Fractals

My wife wanted a horse box at exactly the same time we were going through a busy period at work. As a result, on one of those rare occasions when I got a whole Saturday to myself, we, the wife and I, went out and without a second thought bought a trailer for two horses. Two horses because she wanted the capacity to either take a friend (and friend`s horse) to the regular weekend trials meetings she attends or, eventually, maybe, start her own riding stables and transport client`s horses about. 

With each horse weighing about a ton the box had a gross weight that proved too great for our family saloon, both legally and mechanically.  My wife had always liked the idea of a Land Rover, and a pick-up body, she said, would enable her to cart animal feed and straw around.  We found a reasonably new long wheel base Defender which seemed perfectly happy with the box trailing along behind.  All appeared to be well.

Well, except that as my wife had decided on her commercial venture, the gross train weight of 4500 kgs put the combination within the range of tachograph legislation. I had only ever seen one Land Rover with a tachograph, a utilities company with a trailer lugging a mini digger, if I remember correctly, and I had heard there were difficulties fitting them with digital tachograph sender units. Eventually I found somewhere to do the work and went along to have, at considerable expense, an instrument and all its workings wired in.  

She`s not as tall as me, my wife, and had a bit of trouble seeing what was going on behind through the mirrors.  I simply stretched and craned my neck until I could see round the trailer.  The answer came in the form of some bolt-on mirror extensions, a disposable type judging by how many times they were wiped out of gate posts up and down the country.  And with a comfier, aftermarket seat (long drives in a cramped driver`s cab made her back hurt) my wife enjoyed many trips out with her friends, clients and their animals.

Enjoyment being relative, it wasn`t long before comfort at the events became an issue.  Other people were able to brew tea and even rest between sessions on horseback, she said, in their camper vans.  I sourced a fibre glass demountable camper body for the Defender.  It wasn`t cheap, but according to those who would be using it, it was worth every penny.

Eventually things calmed down at work and I was able to go along to a horse jumping event with my wife.  It was there it hit me.  As I stood looking along the lines of horse transport which occupied one side of the field, I saw our much adapted, bolt-on, bitty Land Rover amongst the 7.5 tonne horse boxes - the trucks built to do everything we wanted.

The Weather - It`s all our Fault

We are obsessed with our environment.  I don`t mean the planet and melting ice caps, and the prospect of entire countries disappearing underwater, I`m referring to our immediate surroundings.  A change in a landscape often evokes comment, on the rare occasions we actually look close enough to notice something different, but it`s alterations in our personal `livingscape` that really get us going.  Changes from what we think of as the norm prompt endless comment that result in a kind of environment fixation.  It`s no surprise in many ways: what goes on within the range of our senses has an immediate effect on our lives, and it pays to take an interest in what`s happening close by.  But it`s the character of the surroundings in which we exist that is truly significant.  When you live in a truck for weeks on end, for example, the inside of the cab, its comfort, size and colour are important. If I get in any vehicle for the first time I look around and assess it for all these points.  If anything untoward happens to the inside of my cab I take steps to rectify the problem straight away. I don`t like a dirty floor, so I make sure I leave my work boots in a side locker, and I hate marks on the upholstery and dust.  As a result, I sweep out and clean it regularly.

We notice our close surroundings because they have an immediate influence on us as individuals. The surrounding weather, because it effects our everyday lives, is an important `livingscape` factor and as such gets a lot of attention. But there`s a big difference between the planet`s too hot and I`m too hot; it`s all about our weather, in other words, my bit of weather.  Every time the `immediate` weather is in the slightest way unusual – which is more often than not - we greet each other with a comment about it being too wet, too windy or too hot.  And by obsessing we create a problem; a problem with The Weather.  Unlike the inside of a truck, which can be changed, and a dust problem solved, the weather is unalterable.  We`d be better off ignoring it – remembering that for most of us, the weather, in all its forms, is just part of our surroundings.  You can`t change it, it`s just there, live with it.

