Tuesday, 1 January 2008

The Meeting Place

To commerate the re-opening St Pancras railway station and inspired by its Paul Day statue, The Meeting Place
The Friday evening Eurostar glided into St Pancras like an ice dancer, three minutes ahead of time, having left Paris just over two hours earlier. Jocelyn felt her stomach flip and her heart jump at the sight of the white, blue and gold train. It slid into place along the platform and sighed to a halt. This, she realised, could be the most important moment of her life. The most wonderful, or the most horrible.

Either way, she would never forget what was about to happen next.

Don’t go

Wait for me

She made her way from where she had been standing beneath the Paul Day statue to watch the crowds coming up to the ticket barrier. Dozens upon dozens of people, like a ragged, growing tide, began to drag round her. The business man in his smart suit, shoulder bag and lap-top, the family group perhaps back from a holiday, the young woman with a child, the middle-aged woman steering a trolley of luggage, the couples and the singles, like a billowing cloud around her, blocking her view. And still she could not see the one face she sought. Was Dominic going to be there, amongst them?

She was distracted by a cry from her right, as two people fled into each others outstretched arms, reunited at last.

"I expect you’ll forget me," she had said.

That day, she had just been to order a new tumble dryer for her flat. On the way back from the store, the heavens opened, great fat gobs of water splattering. As she dived for the cover of a taxi, they met.

"Share?" he suggested.

The rest of the hours of the day they passed together. As the light faded, Jocelyn realised a feeling of contentment, like she had never known before. She was thinking of the many days to come when Dominic broke his news.

"I have to go away – a long trip. Europe, then the Middle East, India, China and Polynesia. It’s all to do with work, liaising with local offices."

"When?"

"Tomorrow."

"That – " she shifted her gaze from his, "… not what I wanted to hear."

"I know. I’m sorry. It’s my job. It will be the big trip for the company. Once it’s done, someone else can worry about the day-to-day details. I was quite looking forward to it. I never took a gap year from college. Now I’m not so sure I want to go."

"It’s part of your work. The thing that keeps you going," she said. Where was that from? "Where is Polynesia?" she tried to sound intellectually curious, detached.

"What is Polynesia? – That’s what I said," he told her, trying to joke. "I thought it was the ability to forget a parrot, when they first told me. Either that or being able to forget about several things at once."

"Are you likely to forget things?"

"Oh, lots of things. I forget almost everything given half a chance."

"Does that included strangers you’ve met?"

"Strangers, yes."

"So you could forget me?"

"You’re not a stranger," he said, "I feel I’ve already known you for ages."

"But you haven’t."

"Don’t misunderstand – I’m sure it will take ages more to get to know even a tiny bit about you."

"How long will you be gone?"

"About two months. Not sure exactly. Perhaps you won’t want to know me then. I mean, if I can’t wash my clothes while I’m away." He offered a remorseful smile.

"You’ll need a tumble dryer," she said.

Thoughts passed between them.

Don’t leave

Don’t forget

His postcard had a picture of a parrot – a scarlet Macaw. It said when he would be back. After that were the words, "Wish I wasn’t here."

Perhaps she had got the wrong date or time. She had washed the sweatshirt she jogged in, not realising she’d pushed the postcard into the pocket, until she found it mangled and shredded in the very same tumble dryer she’d bought that day. Somehow she had forgotten to check before she threw the shirt in the wash after her morning run. The date and time of his return had been on the card and she was sure she remembered them anyway. But what if she were wrong?

What if he didn’t want to come back and see her after all. They had barely had time to get to know each other. Time – something you always have too much or too little of.

The stragglers from the train were clearing the platform. If he had been amongst the passengers she had missed him. More probably, he just wasn’t there. He’d said he forgot things. Perhaps she was one of them. She was positive she had seen everybody who had got off the train. Even when she’d glanced away at the affectionate couple greeting. Hurt and disappointment pricked and stabbed at the back of her eyes. She turned and, slowly at first, but with gathering pace, she began to walk away.

Just as she hurried beneath the statue, her gaze fixed resolutely on the ground, someone got in her way. Before she could side-step, she had collided with the stranger. Why couldn’t the fool look where he was going? She stared up angrily into the eyes of the irritating person blocking her path.

"Hullo," said Dominic.

"Dominic!" She thought her eyes were lying to her. "Did you just come in on the train?"

"Why else would I be at the station?" he smiled.

"But I didn’t see you coming off the platform." She almost stamped her foot.

"You must have missed me."

"Missed you? Missed you? I was waiting at the barrier!"

"I did say, ‘beneath the statue.’ If you’d stayed at the barrier I might have missed you."

I remembered

I’m here now

He put his arms around her waist. She reached up to touch him on the cheek. She didn’t speak, just looked into his eyes.

"I told you I’d come back," Dominic said.

"I never doubted it," she answered in a whisper. It may have been a lie, but it didn’t matter.

She was right. She would remember this moment for the rest of her life.

The end.

Friday, 28 December 2007

Winter Song

The time will come for everyone of us to say goodbye to all
We’ll meet again upon that distant shore
Where pain and misery will be
Just memories of what used to be
And happiness will reign for ever more

But it will not be as it should be
If I don’t have you standing next to me
Your love is all that I desire
It’s all I need, all I require
To make this happy day of life complete
To make this happy day of life complete

And as we come to the year’s end
With brothers, sisters, foes and friends
Both by our side and scattered round the Earth
The memories that we hold so dear
Of precious ones both far and near
The future starts now with our love’s re birth

But it will not be as it should be
If I don’t have you standing next to me
Your love is all that I desire
It’s all I need, all I require
To make this happy day of life complete
To make this happy day of life complete

And as we gather round the fire
The flames of hope reach ever higher
All come and join beside us in the feast
Holding hands and in the calm
Sharing in this safe and warm
I wish you all Love, Happiness and Peace
I wish you all Love, Happiness and Peace
I wish you all Love, Happiness and Peace
I wish you all Love, Happiness and Peace
I wish you all Love, Happiness and Peace

Friday, 21 December 2007

The Truth About Santa Claus

Christmas should be a magical holiday. But how can you believe in magic when Reality keeps getting in the way? Then again, sometimes, even Reality has a few tricks.

Kids have a right to believe certain things. Should we believe in fairies and elves? Is Christmas a special time? Should we believe in Santa Claus?

I’m not sure whether you should believe this story. But I promise you, it could be true. I had gone into what had once been called "The Traveller’s Rest" for a couple of drinks before the evening shift at work. It was around tea-time, the shops were shutting and it was a bitingly cold, wet evening. Christmas was not far away, and all the decorations and coloured lights and other trappings of the so-called festive season just served to throw my own despondency into stark relief. This Christmas did not look like it was going to be one of the best of times. I was in a job I didn't like, which didn't pay enough to cover the bills on my credit cards. And my girlfriend was leaving me, at the end of the week. It was going to be a great Christmas.

I was slightly surprised to see, that quiet December evening, one of the barmaids standing on the other side of the bar, evidently on her day off, making a social call. She was chatting to one of the barmaids on duty, and a chap, who answered to the name of Chris and who I gathered was the manager. The barmaid off duty had brought with her a young girl, of about eight or so, probably her daughter, to show off to the other staff.

Chris, the manager, was explaining with great gusto and in great detail, all his clever plans to make the most money out of the forthcoming holiday season, especially Christmas and New Year's Eves. On the one hand, his know-all clever-dickness was getting on my nerves, on the other he just sounded like a guy who knew his job very well.

It was at this point that Chris decided to share another snippet of his vast range of knowledge with the little girl. "And I'll tell you something, Sarah, about Santa Claus."

"What?" asked Sarah, agog with anticipation. She'd probably been looking forward to Christmas for weeks, and the merest mention of Santa Claus stirred her excitement.

"Santa Claus doesn't exist!" Chris announced.

"What?" she said.

"Santa Claus doesn't exist."

"Yes he does," she said, with determination, defying him. "Course he does!"

"Course he doesn't," he insisted. "How could he? How many chimneys are there in the world? Millions, right? - " I was wondering when we'd get round to statistics again - "And how long does it take you to see just ten of your friends in an evening?"

She tried to answer him, but she was clearly worried. Seeing he had an audience that could not escape either his logic or his voice, he continued, "Santa Claus can't exist. He couldn't get down all then chimneys in one evening. And some people don't even have chimneys. So he can't exist."

"Yes he can," she insisted, "He's magic!"

"He's not magic," said Chris, "Santa Claus is dead! So you can forget about Santa turning up on Christmas Day. It ain't gonna happen."

There was nothing more she could say to that, and she fell silent.

I drained my glass and prepared to go. Just at that moment, the little girl got up and walked past me to look at a pinball machine by the door. She was still very quiet.

As I got level with her, on my way out, I leaned over to her, and said, quietly, "Don't you take any notice. Santa Claus does exist, you know?"

She said nothing, staring at her feet. I'd said what I had wanted to say, and my hand was almost on the door. Then, I said, "You do believe, don't you?"

She looked at me briefly, then her gaze returned, silent, to the floor.

"Listen," I tried again, " I know he exists. Because I've seen him."

This got her attention, at last. Her eyes were so big and dark, you could fall into them. "When?" she said.

"Well," I said, "it was a long time ago." I had to stop and think what to say next. I had a feeling it might be important. "It was a long time ago," I continued, "well, not all that long, really, when I was just a little bit older than you are now. And I was growing up, and one or two people - one or two silly older people who didn't really know anything really - were telling me that as I was growing up I shouldn't believe in Santa Claus any more. They told me Santa Claus didn't exist.

"Then it came round to Christmas, and I started saying, 'I don't believe in Santa Claus any more, he doesn't exist'. Though I felt a bit funny about it really."

"Why?" she said.

"Well, I'd always believed in Santa Claus before and I had always got lots and lots of really nice presents every Christmas, and here I was saying he didn't exist. That wasn't a very nice way of saying 'thank you,' was it? Hm?"

"Suppose so."

