A cheerful ditty for Xmas

Prompted by the cheery festive theme of my previous post, I remembered the first line of a poem my grandmother used to recite every now and again: 'It is Christmas Day in the workhouse'. I couldn't remember anything else until my memory dredged up a few more lines:

It was Christmas day in the workhouse
The snow was raining fast
A bare-footed kid with clogs on
Came slowly whizzing past
He turned a straight crooked corner
To see a dead donkey die
Pulled out his gun to stab it
And it punched him one in the eye

I'm sure we used to parrot them in the playground and they are obviously a parody of something more 'grown up' (a Google search confirms this - and gives the rest of the version I've partially recalled). A little more probing and we reach the real thing. 'It was Christmas Day in the workhouse' is the first line of a poem, entitled 'In the Workhouse - Christmas Day', written in 1879 by George Robert Sims. He wrote it as a criticism of the harsh conditions that existed in workhouses under the 1834 Poor Law. Sims was, amongst other things, a man with a social conscience and his writings helped to open the eyes of the Victorian and Edwardian middle and upper classes to the very real suffering of the poor at the time. In modern parlance, however, he was a 'one hit wonder' and, whilst his melodrama made Victorians weep, modern audiences would probably snigger at the overt sentimentality of his words. Such have fashions changed and he is now forgotten. What should not be forgotten, in my humble (moi, humble?) opinion, is the influence social commentators such as he had at the time. His writings made a real difference to attitudes and helped change society. It's hard to think of a modern day poet or author who can claim the same. Why not? It can't be due to the calibre of writing or intellect. Is it down to the fact that the audience is largely indifferent to the plight of others? Or, perhaps, due to the anaesthetising effects of too much information coming at us from all angles? Answers on a postcard, please.

Something else not to be forgotten is the terrific emotional power of the word 'workhouse' to many people born before WW2. Workhouses were known as wretched places where the minimum of warmth, nourishment and clothing were provided to the poor and helpless. To people of my parents' and grandparents' generations, to "end up in the workhouse" was the direst and most demeaning fate imaginable.

Something else we can thank the workhouse system for is the concept of deserving and and underserving poor. If you thought this classification was extinct, think again! Just switch on the news and listen to Posh Dave's chums demonise anyone who has the temerity to make a benefit claim. Oh dear, I think it's time for me to get back in my box before I get too hot under the collar over this one!

And, finally, I give the poem that started this posting. It's long, it's sentimental but it's a fascinating piece of social commentary.

It is Christmas Day in the workhouse, and the cold, bare walls are bright
With garlands of green and holly, and the place is a pleasant sight;
For with clean-washed hands and faces in a long and hungry line
The paupers sit at the table, for this is the hour they dine.

And the guardians and their ladies, although the wind is east,
Have come in their furs and wrappers to watch their charges feast;
To smile and be condescending, putting on pauper plates.
To be hosts at the workhouse banquet, they've paid for with the rates.

0h, the paupers are meek and lowly with their 'Thank'ee kindly, mums'
So long as they fill their stomachs what matter it whence it comes?
But one of the old men mutters and pushes his plate aside,
"Great God!" he cries, "but it chokes me; for this is the day she died!"

The guardians gazed in horror, the master's face went white;
Did a pauper refuse their pudding? Could that their ears believe right?

Then the ladies clutched their husbands, thinking the man would die,
Struck by a bolt, or something, by the outraged One on high.

But the pauper sat for a moment, then rose 'mid silence grim,
For the others had ceased to chatter and trembled in every limb:

He looked at the guardians' ladies, then, eyeing their lords, he said;
"I eat not the food of villains, whose hands are foul and red;"

"Whose victims cry for vengeance from their dark, unhallowed graves."
"He's drunk," said the workhouse master, "or else he's mad and raves."
"Not drunk or mad," cried the pauper, "but only a haunted beast,
Who, torn by the hounds and mangled, declines the vulture's feast."

"I care not a curse for the guardians, and I won't be dragged away;
Just let me have the fit out, it's only on Christmas Day...That the black past comes to goad me and prey on my burning brain;
I'll tell you the rest in a whisper, I swear I won't shout again.

"Keep your hands off me, curse you! Hear me right out to the end.
You come here to see how paupers, the season of Christmas spend;
You come here to watch us feeding, as they watched the captured beast;
Here's why a penniless pauper, spits on your paltry feast."

