Part Time Work and A-Level Students

Students in VIth Form Colleges and their equivalent have a lifestyle to pay for, and often get part time jobs to cover this.

The trouble starts when the student's employer puts their business ahead of the study schedule of the student.  I recently heard of a student who was told "Work is more important than college" when the shift rota clashed with college attendance.

This won't do.  Most 16-17 year olds have yet to gain the confidence to challenge this sort of pressure from employers, who can "always get someone else".

The current UK law on under-18s states:

For young people above the minimum school leaving age but under 18 years of age:

• Minimum 12 hours daily rest and two rest day seach week.
• Minimum 30 minutes rest breaks if at work for 4½ hours or more.
• No work between 10pm and 6am or 11pm and 7am, unless exceptional circumstances apply.
• Working time must not exceed 40 hours per week or 8 hours per 24 hour period. There is no flexibility or averaging in this.

This is not enough to protect young people who are also studying at college.

The law should be changed.  

• If an employee is also a student, the employer should be required to obtain a copy of the student's timetable, to ensure that work rotas do not coincide with college attendance.
• Employers should also be required to pay transport costs (if over 3 miles) if they schedule rotas for 16-18 year olds to include High Holidays such as Boxing Day and New Year's Day, when public transport is generally unavailable.  This is necessary because it is easy to bully young people into working these shifts so that older, more expensive staff can take those days off.  A taxi to work on New Year's Day can mean a young person receiving negative wages for that day.

Not all employers need this level of control, but enough young people are having their education compromised or being asked to work unreasonable amounts of High Holiday time to make the changes necessary. The changes would have minimal impact on the economy, but a positive impact on individual students who are missing out on course tutoring or being pressurised into working the worst shifts at the busiest times of year.

The Poor you will always have with you.

These words from Matthew's Gospel were more a throwaway remark than a prophecy; but should they still be valid in 21st Century Britain?  In a nation that provides free state education for all up to the age of 18, is it still possible that privilege is so entrenched that the bottom rung is still beyond all but the most exceptional of those educated in the state sector?

Former Prime Minister, Sir John Major, pointed out today that more than half the current Cabinet were privately educated.  "In every single sphere of British influence, the upper echelons of power in 2013 are held overwhelmingly by the privately educated or the affluent middle class," he said. 

Research has shown that private education gives an undoubted advantage in achieving higher grades at GCSE and A level, though the teachers went through the same teacher training regime as those employed in state schools.

This advantage is compounded by the fact that you have a much better chance of getting into Oxford or Cambridge Universities if you were privately educated.  For the 'very best' schools, this is hard-wired into the selection system. Eton and Harrow, for instance, each have three senior academics from Oxford and Cambridge on their governing body.  This advantage can be seen in the figures for admissions to universities.

The Government's Social Mobility and Child Poverty Commission found that, although the number of state school pupils starting a degree at a top university increased by 1,464 between 2002/03 and 2011/12, there were 126 fewer students from the most disadvantaged backgrounds at Russell Group universities - 24 of the UK's most selective universities, including Oxford and Cambridge - in 2011/12 than there were in 2002/03. *

This advantage then moves on to the work place.  Are the candidates from private schools for the top professions really so much better than those from state education to give this sort of disparity? 

How do we put this right? 

Short of a revolution (and when has that ever done any good?) we need to stop disproportionately streaming wealthy kids into the universities and professions that influence how society is run; that is a self-perpetuating injustice. Oxford and Cambridge should break all the cosy ties they have with top independent schools or lose all their state funding.  This should be seen to be done from both ends, so we don't end up with the status quo on an unspoken, informal basis.

Parliamentary selection committees need to think about the qualifications of MPs. Politics and social science degrees make you good at talking the talk, but give you no experience at walking the walk. Where are the engineering degrees?  Where are the mathematicians? Even The Arts seem to have no representation amongst top politicians.  We have elected a bunch of orators, not doers, and it shows!

State-funded professions, such as civil servants, judges, etc., should not have disproportionate numbers originating from independent schools/Oxbridge in their top ranks. This would require independent scrutiny and explanations if candidates from 'better' schools/universities but with lower academic achievement are favoured.  The British taxpayers fund these institutions and should be represented amongst them.

