Flickr milestone passed

I've done it - achieved one million viewings on the photo-hosting website Flickr. I was in Brighton last night, having a meal with friends at the China Garden restaurant, when, on a hunch, I got this up on my phone. This was the screenshot I recorded, to capture the transient moment:

The viewings total had been 300 short of a million a few hours before. Now another 1,500 people had taken a look.

Of course I'm pleased. Although it's taken nearly seven years to reach that magic million, the total was only 100,000 three years ago. Here's a shot taken on 16 November 2012, showing 100,004 viewings:

And even a year ago - thirteen months, to be more exact - the viewing total was only 500,000. Here's a shot taken on 10 October 2014, showing 512,019 viewings:

So I've garnered another 500,000 viewings over the last year or so.

Where does this get me? Well, nowhere in particular! It would have been nice if I'd had a penny for every viewing (a pound would have been even nicer!) but that didn't happen. I don't take it as evidence that I'm a Great Photographer. Most likely I've taken some 'different-from-the-usual' shots now and then, and people keep hitting on those. Or maybe it's simply that if you publish an awful lot of photos - and I've published 13,500 - you eventually become a big target for any searches made, and you get 'known'. Rather like having a lot of Premium Bonds makes a regular win much more likely.

Am I one of Flickr's 'most popular' stars? Surely not. But I may be well up the league table for the 'most prolific' of their account holders. So far as I know, Flickr doesn't make available any such tables, showing who has accumulated the most viewings, or has at least published the most shots. But supposing they did, it wouldn't be interesting unless I were somehow among the 'top 500' in the world in one or other category. It would, for instance, be a rather ho-hum accolade to be confirmed the 2,704,388th 'most popular', or the 693,702nd 'most prolific'!

I will say, however, that the viewings total does encourage me to go on publishing, and see how far I can push the total up to. One friend asked me whether I would now aim for 2,000,000 viewings. I said yes. But not as the main reason for taking photos. I do that for the sheer excitement of it, because gets me out to see places I might otherwise not bother with. You do need an incentive to go far out of your way - and the prospect of a few good shots definitely spurs you on to make that effort.

I think photography is a fabulous antidote to laziness and inertia.

Changing habits

It's funny how you stick with a procedure, once you've got used to it, even though it has become outmoded and superseded by a much easier way of doing things.

I've been storing mp3 music tracks on my various mobile devices since 2002. Originally it was for my early-morning journey to the station, and then to keep me awake on the train to London. Sometimes I'd play them going home as well. I didn't have much occasion to play music on retirement in 2005, but I began again when I moved into the Cottage in January 2009, when I was on my own and my musical taste wouldn't be an irritation to M---. Nowadays I play music in the bathroom every day, and when engaged in chores like ironing. I am not musical, and many would chortle at what I like, but I enjoy everything in my collection. I don't bloat it by including stuff that might impress, but isn't to my taste. Currently there are slightly less than 1,500 tracks on my phone.

How did they get there? Well, initially, I'd rip the music I wanted from CDs I already had, or was still buying, using my PC. Then I'd connect the PC to the current mobile device with a USB cable, and 'sync' the track to the device using Windows Media Player, a piece of software I have never liked. After I bought my Nokia E71 smartphone in 2008, I installed Nokia Music Player, which lacked WMP's bells and whistles but was much easier to use.

And that set up a well-tried procedure that lasted for seven years, because I continued to use Nokia Music Player for transferring tracks from my PC to my phone right up to yesterday.

Latterly I'd buy a batch of mp3s online from Amazon, but still install them on the phone with good old Nokia Music Player, even after Nokia lost its way and was taken over (and killed off) by Microsoft.  But earlier this week I found that Nokia Music Player wasn't working as well as it once had. And of course, there was no current version to upgrade to.

So how was I going to get future mp3 purchases onto my phone?

At this point someone will say: you don't need to. Get yourself a music subscription, and have access to zillions of tracks - all the music you could ever want - without needing to install anything on your phone. It will just be streamed as required. Three objections to this:

1. I dislike being dependent on a subscription service.

2. I already have most of the music I'd ever want, so theoretical access to a lot more isn't really much of an advantage.

