Confessions of a Glider Groupie – my Glider Collection

Part 1 - ASK13

People associated with radio-controlled scale model gliders may be divided into the following classes:

(1)  Glidermen.  They fly the gliders (yes, they tend to be men, hence the term).

(2)  Glidermasters.  They build gliders as a hobby.

(3)  Glider-Groupies.  People who are enamoured with gliders but lack the ability to either fly or build them, and stick around the Glidermen and Glidermasters in the vain hope that some of the romance and glamour will rub off on them.

Needless to say, I am one of the latter.  I lack the emotional detachment necessary for flying a glider, and since one needs to understand something about flying gliders before one can build them I would be quite hopeless at that, too.  But well, one can’t be good at everything, so when it comes to gliders I content myself with admiring and encouraging the masters in the field.

Glidermen tend to operate in summer, so in the off-season it is easy to suffer from withdrawal symptoms.  To counter this, I had long dreamed of a Glider-Mobile to affix to the ceiling of my bedroom, so I could watch the gliders gently circle and glide, as though riding on a thermal on a balmy summer’s day.  One can, of course, buy such things, but all I could find were versions for children with either rough-hewn, primitive, blimpish airplanes, or flimsy balsawood versions which flew alright but did not look very much like the real thing.  That’s not what I wanted!

When I first started to hang out with Glidermen & Masters I imagined that they lived in houses or apartments with huge rooms and high ceilings, from which they suspended their gliders when not in use.  I fondly thought of my glamorous friends building their new creations beneath a collection of well-used well-loved sailplanes, all hung from the ceiling with strong ropes and carefully positioned to show off to best advantage.  I imagined them relaxing after a hard day’s work on a comfortable sofa, listening to Rachmaninoff while watching their gliders slowly sway in a little current drifting in through the open window, dreaming of their flights of the previous summer and contemplating the exploits of the coming season.

The reality, as so often, turned out to be less romantic!  Instead of hanging their trusty gliders from the ceiling they dismember them and wrap each part in swaddling clothes and store them away for the winter.  Very practical, but where is the romance in that?  I was determined to crowd the airspace above my bed with gliders!

To this end I started to importune my favourite Glidermaster, until he made me a scale model of the ASK13.  Beautifully made of balsawood, with a plastic canopy, and painted in white and red, just like the real glider it is a model of.  I admired it profusely, and transported it home with much worry & trepidation, since it was such a fragile little thing, and spent a considerable amount of time considering how to best show-case it.  I briefly considered the idea of a mobile, but a mobile with just one glider hanging from it would be both unstable and ridiculous, so I abandoned this idea.  After much experimentation I attached the ASK13 onto the top of a carving of an African lady with a hair-do reminiscent of Marge Simpson.  It looks like the glider has just landed on the carving to rest for a while before flying off again, and I am quite pleased with it.

First it lived in the dining room, just below two old photos of La Bourboule which I had bought on the internet in the US.  Apparently a US soldier had visited the place after fighting in WWI and took the photos back to Nebraska, where he had them framed and where they remained until I spotted them on Ebay.  Anyway, the photos seemed a good match for the little ASK13, given La Bourboule’s reputation as the Mecca of French Glidermen.

But later, as my efforts to populate the airspace of my bedroom became increasingly successful, I decided to move both photos and glider into my bedroom so as to enjoy the company of the other gliders who were by now hanging from its ceiling.  This was a very good move, as I shall relate in due course, because the Little Visitors, which now live in my church-tower and mobile, became attracted to my house after they had spied the ASK13 through the window one day.

Anyway, this is what the ASK13 looks like now:

And the general setting:

I do apologise about the glare in the photo, but the corner is a little dark and the flash always causes these reflections.  Here is another try:

This is still my favourite glider, although the glider statue I shall feature in a week or two is also close to my heart.

I should perhaps have mentioned that the ASK13 was developed in 1965 by Rudolf Kaiser and produced by Alexander Schleicher.  It is a two seater and still widely used for training glider pilots.  But well, I am interested in gliders on a personal, rather than species level, and just like I can talk for hours about my Beloved Mouser without once mentioning his race, I can admire and enjoy a glider without any curiosity as to his or her specifications.  This one is called Rudi-Alexis, by the way.