A Simple Test

You are going on holiday to the South of France by coach.  There are two drivers as usual for this type of journey and both, of course, have category D on their driving licence. Driver A, known as Lucky, passed his test after a mid-morning, post rush-hour drive that threw up few challenges. In fact, the glorious sunshine and lack of traffic meant that he almost enjoyed the experience.  He was well rehearsed for the set pieces, pulling into bus stops etc, and accrued only a handful of faults on the examiners fault finding sheet.  None were considered serious.  Driver B, who every one called Second Time Lucky, took his test in the late afternoon, battling with the school run and some pretty foul weather.  He was presented with numerous challenges, all of which he dealt with but not after some furious pen work by his examiner.  During one of these he scored a serious fault and failed the test.  His second attempt was a totally different affair. The roads were quieter and the other drivers around him seemed far better behaved.  In the end, to his relief, he was indeed second time lucky.

The question is, which driver would you rather have behind the wheel, Lucky or Second Time Lucky?  They both have licences for the vehicle but has one been examined to a higher level than the other?  Has one proven himself a driver more able to deal with a wider range of challenges, and more importantly, has one not been tested sufficiently?  My own answer is that I wouldn`t, without sitting behind each one of them for a while, choose either.  Not that I would be fault finding, it`s just that I would want to assess how Lucky and Second Time Lucky actually drive.  Finding fault is easy - and, let`s be honest, it can be quite enjoyable - in fact you can become so engrossed in it that all common sense and reason goes out the window. Assessment is far more accurate if you look at what people do right and not what they do wrong, particularly when it comes to dealing with problems. A satisfactory driver is one that generally does everything they should while demonstrating genuine ability with the vehicle. It wouldn`t matter to me if one drove in a small town and the other in a large city: just by watching, I`d know if they were competent or not.

Total Control

I tried an experiment this week.  My old BSA motorcycle needed a new clutch – it had been playing up for a while and was getting so bad the old girl would soon have become unusable – so I took steps towards repairing it.  However, instead of simply disappearing with the motorcycle and my tool chest into some quiet corner of the workshop, I tried something new.  I sat down and created a spreadsheet.  And, once it was completed (and an outline and schedule of work was laid out before me, costing analysis included) I gathered a few like minded people around and we had a discussion.  All in all it took several hours. I slumped into my armchair that night tired, but although my eyes were sore from glaring at all those rows of figures, I was able to take comfort in the knowledge that my time that afternoon had been fully occupied.

The following day I went to the old motorcycle and found the clutch as bad as it had been the day before.  In the cold light of day I wasn`t particularly surprised:  why should it have been any different?  No work had been done on the vehicle itself; no proper effort had been applied to the actual problem. I drew my conclusions and noted the result of my experiment, not on a spreadsheet or any other sheet for that matter - no, within my mind I understood. Administration should support action, not dictate it.  I should have made a decision about the best way to progress and then got on with the job.  An engineer`s approach: a physical solution to a physical problem, not an illusion created by administration.

The administrator’s language is unmistakable.  `I`m calling a meeting`, they will say, as if announcing the unveiling of something tangible, commercial, viable.   `Best Practice`, `Fit for Purpose`, their maxims are endless.  Their justification is the pursuit of the ideal; the result is purely imaginary apart from an all consuming paper chase. The administrator creates their own workload, gradually building, creeping over time, so that no one notices the extent of the change taking place.  They bolt bureaucratic layer upon bureaucratic layer, until the illusion is complete.  A system that is an entity of its own – one that`s far too busy being itself to actually support anything else.  A self serving sphere of delusion.   A sole occupation that`s convinced of its own usefulness and, because of the gradual nature of its infestation, one that deceives all – including the administrator. 

The worst thing is that we are all potential administrators at heart – we have an inbuilt gene that makes us want to order and organize.  But like all instinctive behaviour, the manifestations are not always logical and despite my experiment convincing me otherwise, I still love doing things that I know don`t really need doing.   I can`t help myself, they`re just there, begging for my attention.   I play around with my laptop`s systems instead of getting on with the job in hand, the tasks I bought the thing for in the first place.  All of us are susceptible to the draw of administration over practicality.  I once worked with a bloke who was a bit of a hi-fi nut; he read all the magazines and by all accounts had a pretty expensive system at home.  (He was also, significantly, a real hands-on engineer.)  But when I asked what sort of music he enjoyed, he looked at me as if I was some kind of idiot.  It was all about the system: a complex virtual world of perfect settings and specifications – in other words, administration.

