Here is the article I promised you by the year end - just in time I think! I will call it 'Perspectives from Space' if you need a title. A short biog. follows in a separate mail.

I arrived in Russia completely unprepared for the 18 months of cosmonaut training ahead of me. Two of us has been selected for the training and we were given four days notice to resign from our current jobs, sell our cars, give away the house plants, buy thermal underwear for the cold Moscow winter, undertake photo calls with potential sponsors and much more. In the end it was not coping with a new lifestyle, learning about space flight or how to speak Russian that changed me as much as learning about the Russian priorities in life then.

Before my selection as a trainee cosmonaut I had been working for a company which demanded long hours and strong commitment and in return I received a more than reasonable salary. I had bought a small flat on the oustskirts of London and a small sports car and I was working hard to earn more money to buy a bigger flat and a faster car. Suddenly I was catapulted into Russian society in 1989, where people did not own flats or cars. How fast your car goes in that situation becomes rather irrelevant. Instead, conversation was about people: "How are you?" was a question meant to be answered. "Can I help you?" was a real offer. I was beginning to learn that people mattered.

Eighteen months, a rocket launch and two days later I had forgotten what it feels like to have weight, to stand up or to sit down. Floating about in an orbiting space craft was the most natural, relaxed feeling I can imagine.

It was on our approach to the Mir Space station, about 200 kilometres away, that we discovered one of the antennae on our space craft had failed. There was no immediate danger in this because we had been trained to dock manually and anyway, if you miss the Space Station by a mile, you have enough fuel to go round the Earth again for a second attempt. However, if you miss by six inches you may end up with two badly damaged space craft and five dead cosmonauts. (There were three of us who had launched together and two people who had been on Mir for six months already, eagerly awaiting out arrival!)

The docking procedure is slow, much slower than it looks on film. I caught a glimpse of Mir through my window, a brilliant-white T-shape bathed in sunlight, before we oriented our space craft for the final approach. It is really a matter of lining up the two space craft then guiding one into the other. Having ascertained that we could not rely on the automatic system to guide us towards Mir we had to hope that our training for a manual docking had been adequate.

I operated a periscopic television camera so that the commander, Anatole (Tole) Artsebarsky, could see where we were going. The engineer, Sergei Krikalev, worked out which information we could rely on and verbally fed that to Tole. Tole had the joysticks to fire small rocket engines on the outside of the space craft to steer us, literally going 'up a bit, down a bit, left a bit.....'. We worked together, not as three separate people but as one team, a unit which was only viable if each part was successful. We knew that a

mistake by any one of us could cost all of us our lives. We trusted each other totally and absolutely.

Eventually we made contact. There was an agonising thirteen seconds while we rotated our spacecraft until the electric and hydraulic connections were made and then more than two hours until we had checked that we were not leaking air form the seal between us and the Space Station. At last we opened the hatch and floated in towards the other two cosmonauts. Anyone who has been part of a team that has worked hard towards a single goal and has overcome problems in a united effort will understand the overwhelming spirit of closeness and joy that engulfed us just then. We hugged each other and smiled broadly. Even the Russian language with its plethora of lush and emotive words was not

adequate just then. The fact that we had successfully accomplished something was insignificant. What was important was that we had done it together. It was the best feeling in the world.

Looking back at the Earth from space I remember gorgeous deep blue blue seas speckled with snowy white clouds that were so bright it hurt my eyes to lok at them for long. Amongst the dull grey vegetation there were brick red deserts crossed with sandy coloured roads which seemed to have neither beginnings nor ends. However, it is not what the world looks like that made the biggest impact on me.

During my whole time in space I can honestly say that I never once thought about the things which are so often the main point of conversation in a western society: your car; the double glazing still not installed; the latest hi-fi on the market; the cost of a pair of jeans. As we flew over a country in which I knew people I thought of them. My family and friends, people as individuals, became so obviously important.

If you take away everything from your life and put back in those parts you cannot live without, what goes in first? Physical needs for survival apart, I believe other people and our communication and relationships with them are what we really need. I am lucky that I have had opportunities like living in Russia, a problem in space and the chance to look back on life to make me realise what really is important - before it's too late.

HELEN SHARMAN

One summer's day Helen was driving home from work at Mars Confectionery when she heard a radio advertisement. The words, "Astronaut wanted, no experience necessary", caught her attention and while she waited for the traffic lights to change she jotted down the telephone number. It proved to be the moment that was to change her life.

An historic Space Mission was designed jointly betweeen the Soviet Union and a company in the UK to put the first Briton into space. After months of exhaustive tests, Helen found that she was one of the final two candidates to go to the Yuri Gagarin Cosmonaut Training Centre. It was here in Star City, north of Moscow, where Helen underwent eighteen months of training. In May 1991 she became Britain's first astronaut, orbiting the Earth sixteen times a day, 250 miles high, at 18 000 mph for the eight day scientific mision.

Helen was born on 30th May 1963 in Sheffield, England where she went to school and university. With a BSc in chemistry Helen left university in 1984 to work for GEC, making cathode ray tubes. During this time she began studying for a part-time PhD at Birkbeck College, London University.

In 1987 Helen joined Mars Confectionery as a research technologist. Her first job was with the ice cream team. She later worked on chocolate!

Since Helen's return form space she has become one of Britain's leading 'ambassadors for science', being involved with a number of organisations to improve science education in the United Kingdom. Her most recent publication is a children's book 'The Space Place' published by Portland Press. She also uses her extraordinary experiences to motivate and inspire businesses by conducting talks and lectures around the world.

FORWARDED MAIL -------

Date: 08 Sep 98

Originally To:

Possibilities Abound as Barbie Turns 40

Yes, it's hard to believe, but in 1999 Barbie will turn 40, just in time

to greet the new century. And they've been 40 full, rich years. She

began as a glamorous airline stewardess when she was introduced at Toy

Fair in 1959.She soared into space as an astronaut in 1974, ran for

president in 1992, and, in 1997, she bore disability bravely, folding

her first-ever bending legs into a wheelchair to become a role model

once again for a newly identified market.

In every incarnation, nationality, and skin tone, she's perfectly turned

out, with accessories galore at her long slender fingertips. She's

Everywoman, she's the Cosmo Girl, she has it all. So, what will Mattel

think of next as the company meets the challenge of Barbie turning 40?

Why fight age? Why not capitalize on it in every way possible? Here are

some ideas Mattel might consider for a past 40 Barbie:

Bifocals Barbie. Comes with her own set of blended-lens fashion frames

in six wild colors (half-frames too!), neck chain and large-print

editions of Vogue and Martha Stewart Living.

Hot Flash Barbie. Press Barbie's bellybutton and watch her face turn

beet red while tiny drops of perspiration appear on her forehead! With

hand-held fan and tiny tissues.

Facial Hair Barbie. As Barbie's hormone levels shift, see her whiskers

grow! Available with teensy tweezers and magnifying mirror.

Cook's Arms Barbie. Hide Barbie's droopy triceps with these new,

roomier-sleeved gowns. Good news on the tummy front, too: muumuus are

back! Cellulite cream and loofah sponge optional.

Bunion Barbie. Years of disco dancing in stiletto heels have definitely

taken their toll on Barbie's dainty arched feet. Soothe her sores with

this pumice stone and plasters, then slip on soft terry mules. Colors:

pink, rose, blush.

No More Wrinkles Barbie. Erase those pesky crow's-feet and lip lines

with a tube of Skin Sparkle-Spackle, from Barbie's own line of exclusive

age-blasting cosmetics.

Soccer Mom Barbie. All that experience as a cheerleader is really

paying off as Barbie dusts off her old high school megaphone to root

for Babs and Ken Jr. With minivan in robin's egg blue or white, and

cooler filled with doughnut holes and fruit punch.

Midlife Crisis Barbie. It's time to ditch Ken. Barbie needs a change,

and Bruce (her personal trainer) is just what the doctor ordered, along

with Prozac. They're hopping in her new red Miata and heading for the

Napa Valley to open a B&B. Comes with real tape of "Breaking Up Is Hard

to Do."

Single Mother Barbie. There's not much time for primping anymore! Ken's

shacked up with the Swedish au pair in the Dream House and Barbie's

across town with Babs and Ken Jr. in a fourth-floor walk-up. Barbie's

selling off her old gowns and accessories to raise rent money. Complete

garage sale kit included.

Recovery Barbie. Too many parties have finally caught up with the

ultimate party girl. Now she does 12 steps instead of dance steps! Clean

and sober, she's going to meetings religiously. Comes with little copy

of The Big Book and six-pack of Diet Coke.

Who knows when Barbie will have outlived her usefulness? From Dream

House to Nursing Home (both new and improved -- wheelchair-accessible

and retrofitted to conform to ADA code requirements), the possibilities

(not to mention the accessories) are endless.

(author unknown)

PAUL BOOTH 

E. Alan Autrey

2333 7th St.

Port Neches, TX 77651

(409)729-1472 -- (Home)

(409)729-7644 -- (Work--Teacher/Coach, Port Neches-Groves High School)

Recycling Ambition

Oh watch night eclipse the far red sun,

A glance toward an ever-running clock,

While late grasses fade to tired dun

And grey invades a tawny lock.

Through the darkening glass brilliant leaves lie spread

Ringing the shade tree barren, appearing dead.

Beyond its frame stand sandy bound shocks,

The harvest of what summer kept green,

And tomorrow, or soon will come hoary wagons, the means

Of methodical pillage, as time reaps us in our stocks

With its minute yet sure encroachments on all forms,

Hoping to end all, even musing, with the worms.

So sink to rest in autumn twilight with this thought,

One with wan words our immortality has sought.

E. ALAN AUTREY

 He is someone who has sent this in and he has not sent me any info about himself. HJN.

31 December 1998

Dear Hero Joy Nightingale

I am writing with eight recent poems, which I hope you'll consider for

inclusion in "From the Window".

THE MAKER

First

I make a

stark monochrome sketch

Then throw the clay

Turning my fingers

To mould four senses

Pedalling the treadle

Last I hang the lips

Hook the nose

I am spattered with clay

Flush with creation

Overnight

The head is put to rest

under damp cloth

I sleep with crossed fingers

Today

Cut from its pedestal

The muscles have stiffened

The mouth pouts

Suddenly I have

Gouged the eyes

Brought my hands together

and twisted the living thing

into a slimy lump

Again the wheel is turning

With the whole of my hands

Drawing the clay tall

My feet under the spell

I am remaking my head

Not with faith

But because I must

ISLAY

On her stomach's flat pan

The otter cracks shellfish

Then whiskers off

To waterproof preen

I turn to the unison strut of oystercatchers

jabbing the strand

and a horseshoe of basalt

where seals snore

You can catch their stink

Morning is running now

The mainland has unveiled

Buoys on the swell

in only a hat of cloud

The winter light is beaten gold

Brief ice

The silence cogent

As our ferry builds smoke

noses into the sound

I am stitching its wake

into this sheet

Feeling the patter of drizzle

The gulls whirling

LIGHTHOUSES

The peat bricks and

cleft wood

burn lavender

Tall

Shadows permeate the solitude

I continue to stoke the small blaze

Lever the firetongs

coax reticent wood

to crackle

A knot spits like a shooting star

extinguishes at my ankles

Out of the window

Over the water

are the rain-stained lights

of another country

The unaltering eye of the lighthouse

crabbed to land's end

In the condensation

With my index finger

I write your name

Fascinated

as the tall letters and arrowed heart drip

When the fire grows flames

The pane clouds

and my other country is folded away

under a wrapper of fog

Your companionable blink put out

I walk to my seat

and sit with winter

AILSA CRAIG

A fang from the sea monstered floor of

the straits

Or the igneous hat of a wizard

ruckling waves

Grown in the swell's accent

Fishermen mystify

A moonwashed beacon in the spring tides

In winter

A gruff sea demon

When gales utter guttural oaths

and north atlantic booms

This giant's toehold

Slides under the world

To become

In evening calms

A basalt pebble in the sea's playground

In the geography of dream

It is always inhabited

A turret struck for birds

A crag to cleave the sun in two

On canvas

Or off the rail of a ship

It is what it always was

Awesome Solemn

CAVES

Faith is secreted in caves

Away from light

Whooping like a pagan

Here stones guard their

most private grief

Water drips from the vertigo

With the virtue of patience

Carved monstrances of rock

The statuary of strange deities

Daubed with the

full stops of the world

are fed shadow

The dark is elephant-headed

Silence has tongue

Here faith

Slays demons underfoot

Calcifies fear as

flues of stone

Where bats are the only reverents

men will block steps

Cut out an auditorium of rock

Bringing smoke music

altars and assuaging gods

Because man must banish forget

The awful irreverence of death

CYCLES

Heat has mummified

The flower's bells

which shake like black castanets

in the earth's drought oesphagus

Over the graveyard

Sun assaults the dead

Dents crucifixes

Cracks marble

Chiselling its own epitaph

White roofs that noon has charred clean

Are like the waterless face

of a clad woman

stirring the dust with her sandals

At her gate

A pack dog is cannibalizing

the blown stomach and muzzle

of a brother

Sight hobbles

To lap a v-neck of sea

between the land's blistered shoulders

In another town

Cloche the bells

of a stricken god

Thonged by light

Soon sky is a torso of blood

and Sun is

humping its crooked back

below the world

Dusk stirs

An acrimonious

Chthonic god

Dogs gather

Man devours

his mate

Then the moon draws

A narrow harelip

and stars hang uncharitably

From the noose of heaven

THE PIER

late afternoon is

wet with light

Two fishermen stroll

the brawling surf

A lizard

decorates a sun-boiled stump

Time has settled on the pier's

dentistry of rotted timber

its bicycles

fishing pots and

Stinking bait

In the idle swell

Sunburnt men

dangle rods

Two mating dragonflies hover

Prehistorical as the

horned monsters

anglers pull in

Reefed up below

Are boats under black canvas

and gulls lashed

to the rocking water

At the curve of the world

Sun is a spitting apocalypse

Stood close to pier's end

A man scans the horizon

for a morsel of sail

and tosses a hissing butt

in the heartbroken ocean

Listening to the

Slosh and

amen of the sea

SNOW

Snow is

Winter's linen

Watch it print

A white page

Convert the firs and

outlandish hills

First snow is amnesia

Lost memories eddying

The flakes settle finally

inducing sleep

Its coma domes the world

In the high country

For cold clenched farmers

The year is finished

The nativity sheep are

bodies to burn

Our Father is a splinter of frost

Against a snow cliff

December dusk bleeds like a sacrifice

Then overnight men feel an uncanny stillness

The air is hoar wrought

Snow utters silently

From lungs of ice

Morning

From the timber church

Bells toll like creation

The thaw scrunches with life

Children scream build

The hills burn like bonfires

in the blue skies

Winter has gone out

The world is white as sainthood

----------------------------------------------------

Thanks for reading, and I'll look forward to hearing back from you.

Best wishes, and happy New Year!

Robert James Berry

ROBERT BERRY

Robert James Berry (Dr)

No. 32, Jalan 3/17

Section 3, Bandar Teknologi

Semenyih, 43 500 Kajang

Selangor, West Malaysia

Tel & Fax: 00 60 3 627 5505 Mobile: 00 60 12 332 7936

Robert James Berry was born in Redhill, England in 1960, and was educated in the UK., Ulster, and Scotland. Since 1991 he has lectured in English Literature and Language in England, New Zealand, and Malaysia. He currently lives and works on Penang Island in West Malaysia. His poems have been published in poetry magazines and journals in the United States, England, Ireland, Scotland, New Zealand, Malaysia, Sweden, and Trinidad. Most recently his poems have been translated into German. He was a prize winner in the NST - Shell Poetry Competition. He is married to Ahila. He loves cats, especially his Siamese, Sheba, classical piano, and poetry.