Next (or at the same time,) we need to raise the aspirations of state educated children.  There is funding to help the very weakest achievers in schools. This is good; it means they have a better chance of being functionally literate and numerate.  But there is precious little help for the high fliers, or those who should be high fliers but are locked into the tracks of a curriculum and a system where the children needing help to get from grade D to grade C get more help than those with a comfortable B get to an A*. This is because the former will affect the school's standing in the league tables but the latter won't.  This is madness.  Private schools put out bait to attract gifted and talented pupils. State schools ignore them (though thankfully, some of their teachers don't.)

How will Britain ever be Great again, if the people making the decisions for the nation have never had a proper job, were educated in selective schools and left Oxbridge with a degree that would be useless in any other field of work?

Will things change?  Sadly, it's Oxbridge-educated PPE graduates who have to make the changes to let others in.  Will it happen?  Don't hold your breath.

Oxford Elitism - House of Commons Library

Does an Elite still rule this country?

Socially Useless Education

The Social Makeup of Cameron's Cabinet

Top Universities become More Exclusive *

When Experts and Professionals get it Wrong

Yesterday I heard a phrase on the news I hadn't heard before. It came from an academic who studies how we protect children. It was: "Dominant Mode of Understanding".  With that phrase, I had a label for the thoughts that had been swimming through my head, regarding those professionals who, though qualified up to the hilt, manage, on occasions, to get it all very and tragically wrong.

As I write, a woman is awaiting sentence for starving her four year old son to death. She was well known to those whose job it is to protect the vulnerable, but teachers, social workers and the police all failed to see the danger the child was in.

I have some anecdotes, regarding pregnancies: one was wrongly diagnosed when another, far more serious problem was the cause, one wasn't diagnosed for five months because the doctor thought "Who would?", and one wasn't diagnosed until labour set in because, like the baby's parents, the doctor simply wasn't expecting it to ever happen.

I have a young friend, a physicist. She came from what we can call the 'rough end' of her town, and at fourteen years old, her belly began to swell.  Despite her protests of virginity, and also (incredibly), despite several negative pregnancy tests, the health professionals declared her pregnant.  She was within a week of being terminally ill with ovarian cancer when her parents finally managed to get through the social prejudice that the diagnosis was based on, to someone who would listen. The operation was a success; but at fourteen she was left with skin and scars that shouldn't have been there.

Another friend, one who never escaped the low aspirations and income of her neighbourhood, and who also never managed to find the long-term relationship she longed for, discovered in her forties, that her belly was swelling and she felt unwell.  Her younger male doctor never even considered pregnancy (he actually diagnosed wind) until, at five months, she complained that her swollen lump was wriggling.  My friend wasn't that bad looking, but the young doctor seemed not to be able to conceive that she might conceive and didn't even ask the obvious question; though there was no record of any birth control on her medical history.

I also have a relative. She and her husband had wanted children for a dozen or so years, but she never conceived, only to discover she was pregnant when she went into full term labour in her mid-thirties. Months earlier (of course!) weight gain and billiousness took her to her (female) doctor, who prescribed some panacaea or other and sent her away. In the doctor's defence, my relative did have two negative pregnancy tests; but her weight continued to increase. She spent evenings on an exercise bike in front of the TV in an attempt to control it. She helped her husband carry a dead washing machine into the garage (why do husbands want the dead equipment there, I wonder?).  She returned to the doctor in each trimester of (what turned out to be) her pregnancy, which would have been discovered in a moment with the most cursory of physical examinations (her father had already pronounced her pregnant, but she told him "No, Dad; the doctor says I'm not").  At nine months, the inevitable happened. My relative thought she was dying as her husband phoned the doctor, who finally arrived at the correct diagnosis and phoned an ambulance.

What have all these incidents got in common?  They all have what the expert I mentioned at the start calls a Dominant Mode of Understanding.  This means that the social, physical or environmental story surrounding the patient is so strong, so dominant, that it is the main input in the diagnosis, and medical evidence is not sought.  My friend at fourteen, from a rough area, with a swelling belly MUST be pregnant, because that's what girls from there do.  My partnerless friend in her forties CAN'T be pregnant; she's not attractive enough.  My relative CAN'T be pregnant, because she's tried for years and nothing's happened.