It`s probably no surprise that we are governed by administrators: men and women who pour out legislation in the belief that some sort of order can be achieved.   In truck driving alone, requirement is being heaped upon requirement, each addition supposed to improve quality but in reality just adding unnecessary burden. And as my little experiment showed, we would be far better off with a balance tipped towards physical solutions rather than imaginary ideals.  But not everyone understands the real nature of pragmatism.  Most government ministers seem to have been raised in a hierarchy that instills self belief and confuses the retention of obscure facts with intelligence.  Many are barristers and when they see a system it`s not as a predictable or mechanical entity but as an abstract. Their misjudged conjecture, in my opinion, should be replaced by something far more certain.

Driver CPC is a typical example of the inappropriate application of abstract conjecture. Drivers don`t need to know the details of tachograph legislation, they simply need to understand the small part that applies to them.  A tipper driver in London doesn`t need to get his head around ferry journeys; a transcontinental haulage driver doesn`t need to know the extensive list of exemptions.  I don`t believe any driver needs patronizing for seven hours learning that if he drives on the throttle and brakes all the time it`s not good. In the long term, all that CPC is likely to do is create a shortage of drivers; experienced drivers and rookies alike put off by the irrelevant obstacles they need to negotiate in order to maintain a licence.

All legislation has the potential of becoming abstract in the end - because it relies on compliance, a blind deference to bureaucracy, good or bad - especially when it`s the good guys who suffer by bearing the cost of increasing administration.  You don`t need a driving licence or tachograph driver card to drive a 44t artic, you only need them to be legal.  Legislation gives the impression of control but it will never control all drivers, only those who participate in its scheme.  The engineer`s solution would be to shift the emphasis away from the driver and concentrate on controlling all vehicles; the logic of it is irrefutable, a quantum leap in thinking taking us from uncertain to certain. There will be paperwork to sort out, there always is, but that`s what administrators are for – to implement the decisions already made.

His Lordship`s Horse

Woddle, run my bath would you and please fend off any more of those infernal complaints about that creature, if it`s not the staff it`s the villagers.  He`ll be sold and that`s that, they must understand, there`s little else I can do.

Yes, Your Lordship, I`ll see to it straight away.

What, the bath or the villagers?

Both, Your Lordship.  We all know Your Lordship cannot be held responsible if the animal has to go. If it cannot run well enough and earn its keep, then it has no use.  I`ll speak to the staff about it myself, I`m sure they will see what has to be done. After all, they should be grateful to Your Lordship for all he does, not just for them but for the village as a whole.

Thank you, Woddle.

Your Lordship.


                                          ++++++++++++

What did `e say? I suppose `e`s still adamant the poor thing will be sold.  What`s it to be then Mr Woddle, French meat and German glue?  It`s been with us a long time has that one, those of us that`s been 'ere a year or two remember `im as a foal.

Oh, the old bugger won`t budge, you know him as well as I do.  That poor horse has given his best but now it seems that`s no good.  Bred to win, they said, and just because he`s not winning he`s out.  Fodder, just like the rest of us.

Now young David`s back from university, `e`s doing something about it.  Loves that horse, `e does, loves `im. One of us that boy, despite the rest of 'em; you can tell by the way 'e drinks `is tea, uses a mug, `e does.  And `e takes the bus everywhere.

That`s because he`s disqualified.

From using a cup?

From driving.

Well he could get driven about, like them.

Not since they had to sell the Rolls, he can`t.  Even the Mini had to go. That`s why an old horse doesn`t stand a chance.

Got up a collection, that`s what `e`s done. Nearly everyone from the village has put in, there`s enough to give the old fella another go.  Proper training that`s what they says `e needs.

The old fool will never allow it, not if he`s already made up his mind.

                              +++++++++++++++

A large scotch, please Woddle.

Yes Your Lordship.  Is the temperature of the bath acceptable?

It`s fine, thank you Woddle.

The cook tells me Master David has got some money together, from the villagers, that could give the horse a reprieve.

Has he by George.  In fact, most of the arranging done in The George, no doubt. Well, if that`s what the boy wants, and he`s got the money to do it.

Yes, Your Lordship.

You don`t sound too sure, Woddle.