Les Folies du Ciel, part 2

Is this a beautiful work of art or what?

Les Folies du Ciel

Today I spent some time photographing a few scarves I intend to pass on to my favourite niece – every scarf collection needs a bit of judicious pruning every now and then – and since the results were rather good I got carried away and decided to take pictures of some of my favourite scarves as well, and perhaps feature them in my blog.  After all, a blog is all about self indulgence, and I am never more self indulgent than when in the presence of a desirable scarf.

Like most people I experience periods of pain & suffering, sadness & hopelessness.  Sometimes life just doesn’t seem all it is cracked up to be!  People differ in their responses to such periods.  Some flee into alcohol, anti-depressants, drugs, or jelly-donuts, others bury themselves in work, many pick up a string of undesirable lovers in singles bars in search of tantric sex to achieve Nirvana and release from suffering.

Me, I flee into the world of Hermes.  Scarves, that is.  Their bags don’t really interest me, their saddles fail to amuse, and as to their home-ware and clothes, well I consider them overpriced and unattractive.  Of course there are the whips ….  But as I said, tantric sex is not for me.

Hermes scarves are superior to other, lesser, scarves in every way.  The silk is heavier (each scarf weighs 64gr), the colours are richer, and the designs are of the greatest artistic quality, possibly because they are created by proper artists, people who paint real pictures whenever they are not busy designing scarves.

I like to get close to a work of art, and to do that I need to look at it for hours and days and years – standing in front of the Mona Lisa for a minute or two with people pushing me to move on does nothing for me.

That’s why Hermes scarves are so perfect for me.  Each is a work of art, with gorgeous designs and colours, and it feels good and smells nice, too!  And when I am done looking at it I fold it away and return it to my collector’s chest.  Even better, since I wear scarves every day anyway I can utilise them as items of apparel, thus reducing feelings of guilt associated with spending small fortunes on them.  I like to think that they actually reduce my clothing bill, because the scarves look best with simple clothes (they almost always clash with patterns) – and how many simple clothes can one have?  How many beige dresses and grey skirts?

Of course I am just deluding myself.  I love waistcoats (of which later) and cardigans, and have many in non-neutral colours.  And guess what, each requires a different scarf to go with it!  Anyone unacquainted with the subject has no idea how many different shades there are for each colour, and how tricky it can be to properly colour-coordinate one’s outfit.  But hey, I am not complaining!

When times are gloomy and I feel depressed I take out my scarves and unfold them one by one, and contemplate and admire them and glory in my possession, and soon whatever troubled my mind lifts and vanishes and I am happy again.

My favourite scarf The first scarf is Les Folies du Ciel.  The background of the scarf is a beautiful golden yellow and orange, like the sun on a summer day atop of Glider Mountain.  The design is composed of one and a half dozen flying devices, balloons towed by birds, gliders shaped like caravels, a Viking longboat with rowing blades and sails – in a word, amazingly preposterous!  It tipped me over the balance and down the slope of Hermes scarf addiction.  It is that combination of golden colour and flying machines that does for me – it was an irresistible combination for a glider groupie. 

The artist who designed this scarf is Loic Dubigeon.  If you are of a chaste or innocent disposition I recommend you do not google him, because his non-Hermes art work can only be described as pornographic.  He seems to have been a very divided character.  I like to think that if he had trouble getting into heaven on account of his unchaste illustrations, he could easily float above the walls by means of one of the contraptions depicted on Les Folies du Ciel and land inside of paradise.  Of course St Peter would have a fit, but Loic would be welcomed by any number of grey haired little old ladies who adored his Hermes scarves.  Even an irate St Peter wouldn’t have the heart to tell all those innocent beldames why he wanted to evict the risqué artist from heaven, and so he would be allowed to stay.  The beldames, incidentally, knew all about Dubigeon’s saucy drawings, but never mentioned it to St Peter; he was such an innocent, bless him, and needed to be protected from such things.

But enough whittering, here are the photos!  Look at the next post as well, I can’t put all the photos into one post, and this scarf warrants as many photos as possible.

Apple Wassailing on Old Twelfth Night

Tonight is Wassail Night, the 17th January (as against the 'new' date of the 6th), which is the date prior to 1752 when the calendar was changed and days 'lost'. It is the night when all over England people go into their apple orchards and sing songs to the apple trees, drink hot spiced cider, and spear a piece of toasted bread to a branch. The dregs of the cider is poured on to the toasted bread, and it is considered lucky if a robin is observed pecking at this piece of toast later on.

