I fell off my bike

There are a number of stages to falling off a bike. First, the moment of no return:

STAGE 1 - 'No Return'
I think this stage comes a very close second in terms of the most horrible bit about falling off your bike. Balance is a wonderful friend but he (or she) is ruthless if you neglect him (or her.) Balance lends a feeling of power and invincibility, but it is a lie. There is a critical point in losing balance, beyond which it will not be regained. Then, you must prepare yourself for the worst. There will be blood. There will be pain. Shame will hover in the shadows.
The airwaves will barely obscure a barrage of swear words and verbal violence waiting to take voice.

STAGE 2 - 'Touchdown'
This stage happens remarkably quickly and seems somehow to happen outside the realms of normal consciousness. It is, you may be surprisd to read, the least worst stage. It's nasty, but you only really grimace when you look back at it. This stage is the telling factor in what the result will be. Do you protect your head? Were you wearing a helmet? Do you go hands first? Perhaps you twist, or get stuck in the frame of the bike, or seperate from the frame of the bike altogether and hurtle towards the compacted (hardened) tarmac. This is the 'other wordly' stage. It will happen in a flash and you will then be ready for...

STAGE 3 - 'The Dawn of Pain'
By far and away the worst stage. Here begins pain. First, It dawns on you: you just crashed. Oh S***. Then, you realise your leg shouldn't be where it is - caught halfway up the shin in the bicycle frame (I'm being specific for a reason). The momentary gladness you feel that your head is unhurt evaporates like steam on the surface of the sun as the first wave of pain prods you on the hands and says, "welcome to my world"! Then, and I always hate this bit, adrenalin's effect starts to wear off and your stomach joins in with the sick, heady concoction of shock, agony, anger, distress, etc. Now, you carefully (and thinking all the while you have CERTAINLY broken bones) remove your leg from the unyielding metal frame of your stricken bike. Someone always seems to come over at this point. They are always welcome (unless they came to laugh, which has happened to me in the past) and are semi-angelic in their compassion, but you can't - as victim of this crash - be nice. You have pain and distress on your mind. Best you can do is not swear at them (something I once failed to do).

The crash is over. It happened about twenty minutes ago in Colchester Institute car park. I was multi-tasking. I got cocky. I fell. After, I wandered into the library loo and attended to my minor wounds. I expect to survive this trauma. I have no doubt I will fall off again sooner than I'd like. I can only recommend you don't try, with your right hand, to hang your now removed bike helmet by the straps on the left handlebar. It's much harder than you might think.

Electrically Charged Music

I am looking into the history of Concertos. They tend to be a showcase of a particular instrument acoompanied in various ways by an orchestra. (That's an original sentence. you can borrow it, but i expect to be credited!)
 Today I've looked a little at a work by on of Bach's sons featuring the Harpsichord, another by Josef (I don't know why he isn't called by his first name - 'Franz) Haydn featuring the Cello and, just now - because I often end up coming back to this piece - Elgar's Cello Concerto. The link below is recording of it featuring the now deceased Jacqueline Du Pre (I don't know how, but the 'e' on Pre ought to have an accent.) I encourage you to have a listen. If you've not much time, start with the first few minutes:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=681NvqpO2eU

I have to say, it is utterly stunning. It is electrically evocative. It is inescapably British but not (in my view, and perhaps with the benefit of the passage of time) patriotic, or nationalistic. Jacqueline made the cello fizz with energy and power. I find it interesting how the orchestra play in time, but not in time. They play phrases, or snatches of melodies in time, but with the freedom to include almost invisible pauses and lilts - like breathing, if that makes sense. This performance has a certain solidity, or unity between performers, so that throughout the many variations and changes of mood and volume, etc. the overall sound is completely together. That last sentence was a little boring, but there's something in a group of musicians who are really well rehearsed and are on completely the same wave-length. they can make something more than the notes on the page.

anyways, someone is walking around closing all the blinds on the library windows. It's making me think I ought to wind things up here... hope you enjoyed elgar. Let me know what you thought.

The Dutch Venture

 

 

 40 years ago, a man from the Dutch Antilles drifted silently into Wivenhoe under the cover of darkness. No one noticed his arrival. His name was Fars Linker. He had good reason to leave his distant atlantic home in search of pastures new.

In 1999, this boat, the "Dutch Venture" was auctioned to an anonymous bidder for the staggering sum of £16,000,000. It had been docked as long as anyone could remember in the same spot in Wivenhoe harbour without once setting sail. No one boarded it, no one knew anything about it. Eventually the authorities took matters into their own hands and entered the vessel into auction. It was described in the brief catalogue entry as 'A boat of unknown origin, sold as seen, including all contents'. But no one could examine the contents. The hull was sealed by three gigantic padlocks connected by bulky, rusted chains. There was no key.

The New owner was an elderly gentleman whose face was never completely displayed. He retained some measure of privacy behind impenetrably-mirrored sunglasses, a large-rimmed had and an unshaven face. He spoke to no one as he made his way from the Auction processing office to Wivenhoe harbour. No one followed him but many eyes tracked his progress.

As he approached, and boarded the "Venture", this mysterious gentleman almost imperceptibly slipped his left hand into his trouser pocket and removed it, now apparently wrapped around some small object. Still, hidden eyes peered from behind curtained windows. Now he knelt down. Only the top of his hat was visble. Wivenhoe was now unusually silent. Only the tiniest clink of metal cut through the stillness. Twice more, the enigmatic owner rose to his full height, moved a few paces, and dropped down below sight. Each further clink of metal instantly reverberated over every stilled surface in Wivenhoe, stone and flesh. Now the man disappeared completely from view. No more than ten seconds later, an ear-piercing screech of Iron against stone shattered the silence. Curtains all accross Wivenhoe harbour flew open, no longer interested in concealing hidden watchers. All accross the harbour people now openly stared as Fars Linker emerged from the hull onto the deck, as the boat steadily cut through the gentle waves. He turned to face the dwindling shoreline. He removed his hat, then his glasses and stood watching, a small grin turning up the corners of his closed mouth. An hour later he was gone, the same way he had arrived. Where to? who can say. His secrets are now safe, somewhere in the Atlantic ocean, hidden in the dark, brooding hull of the Dutch Venture.