"Do you think I will take your bounty and let you smile and think
You're doing a noble action with the parish's meat and drink?
Where is my wife, you traitors, the poor old wife you slew?
Yes, by the God above me, my Nance was killed by you."

"Last Winter my wife lay dying, starved in a filthy den.
I had never been to the parish, I came to the parish then;
I swallowed my pride in coming! for ere the ruin came
I held up my head as a trader, and I bore a spotless name.

"I came to the parish craving, bread for a starving wife
Bread for the woman who'd loved me thro' fifty years of life;
And what do you think they told me, mocking my awful grief,
That the house was open to us, but they wouldn't give out relief."

"I slunk to the filthy alley, 'twas a cold, raw Christmas Eve
And the bakers' shops were open, tempting a man to thieve;
But I clenched my fists together, holding my head awry,
So I came to her empty-handed and mournfully told her why."

"Then I told her the house was open; she had heard of the ways of that
For her bloodless cheeks went crimson, and up in her rags she sat,
Crying, 'Bide the Christmas here, John, we've never had one apart;
I think I can bear the hunger, the other would break my heart."

"All through that eve I watched her, holding her hand in mine,
Praying the Lord and weeping till my lips were salt as brine;
I asked her once if she hungered, and she answered 'No.'
The moon shone in at the window, set in a wreath of snow."

"Then the room was bathed in glory, and I saw in my darling's eyes
The faraway look of wonder, that comes when the spirit flies;
And her lips were parched and parted, and her reason came and went.
For she raved of our home in Devon, where our happiest years were spent."

"And the accents, long forgotten, came back to the tongue once more.
For she talked like the country lassie I wooed by the Devon shore;
Then she rose to her feet and trembled, and fell on the rags and moaned,
And, 'Give me a crust, I'm famished... for the love of God,' she groaned.

"I rushed from the room like a madman and flew to the workhouse gate,
Crying, 'Food for a dying woman!' and the answer came, 'Too late!'
They drove me away with curses; then I fought with a dog in the street
And tore from the mongrel's clutches a crust he was trying to eat."

"Back through the filthy by-ways... back through the trampled slush!
Up to the crazy garret, wrapped in an awful hush;
My heart sank down at the threshold, and I paused with a sudden thrill.
For there, in the silv'ry moonlight, my Nance lay cold and still."

"Up to the blackened ceiling, the sunken eyes were cast
I knew on those lips, all bloodless, my name had been the last;
She called for her absent husband... Oh God! Had I known--
Had called in vain, and, in anguish, had died in that den alone."

"Yes, there in a land of plenty, lay a loving woman dead.
Cruelly starved and murdered for a loaf of the parish bread;
At yonder gate, last Christmas, I craved for a human life,
You, who would feed us paupers, what of my murdered wife?"

"There, get ye gone to your dinners, don't mind me in the least,
Think of the happy paupers eating your Christmas feast
And when you recount their blessings in your parochial way,
Say what you did for me too... only last Christmas Day."

The real thing - Xmas ads on TV?

The season to be merry is approaching and the TV ads are coming thick and fast. And what an image of how we spend our Christmas they portray. They can't really think that we believe the tosh they peddle, can they? The BBC's website ran a feature today on seven myths often perpetrated by these seasonal offerings. They were interesting enough to comment on: 

1.  It always snows.
Not in Cornwall. It will be wet and miserable down here. In the rest of the country, the chances of a white Christmas are pretty slim. Anyway, can someone tell me what's so wonderful about snow on the 25th December? It's cold, it's wet and turns to slush. Such joy!

2.  Mums do everything.
In some households, yes, but not in every one. What an archaic and sexist portrayal of gender roles. 

3.  Everyone is happy.
So much so that the Samaritans always have to put on extra staff for the Christmas period. And heaven preserve us from board games and charades. 

4.  Nobody spends Christmas alone.
Rubbish. Lots of people do: some by choice and some by circumstance. There are some very sad people in the second category and many of them are helped by various organisations to have some semblance of a festive time.

5. Everyone has a real Christmas tree.
Cobblers. It seems that the majority of us prefer not to have the trouble of needle drop and sit around gazing at an artificial one. Quite right too: nothing captures the spectacle of Christmas more than a glittering display of fibre optic lights. 

6.  Everybody loves their presents.
Don't get me started on this one. The returns counter at shops around the nation will have long queues on Boxing Day as people rush to take back the presents they don't want. And who can blame them? Just look at the festive excrement polluting the shops at the moment.