There are fewer and fewer orchards, but in my opinion any apple tree deserves a small wassail, so I observe the ceremony every year. Sometimes I organise a little party, because any occasion is a good excuse for some innocent merriment, and we recite poetry in addition to singing songs by the light of an old oil lamp bequeathed to me by my old buddy Marty. Afterwards there are baked apples and roasted chestnuts in front of the fire, in addition to the hot spiced cider.

Tonight there was no party, but I went out nevertheless with my mug of hot cider and recited the annual Apple Wassail Ballad, which I composed myself and am immensely proud of.

Ballad to an Apple Tree

Cold now lay the fallow lands
Frost-bedecked the orchard stands.
Leaf-less now your slender limbs
Shudder as the dusk-light dims.
While your roots, in earth so cold
Fear the threat of worms and mould.

Squire Frost rides out again
Over mountain, dale, and glen.
Fiercely mounted, grim of face
Ironclad and fist on mace.
Holds the world in death-like freeze
While the Mother sleeps at ease.

But remember, tree my friend
Cold and darkness, they will end.
Listen not to Winter’s claim
That the Summer has been slain.
Summer, Spring, and sister Fall
Each await their wake-up call.

Winter spelled the Mother deep
Now she sleeps and gives no heed.
But as days grow ever longer
And the Sun grows ever stronger
She’ll awake and Squire Frost
Just like Winter, pays the cost.

Then fair Spring will rule again
Over mountain, dale, and glen.
Bees will swarm and flowers bloom
Warm the Sun will shine at noon.
And like maiden’s cheeks so pink
Blossom-laden you will prink.

Newly wakened, roots will grow
Leaves shall cover branch and bow.
And when Summer comes at last
Squire Frost will be outcast.
Where his liege lord Winter hides
High up North, ‘till next Yule-tides.

So despair not, Apple Tree
Frost and ice and cold will flee.
Fruits will ripen green and red
Long before the year is dead.
As they always did before
As they will forever more.

Thus I raise my glass to thee
Thrice be praised, fair Apple Tree!
May you prosper without end
May your life be never spend!
May your fruits be crisp and sweet
Red and golden and replete!

Cheers!

Stuff Parisians Like / Dessine-moi un Parisien

Some time ago I came across a totally hilarious blog (see link below) about the Parisians by Olivier Magny, who lives in Paris and runs a wine bar. Very close to the mark, by all accounts and in my own limited experience.

Favourite posts include one about clothes – always black, or at least dark blue or grey, colours which have the decency of looking like black. That post hit a real nerve with me, because I have a problem with the ever present black and its reputation as being classy and tasteful and slimming. Personally I would never wear a garment because it is slimming, thereby acknowledging that I am too fat – if I am too fat I lose weight, and anyway I decide what too fat is, and I am just fine, thanks a lot!

As to classy and tasteful, any fool can buy black. Wearing all the colours of the rainbow without them either clashing with each other or oneself, now that is classy and tasteful! It takes a long time to learn which colours suit one and which ones go together well, and the process of putting together a perfect outfit is quite an art. Wearing black is just a cop-out, a cheap option by those who seek to avoid making a real effort.

It is also of course completely conformist; I should hate to look exactly like everyone else! Men of course do this in most of the western world, limiting themselves to standard suits in black, blue, and charcoal grey, teamed with light shirts. The only individuality they permit themselves is in the choice of their tie, and even those tend to be predictably boring. Few men have the audacity of MDL, bless him, who once showed up in a beautiful yellow jacket for an official group photo of the staff at the government agency where he works, while everyone else wore somber grey suits.

I also like the posts about the Parisiennes who, contrary to popular opinion, are incredibly prim and proper and fear nothing more than being thought of as ‘easy’, the one about going to the cinema on Sunday afternoons, the recent craze for old style baguettes, the word ‘putain’, etc etc. Great blog, the only problem is that Olivier seems to be rather busy recently so few new posts. I blame that wretched wine bar!

