Dem Bones, Dem Bones, Dem Dry Bones

This time last weekend, I was sitting around nervous, waiting for things to happen. I looked at Twitter; frankie_cap broadcast that she was earwormed by Tom Lehrer's song about the atomic table.

For a reason that I can't fathom, this got me thinking of the song Dry Bones by Fred Waring & The Pennsylvanians - only as it appeared in the tv programme The Signing Detective. Or as it might have appeared - because in my head, it was being sung by the schoolteacher.

I know she sang After You've Gone - a scary, nightmaring witch of a woman, terrifying her pupils. And that Dry Bones - in the series - was sung by Joanne Whalley as a nurse with a chorus of medical students and some nifty vibraphone work on a skeleton.

But what came into my head was the schoolteacher singing Dry Bones. And the image stuck there.

Later in the day, I saw the schoolteacher for real: the actress Janet Henfrey was the main speaker at the memorial celebration organised at my mother's college. And she played the nightmarish teacher in the Signing Detective.

This is very, very strange.

Dem Bones, Dem Bones, Dem Dry Bones

This time last weekend, I was sitting around nervous, waiting for things to happen. I looked at Twitter; frankie_cap broadcast that she was earwormed by Tom Lehrer's song about the atomic table.

For a reason that I can't fathom, this got me thinking of the song Dry Bones by Fred Waring & The Pennsylvanians - only as it appeared in the tv programme The Signing Detective. Or as it might have appeared - because in my head, it was being sung by the schoolteacher.

I know she sang After You've Gone - a scary, nightmaring witch of a woman, terrifying her pupils. And that Dry Bones - in the series - was sung by Joanne Whalley as a nurse with a chorus of medical students and some nifty vibraphone work on a skeleton.

But what came into my head was the schoolteacher singing Dry Bones. And the image stuck there.

Later in the day, I saw the schoolteacher for real: the actress Janet Henfrey was the main speaker at the memorial celebration organised at my mother's college. And she played the nightmarish teacher in the Signing Detective.

This is very, very strange.

Daily Mail causes cancer shock!

Sorry - that should have read "the Daily Mail's list of the causes of cancer" shock!

(via Ben Goldacre on Twitter)

Daily Mail causes cancer shock!

Sorry - that should have read "the Daily Mail's list of the causes of cancer" shock!

(via Ben Goldacre on Twitter)

New York, June 2007: 1

Landing at Newark Airport into the long lines that characterise every US airport I have been to is a strange, disorientating experience. The queue is badly organised, being broken into mini-queues which mean that you pray you don't get stuck behind the Muslim (or the Hindu or the Sikh; I don't believe US immigration officials are targeting Muslims; they seem to hate everyone) who will undoubtedly be given a long going over, or anyone who can't speak English or Spanish, or the many, many of us who have filled in the incomprehensible forms incorrectly.

I get through and manage to pick up my luggage quickly, and I leave the sanity of the baggage reclaim into the mayhem of arrivals. It is hot, a June day, summer-hot after the cool spring of Edinburgh. I try my mobile phone but it doesn't get a signal (due perhaps to the building, or some strange Newark-sized whole in the coverage I later found I could use my phone in Manhattan), so I queue at a Starbucks to get some change to use a payphone; I buy a bottle of water which I needed anyway, dehydrated after the seven hour flight direct from Edinburgh – it felt rather luxurious not having to change.

I call my hosts and let them know I have arrived; and I leave the clinical safety of the airport.

I decide to get a cab, which I rationalise by the need to get uptown with luggage and the need to acclimatise. The queue for cabs is a badly organised as the queue for immigration. There are officials who ask where you're going, write it down, and tell you how much it should cost; I am not sure why, since they don't pass this information on to the driver who cuts in front of others to get my fare. He has trouble understanding my accent; he asks me what bridges or tunnels I prefer, a question that highlights my ignorance, my out-of-townedness.
( Lots of words; lots of photographs... )

New York, June 2007: 1

Landing at Newark Airport into the long lines that characterise every US airport I have been to is a strange, disorientating experience. The queue is badly organised, being broken into mini-queues which mean that you pray you don't get stuck behind the Muslim (or the Hindu or the Sikh; I don't believe US immigration officials are targeting Muslims; they seem to hate everyone) who will undoubtedly be given a long going over, or anyone who can't speak English or Spanish, or the many, many of us who have filled in the incomprehensible forms incorrectly.

I get through and manage to pick up my luggage quickly, and I leave the sanity of the baggage reclaim into the mayhem of arrivals. It is hot, a June day, summer-hot after the cool spring of Edinburgh. I try my mobile phone but it doesn't get a signal (due perhaps to the building, or some strange Newark-sized whole in the coverage I later found I could use my phone in Manhattan), so I queue at a Starbucks to get some change to use a payphone; I buy a bottle of water which I needed anyway, dehydrated after the seven hour flight direct from Edinburgh – it felt rather luxurious not having to change.

I call my hosts and let them know I have arrived; and I leave the clinical safety of the airport.

I decide to get a cab, which I rationalise by the need to get uptown with luggage and the need to acclimatise. The queue for cabs is a badly organised as the queue for immigration. There are officials who ask where you're going, write it down, and tell you how much it should cost; I am not sure why, since they don't pass this information on to the driver who cuts in front of others to get my fare. He has trouble understanding my accent; he asks me what bridges or tunnels I prefer, a question that highlights my ignorance, my out-of-townedness.
( Lots of words; lots of photographs... )

New York, June 2007: 2

I woke early, and snuck out into dawn streets. I caught the subway down to City Hall, the downtown local, and stepped over the water. I realise that, perhaps, the Chrysler Building may not be my favourite structure in New York. (Favourite is a very flexible word for me; it changes with the weather.) The Brooklyn Bridge is, or just then, early on a Saturday morning, it was. Few people were about: some joggers. A line of cormorants flew under the bridge, skimming the water. A fleet of police cars, lights flashing, sirens stuttering, sped into the city on the car deck. (I later learned this was, I think, a ceremonial affair: it was the day a memorial to dead policemen was being dedicated.)

( More words; more pictures )

New York, June 2007: 2

I woke early, and snuck out into dawn streets. I caught the subway down to City Hall, the downtown local, and stepped over the water. I realise that, perhaps, the Chrysler Building may not be my favourite structure in New York. (Favourite is a very flexible word for me; it changes with the weather.) The Brooklyn Bridge is, or just then, early on a Saturday morning, it was. Few people were about: some joggers. A line of cormorants flew under the bridge, skimming the water. A fleet of police cars, lights flashing, sirens stuttering, sped into the city on the car deck. (I later learned this was, I think, a ceremonial affair: it was the day a memorial to dead policemen was being dedicated.)

( More words; more pictures )

New York, June 2007: 3

The rain had stopped. I walked around the Village, down Bleecker Street, looking at the buildings – mostly brick, full of architectural detail. I love walking through New York streets: there is so much to look at. I walked down into SoHo, zigzagging across the lattice of streets, watching people, looking at the buildings.

( A few more words, lots more pictures... )

New York, June 2007: 3

The rain had stopped. I walked around the Village, down Bleecker Street, looking at the buildings – mostly brick, full of architectural detail. I love walking through New York streets: there is so much to look at. I walked down into SoHo, zigzagging across the lattice of streets, watching people, looking at the buildings.

( A few more words, lots more pictures... )