"And then it got to Christmas Eve, and I went to bed early, saying, 'I don't believe in Santa Claus.' And I settled down just to go to sleep. But I couldn't sleep. So I got up, and I went downstairs to where we had this big Christmas Tree. And there were presents all around the bottom of the tree, presents for every one. Every one, that is, except me."

Sarah looked suitably impressed by this.

"Every one had been left a present, except me. And it was all because I stopped believing. Because I had said Santa Claus didn't exist. And I ran out of the house, thinking, 'Oh no, it's too late, Santa's gone and not left me any presents, all because I didn't believe in Santa Claus.' And I bet you'll never guess what happened next!"

Sarah's eyes were firmly fixed on mine by now. "What happened?"

"I looked up in the sky, and that's when I saw Santa Claus! He was up there, in his sleigh, being pulled across the sky by his reindeer, and all their bells were ringing, and he had a big sack of presents on the back of his sleigh, the biggest sack you've ever seen. I called to him, 'Santa, I'm sorry, I'm sorry I didn't believe in you! Come back!' But he was in a hurry. He had presents to deliver to all the other children, the ones that still believed in him. He didn't have time to waste on people who thought he didn't exist. But it was too late, now. Or so I thought." I gave her an inscrutable look.

"Why? What did you do?"

"Well, I went back in the house, and I couldn't believe my eyes. Because, there, all around the Christmas Tree where they had been presents for everyone else but me, there was an even bigger pile of presents!"

"An even bigger pile?"

"An even bigger pile! And all of them were for me. And there was a card, for me, too. Do you know who it was from?"

"Santa Claus!" she squealed.

"Yes, Santa Claus! And do you know what it said?"

"What?"

"It said 'Just Kidding'!"

"'Just kidding'?"

"That's right. Santa Claus was just kidding that he wasn't going to leave me any presents. He knew I still believed in him really. He just wanted to make sure I didn't forget!"

Sarah stared at me, her eyes twinkling. I watched her tiny bright face, and started to laugh. And she laughed too.

"So," I said, just glancing for a moment in the direction of Chris, "you'd better remember Santa Claus really does exist, because you've met someone who's actually seen him."

* * * * *

Well, I got in to my job and did a terrible night's work, and it got to the end of the week my girlfriend moved out, and then it was Christmas Eve. I was stuck in the house all alone, and no amount of trying to watch the banal pap that passed as festive entertainment on the TV was going to get me in the mood to celebrate anything. I had steadfastly turned down any offer from friends to go to any party or anyone's house, because I didn't want to turn up alone, and now I was regretting it. I decided to try the local pub, a dull pit of a place - at least the landlord would have restricted himself to a few paper streamers. It was a place I normally avoided, so there was no-one there that I knew, but I picked it tonight because it was in walking distance.

I thought briefly about all that cobblers I had told that little girl. Making her believe in fairy stories, when there was a real world to grow up into. What had I done? Poor little girl, I thought. "Stuff this," I said to myself, and I wandered off home.

When I got back to the house, I realised something was slightly different. I let myself in, and found the small reading light in the living room was on. I was certain that I had left it switched off when I had gone out. The house was quiet, but not in the deathly, isolated way it had seemed before, but peaceful and welcoming. In the little pool of light, on the coffee table, there were some packages. Someone had been in the house while I had been out.

There were various people who had a spare set of keys - my folks for instance, and my girlfriend, of course, and a set that were hidden under a plant pot outside the door, that several of our friends knew about. I figured that it could be any of them that had decided to call round, leaving whatever they had been doing that Christmas Eve in order to see me, and I'd been out. So they had left me some presents! I could hardly believe it. A feeling came over me that I could not describe. It was as if I had been standing for a tremendous time in a shadow, and now I had stepped out of it.

Suddenly, as daft as it sounds, I didn't feel lonely any more. I made up my mind that I would find out who the presents were from, and make sure that I went round and thanked whoever it was next day. And I wouldn't stay in on my own being a miserable git feeling sorry for myself, but I would get out and have a good time. After all , it was Christmas! A time to celebrate had to find who the presents were from, so that I could thank them, even if they were only pairs of socks, unbearable after-shave and a ghastly tie. They had really made my evening.

But the first thing I picked up was not a parcel, but a small envelope. I opened it, and a plain little card slid in to my hand. Inside, written in a wide, flowing handwriting - that I couldn't recognise and yet it looked familiar - was a two-word message.

It said, "Just kidding."

Then, at the bottom: "Thank you!"

It was the best Christmas I've ever had.

The end

Tuesday, 11 December 2007

Home From Home

A death in the family - a tragedy, good fortune, a coincidence? Or even more?
#

(This story was originally published in Chorley and District Writers' Circle magazine, Aware, issue 3, November 2007, on the theme Home and Away.)

I stepped into the familiar hallway over a dune of junk mail circulars and free-sheet newspapers. The air was at once familiar yet cloyingly strange – the house had been shut up for many weeks. It was tomb-like, yet I breathed the air I knew from childhood. So different from the boiled cabbage, urine and disinfectant soaked atmosphere I had had to tolerate recently.

I entered the living room. Brown wallpaper, some faded floral pattern whose colour scheme seemed to be based on recycled teabags. The fusty armchair, seat bellowed inwards. Dull books on the shelf, dull ornaments and pictures. All this would have to change. Not a problem now. This chair would be first to go. This was where my father died.

At least, that is to be assumed. That is where they had found him. It was a fair assumption. It’s where I had last seen him alive.

‘What am I going to do?’ he had asked. ‘Everything was going to come to you. And I’ve tried to keep going on my own, but it’s too much.’

‘You are very ill, father,’ I had agreed.

‘But I can’t look after myself anymore.’

‘I look after you, father.’

‘I know you do.’ He tried, painfully, to readjust himself in his chair, and grimaced. ‘Pass me one of my little friends, will you.’

I handed him the book-sized bag – it had been a sort of pencil case, I think. But, instead of pencils, it contained spliffs of cannabis, papers, lump of ‘substance’ wrapped in Clingfilm. He took one, lit it, and drew deeply on it. Hot tiny cinders fell from the end and burned pinprick holes in his old shirt – I was surprised the health visitor never picked up on this. ‘If I go into a care home, this is the one thing I will miss,’ he said at length, hoarsely. ‘You know, this is the only thing that gives me any relief from the pain?’

‘Yes, I know, father. You’ve told me many times. Many times. You forget, don’t you?’

‘Do I?’

I reached for his other medical kit, the one with the insulin, and, as I did so, I couldn’t help feeling how life could be so unfair, inflicting a man with two severe illnesses, diabetes and MS, either of which could, if left untreated, kill him. I checked his blood sugar tester and absent-mindedly looked up the dose – I already knew the table pretty much by heart.

‘The thing is, I can’t go into care unless I sell up the house. I will need the money to pay for the home.’

‘Not on medical grounds,’ I reminded him, patiently, for the umpteenth time.

‘But I will need the residential care – I need somewhere comfortable where I’ll be properly looked after.’

I passed him his syringe. ‘The Health Service will look after you.’

‘No they won’t,’ he insisted, as always. He equated National Health Service care as being in hospital, incarcerated, waiting out his days.

‘Here you are.’

He started to cough intermittently, the smoke irritating his lungs. God help us, I thought, if he also ended up getting cancer. However, I noticed that, apart from the shaking from each minor spasm, the tremor in his hands had eased. I wondered if he would make the injection himself. It would be easier.

‘You do it, son. My little friend is making me a bit woozy.’

‘You can do it, Dad,’ I reassured him. ‘Your hand’s much steadier now.’

I had left shortly after and that’s how they found him. When the post-mortem showed he had died from a pulmonary embolism, that there was air in the injection fluid and my fingerprints on the syringe, I was arrested and charged with murder. I had means, opportunity and, with the chance of being bequeathed an entire house, the motive. They made it sound like I had almost been sloppy. Some rising star was picked by the CPS to make the prosecution case just for the practice, so sure were they of winning, of sending me away for a long time. I should get used to my prison cell. It would be my home for many years to come.

I had my own hot-shot lawyer, however. While I was on remand, waiting interminably for the case to come to court, we went over my defence. Counsel is not allowed to coach a witness, even one speaking in his own defence. There is no law against doing things the other way around, however.

I merely suggested that my father had increasingly relied on illicit drugs for pain relief. It was perhaps no surprise that he had graduated from just cannabis to intravenous heroin. And the post-mortem also concluded that my father had enough of the stuff in his bloodstream to anaesthetise a horse. Certainly that would have been enough to kill him. I often gave him his insulin injections because of his hand tremor. Of course my fingerprints would be on the syringe. It would not be possible, with his prints and mine both present, to say who handled the little glass tube last.

Why, if I had wanted to kill my father, would I use two different methods to finish him off, especially one that was so easily detectable?

This was sufficient to sew doubt in the mind of the jury. Much more reasonable to assume the old man had been ham-fisted in preparing the injection for himself, before I even arrived for my daily visit. That I’d already left before took it. The simplest explanation is always thought the most likely.

And so, the case had collapsed. I was discharged, a free man, not put away to rot out the remainder of my life, any more than my father had needed to be put away to see out his own.

I stood in the house I had grown up in, and had now inherited, without a stain on my character, nor, for that matter, on my conscience.

The fact that I had prepared the fatal injection containing both heroin and the bubble of air that had formed a clot in my father’s lungs, swiftly and painlessly killing him, was irrelevant. I was in the clear, I was home free.

I was home.
The end

Wednesday, 31 October 2007

Season's Greetings

A rant, just in time for the 'Festive Season.'

Autumn is often regarded as the most emotive of seasons. The bright glory of lazy summer days or the high activity of holidays in the resplendent sunshine give way to the fading grandeur of woodland in a gaudy yet decaying plumage. It is with a feeling of being reconciled that the year is coming to an end. Yes, Autumn is a season of resigned calm. This is what autumn does to us writers and poets.

