A wry view of life for the world-weary

Monthly Archives: September 2015

A New Day Yesterday – Part Eight


As I get older – it is my birthday today – I realise there is nothing certain in this world. There is no point building your hopes up that there’s a nice little earner you can rely on in your dotage because, as sure as eggs are eggs, some bean-counter somewhere will have blocked up the well of plenty just before it is your turn in the queue.

So far I have managed to evade the long arm of the law although not, sad to say, the long-distance lens of the traffic police but deep inside me somewhere is an unfulfilled yearning to assist the rozzers. Bluntly put, I’ve always fancied lining up for an identity parade, along with a few other well-meaning coves and the suspect. Of course, I would need some kind of security blanket like a cast-iron alibi or a DNA that doesn’t match anything found within a mile of the crime scene or a fervent belief that I do not have any doppelgängers in the local criminal fraternity. But it would be an afternoon out and something to recount and embellish upon down the local. And of course you got paid for your time and trouble.

I was devastated to read the other week that this route to supplementing my pension has pretty much been closed down due to advances in technology and, dare I say it, penny-pinching. West Yorkshire police developed something called the Video Identification Parade Electronic Recording Bureau or Viper for short in 2003 which holds images of individuals – the would-be identity paraders – on a database which the victim of the crime can review at their leisure. Makes sense, I suppose, and it has now been universally adopted by all the forces in the land.

There is now a recruitment drive to increase the number of images held on the national database. Anyone can volunteer provided that they don’t have facial tattoos and/or an inordinate number of piercings. I guess if you are one of those with a heavily pixelated face like suspects invariably have who get caught on CCTV, that would rule you out too. But you get rewarded for your trouble – a measly tenner. And there are no repeat fees! What’s the point of perfecting a mean and moody stare if you don’t get repeats?

The adoption of video based identity parades has reduced the cost of holding one from £800 to £150. That’s all very well, but it has put a big hole in my retirement plans, I can tell you. And with the cold winds of austerity blowing through the corridors of Whitehall you can easily imagine that some of the other benefits of being a retiree such as a free bus pass, a heating allowance and a free TV licence will disappear before I can get my hands on them.

The only consolation is that we are not the only ones in the firing line. In a nice touch the Japanese authorities present those of their citizens who reach the grand young age of 100 with a saucer-like sakazuki or sake cup worth around Y7,000. However, so many are now turning 100 – some 29,000 in 2014 alone – that the government are having second thoughts. They are considering scrapping the gift altogether and leaving the old codgers to make do with a congratulatory letter from the prime minister.

Life isn’t a bowl of cherries being old!


All Change – Part Four


In continuing our look at words which have changed their meaning dramatically over the years, it is astonishing how many words which make up even the most basic vocabulary have shifted sense. Take meat for example. It owes its origin to the Old English noun, mete, which referred to food in general rather than liquids or drink and, specifically, for fodder for animals. Even towards the end of the 18th century it had this meaning as this quotation from Samuel Johnson’s A Journey to the Western Islands of Scotland, published in 1775, shows: “our guides told us that the horses could not travel without rest or meat”. Nowadays, of course, when we use it we mean the flesh of a mammal. Still you could make a vegetarian blanche by reverting to its original meaning!

You would think you were on safer ground when considering words which differentiate the sexes. But Chaucer uses girles which is the Old English equivalent of girls in the General Prologue of his Canterbury Tales (line 664) in a general context rather than one in which the sex of the individuals is paramount.

The adjective sly is used rather pejoratively these days. The connotation is that the person so described is sneaky or deceitful. But the word, when it was introduced into English from Old Norse in the 13th century, was a brush you wouldn’t mind being tarred with. It denoted someone who was clever or wise or knowing and was related to sleight, a noun which nowadays also carries with it the whiff of something underhand or at least deceitful, especially when it is used as a synonym for a magician’s presdigitation.

