Optical Illusion

Sadly, as the years have passed by, my body has metamorphosed from the muscular, slim and athletic twenty something into the fifty something whose physique is akin to Buddha after a binge eating session. Bits of my body are slowly but surely degrading and this brings different fears. Once upon a time I would worry that I might not get a game of football every day: now I worry about dropping the remote as, by the time  I have managed to bend over to pick it up to change channel, I've missed half the match!

Some bits of me have always been less than perfect. "What?!!" I hear you cry, as another illusion is shattered. Yes indeed, I have worn glasses from the age of about 11 therefore they are part of me. In fact, my Chinese friends always refer to me as 'Sing an loh' which apparently means Four-eyed man although it wouldn't surprise me if it's meaning is something totally different and they've been calling me something like rancid arse face for all these years.

I, like most people, have my sight tested every 18 months or so and for some time I have been going to an independent company called Sussex Eyecare. They are based in Seaford, near where we used to live.. It's owned by a very capable and likeable chap by the name of Daeron who is also a biker and is just getting into photography (Daeron, if you're reading this, have I got a discount yet?). In fact, Daeron has been so successful there, a few years back, an elderly motorist decided to see if he liked the idea of a drive-through!

Recently, I managed to break one of my lenses so I obviously needed to go and get them sorted as well as another eye test but, for reasons which are pretty immaterial to this story, ended up going into town and visiting one of the big optician chains by the name of Vision Express.

Now Vision Express advertise a lot. They advertise cheap this, extra that, free sunglasses and are the epitome of corporate culture. Young persons in uniform smile nicely and the waiting area has such reassuring reading matter as The Times. Sadly, the said newspaper has been ripped into small bits by the bored children who sit there whilst their parents browse the designer frames, look at the price and then head for the budget section. Eventually I was examined and a young lady ophthalmologist started the proceedings by shining extremely bright lights in my eyes. How on earth was I expected to read wall charts after that?

I emerged to be told that there had been a deterioration in my vision and therefore a new prescription was issued and I would be passed to a colleague who would go through the alternatives. He started off by showing me 3 different pictures which demonstrated the difference in vision by their 3 different varifocal lenses. In other words, he started selling. I explained that I didn't want a lesson in marketing: I have been involved in marketing for a lot of my career and politely enquired if, assuming it was OK with him, we could actually focus (!) on me as the most important priority rather than his targets? He quoted a lens price (remember, I didn't need frames) of £360  and I was fairly surprised as these lenses were identical to my last ones (Seiko) and the cost was similar to lenses AND frames, some 18 months earlier. As we were there (despite my better judgement), the deal was done. Mrs B also had hers checked and the result was no change. The ophthalmologist did recommend contacts though (at £30 a month) and separate reading glasses. I might be a little cynical here but I do wonder if that was her professional opinion or yet another little bid to boost income and procure an ongoing direct debit?

As I drove back to the apartment, my phone rang. The young man at Vision Express was very sorry but he had misquoted me. He told me that, as the specs are rimless, there have to be holes drilled into the lenses for the arms and this costs a further £40. He gave me the option of cancelling the order and I told him I'd be in the next morning. So, we now have £400 and I am not a happy bunny. I had it on my mind all night. Annoyed that we had fallen into the trap of corporate advertising, annoyed that we hadn't gone back to where we knew and trusted the people and generally speaking, offering a good impression of Mr Grumpy. The following morning I made a rather embarrassed call to Sussex Eyecare and asked what they would charge me for replacement lenses? £295! Over £100 less than the big boys which totally screws any such theories as economies of scale. I rang Vision Express and told them the cheaper price and was met with a flustered person saying they would speak to the manager and where did I get this quote? I told them and then said I was coming in!

When I got there, the girl said she would fetch the manager and disappeared. Now whether the manager didn't want to speak or had something better to do I shall never know because the girl came back without her. I explained politely that, quite naturally, I wanted to get the best value for money. The girl said she had phoned Sussex Eyecare and they quoted £310. At this point I told her that I would like to cancel the order as a) I didn't like my integrity questioned and b) I was not happy about the whole thing. Her reply was "We don't do refunds, it's been company policy for about a year now."

Are you still with me or are you slumbering gently now? I'm almost done so bear with me.

I left the shop in high dudgeon after explaining that they would either get a call from Trading Standards or my solicitor only to receive a message some 30minutes later. Guess what? It appears that they COULD make a refund and would happily do so!!

