Photograph of a snail, spotted approximately 40ft up the side of a building. Judging by the tracks (not shown) it looks like it got there on it’s own. Also, the tracks indicate it was climbing, not descending. Where was it going? What did it hope to accomplish? Do snails hope?
I knew it would happen eventually! Every day (more or less) I’ve been taking photographs of things I stumble across on my walks around town, so it was only a matter of time before I’d get a picture of an alien spacecraft. It’s actually quite small, so therefore possibly unmanned (unaliened? unlittlegreenmanned?). Or maybe aliens are really tiny, having evolved to utilise multidimensional space to keep their massive brains in another dimension so they don’t have to carry them around on their traditionally spindly three-dimensional legs? Whatever, this is definitely it!
Because it’s really only a dot in the photograph on the right of several women taking time out from a wedding (you’ll have to look closely, its the dot directly above the woman in red checking her mobile phone) I’m appending below a blow up detail showing the UFO more clearly.
At first I thought it might be a football kicked high in the air above Hove Lawns (but its too close for that) or a Pétanque ball from the court immediately behind the seating area (but it’s too large for that, besides, you’d have to be a super-human with no understanding of the game, or indeed any regard for human life, to have thrown a boule that high in the air). However, in the enlargement you can see it more clearly as only approximately spherical, more of an irregular dodecahedron really. It seems to be metallic, grey rather than shiny, probably pitted by space debris after its long journey, and to have several curved plates covering it. There is also no evidence of any blurring caused by movement, meaning it must have been more or less stationary at the time I captured its image. I must stress, this is NOT a photoshopped fake and I can provide the original raw file as proof for any news agency who is interested (for an appropriate fee).
I just think it’s a pity for the girls in the photo that several of them look so jaded, as I am expecting this photograph to go viral and make my fortune. But after all, it’s a wedding photo so they would all have probably had a good night out before the event, and the bride and groom (pictured in the left hand image) will be delighted that my photographing their marriage was the inadvertent cause of this discovery, regardless of the state of their guests.
It’s windy at the café but I find a table in a relatively sheltered spot next to a family with three fractious toddlers, all of whom are vying for first place in a tantrum competition. Maybe I can photograph them too? I’ll have to work my seat round a bit to bring them into view… only then a dapper man, venerable but sprightly, comes over to me and asks if he can share my table out of the wind? “Of course” I reply. As he sits down there is that tense moment when I’m wondering if my new tablemate is going to start telling me the KKK had some good ideas, or something, but it’s ok, he just remarks that he used to smoke my brand of tobacco before he gave up.
The wind is being mischievous, jerking the windbreaks and the parasols which, being attached to the tables, means we both have to dive for our teas, half their contents now running shorewards across the green plastic. Then a girl wearing a crown of blue artificial flowers bounces up. She seems to know the dapper man. He gets up to buy her a tea, leaving me alone with her. We smile, as you do, and I’m expecting her to sit and wait for him, but she launches straight into this bubbly interview, only without the gaps you’re supposed to leave for replies. She’s asking me “Don’t you think weddings are so wonderful?” and she’s just been to such a beautiful one up the road and the bride and groom are so happy and she’s going to do so many things and…
And I’m just wondering if I can find a way of sneaking off but at the same time I’m fascinated. The dapper man returns with two more teas which he places on the table. The wind immediately responds, jerking the umbrella, so now there are four little streams running across the table towards the shore. The girl lifts up her mug and cradles it while continuing about the wedding at which, it seems, she was dressed as a plastic champagne bottle, she then spreads a map of Inverness in front of me telling me she’s just run the entire route outlined in red biro and extolling the beauty of the Scottish countryside. She adds that we all need to work towards ecologically sound transportation. The dapper man takes some exception to this, telling her that, as a species, we are not yet evolved enough. Then he tells me that she is an artist, or certainly very creative, although the girl replies that she is into P.E. and she’s going to be running around the whole of Scandinavia soon – she likes to keep things off the map – and then tells me I should get married again (again? I haven’t actually told her I’m divorced) because she thinks I’d look really smart in a suit. In fact she thinks we should all get married again, despite the fact that her last marriage was a disaster, but after all she was very young then (how old is she now? She doesn’t look more than about twenty). “You should both be married!” she repeats. The dapper man and I both “hmm” in unison. He likes his freedom. This morning he woke up and decided he was going to go to the races, he didn’t have to ask anyone else what they thought and he’s now won £290, but she’s off again about ecologically sound global transportation and the dapper man makes the mistake of telling her she lacks experience, to which she snaps back with a lecture about ageism, not helped by him saying “but you won’t tell me how old you are?” And yet they both seem to like each other and the argument is a bit like the ones you see between old married couples.
