Cricks and Cricket
Last weekend I attended a celebration for the 100th birthday of Aileen Crick. There were five generations of her family present. They boast the longest line of
generations in any one family in Australia.In the Weekend Australian, the same weekend, there was an article by Gregory Pemberton (Inquirer, page 8) whose starting point was Australian cricketer Nathan Lyon’s first-ball test wicket in Sri Lanka earlier in the month.
You might be wondering where this is heading!
It’s all a bit like the recent genre of movies that takes three or four quite separate stories and draws sometimes tenuous links between them.
As Pemberton remarks – as did other commentators at the time – Nathan Lyon’s feat was only the second time in Australian cricket history that a test debutant has taken a wicket with his first ball. The only other person to do so was Arthur Coningham in 1894-95.
But back to Pemberton’s story: he uses the coincidence to weave a story of Church/State issues around the very public, divisive and sectarian-charged divorce case between Coningham and his wife, the grounds being his wife’s alleged adultery with the Fr Denis O’Haran, the Dean of St Mary’s Cathedral in Sydney.
While Pemberton includes Fr O’Haran’s vindication and Coningham’s loss in the second trial; and the role of the secret source of information against O’Haran, namely the anonymous letters signed by Zero, he doesn’t mention the key details that provide the link between these events and the 100th birthday of Aileen Crick.
After a hung jury in the first trial, the Church secured the services of W P (Paddy) Crick, a somewhat notorious defence lawyer, who was an uncle of Ted Crick, who would become Aileen’s husband, although neither Ted nor Aileen was yet born when the Coningham case was being played out.
Paddy Crick, helpfully being Post Master General, a NSW post at the time, was able to track the source of the damning information against O’Haran contained in Zero’s letters; and proceed to impersonate Zero with information that would ensure O’Haran’s victory.
Later in Pemberton’s story he notes that Coningham subsequently, in 1937, ‘was admitted to a Sydney asylum.’ What Pemberton doesn’t mention was that the asylum was what was then known as Gladesville Lunatic Asylum – only much later to become known as a psychiatric hospital. Nor does he mention – and probably didn’t even know – that one of the carers of Arthur Coningham in the asylum was none other than Ted Crick, who, by that time, had become a psychiatric nurse.
When I first heard the story about Ted Crick’s link to Coningham (one of Ted’s daughters remembers her father talking about it). I couldn’t help but think that poor Arthur Coningham must have thought the gods were truly ganging up on him. He probably attributed Paddy Crick’s role (and skulduggery) as in part responsible for his subsequent sinking into bankruptcy, convictions of fraud and insanity; only to find that another Crick, Paddy’s nephew, was there to greet him when he arrived at the asylum!
In the spirit of such movies as Babel and others with interlocking stories, I couldn’t help being taken by the coincidence of the article in the Weekend Australian in which, albeit unnamed, there were two Crick family members involved – and one of them being the very person who, with Aileen, was the beginning, in his role as father, grandfather, great grandfather and greatx2 grandfather, of the very large family assemblage gathered that same weekend to celebrate Aileen’s 100th birthday.
The Miracle of Pi
One is frequently confronted by the tensions of illogicality, not least when reading, listening to or watching political arguments, debate or commentary. But all that was relegated to the blur of an ill-focussed lens by an exposition I just read by no less than The Times [of London] on the importance of that ubiquitous mathematical formula, π.
Although the Greek letter π (written in English as pi and pronounced pie) didn’t come into use to express its famous mathematical formula until 1706, recognition and use of the formula can be traced back to the work and writings of early Egyptian, Babylonian, Greek, Indian and Chinese mathematicians, as well as renowned Islamic scholars. There is also evidence of it in the Old Testament of the Bible.
The concept that has had such diverse recognition and use is the constant, universally and eternally applicable, ratio of a circle’s circumference to its diameter. In other words, no matter what the size of the circle, the ratio of its circumference to its diameter will always be exactly the same. That simple ‘constant’ in mathematics underpins much in many disciplines.