I can`t help feeling that in his Lordship`s father`s day neither the villagers nor the staff would have been allowed any involvement in the matter. Your people have been the prominent family around here for centuries and I wonder whether this will give ideas to them that should know their place, if Your Lordship knows what I mean.

                                   +++++++++++++++++++

There`s a few that knows horses says e`s got a good chance, maybe even Ascot next year.

Really, I had no idea the horse was that good.

Oh yes, Mr Woddle, `e`s a thoroughbred, sure enough.  Plenty of people been sniffing round since they heard 'e might be up for sale, proper racing people.

Not from the Glue factory, then?

Well, you know what peoples like, scare mongering, they say things like that to get everyone going.  No, `e`s a gooden.  No one realized it `till young David started putting the word out and people got interested.

                                    +++++++++++++++++++++

Your Scotch, Your Lordship.

Thank you, Woddle.

They say the animal has potential, Your Lordship, there`s even talk of Ascot if he`s trained properly.

Ascot.  They did say his parentage was good, I just didn`t bother to find out.  Maybe he is better than we thought.  Enough money to keep him and train him properly, you said.

Apparently so, Your Lordship.  And plenty of prize money to come if they are right.

Yes,  but of course it`ll have to go to the villagers.

It`s Your Lordship`s horse. The villagers will expect a little something, but they will never understand its true earning potential.  A valuable animal like that could help enormously with the finances and this house needs money. Think of it, Your Lordship, fewer taxis, more staff, more wealth, more ... of everything.

Quite right, Woddle, we must keep it, tell the villagers the creature is safe with us.

                                       ++++++++++++++++++++

Looks like he`ll retain it after all.  Mark you, if it doesn`t start winning it`ll be gone in a shot. And don`t think the villagers will see any of the money, or us, for that matter.

Thank you Mr Woddle, for all you`ve done. I know you would `ave `ad a word with `im, `e listens to you.

I suspect Master David will be pleased.

Wouldn`t be surprised if `e wasn`t down The George right now, workin` `ard on `is strategies.  I`ll phone and give `em the good news.

                                ++++++++++++++++++++++

Your bottle of water, Your Lordship.

Bottle of water? I can`t remember asking you to bring me a bottle of water, Woddle.

Oh yes, Your Lordship, as I was leaving His Lordship`s bathroom after bringing up the scotch, I distinctly heard His Lordship say, “whataboutawaterbottlewoddle”.

Trajectory

It seems strangely old now.  Not because of the fading, wrinkling paint but because it just looks all wrong.  The tyres are like something you would fit to a cart and the mechanism that tilts the barrel is too simple, too brassy yellow, too mechanical and outdated.  The whole thing is tired, feeble and irrelevant.  In its day it was considered a formidable weapon; new and interesting. Capable of launching a four-pound shell over a couple of miles, it could make itself known. Have this, it said, it`s something special. It was once proud, now it`s just there, and strangely old.

I haven`t seen the rest of the crew for years, not since just after the war ended when we got together for a few pints before being demobilized. I suspect they`re all dead now.  I`m in my late eighties and that`s unusual for our generation – the wartime smokers and drinkers, half starved but still managing to chase around, staying out all night if the chance arose.  We dispersed to different parts, the three of us, the other two going up North and me back to London.  Charlie had plans for his father`s building firm and Johnny was set on emigrating to Canada, to farm and raise a family in the Big Country, as he put it. We all talked a lot about what we would do after the war; it was what kept us going, our plans.

It`s partly the memory of those days that takes me on these outings.  But it`s also an opportunity to get out from behind those dreary old curtains, hemmed in by four walls with only my stale old photographs and the occasional visit by the Home Help for company.  The rest of them that goes along are alright and we have a bit of a natter, you know.  And the coaches these days are very comfortable, not like they used to be, and there`s every convenience – mind you, at our age you need them.  At one time I`d take off without a second thought, travel all over, as far and as fast as possible, slowing down only for my wife and kids, their wellbeing, their comfort the only things holding us back. But now, even though there`s only me, I stay put more.  It`s an effort to just get up in the mornings, sometimes.

