I took this photo in the Liverpool Street bus station while we were waiting for the 214. The bus station forms a dark canyon and this invasion of light in the form of a reflection was welcome.

Tomorrow we are heading south for Sidney’s funeral. This will provide the occasion for a rare family get-together but in rather sad circumstances.

I have been asked to say a few words about Sidney at the funeral, something I regard as a privilege. Sidney was - is - loved by us all and we shall cherish his memory. It is this that we shall emphasize at the funeral.

Unfortunately, I have done something to my back and can move only with difficulty. Sitting down and getting up out of the chair is already painful. Tigger’s sister was supposed to be taking us down in her car but I foresee problems with my back in a small car. Instead we shall travel by train and be picked up at the station to keep car travel to a minimum.

The funeral is to be a humanist one. I am not sure what that entails and will be interested to see.

Atheists are fond of describing religious believers as deluded. I know and sympathise because I do so myself. People who believe in religions are deluded. They are not the only ones, of course, and there is a whole slew of fantastical beliefs that people routinely profess which only a sadly deluded person could possibly accept.

People are not deluded only with respect to the supernatural but in other areas as well. Have you never responded to an offer that you knew was “too good to be true” and turned out to be precisely that? Or take politics: do you support a particular party through thick and thin, never doubting that it is the only party that is fit to govern? Then you are severely deluded. Practically a basket-case.

Or do you believe that you can clear the wax from your ears with Hopi candles or that turning over your silver at New Moon will bring luck for the ensuing month? Such silly little fantasies don’t do any good but possibly don’t do much harm, either (apart from scalding your ears with hot wax), but what of the greater delusions?

We atheists, wearing our rationalist hats, like to think we are clear-eyed and clear thinking, led by experience, not by self-serving myths; that we are, in a word, realists. But is this true? Can any of us lay our hand on our heart and swear that this is completely and absolutely true? Of course not. Atheists, freethinkers, rationalists - call us what you will -, we are as prone to delusion as the common run of humanity. The hope is that we know this, acknowledge it and do our best at all times to see through the delusion instead of clutching it to our bosom and worshipping it.

One of the greatest sources of delusion is words. This of course puts us in a grave situation because we rely on words not only to express our thoughts but also to think them in the first place. It is so easy to be carried away by words, not only other people’s but also our own. How often, in an argument, for example, have you become inflamed by your own rhetoric and ended up saying things you should never have said and that you truly regret saying, because you temporarily believed your own words, despite knowing them to be false?

Modern politics has given us a basketful of words and phrases. Two of these are “spin” and “being economical with the truth”. Both mean deliberately setting out to delude people, usually us, the public. This is at its most cynical when the perpetrators don’t really expect us to believe what they say but to act as though we do. The whole ID card debate is based on this, the idea that the government can get us to behave as though ID cards will protect us from terrorists, prevent benefit fraud, etc. etc. when the government itself has admitted that it will do none of these things.

“Disinformation”, “spin”, “economy with the truth”, etc., all represent great dangers because they delude us and cloud reality, confusing us and sending us off on the wrong track, like sheep panicked into running over a cliff by the howling of wolves. It is enough that others seek to delude us; we must not join in the game by deluding ourselves.

But how are we to avoid this? It is not easy, I agree. I believe that logic and critical thinking should be taught in school so that children learn at an early age to see through the deceits of politicians, quacks, evangelists and all manner of snake-oil salesmen. It’s unlikely to happen, though, because government, industry and commerce have a vested interest in keeping us gullible. We are going to have to teach ourselves.

Fortunately, there are clear-eyed, clear-thinking people out there. My hero A.C. Grayling is one but there are others too. We must learn from their wise words but also watch our own. Next time you hear yourself say “I don’t believe I just said that!” take the lesson and take it to heart.

Only bigots never learn from their mistakes and never change their minds when they are wrong.

I took a stroll down Amwell Street before lunch. I needed to call in at the chemist’s and the vet’s.

Amwell Street is quite a long street, going all the way down from Pentonville Road to Rosebury Avenue (where, incidentally, the Sadler’s Wells ballet theatre is situated) but if you enter from the top end, at Pentonville Road, and walk down it has something of the feeling of a village high street.