The moral of this story? Stick with what you've got - size isn't everything!!! I'm not a vengeful man (much) and if I can deter one person from increasing Vison Express' profits then my job is done and I can sleep soundly in my bed at night.

Judge Not, That You be Not Judged

It's been less than 3 years since I really caught the photographic bug. I did go to evening classes when I was in my mid 20s and learned such esoteric delights as printing and developing but sadly all I really remember was a naked young lady draped over a motorcycle. Let me hasten to add, this was a model and not one of the college students trying to pull. I've still got some of the prints (none, sadly, of the girl) and I will never forget that buzz as an image took shape in the developing fluid.

Of course, nowadays one can run off a few hundred shots very easily, ditch the majority and then work on the rest. No more waiting for a pack of prints to arrive and the hope that one, just one, might be worthwhile. If you have a half-decent shot then you can merely fire up Photoshop, clone the lamp-post that appears in the wrong place, change the colour of the sky, add a few layers to adjust tone and contrast and finally emerge with a satisfactory shot. The old adage that the camera never lies has been completely turned on its head!

 I actually used graphic programmes way before I took up photography as I used to design posters for various bands as well as posters for my weekly quiz nights. I have never had any creative talent so using a computer was a fine way of satisfying that side of me. I started 'borrowing' photos off of the net and then  manipulating them, in all sorts of ways which enabled me to both practice my skills and use my imagination with works like Hippogriff, Prawn Cocktail and The Glorious Twelfth. This all culminated in my attempt to create an image incorporating several facets of myself. Now it looks fairly crude technically but at the time I was pleased with it. As usual, just click the photo for a bigger image.

Schism

Anyway, let's move on to the purpose of this particular offering. During the course of the year, my photographic society (posh name) or, (for my readers) camera club holds several competitions where members submit their shots and these are constructively criticised by a visiting judge who then awards marks out of 20. The standard ranges from the ordinary to the wonderful but it's always a joy to see work by other members. I expect you'll think Mr SuperEgo would be in straight away for these here competitions but last night was the first one for which I had submitted an entry. I've been going there for 18 months now so, you may well ask, why wait so long? Well, this is where it gets complicated.........

In a nutshell, I can never be satisfied with anything I achieve. It was the same at work; if I achieved 115% of a target then I would really beat myself up for not achieving 120%. I was the most confident extrovert, the leader, the joker, the arrogantly successful manager whilst, underneath, I had no real confidence or self-esteem. I had built a shell which lasted me for many years. Each time there was a crack I was able to repair it until one fateful day, and for reasons I still don't know, it shattered - totally, completely and pretty  irrevocably. I never worked again after that. My doctors and consultants told me I had "burned out". Who knows what it's all about but I was retired on full pension and that was that.

In a nutshell, the reasons therefore that I had never submitted a photo were because a) I didn't think my photos were good enough and b) I would destroy myself if they didn't get a perfect 20. See what I mean? A total dichotomy which goes to prove all those months and months of therapy did bugger all and I'm still as screwed up as ever!

My friends at the Club had seen my photographs on Flickr and were badgering me to submit something so, in the end I took the plunge. First problem - which shot to submit? These were a few of the contenders;

I finally decided and emailed the jpeg to the Competition Secretary (this was a digital comp. as opposed to print). I was pleasantly surprised to find that the whole process wasn't as bad as I'd imagined and as the few days passed prior to Friday I found that I wasn't worried at all. This completely changed during the course of that Friday and by the time I drove over to the meeting I was tighter than a spring. Naturally, when I got there I was, outwardly, completely blasé about the whole thing. People asked if I had entered and I casually nodded and said things like 'Oh I don't expect much from my first one'. I knew I was cracking when Steve, the guy next to me, asked me what my image was like and I answered 'Well, casual but sophisticated, I guess.

The actual competition starts with a runthrough of all the entries, followed by the judge's thoughts on each individual shot and finally, another runthrough when the marks are awarded. None of the images have anything other than a title so there can be no favouritism and they are shown in a completely random order. I was really looking forward to seeing my photo on a big projected screen and wondered just where I was in the order. The images started rolling through .......... nothing. They continued ............. nothing. Mine was second to bloody last!! This meant that I had to sit through all the others and it was a good hour before mine was shown. 

Hot Stuff!