In other words, the diagnoses of all three were based on circumstances and observations based on prejudice, and not on any medical evidence.  This prejudice is what the academic on the TV called the Dominant Mode of Understanding.  The woman who starved her toddler to death was drug and alcohol dependent.  It was HER the professionals were worried about. She was the one needing protection, according to the files, and with that focus they failed to realise that her children were suffering.  It took a freshly recruited community police officer who was also a Mum herself, to realise the implications of what she saw from the door.

Recently, the mental health charity Mind has highlighted that the existence of a mental disorder can become the peg on which health professionals can hang the diagnosis when such patients present themselves with physical complaints. A report goes at length into the handling of the physical wellbeing of mental patients.

I believe that most of those employed for our health and protection do not suffer from the blindness caused by a dominant mode of understanding; but enough still do so that tragedies happen, or people are whisked from the brink of it. Until we properly train our health/safety/education professionals to look beyond what they think is obvious, or to discount it altogether so they can see what's before them for what it really is, we will continue to have serious case reviews of dead babies, and life-changing (or life ending) misdiagnoses.

Breasts and Veils

We were talking about The Veil today at work, and the possibility of a ban.  I work in a school, so we were discussing the practicalities, such as identifying whether a student sitting a GCSE exam was who she claimed to be, under a full burkha.  I failed to see any problem. We ask for a forefinger print scan for children to use as ID to pay for school lunches; why not extend it to exams?  Only those who refused would have to identify themselves by other means.

Then I began to see the double standards behind this proposed edict.  Western societies have dress codes too.  We ask that women cover themselves - their breasts, that is - in public.  Baring these dangerous commodities could constitute a breach of the peace if anyone objected.  Yet men, regardless of the contours of their torso, are permitted to walk around bare chested if they so choose, without fear of penalty other than a ban based on the dress code of a particular establishment (which would, I presume, also ban topless women).

So, we have established that western societies have equally unreasonable dress codes for women only.  The difference lies merely in the part of the body that only women must cover up, that men may flaunt with impunity.  Certain Islamic sects say it is the hair or face. The West says it is the breasts.  Both are equally unfair to women. Both are equally unreasonable in any real sense, other than the prejudices of the rest of society.

And there is something particularly unreasonable about the requirement for women to cover their torso whilst men can display theirs; a woman's breasts have a use; a point to their existence. They are the natural founts of sustenance for newborn babies, and nutritionally beneficial for all babies up to about two years old.  Men's chests have no use whatsoever, and very few are even decorative.

There's an excellent poem about the problems faced by breastfeeding mothers. Thought-provoking and entertaining, I recommend it to you: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KiS8q_fifa0

So, when our Government is considering if and to what extent Islamic veils should be banned; let them look to their own house first.  On hot summer days there are sights forced into my field of vision that no-one should have to encounter: sweaty bare-chested man boobs, while women whose breasts are their child's source of nutrition, or whose torsos might be considered "worth a look" (and I don't include myself here), are forced to cover up.

Double standards? Absolutely!

Sport: War for Civilised Nations

The Ancient Greeks knew what sport was for.  The Olympic Games was a time when armies called a truce and sent their best warriors to Olympia to compete in the Olympic Games.  Away from the blood and dust of battle, the prowess of each nation's best warriors could be admired close up by those who probably financed the wars they were briefly excused from.

Each Olympic sport was a stylised battle tactic.  Who could run the fastest? Who could throw a javelin or disc the furthest? Who could wrestle his opponent to the ground, or race his chariot the fastest?  In The Games, the reputations of nations and their armies were enhanced or destroyed by the performance of their athletes.

Today, we have revived this ancient tradition.  An Olympic medal, preferably gold, is the ultimate desire of any athlete, and to amass the greatest number of such athletes is the greatest sporting desire of nations.  We have other platforms for athletic performance, but the re-emergence of Olympic glory eclipsed them all.

The Games, like the world that competes in them, are much, much bigger than the ancient Olympics.  What sports to include and what to leave out is a lobbyfest between nations, each trying to include what their athletes do best.  We now have the Winter Olympics too; beyond the organisational skills of the ancients, it introduces human power and speed over ice and snow; and the Paralympics, where disability shows its magnificence, humbling the able-bodied hoi polloi.  For each of these festivals of competition, dry committees must thrash out between them what sports deserve to be called Olympic/Paralympic, and which must be rejected.

