Looking For the Way: Two systems of a small planet and how the Universe works

By Jeremy Flint

Look around...have you ever wondered how all this works? What is the goal of life, its object or purpose and what is the best way to achieve that goal? Me, too, so I embarked on a journey to find the fundamental law of the Universe. Sometimes you simply cannot see the wood for the trees. Two systems of a small planet and how the Universe works.
Jeremy Flint embarks upon an attempt to explain his findings. He feels he will fail from the outset, as most people have no interest in the overall puzzle in which they are embedded; they are simply too busy trying to make it through life’s journey. The overall picture is hard to see with so much noise drowning out any perceivable signal. Sometimes there isn’t time to sit around and wonder why the wheel is turning when you simply have to hold on tight just to get by.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amolibros
• Release date: Aug 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781908557698

Jeremy Flint

Jeremy Flint worked his way up the career ladder, though at meetings he introduced himself as a “time-served electrician working my way down” as he often felt his career progress always took him further away from the truth he was seeking. On his lapel badge was “Experimental Specialist”, about as high as a technician could get without turning to the dark side of administration or management. He always preferred science and the laws of physics; projects and people came and went but the laws of physics remained intact, off-limits to change by administration and management, who would have happily changed them if they could! But they seemed content to rearrange chains of command and working structures ad infinitum. Meanwhile, he evolved from one project to the next, making things work in accordance with the established laws of physics and engineering. So most of his story is set in an apparently bygone time, though there are remarkable similarities with today, even though three decades have elapsed.

Book preview

Looking for

The Way

Two systems of a small planet and

how the Universe works

Jeremy Flint

Published as an ebook by Amolibros at Smashwords

2014

Amolibros

Copyright © Jeremy Flint 2014

First published in 2014 by Moorcroft Books

New Brighton, Mold, Flintshire, CH7 6RF

Photo images copyright Maddocks / Flint

Graphics by No Duff Stuff

www.noduffstuff.co.uk

(based on designs by Jeremy Flint)

Electronic edition published by Amolibros 2014,

Loundshay Manor Cottage, Preston Bowyer, Milverton,

Somerset, TA4 1QF tel/fax [phone]

www.amolibros.com

The right of Jeremy Flint to be identified as the author of the

work has been asserted herein in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

www.amolibros.com

eBook production by Oxford eBooks Ltd.

www.oxford-ebooks.com

To Linda

who taught me so much

ABOUT THIS BOOK

Look around…have you ever wondered how all this works? What is the goal of life, its object or purpose and what is the best way to achieve that goal? Me, too, so I embarked on a journey to find the fundamental law of the Universe. Sometimes you simply cannot see the wood for the trees. Two systems of a small planet and how the Universe works.

Jeremy Flint embarks upon an attempt to explain his findings. He feels he will fail from the outset, as most people have no interest in the overall puzzle in which they are embedded; they are simply too busy trying to make it through life’s journey. The overall picture is hard to see with so much noise drowning out any perceivable signal. Sometimes there isn’t time to sit around and wonder why the wheel is turning when you simply have to hold on tight just to get by.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Jeremy Flint worked his way up the career ladder, though at meetings he introduced himself as a time-served electrician working my way down as he often felt his career progress always took him further away from the truth he was seeking.

On his lapel badge was Experimental Specialist, about as high as a technician could get without turning to the dark side of administration or management. He always preferred science and the laws of physics; projects and people came and went but the laws of physics remained intact, off-limits to change by administration and management, who would have happily changed them if they could! But they seemed content to rearrange chains of command and working structures ad infinitum. Meanwhile, he evolved from one project to the next, making things work in accordance with the established laws of physics and engineering. So most of his story is set in an apparently bygone time, though there are remarkable similarities with today, even though three decades have elapsed.

CONTENTS

About This Book

About The Author

A Seed is Sown

Branch 1: The Journey Begins

Branch 2: The Working Day

Branch 3: Early Learning

Branch 4: Pyramids at Work

Branch 5: The Birth of Curiosity

Branch 6: Job Analysis

Branch 7: Autumn Advances

Branch 8: First Birthday

Branch 9: The Blizzard

Branch 10: Galum’s first Christmas

Branch 11: Stock-Taking

Branch 12: Enter Joe Public

Branch 13: Linda's Game

Branch 14: Oak Lightning

Branch 15: Greek Excursion

Branch 16: Tree Counting

Branch 17: Loose Ends

Branch 18: The Way

Branch 19: Purpose

Epilogue

A Seed is Sown

If time does exist, as most people believe, then it really does fly.