7.  People give to charity at Christmas.
Yes and no. Yes, the amount charities get does go up but not by as much as you might think. The spirit of goodwill seemingly does not reach that deep into our wallets and purses. C'mon people: think of others less fortunate than yourselves.

A confession: the Christmas ads really get me in the mood for fun, fun, fun!

In which I relate the time I had a runny nose

I love the way a Google search for one thing can lead you down a path to something totally different. Here's an example of such serendipity from today.

I'm reading a book on Fidel Castro and wanted some information on an aspect of the Cold War. I searched on 'cold war' and in the listings there was a citation for a book called 'Cold Wars', the author of which was David Tyrell. Ah, says I, I've heard of him. Wasn't he the director of the Common Cold Research Unit at Salisbury? Indeed he was and this reminded me that I had been a volunteer at the CCRU in 1967 (was it Easter 1967?). In retrospect  it was a rather strangely British experience.

The CCRU was established in the early 1950s to investigate aspects of the common cold in healthy human volunteers. It was based in a camp that once was a war time hospital (Harvard Hospital) on the outskirts of Salisbury - close to, but completely separate from, the Microbiological Research Establishment at Porton Down. You know, the place where the UK's microbiological and chemical weapon research was/is carried out. Incidentally, this proximity lead to a long held suspicion that volunteers at the CCRU were being used as guinea pigs for sinister purposes. As far as I know this was never the case.
.
The trials at the CCRU were advertised in the press as two weeks in a holiday camp environment with good food and a time to relax. With, almost as an afterthought, the chance to help cure the world of the common cold. I fell for the hype and thought it was just the space I needed to revise for some impending chemistry exams. I applied, was accepted and soon had a rail travel pass to Salisbury, where a motley group met up and were taken to the unit in what looked like an WW2 army reject lorry. Briefly, here's what the stay at the unit involved:

*  Rather than the holiday camp promised in the advertisement, the unit was more like a concentration camp. Row upon row of barrack like buildings, giving extremely basic accommodation. Take a look at the postcard above - Stalag 17 spring to mind? I was half expecting Steve McQueen to come sailing over the fence on his motorbike.
*  After a very cursory medical examination, each of us were allocated to our 'chalets' in groups of twos or threes. I shared with somebody English - and that is all that I can remember of him. I expect I made just as lasting an impression on him as well.
*  Each trial lasted 12 days. The first 3 days were there to pick up anyone who had brought a cold along with them. If they had, they were excluded from the trial and given a ticket home. Then drops were administered (contents depended on the nature of the trial and the need for a dummy control). The guiding mantra was it takes 3 days to catch a cold, 3 days to have the cold and 3 days for the cold to go. So, once the drops were up your nose, the 9 day cycle started.
*  Over the 9 day period, each of us had to keep a daily diary of how we felt, what our tempertature was at regular intervals and how many disposable tissues we had used. Every now and again, a medic popped in to review progress. I don't recall getting a cold and I may very well have been given the placebo. Those involved in running each trial were never told the details of what they were investigating. I presume it was done this way to avoid any experimental/observer bias. A funny thing about these visits was the fact that the medics covered themselves in a protective barrier to prevent us catching something off them. In reality, this protective barrier was a massive flexible perspex bag. It was difficult to keep a straight face as they crinkled their way into the room.
*  Feeding time was fun. Food was delivered to each chalet by a man in a brown coat. He left thermos flasks, bottles etc in a box outside and then rang a bell to let us know it was there. We then had to wait 5 minutes to allow him to clear the area before bringing it in. I don't remember the food at all and can only surmise that it was adequate but unmemorable. I do remember that we had a daily allowance of 1 pint of bottled beer per person - such generosity.
*  Entertainment during the stay was somewhat limited. Within the chalet, apart from any reading material you brought in, there was a single ancient radio and a few dog-eared board games. And the world knows how much I love board games. Luckily my chalet companion was as much a fan as I was so my tolerance was not tested.
*  We were allowed to walk around the grounds and beyond - as long as we did not come within 200 yards or so of anyone else. To avoid contamination, we had face masks and the dreaded perspex bag to don if it looked as if the 200 yard barrier was going to be transgressed. With typical British phlegm no-one we met on our jaunts turned a hair at being confronted by a walking plastic bag.

At the end of our incarceration, we each had another cursory medical examination (along the lines of "I see you are still standing so you must be OK") and were then taken back to the station. Thinking about it, we were packed off with almost indecent haste - and there was no follow-up at all. Gone and very quickly forgotten it would appear. From a distance of over 40 years, it was a great experience but I'm not sure how effective the research proved to be. I've got a cold as I type this - sniff, sniff.