So, how does this committee arrive at its decision?  I have no idea, but I know how I'd decide.

The Greeks of old chose sports that displayed the battle prowess of the athletes.  Each sport had a value in warfare. A nation whose warriors were trained in the Olympic sports would be fearsome opponents!  This leads me to believe that, if the modern Olympics are to be in the spirit of those of ancient Olympia, this criterion should apply to the sports chosen for Olympic competition.

Looking at the sports on display in the modern Olympics, I do sometimes wonder what their value could possibly be in warfare.  Pretty much everything in the main arena would be recongisable to an Olympian from ancient Greece. They would be amused, and probably impressed with the swimming and diving; their swimming pool was just for toning up. Gymnastics, horse skills, shooting, boxing and martial arts clearly have value to a warrior.  Even synchronised swimming provides strength, precision and endurance underwater, whatever arguments may be put as to whether it is sport or dance.  And then there are the team sports.

The power needed to cycle or row is obvious, the participants having amazing physical prowess and, where needed, teamwork.  Hockey players use arms, legs, hand-eye coordination and team skills, as do all the sports where the ball is hit or handled.  Indeed, the most pointless sport in the Olympics, to my mind, is football (soccer, to US citizens). I can think of no equivalent use of running around, kicking and passing a ball using only your feet, in a battle of war.  Maybe this was why Team GB was so reluctant to enter a team until forced to as a host nation;  they just didn't see the point.

In all probability, there isn't a football fan in the world who would agree with me; but I would ask this of anyone who can make the comparison: If you were facing an opposing army (let's make it unarmed combat), would you be more alarmed by facing an army of Premiership football players, or an army of top flight Rugby Union players?

Olympia, Greece.

Footnote: Chess isn't called a sport because it's played on a board; but it's one of very few competitive activities where luck plays absolutely no part. There's no dice throw, lane draw, wind speed or equipment to affect the game; it's just mind against mind; and the game is ritualised war. It's played in the Mind Sports Olympiad, but receives little notice from the world at large, though the tactical brilliance of a chess master could be all the advantage needed when sending an army to war.

Steak and Ale Pie?

It's not too much to ask, is it?  After all, if it's done well it's one of my first choices for a pub lunch.  But what have they done to my favourite pie?

On a cold winter's lunchtime there's nothing better to see you through the rest of the day than a good, well-made steak and ale pie.  I'd had a few good ones; the better ones having Guinness in them.  But there have been some disturbing changes recently that have quite offended me both aesthetically and in the taste bud department.

But first, let me tell you of the best steak and ale pie I have ever tasted.  It was about a year or so ago; I dumped a car full of teenagers off at Thorpe Park and headed off looking for somewhere to while away the time before collecting them, tired but happy, at the end of the day.  I drove aimlessly, and eventually saw the brown signs for Hampton Court Palace.  "That'll do!" I told myself.  They'd have food, shelter (the weather was iffy) and a history lesson all rolled into one.

So it was that I found myself ambling through Hampton Court Palace as lunchtime approached, looking for a likely cafe.  I found one within the older part of the palace, which they then called The Kings Kitchen (or Pantry, if forget which).  It had one main food item ... the most amazing, tasty and visually pleasing steak and ale pie in the known Universe.

Let me describe one to you.  A hand-crafted, hot pastry pie was served up, about the diameter of a circle you can make using the fingers of both hands and maybe three inches deep, with a hand-crimped lid. It bulged unashamedly at the sides, the calories straining but contained by the king of pastries.  It didn't end there, though.  The pie, on its plate, was raised to a large cauldron of chopped, sautéed onions as I nodded my consent.  These were piled in a large heap on top of the pie until no more would fit.  A second nod, and a ladleful of gravy cascaded down the onions and pie, pooling on the plate beneath.  My eyes bulged, my taste buds danced in anticipation. I really felt like I was in the King's Kitchen!

I sat at a long table made of thick wooden beams (oak?) and tucked in.  The taste was every bit as good as the presentation. It was magnificent. This pie had set the plumb line.  All other steak and ale pies now had to match this superlative experience that transported my taste buds back to Henry Tudor's table.