3. I don't enjoy a strong 4G signal where I live - and I usually don't in the places where I go caravanning. Streaming is therefore not to be relied upon. I need to have my music installed in a physical memory - music that I've purchased and 'own' - so that I can listen to it anywhere and anytime.

And then yesterday I suddenly adopted an entirely different procedure, which completely bypassed the PC. I installed the Amazon Music app on my phone, bought an mp3 track online using the app, and set the app up to download the track straight to the 64GB MicroSD card on my phone. This worked so well that there seems no point in ever again using the PC to buy mp3s with. Which avoids all that transfer kerfuffle.

You know, I could have been doing this for some time past...!

In fact there is no need to have any music on the PC now. I kept it there only as a backup for the music on the phone. But all new stuff is automatically stored in Amazon's own cloud, whether or not downloaded. And I can also do a separate 'physical' backup of all the music on the phone to a portable hard drive, at regular intervals.

So what's a PC really for, nowadays?

Perhaps it was a good investment!

I'm a great believer in silver linings - no matter how dark the cloud. There's always something positive to say about a dire deed that has had to be done.

Everyone I've mentioned it to has gasped at the £5,000-odd I had to pay to get a new automatic gearbox installed in Fiona. My cousin Rosemary is going on a very nice cruise this winter for less. And I admit to having some glum thoughts, when I consider how repaying the £5,000 bank loan I had to take out will depress my spending-power over the next 30 months to mid-2018. It means not only some holidays postponed. I won't be able to throw money at the house and garden - everything will get just a touch shabbier. Not what I'd had in mind at all. I am not as house-proud as some, but I really had wanted to smarten the place up, and not just keep it clean and tidy.

But maybe that £5,000 odd lately spent on my car will prove to be something of an investment, giving me a tangible return in cash.

Am I talking nonsense? Well, take a good look at this photo, taken when I reached home yesterday evening after a longish cross-country journey from Kent:

I draw your attention to the right-hand dial, below the time, where it says my average fuel consumption with the new gearbox was 37.8 miles per gallon.

Now that's not a remarkable figure as cars go nowadays, but it's astonishing for my car. You must bear in mind that Fiona is big and heavy, she has a 2.4 litre engine, and automatic transmission with permanent all-wheel drive. She's not a light and economical town car. When towing, she averages 23 mpg. When not towing, I've been getting an average of 30 mpg from her when at home, less if I go into towns to any great extent. When on holiday, usually on less crowded roads than Sussex has, I generally do a little better. For instance, I averaged 31.4 mpg  for my seven nights in North Devon in March this year, and 31.6 mpg when I went there again for twelve nights in September. It was 32.7 mpg for my six nights in Lyme Regis in April. The very best achieved this year was 36.1 mpg, pottering around Fife in Scotland for three days in June, but that was completely untypical.

So I was shocked when I saw 37.8 mpg on my dashboard display last night. The very best ever. It must be a fluke.

But then I reflected. Would the new gearbox have been exactly the same as the old one? Fiona was 'born' in 2010. Did Volvo have a vast stockpile of 2010-vintage gearboxes stashed somewhere, gathering dust, just in case they were ever needed? Or was this a more recently-manufactured box, the right one for my 2010 engine, but in some respects different from the original gearbox fitted? Although it's been operating smoothly and quietly, I've noticed that this new box likes to hold a higher gear slightly longer than the old one used to, which would tend to improve fuel consumption. That could be part of it.

But another part must be a change in my driving behaviour. In order to protect the new gearbox from whatever damage I'd unwittingly inflicted on the old, I've decided to drive with less verve and dash, accelerate gently, and generally take things more sedately. And this too must be having had a good effect on Fiona's fuel consumption.

A more efficient new gearbox - or the gearbox imposing fuel-saving behaviour on me? Or both?

But a fuel-consumption improvement of 20% or so seems altogether too remarkable!