A BIG LOAD OF NIGHTMUSIC

Quick as they get stapled up

all the xeroxed fliers and posters

keep getting ript from walls and

bulletin boards and kiosks

by fans and vandals and teensers

or else by drunks and losers who

fucken HATE the sounds of

metal-torture and wailing

into the funky nightstreets

not for love nor lust but

for the perfect mate, that is,

some rumdum who'll tolerate

assaholic behaviour and abuse

and showing up an hour late

for everything and everybody

letting everybody be reminded

of the spreading rips in the

social fabric and general

deterioration of whatever. Appearing

at gigs with names in-yer-face:

Public Menace - Outta Controll -

Domestic Violence - Shitstorm -

Naked Power Line - Nazi Truth;

You know, the typical shit

can't fake Black, can't fake Brit,

can't fake Country-- so ratchet up the

volume, bust up guitars, moon audience,

let go a drizzly loose one into

the smoky screams.

 Dear Hero Joy,

Here are two more poems that I forgot to inclose in my last submision.

Gawd, but I'm getting to be a Klutz! Anyway . . .

*********************************************************************

EVENING INDIGO

She looks away

from the steaming

kettle-- away

from her baked apples

the warm spice

smells of an old

New England house

the napping old

house cat

the old woman

herself now the

insider looking

outside. Outside

into the chill no

one stares back

into her fading

eyes no one

no longer

to covet her

inner pinkness.

She is a reverse

peeping Tom

a solitary

welcoming

party

and no one

no longer

left out there to

welcome home

*************************************

TIME

The miles of my

continent and

the kilometres of

your ocean's width

drift slowly over our

Sahara of dry and

interrupted sleep

the starts and fits

and dreams no

longer fit within

hard frameworks of

dusty old calenders

or obsolete clocks

nor linear reckon-

ings. We have at

last learned how

to be amused in-

stead of shocked

or scandalised.

****************************

JOHN BIRKBECK

I was born in 1930, and will not tire you with a list of my adventures and exploits. When I finally settled down in lfe, I made my living as a scientific illustrator, and have written poetry only starting when I was in my forties. I've since published two books and a chapbook, and have had poems in numeorus small press magazines and undergound periodicals, in the USA, Canada and France.

Dear Hero,

It was very good to get your letter with its moving enclosures. Your own writing is exceptional. I know you are an extraordinary girl, but your article about yourself is my first experience of the power of your writing. (As a computer illiterate I fear the Net, so can't access your website). You are not mute when you can express yourself like that.

I'm glad the webzine is ticking over and that The Independent has acknowledged it. We saw the feature in the Sunday Times and felt for you and your family; and, of course, both Harry and I had long chats with your mother just after your grandmother died. We're both very sorry the LEA situation hasn't been resolved, but feel certain your own shining spirit will eventually open other windows for you.

Yes, I've become addicted to travel in Africa, mainly Southern and East Africa, and have been there twice in the past two months: to the remote game parks of Zambia for The Observer, and to Kenya and Zanzibar for an STV travel show. The questions you raise about the tourist relationship with these countries are, of course, critical ones - and I've had to confront them on my seven trips to the bush, where I've been generally spared any brush with real hardship. It would take a book, rather than one article, to answer them adequately, but after my second visit to Zanzibar (not a wilderness area) it struck me that its current condition - on the cusp between backpacker's backwater and jet-setter's paradise - is a good example of the tensions inherent in Third World tourism.

I hope the enclosed article is of some use. It certainly doesn't answer all your questions, but it does try to address the spirit of them. With your deadline looming (and a heavy series of deadlines of my own) it's the best I can do. I sincerely hope that some day it will be possible for you to visit Africa yourself, and to discover - as I have done - that despite its huge problems it's not a dispiriting place. Like you, the people have amazing grace in the face of adversity. We'll keep in touch - and I very much hope that somehow yet can go on working with and through music, as well as words. Warm good wishes to Aleric and your parents,

much love,

Julie

ZANZIBAR ON THE CUSP

Tourism. The definitive curate's egg, the pre-eminent mixed blessing, and that's not all: tourism is also host to strong passions. I was back in Zanzibar last month and thought of Nasser K. Awadh, an exceptional operative of the local holiday industry. On my first visit nearly two years ago, Nasser told me how he had recently slapped the face of an Italian visitor to the island.

Biffing tourists is not one of the traditions of Zanzibari hospitality, but Nasser was defending his island's dignity. "I asked him several times to stop throwing sweets at the children, but he went on doing it. So I smacked him."

Never take sweets from a stranger. Least of all from a stranger who tosses toffees in the air and makes you scramble in the dust while he photographs the ensuing scrum of pretty human monkeys. We were standing outside the Persian Baths at Kidichi, a relic of the Omani sultantate, when we saw the same disagreeable device practised by two German men. One sprayed the sweets while the other hefted the lens. This time, Nasser controlled his itchy palm; he scolded the children instead while I scowled and muttered at the Germans.

In a poor country the infants of an infant tourist industry are most at risk. The sugary bribes of the snap-happy tourist nay be the first inducement on a contaminating trail which leads, at best, to a beggar culture and, at worst, to the paedophile beaches of Phuket and Sri Lanka.

The curate's egg. Nasser knows the merits of its good and bad parts. He is much in demand for his guide's eloquence and authority, but he is also conscious that the cultural climate of his island home is on the cusp of change.

Samarkand, Timbuctoo, Zanzibar... fabulous names on the map of the European imagination, fabulous places whose stories, brutal and aspirational, cross the spectrum of human nature. Now they are poised to become what the travel industry calls "coming destinations". Nasser K. Awhad, whose gene pool is Zanzibar's history, who draws his pedigree from the Yemen, from Indonesia, and from the Bantu people of sub-Saharan Africa, knows he is also Horatio at the bridge.

On the other side of the Zanzibar Channel the forces of international tourism are massing. Their advance parties have already penetrated the seclusion of an island whose shameful past made it shifty with strangers. They have endowed it with new attitudes to meet the expectations of a new economy, and the islanders themselves have taken some of the most attractive initiatives.

Zanzibar's history is long, grin and exotic. In the 19th century it was the busiest market for slaves and spices on the eastern seaboard of Africa. The capital's old quarter, the Stone Town, has been called "the only functioning historical city in East Africa", but in the 1980s it was rotting away. Now many of its splendid Omani and Indian mansion houses and airy colonial buildings have been intelligently restored; some have been turned into hotels, others are primed to follow.

At the moment there is nothing slick and nothing packaged about Zanzibar Island's low-key tourist infrastructure. The population is predominantly Muslim and requires the necessary compromises of its visitors, who are invited to "dress modestly". At its points of entry - the tiny airport whose runway will soon be extended, the harbour which admits daily hydrofoil services from Dar es Salaam - Zanzibar feels obliged to remind visitors that away from the beaches bare legs and shoulders are just as shocking to the locals as nudity in a Western high street.

The waterfront Tembo Hotel, owned by local Indians, serves no alcohol "for reasons of religious belief", and its guests are prepared to practise temperance in exchange for the Tembo's romantic situation: from its terraces you can watch spices arriving from neighbouring Pemba Island - cargoes of cloves unloaded before your eyes on the beach.

So far even Zanzibar's white settlers, European immigrants with tourist interests, fall in line with the constraints of religious tradition. The nearest thing to a pub in the Stone Town is a bar called Le Pecheur, whose owner comes from Alsace; but he closes it for Ramadan.

Yet there are intimations of the tourist's taint: beach boys touting trips in dodgy skiffs to offshore islands, warnings about bag-snatchers in the labyrinthine Stone Town, whose alleys make me feel I'm in a scruffy, steamy Venice, urchins who have progressed from scrambling for sweets to asking for "dolla^"; and a new entrepreneurial class called papaasi - hustlers who scrape commission from hotels and transport operators by steering tourist business their way. (The word papaasi means "tick" - the blood-sucking parasite which is one of Africa's nuisances.)

The pre-eminent mixed blessing. Since I was last there these small-time manifestations of tourism's impact have been overtaken by the big-time ambitions of foreign developers. Investors, predominantly Italian, are opening new hotels on the best beaches of the east coast ("Mafia money," the gossips mutter darkly) but the most alarming plan for the island is the potential appropriation of its untouched north end, where 50 square kilometres have been ear-marked for a massive resort development guaranteed to displace its population of smallholders and fishermen and distort their culture.

Tanzania, however, is one of the world's poorest nations and inevitably Zanzibar and the Tanzanian mainland look to the example of their neighbour to the north, Kenya, where tourism is now the lynch-pin of the economy. Unlike the Kenyan coast the Tanzanian beaches are still largely undeveloped, and unlike Kenya's more popular game parks the country's wild places have not been over-run.

But Tanzania would do well to learn from Kenya's experience, which has brought patchy prosperity but which has its downside in high urban crime rates and, in some areas, degraded environments; and when the fickle markets of international tourism are given cold feet by newspaper headlines - as with the factional rioting in and around Mombasa and the bombing of the American embassy in Nairobi - then Kenya's first industry becomes poorly.

Yet what are the options? Other remedies have been tried and found wanting. On Zanzibar Island it's possible to see monuments to the extremes of two economic and ideological systems - the two systems which have dominated the twentieth century. The ugliest buildings were raised not by its supreme capitalists, the ruthless slaver-merchants and despotic sultans, but by the fraternal East Germans and Chinese who were Tanzania's friends in the Nyrere years of one-party socialism.

The East Germans gave the island bunker-esque apartment blocks which no one wants to live in, because they have no provision for cooking over firewood. The Chinese donated a sugar factory which operates at half-cock, because Zanzibar's sugar cane production can't keep it busy for more than six months of the year.

How strange that those who most debased the human condition raised Zanzibar's most beautiful buildings; how odd that those who sought to elevate it raised its most monstrous white elephants.

JULIE DAVIDSON

Julie Davidson is a Scottish writer and broadcaster with a special interest in the tourist industry of Southern and East Africa. ((She contributed a piece on the death of a cat to Mag 1. HJN.)

Subject: From the Window

Date: Wednesday, 11 November 1998 1:11pm

Dear Hero

I did enjoy receiving your letter this morning. Quite woke me up. I'm very immersed in a novel at the moment, so I don't want to think about writing something brand new just now, but there's a piece I wrote for (improbably) The Jewish Chronicle which I'd be happy for you to publish. I'll enclose it (or whatever the email word for it is) with this. I hate writing biogs. Here's the basics:

I am 51 and started writing professionally when I was in my early thirties after a wayward youth drifting around London in a 60's haze of sex and drugs and rock and roll, all fuelled by my capacity for depression. I spent a couple of those years in psychiatric hospitals. Now I stay home (when I'm not going to Antarctica for an even quieter life) and write. I've had seven novels, a book of short stories, a collection of essays and a travel book published. Great good fortune. I wake up each morning and wonder how I got so lucky, because I don't think I am fit for doing anything much else. I have a daughter of 21 who is at university, and an ex-husband of whom I am very fond. I remain bad-tempered and malcontent, but it's hard to maintain under such circumstances.

I spoke to Ruth Padel this morning, who sends you her love. Let me know if the piece is any use. If not, when I'm clearer of the novel, I'll do something else. Or do something else anyway.

Love, and thank you for asking me to write for your mag.

Jenny Diski

I don't believe in God. Actually, that's putting it too fervently. I don't think it's very likely. I'd be surprised. But then I like surprises, so it's possible I have an ulterior motive. Perhaps, all unknown to myself, I'm secretly on the look out for the really big surprise. It's best, I find, never to entirely trust oneself when talking on the subject of God. In fact, it's best, I find, never to entirely trust oneself about anything. What I do instead of belief, is read the labels on the marmalade jars.

Real, honest-to-God, zonking faith is, I suspect, a gift, like a great singing voice, or being double-jointed. As it happens, I am double-jointed, so it would be unreasonable of me to expect to be the beneficiary of more than my fair share of grace. The subject of faith comes to mind because recently I had a very dispiriting conversation with someone on the subject of The Purpose of It All. Not that I'm in the habit of such conversations; I generally expect people I know to know that there is no point, and that for better or worse that is the point. But I did not know this acquaintance well, and it was late when she murmured that she thought there probably was a purpose in life. I should have taken her statement to mean it was time we both went home to bed, but the chair I sat in was comfortable, and the drink I was drinking was only half drunk. It was a limp sort of statement, more resigned than convinced. What is the purpose, I asked. She said she didn't know, and didn't think about it. Whose purpose might it be, I queried. She didn't know that either, but it was probably God, or at any rate, she didn't mind the word being used. She just thought there must be a reason for it all, and that was that. She wasn't a very happy person, but she said she was sure she would be more unhappy if she thought there wasn't a purpose to existence.

Now, it's not for me to argue about what makes people less unhappy than they might otherwise be. It is true, that unlike (as far as I can tell) woodlice and orang-utans, we all of us have moments when we need to find a reason to keep at it - to get up on rainy mornings, to pay the telephone bill, answer a letter, whatever. This is surely because we have great big brains that have far more capacity than is necessary just to get these jobs done. The why is like trapped wind rumbling around in the empty spaces of our thinking apparatus; it's there because there's room for it. I'm pretty sure I and my faintly faithful friend would be less unhappy if we were woodlice or orang-utans. But I don't mean to sound negative. I like the why. I worry about our fellow species having to get on without it. It would be like sleeping without dreams. Bad dreams are better than no dreams at all. And what is more, I'm encouraged by the difficulty - by the very unanswerability of the question.

I wasn't being confronted with great faith here, just someone hanging on by their toenails to what they thought of as something rather than nothing. To believe in a purpose without having the faintest idea what it might be, or wishing to pursue the question, seemed no more than a dull attempt at self-comfort, and a waste of all that entertaining spare brain space. I suggested that pointlessness was much more exciting. Indeed, though I'm not one of nature's optimists, the thought that here we all are after millions of years of evolution, sharing the planet with bacteria and strelitzia, woodlice, orang-utans and camels, and what have you, while getting up most mornings, paying our telephone bills, answering letters, even getting on aeroplanes in the hope that the sun will be shining when it lands, makes me laugh out loud and clap my hands with delight at the absurdity and sheer happenchance of it all.

JENNY DISKI

Jenny Diski is the author of novels and a volume of autobiography called Skating to Antarctica and describes more about herself in the letter above. HJN.

At Sea

Sailing is one activity I guess I never thought I'd get a chance to do - you could say I'm not entirely built for heavy weather rope pulling heaving and ho-ing stuff, but I was to find out that in a lot of ways it's handy to have just one arm and one leg aboard the sort of limited space you find on boats.

As a child my Grandpa and Mum used to take us out on little row-boats. We'd all take turns on the oars, including me with a partner on the left hand side. I used to love the sound of the little waves shurring against the sides and the little gurgles the bubbles would make under the boat. Grandpa seemed the font of all wisdom as he'd instruct us in how not to gouge the oars deep into the water - "catching crabs" he used to call it and Mum had the most delicate touch on taking the wooden dinghy past rocks and fallen trees without tearing holes in it.

It was such humble beginnings I contemplated as I set out on my first major voyage on a yacht, twenty years after learning how to row. I was at Mackay Harbour, halfway up the Queensland coast, and I was with two friends - Virginia the skipper and Roni the second in charge, loading up the 40' fibre-glass hulled "Pisces" with provisions before setting off. We were headed for the beautiful series of islands that lie off the coast, the Whitsundays, famous for their tranquil aqua seas, fish and bird life and whale-watching.

The day was perfect for a sail - some breeze, some sun and very clear - and I watched in some awe as between them Roni and Virginia manipulated the ropes and cast off from the jetty. The rigmarole of starting the motor and getting the yacht well away from the obstacles - other yachts, ropes, the moorings festooning the harbour - was obviously something these two had done many times before - you should have seen them work together! It was most inspiring.

Virginia deserves a story just about her alone. She's in her early 50's and is a tiny wiry woman with the energy of a blowfly in a bottle - very surprising considering that every day of her life she's battling a life-threatening illness. Virginia was diagnosed with myasthenia gravis when she was in her early 20's. It's a disease of the muscular system which renders its sufferers incapable of breathing, swallowing or digesting, making all other muscles heavy and weak as well. When she found out the prognosis was very negative, Virginia was determined to fight on and conquer the disease. She has largely done so, but subsists on a steady diet of cortisone and steroids to keep the disease at bay. She says if she stops taking her medication she'll die within about three days. After a childhood spent messing about in boats, including racing yachts, she returned to the sea full-time about 15 years ago, in an attempt to manage her disease by staying mobile and active and in temperate climates all year round.