Not so, the season of Winter. Winter is an ugly beast that chillingly wants to suck on the marrow of our bones. But there is a most hideous evil at the heart of Winter! I speak openly of none other than the abomination that is called: "Christmas."

Everyone knows that Christmas is bad for you. Normally sensible people who diligently handle their financial affairs suddenly lose all sense of reason and blow every penny. People binge openly. Habitually-temperate individuals are to be seen as drunk as a lecturer with a pay rise, or a poet with any pay at all. Alcohol intake soars, tobacco, otherwise eschewed, is suddenly fashionable, as cigars light up like bonfires, food is gobbled in vast quantities as diets are cast aside, waistlines bulge, five a day comes to mean "meals," rather than "portions of vegetables." Promiscuity is encouraged, with sinister rituals dragged up from antiquity involving sprigs of plants such as mistletoe. Never mind how many children are conceived outside wedlock during this period, the number who start life outside any kind of enduring relationship must be staggering. All the more frightening is proportion where the act of conception has been captured for posterity on a photocopier at office parties.

And then there’s the lies to the children. How many children are dumb enough to believe a fat interloper in a conspicuous costume but with his hooded face covered can enter umpteen different properties all around the globe simultaneously though an antiquated and indeed often non-existent heating system? And then just give things away for nothing in return, no favours of any kind. The fat guy and the sleigh, all the supernatural creatures and the cloven-footed animals with illuminating body parts, it is revealed as the children get older, were invented, and used as a form of behavioural modification blackmail as the year’s end approached. Trust you parents after that? Why should you? They’ll say rubbing belly-buttons makes babies next!

Then there’s the extended family and the problems Christmastime entails. Families are extended for a reason – the reason is they can’t stand being near each other and want to put as much distance between who they share a blood line with. Blood is thicker than water and it usually ends up spilled on the carpet. Families getting together is the biggest cause of family breakdown in the world today. This is not rocket science – they couldn’t break down if they weren’t brought together in a supercritical mass in the first place, could they. It’s a sociological atom bomb waiting to go off.

While all that’s going on, there are questions about the damage inflicted on commerce and industrial activity. Whole industries close down while others, briefly, like fungus, spring up in their place. Just when they are needed most, in what should be their money-making peak of the year, plumbers and electricians disappear. And not only does God not exist, try finding a doctor or dentist at Christmas. Absenteeism is so rife, some companies can’t even tell whether they are actually still operating any longer or have gone into receivership. From the customers’ point of view, as far as public transport is concerned, it may as well have done so. "How was your journey then?" "How do you bloody think it was? No wonder Joseph and Mary had to stay in a stable – we nearly had to break our trip at a bloody Travelodge!"

Almost the ultimate indignity is yet to come. This is referred to as The Christmas Number One. For music-lovers everywhere, this alone is justification to stick a pencil into each ear and swirl it around until you stop moving. (A similar phenomenon with the eye is to be encountered when you are forced by some niece you have discovered makes you watch a DVD of Dude Where’s My Car? or Weekend at Bernie’s II. While on the TV, just to get you in the Christmas mood, there’s Saving Private Ryan followed by Schindler’s List.)

Christmas is as desperate as a famine inside a war inside a plague. Finally there is the social cost. This is best illustrated by the colossal, soul-crushing feeling of desperation when you find that you are actually left out of the festivities, that you have no cringe-inducing parties to attend, no visitors nor people to visit, no presents, no cards and only the wallpaper for company. As if to rub salt in the wound, the televisions companies have started to pick up on this and just as you are sitting through your umpteenth viewing of North By Northwest they spray across the screen a phone number you can call "if you’d like to talk to someone." How would you start such a conversation? "I’m such a Billy-No-Mates, I was going to slash my wrists but I can’t find the kitchen knife so I thought I would call you, you self-pious, do-gooding little bastard."

Christmas begins to blight us now from the beginning of September along with the anniversary of the start of World War II – a re-enactment of the Somme artillery barrage rumbles on from mid October till advent calendars come into use. Then New Year (why does the Year of Our Lord start seven days after the anniversary of His arrival – did someone forget to post the birth announcement? Had they been sniffing too much myrrh to remember till a week later? "Messiah arrived – must make a note." Then it’s back to work, just preceded by carting car-loads of wrapping paper, greetings cards, the odd dodgy present and possibly the odd clingy relative, to the recycling centre, staggering credit car bills or mind-numbing overdrafts until the final embarrassment of St Valentine’s Day. At last, you can remind yourself, Summer is now not far off, once you’ve got past Easter.

Then you’ve got about six months before the whole ghastly spectacle begins all over again. Let nothing you dismay, you merry gentlemen! God rest ye!

The End (-ish)

Wednesday, 24 October 2007

The Road To Perdition

What might happen if you let students - an intemperate bunch at best by all accounts - to throw a party behind the students union bar. Nostalgia about what might have happened afterwards

"Where does this road go?"

"It doesn’t go anywhere – it’s stationary."

"Stationery!" I said in mock surprise, at an attempt of surreal humour. "You mean it’s made of paper? It’ll collapse into the Bristol Channel!"

"It’s stood here for years," said Tariq. "Solid as a rock." All night he’d adopted this insouciant tone. At first it had seemed hilarious. Then funny. Then slightly amusing. Now, in the grey morning, it was getting just a tad irritating. This may have been in inverse proportion to how sober I was. "What’s to stop a big gust of wind blowing us off this bridge and into the water, dozens of feet –"

" – hundreds of feet – " He corrected.

" – hundreds of feet below?"

"Well, there’s that railing there."

"Then what?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Absolutely nothing."

"Would the authorities come and rescue us?" I pressed the point.

"God, no."

"Why not?"

"Well… if they’d seen us here at all, they’d have come and arrested us for trespass."

"But that’s still no reason not to rescue us."

"It is, if you think about it," Tariq reasoned, reasonably. "You see, if they’d not seen us to arrest us, they’d can’t have seen us to rescue us, can they? Besides…"

"Besides – what?"

"Besides, the fall would kill you, and even if it didn’t, you would drown in the current. If the hypothermia didn’t get you first. So it’d hardly be worth their bother."

I digested this. We’d been walking for about half an hour on the path-and-cycle-way that ran alongside the elevated approach to the Severn Bridge. This, Tariq had informed me, was a cantilevered path. I looked up ‘cantilever’ much later, and it said: "A cantilever is a beam anchored at one end and projecting into space." I could aver that this was true. The path was "temporarily closed for safety reasons" with a small barrier but we’d scrambled over that. We were now barely out over the water and hadn’t even reached the huge concrete structure, the size of a large block of flats, into which the suspension cables were anchored. There was absolutely no cover of any kind and we would have been clearly visible for miles to anyone who’d cared to look.

"Well I’d hate to put them out, if they’re so busy not seeing trespassers and all. I mean we’re hardly hidden from view." Even to myself I was beginning to sound a little grumpy.

"No, but we are a long way off. That’s probably why they haven’t seen us." Tariq still seemed as chipper as ever. "That and the fact that no-one in his right mind normally crosses on foot."

"Tariq, exactly why are we crossing the Bristol Channel by suspension bridge on foot at nine o’clock in the morning."

"Ah. You do you remember last night?"

"Which bits?"

"The later bits."

"The bar-staff party."

"And afterwards?"

"Nope." I strained to recall something. Something that might have been important, the sort of thing that explained why I was here now doing this thing. "Not really. Little bits. The bar closed. We tidied up in twenty minutes and that left us forty minutes in which to cram an entire party evening’s drinking, before the Students’ Union building shut and we all got slung out. We started drinking and… I don’t think I remember anything after that."

"The people all lying around on the grass?"

"Not really. Were they drunk?"

"It was hard to tell. They were all unconscious." Tariq seemed remarkably unconcerned about this, much as he was about everything else.

"Don’t you think they might have been drunk before they became unconscious?" I asked.

"Oh, yes. Let’s face it, everyone was drunk. In fact, every thing was drunk by the time we were thrown out."

"Why weren’t we unconscious?"

"Must have been down to our robust constitutions," Tariq grinned. "Anyway, that’s when I suggested that we go down to Keele motorway services and hitch a ride with the first truck-driver who’d give us a lift."

"You did what?" I’m not sure how much I was surprised, feigning outrage, or genuinely outraged. "Why couldn’t I have just been unconscious like everybody else?

"You said you thought it was a good idea."

"I said that? Why didn’t you disagree with me?"

"I thought it was a good idea, too. After all, it had been my idea. So that’s what we did. You insisted on going back to your room first for some reason, then we set off."

"You can’t just hitch-hike away from a hangover."

"Oh no? Look at you now? Up, fresh as a daisy, out in the bracing open air. Imagine all those others – just waking up with their heads throbbing. Have you got a hangover?"

He had a point. But so did I. "No – but I’m nearly getting my tits blown off in this ‘bracing air’!"

"So it wasn’t such a bad idea."

"But… but how? What happened?"

"We got a lift to Aust Services back there and the driver said he was having a stop-over, so we said we’d walk."

"But why are we crossing the River Severn bridge on a pathway closed to the public?" I persisted.

"Because it’s there!"

"But we don’t have to be!"

"And to get to the other side, of course."

"Of course. How silly of me."

"Because, on the other side is where my uncle lives. He owns a pub in Caerleon. The Red Lion. Or the White Lion, I’m not sure which. But I’m sure we’ll find it. And he can give us a lift back to Keele."

I was starting to worry that this was actually making some kind of sense, when it shouldn’t. "Tariq, don’t take this personally, but you’re, sort of, of a dusky Asian hue and you’re from Bolton. How come you’ve got an uncle who owns a pub in south Wales?"

"What’s wrong with that? I’m a good barman back at the Students’ Union, aren’t I? Serving booze to white folks runs in our family."

"I suppose you’ve got a point. How far is it to Caerleon?"

"Oo… only a few minutes’ walk. We’ll soon be there."

"Tariq, we’ve been walking for hours and we’re not even half way across and I can barely see land in either direction."

"It’s just a trick of perspective. The bridge is only a couple of miles long – at most – including the approach sections.