I'll have to keep an eye on this, to see whether it's really true. But suppose the combination of a new gearbox and a gentler touch is working wonders? Let me see...I expect my fuel bill for 2015 to be about £2,500. 20% of that is £500. If the price of fuel stays about the same as now, and I do no more mileage than I have in 2015, I can expect to be better off by £500 in 2016 and each year that follows. Hmm. I'm no good at maths, but that sounds like a 10% cash return on £5,000 to me. If I don't squander the fuel money saved, then I'll recover the entire £5,000 I've spent in ten years, which is exactly how long I'd like to hang onto Fiona before she finally gets a Viking Funeral.

I suspect that I'm bamboozling myself with figures here. But for the moment, until somebody points out the flaw in my maths, I feel warmly consoled.

Time to panic! A cookery credibility test draws near

I have no complaints whatever at the way my local social life has taken off since Spring 2015. In fact, I marvel at it. I have made a number of excellent friends. We seem to like much the same things, and in particular we are partial to eating and drinking - in moderation of course - but at least weekly nevertheless. My friends are mostly married ladies within ten years of my own age. I have needed to build up a relationship with not only them, but their husbands. And their pets!

All in all, this has enriched my life. I'm known to quite a crowd now. Besides the occasional Girls' Night Out - which used to be mostly a Curry Night, but nowadays can also mean a meal in a dining pub - there have been midweek or weekend soirées, and, almost without fail, an après-pilates event every Friday lunchtime. Here's a selection of pictures, in chronological order, from late May to last week, to show what I mean:

I like my new friends very much and almost everyone I've met is in one or other of the pictures. And I think the shots do convey the light-heartedness and goodwill rather well.

But there's another point to be made: none of those pictures are at my home. I have enjoyed months of pub lunches and dinners, barbecues, nibbles or sit-down meals in other people's houses - but I've not yet shown anyone what gets served up at Melford Hall! But that's about to change. I'm doing the après-pilates lunch at the end of this week. Gulp.

It's enough to send me into a panic. I know I applied to appear on Channel 4's Come Dine With Me some while back, but that must have been pure hubris. I have been humbled by the genuine culinary skill of my friends.

But all is not lost. I panic, but I do not despair! I have plenty of suitable recipes. For months I've been collecting some free recipe cards from Waitrose. I have also unearthed their 2009 Christmas menu book. Yes, even in 2009 (a rather dark and painful year) I was able to envisage a time when I'd be providing hospitality to friends as yet unimagined. I must have had an awful lot of faith in the future! Anyway, this morning I arranged all the cold-season recipes on the lounge carpet:

Plenty there to choose from. Plenty there that I can prepare the afternoon before - or on the very morning - and keep fresh in the fridge. There will be a hot dish of course, but it'll be something I can just pop into the oven for a short while, in between one glass of wine and the next.

No, I need not worry so much. I simply have to keep my nerve, and not get flustered.

I last entertained at home - formally - as long ago as February 2013. There were three of us. I produced this rustic peasant fare in my cauldron - off the top of my head, without any recipe to follow:

  

I doubt whether I can rise to this kind of thing again. Well, we'll see.

The menace of social media

I don't look back on the 'old days' with over-much affection. It was a wrong time for me in any case, full of occasions when I felt forced to do things I felt unfitted to do, and be someone I felt I was not.

These were days before emailing and texting from one's own mobile phone were possible. For 'instant communication' there was only the landline phone. Some were happy with it. I was always afraid of it - its shrill ring; not knowing who might be calling; and the daunting formality of speaking unprepared into a large handheld device with an awkward coiled wire attached to it. And then not knowing what to say. Quite possibly not even recognising who was on the other end of the line. Too many people used to think their voices needed no introduction. They'd leave me guessing, playing for time, mouthing generalities until I could overcome my panic and remember who they were. It was often an embarrassing nightmare. I once messed up a budding friendship by curtailing a call curtly, not realising who it was until later. I was never comfortable holding the landline phone. The apparatus got in the way, emphasising the artificiality of the process.

I felt especially uncomfortable with well-intentioned calls at festive times. If someone else had got to the phone first, I'd scurry into the bathroom and stay there - so that when, inevitably, it was time to pass the phone to me, I wouldn't be handy. Cowardice? You betcha.