That was nearly two years ago.  I've sampled many a steak and ale pie since.  Did any of them come up against this paragon of pies and pass muster?  In short, no.  Some were good, but that's all. Just good.  Some you just had to take the chef's word for it that ale had come anywhere near the steak and sauce.  But this is no more than I expected and were not unduly disappointing.  The only pies that disappointed me on every level were made in a way that seems to have been quite recently invented, and they are sadly appearing so frequently that I am on the cusp of ceasing to order steak and ale pies altogether.

So, what are today's pub chefs doing to provoke such disappointment?  Again, let me describe.  Waiter service allows me to see my pie coming at a distance. As the waiter wends his way, tray in hand, I can tell instantly if it's "one of those pies" long before it is placed before me on the table.  The first thing is that, instead of a firm pastry supporting the pie beneath and to the sides, there is only a ceramic bowl in the shape of a pie dish.  This immediately demotes the dish to NOT A PIE status. The bowl is for cooking the pie in. It should stand alone when served up.  This is Great Britain. Pies, to earn the definition, are encased in pastry.  If the chef pours a ladleful of steak and gravy into a bowl, it's a STEW, whatever he perches on top of it afterwards.

And now we come to it.  I am increasingly dismayed with what is perched on top of my steak and ale stew-that-should-be-a-pie.  Chefs have taken to topping the ceramic dish with a pastry so puffed up it's like a super-giant vol au vent floating on the stew (rarely is this monstrosity actually touching the sides of the pie dish).  The last one I was served up with was three inches high of flaky, airy nothingness; a double insult to the plumb line set by the Hampton Court Palace pie, with its three inch deep golden shortcrust pastry sides.

A passable version of the puffed up pie.

I revisited Hampton Court recently.  I was hoping to repeat that memorable culinary experience that I had enjoyed previously.  But I realised all was not well when I noticed that the Kings Kitchen (or pantry) had been re-named.  Upon inspection, I was dismayed to see lasagnas and quiches with jacket potatoes where the magnificent hot pastry raised steak and ale pie had once reigned.  Oh, woe is me!  Thankfully, the reason for being there was mitigated by a visit to the Tiltyard* cafe where some hand carved gammon and delicious vegetables cheered me a little; but what had happened to the pie?  I shook my head in disbelief as I tucked into its replacement.  What is the country coming to?

A cruel mock-up of what Hampton Court Palace

used to provide to their paying guests.

* A Tiltyard was a place set aside for jousting (tilting) competitions.

Holiday Cottages in the UK

For many years now, I have avoided renting a holiday cottage for our UK-based holidays, because  I realise that the purchase of second homes in cute country villages and towns, or letting them as holiday homes, robs the local economy. This year, I relented and hired a farm cottage, miles from anyone apart from the farmer who let it.  But why have I avoided something so apparently innocuous for so long? And why was this cottage OK?

When wealthy off-comers buy holiday homes, it drives up house prices so that they are beyond the means of locals who, in rural jobs and lacking major local employers, are often on low wages. It also deprives local businesses of income.  The people who are, at any given time, resident in these homes will not be using the local hardware shop, car servicing, furniture and hard goods businesses. Indeed, there may be so little local trade for such businesses that they don't exist, and locals have to travel tens of miles to buy household essentials, visit a vet, or get the car MOT'd.  Tourist-based businesses might do a little better; but if self-catering cottages weren't available, maybe restaurants, B&Bs and hotels would get more trade.

When many homes are empty or let to tourists, the area will have fewer doctors, schools and other public services (eg: buses) in relation to the number of homes.  The local council will receive less council tax per property, as homes that are not the main residence attract a lower rate. This means that the council will have to charge more tax overall, in order to cover the services (the temporary residents will still want the street lights and the bins emptying).

Is there any self-catering property that I consider to be OK?  Well, yes.  Those properties that have been purposely built to cater for tourists, especially in larger resorts; and chalet/trailer homes, which are on one single estate where the owner is responsible for all amenities make ideal self-catering accommodation. Holiday accommodation is a good use of the lonely cottage, which may have been built as a tied home for a farm labourer and no longer needed (like the one I rented this summer), or a large house converted into flatlets which do not have the individual security to be separate permanent homes, or where the owner is still in residence.  Narrowboats are another option, with the advantage of a daily change of scenery, should you wish it.


