site where people were commentating on what they really didn’t like in potential partners. I was hooked. The first one below is what kicked it off for me:

"Most common dealbreakers include abuse, rude to servers and others, drug use, adultery, etc. Ignoring the obvious dealbreakers, what are some unusual dealbreakers you have? For me, it was a hatred for theme parks. I couldn't have fun with someone like that."

"People who think reading is 'boring'."

"A hatred for fandom/dressing up. I love going all out for Halloween or theme parties etc. I couldn't be with someone who didn't want to go all out too."

"Camping. I hate it, I never want to do it again. Couldn't date someone who was into that sort of thing."

"Can’t cook? If you can’t cook, I can’t be with you. I’m not going to be the only one feeding us. If you can’t cook and expect me to feed you all the time it literally won’t work out."

"Not liking fun facts. I know who I am at this point and if you don't enjoy random tidbits of useless knowledge neither of us are gonna have a good time."

"I would veto someone for not knowing how to use apostrophes correctly."

"Influencers/lifestyle bloggers are a big no for me. Staging everything in life for likes is not how I want to live it."

"Posting pictures of themselves 'meditating' on social media. If you are meditating you wouldn't be trying to convince everyone that you're meditating... it's just weird."

"Don’t like people who chew with their mouth open or talk with a mouthful of food. Gross. I’m out if you do that."

"Those weird folks who take selfies constantly."

"Supporting Spurs - and I’m not joking,"

"I ended it with someone who once turned up in some bloody awful Paddington like checked trousers. I icked right there and then."

"A nail biter makes me cringe."

"Someone who’s too lazy to pronounce the TH sound - I live in Ireland."

"Sport, watching, playing, reading or talking about it. Any of it at anytime. And the gym."

"Astrology; homeopathy; imperfect grammar or syntax in text messages. All instant deal breakers."

"Anyone who wears what I think are horrible shoes - slip ons (double nope if they have tassels) pointy toed shoes, sandals (with or without socks) flip flops, crocs, sliders. Men should wear proper boots or decent trainers."

"I wouldn't date anyone with the same name as my ex. No thank you."

I can’t stand when people put wrappers into cups of tea/coffee that they’ve finished. Total deal breaker."

"Someone who didn’t like my dog sleeping at the end of the bed. He said it was her or him, it was an easy choice, I loved that dog."

As for the poem. I couldn’t resist this:

The author Daniel Defoe controversially wrote of the town mentioned in this poem in his 1704 book 'The Storm '. The town accused him of libel and refuted the allegations he made. Defoe wrote:

If I had any satire left to write,
Could I with suited spleen indite,
My verse should blast that fatal town,
And drown'd sailors' widows pull it down;
No footsteps of it should appear,
And ships no more cast anchor there.
The barbarous hated name of Deal shou'd die,
Or be a term of infamy;
And till that's done, the town will stand
A just reproach to all the land.

Thanks for reading, Terry Q.

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PRSNL FX

What colour is your aura? I was once told mine is purple... whatever that signifies, if I even have one. And does a person's "effect" on others depend on whether one is trying or not? Being or doing - is that the question? Being natural without ulterior motive versus deliberately working at making an impression and building a following? 

prsnl fx

Some historical figures are renowned for having possessed charisma sufficient to bend or persuade others to their beliefs, cause or purpose: think priests and prophets, military leaders, orators, politicians, confidence tricksters. Others are famed for inspiring less impacting allegiances: actors, musicians, sports people, writers even all have their fan bases. We're used to the rise of "personalities", a pervasive phenomenon that has grown with the arrival of the press, movies, recorded music, radio and tv, the internet.

However, since online social media birthed the "awareness economy" and its monetising plague of influencers, I feel it's all got a lot more competitive and cynical, with any Tom, Dick or Harriet setting themselves up as some sort of influencer or oracle. I think I can ignore most of it and resist pretty much all of the lies and lures, but I sense its corrupting advance all around as we slither collectively towards a less moral, less principled world.