Calculating the ratio, however, was not without its challenges, with many early solutions being in conflict with one another. The heart of the problem is that π turns out to be an ‘irrational’ number. That term has a mathematical definition, as do all the definition’s component parts. Simply put, the ratio can never be expressed in whole numbers, so you end up with fractions or decimal calculations. I recall at school we always settled on 22/7 as the mathematical expression of π. That was probably a cheap and easy way out. More accurately, π is calculated as 3.14159....etc. The decimal places never end. Wikipedia comments, however, that, while the decimal representation of π has been computed to more than a trillion decimal places, elementary applications, such as estimating the circumference of a circle, will rarely require more than a dozen decimal places! (The exclamation mark is mine.)
And what about The Times foray into the analysis of the significance of π?
In an article from The Times, written by Mark Henderson and reproduced in The Australian on 29 June 2011, the author states enlighteningly and, of course, correctly that “pi is defined as the ratio of a circle’s circumference to its diameter, and it is fundamental to many formulas in mathematics, science and engineering.” Well, so far, so good. He then proceeds to back up his claim of its fundamental role by asserting “the circumference of a circle, for example, is calculated by multiplying its diameter by pi.”
I had to read it twice to satisfy myself that I hadn’t missed a vital step in the argument. No, I did get it the first time; probably because my grandson has recently been telling me that his grade 6 maths class was learning that if 4 x 3 = 12, then 12 ÷ 3 = 4.
Maybe, it’s not quite that simple, but ratios are legitimately and frequently expressed as a quotient, for example, the quotient of the ratio 4:3 (1.333..etc) lets me construct templates for resizing photos in this web site that ensure the 4:3 ratio is preserved; but I do draw the line (or decimal fence) well short of a dozen places.
When I was at school – and for a time afterwards – I recall being constantly amazed at how a figure plucked out of the air, such as π, could deliver the circumference of a circle when it (π) is multiplied by the circle’s diameter. I don’t recall ever being told that π was actually the circumference of a circle divided by its diameter! Hence...
Welcome to Sarajevo
Five months after being transfixed during my Dalmatia Tour by seeing and feeling the destruction and horror of the war against Bosnia, I reacted today to a sudden urge to watch Welcome to Sarajevo – the main movie made about the siege of Sarajevo (1992-96) during the Bosnian War.
While Bosnia and its Muslim inhabitants suffered intolerably at the hands of the prejudice, hatred and brutality of both Croatia and Serbia, the remnants of which we saw every day while in Bosnia-Herzegovina, the siege of Sarajevo was perpetrated by Serbian forces. The reality and aftermath of the siege were evident everywhere in Sarajevo. You can sense this from the section on Sarajevo on my Dalmatia Tour page.
Welcome to Sarajevo struck me as a movie you’d not necessarily choose to watch or be enthralled by now – in 2010 – unless you had some ulterior driver, such as having recently been in Sarajevo and inevitably been steeped in the events of the siege. However, even thinking that was enough to make me feel a bit sad, almost guilty, that I hadn’t seen it before; and decidedly guilty that I couldn’t recall much of what took place at the time. Perhaps, as the movie evoked, that might have been, at least partly, because media outlets tired of the war and gave more prominence to events like the relationship between the Duke and Duchess of York! And, of course, the international community’s response at the time was more one of avoidance than resolution. The movie made a lot of the UN’s pitch that Sarajevo was 14th on the list of the world's dangerous places!
Watching the movie, which constantly intersperses real video of the events with movie shoots, almost transported me back to Sarajevo during those awful days. The blending is at times very clever and almost seamless. What caught my attention were so many recognisable scenes that featured in the real video shots with their horrific bloodshed – key buildings and streets; the so-called ‘snipers alley’; the old city’s main square; the airport, with its UN status and the renown tunnel running underneath. All that made the experience so much like one of those dreams that you’re so convinced are real even after you’ve woken up.
If you haven’t seen the movie and you’ve had the experience of visiting Sarajevo, I think the movie is worth a look. If you’re feeling a bit depressed and want to feel worse, it’s a sure guarantee. If you’re feeling teary but can’t quite make it happen, this is the movie for you.
Re Rebus Randomis
Venice, 21 May 2010
A Few Random Things –
Booking accommodation on-line contains a lot of guess work and considerable faith. I’ve not had a problem, so have stuck with the one on-line booking company. I should say I haven’t had a problem this trip either; just a couple of surprises.