"Then – how far to Caerleon?"

"Not far. Only about 15 miles."

"Only!…"

"There’s two things to keep in mind. Firstly, don’t look down."

I looked down. We appeared to be walking on thin steel plate. Well, it looked like steel plate. Its apparent thinness was revealed because at frequent if irregular intervals there were holes right through the metal, for no readily apparent reason, about the diameter of a ten pence piece, revealing the steel to about the thickness of a ten pence piece. Clearly visible below that, about as far down as a ten storey building, curling, twisting brown waves, like a pit of vipers, wriggled, waiting with waning patience for their prey to fall amongst them.

"What was the second thing?" I croaked.

"We’ll be alright, just so long as we don’t hit a spot of bad weather."



We reached about half-way across the bridge, and became the centre of a sphere of air, sky and water, with just a puny piece of engineering to indicate Man’s existence. At that point, some weather – a spot, bad – blew in from the general direction of America, and it seemed to be in a hurry. The metal at our feet was matched by the metal sky overhead, and the metal water below disappeared from view as we became entombed in a racing ball of cloud. Every step we took seemed to turn us sideways. To have jumped up, losing contact with the armour-like decking, would have been suicidal.

Then the rain came in. To call it rain was a bit of a liberty, insofar as the only resemblance this phenomenon had to rain was that it was wet. Horizontal spears of water daggered into us, making us yelp. But this was just the beginning. We started to realise we might be in serious trouble when it became unwise even to lift one foot off the slicked surface, and we attempted a cross-country skiing movement. Progress went from slow to slower. Then, as the bullet rods and hydro-tracer puckered and cratered my denim jacket, making it dark as though stained with blood, we fell to our knees. As an afterthought, we decided to lie down altogether and time froze – as, indeed, did we – until the venom of the elements subsided once more. Eventually, the wind lessened, we got to our feet and we plodded on in what was to me a bubble of misery.

Long after we were no longer over the waters of the Bristol Channel, the road continued in an elevated arc round to the west parallel to the bum of Wales. Hours seemed to drag past. Eventually road met land, and we were able to get off the motorway and walk on the grass embankment alongside. Caerleon, whatever it was like, still did not hove into view. I was not sure how it would appear but I was imagining something like Valhalla. The morning grew old and tired.

At long last, we crossed under the motorway to get on its northern side and approached a motley collection of buildings. This was Caerleon. This was Caerleon? It was, probably, quite a pleasant village – it even had some Roman remains somewhere, to which some human remains were in danger of being added – mine – but it was hard to appreciate under the circumstances. Its one merit was that it contained a public house where we could find shelter, rest, food and, most importantly, transport to take us back to the home whence we’d so pointlessly come.

It took some time for Tariq to identify the correct pub. It turned out that Caerleon, with a population of just two thousand souls, had twelve of the establishments. The one we wanted was in fact called The Black Bull – Tariq had been close, apart from an appalling lack of awareness of colour and zoology.

The only thing was, we were too early and the place was still shut.

We had nowhere left to go.

All we could do was wait for his relatives to wake, open up, let us in and take us back to the little student residence blocks we called home.

"Drink has driven me to this," I exhaled, and, exhausted, slid to the ground, where fatigue enveloped me like a foggy pall, and I sank from the conscious world.



When I finally saw my room again, many, many hours later, several things argued for my attention. Firstly, not only was the door unlocked, but it was slightly open. Secondly, the light was left on. Thirdly, an empty vodka bottle was embedded, neck first, into the wall plaster. It came back to me. I had taken this bottle back to my room "for later," but having got there, I had drained the last of its contents then flamboyantly thrown it at the wall, as if completing some dramatic toast. To my befuddled amazement, it hadn’t shattered and I hadn’t the heart to attempt to heap further injury upon it.

And that was how, for me, the one and only Keele University Students’ Union bar-staff party ended.

The End

Friday, 19 October 2007

The Twins Paradox

Non-fiction about one aspect of Special Relativity

The other day somebody sent me a recording of the play, Insignificance, by Terry Johnson, made into a radio production. In it, at one point, a character – who happens to resemble Marilyn Monroe – explains – to a character resembling Albert Einstein – parts both of Einstein’s theory of Special Relativity and General Relativity. In particular, she refers to something known as The Twins Paradox and adds that Special Relativity is inadequate to explain how it works, and that the General Theory is required.

I will not digress to comment here on a play where characters resembling Marilyn Monroe and Albert Einstein discuss Relativity (not to mention that characters resembling Joe DiMaggio and Senator MacCarthy show up) nor ponder why the play is called Insignificance. However, I will state here and now quite categorically that you do not need General Relativity to explain The Twins Paradox and that the Special Theory is perfectly adequate. Indeed, using the General Theory would probably mess up your answer while the Special Theory gives you the right answer. What’s more, I’ll show what that answer is and prove it is right!

And no maths.

(Just a tiny bit of arithmetic, and you can even skip that.)

So what’s all the fuss about? Well, it gives an opportunity to look into what Relativity really means and hopefully make it a bit more easy to understand for more people. I’ll show you don’t have to be a maths genius to understand it too.

Why Two Theories?

Just to explain, for the moment, why there are two theories of Relativity – or, more accurately, two parts – Relativity is all about things moving. It concerns the speeds of things. The word "velocity" is sometimes used in place of speed (in physics, "velocity" has a more precise meaning.) But, for simplicity, I have used the word "speed" most of the time to help keep things clear and used the words physicists prefer when it matters. For the moment, what you need to know is that Special Relativity deals with constant speed while General Relativity is about changing speed, going faster or slower. This is not just playing with words – if you were moving at constant speed smoothly enough – on a train or a plane, for example – you might feel as if you were standing still. If you were on a train, plane or anything else that was speeding up or slowing down, you would always know that you were moving. This difference is vitally important. There will be more about this later.

I have used the word "mass," as preferred by physicists, in place of "weight," just to keep the physicists happy. But they mean almost the same thing.

Einstein was probably the most famous physicist – indeed the most famous scientist – of the 20th century. His face is instantly recognisable in any picture even today, and, as most people are aware, his work led to the development of atomic energy and the atomic bomb (though he emphatically did not work on the atomic bomb himself, as he was a pacifist.) His work also explains how stars burn (though I won’t be going into that here.)

Not surprisingly, Einstein won a Nobel prize for physics. More surprisingly (and quite unfairly, in my view) he did not win it for either versions of his theory of Relativity, but for a piece of work that led to an area of physics called Quantum Mechanics, which a lot of people have never even heard of (although I talk about some bits of it in other articles on this website.)

(His work could also have saved someone from committing suicide, but alas this tragedy was not averted – the news of yet another discovery by Einstein that proved the existence of atoms did not reach, as far as we know, the ears of Ludwig Boltzmann, also a brilliant physicist who worked on a theory of atoms. Boltzmann suffered from manic-depression, it is believed, and was sometimes ridiculed by other physicists. With no proof that he was in fact right, he killed himself a year after Einstein’s proof might have lifted his mood and saved him.)

So what is all this theory of Relativity about then? I’ll try to keep this brief, but if you’ve already had an introduction to this subject, concerning the speed of light, you may want to skip this altogether and get straight to The Twins Paradox.

Light Speed

It had been known for some time that light had a finite speed, although a very great one. Sir Isaac Newton did some work on light (also discussed elsewhere on this website) but he did not, as far as I am aware, investigate what the speed of light might be. He may have been hampered by the absence of telescopes and very accurate clocks during his lifetime, though Newton was such a clever-clogs he probably could have got round this, if he’d set his mind to it.

By the nineteenth century, all the necessary equipment was available. It was still no mean feat to measure something so fast. A man named Albert Michelson came up with a clever method which I will sketch out here. Imagine light from a lamp focussed to shine off a flat mirror to another mirror some distance away – a distance we have measured with extreme precision. The light reflects back to the first mirror and then back to the experimenter with his face just above the lamp. You can see that a bright lamp and a telescope would be quite handy for doing all this. Now, if the first mirror is in fact mounted on the edge of a wheel that is made to turn after a flash from the lamp has reflected off it, the returning flash will no longer be visible to the experimenter – the mirror will now be turned to the wrong angle.

To get round this (literally) how about covering the rim of the wheel with a series of mirrors all placed at precise angles, and spinning the wheel? If the wheel is going fast enough, by the time the flash of light gets back from the second mirror in the distance, another mirror on the wheel will have moved into just the right position for reflecting the light back to the experimenter – he will see the reflected lamp again!

All you need to do is have enough mirrors on the wheel, and spin the wheel fast enough to make this work. And if you know how fast the wheel is spinning (and, as I said before, the exact distance to the far mirror) you can get an exact measure for the speed of light, because you know how long it takes the wheel to turn one mirror’s-worth and therefore how long it takes the light to cover the distance. Nice and simple (and I’ve not used any maths to explain this, notice.)

For a moment we need to consider what speed is. Well, obviously, it’s distance covered in a certain amount of time. If only things would stay that simple.

Let’s think about two cars colliding – fun, I know, providing no-one gets hurt, but who said this couldn’t be fun? If a car runs into a brick wall at 60 miles an hour it hits the wall with a speed of – d’ur! – 60 miles an hour. If it runs into a car driving towards it at 59 miles an hour, the speed of the collision is 119 miles an hour. This seems obvious – we just add up the two speeds. (This is about as hard as the maths gets in this writing so I hope you are keeping up.)

However, if the second car was driving away at 59 miles an hour, the collision would be just 1 mile an hour. Simple.

(Only – it isn’t. For reasons I’m not going to go into here, combination of velocities is not determined by addition of velocities, but don’t worry about it – addition is good enough for speeds much slower than the speed of light, and we will not be looking at faster collisions.)

Another, less obvious thing is that there is no such thing as the speed of something on its own. The speed has to be relative to something else. For cars, this is usually the ground. The important thing is that you have to have two things moving relative to one another to have a value for speed. It’s more obvious if you talk about rate of change of distance between two things, if a bit clumsy. You simply cannot have rate of change of distance between something and nothing else. (It’s a bit like the sound of one hand clapping… but we won’t go into that!)

