Scare crows? Scare me more like!

Why are scarecrows scary? To scare crows I suppose is the obvious answer but there's more than that to it. We were up in Whipsnade earlier in the week and took some photos of some brilliant scarecrows created for the Scarecrow Festival.

While I could appreciate the creativity involved in making the scarecrows, I couldn't help feeling a bit disturbed by them. Some more than others including a rather lascivious looking Postman Pat and a deranged Wizard of Oz scarecrow that makes Worzel Gummidge look like Cary Grant.

I wondered if my feeling of discomfort has something to do with the theory of the Uncanny Valley, something S is very interested in. Posited by Masahiro Mori in 1970 the hypothesis is 'that as a robot is made more humanlike in its appearance and motion, the emotional response from a human being to the robot will become increasingly positive and empathetic, until a point is reached beyond which the response quickly becomes that of strong repulsion. However, as the appearance and motion continue to become less distinguishable from a human being, the emotional response becomes positive once more and approaches human-to-human empathy levels.' (Wikipedia).

The theory is known as the 'uncanny valley' as, plotted on a graph, the transition from empathy to revulsion back to empathy makes a valley shape.

So do scarecrows fit the bill? Well, some of them are disturbingly human like but not enough to allow you to ignore the fact that they are not human and empathise with them in a human-to-human fashion. Scarecrows occupy, with clowns, that uncomfortable territory where humanity is expressed in a grotesque and exaggerated form; 'like' us but in a form that distorts and plays with notions of humanity.

As someone who has always been afraid of clowns, I've never really understood why some people expect children to think them funny and endearing rather than creepy and unpleasant. Equally, while Jon Pertwee was a marvellous, dashing Dr Who, Worzel Gummidge was , quite often, the stuff of nightmares.

Recently the current Dr Who, David Tennant, was seen battling some homicidal scarecrows, although I'd have been happy to be exposed to those if I could have run screeching along a few corridors holding David's hand. There are some compensations! But sadly Dr 'David Tennant' Who was not in evidence in Whipsnade. So with motherly indulgence, I allowed my daughter to use my camera to photograph the scarecrows while I waited in the car. Nothing to do with my plan to hit the accelerator should one of them start walking, of course!

The boy who sang

So anyway, Michael Jackson eh? What was he all about?

I was a big fan of the Jackson Five as a little girl. For me they offered a really exciting alternative to the rather anodyne Osmonds. I knew instinctively that Donny Osmond was naff and Michael Jackson has something amazing.

What a voice he had as a boy. He could be as raunchy and soulful as a junior James Brown and then deliver a ballad with a tender assurance that seemed as though it couldn't just be the result of training and, as we know in retrospect, bullying from his father. The voice was deeply affecting, tremulous when needed, strong and emotionally wracked, passionate and even, dare I say it, sensual. So many qualities you just don't expect from a boy's voice.

To me he lost a lot of this when he became a man. He forsook his beautiful voice for affectation and ridiculous vocal posturing when all the time he had this most wonderful gift. Every now and now and then you would hear that voice but as time went on it was subsumed by the weirdness, the posing, the lack of artistic direction that felt really genuine.

I didn't feel that sad when I heard of Michael Jackson's death to be honest - he died years ago for me.

The mysteries of summer dressing

It's too hot. I can't sleep, I've got the wrong type of skin for hot and worst of all I don't know what to wear. I lurch from looking like a 1970s hippy to a sort of RE teacher on a tour of the Holy Land look. On the way I've explored 'Tender is the Night' nautical looks (palazzo pants and stripey tops - well as palazzo as you get in Primark) and ladylike pruning roses looks.

The clothes in autumn and winter are so much better. I love woolly tights, I love proper shoes, I love coats and hats, I love boots and lace up shoes. In the autumn I feel like Gudrun and Ursula in 'Women in Love', in the summer I feel like The Famous Five.

I'm working the hippy RE teacher vibe tomorrow. A sort of combination of all my summer clothes. As long as I'm not hot, I've ceased caring.

Two go cycling to Stanbridge

Our town has publicly and unequivocally been pronounced close to death by Mary Portas and I feel slightly embarrassed even to admit I live here. Sense tells me that people don't become interesting by dint of living somewhere interesting and experience shows me this as I've met a number of inwardly dull people who live in outwardly funky places. Equally you are not immediately rendered not worth bothering with simply because you live somewhere that's a bit on the boring side. However a slight feeling of shame hovers over me.

So feeling a little depressed about my home town, I was glad to remember what it has in its favour: amazing countryside which the casual observer, passing perhaps sneerily through the dying High Street, may never experience. We took one of the National Cycle Routes and followed it through woods, past fields brooks and rivers until we reached Stanbridge. We sat for a few moments on the green before making our way back, passing again the ancient hamlet of Sewell, the tumulus of the Maiden Bower in front of us.

The ride also reminded me of one of the reasons why our poor, beleaguered town has fallen on such sad times, despite once being the home of the king's hunting lodge and a great and very beautiful Priory. The cycle track follows the route of the railway or rather the ex-railway, axed by Beeching in the 1960s. In one fell swoop he sounded the death knell of the town, one of the biggest towns in Britain without a railway as it happens.