Entire houses, however, left unoccupied in low season or inhabited by people who base their economic life elsewhere, should be discouraged, not encouraged with Council Tax discounts. Rather, they should be paying twice the amount, to compensate for their negative effect on the economy.  It would help the Councils pay for the homeless families they have to place in B&B because there aren't any properties available.

Holidaying in the UK should be encouraged, both for British citizens and those coming from overseas; but tourism should benefit all the economy.  It should mean more jobs for locals, both in hospitality and retail.  Where off-comers insist on buying up small homes for their weekends away, they should be paying the economic price of that home to the local council, to cover both their own use and the negative effect of their lack of engagement with the local economy, i.e. double Council Tax. They can always add it to the property rent if it's a buy to let; the person renting is already paying several hundred pounds in high season for a week, so a few extra quid will hardly be noticed.

LINK: Devon and Cornwall communities left empty by scourge of second homes.

City Bumpkins! (a rant)

They're not all from cities, but their behaviour is definitely urban.  And not everyone who lives in a city is one of them. In fact, I think they're in the minority. I call them City Bumpkins.

Their favourite non-urban destinations seem to be festivals or beaches. They can be seen at the Summer Solstice at Stonehenge and anywhere a popular radio station hoists its tents. You can't tell them apart from normal people; their behaviour is hidden by the sheer numbers at the places they choose to visit. Normal people, urban and rural, frown on the City Bumpkins, but what can they do?

Yes, the City Bumpkins arrive. They might even think they are normal. They arrive and they pollute. And then they leave.

You can tell they've been there, though.

Our local TV area includes Glastonbury and Stonehenge, so we get to see not only the main news item, but also the massive clean-up needed afterwards.

It's disgusting.

Druids and New-Age worshippers flock to Stonehenge for the Summer Solstice, and the City Bumpkins arrive with them. They leave behind an ancient field spangled with discarded waste. Stonehenge isn't surrounded by litter bins, you see.  What's the obvious solution? Take your litter home so it doesn't pollute this hallowed site?  Nah! toss it over your shoulder. It must be someone's job to clean up here, right?

City Bumpkins.

Same at Glastonbury Festival.  That was even worse, of course, given the numbers of bumpkins amongst the normal revellers.  It actually looked like a rubbish dump.  And Glastonbury provided skips!  But of course, they paid so much for their ticket it absolutely must be someone else's job to clean up afterwards; never mind the farm animals that die or need surgery after accidentally ingesting some bumpkin jetsam overlooked by the clean-up crew.

Of course, you don't just find City Bumpkins at major national events. Unfortunately they insist on infesting beaches, riversides and areas of outstanding natural beauty (well, it was beautiful when they got there!) whenever the weather permits.  They shove their empty cans into hedgerows amongst the birds nests they don't even realise are there.  They are even known to neatly gather their rubbish into a carrier bag, tie the top, place it on the ground and walk away from it, because it's someone else's job, right? And we're doing them a favour, right? They don't notice the seagulls tearing the bag apart before they even reach their car.

Carrier bags on the beach; what's the problem? Ask the dead dolphins and turtles that thought they were food! Oh, sorry you can't. They're dead.

Oh, there aren't any dolphins here? There doesn't need to be. Litter travels. All the world's sea currents are linked and your carrier bag could travel thousands of miles for decades, before it is no longer deadly.

So, if any City Bumpkins are reading this, GOOD NEWS! Your condition is not terminal (for you, anyway. If you continue it might be terminal for a few farm animals and marine life).  All you need to do to become a normal person is to pop all your litter back into your bag (which you will have with you, because you care) and put it in your own bin at home, or any litter bin that's not already overflowing. Job done. Welcome back to the Human Race.

And finally, to all you normal folk who visit the beaches, countryside and mountains, taking only photographs and leaving behind only footprints, well done!  Perhaps you can share this blog?  I would love my new label for land abusers to gain usage, especially if it gets more City Bumpkins to change their ways.

-end-

Maiden Castle, Dorset

Yes, I've paused at Weymouth a couple of times on my way to the Channel Islands and skimmed through on A roads and bypasses on my way to Hampshire or Devon; but up until last weekend, though I live in the next county, I had never actually visited Dorset.

