Posh

I grew up with a vague notion about ‘posh’ people. I didn’t actually know any, although there was an ‘auntie’ who seemed that way to me.


Posh houses had Bow Windows,
Posh houses had no dust,
Posh houses smelled of Polish
And housed the Upper Crust.

Posh people had Hall Tables,
Black Telephones and Wine.
Posh people had a Motor Car
Which took them out to Dine.

Posh families had smart new clothes
In all the Latest Styles.
Posh families had all their teeth,
Which gave them Radiant Smiles.

Posh Man would work in London,
Travelling First Class on the train.
Posh Wife would have her friends round
Till he came back again.

Posh Children went to Prep School
For a Private Education,
Which kept them safely distant
From kids below their station.

Absorbing this as I grew up
From things that people said,
I didn’t fancy ‘Posh’ at all –
I’d just be Me instead.

[Image: Wrexham Property Gazette]
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The Santa test

A little consumer advice for little consumers.

There are too many Santas in Sussex;
Only one is the real one, I’m sure.
Wherever you go, you’re invited
To “Come and see Santa instore”

I thought I would call Trading Standards
And ask them to sort out the mess,
But it’s probably not in their remit
To deal with a Saintly excess.

So instead, I suggest that all children
Should memorise this little motto:
“To discover the real Father Christmas,
Go check out the smells in his grotto”.

If he stinks of fresh soap and deodorant,
And his boots reek of polish, I’d bet
He’s a stand-in, a Santa-clone copy,
The closest the shop folk could get.

But if there’s a hint of warm reindeer,
And his clothes have a slight sooty pong,
And he greets you by name when you meet him,
Then you won’t go so very far wrong.

I am certain the real one’s in Horsham,
But as I’m much too old to find out,
I write hoping Horsham’s fine children
Will dispel any lingering doubt.

If you sniff him out, write to the paper –
Do it now, do not waver or pause –
“Dear Sir,” you should say, “We’ve discovered,
In Horsham, the real Santa Claus!”

[Photo: Yoga Healthy]
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A Christmas carol

In 2009’s post-credit-crunch recessionary climate, Horsham Council reduced by three-quarters the amount it spent on Christmas lights. I overheard three spooky visitors giving their views on the situation.

In Horsham, the Spirit of Christmases Past
Materialised in Swan Walk,
Its candle ablaze. I stood rooted, aghast,
For the phantom had started to talk.

“Long ago,” quoth the spectre, its anger contained,
“Horsham’s lights were a joy to regard.
What Scrooge in the Council has this year ordained
That its budget be cut back so hard?”

Christmas Present appeared. “Big spending has ended,
For the pressure on costs is severe.
Taxpayers of Horsham would be well offended
If its lights cost the same as last year!”

A third apparition arrived on the scene,
Ghost of Christmas To Come, with its head
Black-hooded, a void where its face would have been,
And as silent as if it were dead. . .

As it angrily gestured, I shivered with fear,
And the other ghosts fled from its sights.
Then it vanished. But, strangely, its message was clear:
Happy Christmases aren’t made with lights!

[Image: John Leech, 1843 , from Wikimedia Commons]
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Making sense of the Universe

At Holmbury St Mary in deepest Surrey, is an outpost of University College London. In October 1965, a dozen members of UCL’s ‘Rocket Group’ moved to Holmbury House which, having been donated by the electronics company Mullard Ltd, became the Mullard Space Science Laboratory. It now incorporates a number of research groups, including one on Astrophysics.


Holmbury St Mary is rural,
A tranquil, remote sort of place.
Yet the quiet folk who work in its mansion
Are trying to make sense of space.

But Gamma rays, X-rays, UV,
Do not reach the Earth. What they do
Is send up a spacecraft or satellite
For an extraterrestrial view.

Radiations (electromagnetic),
Picked up by their sensors, are plotted;
And brains (those of Mullard Space boffins)
Conjure theories that leave one’s mind knotted.

AGNs, GROs, GRBs,
Compact binaries, quasars, the Sun,
Galactic dynamics and jets
Offer hours of head-scratching fun.

The furthermost thing they have seen
In the Universe, cold, black and vast,
Is a gamma-ray burst which was active
Thirteen billion long years in the past.

Four per cent of the mass of the cosmos
Is all that we currently know.
The rest is Dark Matter and Energy,
So they’ve still got a long way to go. . .

[Photo: John Barret, from Geograph.org.uk]
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Peregrine Purple

It’s said that there are no rhymes for the word ‘purple’. Now there’s a challenge. . .

Young Peregrine Purple
Knows well that to burp’ll
Annoy Mum and Dad every time.
And that sort of twerp’ll
Know, too, that to slurp’ll
Be to soup-supping parents a crime.

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The Rime of the Ancient Astronaut

A remote-sensing instrument on India’s Chandrayaan-1 mission has found water on the Moon. It confirms suspicions previously raised by results from the Cassini and Deep Impact probes But it’s not water as we know it, but ‘molecules of water and hydroxyl (hydrogen and oxygen) that interact with molecules of rock and dust specifically in the top millimetres of the moon’s surface’, or very fine films of water coating the lunar dirt particles.