Amwell Street consists of Victorian and Georgian terrace houses interspersed with shops, some of whose shop fronts are self-consciously - but prettily - old-fashioned. I don’t think I have ever seen this antiques shop open. Maybe it isn’t a shop but a hobbyist’s display cabinet. Across the road from here is Filthy McNasty’s “whiskey cafe” which I am told is better than it sounds (yes, a pun).

The Street, which has its own Amwell Society, has suffered problems which, if they didn’t destroy the Street, at least changed its character. As I understand it, Islington Council wanted to sell off the commercial properties, threatening the livelihoods of the occupants - and their homes as well, in the case of those who lived on the premises.

If the sale had gone through, the very least the occupants faced was a huge hike in rents imposed by the new owner. They could also have been evicted and the properties rented to the highest bidder.

The Council was eventually prevailed upon to allow those shopkeepers who could find the necessary money to buy their premises. Most were able to do so but some only by dint of selling up immediately afterwards. Once again we see how capitalist greed is allowed to put livelihood, amenity, social stability and the simple beauty of places like Amwell Street, in jeopardy.

Amwell Street shares problems with other small centres. For one thing, the Post Office was closed down, not only removing an important facility but also encouraging a drift of clientele outwards to the main shopping areas in Islington. For another, in common with smaller, specialized shops in general, those here find it hard to make ends meet.

For now, Amwell Street is still a pleasant place to go, whether to pick up a prescription from the chemist, buy a paper at the newsagent’s or have coffee in the sun outside Myddleton’s deli, but Amwell Street is a living reminder of the adage that if you have something good and want to keep it, then you must not only treasure it but also look after it. Blink and you will lose it.

A while back, I recounted to you the saga of Silas, our neighbour, who died in the flat above us, and told you how we went to his funeral.

Once the flat had been cleared, refurbishment work started on it. It must have been in quite a state because they worked for a long time on it. They made a lot of noise, hammering and drilling. In fact, they hammered so hard that one day some plaster detached itself from the ceiling of our front room and I had to get them to come and repair the damage.

During that time, even after we had been to the funeral, I went on thinking of the flat above us as “Silas’s flat”. I sometimes wondered what he would think if he could come back and find workmen in there transforming it. Would he like the result or be angry that they had disturbed the home he defended so fiercely all these years? There is no way of knowing.

The other day, I went out to do some shopping and found a little crowd in front of the house. Some of the people were workmen, busy with various tasks, but some were “civilians”. I noticed, among others, an elderly white lady and a young black man with a baby strapped to his chest. Being the discreet type, I took this in and went on my way. It was only later that I wondered whether these people had been invited to take a look at the flat with a view to moving in.

The flat was obviously going to be occupied at some point and that’s fine with us but as it is right above our heads, it is a matter of no small importance who lives there. Then I forgot all about it as there were other things to think about.

On Friday, as I was going out to meet Tigger for the traditional omelette lunch, I noticed some pieces of wood and a large bag in the hall. Also, there was a man on the stairs.

“I’m in the flat upstairs,” said he.

“Oh, right,” I answered. “You’re working in the flat.” Well, he was dressed in dark blue just like the builders.

“No, I’m moving in. I’m going to live there.”

By now he had come down into the hall and we were face to face. So I shook hands with him and said I hoped he would be happy living here.

Naturally, I didn’t mention anything about the history of the flat. When you move into a new place, you don’t need to know that the previous occupant was found dead on the floor. It could be upsetting to some people.

We will now have to get out of the habit of calling it “Silas’s flat” and call it “Colin’s flat” instead. I was sincere in saying I hope he will be happy living there. After all, happy tenants make a happy house.

I thought we had said our last goodbyes to Silas at the graveside but in a strange way, meeting the new occupant seems like the final goodbye. Silas has finally gone except in our memories of him.

London from Hampstead Heath

Today was another quiet day. This does no harm for, after all, it is the weekend and if you can’t relax over the weekend, when can you relax?

