It’s that dreaded day again. Bloody Halloween. So I bought a box of chocolates and sat it on the junior Jali in readiness.

Before the dark descended and the ghouls were abroad however, I took a few photos in the park to show some of our lovely autumn colours. As I said to Mirinda on the way to the station, it’s like it’s appeared overnight.

This is in Gostrey Meadow and looks lovely and soft.

Autumn in Farnham

Then, later in the park, I took these.

The Avenue of Trees, Autumn

Fallen leaves in Farnham Park

But all good things come to an end and the sun went down. Cue a whole bunch of witches going door to door. They prowl in groups with anxious mothers waiting at a safe distance.

The oddest visitation I had tonight has to be the giant banana. While seriously not scary, it was pretty weird. Maybe it was the result of a genetic experiment in some Dr Frankenstein place.

The cutest has to be the tiniest witch. She had a blonde wig and a technicolour outfit. Rather than scary, she nearly ran away from Day-z. Mind you, on her hind legs, she was the same height. Clearly a demon dog in her own right. Mind you, she then spent a fair amount of time on my lap in recovery mode.

I almost forgot…this marks my 700th post!

What a miserable day! Trust it to be an hour longer than all of the nice ones we’ve had. Not that I remembered the clocks were changing.

It used to be the case that I’d wander the house at Saturday night, changing all the clocks, now it’s the case of wondering which ones won’t change themselves.

This morning the dogs woke me up and it was 6am. Because it’s not possible to wear a watch, I’m using my phone to tell the time and there it was in big bold, laughing digits. I swore under my breath and went down to shut them up (and to put Day-z out) before collapsing on the long lounge for (at least) another hour of sleep.

Two hours later I woke up. I decided to make a coffee and watch the rerun of Match of the Day since I’d dozed off during it last night while waiting for Mirinda to wake up.

In the kitchen, the mysterious fact that the oven clock was correct did not occur to me. It was as I was settling myself down that I realised the clock on the mantelpiece was an hour ahead. I then had a D’oh! moment when I realised the time had changed last night.

The biggest impact, however, was when we took the dogs for a walk around the park at 5pm. We’d forgotten how dark it gets when the clocks go back. Here’s the view from the bedroom window.

It wasn't like this yesterday!

Ages ago I had an email from Dawn, asking whether Mirinda and I would like to accompany them to Chichester to see Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street. Seeing as Sweeney is my favourite musical, it wasn’t a tough decision. As I said, this was quite a while ago and it’s been a wait but tonight it was finally time to go.

Ignoring any remarks by Mirinda, as soon as I discovered that Michael Ball was cast as Sweeney I thought he was terribly miscast. I’m not saying he’s not a great musical performer, just that he’s not what I’d consider, Sweeney material. Not that this affected whether I’d go or not.

Well, I was right. The star of this production of Sweeney Todd was Imelda Staunton as Mrs Lovett. She was extraordinary. I would go so far as to say she gave one of my top five performances in a musical. And I’ve seen a few! Her performance was completely and utterly flawless, believable and delightful.

While this is wonderful for Ms Staunton, it’s an awfully big hill to climb for Michael Ball. And it was a hill he never managed to climb. He sang the right notes and managed to deliver the dialogue, he didn’t bump into the furniture and found the spots but he wasn’t Sweeney. No malevolence, no brooding violence, no coiled spring. And his accent grated.

It occurs to me that this production should be renamed Nellie Lovett, the Pie Shop Owner Who Knew Sweeney Todd.

It’s a shame because the rest of the production was fantastic though why the designer decided to set it in the 1930s rather than Victorian London is a bit odd. I can understand transporting plays of the human condition back and forth through time in order to show that human beings change little over time but Sweeney is really all about that period. He is a victim of the iniquities of the vast gaps in the Victorian classes.

Still, that’s a minor quibble and one of artistic difference. The beauty of Sondheim’s music and lyrics is all pervasive. From the shock of the short, sharp phrasing to the constant thrum of the bass strings, it reached into you and tweaked your emotions with ease. From the initial staccato “…swing your razor high, Sweeney…” which springs unexpectedly from the opening smoothness to the shrill blasts on the steam whistle, it was all perfect.