My visit was prompted by my fascination with pre-Roman British history.  Dorset is home to a major site that was inhabited from the Bronze Age right through to the Roman era: Maiden Castle, and I wanted to see it. We set off early-ish on Friday morning so we could visit the fortification before lunch and checking in to our hotel.

Maiden Castle's gravel car park is a small, triangular affair at the end of a narrow track, right at the foot of the hill, which probably got its name from the ancient British mai-dun, meaning "great hill." There are no other facilities, so best to get  'comfortable' before you set off!

Ascending Maiden Castle, I began to get a sense of the enormity of the task of building such massive fortifications with tools made from what the ancient Durotriges tribe and their ancestors could mine or find lying around.

We walked around the inner earth embankment, looking down into the steep ditches between the folds around the hill, then to the Roman Temple ruins before completing the circuit. We then walked around a second time, taking one of the outer embankments which gave a completely different viewpoint.  Dorset is clearly visible in the near distance, but Maiden Castle is a very peaceful, relaxing place to visit.  Families and couples were picnicking on the huge grass area on top of the hill, or in the nooks created by the folds of the embankments.  Sheep wander fearlessly around, reluctantly getting up from basking on the path in front of any walkers who approach.

If we had visited at dawn, I believe we would have seen much more wildlife; but as it was we still saw falcons, buzzards, a skylark which gave its position away with its amazing song, butterflies and a diverse range of wild plants and flowers.  The site is surrounded by crop fields; and in the one alongside the car park there is a tumulus that, in June, looks spectacular in a field of yellow oilseed flowers.

Mountain bike cyclists also enjoy this amazing place on their travels, as do paragliders and kite fliers.  Visitors treat the hill with respect, removing all traces of picnics and snacks.

For anyone visiting because of the Roman connection, I would also recommend visiting the remains of the Romano-British house in Dorchester; the most complete excavation of its type in the country, it sits alongside the Country Hall and is free to visit.

Time to stand up and be counted?

A few weeks ago there was a knock on my front door.  Chris Hughes, the Liberal Democrat candidate for Wiltshire Council, was canvassing.  I was surprised.  I have lived in this town for twenty years and have never met a candidate at my door from any party.  We soon got talking, and I found I was talking to an intelligent and compassionate man, who acknowledged with regret the misjudgments of the national party but could also point to their achievements and who mistrusts the alternatives on offer.  I decided I would vote for him.

A few days later, Chris called back with Jenny Stratton, who I have known for some years. They asked me to stand as a Liberal Democrat in the Town Council elections.  I was surprised, as I had given Chris a hard time the previous time we met; but said I would think about it.  A week or so later, I realised that, if I did not stand, there may well be only Conservative candidates standing for the ward I lived in.  I felt this was bad for democracy and agreed to stand.  As it turns out, there is also a UKIP candidate, but I was almost right.

This is the second time I have put myself forward for direct involvement in the town.  A few years back, I was Secretary to the Wootton Bassett Chamber of Commerce, arranging business breakfasts and lunches, persuading speakers to address the chamber, visiting businesses to find out what they wanted from the town and encouraging members to attend events.  It was an interesting time; and I worked with two different Chamber Presidents, Bridgett Tubb and Brian Taylor.

Since then, I spent a couple of years working for Morris Owen Accountants - a job I found rather dull - and then I went back to working with young people when I took a post as science teaching assistant at Nova Hreod college. As well as updating my science knowledge, I was delighted to learn that teenagers have not lost their penchant for bizarre and uncomfortable fashion traits (how do those boys walk with their trousers hanging below their underpants' and why would people want their ears to look like groundsheet eyelets? Clearly, I'm getting old.)

Well, in a couple of weeks I'll know whether enough people voted for me to put me on the Town Council. If they did, there's another learning curve coming up. To be honest, they are doing quite well without me.  I've just learned that visiting the Jubilee Lake at weekends now has the comfort of tea rooms, and last year's Jubilee and Olympic celebrations were wonderful. Excellent work, Royal Wootton Bassett Town Councillors of all political colours!

I shall update my blog more regularly if I find myself working (without pay this time) for the benefit of the town; if people elect you they have a right to know who you are and what you are about.

Janet Georgiou

*update*
Much to my astonishment, I was comfortably elected to the Town Council.  More blog posts to follow x