On the Moon they’ve found some water,
But it’s locked into the dust,
So you’d need to scrape the molecules
From the regolithic crust.

The problem has been aired before,
By Coleridge, I think:
“Water, water everywhere,
Nor any drop to drink.”

[Image: Cyber Cauldron]
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Come naked!

Beales opened in Horsham recently, using this message to entice customers to buy their wares. But I needn’t have worried that local people would take them at their word.

There’s a shop that’s just opened in Horsham,
And its adverts are shockingly rude.
The message is clear: they’re suggesting
That you visit their shop in the nude.

But the good folk of Horsham are rising
As I write, and I’m very impressed:
They are gatecrashing Beales in their thousands,
Not naked, but properly dressed.

That’ll teach all those marketing whiz-kids!
They should realise, when push comes to shove,
We Horsham folk do what we want to –
We’re Sussex, and we won’t be druv.

[Photos: rotten.com and Suffolk's Unseen Archive]
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Quinquelocalina

The Mixon Rock, a reef of hard shelly Alveolina limestone 2km to the south of Selsey Bill near Chichester (known locally as Chi), protects the Bill itself from the worst effects of wave action. It contains the tests (shells) of the Eocene foram Quinqueloculina, whose spokeswoman is justifiably proud of her part in saving Sussex from the sea:


I’m Quinqueloculina,
A tiny Eocener.
My tests are choc-a-bloc
In Selsey’s Mixon Rock.

At Pevensey and Chi,
Romans built their walls up high,
Gaining strength by building wide,
Stuffed with Mixon Rock inside.

Now it came, that Roman core,
From a reef not far offshore;
So my part in its construction
Saved poor Selsey from destruction!

[Image: wiki.web.ru]
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Maureen

I’ve never really done this. I’m scared it might come true.

Once, I read all my poems to Maureen.
By the end, I found Maureen was snorin’.
When she woke, she said, “Lad,
Your poems aren’t bad;
It’s your voice – it’s so dreadfully borin. . .”

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Wildlife friendly

It’s a philosophy regularly trotted out by writers and broadcasters on gardening, but I don’t think they stop to ponder the implications.


Our garden’s wildlife-friendly,
But when wildlife comes to visit
It devastates our vegetables.
Now that’s not friendly, is it?

If wildlife won’t be nice to us,
I’ll go on the attack:
I’ll shout at them and be quite rude
Until they all turn back.

Then I’ll cover all the garden
With sheets of see-through plastic.
(Well, when food supplies are threatened,
The solution must be drastic . . .)

I’ll make some holes to let in rain,
Providing irrigation
Through special valves, which won’t admit
Those objects of vexation.

There’ll be some airlock openings
To ventilate the plot,
And automatic sun shades
For when the weather’s hot.

I’ll let in worms and hoverflies,
And pollinating bees,
For they are friendly wildlife
And may do just as they please!

Then we’ll look out at the garden
And think, “It’s such a shame.
Our garden’s wildlife-friendly,
But it isn’t quite the same . . .”

[Image of Harrod Horticultural's downloadable book: theenduringgardener.com]
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Spotless!

According to the presenter of the show at the South Downs Planetarium, the Sun is not behaving itself (it’s July, 2009). Its sunspot cycle, normally a fairly regular repeating cycle from virtually none to lots and back again, is overdue its next increase.


It seems the Sun has gone to sleep:
Its spots have disappeared
And not returned when they were due.
It’s really rather weird.

They’ve mostly been as regular
As a clock, well oiled and wound.
Eleven years each cycle took
On average, it’s been found.

When last this happened, Earth got cold
From 1645
For seventy chilly years, until
The spotless Sun revived.

But now we’re in a minimum
That’s stayed a tad too long.
I hope the Sun will wake up soon,
And nothing has gone wrong. . .

[Graph: Gaughan Bloggin']
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Forever amber

They were carving it in Lithuania around 3000 bc, and it’s mentioned by Homer, Aristotle, Plato, Strabo, Theophrastus, and Pliny the Elder. More recently, it was central to the plot of the 1993 film Jurassic Park. We hear more from a piece of what the ancient Greeks called ‘petrified sunlight’.


I came, so my family history tells,
From an ancient Estonian tree.
I was formed in that pine’s epithelial cells,
But I longed for the day I’d be free.

Soon gravity, leveller extr’ordinaire,
Saw me ooze from a branch and took hold.
As a glutinous globule, I fell through the air,
A teardrop of resinous gold!

For millions of years I was buried and heated:
To copal, then amber, in stages.
Now exposed at the surface, I’m feeling depleted –
I suppose it’s the burden of ages?

My volatile turpenoid fractions have fled,
They left long ago for the skies.
My colour, once yellow, is turning to red
As my molecules polymerise.

And inside, a lodger I can’t get evicted:
A spider, her web still intact.
(It isn’t my fault, I could not have predicted
She’d get stuck and entombed on impact.)

Organic, amorphous, and almost aglow –
‘Petrified sunlight’, that’s nice!
Its what those old Greeks called me long, long ago.
Now I can be yours – for a price!

[Photo: aBitAbout.com]
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Grounded

Horsham’s Shelley Fountain is also known as The Rising Universe because of the way it appears to be propelled upwards by water gushing from its base, has been out of action for months. Its huge globe is resting on a steel framework behind a security fence.