Now back to the speed of light. From what I’ve just said, if we are moving towards or away from a lamp flashing at us, we ought to get different answers for the speed of light. Also, there are other ways in which we should be able to alter the answer, by shifting the whole experiment about. The thing is, when Michelson tried doing tricks like this, he didn’t get any variation in the value for the speed of light. He always got exactly the same answer! This should be impossible. But what turns out to be impossible is to get the speed of light ever to change!

Various means were used to attempt to explain this. One by one, however, they didn’t work.

Speed Invariance, and Special Relativity

Meanwhile, along comes Einstein. He didn’t worry about how or why the speed of light was fixed. He simply accepted that it never changes, and that was that. He never liked the name ‘theory of Relativity’ for his theory – he wanted to call it the ‘theory of invariance.’

The thing is, if light never changes its speed, you’ve got to fiddle around with other mathematics in order to get the sums to add up. In fact, the maths is not difficult, it’s just that what the answers mean sounds a bit weird. But here we go.

Imagine you are sat still in a room, wearing a watch. On the mantle-shelf stands a clock. As your watch ticks, so does the clock. Time seems to go at the same rate everywhere.

Now we will need a bit more arithmetic here. To make things easier, let’s imagine that light-speed is 10 centimetres per second. (It’s a lot faster, but using made-up figures makes it easier to see what’s going on and, apart from the values, doesn’t have any effect on reality.)

Suppose the clock now began to slide smoothly across the mantle-shelf towards you at one centimetre per second (never mind what’s making it move.) A flash of light comes from behind the clock, passes it and on to you. In one second the light would go 10 centimetres. But if you measured how far the light had gone past the clock, using the clock’s time-keeping and measure of distance, it would only have gone 9 centimetres. If you used the moving clock to measure the speed of light, you would get only 9 centimetres per second – which is the wrong answer!

It’s easy to get back to the right answer (though you have to ignore how weird the answer seems to be.) All you have to do is have the moving clock run more slowly. By stretching out a second on the moving clock, light again travels 10 centimetres in one clock-second.

A similar correction works for any other speed.

This is the first bit of Special Relativity – time goes more slowly, relative to someone watching, for moving objects. It has to, in order to get the speed of light to be constant.

However, if you were moving with the object, you’d notice no difference.

How about – instead of using the clock’s timing, we used the thickness of the clock to measure the distance light travels in one second? If the clock was itself 10 centimetres thick and it was moving at 1 centimetre per second, in one second the light would appear to move 9 centimetres past the clock in travelling from the back to the front. Again, the wrong answer. Again, it is easily fixed, mathematically. We just say that the clock gets thinner in its direction of travel when it is moving. Once again, we get that light takes one second to move from the back to the front of the clock because the clock, while moving at one centimetre per second, is only 9 centimetres thick, from our point of view, giving a light-speed of 10 clock-centimetres per second.

Again, a similar correction works for any other speed.

This may sound very peculiar and not at all true, but it is, in fact, exactly how the Universe works, and that is that. The only ‘fiddling’ I’ve done is to make the numbers easier to work with.

This is the second bit of Special Relativity – things get shorter, relative to someone watching, when they are moving, in their direction of travel.

However, if you were moving with the object, you’d notice no difference.

Using our imaginary light-speed of 10 centimetres per second, it’s easy to see that, if the clock itself were sliding towards you at 10 centimetres per second, it would have stopped ticking altogether, and it would have no thickness at all! This still gives the right answers for the speed of light, as measured by the moving clock. It also shows that to travel at or faster than the speed of light is impossible for a physical object – time can’t go backwards and you can’t have negative thickness or length.

A third problem arises. When a thing with a certain mass is moving at a certain velocity, it has momentum which is calculated by multiplying its mass and velocity together. If it collides with something else – which may also have its own momentum, it’s a law of the Universe that the total amount of momentum after the crash must be the same as the total momentum before. It doesn’t matter if the things get smashed up and the parts scatter in all directions – do the arithmetic properly and you will see that no momentum has been gained or lost. This is known as The Law of Conservation of Momentum, and it’s been known about and proved to be absolutely true for ages.

The thing is this. If you stuck clocks on all the moving objects involved in the crash, those clocks start running slow, depending on how fast the things are moving. As velocity is distance covered in a given time, you start getting speeds that are too slow and the momentum doesn’t add up properly any more. The Law of Momentum seems to be broken – which it can’t be – so something again has to altered to allow for this. The only thing is left is the mass, so the Universe needs to increase that to make up for the loss of apparent velocity.

This is the third bit of Special Relativity – things get more mass, relative to someone watching, when they are moving compared with when they are still. (We’ll see where they get the extra mass from in a moment – you don’t get anything for nothing!)

However, if you were moving with the object, you’d notice no difference.

In fact, if you had something moving at very nearly the speed of light, its mass would become very nearly infinite. You would therefore need a very nearly infinite amount of energy to push it that little bit faster – and even then this energy would be turned into mass – the fat thing you were pushing would get fatter rather than faster. It was from this that Einstein realised that energy would turn into mass, and could be turned back again, in certain circumstances, giving us atomic power, the atomic bomb, radioactivity, why the core of the Earth is still hot after so many years of trying to cool down, and how stars burn. But we’re not going to go into that.

So, in a nutshell, in Special Relativity, when things are going at constant speed, things get shorter, more massive and their clocks runs more slowly.

Now, in practice, light goes an awful lot faster than this. But it is absolutely true to say that, every time you move, relative to your surroundings, all the things around you get more massive, shorter, and have time going slower. It’s just that at ordinary everyday speeds, you never notice it and can ignore it. (Global Positioning System satellites works to such high precision, their movement and altitude do have to be taken into account, however.)

But, just for a moment, let’s go back to the clock sliding towards you at constant speed. From its point of view, the clock feels as if it isn’t moving, and that you are. So the clock sees you get heavier, thinner and your watch running more slowly. How can they both be running slow, and which one is right? What time will each show after you’ve been moving for a while? This is where The Twins Paradox comes from.

First of all, let’s look at the clock and the watch both looking as if they are going slow from the point of view of the other, while each ‘feels’ as if it is running normally. This is a bit like watching a ship sail over the horizon (possibly through a telescope, for a clearer view.) From someone watching on land, the ship appears to sink into the sea (and, if we could look very carefully, the mast of the ship would appear to tip away from us.) But, from the point of view of someone on the ship, you and the land would appear sink into the sea (and tip slightly backwards) while the ship stayed afloat and its mast vertical. What we have is two different horizons caused by being in two different positions. In a similar way, we have two different ‘time horizons’ for things moving. Neither clock is ‘right’ while the other is ‘wrong.’ If you brought the two clocks to the same speed – that is, stationary relative to each other – the two clocks would show time going at the same rate, much as bringing the ship back to the same place, at shore, shows neither of them sinking and that vertical things point straight up.

The maths of all this, when things are moving at constant speed, is really quite simple and any teenage maths pupil at school should be able to do it (though I have deliberately left as much maths out as I possibly could.) Things get tricky when you start looking at things speeding up and slowing down, accelerating or decelerating. The maths for this probably needs you to be a graduate maths student. Einstein’s Special Theory of Relativity is so called because it deals with the special case of constant speed. When he wanted to work out what was happening generally, when things are changing speed, he had to resort to much more complicated maths. Surprisingly, some of the maths had been done already by a man called Berhard Riemann, about thirty years earlier, but Einstein was such an appalling student (from the point of view of his lecturers) that he skipped the lectures where he would have learned about it so, sadly in some ways and impressively in others, it took him longer to come up with the General Theory as he had to work out the maths for himself. Notice that, in the General Theory, if you have a velocity change of zero, that is a special case – the same as the Special Theory and why the Special Theory is so called.

However, we want to avoid the maths of the General Theory as much as we can, and this is why The Twins Paradox is interesting. Many people think you can only explain The Twins Paradox with the General Theory. But they are wrong!

But what is The Twins Paradox? Well, I’ve hinted at it already, but here it is in full.

The Twins Paradox

Take a pair of twins – who are, naturally, the same age. To distinguish them, we’ll have fraternal twins, a boy and a girl. The girl becomes an astronaut. She gets on a rocket, cruising steadily at a sizeable fraction of the speed of light (which is not forbidden, but would require a pretty powerful rocket) and she flies to the star nearest to Earth, which is Alpha Centauri, 4 light-years away. (A light-year is the distance light travels in a year. It is not a time, it is a distance.) She turns round and comes back to her stay-at-home brother, still on Earth. OK so far?

Looking over the theory of Relativity as explained above, because she’s been a gal on the move, her clock has been running slower than her brother’s on Earth, so she is now younger than her twin brother!

As odd as this is, things get worse. Also according to what I’ve said earlier, the brother has seen her fly away and come back, so it’s from his point of view that her clock looks slow. But it also depends on whose point of view you are looking from. From her point of view, he has moved away (along with the Earth) then come back, so, as she sees it, his clock has run slow and he’s younger.

They can’t both be right. Are they the same age? No – as we shall see. Which one is younger? Well, it depends – in some way something that has happened to one of them is different from something that has happened to the other. The questions are: what? To which? And with what result?

The usual explanation – and the one referred to in the play Insignificance, is that she has had to undergo an acceleration in order to fly away from Earth. She also had to slow down when she got to Alpha Centauri, turn round and speed up again to fly back. She probably had to put the brakes on as well when she got back to Earth so that she could have a chat with her ageing, Earthbound brother. This involves changes of speed, so we have to use General Relativity with all its horribly difficult maths to explain why – as it turns out – she is younger than her twin.

This is true. The astronaut twin ages less. She is younger. So that’s the answer to that one. But it’s nothing to do with General Relativity.

That’s because we can cut out the bit about speeding up and slowing down. It’s not so important that the two people are twins now – any two people will do – we just want to see which one ages less – who has the slower clock, and why.