Cheater is another badge you wouldn’t want to wear these days as it denotes someone who is out to pull a fast one. But originally it was a position of some power and influence in mediaeval England. At least as far back as the 12th century, the English king would appoint an escheator and by the 14th century there was one escheator per county. When someone died intestate without heirs, their property passed to the monarch, much as it passes to the Treasury these days. The role of the escheator was to manage the process. But, of course, the role put significant temptations in their way and often they would prey on people’s distress and ignorance of the law to feather their own nests. So endemic were their corrupt practices that their office became a byword for a swindler, a meaning it retains today.

Artificial today has the meaning of something which is ersatz, not the real thing. But its root comes from the Latin artifex which meant someone with skill or a craftsman. So when it was originally introduced into the English language it was complimentary and suggested someone who was full of artistic and technical skill. There is skill, to be sure, in producing something which at first glance could be passed off as the real thing but somehow and sometime over the centuries the adjective attracted a more pejorative meaning.

And to finish off, here is an example of a word that started off with a negative connotation and is now very complimentary, the adjective pretty. In Old English the word meant crafty or cunning, a bit like the meaning we now attribute to sly. A speech might be described as pretty, meaning that it was cleverly or elegantly put but, perhaps, gilding the lily somewhat. By the 15th century the adjective had lost the pejorative aspects to its meaning and had adopted the one with which we are more familiar.

Our wonderful language never fails to fascinate.

Forty Days And Forty Nights – Part Twelve


Smallpox in South and Central America

Conservative estimates put the indigenous population in the Americas in 1492 at around 50 million of which some 25 to 30 million lived in Mexico when Cortes arrived. Fifty years later the population was down to some 3 million. In other areas of the Americas there was a similar story. The cause of this mass reduction in population was the cocktail of previously unknown diseases that the white man brought with him. The extent of the impact of the diseases on the populations has led some to describe it as biological genocide.

The reasons for the widespread destructive nature of the diseases are fairly simple: the local populations had not previously been exposed to them and, therefore, had not built up any immunities. When the disease struck they had neither the medicines to deal with the symptoms nor the understanding of how to quarantine or isolate those who were carrying the disease. And culturally the sick were tended and visited by relatives spreading the disease’s reach still further.

Europeans brought many diseases with them including measles, scarlet fever, typhus, whooping cough, influenza, tuberculosis and cholera. But the biggest killer was probably smallpox.  The pox is thought to have first emerged around 10,000 BCE and the first known physical evidence of it was a pustular rash on the mummified body of Ramses V. The disease was no respecter of rank and status. It was so endemic in Europe that towards the end of the 18th century it accounted for around 400,000 deaths a year. As Europeans explored the world and expanded their empires, it was inevitable that it would be transported across the Atlantic.

The key symptoms of smallpox were rashes and fluid-filled blisters. Survivors were usually left with tell-tale scars and blindness was often a by-product of a bout. The Lakota called it running face sickness. The only consolation was that if you contracted the disease and survived, you wouldn’t get it again.

Cortes’ arrival in Mexico in 1519 brought smallpox to the Aztec empire. It accounted for most of the Aztec army and around 25% of the civilian population and enabled what was a pitifully small invading army to accomplish an astonishing coup. A contemporary wrote, “as the Indian did not know the remedy of the disease..they died in heaps, like bedbugs. In many places it happened that everyone in the house died and, as it was impossible to bury the great number of the dead, they pulled down the houses over them, so that their homes became their tombs”. When Cortes marched into the Aztec capital, Tenochtitlan, the Spaniards could not walk anywhere without stepping over the bodies of smallpox victims.

For the Incas the effects of smallpox were even more catastrophic, claiming some 60 to 90% of the population, its spread aided by the efficient road systems that were in place. But smallpox didn’t stop there. It reached Chile in 1561 when a ship carrying the new governor, Francisco de Villagra, landed on its shores carrying the virus. Within a year around a quarter of the population had died, so devastating was the disease that, as a Spanish historian reported, the gold mines had to close because all the native labour had died. The Mapuche, who were fighting the Spanish at the time, thought that the pox was a magical device to aid de Villagra’s campaign to subjugate them.