I’m glad to say that Nicktor stayed awake and Dawn enjoyed it. Mirinda wasn’t so keen on all the blood. In the car she said “Give me Oklahoma!” Still, I think we all had a good time although it would be remiss of me not to mention the appalling auditorium at the theatre. What an architectural horror! Clearly the designer didn’t have the comfort of the audience in mind.

From the theatre it was off to the wonderful Earl of March for dinner.

Cheers from the Earl of March

All up, a lovely day spent with the Cansfields. We really should do it more often.

So, today was my first day back at the Science Museum. Not much had changed although, rather than Barbara we now have Lucy. She seems very nice. I think she’s come from conservation. I don’t know any details. Why should I? Suffice it to say, she didn’t eat crisps or a noisy apple.

Something else that’s a welcome change is the pedestrianised road is almost complete outside the museums. So nice to walk in the middle rather than being herded along the fences like so many sheep. And now it’s the cars that are squished into a small bit of road. I couldn’t help smirking.

And the Revolution Cafe has finally re-opened! It looks good…the food’s the same too.

Meanwhile, back to the basement, everyone admired my yellow cast and grimaced when I described the break and associated bone re-alignment. Rory was quite amazed at the weird angle it has been set at.

I managed to one-hand type my way through three object and five people records…which is pretty much what I manage with two hands! A lot of what I do is cut and paste with a bit of judicious re-wording and not a lot of wholesale typing so I guess speed isn’t really the thing. Whatever…I was quite pleased.

One of the objects was an engraving of a young boy called Zerah Colburn.

Zerah Colburn, engraved by Henry Meyer

The story goes that just before his sixth birthday, his father caught him reciting multiplication tables. This was odd because he’d only been at school for six weeks and they didn’t normally teach the little ones such high level maths! They figured he’d overheard the higher classes and was copying them.

Eventually they realised he was a “Calculating Child”, as they dubbed him and he was dragged around America by his father, showing him in order to try and make some money to pay off the farm back in Vermont. Of course, his father claimed it was so he could pay for Zerah’s education but this never really happened.

After wandering around America and not making much money, they (meaning the father) decided to try their luck in England. He was a bit of a hit among the upper class but, sadly, the upper class only paid the cost of admission to see the boy ‘perform’ and were not interested enough to loosen any philanthropic knots.

The father than decided to give France a go. Within about six weeks, Zerah had learnt French but they had yet to make any serious money so they returned to England.

It’s important to realise that Zerah (apart from the six weeks back at the beginning) had yet to go to school. And yet his skills of mental arithmetic were amazing. Once someone told him a formula, he had no problem applying it any number. Square roots, for instance. He picked that up immediately. However one of his favourite tricks was to ask someone for a future date and he would give the amount of time until that date in days, minutes and seconds. Incredible.

He managed to get a term at the Westminster School in London when he was 12 but, being in the lowest class and being of the lowest class meant he spent most of his time fagging for the older boys. This upset his father and he wound up taking him out of the school.

Undaunted by not having attended school for any great time, Zerah then opened his own school. This may have been a success but his father suddenly died and Zerah decided to go back to America.

He went back to Vermont where his mother was rumoured to still be living and tried to find her. He probably gave her the shock of her life when he finally knocked on the right door and asked if she knew where his mother lived. They hadn’t seen each other for 13 years. How surreal would that be?

He wanted to stay with his long-lost family but ended up wandering around going from job to job; opening a school here, becoming a preacher there. Researching him, I felt he was completely at a loss with life by this stage. He hadn’t had a normal childhood – actually he hadn’t had one at all! But, the story ends sort of happily.

In 1835, he was appointed Professor of Latin, Greek, French and Spanish languages and English Classical Literature at Norwich University, in Northfield, Vermont a job he continued until his death in 1839 at the age of only 35, so I like to think that for those four short years, he was stable and happy. It’s somewhat ironic that he didn’t teach maths.

Just to lighten the mood a bit, here I am having a stretch at work

Stretching at work

Yesterday I found a recipe for a fat free treat. It mostly consists of oat bran. Looking at the recipe I figured I could give it shot with one hand. And, firstly, I’d like to just say that they looked perfect when they emerged from the oven.

Oat bran cookies

They still looked good when I popped them out of the muffin tray. Given there’s no fat involved at all, there was remarkably little left in the tray.

In fact, the only thing wrong with these lovely looking cookies is that they are so bland, you’d be better off eating cardboard. Mirinda’s verdict amounted to “smother them with jam and cream and they’d work.” I have to agree but would go one step further and suggest the jam and cream without the cookies.

