Melfords need not apply

I hadn't heard of Clare Melford before, but she's in Wikipedia, and alive and kicking. She tackles disinformation and untruthful practices in commercial marketing - the tricks, for instance, used by leading US tech companies to create demand for their products. Her words and speeches on these subjects have earned her the disapproval of the US government, who are now looking at what influential people like her have said on social media when considering visa applications. Basically, she has asserted that free and truthful speech is dying in the USA. Her reward for pointing this out: no visa. 

Ha. 

This could matter to everyone else whose surname is Melford. Such as myself. Such as my namesake (a Google search on 'Lucy Melford' gets us both: try not to confuse us!) And when I last looked, there were some two hundred other people in this country with the surname Melford and known to the Internet. A small enough number for those in charge of US border security to assume that we might all be related, or at least connected by marriage, and may all share the same risky opinions. It would be crass if they did; but anecdotal evidence (and personal observation) suggests that officialdom is generally unsubtle and broad-brush in its treatment of foreigners. 

So if I (and possibly anyone else by the name of Melford) were to apply for a US visa, I think there is a real likelihood that it would be turned down, on the same ground as Clare Melford's application has been. 

I am not annoyed with her. She is absolutely right to uphold good principles that should be important to everyone. The US authorities are the ones who are wrong. But it's unfortunate and awkward for all Melfords. 

I don't have to visit the USA; I may never need to, or even want to; but many other Melfords will have reason to go there, and they could all now be barred, regardless of whether they have actually said anything critical of the US government on social media or anywhere else.

But even if Clare Melford had got her visa, I am not sure I'd be able to get one for myself. There was a bit of a problem at Los Angeles International Airport (LAX) when I passed through in 2007 on a one-night stopover, en route to New Zealand. The short and belligerent Hispanic person who queried my green form, and glared at me, did not believe that I was an ordinary traveller. He stamped the form to let me in with great reluctance. I feel that form may have been scanned into a 'Person of Doubtful Identity' folder, forever on record, and instantly available onscreen if I ever try to enter the USA again. Do I want to test that?

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The tyranny of fitness watches

It wasn't always so, but nowadays you see many people wearing some kind of fitness watch, often a full-blown smartwatch by Apple, Samsung or Google and several others. But I'm going to confine myself to fitness-orientated watches designed mainly to track the things that sportspersons need to know in order to assess their performance capability. Watches typified by the wide range offered by Garmin, and in particular my own watch, a Garmin Vivoactive 5 that I bought in May 2024. 

Mine is a middle-of-the road fitness watch, a step up from a Fitbit, but not one of Garmin's high-end watches for athletes. Even so, it can record a lot of information. Not just steps taken; I originally set it up to monitor my sleep, the naps I might take, my heart rate, my heart rate variability, my breathing, how much stress I cope with, and my current energy level. I could have set up even more, but I am no fitness fanatic, and just wanted to see a few more things than the Fitbit Versa 3 I used to own could tell me. And in any event I wanted to tell the time on a device that was shaped like a proper traditional watch, with a round face. Although my Vivoactive 5 does shout 'fitness watch' it isn't overlarge, nor cluttered with rotating bezels, big buttons to press, and other practical-but-ugly features like that. I can wear it anywhere, with any kind of outfit.

Well, to begin with I was fascinated with the measurements it took, which I synched to the Garmin Connect app on my phone every morning. (To save battery-power, I've never had Bluetooth on all the time. That way, I can go at least a week between watch recharges) The app processed the metrics and presented the results usefully, and with comment. Sometimes it congratulated me. Mostly it didn't. I put the negativity down to Garmin supposing that I was an aspiring and serious contender in the fitness stakes, and that I would appreciate the truth, with no molly-coddling. 

As I simply wanted to be ordinarily fit, I felt I could snap my fingers at Garmin's tut-tutting. And for a long while I did just that. But I knew Garmin was right in not giving me good sleep scores: I sometimes went to bed at ridiculously late times, and really didn't get enough good-quality sleep. That was unsustainable in the long run, yet I did nothing to correct it, and therefore kept on getting a wagging finger from Garmin. 