Next time we will look at smallpox’s effects on North America.

Historical Figure Of The Week


Dragged this week from the obscurity in which he had been languishing for many a century was Piers Gaveston, 1st Earl of Cornwall, who lived from around 1284 to 1312. He was such a firm favourite of Edward of Caernarfon, later Edward II, that his exclusive access caused him to be exiled three times. The last time was in 1311 on pain of being declared an outlaw if he returned. Gaveston did return in 1312 and was hunted down and executed for his pains.

There were allegations dating from mediaeval times that Gaveston and Edward II were lovers, a charge made explicit by Christopher Marlowe in his play, Edward II. Whether they were or not is a matter of some conjecture but what got the nobility’s goat was Gaveston’s unrestricted access to the king, not rumours about his sexuality. I couldn’t find any reference to a pig.

Bet David won’t be calling Samantha Babe, though, for quite a while.

A Fool For You


Richard Thompson Electric Trio – Royal Festival Hall

It is always a pleasure to attend a Richard Thompson gig. At the very least, you are going to get value for money as his sets are always lengthy affairs. The RFH, revamped since I was last there, was pretty much sold out, the crowd’s age profile reflecting the advanced years of their hero, now 66 years young.

Unlike many of his era Thompson makes no concessions to his age. Judging by this concert his voice is in fine fettle, his fingers lithe and supple and there was no need to resort to backing singers or videoed sound tracks. Indeed, by opting for a trio format Thompson makes life difficult for himself because the line-up puts even more demands upon the guitarist. But he rose to challenge, aided and abetted by the solid rhythmic base laid down by nodding bassist, Davey Faragher, and the phenomenal Michael Jerome on drums.

There is an air of gloom and melancholy about Thompson’s best work and this mood was built on by the wistful and mournful set of the support band, The Rails, featuring Thompson’s daughter Kami and hubby, James Welbourne. At times if you closed your eyes you could imagine you had been transported back 40 years and were listening to her mother’s vocals – now that would have been a treat. The Rails seemed a bit nervous and had a false start with a Martin Carthy cover but managed to carry it off, encouraged by a benevolent crowd.

That wasn’t the last we saw of the Rails as they accompanied Thompson’s opening number, That’s Enough, an appropriately anti-establishment number to accompany his Citizen Smith-stylee black beret. The Rails disappeared and Faragher and Jerome took residence to play a set which was a mixture of tracks from the current album Still and some old favourites from his extensive back catalogue.

Thompson teased some astonishing solos from his Fender Stratocaster, none more so than in All Buttoned Up and a personal favourite of mine, For Shame Of Doing Wrong. The set wasn’t all electric rock. Thompson changed the pace of the show with an excellent acoustic solo version of the Fairport classic from 1968, Meet On The Ledge – one to be played at my funeral – and 1952 Vincent Black Lightning which showcased his finger picking virtuosity.

The backing band came back on and launched into a more jazzier strain with perennial favourite Al Bowlly’s In Heaven and two songs soon to be established as regular crowd pleasers, Beatnick Blues and Guitar Heroes. The latter, which required his guitar technician to help out on acoustic guitar, pays homage to Thompson’s formative influences, a theme he returned to in the opening number of his first encore – we were treated to two encores, the first of two songs and the second featuring three – a fine version of Hey Joe. There was a sense that in his mind Thompson is still striving to establish his place amongst the all-time guitar greats.

Judging by this performance and the reaction of an admittedly devoted crowd, Thompson is up there amongst the true greats of his instrument of choice. There were moments which were absolutely sublime and with his voice as powerful as ever, there were no signs that he will let up. I walked back to the train station thinking this was one of the best concerts I had seen for many a long year. But maybe I’m biased!