It is hard to imagine that this little planet, upon which I find myself, has circled the sun thirty times since I first tripped over the fundamental law of the Universe.

All those years ago, in the mid nineteen-eighties, I was simply looking for the way. By this I mean I was thinking about what was the real purpose of living. What did it all mean? Was there a goal and if so, how best to achieve that objective?

It struck me that a lifetime could be wasted pursuing things that really did not matter (in the long run) unless these questions were considered near the beginning. Daily actions and events may have made some cultural sense at the time, but then again, they may have all led to the wrong goal.

As these thoughts developed I was unsure if they were right or wrong. Hence I decided to simply record them and see how they evolved.

So, thirty planetary revolutions later, I embark upon an attempt to explain my findings. I feel I will fail from the outset, as most people have no interest in the overall puzzle in which they are embedded; they are simply too busy trying to make it through life’s journey. The overall picture is hard to see with so much noise drowning out any perceivable signal. Sometimes there isn’t time to sit around and wonder why the wheel is turning when you simply have to hold on tight just to get by.

It may have been better if I had been a trained philosopher, or physicist, but I had been trained in other areas: I had been trained to make things work; specifically, electrical things, so these options were beyond me. Not gifted in logic nor mathematics, I had to use my artisan skills to make a living. In my limited spare time I read factual books, reference works, scientific papers and magazines and, as the years rotated, I became good at recognising systems, the way they worked, their interactions and their modes of failure. Eventually I worked my way up the career path, though at meetings I introduced myself as a time-served electrician working my way down as I often felt my career progress always took me further away from the truth I was seeking. Nevertheless, my opening phrase always broke the ice.

On my lapel badge was Experimental Specialist, about as high as a technician could get without turning to the dark side of administration or management. I always preferred science and the laws of physics; projects and people came and went but the laws of physics remained intact, off-limits to change by administration and management, who would have happily changed them if they could! But they seemed content to rearrange our chains of command and working structures ad infinitum. Meanwhile, I evolved from one project to the next, making things work in accordance with the established laws of physics and engineering. So most of my story is set in an apparently bygone time, though there are remarkable similarities with today, even though three decades have elapsed.

To distinguish between my present thoughts (ten years into the new millennium) and that bygone age, I use bold type (and sometimes colour) for the modern writing and normal typeface and black and white, or sepia tint, for the earlier composition and images.

In this manner we now return to the start of my musings in the latter half of the twentieth century, back to a simpler yet busier time for me. I wasn’t sure where to begin, yet now I don’t think it really matters. As long as the focus is on the goal, then there are many different ways to get there. This book is just the route that I took.

Branch 1

The Journey Begins

The alarm clock rings; well, not so much a ring, more a clattering, clanking sound. First observation: nothing is perfect.

It’s six-thirty. I’ve been semiconscious for half an hour, disturbed by the sunrise lighting up the bedroom. I make a real effort to fill my lungs with cool air, ready to face another day. Deep breaths; I roll out of bed.

I’m going, I say as a matter of routine to my wife, Tracy. No reply today.

I dress, and then enter the kitchen. Fill kettle, switch on, teabag in teapot. Pan of milk on front ring. Switch to LO, for a wash I go. Obviously, I’m still on automatic pilot; no conscious thought involved yet. Wash, shave, clean teeth, comb hair and return to the kitchen. Milk in cups: sugar in right-hand cup. Warm milk on the cornflakes (which were put out last night) and switch oven off.

I deliver the tea-without-sugar to Tracy and return to the kitchen once more to eat my breakfast.

Jacket on, keys in pocket? Yes. Money? Adequate. One final important task left. I look in to see if my seven-month-old daughter Linda is safe and sound. She is usually restless at this time of day, especially if the Sun is illuminating her window, too. Daylight is her second timekeeper, her tummy being the first; so on bright mornings she wants breakfast earlier than on duller days.

