Keep you mind on your drivin, Keep you hands on the wheel, Keep your snoopy eyes on the road ahead

Scrape the surface (just a tad) of Nu zulun and you will discover Britain. We drive on the left ....

During my six year sojourn in the Philippines I had to drive on the right.


Many a time, when in a bout of non-concentration, I was horrified to see a vehicle bearing down on me.

"Who is this idiot," I cried  ... only to realise ...  .The real idiot was moi.

Why does Britain drive on the left?

Well the story goes ... in days of old ... when knights were bold.... and the horse was the means of transport  ... the rider rode on the left so his right hand was free to grab his sword from his left hip and engage in battle with the fella coming the opposite way. Cos most Britons were right handed.

The rider's right   ... the fellas left.

The same was the case for those walking .... you walked on the left  ...sword on the left ..


You see the British were brave sorts! Any opportunity for a good duel.

I expect that's why the Japanese drive on the left - the Samurai!

Unlike the continentals who rode and walked on the right so they could avoid a good fight. (Although, it probably had something to do with Napoleon being left handed.)

Countries in blue drive on the left.

Put your sweet lips a little closer to the phone, lets pretend that we're together all alone ...

Scrape the surface (just a tad) of Nu zulun and you will discover Britain.

We drive on the left (this is for a future post), our lifts start at the ground floor, and we used to have the glorious British red telephone box on the street corner.

When I were young lud, the red telephone box was the nearest thing to the mobile phone - only the phone wasn't mobile - you were.

You need to speak to Tom. So you go to the red telephone box around the corner and queue up.

If the person already ensconced in the box is happily gossiping and oblivious to your need, you rat-a-tap-tap on the glass windows of the red telephone box around the corner.

Your turn finally comes. You enter the red telephone box and close the door behind you. You take the requisite number of pennies from your pocket and enter them in the slot.

You dial your number. If a person answers, you press button A.

 "Hello, is Tom at home?"
"He's out at the moment, luv."

 Bugger, a few more pennies down the tube!

If there is no answer, you press button B and get your pennies back.

Sometimes your pennies don't come back and you bash the red telephone in the red telephone box.

If you don't know the number, you rifle through the dogged-eared pages of a telephone directory provided in the red telephone box. Time spent doing this can annoy the next person in the queue.

But the good-old-British-style-red telephone box around the corner has gone (apart from a few preserved as historic monuments).

Why?
Initially, rabid vandalism.
Then the penchant of drunks and others to use them as urinals.
 And, of course, technology.

Apparently, some red telephones box in Britain were sold of privately and reincarnated as shower cubicles, greenhouses, giant goldfish bowls, garden sheds and small bars (O'Meara, 2007).

I am sure there is the odd red-telephone-box toilet as well.







Omeara, T. (2007). A miscellany of Britain. London: Arcturus.

Photo above courtesy of Philip Blackwood

Fame and fortune how empty they can be ....

Fame is not all it is cracked up to be.

Fortunately, I am one of those blessed people who is not famous.

I am not even remotely famous.
Why isn't infamous the opposite of famous?

I get to do dumb things and it is not splashed all over the newspaper.

Take the case of - a world Champ 400 metre runner. He was caught out doping and his excuse. Well enough said ... Suffice to say he is paying the price of fame.

Like many, my emails occasionally get spam trying to peddle stuff the appeals to male vanity. No... I haven't bought any!

I'll stick to my vitamins. But I have done dumb things and said dumb things and I am sure glad not to have the paparazzi prying into my life.

Even as youngster I once pushed a piece of meccano into a wall socket and got blasted half way across the room.

In fact, as I said on face book, I have received the DONZ (disorder of NZ award).

The price of fame is too high for an intelligent man or women to pay.

I feel sorry for the 400 metre runner.

Here's to anonymity - long may it last!

I do have a friend who was once described as a semi-distinguished athlete.

And if you do hear anything - it's all a filthy rumour!!!!

Nice and easy does it every time ....

It takes to me almost two weeks to unwind into the summer holidays. Now, I am at the stage where I can curl up (as they say) with a good book and a Sandwich and not feel that I "should be" doing something productive (somewhere, somehow).

In my late-middle-age, history has become my penchant.

I just been sailing with Jamie Cook on his three epic voyages. Didn't even get sea sick (unlike Joseph Banks).

It's a good time for catching up on some training - fortunately the weight did not ballooooooon over the foistive season.

In this new year, I have ENDEAVOURED to make no RESOLUTIONS .... Captain my Captain.



I am due back at work late January.  I am not the sort to arrive back "all at once". Too much of a shock! (I go back in pieces - usually the brain is last of all)

(To many forgotten passwords and door codes).

I shall ease back in (as in the shallow end of the pool).  A few hours here, a few hours there - gradually upping the ante.

Thus by January's end, hopefully I will have once again acculturated (call it rewinding).