Recently I was reminded of Mahatma Gandhi's reclassification of the Seven Deadly Sins, as quoted by President Carter at Senator Hubert Humphrey's funeral in 1978. Ghandi (a charismatic influencer himself) itemised the modern Seven Deadly Sins as follows:

  - wealth without work

  - pleasure without conscience

  - knowledge without character

  - commerce without morality

  - science without humanity

  - worship without sacrifice

  - politics without principle

and I think that's a pretty damned fine check list by which to identify much of what's wrong with the world today.

Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi

As I typed out the list line by line, names just came straight to mind: Elon Musk, Jeffrey Epstein, Donald Trump, Benjamin Netanyahu, Vladimir Putin, Peter Hegseth, Nigel Farage, Bezalel Smotrich. I could go on. It's like a carousel ride at the world's end fair. But those are only the most high profile and shocking. Beneath them come the legions happy to embrace the same lack of ethics in their quest to make their own "personal effects" tell on us all. As Bob Dylan said, "Watch your parking meters".

Oh dear! To lighten the mood on this depressing Saturday evening, here's a new comic poem tenuously about personal effect, class conflict and mild thuggery..

Hugh or The Tin Of Tartan Paint
They thought to cut Hugh down to size
that first day, have a laugh
at his expense, son of the owner.

A quaint initiation rite: ‘Go to the stores
and fetch…’ He knew what was coming
and played along, thought he’d be cunning,

had made the label in advance, being good
at art. ‘McGregor’s Finest Tartan Paint.
One coat required. Apply thick. Do not stir.’

All he had to do was stick it round the tin
and walk back in. His workmates’ ready smirks
soon turned to scowls and chips. He was

making them look fools, not mindful of
class sensitivities. Not clever. Big mistake.
After hours, some of the lads lay in wait

and though Hugh bolted hell for leather,
unsure if this was still all in fun,
the pursuing clan soon outran him,

hauled him down, the owner’s son,
administered a broad-brush beating,
black, yellow and blue, a tartan Hugh.

  

Thanks for reading. Stay colourful and wise, S :-)

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Personal Effects

I was at a golden wedding anniversary event the other week (congratulations Sue and Mike) and happened to be in their back garden when their granddaughter looked at the watch on her wrist and said “There is someone at the front door”. How did she know this? She explained the details.

So when I got this week’s topic of Personal Effects I started to wonder if there could be a system called ‘Personal effects’ such as in email as one of the definitions of Personal Effects is things that you take with you.

Now that could cover a multitude of stuff but I’d like to take the opportunity to look at how medical technology has and might affect us. I’m taking the invention of wearable spectacles in Venice during the 13th Century as my starting point for how it has assisted human beings in our everyday lives. 

A brief run through includes pocket watches in around 1590, wearable hearing aids in the late 1800s and in 1949, American biophysicist Norman Holter invented the first portable health monitoring device. And that is about it for personal devices. I’m not counting things like stethoscopes which are used by medical professionals.

Things changed with the development of electronics. We can see this in smart watches used, for instance, in counting steps, in portable measuring devices for various bodily functions, in implanted devices.

But what about future developments. The website techtarget suggests:
Wearable technology is becoming increasingly popular and is set to revolutionize the future. While fitness trackers, smart devices, intelligent clothing and VR and AR headsets have gained widespread approval, the full potential of these technologies has yet to be realized.

The following are some futuristic concepts tech experts have predicted will shape wearable technology:
Energy harvesting. One drawback of wearable technology is that it must be taken off for regular charging. 

Energy harvesting is being researched and could prolong battery life by converting body heat, movement or solar energy into power. Piezoelectricity is one example of energy harvesting where piezoelectric ceramic can convert the body vibrations produced during movement into energy.

Smart contact lenses that contain microscopic sensors could directly cover and move with the human eye introducing the possibility of far more sophisticated capabilities than smart glasses.

AI integrated sensors that help with performing functions associated with thinking are currently being developed. Brain implants that could help people recover from traumatic brain injuries, alleviate mood disorders and assist those with communication disorders.

