May Day Celebrations

Hal-an-Tow, jolly rumbelow
We were up long before the day-o
To welcome in the summer
To welcome in the May-o
The summer is coming in
And winter's gone away-o

We were, indeed, up long before the day.

This morning, May Day morning 2013, we went to Coldrum Stones in the North Downs of Kent at the crack of sparrowfart to welcome in the dawn in the company of the Hartley Morris Men. The celebrations began with Dave piping in the dawn on his bagpipes, and then at about 5:30am, as the sun rose behind a grey, cloudy sky, the Hartley Morris Men danced their first dance of the morning, which was Banks Of The Dee.

What would May Day morning be without fruit cake, impaled on a sword? Thank you, Phil, it was delicious.

The sun clearly had plans for the rest of the day, but it was keeping itself to itself during the dancing. They danced for about half an hour, finishing off in style with Bonny Green Garters.

To round off the celebrations at the stones we all went down to the foot of the hill, looking up towards the entrance to the burial chamber.

There we sang Hal-An-Tow to welcome in the May.

When all was done we went on to the Rose and Crown in Wrotham for a hearty breakfast, which was much needed, after our cold and early start.

The programme for the Hartley Morris summer can be found on their website.

Quote Of The Week - Rudyard Kipling, The Land

Rudyard Kipling was born in Bombay, and during his lifetime he travelled more than most. He knew and loved many countries, so it is telling that when he wrote about England he displayed such tenderness. His love of the country shines through his words, and for today's quote of the week I have chosen one of my favourite Kipling poems.

The Land

When Julius Fabricius, Sub-Prefect of the Weald,
In the days of Diocletian owned our Lower River-field,
He called to him Hobdenius—a Briton of the Clay,
Saying: "What about that River-piece for layin' in to hay?"

And the aged Hobden answered: "I remember as a lad
My father told your father that she wanted dreenin' bad.
An' the more that you neeglect her the less you'll get her clean.
Have it jest as you've a mind to, but, if I was you, I'd dreen."

So they drained it long and crossways in the lavish Roman style-
Still we find among the river-drift their flakes of ancient tile,
And in drouthy middle August, when the bones of meadows show,
We can trace the lines they followed sixteen hundred years ago.

Then Julius Fabricius died as even Prefects do,
And after certain centuries, Imperial Rome died too.
Then did robbers enter Britain from across the Northern main
And our Lower River-field was won by Ogier the Dane.

Well could Ogier work his war-boat—well could Ogier wield his brand—
Much he knew of foaming waters—not so much of farming land.
So he called to him a Hobden of the old unaltered blood,
Saying: "What about that River-piece; she doesn't look no good ?"

And that aged Hobden answered "'Tain't for me to interfere.
But I've known that bit o' meadow now for five and fifty year.
Have it jest as you've a mind to, but I've proved it time on time,
If you want to change her nature you have got to give her lime!"

Ogier sent his wains to Lewes, twenty hours' solemn walk,
And drew back great abundance of the cool, grey, healing chalk.
And old Hobden spread it broadcast, never heeding what was in't-
Which is why in cleaning ditches, now and then we find a flint.

Ogier died. His sons grew English—Anglo-Saxon was their name—
Till out of blossomed Normandy another pirate came;
For Duke William conquered England and divided with his men,
And our Lower River-field he gave to William of Warenne.

But the Brook (you know her habit) rose one rainy autumn night
And tore down sodden flitches of the bank to left and right.
So, said William to his Bailiff as they rode their dripping rounds:
"Hob, what about that River-bit—the Brook's got up no bounds?"

And that aged Hobden answered: "'Tain't my business to advise,
But ye might ha' known 'twould happen from the way the valley lies.
Where ye can't hold back the water you must try and save the sile.
Hev it jest as you've a mind to, but, if I was you, I'd spile!"

They spiled along the water-course with trunks of willow-trees,
And planks of elms behind 'em and immortal oaken knees.
And when the spates of Autumn whirl the gravel-beds away
You can see their faithful fragments, iron-hard in iron clay.

      .       .       .       .       .

Georgii Quinti Anno Sexto, I, who own the River-field,
Am fortified with title-deeds, attested, signed and sealed,
Guaranteeing me, my assigns, my executors and heirs
All sorts of powers and profits which—are neither mine nor theirs,

I have rights of chase and warren, as my dignity requires.
I can fish—but Hobden tickles. I can shoot—but Hobden wires.
I repair, but he reopens, certain gaps which, men allege,
Have been used by every Hobden since a Hobden swapped a hedge.

Shall I dog his morning progress o'er the track-betraying dew?
Demand his dinner-basket into which my pheasant flew?
Confiscate his evening faggot under which my conies ran,
And summons him to judgment? I would sooner summons Pan.

His dead are in the churchyard—thirty generations laid.
Their names were old in history when Domesday Book was made;
And the passion and the piety and prowess of his line
Have seeded, rooted, fruited in some land the Law calls mine.