I enter her room and she turns to look at me over her shoulder.

Hello, Linda, I whisper. It’s only me, Dada.

She smiles and then her head flops against the safety mattress again.

I’m going now … to work. She doesn’t understand a word I say, but the intonation of my voice is friendly, playful. We’ll have a good play tonight, I promise. One day soon I’ll have to be careful what I say. Some nights I have to cut lawns, mend the car, fix a vacuum cleaner, or do a host of other jobs too diverse to mention.

I’m going now, Tracy. See you tonight.

See you, she replies.

I have to walk one mile from my bungalow to the bus stop; there I catch a private bus which takes me to a factory. It’s a pleasant walk along a busy lane joining two main roads. The journey can be divided into two. The first half has open fields on either side stretching out as far as the eye can see to a distant hedgerow on the left, or a valley with hills beyond on the right; this is the uphill part of the journey. On the downward slope bungalows and houses border the road, giving it a suburban landscape with plenty of variety – more than usual, I would say.

The gentle uphill walk can be really invigorating, especially on a lovely sunny morning. Sometimes I actually feel privileged to be up so early to witness this panorama while it is still peaceful and calm; a sharp contrast to the initial feeling when the alarm clock first clanks.

The footpath is on the left as I ascend the hill and running parallel to it is a neatly trimmed hawthorn hedge. The elderly farmer, who lives at the apex of the hill, clips the hedge twice a year. He’s still cutting it with hand shears and this creates a random undulating wave along the top of the hedgerow, which, for reasons as yet unclear, tends to stand out. Perhaps I have been working with geometric regularity for too long: installing vertical or horizontal conduits, never curvy - well, only once to blend into a bent breeze block wall. Now something as sporadic as a wavy hedgerow looks out of place. An occupational hazard, I guess.

There are two yards of wild grass verge between the path and the corrugated hedgerow and it is here that I make my second observation of the day. What we are about to encounter is so familiar that it has become an accepted part of our existence. It comes in a variety of colourful textures and forms. Aha! Here is the first example now and a classic one, too: the non-returnable, throwaway, crushed Coke can in gaily coloured red and white.

Rubbish. One of man’s less endearing behavioural characteristics is to take nature and mottle it with rubbish. It is everywhere. Each stride now brings into view more waste material. A lollipop stick, crisp packet, black plastic dustbin liner, cigarette stubs, an old newspaper, a non-returnable glass bottle, aluminium foil – Chinese take-away style – and a plastic cup.

Most of this assortment is blown off the path by the prevailing westerly wind, and then it is either caught by the spiky hawthorn hedgerow, or ends up in the field for the cattle to chew on. But this does not mean the path is clear, far from it. The path is dotted with dog poo; dog droppings all over the place. In dry spells the path becomes an uphill slalom course; left through the brown bits, right through the fawn ones – horrible thought!

Farm buildings stand at the top of the hill, dwarfed by high voltage power cables (400kV – super grid) suspended on flimsy-looking pylons. When the weather is wet, or even just moist, the cables crackle and hiss as if in protest. I found this phenomenon quite disconcerting at first and made a point of walking underneath them quickly until out of earshot. Silly, I suppose, but today the Sun has lulled this powerful energy web into a gentle slumbering buzz.

Just beyond the farm is the infant school where Linda will one day begin her formal education: a slow methodical enlightenment towards adulthood. I sometimes study her when she is playing, examining an empty yoghurt tub or a squeaky toy. She has got the whole world to learn. It seems incredible that her tiny scalp contains the potential to fulfil this task. It is a tremendous challenge for each individual.

I imagine spending five years teaching Linda how to be a good girl, then ten years trying to explain why the rest of the world isn’t so good. We will see. In the meantime I had better start working out some answers to life’s big questions.

At the halfway stage of the journey I look down the hill onto rooftops below. The second half of the route can be divided longitudinally, so that on the left are bungalows and houses, whilst on the right is the public highway. Between the two is a dark tarmac path and in the middle of it, along its entire length, the telephone people have dug a trench. After burying cables, the trench has been capped with light grey gravel, which stands out like a sore thumb. I make a habit of walking along the trench top, because it represents, in my mind, a kind of no-man’s-land. To the left of the dividing line is private property; to the right a public road. The trench-top is a visible interface between the two.