We started with a late breakfast at Pane Vino in Chapel Market. The breakfast was late, not because we are lazy but because we were going to Sainsbury’s afterwards and Sainsbury’s opens at 11 am on Sundays. There is no point in going too early. Don’t you think supermarket shopping is such fun? No, neither do I but it has to be done.

After putting away the shopping and having an inevitable cup of tea, we decided to go out. We didn’t want to go too far, just a little Sunday outing. You can tell where we went from the photo at the top. Hampstead Heath is a fascinating place. It is semi-wild and there are trees, wild flowers, birds and squirrels; but there are also people, especially on a Sunday, people picnicking, playing games and generally disporting themselves. It’s just like a park should be and so often isn’t.

The Heath itself is beautiful with acres of grass for people to play in, paths to follow and trees to lie under. The photo on the right gives you some idea of that. As you see from the top picture, the Heath is on a hill so there are spectacular views of London. Tigger was looking through binoculars and telling me all the buildings she could see.

As usual, I was interested in the animals. I know people are animals too but they tend to be the least interesting ones. This picture is of a very small animal. I don’t know how well you can see it. Not very well, probably. If I am to photograph insects, I’m going to need a different sort of camera.

 

You will be able to see this animal better because it is bigger. It’s a crow. There are lots of crows on the Heath and as far as I can tell, they have a fine time. There is plenty of natural food for them and also leftovers from picnics and crumbs and scraps from the cafe. I like crows. They are very intelligent and very observant.

Crows are wary of people (can you blame them?) and don’t like being stared at. This one thought he was safe in a tree and so he let me photograph him. Note the lustrous black plumage, the bright eye and the strong beak. Crows are tough; they are survivors.

We stopped for coffee at the little cafe at the bottom of the Heath and then took the bus home. There is still some Sunday left to enjoy.

So what exciting expedition did we undertake today? I am sorry to say it was not one of our most interesting. Before reading on, you might like to try to guess where this photo was taken (without looking at the mouse-over title ).

OK, so you cheated and saw that it was Herne Bay. We had to go down there today on family business. We spent the morning on that but at least achieved another goal. We commissioned Tigger’s brother, who builds and installs computer systems, to build us a spanking new PC with all the trimmings. Woo!

We also had a very good lunch at the Punch Tavern¹ on Calcott Hill, after which we were driven to Herne Bay station, where we intended to take the bus to Margate for an afternoon’s exploration. As we have hitherto gone to Margate to see family, we thought it might be good to go on a more leisurely visit.

Unfortunately, there is only one bus an hour (number 36) and we would have had to wait almost as long as that, having just missed one. It was a cold, damp day so we gave up and went for a quick stroll around Herne Bay instead. We stopped off for hot chocolate in a pub housed in the building with turrets in the photo. I don’t remember its name. There were several TV screens showing football with the sound turned up so loud that it was painful and I switched my hearing aids to the T-loop setting to dull the ambient sound.

We then had a stroll around the local shops and found a very interesting secondhand cum antiques emporium containing some fascinating items. Unfortunately, I failed to retain the name. (Tigger thinks it may be called Bugsy’s - can any Hernian confirm this?)

After this, the most sensible recourse seemed to be to head back to the station. We did so and were rewarded with a train to Victoria within 4 minutes. Both of us dozed off during the journey.

Not the most scintillating of expeditions, perhaps, but there are worse ways of passing a dull Saturday so I am content enough.

¹Punch Tavern, Calcott Hill, Canterbury, Kent, CT3 4ND, Tel: 01227 710474.

I love this city. It is polluted, noisy (even without hearing aids) and overcrowded and it is now governed by Barmy Boris^* but I love it. Walking across Tower Bridge, taking photos I looked like one of the tourists but, no, I live here. Eat your heart out, tourist!

Today was Omelette Day, as usual, but Tigger suggested I go and see the sheep after lunch. Sheep in London? Yes, and right beside the glass carbuncle, “Ken’s Folly”, where Boris works. The picture on the left proves it.

The sheep were being exhibited and there was a display of shearing as well.

On the left you see a group of sheep, some shorn and others awaiting the pleasure: see right. The shearer couldn’t resist looking into the came- ra: he’s an even bigger tart than I am.