Post script: the CCRU closed in 1990 and the site is now a housing estate (what else?). The function has been transferred to Cardiff University and I'm willing to bet that any studies they conduct are not so much fun for the participants.

And I forgot to mention that we received no payment for our week on the Costa del Salisbury.

C of E Synod votes against having women bishops

This decision makes no sense to me at all but, then, why should it? A central plank of the fundamentalist argument against women as bishops is that women should not have teaching authority over men. But wasn't this point already conceded when women were allowed to become deacons and priests? Poor old Justin Wellby: he really has been handed a poisoned chalice. It will be fascinating to see how he clears up this ecclesiastical mess.

Dartmoor.....again! The years roll by.

8000 year old stone rows on White Tor

In my 8th November posting I mentioned the walk my IWC and I had in preparation for a day out with friends on Dartmoor. That day came yesterday.

1000 years of people in a row

One of the joys of Dartmoor is the fact that the same route is different every time you walk it. The weather and light may be different, the foliage greener (or browner), more or fewer sheep or cows in the fields...etc. The enjoyment, however, is a constant factor. And so it was when we repeated this particular route. Panoramas all the way around and time with friends. We may be getting somewhat long in the tooth but we can still tackle a rugged path. Long may it continue.

What was my mother thinking of?

 

In an earlier post I mentioned that I was having a lot of enjoyment looking at the Caerphilly Local History Facebook page. It's continued to come up with some amazingly evocative images but none better than the other day.  Then they showed a photograph taken at the old Caerphilly open air baths in the 1950s. I took one look at it and thought "that's me in the background" (as indicated by the red arrow). Of course it's not, at least I don't think it is, but it could very well be. I spent a lot of time there during the mid 50s to the early 60s.

They are closed now but were located in Morgan Jones Park and were just open during the Summer months. They were the only baths for miles around and acted as a mecca for children during the seemingly endless, and hot, Summer school holidays. The water was freezing, there was scarcely room to swim more than a couple of yards and the changing rooms, with their rudimentary cubicles and fragile wire baskets, were strictly utilitarian. No showers, no mirrors and certainly no hairdryers! Despite all this, a trip to the baths was always fun and, strange to relate, almost exotic.

We used to catch a bus (not just any bus - a blue and white Bedwas and Machen Urban District Council omnibus driven by Dai Davies) to Caerphilly and get off at the Tanyard (sometimes called Lavender Corner by bus conductors on account of the atrocious smell emanating from the skins that were processed there. To be accurate, it wasn't a tanyard, it was a fellmongers where flesh was removed from the skins and the hides prepared for leather making elsewhere. My great grandfather, Jacob Batt, worked there in the early part of the twentieth century as a 'flesher'). A ten minute walk took us to the park, around the children's paddling pool and then through the hallowed turnstyle into the baths. After a swim, and when our blood circulation had recovered from the cold, we'd head back home, sometimes buying a frozen Jubbly on the way and sometimes making a detour to play on the towers and walls of Caerphilly Castle (hoping not to see the ghost of the Green Lady!).

Back to the photograph that prompted this nostalgic thread, take a close look at the swimming costume the young lad is wearing. It is made of wool and is knitted! Was any material less suited to its function? Get it wet and the crotch dropped to an alarming level. Diving off the side of the baths in them always had an element of danger and embarassment! Will they come off? They frequently did. I know of what I write: I had a pair. The phrase 'as useless as a chocolate teapot' comes to mind to describe them.


I was thinking of breaking the habit of a lifetime

I was about to do something I've never done before: I was not going to vote in an election. You know, the one for our first police and crime commissioners? The one that we've had all the publicity about? Or not!

There are number of reasons that lead me to think seriously about not casting my ballot.

1.  I am not convinced that it's a good thing. Despite what is being said, we will end up with police forces controlled by politicians. I can see all sorts of problems with this, all stemming from the fact that politicians are shallow populists who will always have an eye to the next election. The crimes that voters get most passionate about are not always the most damaging or dangerous. Domestic violence, sex trafficking and organised crime are not so visible as youths on street corners! Guess where the votes lie!

2.  I do not dispute that the British police need to be made more accountable (think Hillsborough, think Orgreave) But will a single elected commissioner hold a chief constable to account better than the existing Police Authorities? I don't think so. I believe that what is required is a change in culture, not a wholescale reorganisation.