Anyway, the blog was turned into a book last year, both in English (Stuff Parisians Like) and in French (Dessine-moi un Parisien). I bought the French version, seeing as the English can be read on the blog (link below).

http://www.o-chateau.com/stuff-parisians-like/full-list-of-stuff-parisians-like.html

By the way, I am not being paid to recommend this blog, I just really like it!

A Day in Clubland



There is nothing like having a good excuse!  Today I was meeting a friend in the afternoon in London, and had planned to see the French Fair in the morning.  I had the catalogue, directions how to get there, everything.  But somehow I was not in the mood.  All the way to London on the bus I was busy convincing myself that I ought to do the culturally responsible thing and go to the Fair, while continuing to feel reluctant and crabby.  Then suddenly someone in the bus sneezed – just the excuse I needed!  How could I possibly go to an exhibition with hundreds of thousands of other people, in a closed space, when there was every chance that half of them were diseased with some horrible germ or other?  What if I caught something, and became ill, and missed work?  We were very busy right now!  No, it would be irresponsible of me to do anything so dangerous, in the middle of the cold & flu season.  I would go to my club and have a quiet morning with the papers instead.  Which is what I had wanted all along anyway.

Clubs are one of the great contributions of Britain to the civilised world.  I am a member of one of the nicer ones in Pall Mall, and whenever I am in London it is my first port of call.  It provides a luxurious setting, free newspapers and magazines, cheap coffee, and (in the bar) free peanuts and twiglets.  Also really really nice toilets and a splendid place for meeting friends.  On this occasion I had arranged for R to come to the Club in the afternoon, so I did not even have to leave the Club to meet her. 

Reading lots of different newspapers while drinking weak coffee in a congenial setting is one of the great pleasures of my life.  After the sixth paper giving a different interpretation of the current news I slide into a mellow melancholy and start to ruminate about the general depravity of human nature.  Having finished the papers and concluded that I really couldn’t be bothered to worry about humanity on this occasion, I checked my watch and realised that I had another hour to kill.

One of the things I always wondered about is how people manage to photograph themselves in mirrors – I have never been able to do this.  Since my Club has lots of mirrors, I decided to experiment, starting in the Ladies’ Loo, a decidedly magnificent affair.

The first photo – see above – was totally amazing, in that the mirrors in front of and behind me reflected endlessly in each other and created an effect more usually encountered in fantasy/horror movies than in ladies’ loos.

The second photo somehow went mad with the flash and cast the loo into a golden glow, which I think is pretty cool, so I put that in, too.

After I had played enough with my camera I went into the Drawing Room, where magazines like The Lady and Paris Match are displayed.  There was also a copy of Vogue, which I decided to read in the interest of widening my horizons.  What an amazing publication!  Practically the entire magazine consists of advertisements for fashion items which are either ludicrously unusable or prohibitively expensive (or both).  There are a few written articles, but they are negligible in every sense of the word.  One has to admire the genius of the publishers to actually sell this magazine – why would anyone pay good money to look at adverts?  

I still had a few minutes before R arrived, so took a few more photos in mirrors.  I had to be a bit careful, because it is not allowed to take pictures of the club facilities (which is why there are none in this blog).  But I trust the one below doesn’t give too much away!

Then I met R at the entrance lobby and we retired to the Drawing Room for Tea and Cakes and gossip.  We are not so much Ladies Who Lunch as Ladies Who Take Tea in Drawing Rooms, which is much more refined and also cheaper.

Having completed our assignation to mutual delight and satisfaction, I made my way back to the bus station, and took this photo of the monument near Marble Arch dedicated to Animals used in War.  It is quite poignant I think.  What business have we to involve other species in our endless squabbling and strife?

Birthday Musings

Tomorrow is my birthday.  I used to hate having a birthday so soon after Christmas because everyone is still broke from buying Christmas presents and half the time they forgot my birthday, intentionally I always suspected.  But with age comes wisdom, so now I appreciate the fact that thanks to the deteriorating postal service I always get birthday presents – well, late Christmas presents, actually, but still.

This evening I was going to have pre-birthday cocktails with a good friend but she had to cancel – again!  Sometimes I wonder whether I am too accommodating.  Perhaps if I kicked up more of a fuss when I got stood up / disrespected / short-changed / etc etc people would stop doing it!  As is usual on these occasions one generalises and remembers lots of other times when one has been slighted, and before one knows it one foams at the mouth and sharpens the corkscrew!