When next will the Universe Rise
On its watery jets to the skies?
Must it see out its days
Perched on two RSJs?
It’s a sight that is sore to the eyes.

If the poor thing’s in need of repair,
Let me know. In a flash I’ll be there,
And its internal plumbing
Will again be heard humming
As the Universe takes to the air.

Postscript: See Horsham’s Marmite. . .

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The good old London Clay

Dr Jonathan Paul, of Imperial College London, has studied the geology surrounding the London Underground. He explained how much of the system runs through the London Clay, and how this, though not homogeneous, is much easier – and therefore cheaper – to tunnel through than the overlying alluvium and gravels or the Lambeth Group of mixed, highly permeable, material below. That’s music to the ears of Transport for London (TfL), whose job is to implement the Greater London transport strategy.


Next time you’re on the Underground,
As you rumble on your way,
Consider what is all around –
It’s probably London Clay.

Below the city’s busy roads,
It’s sticky, cold and grey;
But nothing else around bears loads
As well as London Clay.

“Impervious, though prone to heave,”
Is what the experts say.
But tunnellers try not to leave
The trusty London Clay.

“The Lambeth Group is just a mess,
And TfL won’t pay
The higher costs, as you might guess,
Compared to London Clay.”

So on your subterranean travels,
As the Tube bears you away,
Be grateful you’re below the gravels
In the good old London Clay.

[Photo: Gall Zeidler Consultants, LLC]
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I think we might have had that conversation once before

You’re chatting to someone when you begin to wonder if you’ve said it all before. Know the feeling?


I think we might have had that conversation once before.
If so, I’m very sorry – you must think me such a bore.
The memory’s not so good these days. (Oh dear, I can’t be sure,
But I think we might have had this conversation once before . . . )

[Image: sciencewith pallagi.blogspot.com]

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No place to hide

In the human male, the annular positioning of the prostate around the urethra, and
its benign enlargement in later years, is a “design fault” that evolution has yet to
deal with. Mine has just been the subject of a number of non-surgical investigations.


They’ve had a look inside me
With X-rays and ultrasound.
They seemed to be quite taken
With all the things they found.

The youthful radiographer,
As he pointed out my bones,
Said, “Good news on your kidneys -
I can’t see any stones”.

The hospital’s sonographer,
As she smothered me with gel,
Said, “You’ve got a lovely liver,
And your spleen looks good as well.

“Your prostate is a bit enlarged -
That’s natural, never mind -
And that is why your bladder
Keeps a little bit behind.

“Your kidneys, though, are normal,
On the left and . . . on the right.
Internally, your body
Is a fascinating sight”.

Well, I’m glad I made them happy
By exposing my inside.
Beware, though: with these characters
There is no place to hide.

If your State of Denmark’s rotten
They will find the source of rot -
For they get to see right through you:
What they see is what you’ve got.

[CT image (through someone else's torso): radRounds.com]
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SOS

In the days of steam radio, the BBC used to broadcast what it called “SOS messages” just before the News on the Home Service. They became rarer and rarer and are now extinct. I miss them.

“Now here is an SOS message,”
The radio used to declare.
You’d know that someone was in trouble,
And you’d wait to learn who was, and where.

“Would Arthur McArthur, of Ayrshire,
Now believed to be somewhere near Rhyl,
Please contact this telephone number
Where his mother is dangerously ill.”

I used always to listen intently:
Would the next SOS be for me?
I wondered what SOS stood for –
“Save Our Souls,” said my Dad, “do you see?”

But today, you don’t hear SOSs,
It seems there aren’t Souls to be Saved.
So my name won’t be heard on the wireless,
And I’ll not win the fame that I craved.

[Image: Ann Arbor District Library]
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The cleaner

When the senses aren’t there as a reference, the brain struggles to create a reality. I think I know why.


On the desk inside my head
Just before I go to bed
Are all my life’s events, stacked neatly there;
But, though I’ve never seen her,
In the night I’m sure a cleaner
Comes and throws the whole lot in the air.

Then my brain, or so it seems,
Tries to join them up in dreams;
And I’m sure it really tries to do its best;
But the sequence of events
In my dreaming makes no sense
As I scurry on a helter-skelter quest.

There are people I should know,
Who appear to come and go
Though I never seem to recognise their faces;
And the scene is always changing,
Never static, rearranging,
And I end up in some very funny places . . .

Often situations tricky,
And predicaments quite sticky,
Seem to come from nowhere just to test me out.
Will my dream-self stay alive?
Will I manage to survive?
I always do, despite a fleeting doubt.

At last my mystery cleaner
Comes (although I’ve never seen her)
To tidy up (although I can’t afford her).
Does she check there’s no mistakes
By the time my brain awakes?
I really hope she puts things back in order . . .

[Image: Glenfaith's home]
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Simon

Some activities just can’t be combined.

An active young fellow called Simon,
Whose hobbies were jugglin’ and climbin’,
Thought he’d try both at once,
But found out such stunts
Demand very accurate timin’ . . .