The judge said that it was a strong image. and that it had points of interest throughout. He complimented me on the technical ability shown in actually capturing the image and that it was "very pleasing". He did make one criticism that the spark in the top right corner distracted the eye and it should be toned down. Now, of course, I see what he means. Why oh why didn't I see that? Before the final marks were announced there was a break and people were asking each other whose photos were who's? Obviously, one tends to be complimentary about each others images so I didn't really take much notice of the nice things people were saying - all I wanted to do now was get it over!

We went back and the marking began. It's traditional that the best ones are held back and commented on further at the end before their mark is given. In other words, if it's held back, you're doing OK. These top ones tend to get 18, 19 or 20 and any that receive such a mark are formally applauded when the author's name is read out. Of the 40 or so entries, marks were ranging from 12 to 'Can we hold this one back please'. I had already decided that I would settle for a 17 - any more and I would be pleased, any less and it was off to the cliff top I go. As my shot came up again, he hesitated, for what seemed an eternity, and then awarded a 17. There were about 7 or 8 that scored higher so I guess I didn't do too bad. The best part was I had actually done it and, more importantly, I have accepted it. Maybe, at long last I've become sane(ish)!

A Lesson in English

Blog writing is a strange pastime. What does one want to commit to paper (albeit virtual paper)? In my case it depends; sometimes it's deep and dark and I often bottle out of hitting the "Publish" button, sometimes it's something that I feel strongly about but predominantly it's me being me.

There are certain subjects or blog thoughts I have in the back of my mind that I know will surface eventually as a blog, a bit like trapped wind or, as our American cousins would say "trapped gas" and that, my dear old thing, hits the proverbial nail right on the head! As the great Irish playwright George Bernard Shaw said; 'England and America are two countries divided by a common language'. I have some very lovely and special American internet friends, of whom I think the world but they have arbitrarily decided to change spellings, words .... and practically anything they fancy and still have the cheek to call it English!

Some I can understand, for example the wind/gas situation. I mean, when the Pilgrim Fathers toddled off to the New World (and what was wrong with the old one, may I ask?) they were aboard ship for a long time and I am sure they had their fair share of intestinal problems. Being God-fearing folk I'm sure they were far too polite (being English!) to mention this and no doubt blamed it on the ship's dog so their descendants had to invent a new word. This is fair enough but ... and this is the nub of the matter .......... when they started building cars they didn't call fuel petrol as we do. Oh no, they had to find another word and what did they choose? The same as flatulence!! Who decided to bastardise our language? Oops, sorry my colonial buddies, that should be 'bastardize'.

See what I mean? A perfectly sensible means of converting nouns and adjectives into verbs and they decide to change the spelling. The only reason I can think of is to get higher scores in Scrabble. And what about the humble 'u'? Humor, honor, color - all bereft. I can just imagine the newly colonised America, all sitting round playing Puritan games like Pin the Tail on the Devil and Hunt the Witch and then they got bored.

Pilgrim Father 1: I hungereth. Hath anybody invented MacDonalds yet?

Pilgrim Father 2: Letteth us think of a pastime to taketh away thy hunger, Jedediah

Pilgrim Father 1: I know, letteth us really pisseth of ye Brits by screwething up their language!

Pilgrim Father 2: I'd rather watcheth Baywatch but Okeyeth Dokeyeth.

I could trawl the depths and go for cheap laughs by talking about the different meaning of such words as 'fanny' and 'muff' but this whole subject is far too important to drop to such levels. I read certain things on Facebook and the net and I haven't got a clue what's going on. What in the name of all the gods is 'Woot!'? I am assuming it is similar to hooray or  some such exclamation of joy but 'Woot!'???  Have you ever in your life heard anybody go 'Woot'? I certainly never have (apart from when my friend Alan was eating and something went down the wrong way. As I hit him sharply on the back and a small but life-threatening piece of casseroled pheasant ricocheted across the room, a Woot like sound was heard.).

I am trying to be fair and impartial here but even taking into account that all Americans are mad still finds me puzzled by their attitude to lexicographical matters. I really do love my American friends dearly but you have a lot to answer for ............ Jerry Springer, country and western, Oprah Winfrey, electing George Bush (twice!) but above all, your total deconstruction of our wonderful language. My English accent has been called 'cute' ........ need I say more?! And what decent TV have you come up with? OK, I can think of a couple but when I switch on my 50" Panasonic I don't want to watch some dreadful documentary about 4 (going on 18) year olds entering pageants or programmes entitled "I was a 48 stone Cheerleader" or The O.C..  As for "Lost", never has a series been more aptly named. I gave up when some bloke got killed for the fourth time and he was still in the next series! Oh dear, I'm starting to work up a froth now so I'll try and calm down. I will not mention anything about a sport where only American teams play for the World Series or why programmes about cake decorating seem to have taken over our screens.