The hotel in Rome was close to the main station – Termini – so I set out on foot to find it, having come in from the airport by train. I found the street all right. It was only a short block from the Termini entrance. But it took some help to find the hotel. I was looking for a ‘regular’ hotel, i.e. a hotel-looking entrance and a foyer of some sort. What I eventually found was a very unassuming entrance to a block of apartments. And it was no swanky entrance, as you might imagine in a river-side apartment block in Melbourne! It was a large, stone-floored, cavernous entry with nothing but a single, caged lift half-way along. There were a few ‘hotels’ inside – on different floors, all simply a few apartments combined.
Mine was on the fifth floor. It seemed to consist of three of the four apartments coming off the landing. The ‘foyer’ was just inside one of the
doors and was about as big as an average entry hall of a three bedroom house. The continental breakfast, part of the deal, consisted of taking a voucher across the road to a small cafe and collecting a cappuccino and a croissant in a paper napkin, which, if you were lucky, you could eat sitting at a bench; otherwise you stood around like many others. (A cappuccino in Italy is essentially a flat white in our terms, with a little froth on top – about as much as you might get from one of the designer tops we often get on flat whites gone wrong. It all certainly exuded dodgy on first encounter; but it all worked. The neighbourhood seemed a mix of levels: lots of immigrants, a few students and some suited folk. The Termini location was perfect for easy access to any direction of sights.
I almost messed up in Venice by aiming for an area that I had thought was the main station. It was also the place where I would catch the bus to Ljubljana. Fortunately, I double checked just before committing. That was when I discovered Venice was such an island half way across the bay. I had an instant image of James and Vesper racing around St Mark’s and decided that’s where I needed to be. To my pleasant surprise, I ended up with a very recently renovated hotel in a pretty fancy little street just metres from the St Mark Basin. The hotel is undoubtedly compact. You need to be somewhat contortionist to manage the bathroom, including the shower; but it’s all new, extremely pleasant and quite delightful.
There’s no shortage of tourists. I had thought that May might be way ahead of the tourist rush; and it might be. But if it is, I’d hate to be sight-seeing and queuing in July or August. I suppose it was really only the Vatican Museums and St Peter’s where waits were over the hour. Most other places have been pretty straight-forward, although I returned to St Mark’s this morning for another visit and was confronted by a queue at least four times the length of yesterday’s. I must have struck it lucky yesterday. I’ll try my luck again tomorrow.
There are a lot of Indian tourists – invariably families travelling by themselves: Mum, Dad and two or three kids, sometimes with grandparents or other extended family. I was sitting on the steps of the Trevi Fountain, when a boy of about 13 next to me caught my attention.
“Are you a Roman?” he asked boldly.
I felt almost guilty in having to disappoint him, “No, I’m Australian.”
“I’m Indian,” was the rapid and proud response.
“Oh, where do you live?”
“Kolkata.”
“You speak English very well.”
“Yes, I learn it at school.
And so we went on to the bemusement or amusement of his parents and big sister. I think it might have been more to her embarrassment.
I have made a distinction in a few places between Classical or Ancient Rome and Christian Rome. There is also a blending of the two. You couldn’t seem to go anywhere amongst the ruins of Classical Rome without finding that some Pope or other had laid claim by consecrating it, blessing it, taking possession of it or declaring it sacred in some way. Inscriptions attesting to Pont Max (Pontifex Maximus) adorn triumphal arches of Roman emperors, theatres, the Colosseum, the column of Marcus Aurelius etc...More understandably, anything in Christian times got an inscription, such as the Trevi Fountain. There’s no escaping Papal Rome.
Motorcyclist Deaths
It’s always devastating to hear or read about yet another motorcyclist death. While it’s no less tragic than any other road death, it permeates you, as a fellow motorcyclist, with a foreboding resonance. It’s both rending and chilling.
The revelation that the motorcyclist was powerless to avoid the impact, such as when a vehicle (or other obstacle, for that matter) appears in front as suddenly as the unexpected vision of the shadowy scythe, is haunting enough; but it’s almost comforting in comparison to discovering that the motorcyclist had it in his or her power to avoid the meeting, but, in effect, abdicated power and control.
It’s sad that there are always “genuine” accidents, where a driver momentarily makes a fatal mistake – often a once-only aberration. The outcome, with its horror and tragedy, still devastates all parties and their families.