Some more sheep	“Ken’s Folly” aka City Hall	Any chance Boris will end up here?

I left “Ken’s Folly” via Tower Bridge. Like Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, Tower Bridge gets so much exposure (and not always of the best sort), that we tend to take it for granted. Pictures don’t always give you a feel for how big it really is. It’s a massive lump of stone and steel. Below are some of the pictures I took.

Tower Bridge was designed to match the style of the Tower of London. This gloomy but historic pile was founded by William the Conqueror and at various times has served the purposes of royal palace, fortress, arsenal, Royal Mint and, more grimly, as prison and place of torture and execution for those who fell out of royal favour.

The Tower’s grim walls	Someone has the right to exercise a dog here, though	As usual, the Romans got here first

And finally…

It was a stiff contest but the final winner was never really in doubt. With a superbly woolly coat, an expressive black face (all my favourite sheep have black faces) and a magnificent set of horns…

… applause, please, for your Sheep of the Day… Hornbeam!

Actually, I don’t know his real name, if he has one, but Hornbeam seems appropriate. Enjoy his magnificence.

^*I can only hope that Boris will “grow in office” and that, even if he doesn’t do very much good for London, that he does it no very great harm either. Is that too much to hope for?

Occasionally, a post that I write is deemed interesting enough by another blogger to be quoted. This generates an incoming link that appears among the article’s comments. I don’t mind this at all. In fact, I think it’s good when bloggers read one another’s posts and take up the discussion. So if you are an honest blogger, you may quote me on that and on anything else!

However (and there’s always a however in this wicked world), there are those who quote my blog - and yours, and anyone else’s - for less innocent reasons. This practice has become so prevalent as to rival spamming as a nuisance and has attracted the ire of the blogging community. As a result, it has been given a name, blog scraping, and the blogs based on it are referred to by the term splogs.

As far as I can make out, there are two main sorts of splogs. They all have one thing in common (with the odd exception), namely that their authors (if they deserve such a name) use automatic software to cruise the blogosphere and seize on certain articles according to the keywords in them.

Let me give you an example. A few weeks back, I wrote a couple of posts about my hearing aids. These were immediately “scraped” by a site claiming to aggregate information on hearing aids. However, the word “hearing” also appeared in a later post of mine, this time without any reference to hearing aids, and that post, too, was scraped by the same splog. This lack of finesse shows that automatic software is being used.

The different sorts of splog that I know of (though there may be others) are, firstly, those that quote the whole of a post, often without acknowledging the source (i.e. you or your blog) or even assigning it to a false authorship and, secondly, those that quote a few lines of an article, following these with a “Read more…” link to the original post. What these splogs tend to have in common, apart from a rather dull format, is a complete lack of any contact information, making it difficult to express your displeasure at their actions.

How do you know you have been “scraped”? An essential part of the scraping process is to generate an incoming link to your blog. You will see this, either in the comments section at the end of a post or among the comments held for review as possible spams by the blogging software. The idea behind this, I think, is to try to generate traffic to the splog which will raise its ranking on search engines such as Google.

Why would these parasites wish their sad, unoriginal and lack-lustre little splogs to achieve such favour? There might be several motives, I suppose. A splog with a high profile might attract advertising, for example, and thus generate income.

So does scraping really matter? After all, doesn’t it possibly give your blog extra publicity? There are several answers to that, depending on the different sorts of blogs that are scraped. In the first place, most honest people deprecate with various degrees of passion such parasitical use of their original work. If you are an artist or writer or a provider of information, you do not want your work to be stolen and credited to someone else. At the very least, scraping is a breach of copyright. Added to this, you, the author, have no control over where your work is exhibited and may find your posts appearing where you do not wish them to appear, for example on porn sites.

Are there any defences against scraping? None that I can see. A lot of bloggers now put copyright or creative commons licence announcements on their blogs. If you use WordPress, there is a plug-in ^* designed to insert a copyright notice in your text if this is quoted in its entirety. I don’t think these help much because machines don’t take any notice of copyright notices and scrapers probably pay no need to them either.