One thing that irritated and also puzzled me was the stress that my watch recorded. I didn't feel stressed in the ordinary way, and certainly had nothing significant to burden me - no family responsibilities or financial pressures, for instance. But my watch said that I was often maxed out with it - when driving in heavy traffic, or when seeing my friends, and every time I felt some emotion or excitement. 

Well, perhaps I have exciting or stimulating friends! But it was strange that after an evening with them, fully half my sleeping hours might be 'stressful', impacting very badly on my sleep score. Why? I'd got to sleep easily enough. 

Was simply being with people stressful in itself, at least for me? Indeed, did it reveal that I was autistic? Thankfully, my average stress level for the whole day would be low. But those spikes were odd.  

And then something else began to worry me. In the last months since last July my Heart Rate Variability fell away, and got very low. I gathered it was an indication of how easy my heart would find it to speed up in an emergency, so that if necessary I could run away or leap aside, and escape sudden danger. In other words, my watch was suggesting that my heart would have a hard time beating faster on demand: that I wouldn't be able to snap into a sprint to outpace a charging bull, or a slavering mad dog, or a man with a knife. Not that I'd had constant problems with these things in the past.

I felt increasingly uncomfortable - and concerned - about these low HRV measurements.  So when I had occasion very recently to visit the doctor, I brought my poor HRV to her attention. The watch was measuring microsecond differences between successive heartbeats, but how should this be interpreted, and should I really be concerned? She wasn't clear on that. A specialist sports doctor would know, but it wasn't part of a GP's training. 

However, she did recommend an ECG and blood tests to see why my heart rate was on the low side - a different issue that both my watch and my home blood-pressure measuring device had revealed. I hadn't been bothered about the low heart rate, but she was. 

And so first thing in January I will turn up at the surgery and get those things seen to by the practice nurses. I have two appointments set up on successive days. I feel well, and I'll be surprised if there is any underlying issue; but I'm pleased that these checks are happening quite soon.

Meanwhile, a better sleeping regime has been in force with good results. I have set up various alarms on my Garmin watch to get me to bed at a sensible time, and these mild prompts have done the trick. I'm already sleeping longer and deeper. And - slowly - my HRV has begun to improve. So perhaps there is a strong link between good-quality sleep and heart health. 

A few days ago I took stock. Had pondering daily, sometimes hourly, on my health and fitness metrics been good for me? Clearly not. There was no doubt. I had become addicted to looking at the health metrics on my watch, as badly as those who can't resist glancing at their social media feeds. And because I was constantly checking, I saw things that were simply of the moment, and not typical of my general state. The stress metric, for example. Surely I was getting too much information, too often, and it was grinding me down. I needed to stand back and consider the general picture. The trends over a period, not passing ups and downs.

So I've resolved to have only a couple of metrics visible: how many steps taken (which gives me a daily target, an incentive to keep moving, and a great feeling of achievement if I take 10,000 steps or more), and - for now - my heart rate (which at this very moment, sitting down at the end of the day, and typing this post, is 57 beats per minute). I hide the rest. I can drill down to see them, but I find it easy to resist. And I now sync watch and phone app only once every three days. That way I can still see my metrics, but the immediacy has gone, and I can study them coolly. I see both the drag-downs and the bounce-backs. And if three days between syncs isn't enough, I'll make it a week. 

I like my watch. I want it to be my useful friend, telling me the time, nudging me with gentle alarms, and helping me stay on my feet sufficiently to maintain a basic level of fitness. I don't want it to be a tyrant, nagging me, and telling me that on some things I am failing. 

I think I should regard my watch as a broad indicator of fitness, rather than a substitute for hospital-grade devices. You do hear stories about how a fitness watch warned someone of an impending heart attack. I dare say they are true. But I can now see how, if not used with discrimination, these watches can bear down heavily on one's general wellbeing, and create real stress. Which in turn will bring about various bad effects. I hope I've now done enough to avoid that trap.

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An endorsement for 2028 - no surprise!

The US Presidential Election in autumn 2028 may still seem a long way off, but things are moving already. The widow of assassinated right-winger Charlie Kirk has endorsed JD Vance, currently the Vice-President, for the top job. I'm not at all surprised. Mr Vance has the right wolf-like personality for the coming no-holds-barred (and probably vicious) election struggle. I am sure she has chosen exactly the right man to lead America into the abyss.  