But how much more frustrating, painful and tormenting for those left to cope is the totally avoidable tragedy. I’m putting aside the incident where only the motorcycle is involved (no other vehicle, animal or obstacle) – no less tragic, by any means – but likely attributable to the motorcyclist losing rather than abdicating control.
All too often there is an apparent element of the abdication in reports of motorcyclist deaths. This clearly seemed to be the case yesterday just
outside the ACT. There’ve also been strong indications that it was present in other motorcyclist deaths in and around the ACT.
There are so many stupidities that we motorcyclists can easily avoid; stupidities that add significantly to the likelihood of an early encounter with our scythe-bearing nemesis. So why do many of us ignore them, even embrace them, as if they will transform us into some latter day, impregnable Ghost Rider?
We often hear the adage “ride to the conditions!” Do we do that? Do we all have the same understanding of the riding ‘conditions’?
Even within the parameters of the same weather conditions, the riding ‘conditions’ are vastly different on the city or suburban road to what they are on the motorway to what they are on the country back road to what they are at dawn or dusk to what they are with a low rising or setting sun, to what they are in day or night to what they are on weekdays to what they are on weekends to what they are ......
Well, I’ll let you finish. Actually, I can’t even do that. There’s no finish. The list is endless. The ‘conditions’ change constantly anywhere and everywhere on any and every day.
Horoscopes
I’m not seriously into horoscopes or astrology of any kind. In fact, I don’t think I’d even read a horoscope until about five years ago. That was when my wife decided that there were better pickings out there and took off in search of them. Well, with one of them! I must have thought or hoped that my future journey was surely written somewhere. I just needed to find it. I started reading horoscopes. It didn’t take long to discover they mostly had ambiguous, two-way bets. Sometimes I was encouraged to find a clearer, more positive outlook. But then, I was just as often depressed by peeking at my new-life-seeking wife’s horoscope – only to find it sounded better than mine!
However, I think I have just had a fillip in my belief in astrology. It might be telling me something after all. Having a coffee this morning at the Mall, while waiting for the first service of my new F800GS, which I purchased last week, I was paging through the Sydney Daily Telegraph. My horoscope for today told me the following:
Cancer: Events of the last week have changed the way you see things, probably forever. Boundaries have been crossed in such a way that there is now no return, no way of going back. It is increasingly clear that recent choices, made either by you or people close to you, are not negotiable. The only route is forward with no looking back. You should now be able to appreciate that those things, people, situations and environments that have survived the journey with you so far, have proved they are of real substance in your life - and likely to last for the long term. 
Wow! That certainly woke me up. Maybe there really are prospective alignments of stars.
Events of the last week included buying a new, dual purpose (on-road and off-road) F800GS (see photo opposite and at the end ofMy Bikes page). Boundaries have been crossed from road riding (as on my Big Trip North) to a future of more adventure riding. The choices are not negotiable. It has to be lots of off-road riding. The only route forward is to the roads and adventures I had to forego on my recent trip, especially having dropped the road bike in thick dirt on the William Creek to Coober Pedy Road. I have no doubt that all those factors that have contributed to this situation have proved themselves and will last for the long term. I collected my bike from the service with a renewed enthusiasm and commitment.
I didn’t read my wife’s horoscope. In fact, I stopped doing that a while ago.
.India and Racism
It’s interesting that India seems to love stirring the racism pot at any opportunity. It’s as though racism is a phenomenon exclusively exhibited by whites against non-whites. Tragically, racism is much more pervasive than that. And it’s exhibited, along with its frequent travelling companion – religious bigotry – extensively in so many countries that are often the first to cry ‘wolf’ when an issue arises involving Caucasians. I hope I’m not being too paranoid in saying this.
India’s current foray into racism controversy has been sparked by the India students issue and the aftermath of the 4 Corners ‘exposé’ of corruption in relevant migration and student sectors. (As an aside, I feel a need to say that, while I can easily believe and be influenced by 4 Corners, I have also been appalled, when I was familiar with the subject matter, at how they can subtly and not so subtly manipulate interviews.)