3.  And what about the cost? This has been variously estimated to be around £100 million to set up and who knows what the running costs will be. At a time of financial austerity, this is almost criminal profligacy.

4.  And how effective can one commissioner be at representing the views of their electorate? They could have as many as a million people in an area of up to 21 parliamentary constituencies? It's an impossible task and can only lead to them being out of touch. Is this really an improvement on the status quo?

On top of all the above is the fact that, so far, I've been given zero information about the candidates. No leaflets have dropped through the letterbox, no election addresses and no invitations to public meetings. Yes, I have looked on-line and there is lots of information there. I've studied it but I still can't make up my mind. There is not one person who stands out as having a particularly attractive skill set. The easiest thing to do would be to say "I don't like what we are being asked to vote for and I can't make up my mind about who to vote for anyway".

I was on the brink of going in this direction when I thought "what if everybody did the same and the UKIP candidate got in by default?". Stranger things have happened and I'd be horrified if I'd done anything to contribute to this outcome.

So, what am I going to do? I'm going to vote political in a supposedly apolitical election. The tribal drums are calling me and the Labour candidate will get my vote - but I'll be holding my nose when I put my cross on the paper. This really is an uncomfortable position to be in and yet another black mark against Posh Dave for putting me through it.

Not only in America.....................

.................we've got our own right wing loonies as well. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you columnist Melanie Philips as an example of the best that the UK can come up with.

I have the feeling that she was not too enchanted at Obama's recent victory. Read how she vented her spleen in her blog posting on November 7th entitled 'America goes into the Darkness' It's a wonderfully off-the-wall intemperate rant. Here are a few of her phrases.

"The greatest satisfaction today over the re-election of Obama is not being felt in the Democratic Party............. (but) is surely being felt in Iran".

"Four years ago, America put into the White House a sulky narcissist with close links to people with a history of thuggish, far-left, black power, Jew-bashing, west-hating politics".

"Britain and the Europeans love Obama because they think he will end American exceptionalism and turn the US into a pale shadow of themselves. What they don’t realise is that, all but lobotomised by consumerist rights, state dependency, victim culture, sentimentality, post-religion, post-nationalism and post-Holocaust and Empire guilt, Britain and Europe are themselves fast going down the civilisational tubes".

"With the re-election of Obama, America now threatens to lead the west into a terrifying darkness".

Mmmmm. Methinks Ms Philips should take herself off to a darkened room and calm down.

Dartmoor Walk from Pork Hill towards Peter Tavy and beyond.

Roos Tor (left) and the rocks of Great Staple Tor

Out on the moor today with my IWC to check out a route for a walk with friends next week. We started in Pork Hill car park and then headed due north (ish) to Peter Tavy, thence up the Coombe to Higher Godsworthy (east-ish), across to Stephen's Grave and returning to the car via contouring Cox Tor (south-ish). Just over 7 miles in ideal conditions - clear with panoramic views most of the way around (St Michael's church on the volcanic plug at Brentor was a constant companion in the distance). We passed the 'usual' Dartmoor features of rushing streams, neolithic settlements and hut circles, mediaeval tin workings, open moorland and wooded valleys. How could anyone tire of such sights and sites?

Follow the beak!

Those familiar with Dartmoor and the problems the Dartmoor National Park authority have had over the years with footpath signs (how to keep them unintrusive etc) will be interested in their latest idea. What could be more natural than a bird on the moor? Exactly! The National Park rangers are experimenting with new 'bird' signs and we came across the one shown at the exit to our starting point for the walk. The idea is that, instead of finger posts, the beak of a bird (the jackdaw seems to be the favourite because of its size) points in the right direction. The bird is very life like and had me fooled for a while until I went up to it for a look. It's really well attached to the information board (despite my very best yob simulation, I couldn't make it move) and it should prove vandal proof. I think it's a great idea and it will be interesting to see how people take to it. Let's hope nobody gives it the bird (boom, boom!).

He's been trumped by Obama!

The USA leads the world in many things, not least of which being the supply of foam-flecked right-wing bigots and outright loonies. Step forward into the spotlight, Donald Trump. He hates Obama with a passion and throughout the recent election poured scorn on the President's campaign. In the aftermath, and after Romney's dignified acceptance of his defeat, is Donald keeping quiet? Not a bit of it! His philosophy seems to be 'if you are in a hole, keep digging'. He's since been keeping the twitterati amused with a succession of concisely argued tweets (some of which he's since deleted and claimed that they were 'mistakes'). Here's a flavour of his thought processes.