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Darwin’s trouble

The 3000 or so rock and mineral specimens that Charles Darwin sent back to England during his Beagle voyage languished in a basement at his home, Down House in Kent, until a grant from the Heritage Lottery Fund enabled them to be properly recorded and curated at the Sedgwick Museum of Earth Sciences at the University of Cambridge. An exhibition displaying them is due to open in 2009. This behaviour confirms that Darwin was a typical geologist. In his later years, he was afflicted by a mysterious illness. I wondered if the two facts were related.


If your field-tripping rocks
End up stashed in a box,
And the box is put somewhere secure,
And if soon many more
Are put into your store,
You’ve an ailment for which there’s no cure.

After years of collecting,
If you find you’re neglecting
To remember which basement they are in,
Your ailment’s the same
(Whatever its name)
As the one that afflicted Charles Darwin.

[Photo: The Guardian (General Photographic Agency/Getty Images)]
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’Swanderful

Horsham’s swans got their new plinth (see Promises . . .) in March 2009.

The folk of Horsham made a fuss
When Swan Walk’s swans took flight;
And, though the birds appeared again,
They carried on their fight.

Those swans have waited patiently,
Feet poised as if to land,
But not on water as they’d thought:
Instead, a box-like stand.

But now Swan Walk’s iconic birds
Can wet their webs once more
In flowing water, pure and cool,
Just as they did before.

“Hooray!” the folk of Horsham cry;
“Hooray!” the swans reply,
“It’s thanks to you, good Horsham folk,
Our pool’s no longer dry.”

It didn’t last long, though – see Swan talk 3.

[Photo: horshamforum.com]
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No sex, please

Ostracods are generally rare at Smokejacks, the clay pit at Ockley, Surrey.  But Dr. David Horne discovered a very localized assemblage of these microscopic bivalve crustaceans there, close to where Iguanodon bones had been found. He concluded that the area had been a ‘temporary pond’ on what is now an area of Weald Clay, and that the dinosaur’s decay had enriched the water to the extent that algae flourished. The ostracods probably arrived by air as desiccation-proof eggs on or in the bodies of migrating birds such as Artic terns. The Cypridoidea group of ostracods use various means of reproduction, including parthenogenesis, as one of the fossilised travellers explains.

A migratory tern
Carried me on his stern
As an egg, on his northward migration.
I didn’t feel well off
When at Smokejacks I fell off –
It caused me some great consternation.

For I’d not, as a rule,
Choose a temporary pool
To grow from an egg and to breed.
But an ostracod saying
Is: “A dino, decaying,
Makes a soup in which algae succeed”.

And at Smokejacks, I found
On its wet, clayey ground,
Where Iguanodon had slumped to his doom,
That the pool where he lay
In his mortified way
Was alive with a green algal bloom.

Now algae are food
For an ostracod brood,
So that saying turned out to be wise.
With my cells rehydrating,
I think about mating,
But where are the ostracod guys?

What few there have been
I think were last seen
In South Africa’s warm ecosphere,
So with no men about
I’ll manage without –
No sex, please, we’re ostracods here!

[Image: ukfossils.co.uk]
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Old iron

Iron-working in the Weald ended at Ashburnham in the early 1800s, stymied by difficult transport, Civil War destruction of forges, increasing demand for timber, Abraham Darby’s use of coke at Ironbridge, and competition from Swedish manufacturers.


“Any old iron, any old iron,
Any, any, any old iron?”
Across the Weald, ore pits would yield
Tons of siderite, then be backfilled.

In the past, bloom and blast
Fashioned iron you could rely on;
But the Swedes made it better and they made it cheap!
“Old iron, old iron?”

(With apologies to Charles Collins, Fred Terry and E.A. Sheppard)

[Image: Wealden Iron Reearch group]
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Promises. . .

‘Difficulties have been resolved’, declared a spokesman for the owners of Horsham’s Swan Walk, who removed Lorne McKean’s creation from the shopping centre in 2007. The sculpture reappeared many months later, but with a wooden structure replacing its original plinth of flowing water. A replacement plinth is promised. . .

This roving reporter
Is glad that the water
Will soon flow again in Swan Walk.
The idea’s a good  ’un,
But the proof of the puddin’
Will be in the eatin’, not talk. . .

(For the next episode in this saga, see ’Swanderful).

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James and the giant fish

On December 22, 1938, Hendrik Goosen, captain of a trawler approaching the South African port of East London caught an unusual fish, 1.5 m long and weighing 60 kg, near the mouth of the Chalumna River. The town’s museum curator, Marjorie Courtenay-Latimer (1907–2004), arranged for a taxidermist to prevent its further decay. She then called in James Leonard Brierley Smith (1897–1968), a professor of chemistry and amateur ichthyologist, who recognized it as a living specimen of coelacanth, a creature thought to have been long extinct. It was fourteen years before another was found, near the island of Anjouan in the Comoros archipelago.


Coelacanth (Latimeria chalumnae)

The fossil record seemed to show that, as far as we could know,
The coelacanth had vanished from the scene.
Its existence had been spacious, from Devonian to Cretaceous,
But science thought that’s all there’d ever been.

Then one day in ’thirty-eight, curator Marge was in a state –
She was puzzled, but excited to her core.
For a fish had just been caught which astonished her. She thought,
“I have never seen the like of it before!”