Are there, then, any remedies once the offence has occurred? If you can find a contact address, you can try asking the splogger to remove your content. Some bloggers report success in this. If you cannot contact the splogger or if the latter does not respond, you can contact the Internet service provider who is hosting the splog. This too has met with some success.

This is all very reminiscent of the fight against spammers. It costs time and possibly money to go along this route and unless you are a business blogger and you feel your business is being jeopardized, it may not be worth the trouble.

In any case, such victories, if they are won, are piecemeal. For every splog that you persuade to delete your post or is closed down, several more will appear to continue their parasitical activities. As with spammers, we are on a hiding to nothing in the absence of a global strategy to deal with the problem.

There are no copyright notices on my blog. This is not because I do not value my work but because I believe that the blogging community in general is honest and because I do not want to deter others from quoting me or linking to me for perfectly legitimate reasons whereas those who rip off my content will ignore copyright notices anyway. Ending every post with “© 2008 SilverTiger” would, I feel, be giving in to hysteria. You may disagree with me and, if so, good luck to you. Let me know whether it makes any difference and I will perhaps change my mind.

^*As emalyse points out in her comment, this plugin is only for self hosted WordPress (wordpress.org) blogs, not those hosted on wordpress.com.

In the Bad Old Days, our water was heated in a tank under the sink and our front room was warmed, if need be, by a gas fire. We found this arrangement perfectly satisfactory until the Evil Gas Engineer came and interfered.

The immersion heater produced piping hot water - so hot that you couldn’t put your hands in it even wearing thick rubber gloves - and you only needed to switch it on for an hour beforehand to have plenty of water for a bath.

In winter, we would from time to time turn on the gas fire to heat the front room. We never needed to have it on for more than about 30 minutes at a time as that was sufficient to raise the temperature several degrees. Moreover, although the gas fire had 4 elements, we never used more than 2. I loved that gas fire and so did Freya: she would spread herself out in front of it as though sunbathing.

There were problems, of course, with this simple arrangement. Two, to be precise. Simply expressed, these were 1. no heating in the bathroom and 2. no heating in the bedroom. We solved the latter by moving the bed into the front room. The former was not so easy to solve. All we could do was to grit our teeth.

Then came the day for the annual gas inspection. Enter the Evil Gas Engineer. He carefully checked our installations, filled in the forms and…

“I am going to disconnect your gas fire,” said he. “Gas fires are not allowed in the bedroom.”

I stood mute while my world, warmed and made habitable by the gas fire, collapsed around me.

As if by coincidence, along came United House, the company that in partnership with Islington Council manages their homes. “We are going to refurbish your flat,” they said. “And we are going to install gas central heating and water heating.”

We didn’t want their gas central heating and water heating. We wanted our gas fire back. No chance. We could have dirt, noise, disruption, frustration, inconvenience and hassle, but we couldn’t have any choice. Central heating was installed.

There are advantages to central heating: instead of living in one room in winter, we can live in two. The bedroom is a bedroom again and the bathroom is no longer a place of arctic terror. On the other hand, the water heating is, frankly, not up to snuff.

Whereas we once had lashings of near-boiling water, we now have an uncertain supply of tepid water. Annoyingly, you turn the tap on to fill the sink and it is hot but a moment later, it is running cold so you empty the sink and start again. To get hot water at all, you have to run the taps for a long time: I hate to think how much water is being wasted, gurgling uselessly down into the drains, all over the country, wherever gas boilers are installed. You hardly need to wonder why we suddenly have a water shortage: half the domestic water supply is going down the plughole unused.

This morning, an extra dab of spice was added to the situation. I was filling the kitchen sink to do the washing-up. The water started hot than ran cold. I sighed. I emptied the sink and ran the tap again. The water was cold. After several minutes it was still cold.

I went and took a look at the boiler. Of the four lights, A, B, C and D, the first three were flashing in unison. Uh-oh. I had no idea what this meant but I didn’t like it. The emergency instructions said nothing about lights but there was a telephone number and an invitation to call it in case of trouble. I called it.

The phlegmatic voice at the other end took down my details and said engineers would visit me. “Then you think there really is a problem with the boiler?” I asked. “Yep” was his laconic answer.