Have your own language by all means but call it American - not American English or English. Call your mothers 'mom' and not 'mum' but don't try and hide behind our 1600 year old linguistic roots otherwise I'll smack your bum. See, you didn't change 'bum' to 'bom', did you? "Oh no, we'll just give that as a name for vagrants because tramp isn't good enough for us". See what I mean? I won't even start on your totally carefree and lax attitude towards transitive verbs.

Right y'all, gotta go now, it's time for The Simpsons.

A Day in the Life

I live in a town called Eastbourne. It's on the south coast of England and is renowned as a genteel town where oldies like to visit, retire or just sit on the seafront, looking out to sea and dreaming memories of a life gone by. Eastbourne is also holder of the sunniest town in Britain title as the cliffs to the west create a micro-climate which seems to push a lot of the clouds around behind us. Remember those cliffs, as they come into play later in this shadow of my former blog-writing self.

Talking of blogs, I have a dreadful confession to make. I read back over some of the 2008/2009 ones when I was typing away like Mavis Beacon on Speed and blogging loads and ............ some of them were really funny! Now, logic dictates that if one writes humour then one should find it funny as, by definition, it is the sort of humour one enjoys. But I was giggling!!! I may do many things but I rarely giggle. Giggling is not me, I am the sardonic smile, the manly chuckle or, just occasionally, side splitting laughter. You know, the sort where you can't speak for laughing, tears roll down your cheek (and occasionally other places) and people look at you in that slightly bemused and scared way as nobody else has any idea at what you're laughing. One of these days,  I really ought to print this lot out for posterity so that my children, their children and their children's children can all read them and wonder what the bloody hell they've got in their gene pool.

(click on photos to enlarge)

Right, back to the point of all this. 11.30pm last night, I was watching a helicopter out of the living room windows. It stayed hovering slightly out to sea for a good 30 minutes and I wondered what was going on (is it a sign of my paranoia that I thought it might be paparazzi hired specifically to get shots of me in my night attire?). Anyway, this morning I switched on my PC to check the local news only to find that a guy had been standing on the cliff edge since 8 the evening before threatening to jump. The cliffs along here are quite well-known as a suicide spot although the primary place, called Beachy Head, is slightly round the headland and therefore out of sight. It's a beautiful place but sadly the sight of lifeboats or helicopters is all to common with an average number of deaths per annum in excess of 20. I got up to look out of the window and there, to my surprise, was the man together with a number of police vehicles parked nearby. Naturally I took some shots but just hoped and prayed that he would be OK.

Later this afternoon, we popped into town for a coffee and to pick up my daughter. As I sat there at a pavement table idly watching some guys practising their parkour, I saw a youngish community police support officer running down the road opposite followed shortly by another CPSO of slighter larger stature ambling quickly after her. "Hmmm, " thinks I, being of astute mind "something's going on there.". Next thing I knew there were cop cars coming from every direction and pulling up outside the mail sorting office! Dog vans, CCTV vans, all sorts of vehicles all with sirens blaring - right in front of me. Now I knew I had parked legitimately so I was pretty sure it wasn't me they were after but, as I (of course) had a camera with me I decided to stroll up and have a look.  I tried asking several officers what was happening but they very politely refused. One young lady officer even told me to stop taking photos. I was about to make a vehement speech about democracy and human rights and then saw two huge policemen get out of the car beside her and pull out riot shields and batons so decided to abandon freedom in favour of personal safety so legged it to a safe distance. 

I never did find out what it was all about. It all fizzled into nothing and, having just searched the local paper once more, there is no mention. In fact, the main headline just about sums up this little old town of mine. It says:

Hip Replacement Patient Home on Day Of Operation

A patient from Hailsham has become the first to undergo a hip replacement at Eastbourne DGH and return home the same day.

That is what I expect from Eastbourne, not suicide stand-offs and police actions - especially both in one day! 

Oh, and by the way, the potential jumper didn't.