If we catalogued all the rubbish seen earlier, we might expect the creatures that created such a wealth of waste would surely be living in squalid surroundings. Their dwellings must be brimming with junk and the gardens swamped with the overflow. Yet an examination of their properties reveals quite the reverse.

There are some beautiful gardens on my left. Hours of thought and labour and expense have been lavished upon them. Lawns like green velvet surrounded by gaily coloured borders, then shrubs and finally small brick walls marking the outer boundaries. Most of the gardens are good, but some are superb. I am passing one of the best now. The lawn, on close inspection, is not as good as others, but the eye is drawn away from this by a beautifully simple and carefully blended border. There is blue lobelia, orange tagetes, white alyssum, golden marigolds and mixed antirrhinum. They have been spaced so that now, in full bloom, the mosaic is complete without looking crowded.

In contrast to this tapestry of colour, dwarf conifers, in subtle hues of silver and green, surmount a small rockery, providing a pastel backcloth. The aubrietia and golden alyssum at the rockery base have faded now; they had their flourish earlier in the year.

There is another quality garden farther along. The lawn on this occasion is the centrepiece. It is smooth and as verdant as a snooker table; a green even-textured baize. Around the lawn are numerous roses. The drive gatepost has been partly overgrown by a healthy blue hydrangea, while a symmetrically trimmed pine hedge separates this garden from the next door neighbour.

So contrary to what one might expect, there is no rubbish in most of the gardens. Instead it is all strewn out here to the right of no-man’s-land: there is no rubbish on the private property, it is here, in the gutter and on the road in the public domain.

There is something strange here that puzzles me. How can people who adore order and tidiness in their gardens, suddenly and totally neglect it two yards away across the footpath? What kind of thinking underlies this attitude?

Perhaps most of the litter is dropped by children. There were a lot of lollipop sticks and sweet wrappers among my survey. Yet these children are the sons and daughters of the people who own the beautiful gardens. Surely they are told not to litter the streets?

It appears people feel no responsibility for those areas that do not directly belong to them. I remember a squashed, desiccated hedgehog lying by the gate of a bungalow, not quite within an invisible line marking out the private property. It lay there for weeks. I have seen a milk bottle in the gutter outside the drive of a house. A week later it was broken; then it gradually fragmented and disappeared by reduction. People seem to have no desire to keep tidy those areas bordering their dwellings. I wonder why they no longer care.

I reach my destination, one of the most public places one can imagine: a bus shelter; a small breeze-block oblong, ten feet by four by seven feet high. The roof is corrugated asbestos and the front is open. Inside, the cement base is littered with waste: beer cans (buckled and crushed by frustrated energy), newspapers and greasy chip paper, and chips as well! Cigarette stubs and matches radiate out from the front of the shelter towards the kerb, as if they have been scattered like seeds on the land.

I usually wait outside the shelter. That way it is easier to flag down the bus and it is healthier, too.

To become a qualified bus traveller requires years of hard training. One’s mind has to be elevated to the level expected of a Tibetan monk, though some passengers prefer sleeping. Either way, you have to be in a trance-like state, then, while your body is subjected to extremes of discomfort, you may attain nirvana - total oblivion of the self. This helps reduce one’s blood pressure when the bus is late. If I recall the worst journey in my experience, it may further your knowledge of commuting.

Picture the scene: a bleak winter’s morning by the roadside awaiting the arrival of the B37 bus. As usual, I am the first to arrive. The time is ten minutes past seven, the bus is due at a quarter past, though rarely arrives until twenty-five past. Everybody knows this and the rest usually arrive at twenty past. (Hope that’s not too complicated.)

It came on time once - only I caught it that day.

It is cold. Even I can feel it inside my specially designed duffel coat. I must explain at this point that Tracy is a needlework teacher and can produce any clothing required cheaper and better than you generally buy in the shops. The coat is calf-length, lined with a smart woollen tartan and an interlining of nylon to make it impervious to wind and light rain.