So I settled down to wait. After a while, being a curious soul, I went to look at the boiler again. The lights were no longer flashing. I ran a tap. Hot water came out. Oh dear, here was a pretty dilemma: what should I do now?

I called the laconic man on the help line and explained that the lights were no longer flashing and I had hot water. “I’ve cancelled the call-out,” he said.

“So you think it’s OK to use the boiler?”

“Yep.”

After a little prompting, he did add “Keep an eye on it and if there are any problems call us.”

I don’t know whether to be relieved that the system is working again or worried lest this is just a temporary reprieve.

In the meantime, I suppose I had better go and do the washing-up.

Yesterday we built the wardrobe. That’s a picture of it on the left. Not a very good picture, I admit, but as there is so little space in our flat (think one-man submarine) and I had to stand on the bed and point the camera downwards, what do you expect?

We are of course talking about cheap furniture, the sort that comes in a flat-pack and that you have to assemble yourself. For some time now, the wardrobe has been standing on its end in its cardboard box glowering at us, rather like the mummy case in a horror film that you know will eventually disgorge some undead monster to ravage the world. Yesterday, we decided its time had come.

First, we had to clear a space which, in our flat, isn’t easy. We moved the bed and the clothes rack into the front room, heaped various bags and cases into the bath and moved sundry crates and boxes to wherever they would go. This, it turned out, left a space just large enough to assemble the wardrobe. It’s a good job it wasn’t a boat as we’d never have got it out of the house.

Tigger consulted the list of parts and heaped all the bits into heaps according to their kind. Then we took two deep breaths (one each) and set to work. Tigger had prevailed upon me to buy an electric screwdriver and I have to say that it eased the task immensely. We started at 2 pm and ended at 5:15, not bad going, I think.

There were problems, of course. Firstly, it wasn’t clear from the instruction book which latches to use for the main part of the wardrobe so, naturally, I used the wrong ones. When we discovered the mistake, I had to remove the wrong ones and replace them with the right ones, being careful that the wardrobe didn’t fall apart while I was doing it.

Then there were the pre-drilled holes. You would think that these would be in the right place, wouldn’t you? Well, some of them are. OK, let’s be fair, most of them are, but a few are not. They are not in completely the wrong place - that would be too easy. No, they are about a millimeter out, too close to the position to drill a new hole but far enough away so that the screw goes in crooked and pulls the hinge, or whatever it is, out of true.

But finally, somehow, we were on the home straight. We carefully lifted the wardrobe upright and attached the doors and slotted in the drawers. To our amazement, they fitted. The doors even open and close. Amazing.

Rejoicing was cut short by the realization that all the stuff we had moved out to make a space now had to be moved back again. It couldn’t go back exactly where it had been before because, of course, there was now a wardrobe in the way! Somehow we managed and then had a lie-down to rest.

In the morning, we had been for breakfast to our friends at Pane Vino in Chapel Market. We were now beginning to feel a little hungry. Where should we go for supper?

We decided to go here, to Al Parco, because we hadn’t been there for a while and remembered it as a pleasant little place with a family atmosphere. Unfortunately, we had counted without the crowds typical of a hot sunny day.

The place was packed and, quite frankly, Al Parco is not geared up to dealing with the number of tables it now has. For one thing, there are inadequate toilets and for the first time in my life, I had to queue to go to the gents. We waited for what seemed hours to be served.

The food was good, though. We started with insalata tricolore, which was delicious and continued with pizza quattro formaggi, which was crisp and succulent, respectively, in all the right places. We will remember in future only to go there in winter.

The bus stop where we would catch the trusty 214 home is just opposite the restaurant but there was such a crowd there - revellers from the restaurants and picnickers from the Heath - that we knew there would be a bun fight to get aboard. We thought to get the drop on them by walking up Highgate West Hill to the previous bus stop.

It is in a quiet residential area and there would be few people at the stop. As we stood there in the darkness, staring across at the houses, I realized the one opposite had a blue plaque on it. Closer inspection showed that the poet John Betjeman had lived in this house in his childhood. A nice note on which to end the evening.