I’m transfixed. I can’t work out if I’m enjoying this or not, but I think I probably am and anyway, if he doesn’t know how old she is, then how well do they know each other? I’d assumed he was an uncle or grandfather, but now I’m beginning to wonder. I start to drift, letting their conversation wash over me like a play on the radio you aren’t really listening to. Only then I see a wheelchair, thankfully empty, accelerating directly towards a table occupied by a couple eating fried breakfasts. There is a crash and some exclamations. Two seagulls take advantage of the confusion to grab a few gulletfulls of chips. The dapper man, trying to see what’s happened, leans forward in his chair, which gives way at the legs, sending him sprawling. The girl and I both get up to help him and she’s instantly off to dispose of the broken chair. While she’s gone I take the opportunity to ask him how long they’ve known each other, to which he replies “Good God man! I only met her an hour ago while we were both watching the same wedding. When I suggested a cup of tea I was being polite, I didn’t expect her to follow me.”
The girl is now back, telling us that a broken chair is good luck and she wants to go to a fox hunt but she thinks it’s a pity that foxes get killed and can’t the dogs just follow and she could run along with them? The dapper man interjects, saying that fox-hunters are all townies. I try to add my own comments on this topic but since they are both off again on quite independent conversations I relax back into my chair. The girl really just wants to see one fox in the UK as she’s lived here for a while now but she’s only ever seen them in Finland. The dapper man and I are surprised as you can see them hanging round the town’s bins on most nights. The girl wants to know if they eat rabbits and are there lots of rabbits in town too? The dapper man says myxomatosis was a terrible thing and he hasn’t eaten a rabbit in years. The girl then asks us how long we’ve known each other, to which we reply that we’ve just met. She thinks this is great and I should take a picture, which I do, after which I feel we really should introduce each other.
“Chris”.
“Noel”
“Donna Lukander Victory Of Truth, at the moment, but I’m experimenting with names.” “Do you have one that’s a bit more stable we can use in the meantime?”
“Oh, well, the name my family gave me is Iida”
At this point a short-handled broom flies past us, missing our table by only a few feet. Andrew the table-clearing man is back from his holidays and evidently the pigeons have become far too friendly in his absence. As the cloud of startled birds lifts off into the air I sit back in my chair once more, knowing my day is now complete.
I was listening to one of those Radio 4 amazing facts programmes a few years ago. You know the sort, where a panel of experts give answers to questions sent in by listeners on topics pertaining to the natural world, the sciences, mathematical problems and so on. On this day one particular question stuck in my mind. A listener had written in asking how, when it’s raining, insects, being close in size to raindrops, don’t seem to get hit? After some exploration of different theories, the panel came to the conclusion that rain, as it falls, creates enough turbulence around each droplet to blow any insects out of their path. Upon hearing this, the world seemed to come alive for me and I had this vision of the air around us filled with minute curlicues of turbulence caused by a multitude of falling droplets; a beautiful web of three-dimensional and invisible arabesques. I was delighted.
A few years later, while filming in some woods nearby I chanced on a lepidopterist out searching for butterflies. We fell into conversation and he told me that, for him, the day had not been so good. He’d hoped to photograph some of the rarer species but most of the ones he’d found had wings quite badly damaged by the rain. I remembered my programme and felt a little disappointed, but then, I reasoned, maybe butterflies, because of the size of their wings, created enough drag to prevent them being blown out of the way, and so they might be an exception to the rule.
So, today I’m hiding from the rain under one of the umbrellas at the café when all of a sudden, this shape appears with a splat on the stretched canvas cover. It’s clearly visible through the wet fabric as having six legs. Peeking out from the rim of my shelter I can see it’s a bee that’s been brought down with a bump by a raindrop. Unsurprisingly, it looks stunned. Since the rain is now easing I try a bit of rescue work, breathing and blowing on the bee to dry it out and try to warm it up a bit. To my surprise, this actually works. Acting a bit like a human hair dryer to warm it, and having blown off the surplus water, after a while the bee starts to buzz a bit, dislodging some more water. Then it does what any sensible insect would do under the circumstances, crawling across the surface to the edge, over the rim and then under the canopy where it clings on, probably trying to recover its senses.
Ok, its only one bee. Maybe there are instances where insects are blown out of the way by turbulence caused by falling rain, but from what I can see from the behaviour of this one individual, it seems likely that what actually happens to insects during rain showers is pretty much the same as anyone else caught in a shower, namely, dive for cover and wait it out. And that’s why you don’t see many insects in the rain: they aren’t stupid (well, for a given value of stupid since they can’t have very big brains) and are all hiding underneath leaves on trees and so on.
Only now I have a new problem: the afternoon is drawing on and the people at the café are beginning to put away the tables, chairs and umbrellas away for the night, one of which has a stunned bee under it. I feel a bit of a twit going over to talk to Michel to ask him to watch out for the bee so it doesn’t get trapped as he closes the parasol, but you see, I’ve helped it, so now it’s my responsibility, and I have no idea where it’s hive is.
In 1949, the New Statesman held a competition asking readers to submit short pieces parodying Graham Greene’s writing style. Greene submitted an entry under the pseudonym “N. Wilkinson” and came second.