When she first returned to the sea, she was wearing a tracheotomy tube in her throat, from life-saving surgery after her most recent health scare. Virginia knew that falling into the water could kill her but she would not be deterred. And these days she says she's glad she took the plunge because her health's never been better. Roni however is a wild woman originally from California who was a bikie's moll and funster who remained just one step ahead of the law. She ran off to Australia to complete her studies and wrote her doctorate on kookaburras. She met Virginia a few years before this story began and fell in love with the whole sailing life. Believe me, we were a very lively crew......

So off we went into the rolling blue waves, bound for the first island in the chain below the Whitsundays, whose name I now can't remember, even if my life depended on it. As a landlubber I was to observe that for me the details and names of all the islands merged and blurred, while for Virginia and Roni, there was no problem keeping their identities separate and unique. Virginia made a habit of sketching and naming each island we stopped at, preserving the moment in coloured pencils while I just drank it in as experience, losing all the fine edges.

How can you possibly describe what it's like to turn off the motor and have the sails fill - that feeling of being taken and directed by the elements - here in a room that's stable and quiet tapping away at a dry keyboard? Quite frankly, it's an experience like no other - the rushing of the water carrying the movement, the smell of the salt, the creaking of the boat and the stretching of the ropes. We heeled over and went on a beautiful long tack, seeing the water so close yet feeling so safe and buoyant, wearing Summer clothes and lots of blockout and hanging on to the seat at the back of the boat that Virginia built so that you could be well above the water, looking down and all around at it from a height.

That first sail was breath-taking - leaving civilisation and shops and streets behind us as we headed out into the wildness of the sea and the spray. After eight hours or so of steady sailing we came to our first stop, dropping the anchor not far from a few other yachts and settling in for the night. As the rocking lulling of the boat slid into my heart and soul I drifted off to sleep, blissfully soothed by the motion. I was to find sleeping in that gentle rocking the most wonderful gift of the entire voyage. Somewhat womb-like, somewhat lover-like, the motion was to creep into my dreams, bringing me technicolour fantasies of flying carpets, riding whales and pirates' galleons.

In the morning I crept out at dawn to watch the sunrise and to my surprise interrupted a brown-backed sleek dugong, or sea cow, frolicking near the boat. I watched as it slowly loped off, rolling its curved form through the shallow water, looking for seaweed to munch. The other boats shifted gently in the tide and clanked a bit, like giant wind-chimes. By the time the others woke up, I was convinced I was the luckiest girl in the world.

After the first few days I took off my prosthetic leg after determining hopping and crawling around without my leg made my movement easier. It was fabulous to slide up to the front of the boat under the mainsail and sprawl up there, watching from the highest vantage point. It was liberating to feel the air and sun against my short right leg, knowing that my entire body could deal with the pressures of the sailing life, without having to wear my usual technology. Scrambling around the ropes and pulleys was much easier without the leg, but cooking meals was a bit tricky, so while I was whipping up my special pancakes I'd throw my leg back on, to be able to balance in front of the stove.

Goldsmith Island was our next destination, a short hop away. En route we passed another island where we spotted some dolphins playing around in the shallows, perhaps feeding or just playing. Goldsmith was deserted with a long golden beach and we all got into the dinghy and went ashore, because Virginia swore that it was this island that held her favourite lookout spot, a natural throne-like seat where you could see clear across the beach. It was very strange to be on dry land again for me - I half stumbled up the grainy sand, finding my land legs hard to regain after getting very used to the motion of the boat. The water was crystal clear and little stingrays the size of tea-plates swam away from me at my approach. The shallows held little shells and little creatures I could play with, watching as they crawled slowly over the little pearly rocks. If I kept still enough I would be furiously nibbled by little silvery fingerlings who found my skin irresistible. It was like a little sucking massage over my limbs and it made me laugh and splash them away.

It was amazing to be able to go for a walk wearing no clothes and feel entirely secure that there was no-one around to be offended. I walked through a dried up mangrove swamp, whose short roots crackled under my feet. It was almost a bit spooky, because of the gloom from the dead mangrove branches overhead and the occasional rustling and movement I could sense out of the corner of my eye. I knew there were no people around, but I couldn't see what was making the noise at all. The vegetation was kind of weird too - sort of like a set from "Lost in Space" - tall spiky plants and short luscious shrubs in a surreal landscape of hills and valleys. I couldn't bring myself to walk too far into the island, fearing that I wouldn't be able to find my way out. Or maybe fearing something I couldn't quite define, some bizarre creature of my own imagination, manifesting from the dry swamp and the crackling branches...

On we went, stopping at a few small islands before approaching the main group of islands in the Whitsundays chain. After 2 weeks at sea, our provisions were running a little low - that is, the yummiest things were all gone, leaving us staring blankly at some old carrots and potatoes, rice and endless powdered milk. It was time to make it to Hamilton Island to stock up. Hamilton has its own air-strip, marina and holiday accommodation, as well as shops and restaurants. We snuck up to the marina, tying up without paying to do the shopping and nick some fresh water. It was very strange to see people again after spending so much time on our own, let alone negotiating shops and the post office. The marina was chocka with other yachties who were clearly a community of their own with their own etiquette and social cliques.

After surviving our brush with civilisation we set off to find an anchorage on the other side of the bay, settling on a nice spot just near a little reef. I watched in alarm as a school of reef sharks came through, snapping ferociously at anything that moved, clearing the reef of fish in no time flat. That night was full moon and the beauty of the golden orb filling the sky and tracing its pathway across the sea kept me awake. I clambered out of the cabin and crawled up to the seat Virginia had built, relishing the night.

Out of the calm came a great noise - the exhalation of a sea creature. It was a little way off and I started to wonder if it was a turtle because we'd seen lots of them in our travels. In a moment the breath came closer and I was hoping I might see it in the moonlight. Looking down, I heard the breath immediately below. I watched in awe as a giant dark shape moved under the boat, ending in a broad tail. Much to my surprise I had seen a whale go under the entire length of the boat, with scarcely a ripple. It was a magic moment at a magic time of my life.

The islands lie between the Great Barrier Reef, some 30 kilometres out, and the coast, so the water is tidal and fairly flat because the reef holds the ocean swell at bay. Unless winds whip up the surface, the water is very calm sailing. Over five weeks of getting accustomed to this vagabond life we drifted between the coast and the islands often, collecting food and making the odd phone-call to my poor friends in freezing Sydney, buying more blockout and talking to other yachties. Time slowed right down and so did my activities. Something I hadn't been expecting was my enjoyment at having my life so curtailed by the sea. Every day at an island meant only a choice of staying aboard or going ashore, writing, reading, eating, swimming, cleaning up my quarters, dreaming and thinking - that was about it. It felt intensely liberating to be so limited and I can't entirely explain why. I spent hours lying in the cockpit staring up at the clouds snagged on the mast and pondering enormous life-changing questions.

Eventually however I had to leave. We were anchored at Airlie Beach, the famous doorway to the Whitsundays on the Queensland coast. My last night was spent enjoying a fabulous meal of vegetarian crepes and then sitting out on the high seat, dreamily listening to the wind and the waves, the rhythmic lap lap against the hull, not really thinking much at all, just being one with the tide and the water spirits, letting my body soar.

KATH DUNCAN

Kath is a wacky Aussie journalist who has written in 3 previous editions of my mag, zipped over to see me in the UK and is about to welcome me to her home in the northern rain forest of New South Wales. Her previous articles: Mag 1 - congenital limblessness and surgical amputation; Mag 2 - dykes and disability; Mag 3 - driving Cairns to Darwin. HJN.

18 November 1998, 3.04pm

You, me and the universe - reply

Here is a really frightfully dull piece for your mag. It is at any rate quite

long (6,800 words) which may satisfy one of your criteria for

acceptance and I suppose it does contain quite a lot of information about

select commitees etc. But it's not very hot on human interest - never my

strong suit. Do with it as you wish - you may feel it needs editing/cutting

etc.

I have attached it in two formats: MS Word and ASCII (DOS) Generic

Word Processor. Let me know if neither of these is suitable - I can also

send it in WordPerfect.

Matthew

I am a House of Commons Clerk - in other words, one of the secretariat of the House of Commons. We provide non-political advice and support to all 659 Members of Parliament. This can take the form of advising an individual MP on the introduction of a Bill to advising a Select Committee on possible subjects for its inquiries. Like Civil Servants, we are permanent staff, not subject to the vagaries of political fortune like MPs; but unlike the Civil Service we owe our allegiance to the House of Commons rather than the Crown. We are - if I can be portentous for a moment - servants of the Legislature rather than the Executive.

Nearly 1,400 people are employed by the House of Commons. In addition, about 1,800 staff employed by MPs are paid from public funds. Along with the other House of Commons Clerks, I work in the Department of the Clerk of the House (surprise), which has about 260 staff. About 70 of these are Clerks - that is, graduates with good degrees who are recruited via the same process as the "fast stream" in the Civil Service, with the addition of two additional interview processes. Only two (or at most three) appointments to clerkships are made each year and there is generally stiff competition for the posts. The Clerk of the House is our boss; he has the same status as a Permanent Secretary (top civil servant) of a Government Department.

My job is Clerk of the Education and Employment Select Committee. In the rest of this article I will try and concentrate on this. You can get much more information about the House of Commons generally, and indeed the House of Lords, on the Parliamentary Website: www.parliament.uk. This also gives access to the published text of Hansard (the record of Parliamentary debates), select committee reports and other documents.

There are many different sorts of committees in the House of Commons, indeed our motto could be "Committees - we got 'em!" or "Committees R Us". The reason for this is simple. The Commons has a vast amount to do: not just debating topical issues and considering proposals to change the law, but also keeping an eye on Government departments, running its own affairs, and so on. It is easier to get all this done by appointing smaller groups of MPs to do the work rather than trying to get everything discussed and agreed in the full House of Commons. We use this method in particular for examining the details of draft legislation - there is so much legislation each year that it would be wholly impracticable to look at all of it in the House. (This is done by "standing committees".)

The kind of committee I am interested in here are the select committees. There are different sorts of select committee. What they have in common is that they are set up by the House of Commons to inquire into particular subjects, or areas of interest. They can be concerned with the internal working of the House - such as the Catering Committee, which deals with the vital subject of food and drink in the House - or with matters of parliamentary procedure and conduct - such as the Committee on Standards and Privileges. Generally speaking, the best-known select committees are the Departmental Select Committees.

These select committees are set up to oversee the working of different government departments (as you will have guessed from their name). There is (broadly) one committee per government department: Defence, Agriculture and - the one I run - Education and Employment. So it is that, when you hear of a select committee "looking at BSE", it is unlikely to be a one-off committee looking at that subject, but the Agriculture Committee looking at it as part of its general duty of keeping an eye on the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food.

The formal role of the departmental committees is to "examine the expenditure, administration and policy" of the relevant Government department and its "associated public bodies" - that is, regulators and quangos such as the Office of the Rail Regulator or the Office for Standards in Education (OFSTED), which carries out school inspections.

Most departmental select committees have 11 members, although some are larger. My own has 17 members, as does the one that monitors the Department for the Environment, Transport and the Regions. Members of departmental select committees are nominated for the duration of a Parliament, i.e. once they are appointed they can stay there for up to five years. This means that, over time, considerable expertise can develop among committee members. Members are appointed to committees by the House as a whole, on the basis of recommendations made by (yet another) committee called the Committee of Selection. The party composition of select committees reflects that in the House, so departmental select committees have a government majority.

Committees choose their own chairman. Chairmanships are divided up broadly along party lines in the House, which means that some committees have chairman who are not members of the Government. For instance, the Select Committee on International Development has a Conservative chairman. The decisions about who chairs which committee are made following consultation among backbenchers and the party business managers (known as the Whips).

Committees determine their own subjects for inquiry, gather written and oral evidence (and sometimes information from visits in the UK or overseas) and make reports to the House. The Government subsequently replies. It is important to note that the Government does not have to abide by any recommendations made to it by committees; the committees' role is advisory only.

Oral evidence (where witnesses appear before a committee to answer questions) is almost always taken in public and often recorded for TV. Oral evidence is printed with the final committee report, as is most written evidence. Informal discussions and the consideration of the committee's draft reports are invariably in private.

Departmental select committees have power to send for "persons, papers and records". This means that they can not only invite but, if necessary, summon people to appear before them. It has not been the case for many years that Committees have needed to do this - the implied threat is usually sufficient. It is much more common for individuals and organisations to welcome the opportunity to give evidence.

I have already mentioned that I work for the Education and Employment Committee. As an example of how a committee goes about its work, I reproduce below, in slightly edited form, the guidance we issue to those giving evidence to Committee inquiries.

The terms of reference of the Education and Employment Committee are to examine the expenditure, administration and policy of the Department for Education and Employment and its associated public bodies. It has 17 members.

The Committee has appointed two sub-committees on education and employment issues. This has two sub-committees: one of them, on employment, is run by my deputy and I run the one on education. I also have responsibility for the overall committee. Our current inquiries are: other education side, the work of OFSTED (the inspectorate which inspects schools, teacher training establishments and local education authorities) and highly able children. The employment lot are conducing a rolling series of inquiries into the Government's "New Deal" programme designed to help the unemployed back into work and training; they are also considering the future of the Employment Service (the quango which runs Jobcentres) and the future of part-time working. The full Committee - which deals with those areas which fall between the two sub-committees - is looking at opportunities for disabled people in education, training and employment and at ways of widening participation in education, training and lifelong learning.

The description of committee practice which follows applies equally to the two sub-committees and to the full Committee, except where specified.

Within its terms of reference, the Committee chooses its own subjects of inquiry; some subjects may take several months and give rise to a report to the House; others may consist of a single day's oral evidence, which the Committee may publish without making a report.

When the Committee has chosen an inquiry, it usually announces it by means of a news release, which will call for written evidence. (These are available on the Net.) It is open to any organisation or person to contact the Clerk offering to submit evidence. The news release will normally give the terms of reference of the inquiry, and the Clerk will be able to suggest possible topics to be covered in the evidence.

The Committee will also invite individuals and organisations to give oral evidence to its inquiries. As the Committee's time for taking oral evidence is limited, all witnesses, even those that the Committee expects to invite for oral evidence, are encouraged to put what they want to tell the Committee in writing; this not only makes oral hearings more productive, as Members have the witness's statement in front of them, but also means that if witnesses are not called to give oral evidence the Committee still has the benefit of their views.

Written evidence should contain, if appropriate, a brief introduction to the person or organisation submitting it (perhaps stating their area of expertise, etc), and factual information from which the Committee can draw conclusions (or which could be put to other witnesses for their reactions). It is also helpful to include any recommendations for action by the Government or others which the witness would like the Committee to consider including in its report to the House.

There are no formal rules as to the form written evidence should take; what follows is simply guidance based on what the Committee has found helpful in the past. If written evidence is brief, it can be sent in simply in the form of a letter to the Clerk, but otherwise it is helpful for the evidence to be in the form of a self-contained submission, with any request to give oral evidence, etc, in a covering letter addressed to the Clerk. Submissions should preferably have numbered paragraphs and subsidiary material can be placed in annexes. If a submission is particularly long (say 5,000 words), it is helpful to have a summary of the main points at the beginning, and also a table of contents.

Supplementary material (leaflets, articles in periodicals, etc) may also be sent, but it is helpful if the submission itself is self-contained (summarising the main points made in the supplementary material if necessary). This is because material published elsewhere is not usually reprinted by the Committee and such material is often not easy to photocopy for Members.

It is for the Committee to decide whether written evidence should be published, and the manner and timing of its publication. Witnesses should consult the Clerk if they wish to publish their evidence themselves (there is no objection to witnesses simply outlining the views expressed in their submissions). If witnesses give oral evidence, copies of their written evidence will usually be made available to press and public at the hearing, and may thereafter be treated as being in the public domain. Written evidence which is not the subject of a hearing may not be published until considerably later, or not at all. (This does not, of course, apply to material already published elsewhere which is simply sent to the Committee for information.)