But well, there is so much rudeness and nastiness and unhappiness in the world that I haven’t the heart to add to it.  I probably can’t stop other people from treating me badly on occasion, but at least I don’t have to retaliate.  So I spent the time I might have used to nag / complain / think bitter thoughts to count my blessings and brain wash myself into thinking that most people are if not exactly good at least not irredeemably bad, either, and if I am patient and generous perhaps eventually I will be treated as I deserve, darn it!

It works with cats, anyway.  It is almost four years since my beloved Mouser had to be put to sleep / was foully murdered, and I still miss him terribly.  He was a stray, and it took a lot of patience and love to get him to trust me.  As a matter of fact it also required innumerable packets of kitty treats, judiciously used to reward behaviours I wanted to encourage.  It took four years just to get him to sit on my lap!

He was in many ways a difficult cat, because he was a grown up and never played or allowed me to take liberties.  But he was a perfect gentleman, and never bit or scratched more than necessary to escape from an unwanted embrace.  You know how it is sometimes, one comes home with the urge for love and approaches one’s partner with pursed lips.  The Mouser would take one look at me and hide under the bed.  If I sneaked up on him and grabbed and cuddled him, he would struggle until I released him and then sit near me at a distance close enough for a gentle pet but not near enough for a sudden grab attack.  As though to say, ‘I like you well enough, but prefer affection in measured doses and on my terms, and thank you for respecting that.’

Ah well.  We got quite pally in the end, he slept in my bed and I had to defend his territory from other cats, because epilepsy prevented him from doing so himself, and acquired the ability to hiss and snarl quite furiously.

I developed a cat allergy while we lived together so can never have another cat.  But truly, I wouldn’t want one even if I could.  The Mouser was everything I wanted from a cat, and getting another cat would feel disloyal and wrong.  I still love him, so how could I possibly get another?  Occasionally when I meet other cats I think about petting them, but just the thought makes me feel like a sort of prostitute and I can’t do it.  I am kind of weird that way.

2011 Coin Count – a whole jar full of luck!

As many of you know, I am a keen collector of lucky coins.  Whenever I walk anywhere I keep my eyes peeled for coins on the ground.  Today I completed my coin count for 2011.  It was a good year, I amassed a large number of coins.  This is what I found (in brackets the numbers from 2010) laying in the streets of Europe:

Currency	Face value	Number found	Total value, coins
£ Sterling	£5 (note)	1 (0)	£5.00
	£1	8 (6)	£8.00
	£0.50	3 (1)	£1.50
	£0.20	16 (5)	£3.20
	£0.10	7 (4)	£0.70
	£0.05	97 (64)	£4.85
	£0.02	25 (22)	£0.50
	£0.01	100 (110)	£1.00
Total £s		257 (212)	£24.75 (£12.61)
Euro	E10 (note)	1 (0)	E10.00
	E0.50	1 (0)	E 0.50
	E0.20	2 (1)	E 0.40
	E0.10	3 (1)	E 0.30
	E0.05	13 (5)	E 0.65
	E0.02	13 (6)	E 0.26
	E0.01	27 (15)	E 0.27
Total E		60 (28)	E12.38 (E0.82)
Other currencies
US dollar	$0.10	1 (2)	$0.10 (“0.20)
	$0.01	2	$0.02
Danish Krona	DK20	2	DK40
	DK1	1	DK1
Yuan	Y1	1	Y1
Hong Kong	HK0.10	1	HK0.10
Polish Groszy	G0.20	1	G0.20
Swiss Frank	SF0.05	1	SF0.05
Russ. Kopek	RK0.10	0 (1)	RK0 (0.10)
Total others		10 (3)

As you can see, a significant increase from 2010!  Even disregarding the effect of the two notes found, there was a 20% increase in the £ coins found and doubling in the E coins found, and the number of foreign coins found tripled.  The aggregate value of the coins found also increased.  Even after stripping out the notes, there was an increase of more than 50% for the value of the £ coins, and an increase of 190% for the Euro ones.  So in the last two years I found about sixty quid, all told.  Not bad during an economic crisis, eh?  Now if only I could get myself to spend my loot, instead of gloating all over it!