Not for any beast that burrows, not for any bird that flies,
Would I lose his large sound counsel, miss his keen amending eyes.
He is bailiff, woodman, wheelwright, field-surveyor, engineer,
And if flagrantly a poacher—'tain't for me to interfere.

"Hob, what about that River-bit?" I turn to him again,
With Fabricius and Ogier and William of Warenne.
"Hev it jest as you've a mind to, but"—and here he takes command.
For whoever pays the taxes old Mus' Hobden owns the land.

Rudyard Kipling

Photo by Margo Benson

An Accident Of Birth - Cover Reveal

The moment has arrived... I now have cover art for An Accident Of Birth, which is planned for release in June 2013.

The year is 2754 and Francesca is 21 years old. As a rare fertile person in a largely infertile society she is a valuable resource for breeding and by law she is kept in an Atelier which is effectively a luxury hotel prison where she is required to breed.

Since she was brought here she has been waiting for her sweetheart Dominic to rescue her. She is coming to believe that he will never do so, but still hangs on to the possibility that he will. She ponders about the last few years and regrets that she didn’t run away and become a bolter when she had the chance. Exile would surely be better than this.

Baron Drake is a Fertile who has bolted and built a criminal empire exploiting people who either want to bolt, or who have done so, some with his rather expensive assistance.

Dominic, having exhausted his ideas for springing Francesca from her captivity, engages Baron Drake to do so on his behalf. It is a black market transaction with a large deposit and a huge balance to pay.

Baron Drake decides that Francesca is a worthy trophy and he will have her for himself. He turns on the charm and gains Francesca’s affections.

What follows is a competition between the sensitive and caring Dominic and the ruthless Baron Drake to get her free from the Atelier and to gain her love.

Cover design by www.jdsmith-design.com

The Madness Will Soon Begin: NaNo 2012

National Novel Writing Month is nearly here.

The madness will soon begin! The beginning of November is nearly here, and on November 1st approximately 300,000 people across the world will begin writing a novel, with the objective of completing it in at least 50,000 words in the month of November.

Madness.

Last year at this time Margo and I were in the middle of moving house, so sadly we couldn't participate, but this year...

There's no excuse.

To all of you out there who are considering participating in NaNo this year, I have a message:

I can't wait to see your NaNo novel on the shelves in the book shop.

Hats off to Chris Baty.

When Evolution Fails Us

What if, in a future generation, human fertility has dwindled to the point that fertility is a rare gift?

Every species has a natural drive to survive and reproduce. It is one of our most basic instincts, and let's face it, without that instinct, humankind wouldn't exist today. We fight for survival, and we love to reproduce.

Indeed, in many sectors of human society, couples who choose to remain childless are thought to be failing in their responsibility. This attitude, however dubious, is driven by primal instinct, not reason.

In recent years, studies have revealed some sobering facts. It seems that every generation is, on average, less fertile than its predecessor. We may be growing taller and bigger, but we're not as good at making babies.

The news reports which highlight these studies focus on the generation to generation decline in fertility, but do little to speculate on where it will lead. The reports generally measure fertility in terms of how many children are produced per couple. If the average is less than two then the population is declining.

We have to look a bit harder to find reports which talk about the biological ability of a couple to reproduce, rather than the choices they make. It seems that every generation is less biologically capable of reproduction than the last. According to Skakkebæk et al, “... data on semen quality collected systematically from reports published world wide indicate clearly that sperm density has declined appreciably during 1938-90, although we cannot conclude whether or not this decline is continuing.” [1].

That's pretty scary. If we were to take this to its logical conclusion, the end result could be catastrophic.

So, why is this happening? According to the Infertility Centre of St Louis, “The human male is known to have the worst sperm count of any mammalian species, with the exception of the gorilla, possibly because the fragile location of these sperm production genes lies on the Y chromosome. The process of recombination "repairs" chromosomes. Since genes on the Y do not recombine, the chromosome degenerates. Thus, the Y chromosome — which makes the male a male — deteriorates with each succeeding generation. It is not a very safe place for sperm production genes.” [2]

There's plenty of evidence, also, that lifestyle choices of parents, such as obesity and smoking, can have a serious adverse effect the offspring's fertility.

In today's society, most people are fertile, and the infertile are the unlucky ones, but will that change? Fifty generations from now, will we be frantically trying to find ways to secure the future of the human race?

What will society look like if fertility becomes a rarity? Will fertile people still be considered lucky when the rest of society depends on them to propagate the species? In such a scenario, would a fertile person be allowed to choose not to have children? How would genetic diversity be maintained to avoid the birth defects which result from inbreeding? How would the population be maintained?

In today's society most of us consider ourselves to be free, but are we really? We are subject to a profusion of laws which take up an impressively large room full of bookcases, most of which we don't know about and wouldn't understand if we did. More than this, we are subject to social pressures and taboos which greatly influence every aspect of our lives. Still, most of us are born 'free', and spend most of our lives believing that we live so.

Certainly there exists a slave trade, and a trade in unwilling prostitutes, but it is not exactly rare to be human or female. We're not going to be born with any biological features which might make us such a rarity that people would treat us as a resource; a commodity. Something to trade in.