There’s a few Indian sweets I’m quite keen on trying but they’ll have to wait for my cast to come off.

Watching me

Just as I was about to take a photo of the supa-blando cookies, I spotted this blackbird having a wash in the bird bath. I think he’s a bit concerned that I might try and give him the crumbs.

Today marks the beginning of Diwali, a Hindu festival that lasts five days. Having just found out about it, I’m a bit peeved that, because of my wrist, I’m unable to make the irresistible sweet treats required. So, this afternoon, I made it my business to find something sweet I could bake with only one hand.

Speaking of my wrist…in the excitement of yesterday’s football game, I forgot to report my latest hospital visit. It could have been a disaster being the same day as the big game and, as it turned out, I just made it. Though I started with plenty of time.

In fact, the first bus was late, which ate into my second bus buffer. I left the first and sprinted for the second, making it with moments to spare. After a lovely drive through the countryside, I managed to arrive at the Fracture Clinic ten minutes early. I was sent straight to the x-ray place.

This has a look of the anonymous decks of the starship Enterprise in the Next Generation. A long white reception desk, a waiting area in a small pen and so much white. Around the central hub are many sets of big double doors with red lit signs angrily proclaiming they are ‘IN USE’.

After handing a cryptic message to the (possibly) robot at reception, you are sent to the waiting area. This feels a bit like waiting for a Sandman in Logan’s Run! Eventually a man in white calls your name and you follow him at a distance. You feel concerned that he may vanish at any moment, leaving you lost forever.

The guy I had must have been a hairdresser once. All the way through getting two x-ray angles, he chatted. I half expected him to start clipping away with a pair of scissors.

Once your x-rays have been taken, you are sent back to the waiting pen, to make sure the pictures came out all right. You enter the maze of corridors, all white, all mysterious and wonder how you’ll ever get out and whether you’ll get to see any of your family ever again. It takes a while but eventually you find the pen only to find that the radiologist has beaten you back. He smiles condescendingly then says all is fine and you can return to the Fracture Clinic. You happily leave through the airlock.

Back in the Fracture Clinic I then waited an hour as one after another, the 150 people in the waiting room were gradually seen before me. Last time there was a delay of 45 minutes; this week they went one better.

Finally I was seen – the wrist is coming along fine, it will stop hurting next week and I have to return in three weeks – and was back outside, waiting for the bus in a matter of moments! Then, as I said, I just made it back to Aldershot for the game.

But enough of that…here’s a Diwali cow. Actually it’s just a cow from the park but it looked quite sacred to me.

Beef on four legs

Ticket stub for Shots -v- Man U

Last weekend, Manchester United was trounced by Manchester City 6-1. It was such a big thing, even Mirinda was amazed. Such things just don’t happen. A lot of Aldershot hearts were gladdened by the result. And the excitement for tonight’s 4th round match was mounting as a result.

Nicktor heroically queued for two hours in order to secure the precious tickets and tonight we met in Aldershot, the crowds and streets at fever pitch. The queue for the East Bank stretched for miles while the overflow from the Crimea, sang songs of defiance aimed at any Man U fans that may have been wandering by. By the time we found the end of the queue for the Slab, we’d walked about half a mile.

Normally when we go to the football, it’s a leisurely affair involving a pre-match pint (or two), a wander across to the ground, a visit to the shop and then we take our places with five minutes to go before kick-off. All very civilised. Particularly given that we stand up for the duration of the game.

Tonight, however, things were a bit different. We ended up being on the Slab an hour and a half before kick-off. This is the equivalent of standing up for two complete games of football. Pretty hard on the feet. Still, we managed to get a pretty good spot down by the touch line.

James by the fence

The atmosphere was also very different from the usual game. Sky was televising it so there were cameras everywhere, including a touchline steady-cam guy who really annoyed Nicktor by standing directly between him and the action with impolite regularity. Another annoyance was the electronic advertising boards bought in especially. But I shouldn’t complain too much as it all means extra revenue for the club.

We even had some ‘entertainment’ before kick-off with half of Chas & Dave singing under a tent. And at half time we had a drum band from the army to keep us amused.