I was particularly taken with epidermal electronics which because of their mechanical properties resembles that of skin. With this inherent ability epidermal electronics can accurately acquire data without altering the natural motion or behaviour of skin. The thin, soft, flexible design of epidermal electronics resembles that of temporary tattoos laminated on the skin. Essentially, these devices are ‘mechanically invisible’ to the wearer.

And how much more personal and effective is that.

This poem was published in a Poetry Anthology, organised by Christabel Hopesmith, called 'Body and Soul ', to mark 70 years since the start of the NHS. I’m including it as it covers some of the above from both a technological and personal point of view.

It’s never finished

Over a coffee
I wrote up the job.

Replaced ECG lead.
Tested ok. Informed Staff Nurse.

and that was that
which didn’t seem enough
considering
so I added the Staff Nurse’s name
and doodled
an arrow tipped wire
threading my lines
into a cartoon heart
which seemed appropriate
for the Cardiac Catheterisation Suite

and dunked a biscuit

wondering whether
if I’d been the patient
would I be disturbed
by some jerk
trying to chat up a colleague
by reciting the reasons
why platinum was used
in the guide wire
about to go into my heart

or would I give a damn
as long as it was obvious
they knew what they were doing
as long as I knew I’d get back
to family and friends

and if I was that patient
would I have helped the jerk
by saying that platinum
was also an anniversary
so why not celebrate the NHS
by taking someone to dinner

I finished the coffee
and wished I’d thought of that.

Thanks for reading, Terry Q.

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Personal Effects - How Little We Need

 

There’s a small box in the attic. It contains the last of the personal effects of my late aunt. Things have reduced over time. She passed away in 1998 and for many years I kept her paperwork. After about twenty years, I shredded most of it, keeping only important, historical or sentimental documents. Items of costume jewellery includes a mink brooch which I remember from my childhood. They were fashionable once, horrible now. I can’t part with the bits and pieces of her Catholic faith, her wall-hanging crucifix and her statue of Christ which was placed on her bedside table. The Jesus statue was a wedding gift from the priest, I believe. I’ve also kept a few old black and white photos that mean nothing to me, but were something to her, so they stay, for now. Anyway, that’s it. The remaining possessions of a life spanning seventy-four years, or thereabouts, neatly placed in a box only slightly bigger than an average shoe-box and stored in the home of her first niece. That could be me, one day. I think I should speak to my niece. There isn’t a box large enough for all my personal effects. Things can shrink, though.

Books, of which I have many, can be stored on a Kindle, or similar. Photos, again lots of them, can live on pen-drives. Music, my collection of vinyl and CDs can be digitalised. Not for me, though. I like real books on shelves, to feel pages and see the different prints and fonts. I don’t care if anyone calls me old-fashioned.

My house is my home. It’s not quite how I like it because I’ve packed away most of the non-essential things, ornaments and pictures, ready for putting the house up for sale. No, it hasn’t happened yet and I’m still going on about it. The sooner, the better, but there are obstacles still in the way. Considering that so much has gone into a storage unit, there is no empty space here to speak of.

Compared to home, we manage with very little on our caravan. Unfortunately, it hasn’t had much use over the summer due to present circumstances. Instead, we managed a mid-week break to a hotel in Cheshire, with all necessary personal effects for both of us, in one, middle-sized suitcase.

My Haiku,

A box in the loft
Auntie’s personal effects,
Left over from life.

Fond mem’ries remain
Which will always stay with me.
I look back and smile.

PMW 2026

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Swimming Pools

What on earth to write about Swimming pools? Frankly, the topic's wasted on me as I never learned to swim. However, I know some cats that do, so we're heading off to Türkiye today (not literally). I haven't yet visited that country, but I've long been intrigued by its breed of swimming cats and by the cascading thermal pools of Pamukkale. I once thought they went together.  I was misinformed. No matter. I pair them up here for your delectation and will finish with a new cat poem that's not entirely on theme. 😸

otherworldly Pamukkale

Pamukkale is an UNESCO world heritage site in south-western Türkiye. Its terraces are made of travertine, a spectacularly shimmering white limestone deposited by mineral waters which have been cascading down from hot springs into its layered pools for millennia. The name in Turkish means 'cotton castle' and it is easy to see why.