But let complete honesty and frankness prevail. I do not like to converse with a disembodied voice. And now, at this stage in my life, I am going to be blatantly clear and insistent about it. I don't want to chat over the phone: if you must ring me to speak, keep the call for when you need vital information. Such as (if visiting me) 'I've reached the Half Moon pub. Where is your house from where I am?' We will talk aplenty when you reach my front door.

I vastly prefer texts and emails. They don't interrupt and intrude. I'm geared up to a rapid response. I keep nobody waiting for long. Texts and emails give me time to think, and frame my answer with care and consideration, and I won't feel under pressure. I certainly won't babble. Nor will I be vague, boring or unintentionally indiscreet.

Most of all I like to speak face-to-face. Now that's proper communication. Both of us physically present. We can see each other's expressions, catch a look, and feel each other's reactions. We will automatically maintain respect and good manners. We will know when we strike a rich vein of mutual gold. And if the conversation takes a sad or congratulatory turn, then the right gestures can be made as appropriate, in person. You can't hug or kiss or weep together by electronic means. I don't rate emoticons and emojis one little bit. There's no substitute for actually being there. You need to touch.

So I am perplexed at the popularity of 'social media' in its various forms. I still don't get it. What does it provide that a face-to-face meeting does not - except, perhaps, distance. For some people it may be easier to deal with the world if they don't actually have to meet anybody. It must certainly to easier to lie and deceive and offer false flattery from a keyboard at home.

So many people like to 'share' some trivial comment, or quote, or supposedly funny video or joke, with all their 'friends'. What a turn-off. During my two brief forays into Facebook I was saddened to see what otherwise sensible friends wrote about themselves and what they got up to. The jokiness of it, the use of what you might call the 'Facebook way of expression', simply trivialised them. It shook me. I did not want to see this side of them. It made each of them seem quite different from the person I ordinarily knew. I recoiled from it.

The Facebook format also clearly invited comeback, and some of that was even more silly. And all of it was quickly buried under a mass of fresh inconsequentiality. It was no good writing anything serious or important. It was soon lost in the general gibber - or at best dismissed, all too easily, with a 'like'. What worth or sincerity does a 'like' have?

And I saw also the potential for harm. There was the possibility of unguarded knee-jerk comments that were badly-expressed and needed a rethink, the sort that ruffled feathers, and created family misunderstandings, ill-feeling, and even feuds. There was the possibility of frank vitriol, of the sort lately directed at moderate Labour politicians who have come out and spoken up for military action in Syria.

I dare say a politician is obliged to run several social media accounts, and can't opt out. It may even be a requirement of the job to have a Facebook and Twitter account, so that constituents - or just the general voting public - have a platform for expressing delight or anger at the MP's personal approach to political questions. But murderous venom is quite another thing. I would be very frightened to receive a message threatening death over something I'd posted on the blog. I would tell the police about it. I certainly think it's no over-reaction if an MP asks the police to look into the same thing. MPs are still vulnerable human beings of flesh and blood.

Silliness, personal attacks...I don't see much to commend social media, do I? There's also something else. It's the encouragement to indulge in a form of stalking. It's apparently still easy to open a Facebook account in a fake name and then go looking for people one might be interested in, such as former friends or partners, or anyone whose name and approximate location is known. And then, without announcing one's presence, keep them under stealthy surveillance. And of course the more they have embraced Facebook as a daily mirror of what they get up to, the more the hidden watcher will find out about them. And if that watcher has the capacity to get obsessive, the surveillance may become compulsive and dangerous.

The Government has now proposed new civil powers to intervene and curb the ability and desire of the offender to pursue their victim. But if they are careful and crafty, detecting them will remain difficult.

It's a chilling thought, that posting some cheerful or daft post on Facebook, and especially photos showing faces and recognisable locations, might lead to being followed about by someone with a problem. And the thing about social media like Facebook is that even though you might be careful what you say and what pictures you show, your 'friends' may not. And if either you, or they, give away your ordinary routine, then there is a clear need to beware.