If the Committee wishes to take oral evidence, this will usually take place at the House of Commons in one of the committee rooms, although we have frequently taken evidence elsewhere in the UK during visits to schools and other relevant places of interest to an inquiry. (We also visit places outside the UK, but it is very unusual for a committee to take formal evidence overseas.) The timing of meetings varies, but is announced regularly by the Committee via news releases (which are posted on our website). Entrance to the building is through St Stephen's Entrance, opposite Westminster Abbey; no special passes are required but time should be allowed to get through the security arrangements. (Witnesses should identify themselves as such and ask to be directed to the committee room.) Sometimes the Committee takes evidence from more than one set of witnesses successively at a single meeting; in this case it is helpful if the witnesses to be called second attend the whole of the hearing so that they can be asked for their comments on the evidence already given. We pay travelling expenses of those giving evidence.

In nearly all cases, the Committee takes evidence in public; representatives of the press will usually be there and the proceedings are sometimes recorded for broadcast on radio or television.

If a witness does not have available at the time the information to answer a question, the Committee may ask for further information to be sent in writing afterwards. Equally, witnesses are welcome to submit supplementary information after the hearing to amplify any issues discussed.

Members sit around a horseshoe-shaped table, with the chairman at the centre; the witnesses sit at a straight table at the end of the horse-shoe. There are seats behind them for the public. If you want to attend a meeting, just turn up at the House of Commons in good time. You don't need to reserve in advance, although if it is on a very high-profile subject you may need to get their well in advance to secure a seat. A transcript of the oral evidence is prepared by professional shorthand writers. Oral and written evidence is normally published around the same time as the report to which it relates.

At the end of each inquiry, the Committee (or Sub-committee) will normally agree a Report based on the evidence received. (Reports from the Sub-committees must also be approved by the full Committee.) Reports usually contain recommendations to the Government, which by convention responds to reports within about two months of publication. This timescale is not always adhered to strictly. The Education and Employment Committee has published nine reports since the General Election last May.

So far I have given a lot of detail about what Committees do. What do I, and my colleagues, do? How many are there? The answers vary slightly from committee to committee, but basically there will always be at least one Clerk, who will be in charge of the other committee staff and who is the principal point of contact with the chairman and committee members. Busier and/or larger committees will have two Clerks. In addition, there will be other staff: committee assistants, who handle the administrative side of things, and secretaries, who do many similar tasks but also have responsibility for the traditional secretarial role, including the preparation for publication of committee reports. Committee specialists are appointed on two-year contracts to provide specialist input in the committee's field of interest. For instance, the Education and Employment Committee currently has two committee specialists, on education and on employment.

Departmental committees may also appoint "specialist advisers". Unlike the staff described in the previous paragraph, these are not permanent, full-time staff but work on an ad hoc basis for the committee in connection with a particular inquiry or subject. They will typically be drawn from academia.

The Clerk's job, in conjunction with the other staff, is to advise the committee on possible lines of inquiry, liaise with suitable providers of written and oral evidence, prepare briefing material for the committee, make all the administrative arrangements for committee meetings, follow up issues that arise at meetings, arrange for the printing and publication of reports and evidence, advise the chairman and members on parliamentary procedure, keep up to date with developments in the committee's area of interest, answer queries from the press and public about the work of the committee, organise committee visits and so on. I won't give you a description of a "typical day of", because there isn't one. But my average day includes: a lot of time on the phone, a great deal of reading (eg of evidence submitted to inquiries) and writing (eg of draft reports fro the Chairman and committee) and much planning ahead. This all involves close liaison with the other seven staff on the committee to ensure that they all know what is going on. Equally, they will all need to keep me up to date with what they are doing. The Committee meets at least once a week and (taking its two sub-committees into account) there may be three meetings in a week - sometimes four. Each meeting needs a large amount of preparation, and we have to ensure that Members get full, accurate and impartial briefing for each one.

The work is highly pressurised. Not only do we have to run all the regular meetings of the committee and its sub-committees, we also have to respond to sudden and urgent requests for information from the committee. Life in the Westminster village can be very hectic, and there are not many opportunities to stop and reflect. Hence, if I can slip in an excuse here, this rather hasty and ungripping article (written with one eye on the clock).

Finally: I have mentioned in passing that committees can go on visits away from Westminster, in addition to taking evidence in the committee rooms. We frequently visit schools and colleges in the UK, and on occasion we travel further afield. For instance, earlier this year the Education Sub-committee carried out an inquiry into the role of headteachers. As part of this inquiry, we naturally visited schools in England, but we heard that, in parts of Switzerland, most of the schools did not have headteachers at all. This we found intriguing: if we in England laid such great stress on school leadership as a means of ensuring high standards, how did the Swiss manage to achieve the high standards that they do without heads? We were also interested in seeing other aspects of their education system, so for three and a half hectic days we went round schools in Zürich and also visited other people, such as staff of the Education Ministry, to try and find out how it was done. This obviously involved the staff and Members in more work, but at the visit was very interesting.

What are the benefits of select committee visits? For a start, they can stimulate MPs' thinking on a range of issues: there is nothing like observing a different system for making you think afresh about your own backyard. They can give us useful pointers about how things can be done differently, if we are looking for new ways of doing things. They can also provide examples of policies which have been tried out in other countries and which are now being introduced into the UK: the overseas example can give a snapshot of what a particular policy might turn out like in a few years. All these strands will influence the committee's thinking as it considers evidence and agrees a draft report, and we will often draw on experiences of overseas and UK visits in the final report of an inquiry.

In many cases, committees publish a formal record of what they learned. Below is a slightly edited version of the published note of the visit to Switzerland, which appears in the Committee's Ninth Report of the current Parliamentary Session, and which can be accessed via the Parliamentary Website mentioned earlier.

The Education Sub-committee paid a brief visit to Zürich in June 1998, in connection with the inquiry into headteachers and our forthcoming inquiry into early years education, and also to look at the whole-class teaching of mathematics. Our interest in school organisation in Zürich was initially aroused by Barking and Dagenham London Borough Council, which made the point that headteachers, as they are understood in the UK, hardly existed in the Cantons of Zürich and Aargau, in Switzerland. The Council's Chief Inspector contrasted the generally accepted view in the UK that the leadership provided by the head is crucial in raising and maintaining standards, with the experience of German-speaking Switzerland, which had higher standards than in England, especially in mathematics, without the benefit of headteachers.

However, the government in Zürich is currently piloting a new system of school organisation which will involve greater devolution of budgets to schools, increased use of computers in primary schools and the introduction of the English language into the primary curriculum. The reforms will also introduce a post akin to the headteacher who will be expected to give up part of his/her teaching timetable to administer the budget, oversee provision of IT, etc. This proposal has aroused much debate among teachers and parents and our discussions on this point during our visit proved highly relevant to our inquiry.

School education is the responsibility of the Cantons and it is therefore not accurate to talk about "the Swiss education system" - we were told several times during our visit that Switzerland has 26 education systems, one for each canton. The role of the federal government is extremely weak. Within each canton, administration varies. At the communal level, teachers are accountable to the Schulpflege (a board of locally elected people, roughly equivalent to school governors). The Schulpflege is responsible for e.g. maintenance of school buildings, etc. There are also Schulprasidenten (or school presidents), lay people who have overall responsibility for schools in the area. The nature of the job will vary depending on the size of the commune - it might be more like a chair of governors in an area with only two or three schools, or more like running an LEA in a very large commune. The school presidents are elected by the local population. In the absence of headteachers, class teachers contact the local authority for the services they need. There are very strong links between individual class teachers and parents.

Schools are generally much smaller than in England. The largest we visited, a lower secondary school, had 300 pupils. The primary schools we saw had around 150-180 pupils. This means there are many more schools per head of population than in the UK, and this in turn means that it is easier for children to attend their local school - indeed, most children travel to school on foot.

Class sizes are also generally smaller than in the UK. In the schools we visited, the class size ranged from 18 or 19 to 22. Classrooms were generally fairly spacious compared to those in the UK. No use was made of classroom assistants on the UK model; one teacher taught a single class alone. This was the case even in the kindergartens, where a single teacher could have 20 children for the entire morning.

It is perhaps slightly misleading to talk of "schools" in the British sense. The important unit of education, so far as teachers and pupils are concerned, is the class. The fact that teachers spend several years with a class, and teach them a range of subjects, reinforces this relationship. The school (literally Schulhaus, or schoolhouse) is simply the building where the classes take place. Much of our discussion with teachers about the idea of a headteacher revolved around what impact the creation of such a new post would have on the work of class teachers and their relationship with the children.

In marked contrast to many schools in the UK, in all the schools we visited, there was no noticeable security and access to all parts of the school was completely unfettered. Schools did not generally have a problem with security or with unwanted people coming on site, although there were some worries about what was perceived to be the growing incidence of violence in schools. In the absence of a reception point or school secretary, Sub-committee Members went straight to the class being visited and were met by the class teacher with whom we had arranged the visit.

Pre-school education (kindergarten) lasts for one to three years (ages 3-6); although it is not compulsory the great majority of children spend some time in kindergarten before starting school. Compulsory schooling lasts for nine years, from the age of 6 or 7 to 15 or 16 (varying between cantons); it consists of primary school (ages 6/7 to 12/13) and lower secondary school (12/13 to 15/16). All children attend the same kind of primary school, and normally go to their nearest school. Teaching is nearly always carried out by generalist teachers who will usually stay with the same class of children for several years.

At lower secondary level, there are three main streams: Realschule, Sekundarschule and Oberschule. The Realschule caters for students of average ability (about 35 per cent of the cohort), Sekundarschule for those of higher ability (48 per cent) and Oberschule for the very low achievers (6 per cent). These three streams, although separate, are all taught in the same school building. In addition, the highly academic students (about 11 per cent of the cohort) transfer after primary school to the Gymnasium (equivalent to grammar school). A small number (about 10 per cent) of those who attend Sekundarschule transfer to the Gymnasium after two or three years. (We did not visit a Gymnasium during the visit - they do have headteachers, but the role is rather different from that in the UK.)

As in the primary phase, in the lower secondary phase most lessons are taught by generalist teachers, and they too will take the same class for three years. In the secondary school we visited, pairs of teachers shared two classes - this meant that students would only have two class teachers for the whole of their time in this phase, one of the main differences between the Zürich and English systems. At this school, we were told that one of the main reasons truancy was very rare in Swiss schools was that the children in each class "lived with a teacher" for three years. If they didn't turn up for school, the teacher would call their home. This relationship with the pupils and the home was a key part of the school ethos, of which the teachers were proud.

At the end of compulsory education (the upper secondary phase) most young people undertake vocational education and training, which usually consists of apprenticeships combined with attendance at college. Such training is governed by statutory regulations which are, unusually, agreed at the federal (ie national) level.

The cantons are responsible for training teachers and regulate their employment conditions (salary, number of lessons, etc). At the primary level, teachers are trained in teacher-training colleges. Courses normally last for five years. At the secondary level, there are two basic types of teachers: primary teachers who have had additional training and teachers who have had a university education and have specialised in two or three subjects. Training of the latter teachers can take place entirely in university or be a combination of a first degree followed by training in a teacher-training college. Training can take between 6 and 12 semesters (ie 3 to 6 years). At the upper secondary (post-compulsory) level, teachers are specialised in a limited number of subjects and are generally trained exclusively at universities. The duration of their studies, including their degree course, is at least 10 semesters (ie 5 years).

Given the absence of headteachers, and indeed of the tiers of senior management found in British schools, the management structure in most schools in German-speaking Switzerland is very flat. Thus the idea of 'career progression' as it is understood in the UK does not exist. Teachers, once they have qualified, can expect to spend the whole of their career in the classroom. (Indeed, many teachers we met had spent the greater part of the career - or all of it - in the same school.) This flat structure was not regarded as a problem by anyone we met: there is a strong belief in the centrality of the classroom teacher to the education process, and the status of classroom teachers seemed to be very high compared to their image in the UK - although we heard familiar complaints from some teachers that, 20 years ago, there had been more respect for teachers and that nowadays parents always thought they knew better and tended to take the pupils' side in arguments, not the teacher's.

There are no headteachers as such in German-speaking Switzerland in primary or lower secondary level education, with the exception of the Gymnasium. The nearest approach to the post is the 'lead teacher'. The attitude of the Swiss teachers we met to the UK model of the headteacher was well summed up by one who asked us " what headteachers actually did", as she wasn't sure. Teachers generally elect one of their number to be lead teacher or 'chair' for up to four years. Such lead teachers had certain administrative responsibilities within the school, such as distributing the post, school admissions and contact with the local school board. But we were told firmly in one school that the lead teacher did not organise the cleaners - this was for the local school board. Although these are elected posts, we were told that it was normally the case of getting someone to volunteer. One lead teacher had been doing it for six years, and was hoping to hand over to someone else. Although she was the lead teacher, she emphasized that she worked by consensus. Like other lead teachers, she was paid a little more for doing this work - but this did not seem to be the major incentive for volunteering though, and teachers generally undertook the role because they found it useful experience. At some schools, different teachers shared different responsibilities. Tasks such as lesson planning were not the responsibility of the lead teacher; this was done by the teachers working together as a team.

One of the reasons why schools in Zürich have not needed heads in the past is that schools are expected to do less. There is not the administrative workload created by national testing, or by OFSTED inspections, and as we have noted schools' budgets, maintenance etc. are dealt with by the local authority rather than the school. The prime task of the school, therefore, has been to provide teaching in the classroom, where the individual teacher has great autonomy - in the words of one teacher, "we are all headteachers in our own classroom", or as another put it, they were "little kings in their own classrooms".

We also explained to teachers that in the UK system, one of the important tasks for the head was the monitoring and support of teachers - and identifying and dealing with those who were underperforming. We were told that, if a teacher was not doing well, the teacher who had been chosen to undertake administrative tasks would work with the teacher to improve his or her performance. However, we were told that the Swiss system for selecting trainee teachers, and the quality of their initial teacher training, meant that there were very few weak teachers, so this problem did not arise as much as it might in other countries.

Against this background, the proposal currently being piloted for the introduction of a 'headteacher' post has been met with varying degrees of hostility and indeed confusion. 47 of the 700 schools in Zürich were taking part in the voluntary piloting scheme in advance of their introduction throughout the Canton. Education ministry officials agreed that the introduction of headteachers was likely to change the entire dynamic of a school, especially as it was being accompanied by the introduction of IT. Headteachers would need to allocate computers to classes, for instance. In these circumstances, heads would end up with a considerable responsibility and workload in addition to teaching.

One of the other concerns that lay behind the introduction of this new post was that the education system needed to change. It was not possible to rely any longer on the old framework, which regarded the individual teacher and the class as the most important aspect of the education process. The changing nature of society, and of its expectations about the kind of skills people would need for the labour market of the future - the whole lifelong learning agenda - meant that schools would have to be able to adapt more than they did at present. Teachers would have to work together more, and schools would have to become more involved with their communities. Such issues could not be dealt with solely by the teacher in his or her own class - you needed some kind of central figure, though it might not be the same in every case. Some kind of structure and leadership was needed in the school to deal with problems and raise standards.

Most of the teachers we met were not in favour of having a headteacher who was in charge of other teachers: although the content of the curriculum in the main subjects (eg mathematics) was laid down by the canton, many teachers felt that they had autonomy in deciding how best to pace, structure and teach the material. They were therefore opposed to the introduction of headteachers because of the perceived threat to his autonomy in classroom matters.

The staff of one school we visited told us that they had decided not to participate in the pilot scheme, preferring to stick to the present "democratic" method. They felt that headteachers would undermine the professionalism of teachers - they didn't like the idea of being "managed". Even if headteachers were introduced, the "democratic approach", emphasizing the central role of the class teacher and cooperation between teachers would remain important. For this reason, several teachers believed that the headteacher should be selected by the other teachers at the school, in the same way that the lead teachers were at present.

One lead teacher whom we spoke to believed that giving schools some more autonomy over their work might be a good idea, and accepted that this would involve one teacher having more of a "leader" role than at present. However, in common with other teachers, she did not like the idea of one teacher being superior to the others and being able to tell them what to do.