Finally it was 7:45 and the game started. It was always going to be tough. The chances of being embarrassed were very high. And although Man U fielded a less than full world class team (there was no Rooney or Ferdinand for instance) they were still a few degrees higher on the skill-o-meter.

Aldershot played out of their skins. They didn’t give up. Not once. The hunger to win was strong and never left them. It was a night to be proud of our local team. Sadly we didn’t win.

Manchester United put three by our keeper with clinical efficiency. We managed to threaten their goal a few times and we defended very well but that was it. 0-3. The end of our Carling Cup dream. For this season anyway.

Our mascot saying hello

Today was a bit quiet. Like nearly all the days since I broke my wrist. It never helps that I get little sleep each night.

While it was quiet, I took my usual trip into town to shop. While there I picked up a small parcel from the post office – we missed the postie on Saturday. It was a small item I won on ebay. A policeman’s whistle.

A policeman's whistle made by J Hudson & Co

I haven’t been able to find the exact date of manufacture but it was made sometime between the years 1888 & 1904 in Birmingham. Mr Hudson managed to win the contract to supply the Metropolitan police with his whistles after he demonstrated the excellent range of them. Before Hudson’s whistles, the police used rattles to draw attention to themselves.

On top of my curio cabinet I have a miscellany of various curious objects and I thought this whistle would fit in perfectly. So I bid on it and won – unknowingly, I bid on an auction that was finishing in two minutes. I was the only bidder. I have also discovered there are many police whistles on ebay. Still, I really like mine.

This wasn’t my only trip into town today. Late in the day I had to go for printer ink as I ran out two pages into a document for Mirinda. So off I set.

Just passed the kid’s play area, there path goes over a bit of a hill. There’s often crazy kids risking life and limb (generally not theirs) trying to get to the bottom before their closest rivals. Woe betide any pedestrians stupid enough to be walking on the footpath during one of these suicide races.

I should add that the participants are usually no older than 12.

Today a little kid (he was younger than Rafi) came barrelling over the crest of the hill, pedalling like a dervish on a bike small enough to fit in someone’s back pocket. Close behind him, frantically scootering away was a slightly older girl who I assumed was his sister.

Suddenly, as if being whacked with a bag of custard, the girl fell into a heap while her scooter took a sharp left and planted itself in a hedge. Her tears appeared almost instantaneously.

I could see a woman pushing a baby laden stroller just appearing on top of the hill as I reached the sobbing girl. I had seen her fall and knew she was all right. She hadn’t hit her head, there was no blood. I reached down (coo-ing soft words) and took her hand, helping her up. Obviously there were no broken bones.

I asked if the now frantically running woman was her mother and she went to great pains, through her tears, to let me know that she was, in fact, the woman who looks after her and not her mother. By the time her minder reached us, the girl was almost smiling. Naturally she once more burst into tears. I told the minder she was fine, had just taken a tumble and kept walking into town.

Clearly the little boy was her brother – he never bothered returning.

The late afternoon light at Hankley is beautiful. Everything looks washed with warm watercolours. The views welcome you, beckon you onward.

Hankley access road

We took the poodles for a lovely run around, something they don’t get with me any more…until the cast comes off anyway. Carmen went delirious. I now think it wasn’t the bog last week so much as she was just overjoyed at being off the lead. If today was anything to go by.

Not that she had a chance today. There’s no bogs at Hankley; just a cool, clear stream. And lots of sand. Which means she brings a beach home with her but at least it doesn’t smell like the pits of hell!

Soft autumn light at Hankley

Last Christmas, Mirinda & I were in different Australian states, missing each other. It was the first Christmas we had spent apart in 19 years of marriage. While it was great to spend it with our families, we both missed each other a lot. What made it worse was that we’d planned to go away, just the two of us, to somewhere on the continent.

Of course, all our plans were quickly altered with Claire and dad in hospital and Mirinda was in Sydney while I sweltered on Kawana Island.

Well, we were discussing what we’d like to do this Christmas today and, before we knew it, we’d booked the dogs into the kennel, booked flights and a hotel, and booked airport transfers. It didn’t take very long and, seemingly on a whim, we are now going to Prague for Christmas.

We are now getting quite excited about it. I need to remember to get the Rough Guide tomorrow.

Behind the church

Mirinda went looking for a seamstress today. Rather than stand around looking like a one-armed moron, went for a wander through the churchyard on my way to Starbucks. As you can see, the sky was very blue.