I am not so sure I don't give away far too much about my location and habits on this blog. I never do give the name of my village, nor do I ever show pictures of my house as you see it from the roadside. But I'm quite certain that I could be found. Then what? At least nobody can use social media to wage psychological warfare on me, because I am not signed up to any of it. But what if they ever turn up in person, and knock on my front door one dark night?

Breathless and expensive

All the many things you have to think about, as Christmas approaches! And then, just as soon as it's over - the day after Boxing Day - there's the New Year's so-called celebrations coming up fast. Your head swims with all the organisation needed to miss nothing. No wonder this time of year is the most stressful, and often the death of happy marriages. It was for mine.

And, mark you, I am supremely fortunate! I can suit myself what I do about Christmas. I have no duties or obligations. I never buy present for adults, only for little children (and there is only one of those to consider). I do not have to stay with anyone - so there's no packing to do - nor do I ever want anyone to stay with me. And if I wish to drop out entirely, and push off somewhere, and completely avoid every single social event, then I can.

I am of course far too sociable to cut and run; but even so, it's been a bit breathless over the past two weeks, and it looks set to continue. I hope I can cope!

Breathless and expensive. I may well pop the metaphorical (or even real) champagne cork, toasting 2015 as the Year I Made Even More Excellent Friends. But it will also be The Most Expensive Year Ever For Keeping My Car On The Road. And yet the pain of dealing with accumulated wear and tear on my car is easily eclipsed by the pleasure, convenience and travel-potential that Fiona provides. I remain more than content. I can think of many great moments in 2015 - and most of them were enabled, directly or indirectly, by owning Fiona.

Well, how is my lovely car after her heart surgery?

I am - cautiously - very pleased with that gearbox transplant. I have to be cautious, because this isn't the kind of thing you can assess in a mere five minutes of driving. But I can say that all transmission noise is now much muted, gearshifting is smooth and slick, and my car is quieter and more serene to drive around in. That's a good enough outcome for now. But it will take a month or so before I start to relax.

And I don't think I will ever now take the new gearbox for granted. With this first major component-replacement, Fiona has left her young-and-carefree stage behind. She has arrived at early middle-age, one-third of the way through her expected lifetime - in human terms, around thirty-five - and like a human of that age, she is still capable of strenuous physical efforts, but not necessarily without consequences. I must expect her to react if driven too hard. Even so, I won't be nursing her - but I will be driving her with care and gentleness all the time, and not asking her to do anything too prodigious. I want her to last. And I want to avoid unnecessary bills! How will I accomplish this restraint? I simply stay within all speed limits. So if I sometimes flouted any in the past, I won't be doing so henceforth. That will ensure I stay 'legal', and give Fiona a break.

Looking at my diary, I'm struck how nearly every day before Christmas 2015 has something fixed up, or at least pencilled in. Vastly different to how it was at, say, Christmas 2009, when I was completely on my own over Christmas. That was the year I burnt my Christmas Dinner almost to a cinder. Let's disinter the photos...

Wasn't it sad? All the roast vegetables were charcoal. Only the separately-boiled brussels sprouts were palatable. I can't remember what went wrong. It looked slightly better on the plate, but still very meagre:

In 2010 I was down in snowbound Cornwall - in the caravan - but I cooked up a far nicer Christmas dinner for myself - a hearty steak, albeit served up late in the evening after struggling vainly in icy conditions with a TV satellite dish. The right spirit was maintained by my ceramic Christmas Tree:

After 2010 I dined at friends', or at my sister-in-law's - the only exception being 2012 when I ate at home again, but this time successfully. It was a veritable feast:

This year I'm invited to a village Festive Soirée on Christmas Eve, and to my sister-in-law's on Boxing Day. So, contrary to expectations, I'll be cooking at home again on Christmas Day itself. But I'll greatly enjoy that. It'll make a change. And I'd be surprised if I don't also end up in the village pub, or someone's house, for wine and canapés. Some local staggering to do, then.

So even though I won't be buying anyone of drinking age a present, I will still need to lay in a fresh stock of red and white wine, as I never go empty-handed to a private house. That'll be expensive too; but it's Christmas and I don't mind one bit.