The Streets Of London – Part Twenty Seven


Paternoster Square – EC4M

Directly north of St Paul’s Cathedral and just south of Newgate Street is to be found a modern square which is the home of the London Stock Exchange. Paternoster Square, for that is the name of the piazza surrounded by modern office buildings, has had a rather chequered history, as we shall see.

Before the square was developed there was Paternoster Row. The name, Latin for our father, is thought to have been derived from the practice of monks and clergy processing from the Cathedral along the street chanting, amongst other things, the Lord’s Prayer. Some credence may be given to this theory by the presence of Ave Maria Lane and Amen Corner nearby. Others think that the origin of the street’s name came from the fact that traders sold a type of prayer bead known as a pater noster there.

Whatever may have been the origins of its name, by the early 19th century the street had become the centre of the London book trade. John Murray, writing in the World of London, published in 1841 in Blackwood’s Magazine, records, “The Row…is the nucleus of the literary neighbourhood. ..How the literary man delights to haunt this place. He pauses, before the immense emporium of the Longmans, with its fourteen windows in front, its little Ionic pilasters, and its iron crane, emblematic of the very heavy commodities in which the proprietors are sometimes compelled to deal…” He goes on to describe some of the other publishing houses there, including the large premises of Whittaker and Co which extended half the length of Ave Maria Lane, the impressive headquarters of the Worshipful Company of Stationers and Messrs Simpkin and Marshall who sell, in his quaint phrase, “the lighter artillery of literature”.

Max Schlesinger in his Saunterings in and around London of 1853 reports that “about 15,000 persons are employed in the printing, binding and in the sale of books. The mechanical aids and machinery have been brought to an astounding height of perfection, and an edition of a thousand copies in octavo requires but ten or twelve hours for the binding”. I would have spent a lot of time and a small fortune, I dare say, there.

The street was changed for ever on 29th December 1940 when the area was subjected to one of the heaviest night raids of the Blitz. Paternoster Row took the brunt and the publishing houses which Murray extolled were all destroyed.

The first incarnation of Paternoster Square was a hideous example of 1960s architecture – grim and austere. It was never popular, described as full of “ghastly monolithic constructions without definition or character”, and the presence of this monstrous carbuncle so close to a prime tourist attraction was seen as a source of embarrassment. The lack of popularity translated into a reduction in footfall and premises were difficult to rent. In the 1980s it was a bit of a ghost town. Not unsurprisingly, the square was redeveloped again, the present square being open again for business by October 2003. At least now it has an airy piazza and the materials in which the buildings are constructed blend in with the surroundings.


There are three monuments to note if you venture there. The 75 foot tall Corinthian column made of Portland Stone with a gold leaf covered flaming copper urn atop is known locally as the pineapple. As well as enhancing the look of the piazza it serves as a ventilation shaft for a service road running underneath. At the north end of the square is a bronze sculpture of a Shepherd and Sheep and at the entrance to the square from the cathedral is to be found a stone archway that once formed part of Temple Bar on Fleet Street. But more of this anon.

The Meaning Of Life – Part Of Thirty Eight of Forty Two

Multigenerational Hispanic family on porch

How long is a generation?

We talk glibly of once in a generation or the Baby boomer generation but it dawned on me the other day that I really don’t have a clue how long a generation is or, really, how a generation is defined. As the purpose of this series is to shed light on those nagging questions or doubts that creep into the sub-conscious, I decided to find out. Unsurprisingly, the answer isn’t quite as straightforward as you might expect or hope for.

There is a deep fascination with genealogy. Many of us are keen to explore our family history in the hopes of either finding the key to a lost fortune or exposing a skeleton that will give you a bit of kudos at the next dinner party. Generally we are disappointed or our researches peter out down some dead-end. But the key to genealogy is developing a family tree that shows x begat y, although the tree is normally constructed in reverse. The first-born of parents a and b could legitimately (or in some cases illegitimately) be called the start of the next generation and, indeed, this is what is known as a biological generation. The problem is that its duration is specific to each couple and does not have a fixed length. So it is handy for the specific – I am the fourth generation from Joe Bloggs – but not for the general and will even be a moveable feast within a branch of a family.