Another teacher, who had no objections to the proposed introduction of headteachers in Zürich schools, felt that their role as she understood it would be very limited, and would take up less than half a teacher's normal working week. Even so, the major concern of the teachers was that reducing the amount of teaching carried out by the new headteachers would lead to an increase in class sizes. Teachers all told us that they would rather not have a headteacher if it meant having larger classes, as they felt that their method of whole-class, interactive teaching would not work with 25 children or more in the way that it did with 20 or fewer. (We subsequently learned, however, that in some other German-speaking Cantons, such whole-class teaching was successful carried out with larger classes.)

There was some confusion too about whether the new headteachers would be administrators or educational leaders (which echoed the debate which we have referred to in our report.) Education ministry officials felt that the new headteachers needed to have had experience of teaching but would not have to teach a full timetable. It was expected that heads would do some teaching, depending on the size of the school - in a very large school they would not be able to teach and do all the necessary administration. They told us of their concerns that headteachers in the UK did not always have time to observe what was happening in their classrooms because of the demands of management and administration. The ministry did not want to introduce the "management model" of headship into Switzerland but the "pedagogic leader" model. On the other hand, others whom we met felt that the new post should be more of an administrator, coordinating a group of teachers and remaining "first among equals". We were told that, among the 47 schools that were piloting the headteacher model, some had opted for a dual system, with one headteacher for the educational side and one for the administrative side.

The most important thing we learned from our visit to Switzerland was an emphasis on the key role of the classroom teacher. We were thus reminded that the role of the head in raising standards must be to ensure the best possible teaching in the class. The discussions we had with teachers and others made us think about possible alternative models of school organisation - it is always useful to be reminded that the way we have always done things is not automatically the only way to do them. And having to answer the question "what do headteachers do?" was of course highly stimulating.

Overall, it seemed to us that the Zürich model of school organisation has worked well. But we recognise the argument that schools without headteachers, consisting essentially of groups of semi-autonomous classes, have worked for a society with particular habits of mind and traditions - not least a strong tradition of democracy at every level, including the most local, illustrated for instance by the many referendums at both national and communal level. It is clear that this system has worked due to some conditions which are very different to those in the UK - no system of national testing, a much lighter inspection regime, a fairly standardised system of lesson planning and classroom organisation, standard textbooks for each commune, and so forth. There is in short much less for teachers to worry about beyond practising their pedagogical skill.

It also seems to us that such a system may not be in the best position to adapt to changing circumstances - it has been successful in a fairly static educational environment compared to that of the UK. Indeed, this is one of the biggest differences between the UK and Zürich, and we have noted that among some teachers there was an acceptance that introduction of new ideas - devolved budgets, ICT, etc - would require schools to have a different organisational structure and greater leadership.

If you have bothered to read this far, I hope you found it of some interest.

MATTHEW HAMLYN

Matthew Hamlyn is a very friendly civil servant with whom I have struck up a correspondence. HJN.

Dear Joy

Hi there! You are very young and I am very old. no matter.

Your letter came to hand via The Buddhist Society, so I called in to see Ron Madox. I have read all about you and your magazine FROM THE WINDOW. I do admire you and wish everything good for you and the success of this marvellous venture. Very well done and keep going.

I enclose information to give you an idea of my life and me. Also things and people that might interest you for contacting for your magazine. I have personal experience of them all.

I have commitments, so I am unable to meet your deadline this time. However, you may use my article "Portrait Gallery" in the Graphological magazine and "A Pilgrimage" in Zen Traces, if you wish. The copyrights belong to me.

In haste I am afraid. would you like me to visit you when I get some time?

All good wishes and my love.

Bridget XX

A PILGRIMAGE

When I heard the Venerable Phra Ajahn Yantra Amaro from Thailand speaking, he impressed me. He told us, 'We eat too much, sleep too much and talk too much'. These words have stayed with me ever since. He gave me a card with the address of one of the eighteen monasteries he has founded, told me to book a flight and come. So I did.

Before leaving I sprained my ankle very badly. I thought it would be best to cancel. After all I had no idea where I was going nor what would happen. I could not speak the language. I would be alone and was aged sixty-six. I knew these to be cowardly excuses, so I went. On arrival my foot was very painful and swollen. I held up a picture of the monk at the airport gate. Three Thai people were there to meet me.

I was driven to a tiny temple or meditation centre in what seemed to be the middle of a scrap metal dump. By now it was 10 am and very very hot. The lady said she was off to work and would be back at 5 pm. I was told I could go to sleep on the floor. I felt unhappy and lost, aware of my attachment to Western comforts, such as chairs, beds, tea, toilets etc. Nobody came at 5 pm.. By 7 pm I got worried as I had no address or even the name of the lady or where I was. At 7.30 she appeared with other people for meditation, chanting and much chatter. Things started to feel like a dream if not a nightmare.

I began to see things as they really are - Dukkha. l also noted all my feelings, reactions and fears to the heat, pain and aloneness. I bowed to the Buddha, Dharma, Sangha, thinking I was not much of a Buddhist. All these craving and attachments which create so much Dukkha!

The next night after chanting I was taken to a doctor, a Buddhist friend. He ordered a week in bed with complete rest. But there was no chance to rest; all discomforts had to be set aside for the monk I met in England, a highly reputed teacher, was due to arrive. Off we went to a huge temple in Bangkok; lots of people were gathered and we knelt in the torrential rain to pay our respect. The people I was with appeared to be disciples of and supporting the monks. One minute we were kneeling in great reverence and the next there seemed lots of jokes and laughter. I felt rather stupid as an outsider not understanding the language. It was all quite strange. There seemed to be a gulf between how East and West think, yet all was bridged by Metta - Good Will and everybody gave with a generosity seldom seen in the West.

I decided there would be no rest and the pain must be endured and accepted. There was again meditation and evening chanting. A man appeared who said he would take me in a truck to the monastery the next day. Everybody started to laugh and talk and that was the end of meditation. I was quite shocked - this would not happen at the Buddhist Society! One word started to form, to cover my experiences so far. INCONSISTENT. Nothing is as it seems, therefore do not expect anything. Impermanence, everything changes second by second. What is right for one can be wrong for another. Without right we could not judge wrong. Light, dark, thick, thin, sweet, sour etc. Balance. Take the middle way as taught by the Buddha.

I set off with a very small bag; one could do with even less. The man was Chinese and would attend to the alms round and various duties for the Venerable Yantra Amaro at weekends. He said he was sent to take care of me. The truck was air conditioned and bliss in the heat. On arrival I was taken to a shed to sleep. Small mats were placed very close together on the floor. My heart sank. Thais like to sleep together as if in a sardine tin.

Because I was Western and very odd, I was given a kuti (hut) far away among the banana trees. I had a bucket, some candles and a torch in case of snakes. I tried to meditate until the early hours but the terrific noise of the jungle, hard floor and biting insects made sleep impossible. At 3 am a gong went and we got up.

Gradually I adjusted to the life, passing through elation, depression, fear of the jungle (or myself). I tried to find the middle way. I was very aware of living close to nature and finding a little understanding of the LAW, of the Dharma. In the temple I chose to sit near a skeleton, contemplating the Four Noble Truths, Impermanence, the endless Wheel of Life, and the inevitable corollary of Birth, Sickness, Old Age and Death.

The month came to an end and it took many bows and farewells before I eventually left. I departed in the truck to Bangkok, returned to the little temple at the back of the scrap yard and had a delicious meal on the floor with the others. How different from my arrival. Now I seemed to belong. We went in for chanting and meditation.

On arrival in London the pain was still there and walking difficult, but it seemed of no great importance. Some rest, cool climate, shoes, no insects biting and a bed, helped recovery.

How to settle down again? I missed the community, the genuine kindness of the monastery, sharing and living close to nature.

The Thailand experience is now in the past, the future has not yet come, so concentration should be now.

The card I was given at the very beginning and which had inspired the trip, had this written on it, "Precept, Patience, Loving-Kindness, Wisdom and Purity are the Noble Truth and support this world to be peaceful and happy".

BRIDGET HICKEY

Bridget Hickey BA, FCSD, MGA.

To my surprise I was asked by Alice Coleman to write about my graphological career. She added, "Say something about your pre-graphology incarnation and I want it by the end of the month". This, therefore, is a rush job but I hope it will be of interest to others on the difficult path of establishing themselves as viable graphologists. Reincarnation is an apt description of what is needed for this career. A previous background of some success is essential, with many facets of experience. At the end of one career one can reincarnate into another, with a wealth of past experience to draw upon. In my case it was running a small creative business over 30 years. It can be said that graphology is only as good as the graphologist, which is true of most one-man bands.

At a young age I started drawing, painting and riding horses. My first mount, at the age of three, was a donkey. Later I 'rode out' at 5 a.m. with stable lads and a string of racehorses in Newmarket, the headquarters of British racing.

As time went on I was not singled out for having an academic brain but it was said that I had an aptitude for "something", not yet in evidence. I also had an unusual ability to survive, beyond conforming to accepted standards. For example, I started girls' football in my convent boarding school, which was quite unheard of in those days. All went well until a nun joined in. Cows were grazing in the field and by mistake I kicked the ball, and a cowpat with it, directly on to the nun, all in white. That was the end of a promising school sporting career.

In 1949 I graduated in Fine Arts from King's College, Durham University. Women's rowing was then just starting up and I became Captain of the Women's Rowing Club. The men were reluctant to admit women to the holy of holies of the Boat Club, but after discussion with their Captain we told them we were there to stay. The deal was that we would clean the changing rooms, darn and wash socks, make tea and whatever, and in return they would lend us boats and their own coach would train us. Our punch line was, "If you train us we will be an asset." We had some very pretty girls at the time.

All went well and we started winning cups known as ^"pots". The men were said to be proud of us. The highlight after winning races was for the men to throw our coxes into the water and vice versa - the beginning of unisex? We had made the grade. During my captaincy we also managed to establish women's rowing at Chester, where there was a male-dominated world in which women did not take part. When I eventually came to work in London I continued rowing in eights at the Alpha Club, Barnes, and also took part in the Head of the River, on the Thames.

I was selected for a six-months trial at the Rayon Design Centre in Upper Grosvenor Street, for promising graduates going into industry, and then moved on to work in a textile design studio in Regent Street, where I gained experience on designs coming from Paris and Italy for printing on beautiful silks.

After three years I left and set up my own studio to sell original artwork to industry. Everybody told me it was impossible to make a living that way, so I started. Clients were Jaqmar, Jaeger, Tootal, Marks and Spencer, etc. In the Regent Street post I had met an Italian from a studio in Rome, who later became my partner for many years.

As we progressed we exhibited at trade fairs in Paris, Amsterdam, Olympia and Frankfurt, and I became a consultant and colour co-ordinator for various companies in England and Belgium. I was also made a Fellow of the Chartered Society of Designers. We were invited by a company in South Africa to set up a new design project.

Later I visited Japan to look at spinning₁ weaving, dyeing, finishing and design studios with a view to employment but decided not to take the job and lose my name and independence. Instead, I was retained by a company to create a design and colour range for Marks and Spencer. All designs were original and set ready for printing in Japan.

During the last stressful years in the design world I was smoking 60 cigarettes a day. I realised I was addicted and quite ill. I finally attended a brilliant clinic. Among many therapies there was the option of taking a cold shower or running round the block whenever one craved a cigarette. I chose the run, became cured and decided to keep going. I was 54 and entered for fun runs before graduating to a half marathon. After three years I got a place in the London Marathon and have now completed in nine of them, raising many thousands of pounds for charity.

The increasing pressure and ceaseless demands of the fashion business, and competing in a world market, made me think of another career - reincarnation! I passed the IGAS general course in 1986, then won a scholarship for the Master's course, which I passed in 1987 and became a life member. Later I received a Citation of Merit, which arrived at Christmas and could easily have been mistaken for a kitchen chopping board. It now hangs on my office wall.

I was back in business with a new challenge. I attended five summer- schools and suddenly I was invited to give lectures. The last thing I ever imagined I could. do was to speak in public, so before the day, I practised at home, speaking to six empty chairs. I thought I was not too bad, but was pretty scared on the day. The chairs were alive, with people asking questions!

There were several business people present and the chairman of a company, who was very kind and suggested that I needed to go on a course. He did say he was amazed that I had kept the audience's attention for an hour and a half. I then attended ITC training for two years. Formal academic speaking was not my forte, but anything inspirational using visual aids and audience participation seemed to work for me. We were taught to know our subject, project our voices, maintain eye contact, forget about ourselves and go for it with enthusiasm. Afterwards, one feels wrung out like a dishcloth!.

Becoming a graphologist. has not been easy but it has certainly sparked new perspectives in my life and broadened my horizon. My years in the design world had given me an acute sense of observation, working on details and using instruments - all parallelled in graphology. My previous work also entailed business meetings with customers and selling oneself, which was needed in running a graphological business and giving a service. It was said, "If anybody can survive the Rag Trade, they can survive anything!"

When I started, twelve years ago, I met some pretty sceptical people, but as time goes by there is a much better tolerance as people become more understanding. For example, complementary medicine and natural therapies are increasingly used instead of drugs and the quick fix from the doctor. Often one can work alongside these alternative disciplines with good rapport.

Once people have had an analysis, they are astounded by its accuracy. Recognition then comes by recommendation for private consultations, lectures, workshops, personnel analyses, etc. One is often faced with a problem of a personal nature, which requires tact, understanding and compassion. Often I see a client looking visibly happier by the end of the appointment, when strengths and weaknesses have been pointed out to resolve difficult or long-term problems. It is an old and valid philosophy: "Man, know thyself" and I believe that graphologists, through our work, can be of enormous help to individuals in this present day of stresses and strains, provided that we know our job and have the skill and ability to put over our findings in a way the clients can understand and use to work on themselves.

It is gratifying to get letters of thanks. Sometimes a year later somebody writes to say that the analysis was a turning point in life. I have been able to uncover what people do not recognise or have the confidence to try. Once abilities have been discovered, advice can be given on action to take.

I believe that in today's hectic rush there are fewer listeners about. An analysis, however, say with a businessman, will end in his being able to talk in complete confidence. Many successful people who have made it by 40, come to me wondering if it has been worth it and searching for a philosophy or the spiritual side of life (but not religion).

At one stage I found it hard to cast my vote at election time, but an article in the Guardian interested me in the Ecology Party, later the Green Party, which had put forward a candidate mentioning "spiritual", "quality of life", "non-growth", and "a sustainable future for the planet". I met the candidate, Johnathan Porritt, who lived just round the corner, and got involved. He persuaded me to open the Westminster Branch of the party, which I ran for two years. This was a completely new area for me. I found myself the candidate for Westminster in the then Greater London Council election. I felt I did it rather by mistake as I did not know much about politics. We had intended to be more a pressure group than actually getting elected. However, things took off in Germany and I came into contact with Petra Kelly and the Greens of the day but found I was far too idealistic for the electorate and decided to quit.

Over the years I have always been interested in spiritual and philosophical matters, but not dogmatic religion. This has led me into the investigation of the psyche, complementary medicine, counselling, healing, etc. Recovering from cancer, without any medication by the doctors, heightened my awareness for healing myself and maybe helping others. I attended the College of Psychic Studies for many years. I also give talks on Graphology and Buddhism in several such places. During my search I have studied Tibetan, Zen and Therevada Mainstream Buddhism at the Buddhist Society, Chiswick Vihara and the Buddhapadipa Thai Temple in Wimbledon.

Also, on the spur of the moment, I accepted an invitation to visit a monastery in Thailand, located in the jungle. This entailed leaving aside all material comforts such as a bed and belongings, and wearing a white robe. A torch for spotting snakes was permissible. Accommodation was at a khuti, a bamboo hut on stilts, with a bucket and four candles. Getting used to the heat, mosquitoes, ants and the nocturnal noise of the jungle, taught the Law (of nature) and acceptance of personal responsibility. There were only four westerners in a community of about 300. Some of the nuns spoke English, so I analysed their handwriting after the heat of the day. On a feast day an elephant appeared with a monk on board. We sewed hundreds of flowers on to banana leaves for a massive display of flower arrangements. Later hundreds of people turned up from I know not where, and it was impressive to sit in the jungle with them all (and monkeys) for the Puja, chanted in full.