“This fish is quite unique, so, before it starts to reek,
I’ll take it back by cab to my museum.
Then I’ll search the world in earnest for a skilful taxidermist
Who’ll preserve its features so that folks can see ’em.”

That done, our Marge was chuffed to see the great fish stuffed,
And telegraphed James Leonard Brierley Smith.
He took one look, appraising. . . “A coelacanth – amazing!
This could become a modern urban myth!

“Now then, what can be its name? Who deserves the finder’s fame?”
He knew that only Marge deserved the praise.
“You saved the thing, it’s true, so I’ll name it after you:
Latimeria chalumnae, to coin a phrase!

“We must find some more of these, so I’ve hatched a cunning wheeze:
I will put up ‘Wanted’ posters all around,
Then the fishermen can match this fish’s portrait ’gainst their catch.”
And in ’fifty-two, another one was found.

So Smith pulled strings, and flew to Anjouan. He knew
He must wrest the thing away from French control.
But the Frenchies wanted fame in this living-fossil game,
And refused poor Brierley Smith his rightful rôle.

Since then, we’ve learned much more. When they’re near the ocean floor,
They may often seem to stand upon their head;
But today there is no doubt they have an electronic snout
Which can sniff out wriggly things so they get fed.

They hang out beneath the waves in the darkest ocean caves,
And give birth to live young coelacanths – it’s true!
But it’s thanks to Brierley Smith that we now have facts, not myth.
(Oh, and Marge and Captain Hendrik, thank you too.)

[Image: Wikimedia Commons]
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Professor Peter’s particle

Mass, according to current thinking by physicists, might be a property given to certain particles by an all-pervasive field, named after its proposer, Professor Peter Higgs in 1964. As physics requires all fields to have an associated particle, finding the Higgs particle – the Higgs boson, or ‘God particle’ – would confirm the existence of the field, and thus also explain how some things have mass. One of the jobs of the Large Hadron Collider, built at the European Centre for Nuclear Research (CERN) in Switzerland, was to look for evidence of the Higgs boson. The LHC was opened on 10 September 2008, but broke down soon afterwards. If the Higgs boson is not found, it could mean that the Standard Model of how matter is constructed is wrong; but the Standard Model is in any case unable to accommodate Einstein’s explanation of what gravity is.


The Compact Muon Solenoid at CERN

Did God make the proto-Higgs boson?
Did He switch on His own LHC?
Has the Emperor of Physics no clothes on?
It seems we must just wait and see.

When the hardware at CERN has been mended,
Will the Higgs show its presence a bit?
If it does, physics’ work isn’t ended,
For gravity still doesn’t fit . . .

If it doesn’t, our model’s mistaken
(As it has been before in its history).
It will leave many heads being shaken,
And the nature of mass still a mystery . . .

It looks like a new Standard Model
Will have to be worked out at CERN,
Though I doubt if there’s room in our noddle
For all that we still have to learn. . .

[Diagram: CERN]
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Santa’s problem

Somehow, the 2008 Swan Walk Santa seemed remote and mechanical.


Has Santa got a problem?
His limbs look stiff to me.
He sings a bit, then dozes off,
While stuck inside a tree!

Swan Walk has fenced off Santa,
And children wonder why;
But if you watch him closely,
You’ll see him wink an eye. . .

“Don’t worry, Horsham children,
I’m resting, I’m alright.
My sleigh’s already loaded up,
All set for Christmas night.

“My grotto needs a refit,
My reindeer must be rested,
My eyes don’t see so well these days –
I need to get them tested.

“But I’ll be out on Christmas Eve,
For I’m a tough old chappie.
I’ll do my very, very best
To make your Christmas happy.”

[Image: World News (wn.com)]
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Second violin

They rarely get the good tunes – I wondered how they felt.


“I really can’t win, moaned a Second Violin,”
As its music was put on the stand.
“I think I’ve been cursed to not be a First,
Though why, I just can’t understand.

“I can cope with vibrato, legato, staccato,
Andante, vivace, the lot;
And I’m built just the same. What is their little game –
What have Firsts got that Seconds have not?

“Could I start pulling strings and see what that brings?
Catch the eye of the Leader, maybe?
No, that is just risible: to him, I’m invisible,
He has eyes for his Strad, never me.

“So it seems I am fated to be relegated
To pad out the sound of each chord,
Stuck under a chin as a Second Violin,
Second-fiddling, my talents ignored.”

[Photo: from Christian Hage's epic252.com]
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Google-earthing

A local enthusiast has plotted the course of Sussex’s River Arun across the range of Wealden geology using the impressive perspective imaging power of Google Earth.


Flying high in the sky with our friend Google Earth,
Looking down on the Weald’s massive horseshoe-like girth,
You can see all the rivers, the North and South Downs,
The roads and the railways, the hamlets, the towns.

You can see how the Horn Brook, on Tunbridge Wells Sands,
Feeds into the Arun on Wealden Clay lands;
How the Horsham Stone ridge makes it flow to the west
Before it turns south in its sea-level quest;

How the Rother, frustrated by Chalk, joins the flow
Near the Wild Brooks that Google Earth sees down below;
Over Greensands (not green, but an iron-oxide shade),
Through the Downs in a gap that the Arun once made.