The route of the railway makes a beautiful ride but it is a little sad that a train will probably never take this route again, not least because it's now a nature reserve.

A bit of maldod

Anyone who has seen La Traviata has an insight into life in our house today. Flora is ill and it's like the scene at the end. I'm half expecting her to ask me to come and stand by her bed so she can dictate her last letter.

Not that she's saying much. I'm big on communicating even when ill; everyone knows what I am thinking, how I got to the thought and what I'm thinking about what you are thinking. Even in the midst of a bad asthma attack, I'm trying to communicate in one way or another. I confidently predict my last words will be more a torrent of verbosity than a faintly whispered 'It was good'.

Not so Flora, who in her poorly state has turned into a silent, moody shadow of her former self, expecting me to intuit the location and severity of her illness from a series of tragic low moans, heavy sighs and baleful glances.

Short of putting an end to it all, a rather tempting option, there was only one thing for it - a bit of maldod. Maldod is a Welsh word used by my grandmother to describe what you give a sick person or a person who is feeling down or a bit sorry for themselves. It is a mildly perjorative term tbut true maldod is freely and happily given to the maldoden (she or he requiring the maldod) . I've looked this word up on the web and strictly it means 'indulgence, spoiling' which is how we use it.

Flora has received considerable maldod from me today. I've used one of my grandmother's failsafe maldod tools - the bottle of lemonade. Anyone who knows anything is aware that the nurse with the mostest should always have at her disposal the following: Germolene, Rennies, a bottle of lemonade (preferably flat), some plasters, a cup of strong tea and a plate of slightly burned toast.

With these cures at hand you can tackle any disease. Holidaying in a malarial district? Fear not, a dab of Germolene will do the job. Got botulism? Have a Rennie and some flat lemonade? The plague? Some burned toast and a hot cuppa will see you right. Stab wound? Put a plaster on it but not until you've used some Germolene.

Add to this a bit of maldod and everything will be fine - it 's worked for me. When I had measles I drank large quantities of flat lemonade and was made to wear a hat in the sun, a blue raffia one I recall, while I was saved from a terrible reaction to accidentally overdosing on some asthma drugs by eating my Nan's special burned toast. Yes maldod has made me the woman I am now so it's the least I can do to pass it on.

Order, order!

The phrase 'Speaker of the House of Commons' conjures up someone aged and venerable so I was a little surprised to find that the new speaker, John Bercow, is only two years older than me! This presents me with two scenarios: either I have reached an age where I could be be considered aged and venerable or, and this is the one I prefer, the House of Commons is looking for a more dynamic, contemporary outlook. Option two sounds good to me. I'm hoping that he will introduce a whole new discourse to the Commons, calming braying MPs with a quick 'Shut it!', none of this 'Order, order' stuff and introducing an MP with a snappy 'wassup girlfriend' (that would be for Anne Widdecombe). Personally though I miss the sonorous Welsh tones of the late Lord Tonypandy. Nobody said 'Order, order!' with quite the same poetry.

High

My heart is racing, I can't sleep and there are butterflies the size of badgers doing somersaults in the pit of my stomach. It's midnight and I'm knackered but can't sleep. I'm speeding with no where to go, overwhelmed by an itchy anxiety for no good reason. My heart is galloping like a loosed horse, as though someone has jumped up behind me and shouted 'boo! This is why I've never really been a drugs user. Who wants to pay to feel like this when you can get it on prescription and it feels crap anyway?

It's a high alright but not a nice one: a wired, fingers on a blackboard sensation where you are overtaken by a directionless, exhausting energy that you can't use - after all you can't sit down for five minutes or focus on anything. Welcome to the world of the serial Ventolin user.

An unscientific enquiry by yours truly suggests it's been a tough week for asthmatics. For my own part, I've managed to get through the last few days on a cocktail of inhalers that may have helped me breathe but have left me like a cat on hot bricks. I've tried walking myself into exhaustion, forcing myself to relax and dosing myself on chocolate to bring up my blood sugar in an attempt to counteract the shakes. All to no avail.

The extent of my prescription induced tension was amply illustrated earlier today as I spent some time in a park with some happily relaxed and rather laid back people while I secretly (or not so secretly in some cases) tried to sit on the termites in my pants. Still, at least I could breathe.

The comforting news is I'm not alone. I'm part of a group on Facebook called 'Thanks to Ventolin I'm as high as a kite'. Finding that group was a revelation; it turns out that I'm not the only one with shaky hands and rollercoaster insides after a few too many doses. As I've long suspected, my reaction is pretty common. The group reports side effects such as feeling 'loaded', having 'crazy lucid dreams' and of course the infamous shakes.

Despite this all we Ventolin users love our little blue friend. Knowing my inhaler is in my bag , ready for anything, is always a great comfort and an essential part of my wellbeing and daily routine. I join my fellow Ventolistas in raising a trembling glass to the people who invented the drug. Without them my life would be very different, in fact I might not be alive! Yes, most of the time Ventolin and I are great friends and I join my Facebook group friends in saying I heart Ventolin!