+++++++++++

The gun, we were told back then, was a considerable feat of engineering.  We would learn how to load it, aim it and fire it.  I was in charge you see, I had the stripes, and it was my job to work out what angle to raise the barrel to.  Well, that`s not quite true, we were often given that information but I had to understand a little of the theory, that was part of my job.  The shell would reach its maximum velocity, or as we said, speed, as it left the barrel. Muzzle velocity they called it.  From then on it would slow and fall towards the earth.  The trick was to know at what angle you launch the shell for the distance you wanted it to travel.  It was called, by those blokes from HQ who taught us, a trajectory problem.

+++++++++++

The trip was out to an old airfield, now disused, where old tanks and guns from our time had been collected over the years and now formed part of a display.  A historic theme park, they said.  I sat next to a lady I hadn`t met before, although she was a regular, apparently, having lost her husband several years ago.  Marjorie, that was her name, born and raised in Derbyshire, had three children, five grandchildren and a long career in teaching behind her.  A bright young thing she must have been, and I bet she was once pretty, you could tell, and there was something in the way she spoke of her life that made you think she hadn`t stood still for long.  Her and the late `Mr Marjorie` had been keen travellers, they`d lived abroad teaching English and ran something like a small holding in one of the countries they`d lived; the only way, she said, to ensure a regular supply of food.  I watched the loose skin on her throat as she spoke and her wrinkled hands, as they made constant adjustments to her knitted cardigan, trying to imagine a young woman conquering the classrooms of Africa, or Asia, or wherever it was.  To be honest, it wasn`t easy.

+++++++++++

The path of a shell, I remember from the classroom sessions all those years ago, in terms of trajectory (we`d yet to consider actual direction) could be divided into two coordinates: the vertical and the horizontal.  Horizontally, it was being slowed by air resistance but we would ignore this because as it was airborne for such a short period of time there shouldn`t be a significant effect. So, as far as the horizontal was concerned the speed was constant.  Vertically, it was a different story: gravity was forever trying to bring it down to earth.  This meant that the distance the shell would travel was given by its horizontal speed and the time it took before it hit the ground.  But, of course, it didn`t fall straight away, unless the gun was fired with the gun barrel horizontal.  First it would climb.

+++++++++++

I told Marjorie a bit about my life, and although she was probably at least 15 years younger than me she recognized the heart of it, the fundamental nature of those earlier years: getting on with things, mending, making stuff work and not wasting time complaining. I left the army and trained as a mechanic before chucking that in and going on the road with my own lorry. I had a mate who managed a local factory and I got a lot of work from them.  Soon, through the network of their customers, ones I was already delivering to, I got more work.  I put in the hours but didn`t mind.  I was my own boss and when our children came along, we, my wife and I, borrowed money to build the business and secure their futures.  It was risky, if we failed it would have meant years of debt and poverty, but we didn`t and soon there was a small fleet of lorries, our own yard and our own house.  I worked all hours, driving, managing, fixing, I did whatever was needed.  Crisis came and went; good times and bad.  We even did some continental work, when it was rare and far more of an adventure than it is now. I once spent weeks stuck in Greece because of some dispute or other, virtually living under the trailer.  I was even arrested in Germany and spent a few days in a police cell before being released, a few quid lighter and all over some stupid traffic law of theirs.  But I took it in my stride, shrugged it off, moved on.  It didn`t seem five minutes before my own son came of age and came on board.  He became the driving force, carrying on when things seemed to be changing so fast and I could no longer keep up.  He still runs the business but it`s nothing like it was; I wouldn`t recognize it now, it`s not even in the same yard.  They have all the modern technology, all the computers and things.  He uses words I don`t understand.  Telematics, I thought, was a kids program on the telly but apparently it`s all to do with being able to see what the lorry`s doing without involving the driver. It beats me, I can tell you.

+++++++++++

The instructor drew a large arc in chalk across the board, representing the path of the shell, and then vertical and horizontal arrows that originated at the point the arc started. It looked something like this; although, as you can see, I`ve used a bit of colour.