In England I became interested in the Tibetan political situation, and involved in helping the Tibetan Foundation. I cashed the only shares I possessed, inherited from an aunt, and gave the proceeds for Tibetans in exile. This entailed a trip to Delhi, Daramsala, Mungod, India, Nepal and Tibet, where I visited settlements, schools, hospitals (hardly existent), medical centres (without medicines) and the big teaching monasteries, which were trying to maintain Tibetan culture, Buddhist teachings, and traditional paintings. I was fortunate to have two meetings with a reincarnated Lama aged 12, and met his parents for a discussion with an interpreter.

In Dharamsala I met the Dalai Lama's youngest brother, whose wife was the Minister of Education. We talked of the problems of a nation in exile and the future of the political situation in Tibet. Again I visited schools, nunneries, poor people, etc. My trip into Tibet is another story.

Returning to England I gave talks on these experiences as a member of the Tibetan Foundation and Tibet Society. I have taken part in marches from outside the Chinese Embassy to Downing Street, headed by an escaped monk imprisoned for 30 years by the Chinese.

To raise money and awareness I ran the London Marathon. Tibetans saw me off at the start with their national flags and balloons going up. �9000 was raised and at the end I was interviewed by TV. It was not shown here but, wait for it, in Hong Kong! My running vest displayed FREE TIBET, so I may well be a political incident!

For the future I do not see myself doing anything spectacular for graphology. After 12 years of experience with companies, banks, private consultations, lectures, workshops, teamwork with others, etc., I believe I am acting as a professional, similar to doctors, solicitors or accountants. Nothing special. It is now for the next generation to put graphology squarely on the map. All that is required is dedication, coping with setbacks, knowledge of running a small business, people's problems, teamworking and huge enthusiasm. I aim at being a good graphology GP and that is what I think I have achieved.

P.S. A tip from Ambrose Bierce: "Speak when you are angry and you will make the best speech you will ever regret."

Hi Hero,

Thought I would write this in diary format and just highlight the main points on the trek so that readers don't go to sleep!

Please chop, change and edit as you think fit. (I've done a spell check but you might want to tidy up confusing sentences and phrases - or if in doubt, cut!) I've used miles and km intermittently which you might want to change - sorry I wrote this in a rush and didn't have time to sort out style and details.

Call me over Xmas on xxxx if you need to check anything. Have a good one!

Lisa (Hitchen).

December 1997.

This time last year I felt like I needed a challenge.Through my friend, Sam, I found one - a 100 mile charity trek across Tanzania. The idea was fantastic in theory - walking across the African plains watching wildlife and camping in the great outdoors amongst the sounds of the night. In practice it meant raising nearly �2000 from scratch over the next four months. Decided the �575 airfare gamble was worth it and signed on the dotted line. Panic set in as I quietly contemplated having to raise the cash. Alarm bells rang even louder when family reminded me of the difficulties of asking people for money. The nightmare had begun.

January 1998.

Quizzed professional fundraiser Jeremy Sparks on how to raise the cash whilst sketching his naked body as he posed on a cheetah skin rug.

Between passing comments on the weather he came up with some fruitful ideas on how to reach the target.

Sent round-robin begging letter on my plans to trek with the charity One to One to relatives and others. First reply was from my disabled aunt - a cheque for �10 and a nice letter to spur me on.

On the quiet I approached members of Scope's fundraising team - the charity where I work, and asked for advice. Helpful ideas were fed back from many. Despite advice that it would probably fail, I began with letters to grant making trusts hoping some would help individuals. To this day - no response. But felt better doing something. Started three-miles to work to get fit for the trek.

February 1998.

Bank account empty but spirits high. Announced trek plans to friends who were duly impressed by fundraising and fitness challenges. Kept walking - at weekends too. Wrote more letters and spent a week in my home town of Midhurst asking everyone to give financial support. Wandered through the street talking to businesses and finding out the names of the head-honchos to send out formal letters. Mail-outs not in full force. Telephone calls buzzing with the sound of African dreams. The carrot and stick approach truly works!

Meet One to One people - saw slides and photos - heard how tough it would be - felt exhilarated plus satisfied leaders knew what they were talking about! Met fellow trekkers - mixed bunch of twenty and thirty somethings. All had a few reservations on toughness of trip. Need for fitness to tolerate heat and still walk 30 km a day made a big impression. Stepped up walking, visits to gym, aerobics, weekends hikes. 1998 has definitely been my fitness year.

March 1998.

Money coming in on a drip-feed. Think-tank with Sam on what we can do to raise the cash quickly. Fundraiser, Anthony North from Scope had suggested a charity comedy night at the Comedy Store in London. Phoned organisers and picked their brains on what I had to do - it was expensive. Looked into alternative options including comedy night at Shillibeers Brasserie in North London - went down well with work friends and so I talked to organisers (the Pleasance Theatre) and arranged a meeting with comedy co-ordinators, Piers and Louise. Things were definitely happening!

Sam and I managed to bluff our way into looking like we could organise a professional comedy night - not sure how! Let loose with lists of comedy agents and began phone-bashing and faxing. Hard work with little response at first and lots of chasing. Real fears that trek was taking over my life (it was) and fundraising becoming an endurance test. Worried that if I didn't make the grade, I'd be letting myself down as well as missing the trip and losing the airfare (at least the charity would benefit from my airfare).

Walks on Hampstead Health had begun apace with One to One trainer, Anne. Lake laps and stretching became a Sunday morning diary fixture.

April 1998.

April 6 - the big night. 80 people endured the comic talents of mixed bag of funnymen. Wonderful Graham Bool - our long-suffering photographer from Disability Now came at short notice and snapped some pics of the event, all theatre and bar staff worked for free - everyone seemed to enjoy it and we raised �700. Relief!

May 1998.

Deadline for cash donations looming. Finally got my mum to donate a sizeable wadge of dosh and was pretty much there. Still pavement pounding - on auto pilot now.

June 3 1998 - TREK BEGINS!

Photographed at work in trekking gear - My editor wanted a Polaroid in case I get eaten by a lion. Then onto adventure via the Piccadilly line. Met team leaders Jeremy Smith, Simon and Sasha at the airport plus the first few trekkers. Changed into One to One t-shirt and filled water bottles in the loos - last clean water for two weeks!

June 4 1998.

Eight-hour flight to Nairobi went quickly - no excuse for jetlag as we only passed over one line of longitude. I sat next to a pale skinned chap called Scott. I confessed to being non-Jewish and he told me he could tell because I had "thin lips" and most Jewish women have thick lips. Told him he was dealing in stereotypes as he did not fit the archetypal Jewish mould himself - being mousy-haired and freckly. My argument made little impression.

Forty six fellow trekkers all seemed friendly and over-excited - little sleep had by all.

Arrival in laid back Africa - reassuringly hot. Rucsacs piled high onto the rooves of sturdy, old buses. Set off on the "motorway" - a single lane road and ten minutes later our group saw a giraffe. Initial exclamations gave over to cynicism - was it stuffed and planted by the airport for tourists? African orchids, masses of green vegetation and tottering termite hills merged with the motion of the bus and I drifted to sleep.

Woken with the predicament of the two Daves' urinary antics. "The Daves", cheeky chappies who looked and sounded alike and helpfully, managed to be friends, were both desperate to relief themselves. But the driver told us that we could not stop - because it was a motorway. The situation became serious as the lads resorted to an empty water bottle and a newspaper to hide themselves. Then they couldn't go - the whole bus shared the joke.

At the Tanzanian border town of Namanga, beaded women thrust their wares at the side of the buses. Our first sight of Masai women - with perforated ears weighted down with all manor of beads and their necks enclosed in coloured ruffs. We also met Tarzan tour-operator, Jeremy Gane (well - he's climbed Killimanjaro ten times).

Drove into the Tanzanian bush to met our real leaders, the Masai guides and their leader, Mike, a quietly-spoken Scot who settled out in Africa years ago.

The El nino rains had left their legacy - an insect rich environment with plenty of ticks just waiting to suck out blood. Jeremy G warned us about these and other insects over a packed lunch. Super strong mosquito repellent and suncream applied. Divided into three groups and set off - 10 km till camp.

An easy amble along a red track was our first chance to really get into the wildlife. I chatted to Doug - one of our team leaders, dressed in Safari gear and carrying a gun. His dad was a big game hunter but he was into the opposite - conservation. He knew his stuff pointing out wasp trails in the sand where parent wasps excavate the ground before depositing their young alongside the body of a stunned victim so their developing babies can feed on fresh meat when they hatch. Played guessing games over droppings - then saw the beasts who had deposited them - giraffe, zebra and gazelles.

Camp was on a herb covered hillside with a stunning view - the Africa I had anticipated. The whole camp was laid out including toilet tents with real loos (very civilised) and shower cubicles.

Soup, rice and veg for dinner in the blackness. Camplife had begun.

June 5 1998.

My 26th birthday - I won't forget it. Even the 6am wake up call by one of the Masai guides did not bother me.

Huge breakfast of eggs, campfire cooked toast and porridge and

then 22 km through long, thick vegetation. Army rip-stops proved themselves worth every penny as Africa's plants were evil. Every species has a spiky missile to launch into your skin and people who thought they could get away with cheap leggings paid the price as the burrs clogged up their trousers and rubbed up and down on their skin. Rash city was born.

I also enjoyed the walking - four months of street pounding in London had hardened by feet and I was blister free for the whole trip. Many relied on the miracle second skin of compede to keep them going and for most it

worked. I must admit I had been fearful I would not be up to the trek - I'd thought the heat (something which we could not prepare for in Britain) would sap my energy and make it impossible to go the distance. Not so - though it was hot - over 100 degrees centigrade in the middle of the day. It was neither an unbearable dry heat nor so humid that you could not breathe. This wasn't an endurance test either as we were not carrying army packs, setting up camp or cooking at the end of the day. Still probably the reason I found the experience so tolerable was preparation. Others struggled and Jeremy S, the team leader of my group had to carry Gabby - one of the girlie-girls on the trip. I was privately disgusted. Still Jerry could prove himself a hero!

Out of the bush, we stumbled on a group of "real macoy" Masai. A tall, lean race with spears and scarlet cloaks. The teenage boys with white painted faces were dressed in black ready for circumscion. The women huddled on the other side of the road from their menfolk with babies feet poking from their bulging blue cloaks. One of the little boys pressed his head into the tummy of one of our trekkers and the elders shook hands with our guides. It was one of those moments when you're struck by differences and similarities between different peoples all at once. Then they moved off and we moved off and the moment had gone.

Camped near a dried up river bed. I got my second rendition of "Happy Birthday" and presents and cards from the One to One directors and fellow trekkers - bath oil and a mirror. Was this a sick joke?! This was the start of Shabbat - the Jewish holy day which begins after sunset every Friday and continues through Saturday. Challah bread was handed round and candles were lit. I burnt my finger on a tin mug that had been placed too close to a candle and spent much of the meal with my hand inside a mug full of Jewish wine. Songs from years of Jewish youth clubs and family traditions came next that I had no knowledge of. Then a lantern lit service was held in the river bed. Part of me felt: "Hang on - this is my birthday. You can't be doing this now!" which I must admit now seems a little foolish as I should have known the implications of going on holiday with a group of people from any particular religion, creed or culture. Strangely I had not - I had thought it would be all about engaging with the country and culture of Tanzania. Now I found myself having to engage with two different cultures. I don't know why that should be so difficult but it distracted me from the African experience. I also recognised my singularity as time went on - I was the only non-Jewish person on the trip.

Sam and I watched the atmospheric service from the "wings" and chatted to Simon. Like the Masai on the roadside, the men and the women stood or sat divided and the men seemed to have a more active part in the service - singing and chanting in Hebrew. I told Simon I was not Jewish and he seemed surprised but assured me that none of the One to One treks had ever consisted entirely of Jewish people. Looking back I wonder why I emphasised my difference by telling everybody? But I've always found it best to be honest rather than make an unexplained faux pas. This way I could liberally ask the most basic of questions to learn more about my Jewish friends and their culture.

Late night chat with Mike and fellow trekker Liz. Mountain litter, tourists gawping at locals and group psychology were discussed under the stars. Mike said he only came out to manage big groups like this and told us: "If I was not here to manage the camps, nothing would get done on time". Mike runs Masai Camp a public campsite with a bar and restaurant in Arusha. Most of the trek guides work as guards or "escari" at the camp for the rest of the year. He wouldn't swap his life in Africa for Scotland and told us everyday was an adventure. With Masai music and campfire life, I could see why.

June 6 1998.

Day of rest for Jewish people and so a group of us had a chance to visit one of the local schools in Kitumbeine and meet some of the people we had been fundraising for. The school was a noisy van ride away with all the boys singing at the top of their voices. Mike, Doug and Jeremy S came with us as did most of the journos on the trip who had all drawn straws to win a seat in the van.

The school was a collection of ramshackle breezeblock buildings with corrugated iron rooves. A few dozen children were there - the rest having returned to their families for the holidays. The kids - aged 7-13, played outside in royal blue uniforms. The headteacher, Supeet Mseya showed us into his tiny office where a grubby sign told visitors: Professionals expect no praise for success". We handed in the notebooks and pencils we had carried from the UK and chatted to the Mr Mseya about the school's needs. He told us the government would only buy textbooks - everything else had to be provided by the school which explained why only one class room had desks.

Played football in the school yard, chatted and took pictures of the kids then our leaders rigged up some hammy scenes for the video with the children standing in a group shouting and waving "Thankyou One to One". Yuk! Still it will appeal to our hundreds of sponsors back home.

An optional walk in the afternoon took half the group into a Masai village - a circular settlement made of mud and sticks with tiny huts for the people and pens for the cattle, donkeys and goats. Two of our woman were invited into a mock marriage dance with the Masai men. We found out why the women were those huge beaded ruffs round their necks as Natalie and Lucy were taught the dance. They had to jump in rhythm to the Masai chanting so that the ruffs danced at their necks in a most becoming way - or at least it must be to the Masai. Next the Masai had to learn some Western steps. Equal laughter on both sides.

Reality for me was a problem on the trek - being in Africa seemed quite an amazing concept to grasp in the first place without all the rest of it. Mike talked to me about this - he said he enjoyed watching the process of people acclimatising to where they were, realising they were not watching Africa on a video or computer. He told me: "People have divorced themselves from the earth because they live in a technological age. When they come out here they think 'this is great' and then suddenly it seeps in - the essence of it, the smell of it, seeps into your clothes and it brings outs a deeper longing." I don't disagree but I am a slow burner and need time to adjust - two weeks is not enough for "the seeping" to truly happen.

June 7 1998.

Wore shorts for the first time as the long grasses thinned and we saw more of the wildlife we had come to Africa to see - herd of zebra, and antelope. We are travelling west through the bush amidst a landscape of old volcanoes which through the years have sunk back into the ground leaving great plains, dips and craters full of wildlife. Through the acacia trees we could now see one of the few surviving volcanoes, Ol Doinyo Lengai - the Masai "Mountain of God". The plan was to scale its 10,000 feet after we had completed the 100 miles. Well - that was the plan....

Decided Ripstops not so great after all - I have the same leg rash as everyone else, exacerbated by sunburn. But travelling with 45 others meant that between us we are carrying a chemist shop for every ailment under the sun. We all borrowed and donated and no-one went without.

June 8 1998.

Our group were "stormin'" today - keeping the pace, motivated and quiet. That meant we saw lot of animals and managed to complete 14 km before the heat. Before I came out here I thought I would be afraid of the prospect of meeting a lion or a leopard in the bush but now I realise why it is unlikely to happen. The animals have more sense and most of the time we are just too noisy. Even at night, our campfire antics are enough to tell any creature with half a grain of sense to keep away. We shall have to wait for the safari at the end of the trip to see anything close up. The other reason of course is our Masai guides - Jackson, Jacob and the rest sport bright red tartan cloaks and carry machetes (plus cowboy hats and Nike trainers) and trail in front and behind each group so that animals can easily spot us. I wonder if lions have developed a gene for recognising those red cloaks?