There are seventeen hot springs and the waters at source vary in temperature from 35C to nearly boiling. By the time they have mingled and flowed down the cliff to the pools below they are pleasantly warm the year round.

Pamukkale's thermal springs and pools have been attracting visitors since antiquity. The ancient Greek city of Hierapolis, founded as a spa resort, stands above the springs on the site of what was once a cult centre of the Phrygian mother goddess Cybele. It was founded in the 3rd century BC and there is abundant evidence, in the ruins of the city and its nearby necropolis, that many came to the pools for their supposedly - though clearly not always successful - curative powers.

Although this otherworldly site is now carefully curated, it is still possible with permission for visitors to bathe and swim in designated pools at Pamukkale today.

I was led to believe, many years ago, that Türkiye's swimming cats regularly enjoyed the waters of Pamukkale, an unfortunate conflation of facts. The snag is a geographical one, for Pamukkale, as stated, is in the south-western region of the country in Denizli province, while the water-loving cats live over a thousand kilometres away in Anatolia, eastern Türkiye, near Lake Van from which they derive their name...and in which they do swim.

They are distinguished by their snow-white fur, except for brown markings on their head and ears and their brown hind-quarters and tails. They also have odd coloured eyes (quite common elsewhere in white cats, apparently). It is believed they have lived around Lake Van as a feral landrace for several thousand years, originally brought there as pest control by early Anatolian settlers. 

swimming Van cat

Nowadays there are only a couple of hundred pure Van cats living wild in their native area, but breeding programmes have spread their numbers around the world in the last thirty or so years. I wonder if this domesticated diaspora will retain its love of swimming. Only time will tell. I'm just thinking that if I were a Van cat, I'd love to swim in the year-round warm pools of Pamukkale.

I was originally going to call this latest poem Mrs Schrödinger's Pussy, in an oblique cultural reference to the 1970s TV series 'Are You Being Served' and its standing joke about Mrs Slocombe's Pussy, but on consideration I thought it deserved more gravitas than that. It's a work-in-progress and I may tinker with it a bit further. We'll see. 

It's based on the lives of Erwin Schrödinger (of Schrödinger's Cat fame) and his wife Annemarie and the essentials are absolutely true. As well as being a brilliant (and Nobel Prize winning) physicist, he was a serial philanderer with a predilection for young girls. He was twice Annemarie's age when they married in 1920. She was a photographer and supported him financially for many years. As a couple they were childless and she did have a cat called Milton (and another called Marvell, as it happens). She also remained loyal to him despite his many transgressions. The twist is my whimsical invention. 

Mrs Schrödinger's Cat

In the dull red glow 

of an ornate Vienna washroom, 

expectant faces stand by the bath. 

Something is developing slowly

between Anny and Erwin.

They don't speak, don't touch.

 

She's teaching him,

who is so cleverly theoretical,

the practical art of the photograph -

learned in her youth

from her father, chief lensman 

by appointment to the Austrian Court.

It ought to vex her

in years to come,

married to a man twice her age,

that they still survive

mostly off her wage

while he tutors young girls

 

and researches particles and waves,

strays away for days and nights

so that sometimes 

when she's half sleeping 

she doesn't know if he's out or in.

But she has her cat,

jet black and blind like the poet

after whom he's named.

So Erwin framed his wife: white-dressed

and clutching furry Milton to her breast 

in affectionate pose...

and now they're waiting the reveal.

Through stop bath, fixer and wash
Anny conjures chemical magic, hangs
the dripping film. Shot after shot shows
her languid figure, her happy smile,

her empty arms. They stare. Both know

the camera never lies and yet

there's no cat in the photographs,

not even a blurry pale shadow 

of Milton's cradled feline form.

Her black dress, her empty arms,

her knowing smile, his reeling brain.

This is some serious sorcery.

Thanks for reading, S ;-)

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