This is what the BBC News website had to say about it:

The writer of this article is of course presenting a piece put together using selected events and quotes. But then that's what we (the public) get fed by every 'news' organisation, and you have to assess the worth of any report according to the standing of its source - a prime duty of any intelligent citizen. The picture painted is one of disagreement and division in the Republican Party, or at least that part of it dominated by President Trump and his Maga supporters. Well, I hope it's true. And may we all hope that the more-sensible and more-cautious rump of the Good Old Party will assert itself during the next couple of years, expressly to return itself to what it used to be like, in particular a party whose fortunes do not depend on the frontman's ego. 

Meanwhile the show rolls on. Mrs Kirk's endorsement will set the ball rolling nicely for Mr Vance. It shows that he will have instant support whenever the time comes to declare himself. With that assured, he can play the part of Number Two, the second fiddle, for a while longer, and say all the things a faithful henchman needs to say. But at some point the pretence will be dropped, and he will go for it. 

Vanity Fair recently featured the work of photographer Christopher Anderson, who photographed (I'd better not say 'shot') the top staff in the White House in a realistic manner. Apparently the subjects were perfectly happy to be caught in less than perfect poses, and very close up. It is indeed a powerful way to be shown. It can say, 'I do not need flattery. I don't have to be pretty. I am honest and supremely confident.' Thus Mr Vance let these pictures of himself be published:

What do you see? I know what I see.

And what did Mr Trump see? Did he chuckle, and think 'Bad move. My VP looks like a ill-tempered Kentucky backwoodsman squeezed into his Sunday Best.' 

And yet, in his shoes, I would be wary. He has instituted a high-handed personal rule through a series of executive orders (i.e. decrees) allowed by asserting an ongoing national state of emergency. It's all stroke-of-the-pen stuff. If he stumbles from physical weakness or policy misjudgement, or some revelation makes him look like a fraud, or if he is found to be in irrefutable breach of the Constitution, another hand might force him to retire - with his own stroke of the pen. I discern one person who might feel it to be his duty. And not too far ahead.

And all this matters to the rest of the world. At least, it does if everyone holds their breath and waits to see the outcome. I'd like to see the rest of the world move on as if America is in the throes of another Civil War, and will be completely out of it for a while. That would give everyone a free hand to address pressing continental and global issues. Does it really matter that America is out of NATO and ignores the UN? Why not set up fresh international organisations, with modern, twenty-first (or twenty-second) century objectives? With real enforcement powers? 

Why, we could ban the USA from taking part in the World Cup. Or the Olympic Games. Maybe even the Eurovision Song Contest. Because it isn't doing the Right Thing for Mother Earth, nor setting a High Moral Example. It can all be done if we want to. 

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Blind Jack, George Moore, Mother Shipton, Philip Larkin, Barnes Wallis, Bon Scott, Peter Pan and The Maid of Perth

I'm quite interested in public statues of famous (or just worthy) local people, and this post is about several of them. The first three are at Knaresborough in Yorkshire; the others mainly in Scotland. 

Let's start with Knaresborough. I went there for the first time on my way up to Orkney this year, and prowled the town on 29th April looking for shots. I got plenty. Knaresborough has a nice town square, but its glories lie downhill on its riverside: the gorge of the boaty River Nidd, the amazing railway bridge high over that river, and various attractive lanes and paths that link the riverside with the town above. Here are some views.

On the way down from the town centre, I passed this plaque concerning Blind Jack, a multi-talented eighteenth-century road builder, whom I'd heard of before.

 

Later on, I encountered the man himself, taking his ease on a seat in the town square, one arm resting on what looked like a measuring wheel, doubtless connected to his road-building profession. I don't know how he could do the things he did, but it just shows how a disability can be worked around.    

Back to the riverside. I'd found an inscription on this handsome church gate pillar. It mentioned George Moore, a notable modern benefactor of Knaresborough. 

And then down in a little park on the riverside was this rather lifelike statue of him. 