Showers are an interesting process. Each day back at camp - we queue in prudish British fashion to take a washing bowl of water in a canvas tent. Here with travel soap and skill we wash off the sweat and dust of a 20 km hike. I learnt to dip my head in the bowl for my hair then wash my body and finally tip the bowl over me for a "shower". Quite an art.

June 9 1998.

Last night we watched distant lighting across the plains. Today we know what it meant - a huge storm struck just as people were turning in for bed. Being under canvas in the middle of Africa meant there was nothing we could do anyway except weather the weather. But somehow this did not make the experience more bearable. Every tent leaked and all the mattresses were soaked. Worse was the noise of the storm as the rain relentlessly pounded each tent. It blocked out all other sounds and created a feeling of isolation - Sam and I felt like we were the only people there. We bailed out in to see Jeremy S next door thinking his tent might be drier. It just felt more reassuring not to be alone. All round the site others were doing the same.

Many heroes emerged that night with brave volunteers joining team leaders and the Masai to help people out of their sodden beds and into new homes with their neighbours, whilst getting utterly soaked themselves. One guy played the original cape crusader, donning a waterproof cloak and running around helping people in distress.

After a disturbed night, we found one benefit from the rain. It had taken away the sun, leaving a cool, damp climate like any British day. Perfect for walking which was just as well as we still had 30km to get through before reaching the foot of the volcano.

Rabbi Barry Marcus had arrived the night before and we joked that he had brought the British weather - though of course no British storm could have rivalled this one. Now, with the weather on our side we made up for a late start with some serious walking. Trekking is a liberating experience and today was best of all with the full width of the African landscape in view. Walking is free - just you and the outside and it is slow enough to drink in every sight, to catch every sound to absorb like a piece of blotting paper, the experience you are going through. Today was a truly memorable day - not the memories prompted by photos. I took none - the camera was buried deep inside my rucsac because of the storms. But through the salience of being there. Maybe a little bit "seeping" was starting to happen.

Camped on the edge of a huge green crater.. Staring down into the bowl we imagined what it would be like to abseil the rim and planned return trips to this amazing part of Africa. Now only 10km off the volcano - 24 of us have put our names down and signed away our lives on a waiver form scribbled down by one of our lawyer trekkers. Group has mixed feelings about the climb - are we up to it?

June 10 1998.

As a test for the volcano, we climb a nearby crater that Jeremy G assures us has never been climbed by white people before. He suggested a race to the top for two groups of six and Natalie persuades me to take part. It involved a drop into a valley then a short, stiff climb to the top. It is a bit of a scramble and I'm short of breath on the ascent, stopping several times then ploughing on now at a walking pace. Jeremy G insisted he would come last but beats the rest of us by metres. I was next to the top and found my confidence boosted for the volcano.

Lots of snaps at the top and a survey of the views before a ridge walk to the other side. I found some beautiful mica - a shiny, fragile rock of paper thin layers.

A huge pasta meal then sleep before the night climb. The other trekkers had gone to a waterfall for the day so the camp was peaceful. When darkness came we were all wide awake with adrenaline.

Night on the equator smudges out the light in a matter of minutes and headtorches proved essential to find your way to the toilet tent then back to the campfire.

We let the landrovers take the strain for the first part of the "climb". But getting to the start of our ascent was an adventure in itself - the roads were more potholed and pitted than usual after the storms - four hours of fairground driving.

The dark was a mask of deception and looking up we supposed we could see the top and felt optimistic. A 10 km climb up a steep hill - it wasn't so bad. Of course we were wrong, Split into three groups we began the ascent in caterpillar fashion. At first the gradient was gentle then became steeper. I was glad of the masses of long stemmed plants which we grabbed onto to pull us up the hill. The night also hid the danger of gullies and potholes. I had the impression that you could take any path to climb Lengai but on the route down I realised how wrong I was. With true team spirit, we all helped each other to avoid the pitfalls of the ascent, shouting "hole", "dip" and "ravine" as we crossed each.

Slowly the caterpillar inched its way up the slope with regular stops for water. I needed a pee and as there was nowhere to go, Jerry S called "Eyes to the left, torches off" and I squatted down there and then. Somehow things like this no longer seemed to matter to me nor anyone else.

It was a moonlit night and so I lent my headtorch to someone else - hoping my eyes and instincts would prevent a fall.

After three hours the vegetation thinned and the silhouette of "the top" looked bigger and more hopeful. Jacob lead our team and told us this was not the top. I didn't want to believe it!

Now we were climbing on volcanic mud and in places, bare rock. Dawn was fast approaching and looking down we could see how far we had climbed and the steep gradient of the land. Groups spread out across the rocks and began scrabbling on hands and knees. The problem now was rock fall onto those below and group leaders below began shouting at those above to take control. The careful caterpillar had gone and there didn't seem to be a system in place to get us to the top - just individualism as everyone attempted to find a safe path.

Nor were the Masai particularly helpful - it seemed they were there to guide not advise. I got to one steep and slippy part and called out to Jacob how best I should circumnavigate it. He seemed to think I should work it out for myself which I then had to do. It was a moment of real fear. Three girls became very fearful near the top and had to be coaxed to the summit with the persuasion of team leaders.

I began to wonder how much climbing experience people had and whether they should have been allowed to climb - but then who was I to say that they should not have climbed? It was their holiday too.

Made it to the top at 7.45am. Jeremy G saluted me as I came up. He had told us we would be black with ash from the volcano and I guess that all gave us some expectations of what it would be like looking into the crater of one of Africa's last remaining semi-active volcanoes. But Lengai was relatively docile - a lake of grey ash with huge mysterious chimneys puffing sulphurous fumes into the air.

A quick breakfast then the slow seven hour descent which proved to be tougher than the climb. Now we had the heat to contend with plus the exhaustion of having just climbed up. The three groups were rearranged for the climb down. Our group picked up our feet and picked up each other but tiredness meant we were continually slipping over - first on the scree, then on the vegetation. The regularity of the event made the whole thing ridiculous and soon we were laughing hysterically.

Hours later and the laughter had worn off - still it seemed miles to the landrovers waiting far below. I felt dehydrated by the time we had completed the adventure and after water and a debrief from Jeremy G, climbed into the front of a landrover and went to sleep for the journey back to camp.

More food and a bit of a wash then we were off again to catch up with the others at a luxury safari lodge and some well earned R and R!.

Midnight arrival at what seemed like a mirage after bush life. More amazing was the experience of having a real shower and sleeping in a bed. We swapped adventures with the few die-hards that had stayed up to welcome us back and enjoyed the full hospitality of the hotel staff who served us a full dinner menu at one o'clock in the morning!

June 11 1998.

A seven hour safari in the nine-mile wide Ngorogoro crater . With camera and binoculars at the ready we left the lodge early in landrovers and snaked our way into this gigantic bowl, teaming with wildlife. The weather was glum and misty - which meant it was difficult to see. Still as we zigzagged the park, we clocked up views of everything from wildebeests to vultures, from jackals to giraffes.

Seeing the animals at close range was amazing but I was glad to have walked through the midst of them as well as doing the safari bit like every other tourist.

There was no time to pause for breath and after the safari we drove onto a second lodge - at speed to beat the sunset for Shabbat. At the Friday night service, Rabbi Marcus told us of the importance of seizing every opportunity in life and remembering the support we had given to others on the trip.

June 12 1998.

Sam, Natalie and I took a second safari today whilst the other 43 lazed round the hotel pool. We indulged in "roof surfing" - standing up in the landrover whilst it rides over every bump on the road (you need a hard hat for safety!).

Back at the lodge, we had a final debriefing session then a pseudo barmitzvah for Jeremy G to welcome him into adult Jewish life. Many of the guys took on roles of Jeremy's friends and relatives and we also had a brilliant impersonation of our South African Rabbi. The staff from the restaurant joined in with a rendition of the African tourist song "Jambo bwana" (Hello mister). Dancing began and the evening got lively. People began to couple off - now they were clean! The trip began to resemble a Jewish dating agency.

December 1998.

This trek was definitely the high point of 1998 for me . Rabbi Marcus gave me a Jewish name, Leah and I still have the burrs in my socks that scratch at my ankles and take me back to the plains of the Great Rift Valley.

LISA HITCHEN

Lisa Hitchen currently works as a reporter with Disability Now, the national UK monthly newspaper. HJN.

FROM THE EDITOR

Dear Miss Nightingale

Thank you for your letter of 16 November. I'm sorry not to have replied sooner.

I don't really have time to write articles for anything other than the Sunday Telegraph. I feel that since the Sunday Telegraph is paying my mortgage, I should give it the benefit of my thoughts, such as they are.

However, perhaps (with my editor's hat on) I might turn the request around and ask you whether there is some sort of article you might like to write for the Sunday Telegraph: perhaps about your own life and the problem of dealing with physical handicaps?

best wishes

Dominic Lawson

DOMINIC LAWSON

Dominic Lawson is the Editor of the Sunday Telegraph. I had hoped he would write about his life because he is also the father of a child with life-long special needs and the son of a former Chancellor of the Exchequer. HJN.

The Millionth Muse.

Christmas just happened. What was that all about then?

Apparently, it's for the kids. And since, at the age of 23, this is the first year my sister has not bought me an advent calendar, and my personal Christmas run-up (as opposed to the commercial Christmas run-up which appears to begin in August) has not been punctuated by the promise of some cocoa-based snowman for breakfast, it seems the theory works. Never mind the barmitzvah, the year you realise you are sending cards to everyone in your filofax and not everyone in your class at school, is surely the time to admit you're a man.

Bit of a shame really, and it's set my mind wondering as to where the kids are in my life. I have some, but I do not know where they are.

On Christmas morning in my sister's spare room, lying in an extremely hard, silly single bed, I was woken by a selection box of crumpling, swearing, and banging of head on the side of the bath as aforementioned sibling attempted to wee on a paddle. Having waited until she was busting to "go" , she had left her unslept in, tangled bed and locked herself in the bathroom with a little blue box. Some time later she emerged in my doorway with the greeting "Merry Christmas, Uncle Paul."

My sister is having a baby, and I do not know another sentence that can make my brother-in-law, my mother, and my father find such unknown delight on their faces.

Christmas is for the kids. And if we were not all delirious enough this year, when the sprog has finally arrived and is playing with a large cardboard box (which five minutes earlier contained an extremely expensive, but sadly ignored Fisher Price entertainment centre) next December the 25th we'll be tripping over ourselves like idiots.

I am having a baby too.

I do not know when it is due, and I will not be with them on Christmas day.

I do not know who the mother is.

I am a sperm donor. Was a sperm donor.

Linda at the clinic called me up the other day; "We don't need you to come anymore." (I suppressed a laugh) "Perhaps you should pop in and I'll explain."

Typical, I can't even sell my own sperm. Obviously I^'ve not been selling and will be found in the catalogue as a two for the price of one offer, line discontinued. Brings a whole new meaning to the January sales. I suppose my sperm is not attractive to the average couple, gagging for a threesome. Donor number 432; blue eyes, brown hair, 5ft 11", 23yrs old.

Trained as a drama student, gave up after six months to become a writer, history of alcoholism in the family, has tendency to demolish kettles.

Clearly, they were looking for someone with a degree in accountancy who knows all the words to Rule Britannia and traces his family tree at weekends.

Not so.

Linda informs me I've done my bit. Legally, one is only allowed to donate a maximum of ten prizes to the baby raffle.

TEN! I've had ten babies?

Well, technically no, but most of the parents (Parents! Who are these usurpers?!) have applied for another kid from the same carton and I have been popped in the deep freeze until such time as they can afford to have another spare bedroom decorated. And although forced into it I suppose there comes a time in one's life when one must stop being a wanker and get a proper job.

Ten kids.

I wonder what their names will be. I wonder if they'll look like me. I wonder if they'll become

alcoholics.

I did not wonder any of these things as I was jizzing them into a plastic cup, but when it came to the crunch, it was a bit like being told you've won the lottery but cannot have the money.

I told my family on Christmas day, only one report of a disgusted party (older brother, sleeping with five different women at the moment and must have some sort of venereal disease by now).

Next Christmas the majority of my five-a-side football match will have been born and I shall wet the baby's head in a silent, Southern Comfort-type way. I don't know where it leaves me. Not in my sister's spare room, as that will undoubtedly be a nursery by then. I don't know were it leaves this article either. What can I say? Ten kids. It's something to think about.

PAUL MARTIN

Paul Martin is a writer and actor who has to do other jobs to pay the rent. He wrote in Mag 3 about kettles. HJN.

Dear Hero

Nive to hear from yu again - I wondered if you'd like this poem, about the seventeenth century botanist, John Tradescant?

All the best to you and your family

Ruth

John by Grace of God Botanist Royal,

from the British expedition

against Russia, 1618,

brings back a Russian vest. "Stockens

without heels". Snow-boots

to walk on snow without sinking.

Soldirs die of frostbite, heartache,

diarrhoea, plague. He collates

"Things by Me Observ'd",

falling most in love with Russian

roses. "Wond'ros sweet".

All the deck back he keeps alive

a Briar of Muscovy,

the ambuscad's one prize.

How else should a scientist work

but join the politicians'

raids on other worlds?

Afterwards he labours

in his South LOndon

on the names of roses, little

lights of the field.

RUTH PADEL

Ruth Padel has recently published her 4th volume of poetry "Rembrandt Would Have Loved You", which contains an acknowledgement to FROM THE WINDOW where one of the poems was first published, as guest column in Mag 1. HJN.

LIVING ROUGH

No, not in the way we read about it in the papers nowadays: it must be terrible to suffer from a lack of amenities that almost everyone around you has. When we lived rough, it was not bad at all. We lacked solid walls, a solid roof, electricity, gas, piped water, any sort of drainage. But so did everyone around us. I'll tell you how it happened.

I joined the army half way through university and for six years I was a soldier. I then decided not to become a student again, but to apply to become an administrator in the Colonial Service. I was accepted, and appointed to the Gilbert & Ellice Islands (GEIC), a scattering of islands stretching across two thousand miles of the Pacific, a thousand miles north of Fiji and Tahiti.

Air travel was still in its infancy and very expensive, so I was sent out by sea. To Australia in a troopship full of other young people returning home or seeking new opportunities in Australasia. After five weeks wait in Sydney passage on a freighter going to Banaba to pick up phosphate. And after another six weeks a little GEIC touring ship sixty feet long (shorter than a cricket pitch) the last three hundred miles to Tarawa, the GEIC's capital. The whole journey took exactly 5 months. And with no air service to the GEIC my airmail letter telling my parents of my safe arrival took over two months to reach England.

Except for Banaba, a coral pimple less than a mile across and up to 200 feet high, every one of the islands of the GEIC is an atoll - nothing more nor less then a bank of sand on a coral reef. The highest point in the 16 Gilberts is 12 feet above sea level, and even on Christmas Island far away to the east, the biggest atoll in the world, three times this. No wonder the atoll dwellers in the Gilberts, Ellice, Maldives and elsewhere are apprehensive of global warming and the melting of the earth's icecaps.

All the durable buildings in the Gilberts had been destroyed in the fighting to expel the Japanese, who had occupied the islands in 1942. Even if the money had been there, no ships were available to bring in cement for walls or corrugated iron for roofing. So local materials - pandanus poles for beams, palm mid-ribs for walls and pandanus leaves for thatch - were used to construct all the many buildings now needed. Until world trade returned to normal several years later we all worked and lived in such 'bush' buildings, with their stick walls and mere openings for windows. Fortunately for the Gilbertese theft was a heinous crime (they use the same word for a rat and a thief), and it was quite safe to leave in full view objects still in very short supply, such as tools, knives, writing materials (over 90 percent of the population was literate) and tobacco.

Fortunately I had spent most of the time on Banaba learning to fish in the very deep (2000 feet or more) water outside the reef. My tutor was a Gilbertese police sergeant with a family to feed, who was glad of an extra hand in the bow of his outrigger canoe, and since he spoke little English - all education at that time being in Mission schools and entirely in Gilbertese - I perforce learned Gilbertese quite rapidly. It is a fairly simple language with roots in Malay, few difficulties in the way of pronunciation, and spelling when written which is 'straight phonetic' - unlike English! A week after reaching Tarawa I passed my elementary Gilbertese exam, and within a year I had passed at the advanced level - one of the steps towards promotion in the Service.