The Indian media, at least at the ‘popular’ program level, seems to be getting into the issue with a vengeance. It caught my attention partly because I’ve seen it all before at first hand. I was in Mumbai at the time of the controversy about a minor stoush on the UK Celebrity House TV show between Bollywood star Shilpa Shetty and UK contestant Jade Goody. That was 2007.The Indian media had a field day with the racism issue, but it was deeply split between those who wanted to stir the racism pot (probably the ‘popular’ segment) and many whose commentary articles and editorials decried the racism accusations, pointing to India’s own dubious record (their own words). Now we might be seeing the same thing all over. I haven’t delved into the Indian Media this time, but the ABC 4 Corners undercover correspondent has put some balance into the issue with her reported comments. Let’s hope the balance filters through to all layers of media in both countries.
Getting balance into the discussion of the issues doesn’t mean sweeping racism or religious bigotry under the carpet where they might exist. We have both in our society and we need to continue to address them. But seeing everything through racism tinted glasses doesn’t help any sensible, worthwhile cause.
Marque of Distinction
In the Weekend Australian’s Magazine today, there’s a heading ‘Marque of Distinction.’ It turned out to be an article about a restaurant in Hobart called Marque IV. But my mind had immediately focussed on another purported marque of distinction – the great Bavarian marque of the BMW. I wondered spontaneously if it still is a marque of distinction. MyF800ST is off the road... again. Has been for a couple of weeks. Parts are needed from Bavaria. It takes a minimum of two weeks to fly vital parts from Munich to Canberra. Must be a single engine biplane. But then, they usually take longer, so who knows. To add injury to insult, this is the second time the bike has had exactly the same problem, namely, a ‘collapse’ (Dealer’s description; not mine) of the back bearings. Are we talking about German engineering? Or does BMW get everything manufactured these days in Whereverstan? How can the back bearings collapse...twice? This comes hot on the heels of four total electronic failures – first put down to battery collapses; then, in disbelief that four batteries in a row could collapse, to an underlying electronic problem; then, back to battery collapses! And to think I still covet an F800GS! Am I a slow learner?
Family Interest in You
Having set up my web site - and blog, I would have thought immediate family members might have been the most interested to see what I'm up to. I guess that really was wishful thinking.
If you're reading this, you will have noticed - and hopefully identified - Eragon on his dragon, Saphira. You might have even delved into the Fireside page and discovered the reason why I chose such a banner for my web site.
I have one special family member living with me – my 20 yr old stepdaughter, Natalie.
I just got some visitor cards printed. I would have called them business cards if it were not for the fact I’m retired. They replicate the design of my web site. Just a bit of fun to drop around on tours.
Nat’s first comment on my excitedly showing them to her – the very first person to see them (apart from the printers) was “who’s that on the camel?”
The camel?
Hasn’t she even looked at the web site, let alone read the Fireside page – or any page?
The camel?
Even my four year old granddaughter is impressed, because she thinks grandpa is a dragon catcher.
The camel?
No, Nat, it’s not a camel.
Maybe she might even open the site now she has a card with the URL on it.
Then, again, I am a wishful thinker.
The Faux Apology
It’s the ‘apology’ that you offer when you really do not want to make an apology. So you resort to the faux apology.
It usually goes something like this: The company/institution/we/I (depending on who or what is making the faux apology) is/are sorry for any offence caused/if anyone was offended/if you were offended ...etc., depending on how broad or narrow is the aim of the faux apology.
People who resort to the faux apology, for the most part, fall into one or other – or possibly both – of two categories.
In one category, are those who are too proud or too stubborn or too arrogant or too bloody-minded to apologise. It’s simply not in their character or their perceived business, professional or personal needs to contemplate apologising for anything that they might have said, implied, written or done.
In the other category, are those who, to resort to a much over-used cliché, just don’t get it. They have no real understanding or appreciation of how inappropriate or unwarranted or unprofessional their words or conduct has been.
As a general phenomenon, when politicians or professional representatives resort to the faux apology (without suggesting they necessarily do so), they fall into the first category. Although, having said that, a couple of more notorious federal backbenchers come to mind who obviously have at least one foot in the second category.
Again, as a general phenomenon, when anyone from the Australian rugby league establishment resorts to the faux apology (without suggesting they all necessarily do so – I think their ceo is an exception, but possibly the only one), they fall into the second category.
The bottom line is that a faux apology is a faux apology is a faux apology. No amount of repeating it or of uttering it with increasing sincerity will ever make it a real apology.