Suppose that we use stopwatches to time everything and our lady astronaut sets off in the opposite direction from Earth, away from Alpha Centauri, to start with. She turns round, has a good run-up and gets to her steady cruising speed just as she passes her brother on Earth, and both of them start their watches. Onwards she travels. As she gets level with Alpha Centauri, she stops her watch and applies the brakes; back on Earth he stops his watch at the same time. There is a problem with this – she is 4 light years away so can’t actually see her pass Alpha Centauri for another 4 years (and with a very good telescope.) But he knows, for a given cruising speed, how long it should have taken her, from his point of view, so he trusts nothing has gone wrong and stops his watch by dead reckoning. (This might not sound very convincing, but it is not a fiddle – read on.)

Sister now turns her spaceship round, accelerates to steady cruise speed just as she gets level with Alpha Centauri, and, as she does so, she and her brother both start their stopwatches once more. (To do this, they will have had to plan the mission out very carefully and stick to the plan, but as long as they do so, everything will be fine.)

Now, she gets level with Earth and, as she does so, both brother and sister stop their watches a final time. (She can now get on with braking and coming back to Earth for a soft landing.) The important thing is – both watches have only been timing the part of the journey when the rocket was flying at a steady, unchanging, Special Relativity-friendly speed. So what do the watches show?

They show her watch is slow compared with his! She has aged less! How is this possible, when, from the point of view of each of them, it’s the other that has been moving?! Surely, now that we’ve cut out the speeding up and slowing down bit, they have experienced exactly the same things!

Not so. It’s a bit like a magician’s trick. We’ve been looking at the wrong thing about the experiment.

The thing is – she has flown to Alpha Centauri and back, a distance of four light years as seen by the brother on Earth. Earth and Alpha Centauri have not been moving, as far as the brother is concerned. But she has been moving, and quite quickly too. And from her point of view, Earth has moved away and Alpha Centauri has moved towards her. Or, thinking of it another way, the Earth-Alpha Centauri route are two ends of something moving past her, like light going past our old clock on the mantle-shelf.

Anything that moves, shrinks in length of the direction of travel. Remember?

From her point of view, the journey to Alpha Centauri, and back, has been shorter than it looks to the brother on Earth. Because the journey is shorter, as she sees it, her watch hasn’t had enough time to run for as long as her brother’s, nor has she aged as much. The two siblings have not had the same experience and that’s why they’ve not had the same number of birthdays by the moment she gets back. Speeding up and slowing down have nothing to do with it – at least as far as our stopwatches are concerned, because they weren’t running for that part of the experiment.

So that is the answer and explanation to The Twins Paradox. The travelling twin ages less and is no longer as old as her brother, but you only need Special Relativity to explain it. General Relativity can be kept out of it.

That’s about it, really.

The End

(Much of the information for this article was drawn from lecture notes made available on line by Michael Fowler at http://galileo.phys.virginia.edu/classes/252/ - however, all errors, faults and general confusion are my fault. For much more – puzzling, interesting and accurate information on Relativity and other stuff - see this site.)

Addendum - For all you Doubting Thomases out there
(Gary, this means you!)
Some people have doubted that the difference in ages can be a Special-Relativity-only effect. Here is a worked example using actual maths and figures to demonstrate that the twins will age by different amounts even without considering acceleration and deceleration – that is, constant speed.

The situation.
One twin – the female – is going to fly to Alpha Centauri, a distance of 4 light years, and back, 60% of the speed of light (v = 0.6c) while the male twin stays at home.

During the trip, each will send off a flash of light from a beacon, once a month. In other words, each will have aged one month between emitting each flash.

It is vital to realise that each flash from its sender means that one month has passed for that person. In other words, counting up the flashes sent by either person shows how much they have aged.

As she sets off at 0.6c, she sees flashes arriving from him just once every two months, just as he does from her. This is partly owing to the ever-increasing distance, (an ‘optical’ effect) and time dilation (a relativistic effect.)

Not convinced? And I think I can hear you say - Hang on - after 1 month travelling at .6c, the next flash ought to be after 1 + 0.6 = 1.6 of a month! But you are forgetting that time dilation is slowing her clock. The amount by which it is slowed down is worked out using the following formula: Time observed = Time at rest / square root (1 – v^2 / c^2 ) where v is her speed and c is the speed of light. Her speed is 0.6 so v^2 = .36. So v^2 / c^2 = 0.36. 1 – 0.36 = 0.64. The square root of 0.64 is 0.8. So her time is dilated 1/0.8 which is 1.25. In other words it takes her 1.25 months between signals, owing to time dilation. But in that time, she has travelled 0.6 * 1.25 light-months which is 0.75 light-months. Therefore her next light signal takes 1.25 + 0.75 = 2 months to reach Earth. (And, of course, swapping things around to her point of views, his signals reach her only once every two months as well.)

On the way back, the situation is reversed as far as the change in distance is concerned. Each signal is sent out, as seen by the other, with time dilated to 1.25 months. But in that time, the distance has closed by 0.6 * 1.25 = 0.75 light-months. So the signal arrives at the other end of its journey 1.25 – 0.75 = 0.5 of a month, in other words, two signals a month.

From the Earth, the total journey time (excluding speeding up slowing down and turning around) is 8 light years at 60% the speed of light = 13 years 4 months, or 160 months.

What does she see?
The distance of the trip to Alpha Centauri, where she sees the star rushing towards her, is shrunk by length contraction. The formula for this is the original distance multiplied by the square root of 1-v^2/c^2. This equals 80% of 4 light-years, which is 3.2 light years. (The square root of 1-0.36, which equals square root of .64, which is 0.8.) It therefore takes her 64 months to get there (3.2 light-years/0.6 = 5 years 4 months.) Therefore she sees 32 flashes from her brother.

She turns round and heads back, and immediately sees the frequency of flashes from her brother increase. This is despite time dilation as she is shortening the distance to her brother. She now sees flashes twice a month. It takes her another 64 months to get home, and she sees 128 flashes. By the time she reaches Earth her brother has flashed, and aged, 32 + 128 = 160 months. This is just what we would expect (see above.)


What does he see?
From his point of view, the distance to Alpha Centauri remains 4 light years, so he expects her to take 4 light years / 0.6c = 6 years 8 months = 80 months to get there. But, because Alpha Centauri is 4 light years away, he doesn’t see her turn round for another 4 years = 48 months. (This is a key difference in their experiences – she sees the flashes from her brother change immediately she turns round. He doesn’t see her turn round till 4 years later.) So it is 80 + 48 = 128 months into the mission before he sees her turn round, during which she has flashed 64 times and aged 64 months.

There is now only 160 – 128 = 32 months left before she gets back Earth. Because the distance is closing and despite time dilation, he too sees flashes from her at twice a month, 64 flashes in total.

By the time she arrives back, he has seen 64 + 64 = 128 flashes from his sister who has therefore aged only 128 months to his 160. So his twin sister is now 32 months younger than he.

Note that this difference is regardless of accelerations and is a constant velocity, Special-Relativity-only effect.

Don’t take my word for it, doubt all you want to – but do the maths

(I apologise for breaking my word about there being no maths in this article, but sometimes sums speak louder than words!)

P.S. Notes
Equations of Special Relativity
Length observed = Length at rest * square root (1 – v^2 / c^2 )
Time observed = Time at rest / square root (1 – v^2 / c^2 )
Mass observed = Mass at rest / square root (1 – v^2 / c^2 )









Thursday, 11 October 2007

Extra, Extra - Read All About It

Non-fiction article about what it’s like to be in a TV drama – stood at the back

The call came through just before eight o’clock in the evening on my mobile. I had switched it to silent so as not to disturb the others attending the meeting I was in. The buzz of the little phone going off in my pocket almost made me jump. You think I’d be used to it by now. I excused myself and went outside to take the call in the corridor.

"We’ve got a job for you to do."

"When?"

"Tomorrow."

"I had things planned."

"They need you in C.I.D." said my agent.

"What’s the call time?"

"It’s good, twelve noon."

I sighed. "I’ll reschedule what I had planned. I’ll be there."

"Wear the dark suit."

The industrialised hinterland of Merseyside north of Speke Boulevard, not far from the Liverpool John Lennon Airport, is a drab and dreary place that no-one in his right mind would visit on a sight-seeing trip. I turned in to one of the innumerable business parks and pulled up at the barrier.

"BBC," I said.

"Do you know where you are going?"

I knew where I was going. Formerly the offices of a potato crisp factory, this is where the BBC filmed the TV series, Merseybeat, and I where I was going to be an extra.

Not so long ago, filming on location was rare. When it did take place, there would be a fleet of large vans in green BBC livery. That doesn’t happen anymore. Reality in TV has become the order of the day as technology has improved to the point where cameras are small and portable, and much less demanding on studio level lighting. Real locations are used, even for interior scenes, and independent production companies make TV programmes. Hire vans are more common – only a few have legends on them indicating a film crew is about.

Spotting crew is much easier, principally because of their dress-sense. Difficult to describe, but impossible to miss, you head for the bunch of people meandering around that most look like refugees, in very casual clothes. Jeans, sneakers or boots, fleeces and sleeveless puffa jackets are common. On colder days this would be topped off with massive hooded waterproof jackets, and often waterproof leggings as well.

Crew roughly divide into two subtypes – one lot, basically technicians, always wear belts from which dangle every hand tool known to Man, along with bum-bags, reels of gaffer tape, clips and cables, making them look like a DIY-er’s convention, and others such as costume, hair and make-up. The other type are assistant directors and always have walkie-talkies that crackle and squawk from time to time if anything is actually happening. The technical people tend to be male and of any age, the others female, and the A.D.s young but sometimes looking half-way to being burnt out by their work.

One good thing about getting a call-time of noon was that I couldn’t possibly be here all day – unless a night shoot was planned as well, in which case we could be here till ten in the evening. The other good thing was lunch would be included. Today it was steak. But first, there was work to be done. And, first of all, that meant going to wardrobe. Mary, the wardrobe mistress, had a shooting script, a shooting schedule, Polaroids of me from my last appearance, and the tie I had to wear, plus a change of shirt. Other clothes were my own.