Then it winds over terraces laid in times past,
Past steep-sided hangers until, at long last,
The voice of the sea calls, “Your journey was worth it,
And people will know they can now Google-Earth it!”

[Image: gadgetspy.co.uk]
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Early warning

The signs are there for those who can sense them.


A teacher of dance once confessed
He’d discovered a pregnancy test:
He could sense the condition
From her weight disposition,
Long before the young lady had guessed!

[Image: Tracie's Latin Club]
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White Christmas

Horsham council has hired snow machines to whiten the place up on Saturdays in December. (With apologies to Irving Berlin.)

The FTSE’s falling, your house won’t sell,
The economy’s in a bad way.
There’s never been such a day
In Horsham, I hear folk say,
For it’s November 2008.
Things can only get better – just wait. . .

I’m dreaming of a white Christmas
Just like the ones I used to know,
But with global warming
No ice is forming,
But look! There’s artificial snow!
They’re dreaming up a white Christmas,
Biodegradable and bright.
So don’t worry, things will come right:
Saturdays this Christmas will be white!

[Photo: BBC News]
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Skin deep

I found a cream that stops my hands cracking up in cold, dry weather. The packaging describes how it does it. (Other creams do it too, of course)

As my age is increasing, my skin keeps on creasing;
The Sun is to blame, it would seem.
That’s why I’m applying
“Q10 Age-Defying
Double Strength UV-Filtering Cream”.

Will it “fight all the signs” of those wretched “fine lines”?
It had better – this stuff isn’t cheap.
Will it “re-moisturise”,
Or is it all lies?
Are its promises only skin deep?

Must I go on for ever with a skin like old leather?
No! Q10’s a “coenzyme”, you see.
It “supports ageing skin”,
Somehow, “from within”;
And that sounds just the ticket to me.

So I’ll carry on dreaming that regular creaming
Will do what the ads seem to say.
And my skin will stay smooth,
Without wrinkle or groove,
While the rest of me shrivels away.

[Image: Ocado]
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Open wide

Dentists must have a different view of life.


I saw my dentist in the town,
Approaching from the south. But
He didn’t recognise my face –
I must have had my mouth shut.

[Photo: The Telegraph (Press Association)]
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Caruso

The talent doesn’t come with the name.

A singer called Henry Caruso
Had a terrible voice – and he knew so.
He thought, ‘It’s a shame
That a chap with my name
Cannot sing like Caruso would do so’.

[Cartoon: Gramophone Co Ltd]
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On the mend

They don’t seem to make things to be mended these days; am I a vanishing breed?

My passion is for mending things,
I’m just that sort of bloke.
To me, a thing’s more interesting
If it’s well and truly broke.

A rattly bike, a wobbly chair,
A clock whose tick needs curing:
What other folk would throw away
I really find alluring.

Just give me pliers, nuts and bolts,
A hammer, tape and glue,
And give me something old and broke -
I’ll make it just like new.

I can’t resist the urge to fix
Whatever needs restoring;
New things that always work okay
Are boring, boring, BORING!

[Image: MintyHen]
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It’s good to doubt a dogma

Arthur Koestler, in his book The sleepwalkers (Hutchinson, 1959), relates how science is not immune from the stifling effect of dogmatic received wisdom.


Old Plato was dogmatic: “The world of you and me
Is but a shadow on a wall; it isn’t real, you see!
You cannot know the truth of things while you are stuck within
A body of decay and change: you must escape your skin.

“The real world must be perfect, for the gods would not make tat.
To know perfection, think it, there’s no other way than that.
It’s no good working out how stars and planets move,
For what you see is limited, and so is what you’ll prove.

“Well, I have thought,” said Plato, “and here is all you need:
All motion goes in circles and is uniform in speed.
The universe is spherical, the best and perfect form.
Your thinking from this moment must be governed by this norm.”


And so it was that Ptolemy, and Aristotle too,
And scientists for ages felt that’s what they had to do.
Their thinking had to get the answer Plato deemed was right
Or no-one would take notice. Oh, what a sorry plight!


When nineteen hundred years had passed from Plato’s time on Earth,
Copernicus worked loyally for all that he was worth
To build with epicycles Plato’s ‘perfect’ universe;
But then came Kepler, who could see this dogma was a curse.


In medicine, old Galen had the same effect. His creed
Meant progress in anatomy stood still: there was no need
For questions to be asked when everything was ‘known’.
For fifteen hundred years or so, old Galen ruled alone.


In 1628, bold William Harvey said, “He’s wrong!
The heart it is, and not the lungs, that moves the blood along”.
His colleagues scoffed, some patients left, but Harvey stood his ground,
“I’ve done dissections, done the sums, and that is what I found”.

When reputation blocks dissent, and evidence is ignored,
The human mind is hamstrung, and life’s mysteries aren’t explored.
It’s good to doubt a dogma: if there isn’t any proof,
And the facts don’t fit the dogma, use the facts to find the truth.

[All images from Wikimedia Commons]
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I’d walk a million miles

A milestone (probably) in a young life.

He’s six weeks old
And good as gold,
To granny and granddad beguiling.
I think he grinned –
Or was it just wind?
No, look, can you see? He’s smiling!