There was a heavy frost last night and the white frozen grass indicates it is still below freezing point. Today I stand inside the shelter, ankle-deep in chip paper and look bleakly across the road at a black Alsatian dog sniffing the base of a lamp post. Buses do not like this weather; who does? But some buses don’t like this weather so much they won’t come out in it!

A few colleagues arrive and we exchange unpleasantries about the temperature. There is some mention of a brass monkey looking for a welder, which I don’t understand, but we all laugh anyway and our breath forms a cloud of white vapour which limply drifts out of the shelter above our heads. Some wit, wearing a fashionable bomber jacket, asks if they make duffel coats like mine in long sizes. I reply that at least my brain is warm, whereas his nether regions are severely exposed. He hops from foot to foot, doing a little jig to keep warm. I stand still; warm yet unfashionable, it seems.

No sign of the bus yet.

Two more fellow travellers arrive. There is limited chip-free standing room for five people inside the shelter, so the latest arrivals are left hopping about on the pavement, subjected to the ram air from passing traffic.

It is half past seven now and an air of gloom is hanging over our little group. This is where one’s training becomes vital. Who will be the first to crack up, develop a bad back and return to a warm bed to try again tomorrow?

Unconsciously, we huddle together, like penguins on an ice floe. In fact, this analogy is a very accurate description of the scene in front of me now. Our happy little band (or gaggle) is waddling from foot to foot, all relentlessly staring down the hill, waiting, willing the bus to appear. Some are of the opinion that spring might arrive first.

Three buses have already passed by; here comes the fourth. We make a tentative waddle towards the kerb. No, it is not our bus. We wave it on and stare daggers at the innocent driver.

Eventually our bus is sighted and with mixed feelings of relief and dismay we ascend the steps, pay our fare and select a seat. Ooh! Cold, simulated leather seats! These buses must be designed by warm-blooded masochists. Your feet are freezing and where do they put the heater outlets? In the ruddy roof, that’s where! It is a good job my duffel coat offers some protection; but imagine what the fashionable must be feeling now?

Our driver offers an explanation. Another driver didn’t turn up for work and then the bus wouldn’t start. There is no response; we are all too numb.

Well, I suppose these things can happen and remember this is the worst journey I can recall. But what puzzles me is how a professional bus company can get itself into such a poor state of organisation. If the forecast says the weather is going to be bad most people would prepare for it. The professionals apparently do not. Come rain or shine, it is all ad lib at the depot.

When snow is forecast I bring my wellies in from the garage and set the alarm clock to wake me five minutes earlier. That is all I need to compensate for the harder trudge over the hill. It is annoying when you make the effort to walk a mile and arrive on time, then are subjected to the almost arbitrary arrangements of an undedicated bus company.

After six miles of the worst journey I can recall, the bus breaks down. Later a maintenance crew appears, disappearing under the front of the bus to unfreeze the compressed air brakes with a blow torch. Well, at least the bus will be warm. It might feel better when its compressor nuts are roasted and then agree to take us to work.

I must confess a degree of sympathy for the bus drivers who take the brunt of public anger on such occasions. Each one responds differently with a characteristic individuality that is stamped on their driving. Regular travellers have even suggested nicknames for some of the more eccentric drivers: L’escargot (the snail) is the first to spring to mind. He’s an elderly gent, very polite, handles every bus as if the engine is being run-in, habitually allowing everybody to pull out from side roads and roundabouts. This altruism catches people off guard and consequently their cars often jump forward and stall, as politeness from a bus driver has been known to cause cases of shock. So now they are stuck halfway across the road: but it doesn’t matter, we will wait. We are in no hurry. Restart the engine, get it back in gear. Fit an exchange gearbox if you like. Want a push? There is no rush - we’re already late.

The snail does have one point in his favour, a remarkably smooth gear change. In fact, it is so fluent that you are unaware of the event. So when the snail drives, the experienced passenger takes advantage of the circumstances and settles down for a long snooze.

Another driver has been dubbed the most relaxed bus driver in the world ever. He has earned this distinction by consistently failing to bother looking at the road. Granted, he does occasionally have a sideways glance at the traffic, but his main preoccupation seems to be at right angles to the direction of travel. Hedgerows, trees, a windmill, they are all more intriguing than the control column of a bus.

Meanwhile, we transfer