Being an extra is in some ways a job like any other, and in others, a job like no other. You find yourself rubbing shoulders with people who you’ve seen loads of times on TV and are famous – that is to say they are recognised by literally millions of viewers. Your face too will appear on a million TV screens – but in the background, and no-one will recognise you. They’ll probably not even notice you. All the viewer perceives is that the action of the drama they are watching occurs in " a busy place," – one with other people moving around, but in no way part of the story, and with no identity.

Nevertheless you are going to be on the Tele, and that puts some people in awe of you and they think you are famous in some way and wonder how you ever got the job. It’s not a secret. You subscribe to an agency and they get you the work. (In a few instances, some extras get work directly, but this is not so common.) To find an agency, you get a weekly newspaper called The Stage, and look in the ads at the back. There – none of that was rocket science, was it? Some agencies charge, and some just take a commission.

The next question might be "Why?" In my case, that’s simple – I needed the money! However, that’s not the only reason. I have done some amateur dramatics and I was always curious as to what it would be like to act on camera compared with acting on stage. Remarkably, very few people doing work as extras are or have ever aspired to be actors. For me, however, this often leads to the question, "What is the difference between acting on stage and acting on camera?" and for me the most obvious, if not entirely serious answer is that on camera you don’t need a prompt! Mess up, and you just do it again. And people don’t throw stuff. Apart from the crew, that is. I find it a lot less nerve-racking.

As for the money – it’s not bad but it’s not brilliant. Worst of all it’s unpredictable. You might get only one day’s work in several weeks, which is definitely not going to keep body and soul together. However, some people work at it to get a multitude of jobs so they keep busy. Nice little earners include being some sort of regular in the Rover’s Return or The Woolpack. Unfortunately, some productions don’t like to have the same anonymous faces over and over.

There are three inventions that make modern movie-making possible. One I’ve mentioned is the Polaroid, one is the walkie-talkie and the last is the mobile phone. Everybody has one. It never ceases to amaze me how rare it is for a take to be ruined by one going off – there’s discipline for you – everyone remembers to switch them off. But, between takes, the extras are whipping them out left, right and centre, phoning friends, colleagues and, of course, agents. One girl I was sat opposite to during a break had two – one for personal calls and one for business – and during the interval she was setting up work for up to six months in advance.

Another way in which the job is unusual is the variety and precocity of the start times. Seven-thirty in the morning is not uncommon and that’s just the extras. The actual actors, or principles, can be in as early as six, for costume and make-up. What a life! And shooting can go on all day, into the evening. A plus point about the early call is you get a full (and I mean full) breakfast thrown in. And, by the way, the stars all eat the same food as everyone else, either in the canteen or, when on location, the catering bus.

Besides the principles, there’s us – the extras. You’re almost never called that. Technically, on the shooting schedule you are referred to as NS – non-speaking, which is fairly self-explanatory – or SA, which rather more grandly stands for "supporting artistes." However, the ubiquitous word used by all the assistant directors is the depersonalising term "background," which is really all you are – just walking scenery.

Being background means you are herded about by A.D.s taking instructions from the first A.D via radio, and sometimes it does feel a bit degrading. But you are still an important part of the creative process (which translates as: you mess up, and everything’s messed up.) To me, the A.D.s seem to be the hardest working people on the set (which is probably why they sometimes look so weary), but that’s probably only true when there are background to deal with. They will give you simple instructions, like "Walk over there," or "Look through this pile of papers." It’s seldom complicated and, in case you were thinking of getting nervous, it’s not worth the bother. I have learned not to question any orders, or ask the A.D. anything unless it is absolutely necessary, such as, "Which side of that light/sound technician/mobile crane should I go?" I never listen to any instructions that are meant for someone else, and I never, ever ask, "How was I?" If there was anything wrong, they’d tell you (and it would probably have been their fault in the first place, unless you are a complete dummy.) It’s a bit like being in the army – you obey orders and you don’t ask questions, and I suspect the A.D.s like it that way.

There are a couple of run-throughs, rather fulsomely called "rehearsals" with everything except the camera running, just to see if it works. Then you’re ready to make picture.

Other things some people like to know include, "Is there really a clapper board? Does the director really shout ‘action’?" Some of the clichés are true. There is a clapper board, but it is now plastic with a whiteboard marker, but it’s used in exactly the same way as they always have been throughout the history of movies. Someone does shout "action," but the process is a tad more complicated. There is a sequence of events which include a call for silence, then "ready," then "turning," then "camera set," (I’ve no idea what that means) and finally, often after a long pause, the A.D. will shout "and action." No-one thinks to tell you these things the first time you are ever on set, but it is vitally important that you do absolutely nothing until that shout of "action."

The long pauses between instructions – not to mention sometimes between takes – can be baffling, but is almost invariably because some technical flaw has been spotted. Quite often, the camera is left running, without compunction, while the problem is fixed. No-one cares about wasting film – in any case it’s not film or video tape, turning on reels, as the shout of "turning" would suggest. This must be just an old convention that’s stuck. Everything is direct to digital, and fed straight into a computer in the editing suite, where the bits are assembled into a show. Nor should "turning" be confused with "turning round," which means we are all going to do exactly the same scene again, only photographed from the opposite direction so that we see the other principle’s face during a conversation. And I do mean, "exactly the same." Never do anything in a take that is so complicated that you can’t remember what it was afterwards, like scratch your head or bite a thumbnail.

Sometimes the pauses and breaks can seem interminable. Often the job is mildly boring, occasionally tedious, and sometimes excruciating. But in movies more than most jobs – labour intensive as it is – time is money, and during every delay, with actors and even seasoned crew looking wearily at the edge of their patience, someone, somewhere is hurrying – probably desperately – to fix something. No – I take that back; I’ve never seen anyone panicking to sort something out – there is just an air of quiet professional efficiency that problems are promptly dealt with.

Then comes the retakes. Even if the first take was perfect, the director will always want a "safety." Typically, however, something will not be quite right. Quite often you were still not 100% sure of what you were going to do, even despite the "rehearsal." The A.D will shout "reset," or "First positions," and you do it all again. The usual number of takes is about four. There is a high level of attention to detail, to getting it just right, but it doesn’t stretch to needless perfectionism.

After that, given the director’s nod, lights and camera, on its little trolley, and anything else that needs to be set are moved around by the ant-like army of technicians, while the actors – their one-trick-pony piece done, look on. Or, if that’s them done for the day, buzz off as speedily as anyone getting out of work early. The shooting schedule, which indicates scene lengths in eighths of a page of script, tells them when they can go home. Incidentally, despite what you may have heard about formats for screenplays, the actual script sheets are simply typed on a word processor, with very little formatting.

And, eventually, as you get to the last eighth on the shooting schedule, your feet are aching from standing around, and you’re beginning to wonder if becoming an extra was such a good idea, the final scene of the day is shot, the work is done, and you all wait for the assistant director to call out the words you are now longing to hear.

"And that’s a wrap."

THE END




Wednesday, 19 September 2007

The Valletta Deal

What not to do on your holidays - short story with a mystery-thriller tinge

The taxi that dropped me off in the late afternoon sunlight at Malta International Airport at Luqa took just about the last of my Maltese money. Some places would still accept Sterling, after all these years, but with no greater preference than other European currencies. It was all a bit academic, seeing as I had no money in other currencies either, and, in any case I was leaving. The job that I’d flown out to Malta for had fallen through, I was broke, and all I wanted to do was get home. At least I had my return ticket. Resigned to being processed like a piece of cargo, I shuffled up to the departure desk and dropped my ticket on the counter. The flight attendant, in her prim, Air Malta uniform, flicked through it.

"Mr Bishop?" said the slightly accented voice.

"Yes?"

"This ticket is for the six o’clock flight to London Gatwick."

"Yes. That’s right."

"Oh-six-hundred hours. The flight was at 6 a.m. this morning."

I was dumbstruck. I couldn’t believe it. All the years I’d been travelling to various corners of the world, some of them loosely describable as flesh-pots, some of them not even loosely describable, and never once had I confused the 24 hour clock for normal, "What time do you make it?" and glance-at-your-watch time. I understood perfectly the difference between a.m. and p.m. and zero hours through to 23 hundred and fifty-nine hours and I had never got them mixed up. Until now. I had arrived expecting to catch a flight at 6 p.m. that had left twelve hours earlier at 6 a.m.

I could only put it down to exhaustion. Exhaustion and frustration. Frustration at having come all this way for a job, when I so desperately needed money, and the job had fallen through – if it had ever existed, and I had felt utterly at a loose end. Exhaustion, frustration, and bonehead stupidity.

The flight attendant evidently could read my thoughts from the expression on my face. "Don’t worry, Mr Bishop. Providing there is room, we can move your ticket to tomorrow morning. All you need to do is to find a place to stay for the night."

She consulted some kind of computer terminal, and, after some tapping of keys and fiddling with bits of paper, she printed me a fresh ticket. As she handed it to me, she said, with an encouraging smile, "Don’t forget – tomorrow morning."

I tried to smile back, but I felt like I’d just stepped out of a dentist’s with a face full of Novocaine. Where could I spend the night? I could not go back to my hotel in Valletta, the capital, as I had no money left, and the rows of airport bench seats looked like instruments of torture. I had just about enough money for one bottle of Hopleaf and that was it.

"Your name is Bishop, yes?" said a voice by my shoulder. A small, middle-aged man, with receding black greasy hair, was talking to me. "You are English?"

"That’s right."

"Good. I like English very much. I hear what happened. You go to England in the morning."

"Yes."

"You have no place to stay?"

"No."

"It will be my pleasure to offer you a place for the night. If you wish. I like English."

"I’m afraid," I could hardly talk, I was so embarrassed, "I’m afraid I have no money."

"It does not matter. I like English. My name is Camilleri. Come. You stay the night. Perhaps you can do some time something for me."