[Photo: What To Expect]
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Crash landing?

After nearly a year’s absence the swans reappeared in their original place in Horsham’s shopping centre, but on a ‘temporary’, waterless plinth.

I see the Swan Walk swans are back,
A sight-for-sore-eyes sight.
But something’s missing from the scene –
There’s something not quite right.

The other day, they seemed distraught.
Today, they seemed distraughter:
“We’re coming in to land,” they cried,
Please give us back our water!

[The shopping centre's management heard their anguished cries, but considered that the best way to prevent the birds harming themselves was to remove the entire sculpture. After a long absence and a public outcry, the swans returned, but something was still missing. . . (see Promises).]

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Dingle dangle scarecrow

As customers of toddler groups will know, this rhyme (and its tune) sticks in your head. It certainly had an effect on mine.

I’m a dingle dangle scarecrow
With a flippy, floppy hat;
I can shake my hands like this,
And shake my feet like that.

And a lot of good it’s done me,
This old flippy, floppy hat:
All the crows just have a laugh
When I shake my feet like that!

Well, there must be more to living
Than a flippy, floppy hat.
Oh, for lively conversation
And some intellectual chat.

Are there any lady scarecrows
With a flippy, floppy hat
Who can shake their hands like this,
And shake their feet like that?

In my dreams, you’re standing out there
With your flippy, floppy hat,
And your hands that shake like this,
And your feet that shake like that.

We can never be united,
But our lives need not be flat
While we shake our hands like this,
And shake our feet like that.

If you’re real, please send a message
By a passing mouse or rat,
Then my hands will shake like this,
And my feet will shake like that !

[Image: Scary For Kids]
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Medoc o’ the Loch

According to research by Professor Richard Selley, of Imperial College London, persistent global warming will eventually make the south-facing slopes of Loch Ness suitable for viticulture. But a famous local recluse does not relish the prospect.


I am Nessie, the Monster, ye ken,
And ma home’s here in Scotland’s Great Glen.
I am shy, so I stay oot o’ sight in the day,
Though I do break the waves noo and then.

Folk try tae describe what I am,
While others believe I’m a sham.
They say, “Och, the noo, it just canna be true.
’Tis the whisky – ye’ve had a wee dram.”

I have noticed that this loch o’ mine
Is warming. To some folk, that’s fine:
They’ll plant grapes on the side o’ the Great Glen divide
And mak a real guid Scottish wine.

Then thousands of people will flock
Tae the slopes o’ this auld glacial loch
Tae sample, the noo, a wee tumbler or two.
And they’ll call it “Auld Nessie’s Medoc”.

But Auld Nessie they’ll not see again,
Warm waters I can’t entertain.
I shall sink tae the deep, and there I will keep
Ma ain counsel. Ye’ll seek me in vain.

[Image: Sky News]
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Nathan

This grandchild’s parents seem determined to make life poetically difficult.

A boy’s been born into the world
He soon will be let loose on,
A brother for Amelia:
He’s Nathan William Hughson.

(I thought there must be better things
To think about all day than
Trying, unsuccessfully, to find
A decent rhyme for ‘Nathan’.)

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It’s a turbidite’s life

A turbidite is a deposit formed under water by the gravity-driven flow of an unstable sediment. It can be triggered by a storm, earthquake or rapid sea-level change. Deepwater turbidite deposits now provide excellent reservoirs of oil and gas worldwide, and are being prospected for by major companies. This is the life story of one of them.

Conceived from the grains of aeolian sand
Fresh-eroded from rocks of an earlier land,
Fallopially river-flushed mile after mile,
A turbidite foetus implants for a while
On a continent’s shelf, where there’s little impediment
To the gradual accretion of thick sandy sediment.

But when its time comes, its cohesion can’t cope
And it’s born as it plummets at speed down the slope,
Carving canyons that reach to the deep ocean floor.
Its arrival is followed by more sand, and more. . .
But gravity keeps a firm grip on its child
As it flows o’er the depths in vast fan shapes restyled.

Maturing, the turbidite slows to a stop,
Then layers of silt form a mud seal on top.
And now, as it rests from a life helter-skelter,
This deep-water turbidite acts as a shelter
To oil or gas seeping from rocks down below
And contains it, arresting its high-pressure flow.

That’s why it is searched for by seismic surveys,
By drilling and coring and 3-D displays:
Its oil and gas content is needed by man,
Who’ll burn the stuff up just as fast as he can.
So a peaceful old age without worry or toil
Is not for a turbidite full up with oil.

[Diagram: Indiana University]
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Peter

Getting the measure of things.

“I’ve noticed,” said ten year-old Peter,
“How incredibly distant my feet are.
From the tip of my nose
To the ends of my toes,
Is considerably  more than a metre.”

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Frozen in time

On 6 May 2008, a landslip occurred between Lyme Regis and Charmouth, part of Dorset’s World Heritage Jurassic Coast. Geologists are drawn to such events in anticipation of abundant and unusual finds. The finds this time were particularly unusual, because the area affected included a former landfill site at the top of the cliffs. (The NHM is London’s Natural History museum, which likes to be informed of unusual discoveries.)