It struck me as unusual that he should be shown in a business suit with slip-on shoes. I suppose I'm too used to seeing statues of people dressed in togas, or some kind of fancy uniform with sword, sash and medals! But actually most modern statues do clothe the subject in ordinary contemporary clothing. Here are two other examples that come to mind: the poet Philip Larkin at Hull Paragon station, and Sir Barnes 'Bouncing Bomb' Wallis at Herne Bay. 

Philip Larkin, as taken by me in 2018. An impatient man in a hurry. He was still in a hurry when I returned in 2024, although nobody else was.

Sir Barnes Wallis stands on a tallish monolith at Herne Bay, looking out to sea. Presumably his Bouncing Bomb bounced where it was meant to go. Or perhaps not, as Herne Bay's pier has vanished, except for the pier head stranded far out at sea, with nothing to connect it to the shore.

Close to the little park on Knaresborough's riverside was the road bridge over the River Nidd, and I'd hoped to see signs of a pretty path that would take me along the lovely river bank to Mother Shipton's Cave, apparently once the abode of a lady notorious for her prophesies and magical arts - a witch, or at least a 'wise woman'. She was active a few decades before Blind Jack. Again, I'd heard of her before. But I hadn't heard about the long-established tourist industry that had grown up to exploit her memory.

The place had become an entertainment, with the emphasis on spectacle and thrilling the kiddies. And the entrance charges were exorbitant for what was there. If on my own, I'd have to pay a tidy sum (£15 on weekends) to pass through the gates and walk the half-mile or so to the cave. Or I could drive there and park, paying a king's ransom to do so (£39 on weekends). The charges were shown at the pedestrian entrance. A shock to many, I'd say. Click on the picture below to see the charges on the grey boards, and see if you can make sense of it.

So, supposing I turned up in my car on a Saturday afternoon with four children. (Most unlikely, but I dare say it would be possible in a parallel universe) We would all be covered by the humongous car charge of £39. But oddly, they would charge the same for the five of us if we come on foot! No, I don't get it. In any case, it's daylight robbery. 

Fortunately I didn't have to select how best to spend money on this: it was closed for the day. But I won't be back. I only wanted to see the Cave, and it obviously wasn't secluded, secret, hard to find, mysterious, and a suitable subject for an atmospheric picture or two. Much more like queueing to see one of the caves at Cheddar. Or a ride at Alton Towers. Sigh.

Still, in the town square was Mother Shipton herself - not as an old crone but as a younger woman, yet clearly a lover of pointy hats, all the same. She sat near Blind Jack. They probably whispered to each other.

Let's leave Knaresborough and beam down to Scotland. First stop, Kirriemuir, which is north of Dundee, and not far from Forfar. When there in 2022 I came across this rock star. Bon Scott, of AC/DC no less. 

He's not actually holding up that power wire!

It's a very sad truth that these high-profile music people mostly die young, and being a heavy metal frontman is certainly not the secret of long life. In fact I attribute my living to the somewhat ripe age of seventy-three to never becoming a rock legend. Thank goodness I walked away from it. What a lucky escape!

Kirriemuir has other claims to fame, the chief one being the birthplace of J M Barrie, the author of Peter Pan. Tourists flock there to see this rather twee statue of Peter Pan in a revealing miniskirt. 

Personally, I think Bon Scott's statue has far more noise and exuberance to it. The one to see.

Finally, The Fair Maid of Perth, in that city's High Street. This is a statue - seated again - of one of Sir Walter Scott's fictional heroines, Catherine Glover, and the book he published in 1828 relates what her lover has to go through to achieve a happy ending with her. The proceedings are set around the year 1400, and it's a convoluted tale of bloody conflict and of people dreadfully done to death in the name of honour or revenge. To be sure, it's certainly not Mary Poppins. Well, I encountered this lady on 26th May this year. I was on my way home from Orkney, and was spending an afternoon in Perth. It was our second chance to make friends. I'd met her before, in 2017, on a previous walk around the city. Here she was, on that occasion.

She was still sitting there in 2025, and seemingly hadn't moved one bit. 

I decided to be sociable, and sat beside her. I made polite conversation. No response. Not a dicky bird. Perhaps she was pondering all the slaughter going on around her, and had no words to spare. 

Oh well, you can't get blood out of a stone. I left her to it. 

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