I wondered what he had in mind.

Mr Camilleri was a perfect host. He drove me in a blue Vauxhall Cavalier that seemed to have dusted embedded into its paintwork. We headed past Valletta to his flat in Sliema, on the northern side of the Grand Harbour opposite the city, where he got me a light meal of salad and fish, mercifully finished off with a bottle of Asbach Uralt brandy. He showed me to a small, clean room that had a bed made up ready and waiting as if he had been expecting me. Next morning, he woke me very early with some incredibly strong coffee, and some toast and marmalade. Then we set off back to the airport.

In some countries they drive on the left, in some on the right. In Malta, they drive in the shade. It was not yet five in the morning and a Mediterranean dawn was just preparing to launch itself into a riot of colour. With some light and little traffic, Mr Camilleri, with typical Maltese zeal, drove like a man possessed, even though there was plenty of time to spare.

He waited while I checked in, this time with no problems. I was so relieved to be going home, yet I had enjoyed my evening with this stranger. I was grateful but didn’t know how to thank him, and I said so.

Again, it was almost as if he had been ready for this moment. "You will be passing through London?"

"Of course?"

"Then I was wondering if you would be so kind as to drop off this postcard?" He pulled a small picture postcard from his inside pocket.

"Don’t you have a stamp?"

"The post!" he turned up his hands in a mild gesture of dismissal. "So slow. A small detour? You can do this for me? There is some money to cover your fares." He also handed me an envelope. Inside was a small collection of £20 notes.

I took the card. It was a picture of Valletta harbour. On the reverse was an address in Belgravia, in slightly shaky capitals. I could not read what was written on the correspondence side of the card, which appeared to be in Greek. It would mean a couple of Tube journeys, nothing more, a lot less than the cash. How could I refuse?

My flight was called and I said goodbye to Mr Camilleri. On the other side of the boarding pass gate were some shops. I bought some overhead projector marker pens. My only souvenir.

At Gatwick, I was diverted, as if by random, by a customs official as I went through Nothing To Declare. He went through my one bag nonchalantly yet thoroughly, as if following a practised routine. He found nothing – there was nothing to find – but he noticed the picture postcard of Valletta harbour. He studied both sides of it with more interest than I felt it warranted. "Forget to post this?" he said.

"I ran out of stamps. Guess I’ll just have to hand it over in person."

He seemed to read the back of the card. Then he lost interest and let me go.

In the toilets, with a damp tissue, I wiped off the English I had written in large print, with the water-soluble overhead marker that I had used to cover the original message. I don’t know why, but I just didn’t like the idea of carrying a message in a language I couldn’t understand. I took the card to the Belgravia address, handed it personally to a man who could have been Mr Camilleri’s younger cousin, and went home.



Mehmet Ertegun – known as "the banker" by those who had dealings with him – was delighted with the picture postcard. It told him just what he wanted to know, and that was the number of a safety deposit box that contained $500,000 in Kruger rands. He used his own method of communicating with his colleague that payment had been received and delivery of the merchandise could go ahead. Duly, thirty-four Kalashnikov AN-94 "Abakan" assault rifles, with a maximum fire rate of 1,800 rounds per minute, and 22,000 rounds of 5.45 calibre ammunition left Piraeus in Greece by ship for Marseilles. They had been moved from Russia, through Chechnya to Albania and on to Greece, and this was probably not the end of their travels.

No banking system in the world had handled any part of the financial transaction. No radio, telephone call, email, or telex had been transmitted that could be picked up at Menwith Hill in Yorkshire. No mail intercept had taken place. The deal might never had existed.

Face-recognition software attached to the surveillance cameras at Malta International Airport had spotted Mr Camilleri, and soon had a host of other names for him. Mr Bishop’s face the software did not know. Still, MI6 put Bishop’s name and description on a watch-list at airports around the world.

The next time Mr Bishop showed up late for a flight on which he was booked, he would have a lot of explaining to do.

THE END.

Friday, 7 September 2007

Astronomy – The Greatest Show On Earth

Non-fiction popular science article about how literally pin-pricks of evidence have led us to learn about the entire Universe.

Every single night, over your head, over my head, over every single person’s head in the entire world, something utterly remarkable takes place. It will happen tonight, tomorrow night and every night for as far as we can imagine into the future, as it has done for as far as we can imagine into the past. Every night, it goes dark.

Now at first you may not think that this very much to get excited about. After all, nightfall is about as predictable as anything can get – as predictable as the dawn that will follow. And yet, it is in the minutiae of things, the details, the tiny, that, at first glance, seem so trivial, that so often lie the greatest wonder, the most amazing discovery and the most challenging concepts to face the human mind. In this particular instance, all I should need to do is ask you a simple question for you to see why. That question is, "Why does it go dark?" In attempting to answer that question, we are taken, in almost a single bound, from the mundane, the trivial, to the heart of some of the greatest of mysteries.

Let us add to this mystery, before even attempting to answer our simple question. If you are lucky – and it happens to everybody sooner or later – I ask you to trust me on this – the weather at night will be fine, and the sky, we say, is clear. But it is when the sky is what we call "clear" that it is anything but! The merest glance at a cloudless night sky reveals even to someone with eyesight as limited as mine, thousands of tiny pin-pricks of light. Tiny, twinkling and terrifically important. For they are the stars, the populace of the vast "everything-ness" we call The Universe. It’s the greatest show on Earth.

It is because of the fact that we live on a planet that is round, held to its surface by a force called gravity and that once in every twenty-four hours this planet turns its back on the closest star, the Sun, that it goes dark at night. But there is still more to this mystery. A lot more. For example, if the Universe is infinite, there should be a star in every direction that we look. But there is not. The gaps between the stars are dark. This leads, though a chain of reasoning, to the astonishing, astounding conclusion that the Universe had a beginning. It has had an evolution. We have yet to determine whether it will have an end. And as for what might come after that, well, your guess is quite literally as good as mine or anybody else’s.

For thousands of years – more probably, tens of thousands, our ancestors looked up at the night sky, and wondered – surely one of the most striking of human characteristics. That wonder hungered for explanation. What were the stars? How did they work? What held them together? Various mythologies were created to feed this hunger. Gods and familiars, creatures and creations, the scintillating ciphers that would seal our fates. Poetic, strange, beautiful and believable, but, sadly, fictional artefacts of man’s mind – not a verifiable explanation. For a hundred thousand generations perhaps, this was all we could tell of the stars. Now, suddenly, within a single generation, we have worked out most of it.

Most stars are vast aggregations of hydrogen gas – the stuff you put in party balloons to make them roll around the ceiling, instead of rolling around the floor. The tiny points are in fact staggeringly huge balls of fire – the average star would encircle both the Earth and the Moon that orbits it. Indeed, three quarters of The Universe is just hydrogen, most of the rest is called helium, which we will meet again in a moment, and everything else makes up just 2%. But it’s that 2% that makes us, amongst other things, and in turn makes the 2% so interesting. Again, it’s the little things that count.

The hydrogen gas is brought and held together by gravity – not the mightiest force in The Universe, but its feeblest – having one distinction from other forces such as magnetism – it is always only one way. To gravity, everything is down. It makes no exceptions. Unopposed, gravity’s effect accumulates from seemingly trivial to tremendous, until it has dominion over all. Gravity takes the lightest of gases, and crushes it till it glows with incandescence. And it doesn’t stop there. Once greedy gravity has squeezed every iota of energy from its prisoner, the very heart of the particles begin to fuse together to produce newer, heavier elements. It is only fitting that the first of these was found in, and named after, the Sun, the element helium, from the Greek word for the Sun, Helios.

Gravity knows no mercy. It continues to crush the elements together, releasing yet more energy. In doing so, each one gives out a characteristic signature of light. Those tiny pin-pricks in the sky - still pin-points even through the most powerful telescope, can have their light dissected, like a specimen on a slide, to reveal that signature and thus give away the star’s components, its age, its true brightness, hence its distance and a fair few other facts besides. Not bad for a pin-prick. Forensic science, hunting for the fingerprints of creation.

And so many of the chemical elements with which we are familiar on Earth were and are created – carbon – essential for all living chemistry, oxygen, phosphorus – a key part of deoxyribonucleic acid, or DNA. Not to mention water – the key to life, and alcohol, the key to a good night out. If you want to wake up with stars in your head, that is!

But then comes a twist in the story. Once a star is so crushed that it starts to create the humble element, iron, one of the first and most useful metals humans ever extracted from rocks, the process hits a brick wall and halts. Creating still heavier elements uses energy rather than releasing it. The alchemist’s dream, of turning base metal into gold, remains, for the moment, beyond reach. But not for long. Gravity knows no mercy. If a star can’t burn, it is crushed still further, like the stubbing out of a cigarette. The star abruptly collapses in on itself. Like anything crashing to the ground, this releases more energy – enough to convert iron to lead, lead into silver, platinum and gold, and gold into uranium and beyond. Then the star explodes, like a cross between a smelting factory and a junk yard, scattering its trash and treasures through the heavens.

Then, gravity, tireless gravity, slowly, irredeemably, irresistibly, begins to haul the stuff back together again. This insistence of harvesting matter creates new stars, and metallic-cored planets such as the Earth are formed. Planets with carbon dioxide and water, ammonia and methane, phosphates and sugars, the ingredients for life. And what does life lead to? Wonder.

The study of the stars – astronomy, as it is known – is, in a way, the study of everything. It is wonder put into practice. Where we came from, where we are going and above all where we are. We live in a Universe that may have had a divine creator, or it may be that it is the way it is because it could not be any other way. What you believe about who you are and why is really up to you. But the "how" and the "what" that makes us, our planet and our star, along with all the other stars, comes from our looking at the skies and making the logical deductions from our observations, from a forensic examination of the dark sky that makes CSI Miami look like bumbling guesswork!

This is wonder at work. And it all starts with looking at those little spots of light on a clear night.

It’s something to think about when it goes dark this evening. It’s the greatest show on Earth.
The End