There’s been a landslip in Lyme Regis,
Revealing unexpected ghosts:
Fine specimens of fossil fridges
Exposed on its Jurassic Coasts.

Geologists arrive, excited -
Jurassic white goods are quite rare.
They all confer when something’s sighted:
Electrolux, or Frigidaire?”

They can’t agree on date or name,
But when they’ve found a few more pieces,
They stroke their beards and then exclaim,
“We think we’ve found a brand new species!”

The NHM soon gets involved
And clambers o’er the jumbled scene.
“It’s clear,” they say, “the problem’s solved:
It’s Landfilloides (Holocene).”

[Photo: British Geological Survey]
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The building stones of Sussex

With only a few quarries still active in West Sussex, there aren’t many natural exposures of the underlying strata; so the place to look for what’s under the ground is in the buildings on top of it.

The building stones of Sussex, like good Sussex folk and true,
Don’t advertise themselves by showing off like others do.
There’s limestone, sandstone, chalk and flint, arrayed in many a hue:
In watery beds laid down, they rarely surface into view.
Apart from Chalk along the coast, and shiny flints left high and dry
Along our Sussex shores, and sandstone rocks at Chiddinglye,
They’re reluctant to expose themselves, demure and rather shy;
And to tell one from the other often takes a practised eye.

There are Hythe Formation sandstone, Horsham Stone in slab and block,
Travertine and Carstone, ‘Sussex Marble’, Bognor Rock;
Foreign sarsens and erratics too have joined the local stock.
And maybe, on a sea-shore, you may see the geo-clock
Pressed as footprints in the sediments where dinosaurs would throng.
Sussex stones are in our churches and our castles, standing strong,
And roofing our old houses with stone tiles that last so long.
Sussex stone and Sussex folk: both to Sussex do belong.

(See also Sussex Marble and Paludina)

[Bodiam Castle 1906, by Wilfrid Ball (Wikimedia Commons)]
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Heavy plant crossing

Don’t believe everything you read on a sign.


“Heavy plant crossing,” it said,
The sign a few metres ahead.
So I slowed down to see
This rare, ambulant tree –
But a digger was crossing instead.

[Photo: Wikimedia Commons]
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Eclipsed

The Moon has no atmosphere. But the Earth has, as a recent personal experience demonstrated.


A total eclipse of the Moon was due,
So the astronomical crowd
Got up at three in the morning to see
The Moon eclipsed – by cloud . . .

[Photo: astronomersalary.com]
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Clickety-click

A birthday reminded me of the number rhymes used in Bingo (Lotto, or Housey-Housey in its less commercialized form). I had to resort to www.bingo-uk.co.uk to refresh ancient memories of Christmases past.

In Bingo-speak, I’m clickety-click,
All the sixes, sixty-six.
One past my old age pension, and
Four score past pick and mix.

It seems like only yesterday
I’d reached the key of the door.
After two little ducks, a duck and a flea,
The question was: did you score?

By twenty-nine I’m doing fine;
But after flirty thirty,
I get up and run at thirty-one
’Cos her boyfriend’s getting shirty. . .

Real life begins at forty,
And after time for fun
Comes Winnie the Pooh (and Tigger, too) –
Er, honey, anyone?

I rise and shine at forty-nine,
Then, in scarcely the blink of an eye,
I’m hurtling down the Brighton line.
My word, how time does fly!

Blind sixty next, then baker’s bun,
And then it’s tickety-boo.
But now I’m clickety-click; and that
Just now, will have to do.

For who knows what numbers might yet be called?
Is this Bingo game benign?
If I strive and strive at staying alive,
Will the top of the house be mine?

[Image: Online Bingo]
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The Baggeridge way

At Lynwick Street in Sussex, the Baggeridge Brick company (now part of Wienerberger) makes its product using clay extracted from what is now a large, muddy hole in the ground. We went there on a field trip, hoping to find the beautiful, faint remains of Cretaceous airborne insects. They have been found there in the past, but finds this time were, in geology-speak, not abundant.

Weald Clay is a sediment, laid long ago
As a rain of fine particles, falling like snow
Through water, to settle as thick, sticky dough
In which dragonflies fell when their time came to go.

In Lynwick Street, Baggeridge dug up a field
To strip out the clay where these fossils are sealed.
In their brick pit we searched for them, boots all congealed;
But still they remain in the mud of the Weald,

For we failed to unearth them, I’m sorry to say,
Save a wingtip or two. So that’s where they’ll stay,
Entombed in their Wealden Beds, gooey and grey,
Awaiting extraction the Baggeridge way.

[Image: BioOne (Journal of Paleontology)]
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Builder’s bladder

It amazes me how they do it; are builders a special breed, or could there be a more sinister explanation?


Stock up on high-strength tea-bags, there’s cups of tea to make!
The builders are at work today: each time they take a break,
They sink a pot of Assam brewed up long and very strong.
The puzzle is, how all that tea stays in them, all day long?

It wouldn’t do to get caught short when halfway up a ladder;
So maybe, deep inside, they have a special Builder’s Bladder?
There is another answer, one on which I will not dwell,
But recently I’ve noticed that our garden’s growing well. . .

[Image from NoMoneyNovember]
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