During flight, a wing produces lift by accelerating airflow over its upper surface and, in some fixed wing flight, accelerated air can, and does, reach supersonic speeds, even though the airplane itself may be flying at a subsonic airspeed.
Helicopters stay up because, even though the body of the aircraft can be stationary, the wings rotate fast enough to provide lift in a manner similar to fixed wing aircraft.
Airborne insects can be likened to revolving propeller bladed aircraft because their wings generate lift by steadily pushing air downward.
Therefore, if, like helicopters, hovering insect flight is possible because of the high speed of their wings despite the static position of their bodies; then do really high speed wing flappers, e.g. hoverflies, also ever accelerate upper wing surface airflow to supersonic speeds?
If this is the case, then how do these insects avoid creating small sonic booms? Or if they don’t, then why don’t we hear them? Or maybe we do? Maybe the irritating whine we hear when listening closely to something like a hoverfly, is actually a series of really tiny sonic booms merging into one long hum?
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References:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/High-speed_flight
‘Airplane Flying Handbook’ (2004). U.S. Department of Transportation Federal Aviation Administration Flight Standards Service
Sanjay P. Sane: ‘Induced airflow in flying insects I. A theoretical model of the induced flow’
“And this tattooing, had been the work of a departed prophet and seer of his island, who, by those hieroglyphic marks, had written out on his body a complete theory of the heavens and the earth, and a mystical treatise on the art of attaining truth; so that Queequeg in his own proper person was a riddle to unfold; a wondrous work in one volume; but whose mysteries not even himself could read, though his own live heart beat against them; and these mysteries were therefore destined in the end to moulder away with the living parchment whereon they were inscribed, and so be unsolved to the last.”
Herman Melville, Moby-Dick
Some years ago I was having a conversation with a friend about favourite paintings in the National Gallery. Although we managed a shortlist, neither of us could decide on particular pieces so, to try and focus things, I think it was I who suggested: “what if the gallery was on fire and you only had enough time to rescue one piece before the ceiling collapsed?” This proved difficult for both of us. My choice was ‘Bacchus and Ariadne’ by Titian. I can’t remember what his was because he immediately upped the stakes, coming back at me with:
“So now imagine yourself in the burning gallery, the roof creaking ominously overhead and you’re there by the Titan, but in front of you an old lady lies hurt and incapable of standing. Do you carry out the painting, or her?” What could I say? It’d have to be the old lady that got saved. He agreed. We’d be monsters if we didn’t choose her.
But this wasn’t enough for him. He then asked me: “Ok, same situation, but now, instead of it being a choice between the old lady or the Titian, what if you find that a cat has got into the gallery somehow and you know for certain that it’s either the Titian or the cat?”
We pondered this for a bit, but finally both agreed that the cat would have to be saved first. Neither of us would ever be able to sleep peacefully again, imagining the terrified yowling of an animal we’d spurned in favour of a thing. Don’t get me wrong. I would probably risk my life trying to rescue a national treasure, but what is the point of art if it doesn’t make you understand better what it is to be human? Which is why I think Jonathan Jones, the art critic for the Guardian, is a twat.
Here’s his article:
If you want to make a Greek laugh, ask them to say the name for mermaid in their language and then try repeating it back to them. I’ve tried many times and never once succeeded in getting it right. The word begins with a sound somewhere between a gurgle and a rumble, as far as I can understand made at the back of the throat, proceeds to a short ‘o’ (omicro?) before transitioning to a roll not dissimilar to the starting growl, (unless you’re Greek, in which case I’m sure it sounds completely different, actually you can sort of tell its a bit different too though it’s hard to say how) this part of the word involving something like tongue rolling, but not quite the way you might pronounce a rolled ‘r’ – especially not a French ‘r’. But in any case, you’ve hardly had time to get your tongue around that before you’re back into trying to pronounce the first gurgle again, then leaving that behind to try your hand at a longer ‘o’ ( though despite it being longer it isn’t omega) finally to reach the familiar phonetic safety of ‘na’ to finish off. The whole procedure should, despite the complexity, take only a fraction of a second to accomplish.
By this point in time your friend will be creased up with laughter and begging you to have another go.
Written down, the word gets even more interesting, because γοργόνα, transliterated into western script, is ‘gorgóna’ and you immediately think to yourself (well I did anyway) that’s Gorgon, not mermaid, and is there a connection between women with snakes for hair and those with tails instead of legs? Apparently, the name derives from the ancient Greek word gorgós, which means ‘dreadful’. Well, the name does, but mermaids are more closely related to sirens (σειρήνα), because of their behaviour, i.e. using their beauty and songs to lure sailors to their deaths – only why ‘gorgóna’ then, why not something similar to siren?
You can try this argument on the Greek you’ve been speaking with, but like as not he’ll just reply: “go on, say it again”…
Some folk built like this, some folk built like that
But the way I’m built, you shouldn’t call me fat
Because I’m built for comfort, I ain’t built for speed
But I got everything all the good girls need
(Willie Dixon)
Umbrellage 