But what if that weren't true? If fertility were rare, would those lucky few be the victims or the benefactors of their accident of birth?

Would they be treated as childbearing royalty or breeding slaves? Would they be able to chose a partner because they love them, or would they be forced into breeding with carefully selected, genetically compatible partners? Would their lives be dominated by social pressures or statutory rules? Would surrogacy be a choice, a lucrative contract between a fertile people and their clients, or would it be state controlled?

Would there be a whole black market; a criminal underworld, trading in the fertility of the few? Would supporting industries spring up? How about services for fertile people who wish to escape the bonds of their condition?

These questions are not easy to answer. How society might respond to such changes is no more than speculation. Nonetheless, if and when it comes, we will have to respond, one way or another.

However we set about tackling the problems posed by increasing infertility, conflict is bound to arise. Different people will have differing beliefs about how to deal with the problem. Whatever solution is chosen, there will be those who don't accept it.

Would that lead to social unrest? Quite possibly. Large scale differences of public opinion on emotive subjects often do.

Will it change the face of politics? The world of politics is there to serve the greater social interest (or so it should be), and what greater interest than the survival of the species?

We don't really know how long it will take for dwindling fertility to become a threat to the future of humankind, or indeed, whether it ever will, but one thing is clear. The trend towards diminished fertility raises some difficult social questions.

For now, we have to rely on works of speculative fiction, such as An Accident Of Birth, for answers to these questions.

~

[1] Carlsen, E., A Giwercman, N Keiding, N Skakkebæk. 1992. Evidence for Decreasing Quality of Semen During Past 50 Years. British Medical Journal 305:609-613.

http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC1883354/pdf/bmj00091-0019.pdf

[2] http://www.infertile.com/infertility-treatments/millennium.htm

An Accident Of Birth

I'm moving on from my working title.

Exit: Bolter Baron
Enter: An Accident Of Birth

I've written the book, and edited it several times. I have worked with critique partners, and finally I have a fully edited manuscript, for which the working title was Bolter Baron. I've now, after much deliberation and nail-biting, given it a title which I believe will be more appropriate:

An Accident Of Birth

I feel that the way the new title positions the story is much more appropriate for the mood and content than the working title.

I hope you agree, and if you honour me by reading the story once it's published, I believe you will.

So, what's next? I shall send out copies to beta readers. I can't wait to get their feedback.

After that...

The world is, as they say, my small, shell-like thing. Let's hope there's a pearl in it.

The Big Move

Here I am again, after a hiatus of nearly six months. I've missed you all, I've been away too long, and all because - wait for it - we moved.

That was it. It's the last time we move house. I've promised myself that.

We had so much stuff to get rid of that we just started flinging stuff out for the bin collectors, driving carloads of stuff to the municipal tip, filling the bins every time they were emptied, then piling black bags next to it.

Thank God for bi-weekly bin collections. After all, if they emptied them every week we'd miss out on wondering how to get rid of the swarm of rodents that plague the bin. We'd even be able to get rid of all our rubbish. It's too much to ask, really.

So, there we were, cheerfully chucking out all our unwanted stuff, sorting, figuring out how we might want to pack stuff up for moving, then BAM! Sold.

How we laughed. They wanted to complete the transaction (I love that word) in about three weeks.

You can just see it, can't you? We poured the bubbly and chinked glasses.

"Cheers. Here's to the next owner. Now, the packing - bloody hell, quick..."

We didn't really count how many boxes we packed, but it was well over two hundred. Some of them were wardrobe boxes; large things that carry clothes on hangers and have room for a few bits and pieces to rattle around at the bottom. Some of them were small book boxes, and some were in-between sizes.


There were a lot of book boxes. The kind you fill up and then when you try to pick it up you damage your back.

To cut a long story short, when the removals lorry arrived at our new home, we started bringing the furniture and boxes in, and after lunch (we started at dawn) we started to seriously wonder if we could fit everything in the new house.

We managed to, but only by stacking it everywhere we could find space.

Then the real fun started.

Every room needed decorating. We had had the forsight to get the new carpets fitted in all the rooms before the lorry arrived, but we didn't know at that time that we need to replace the entire central heating system. Radiators, boiler, piping, the works.

I won't go into the damage you can get from the black sludge that torrents out of the old central heating, when it's removed, and... into the nice new carpets. That's a story for another day. Suffice to say, we've had our fair share of setbacks.

And... What is it with plumbers, builders and other trades people? Don't they want the work? Is it too much to ask that a professional person returns a call? Turns up when they say they will? Apparently it is.

To every rule, though, there is an exception. Thank you so much John Potts, Plumber, and Steve. Reliable, high quality work, friendly and great to deal with.

On a positive note, we've built a built-in wardrobe, put up about 185 linear feet of bookshelves (so far), built a built-in desk for both of us in the study, modernised the kitchen and bathroom, and decorated about half the house. Just the other half left to do...

Not a bad start.

Well, anyway. That's why I haven't been around in the blogsphere lately. But now I'm back, and glad to see you.

I hope you are all enjoying a prosperous, happy and healthy 2012