*  The voting booth process was a total disaster—it could and should be much better and more efficient—tremendous room for error!

*  House of Representatives shouldn’t give anything to Obama unless he terminates Obamacare.

*  The electoral college is a disaster for a democracy.

*  This election is a total sham and a travesty. We are not a democracy!

*  Let's fight like hell and stop this great and disgusting injustice! The world is laughing at us.

*  We can’t let this happen. We should march on Washington and stop this travesty. Our nation is totally divided!

*  The concept of global warming was created by and for the Chinese in order to make U.S. manufacturing non-competitive.

Let no-one call Donald a good loser - or a reasonable human being for that matter. And can somebody explain to me why on earth Alex Salmond and the SNP allowed this odious character to develop a pristine part of the Scottish coastline? And run roughshod over the rights of the local people, apparently with impunity and the collusion of the police and establishment? I smell a rat.

I'm a TVAONBVTW!

And that stands for Tamar Valley Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty Volunteer Trail Warden.  Sounds impressive, eh? But what does it entail?

I (plus my IWC) get to look after a section of the Tamar Valley Trail near us and make certain that it's fit for walkers - clearing fallen branches and overgrown paths, making them safe for users. We are not aiming for anything too pristine, after all the Trail is supposed to be a walk in the countryside, but we are aiming to remove any obvious hazards. Our stretch (Kit Hill to Luckett to Horsebridge) is about 7 miles long and we'll be aiming to walk it at least once a month. Hopefully, it will act as a motivator to get us out more. Ah, almost forgot to mention that we have to make sure that walkers can actually follow the Trail. The present signage is ambiguous in parts and we'll be pinning up markers (as per the little green one at the bottom of the post on the left) as and where we think there's a problem.

Yesterday I attended a 'training' session centred on Bere Alston. This was, in all essentials, a walk in the woods with a pair of secateurs (and an unfriendly dog that I was tempted to emasculate with my secateurs). The weather was dry and clear and the walk took me to parts of the Bere Peninsular I'd never visited before. Well worth a repeat visit sometime soon to enjoy the views of the river and Calstock viaduct through the leafless trees.

If I had the vote in the USA tomorrow........

Today marks the last full day of campaigning in the American presidential election, as Barack Obama and Mitt Romney embark on one final tour of the key states that will determine who occupies the White House. Both men, their running mates, and top surrogates are criss-crossing the country in search of vital electoral votes. Swing states are being blitzed once again as this closely fought election reaches its climax. What would I do tomorrow if I had to make a choice? A theoretical question, I know, with an answer that has absolutely no consequence. But I'm going to do it anyway!

I've always taken an interest in American politics and, since Obama's victory, I've watched events probably more closely than ever. Has he done enough to get my vote? My assessment is:

1.  He inherited a very difficult set of domestic and international issues, most of which were largely beyond his control.
2.  He came in with an impossible level of expectation.
3.  He has not been the agent of change that he was anticipated to be.
4.  I have been disappointed in many aspects of his foreign policy (increased use of drones, not closing Guantanemo, not making a bigger impact on the middle-Eastern debacle).
5.  I applaud his success over Obamacare and have been amazed at the vitriol directed towards him over this. To describe him as a socialist/communist because of this is laughable.
6.  He was faced with an unforgiving, obstructive and closet-racist opposition.
7.  His heart is in the right place but, more often than not, his analytical approach gives a false impression of distance.

And what of Mitt Romney?

1.  I can't forget that he's a product of the most odious opposition party I've ever seen. Tea Party anyone? The party that spawned Sarah Palin? Need I say more?
2.  I think he is an arch political opportunist and has been saying what it needs to win. Underneath he is an unreformed right-winger who is at the behest of a number of very unsavoury characters.
3.  I just can't believe the numbers he comes up with.
4. His choice of running mate. Paul Ryan, for heaven's sake. Joe Biden is never going to set the world alight, but Ryan just might - for the wrong reasons.
5. I think he shares many of David Cameron's characteristics and that's about as damning a comment as I can make.
6. I'm extremely uncomfortable about what I read of his foreign policy ideas.

That's enough to give a flavour of where my mind is running. If I had the vote, it would have an unambiguous X against Obama's name. He deserves a further term and, to my mind, Romney is not a viable alternative. I await the result with interest.