He wasn`t, we were mightily relieved to find out, going to go into the maths but this was not, he said, a big issue as it was all essentially intuitive.  Launched at an angle to the horizontal the round would have part its velocity travelling in the horizontal, as already explained, and part in the vertical.  The proportion of which dictated by the angle itself: the steeper the launch angle the greater the vertical element of its velocity. Gravity is a constant force, so the acceleration pulling the round down will be constant. From the muzzle velocity we could establish the vertical speed and then calculate the time it would take for the round to reach its maximum height and fall to earth, all the while, we were told not to forget, it would be describing an arc.  Even as the round climbed, its vertical acceleration would be negative (as would its horizontal one if we were not ignoring air resistance) slowing it, dragging on it until it finally started coming down.  While it was doing all this the shell was being carried along by its horizontal speed until, of course, its time ran out and it hit the ground.

+++++++++++

We walked around the exhibits, for want of a better word, had a cup of tea and a sandwich in the cafeteria (too much noise: people can`t eat these days without constant chatter and background music) and then headed home.  In the coach a film was playing on the television screen at the front.  I could hardly see it let alone hear what was being said, but because it was on I couldn`t hear Marjorie properly either, so I closed my eyes. I was tired after travelling so far. Slowly, I sank further into the seat.

    

Jubilee Cerebralation

I wonder if Her Majesty the Queen sat on the throne as the morning of her Diamond Jubilee approached and pondered the mental capacity of her governments, both past and present; I know I did.  She of all people will have realized that just because someone has had a privileged upbringing it doesn`t naturally follow that they are clever.  With all due respect, she only has to look to her own progeny to see that although public school and university can fill a head with facts, it`s the capacity of the brain to manage, interpret and apply them that`s important – that rare ability to assess and come to the right conclusions, and then make sound decisions.  I suppose we must be grateful that her lot can`t do any real damage. But the same can`t be said for some non-royals, where the superiority engendered by public school combined with knowledge and limited cerebral capacity can be such a dangerous cocktail. And if she was thinking along those lines, she will have had little choice but to be reminded of all those Prime Ministers that have kneeled before her.

Didn`t they realize, Her Majesty will have asked herself, just as I did,  that economic weakness continuing over decades must have a root cause. And if they couldn't get their heads round that simple fact, how in the name of the future king are they going to deal with the number of other important problems the country has to face.

The Queen was no doubt thinking, as I still do, that countries that do really well, all round, are those maximising their resources.  Australia mines precious metal, sheikdoms in the Middle East drill for oil - and Germany retains a skilled manufacturing base. When Prime Minister Blair was planning to solve this country’s problems by sending 50% of all school leavers to university, Germany was sending 67% of theirs into apprenticeships.  While we allowed Foden and ERF to be sold abroad, losing control of the future of hundreds of jobs, BMW were deciding on how British workers would fit into the German economy. (The same deliberation TATA now has to make on behalf of India.) By not being totally reliant on one particular area of business, the Germans have maintained and spread their assets, and survived the better for it.

Our eggs, The Queen will have lamented, as I have on so many occasions, all seem to be in one basket, our resourse of established industries supported by a skilled workforce ignored. In her reign she will have seen British companies using British made machinery build large parts of the world that we know today.  She will have seen roads filled with British vehicles of all descriptions and she will have seen a significant part of the workforce occupied in manufacture.  Now, only 15% of business in the UK is in manufacturing; we are almost totally reliant on the service and financial sectors. The result of successive governments following the free market principle of natural selection is that we have had to spend billions of pounds of public money bailing out banks in order to save our constrained economy. This last ditch measure is the result of years of poor thinking and mismanagement - similar measures taken years ago with the manufacturing sector would have saved this country at least some of the pain it`s going through at the moment. While millions in the UK remain in poor employment and vast numbers of young people exist without the hope of a future let alone training, the banks, because they`re all we`ve got left, attempt to increase their reserves.  And as we pay for benefits and bail-outs, the rising economies in the East hunger for the produce of manufacturing: the machines and merchandise needed to build a modern infrastructure.    

We are not pleased, I hear Her Majesty say, speaking for the two of us, and demand better governance by truly clever and capable people. We demand a policy on business, not just a short term strategy.  We demand a larger manufacturing sector with appropriate skills training.  We demand long term, full employment. 

I waved my Union Flag on the Sunday of the Queen's Jubilee parade, watching a procession of the country`s elite escorted by German built police cars and motorcycles. But I didn`t wave it for them, not any of them.  Well, except one.