My first task was to go round all the 16 Gilbert Islands and 8 Ellice paying compensation for coconut trees felled in the war. I think the rate was �1 for every six trees destroyed: not much, but all that was available from Japanese assets seized as reparations, and enough to enable villagers, all of whom owned little plantations, to restore these. I spent seven weeks in a standard touring ship 60 feet long, travelling overnight between islands 30-100 miles apart and paying out small amounts each day to hundreds of victims of the war.

I was now capable of conducting a conversation in Gilbertese, and was entrusted with the setting up of what was called a Lands Commission. This was a Court, established on lines set out by Arthur Grimble ( author of that fascinating book "Pattern of Islands") shortly before he left his beloved Gilberts to become Governor of the Leeward Islands. Its function was to settle disputes over the inheritance of land, which is regarded as family, rather than individual, property, and thus not disposable at an individual's whim. I sat as Chairman, but had an Assessor from each village on the island to advise me on the local custom applicable to such inheritance. The Commission spent four months settling the dozens of disputes on Tarawa, staying in each village in turn. we were then able to draw up a complete set of rules covering every eventuality: once this was passed into law we hoped its application would result in the elimination of almost all further disputes. And this proved to be the case.

Two years into my four years' tour, I was given 6 weeks leave. I had met my wife Nan, by now living in Sydney, on the troopship, and we took the opportunity to get married there. After a honeymoon in New Zealand we travelled, again by freighter, to Abemama, an island about 100 miles south of Tarawa and almost on the equator.

I had had a two-room house built on the shore of the lagoon. It consisted of a pandanus-pole frame, coconut-frond walls with openings for doors and windows, and a pandanus-leaf roof. The kitchen was a small hut built of the same materials twenty yards behind it, and the bathroom an unroofed lean-to in which the shower consisted of a bucket with holes punched in the bottom which we filled with brackish water to rinse off the salt water after we had bathed in the lagoon.

On an atoll no grass grows, so no meat was available apart from the occasional scrawny chicken. But of fish there was a delicious selection available all the time, ranging from swordfish to octopus, shark to dried jellyfish. On the fresh vegetable front we had only coconut and pawpaw, which we grew ourselves, the water from the shower vbeing used to foster quick growth. So we ordered tinned meat, vegetables and all else we required from Auckland, and took it up with us on the freighter.

We also took with us wherever we lived our furniture, which included a small iron wood-burning stove, a kerosene (paraffin) refridgerator which occasionally made ice, kerosene lamps, and camp beds, chairs and table.

But life was relatively carefree. We were pretty healthy, which was fortunate, since the nearest doctor was at Tarawa, two days away if a ship was available. The nearest dentist was in Sydney, a fortnight away: I did at one stage develop an abscess under one of my teeth, and a Fiji-trained Assistant Medical Practitioner pulled the tooth out, breaking a root in the process: the root ejected itself (much to my English dentist's surprise) thirty-odd years later. We used English to each other and to my two clerks and messenger, who were quickly picking it up. Except on the rare occasions we saw the two Irish nuns who ran a small primary school a few miles down the atoll, to everyone else we spoke Gilbertese. The only vehicles on the island were a few decrepit bicycles and the odd handcart. So our main pursuits in the evenings and on Sundays were walking, swimming in the lagoon or on the ocean reef, and fishing with any canoe-owner who wanted company when he went out to sea.

After the Abemama Lands Commission was complete, and the Islands Lands Code had been drawn up, we went on to the next island, Aranuka. By now we had adopted a large dog called Paddy and an undersized cat. The move between islands had become quite a business, what with parties and witnesses who wished to appear before the Commission, and our and others' animals and clobber. On this occasion our cat caused some delay by first taking up residence beneath the anchor-winch and then, when the winch clattered into life, jumping overboard. A frightened cat is difficult to pick ip at the cbest of times, and after a few would-be rescuers had been badly scratched pussy was bundled up into a sack and passed back on board.

On Aranuka we were lent a one-room hut with holes in its thatch: fortunately it rarely rains in the Gilberts. Only about 12o people lived on the island, and despite many disputes brought by these and relatives who had come with us on the ship, the Commission had soon done its work. When the time came for the move to the next island, Kurisa, the ship arrived only in the evening, and dozens of people (including us) and their animals and belongings had to be loaded by night. Aranuka has an extensive coral-studded lagoon, and the ship's three lighters had to make more than one trip in semi-darkness, threading their way between coral heads and being pushed off by passengers who leapt into the water each time they grounded. But everyone was in good humour, and eventually all went well.

We have fond memories of the Gilberts, now called Kiribati (pronounced Kiribas). It is a long time since we lived rough, as we did then, but we know that what makes a difference is not necessarily material conditions but, once one is moderately comfortable and adequately nourished, the people one is with.

MIKE TOWNSEND

His wife (below) explains something of their lives in her bio. HJN.

In an ordinary day in a small French village.

We have a house in a little village in southern France. Nothing special - no large garden or swimming pool, but after a lot of work we have a small courtyard garden with a raised terrace at one end, and a lot of pots with flowers in them, and creepers and roses and oleanders, and a small tree which produces lovely pink blossoms. There are lizards hiding under the virginia creeper and some bright green frogs called reinettes.

Life starts fairly early here, especially during the summer heat, and about six in the morning the little tractors start up, and off they go to the vineyards which surround the village, to spray or to tidy the vines, or to clear up between the rows. Some of the vines have been pulled up, and they have planted tomatoes and melons, and peach and cherry orchards, and as all these crops need water so the fields are irrigated at regular intervals, and from time to time when cycling past one gets a nice shower.

Later on the window shutters are flung open and the village wakes up. The children go off to school in the nearby small town as our local school closed several years ago due to falling numbers.

We have a loudspeaker system and from time to time there is a burst of music followed by 'Ullo, ullo' and then an announcement of some sort - the butcher or fishmonger's van are in the 'place' or village square, or 'please come to collect your dustbin bags on such and such a date, or there will be a bus tour for the old folk to some interesting place with lunch thrown in.

On Thursday mornings we have almost a mini-market in the centre of the village - the fishmongers van from Sete, the butcher's van from Paulhan, and the man from Montagnac who has a market garden, sets up his trestle table and sells lovely fresh lettuces, tomatoes, courgettes, potatoes onions, and all the good things as they come into season.

We also have a small village shop, but it has gone downhill a bit, and the market van and the baker's van provide the meeting place where everyone can have a chat and a nice gossip. Sadly, a lot all our old folk are no longer with us and the young ones go off to work in the larger towns nearby, and do their shopping in the supermarkets, which are cheaper but not so chummy.

We have a mayor's office - from where the loudspeaker announcements are issued, and also a Post Office, so we are better off than a lot of small villages which have no P.O. or shops at all.

All villages in France have a Mayor and a secretary and an office, but they are usually open for only a couple of hours a day, as the mayor is off tending his vines or his tomatoes or something. There is also a man in charge of keeping the village clean, sweeping the streets, burning off at the rubbish dump, and working the big pumping engine which gets rid of any water which floods into the village during heavy rains, and pushes it out over the dike which surrounds our village and the neighbouring one. The big river is only half a mile away, and when there are big rain storms in the hills the water spills out all around us, leaving a lot of good river silt in the vineyards. When this happens only one road is open - the other three are usually closed because of the floods.

In the last century, before the dikes were built, the villages used to be flooded and often lives were lost, but now there are big dams higher up the river which help to control the flow.

The lunch hour in the Midi - or southern France - is absolutely sacred - everything stops from 12 until 2, and the big business of lunch and a siesta takes place! Quite often the shops in the small towns don't reopen until 3 or 3.30 because of the summer heat, but they keep open much later.

Out village has a church clock which strikes the hours twice - the second time in case the people working in the fields have misheard the first one. Then at 7 in the morning, at midday and at 7 in the evening the angelus rings out as well, so that in the days before wrist watches everyone knew what the time was.

In the cool of the evening the children are home from school, and usually playing the narrow streets, and the householders have brought folding chairs out of their houses and sit in the shady corners where the breeze blows and they chat to passers by. If we go for a little walks in the evening we run the gauntlet of a host of friends sitting outside their doors, and get all the latest village news.

If the wind is in the right direction we can hear the 'thwack' of the ball being hit on the tambourin court. This is a game which is only played in our part of France, and in small part of northern Italy, and from time to time we have 'internationals', and our 'Juniors' are present champions! It is a game played with a hard ball and a round bat like a tambourine and the court is much longer than a tennis court and has a white line instead of a net. The scoring is like tennis but they call 45 instead of 40.

We also have a rather weedy football field, and several areas to play 'boule' or 'petanque', but everybody prefers to play in the middle of a shady road!

During the summer we have several special occasions such as St. Jean, Bastille day and the village fete, where we out in the 'place' at trestle tables, or in the field near the pumping station, and there is a live band or piped music, and sometimes we have a magnificent paeallea. It is all very jolly and good fun and gives people the chance to get to know one another. We had a film one evening in village hall showing a football match which had taken place between our village and a neighbouring one about 60 years ago, and the screams of delight when people recognised their parents or grandparents was really great fun.

We spend about five months a year in our little house, but there are some people from different parts of Europe who only come for the summer holidays, or at Easter or during the cooler months.

There are many English people, and other nationals who have decided to live in France full time - some are retired, and others work. We are amazed at how many there are, and how well a lot of them have integrated with local population.

We have been here for ten years now and have always been made welcome, and speaking the language helps too.

In the evenings, unless there is something special on, the village becomes very quiet and people retire indoors when it gets dark, to watch TV or work inside. If one wants to be animated one has to go to one of the bigger towns, or down to the coast where everything is happening and where the young can go to the cinema or discos, or eat out.

Our little village shuts it's shutters when it gets dark, and it's all very quiet until the tractors start up again in the morning.

NAN TOWNSEND

Born in Rajputana (now Rajastan) India in 1928 where her father was an engineer. She went to school in England in 1938, and stayed there during the war whild her parents were in India. Went with her mother to Australia in 1946 (her father having died during the war) and they set up home in Sydney, not too far from various paternal uncles, aunts and cousins.

Nan met her husband Mike on the ship going out to Australia. He was one of the first cadets for the Colonial Service going out to the Pacific territories straight from the armed forces after the war.

They were married in 1949, and spent nearly thirty years in the Western Pacific. Their eldest son, Mark was born in England, David in the New Hebrides - now Vanuatu, and Penny in the Solomon Islands.

Mike retired from the Service in 1974, and joined the West of England Protection & Indemnity (shipping insurance) as their General Manager in Luxembourg. After ten very happy years there, they retired again to their house in Upton Grey, Hampshire. They also have a little village house in the Languedoc area of southern France, and take off for two long visits twice a years, to enjoy the sun and the French way of life.

Glasgow

23rd November 1998

Dear Hero

Many thanks for your letter of 16th November. Yes. You are right in thinking that I have heard of you and know about you but that we have not met.

I have read your letter and the accompanying papers - in particular the excerpt from the Sunday Times - with great interest. You have achieved a lot in the editions of your internet magazine produced to date and you have attracted and are attracting many well-known people. I am honoured that you should think me worthy of inclusion in their number!

I must however -with regret - decline the honour. I am now in my eighty-fourth year and am just recovering from a cracked pelvis the result of a fall. I have considered your suggestions that I might write about my prisoner-of-war experiences or my visit to Ailsa Craig (which I think was the reason of my not being able to attend your grandmother's funeral; I had arranged to take a party of Scouts by fishing boat to the lump of rock but my visit could not really be described as "leading a hike up a gannet strewn rock"!)

I really could not face dredging my memory (such as remains) of my five years as a prisoner and as I was not commissioned and was therefore a working prisoner I did not participate in any daring escapes - most of which were planned by officers with nothing else to do! My experiences in Germany would not be of any interest to the public - nor would my day on Ailsa Craig!

The truth of the matter is that I am past (i.e. too old for) writing articles. My powers of concentration and my mental capacity are not what they were.

Please therefore accept my apologies for not producing a contribution.

Please give my best wishes and kindest regards to your mother and all the very best to yourself,

Yours sincerely,

Lex

Lex B. Watson

LEX WATSON

Lex Watson is a retired lawyer who has travelled very widely and still in his 80s clambers hills and isles in the company of his boy scout troop and many friends. HJN. 

To whom it may concern,

Here are some poems, if you are interested in publishing them

please contact me at:

AFTER PARNASSUS

After parnassus the bloody stallion shuffled

meek rifts of partitioned caricature as

it (grounding defamation)

sunk like an old whore in winter heat

to the shivering soil.

Rising from out its raisoned carcess

this pious horse stood with gurgling conscent

and jaunted a stumbling rainbow of

sour pride

and benediction laced sorrow.

Into a woolen forest of melting shades

it did sneek; (smelling the varnished air

with nostrils mutely concealing)

soldiers dead and dying,

the last battalion of some ambrosia stained war.

Charred limbs and perditios intestines

swelled with meek insecurity;

ripe hearts and gutteral brains lavished

along either side

of this beutitious horse.

Hearing the stemmed whimpers all around it,

this stallion muckled deep its chosen path

through an hour-glass portal

of lavender leaves and impaled bodies

crooning unto the mild air breathing.

Into an impassioned land where the sun

whimsically cajoled an inferno of tenacious

cruelty it pranced

and languished

and died as god once did.

(c)M.D.W

------------------------------------------------------

ETERNAL TIME

That night I heard (once) high over the mountains

a starless cosoms/ at the ending of summer (the leaves

outwardly droopinghad dethroned most pivital dawns

before; while they creased forth as death removed life\

unto a future season----- a burlesque wife: the lonely solitude,

as unlawful happiness left me mosaic (decrepit!

yet staggering on within a past of sour magnitude;

it is unbearable..... listless eternity without charm or vice,

that starless cosmos: that peripheral dominion where love began,

was) before what came after, empty

of dank joy ; sleek pestilence/ sadness bearing

the only basin of emotion, slaving----- docile remnants:

this world unsteady; simplistic triumph,

the present so very far, the future surreal:

an insignia which caters impious dread,

unknowing pedestals upon the sky (always demeaning;

always the night, I breath it again and again\

before the ending of spring, I watched and listened

while living/ touching again, breeding freely

yet stationary against eternal time----- within.

(c)M.D.W

---------------------------------------------------

THE KING OF VESPERS

Tragic vespers surreal and juggling

gracious images of comic duplicity;

stark with seedless wings

they come buoyantly bleeding salted disease.

as night fluctuats within an irrefutable craddle

devised to sour sullenly all it touches

I trapse a tragic mountainside desolate

with luscious puberty creasing my spine.

No need of anguish amoungst these tempered mongrels

and nothing to shelvemy sequestered lucidity;

while trees muckle their fruits of winter misery

I am their apostle cloaked in grey.

soil dreams leak and bleach my severed mind

as grassy tendrils hang limp from out a bloated sky,

childhood christens all that it seeks to touch

but never can it heal the portals of loneliness.

(c)M.D.W

------------------------------------------------------

MATT WETHERBY

Matt Wetherby has sent these poems but not responded to my request for further info. HJN.

News will be posted here in Mid-March.

Apologies for raggedy presentation.

It may help our circulation if you were to print a hard copy of this mag and make it available to colleagues, family and friends. Please publicise it any way you can. I am always looking for unsolicited contributions.

We are seeking contacts to act as correspondents in UK Oz USA SA or indeed any elsewheres: eager beaver students (eg on creative writing courses) may wish to submit suggestions as to how they could participate on the Editorial Committee (do some legwork for me - I am anxious to obtain more oral history and some stuffs from 1st class sports-people, for example).

The Editor would like to thank Canterbury Christ Church College, and Kent Education Authority for providing resources in the past that enabled this magazine to be launched. I continue to be extraordinarily dependent upon my dear Mama who is a most excellent slave. My friend Chris Young continues to be on hand to help with the IT telephonically.

Past editions may be read by clicking on the appropriate logo below (when the hyperlinks are done):