Consolidating a whole host of biological generations we can develop a familial generation, a sort of rule of thumb which says, broadly, the age at which a woman bears her first-born is y. Generations ago, the value associated to a familial generation was as low as 20 years – a combination of lower overall life expectancy, younger marriages and larger families – but these days it is more likely to be around the 25 year mark or, recognising the trend in certain societies for women to have their first-born nowadays even later, as high as 28. This in itself brings a whole lot of problems with it because it is a sliding scale. 28 may be appropriate today but would be over-egging it by some if we were talking about life a century or so ago.

The next concept is that of a societal generation. This owes its genesis to the French lexicographer, Emile Littre, who in 1863 defined a generation as “all men living more or less at the same time”. The key characteristics are that a bunch of people are born around the same period of time and have exposure to the same formative historical and cultural experiences. So we talk of the Lost generation – those who were born in time to live through and perish during the First World War – or the Baby Boomers – those who never had it so good and were born between the end of the Second World War and the early 1960s. It is a useful form of short-hand to define an era or a set of shared beliefs or experiences but for those looking for numerical exactitude, it is all a bit wishy-washy.

The other end of the spectrum is what is termed Designated Generations where the age for reaching a particular stage in your life cycle is firmly prescribed and static. An example would be the culture of the East African Pokots. All the key things a male can or cannot do are defined by their age, whether it be marriage or the type of hairstyle. Whilst this approach doesn’t take into account biological changes such as increased life expectancy, there is a pleasing degree of certainty with it.

It seems you pays your money and takes your choice. So now we know!

Book Corner – September 2015 (2)


Nature’s Engraver – Jenny Uglow

After my near-death experience at the hands of Genghis Khan I turned to the more tranquil, pastoral delights of late 18th century England and a writer I like, Jenny Uglow. The eponymous nature’s engraver is one Thomas Bewick, a man about whom I knew very little but whom I have grown to admire.    

Bewick’s only real talent was to draw and after serving an apprenticeship with the engraver, Thomas Bielby, went into partnership with his erstwhile master n Newcastle. There was a demand for engraving, principally metal engraving as the aspiring middle classes and upper orders wanted their coat of arms or other distinctive emblems engraved on cutlery to deter the light-fingered. And in an age before photography the only way that tedious pages of verbiage could be lightened was by way of some form of illustration requiring the engraver’s art. Tradesmen, publicans an hoteliers and the like would use the engravers to add a printed flourish to their otherwise black and white demands for payment. There was a thriving business to be had.


Whilst illustrations were originally made on woodcuts, the normal method by the time Bewick was operating was to engrave in metal. Bewick’s major innovation was to develop a technique now known as wood engraving. This involved using boxwood but unlike earlier wood engravers who would carve with the grain, he carved against the grain using tools normally employed by metal engravers. The result was a technique which allowed for finer detail than ordinary woodcarving and because a wood engraving is inked on the face, it requires only a low pressure to be applied to make an image, The result was that the block could be used for thousands of images and which could be integrated with the metal type. Result – better quality and lower cost – perfect!

Bewick’s love of nature prompted a desire to create in conjunction with his partner, Bielby, an authoritative volume of all animals, illustrated with a combination of verisimilitude and humour which would bring the qualities of the various animals to life. This was an enormous undertaking consuming around 10 years of Bewick’s professional life but when the History of Quadrupeds was published in 1790 it made his reputation. For a big man he displays an exquisite touch in his engraving style and is keen to include vignettes of everyday life and a dash of humour into all his work.


His next project was to focus on birds and to help him on his way many a supporter would be kind enough to send him rotting carcases of poor birds they had winged. The first edition of A History of British Birds which featured land birds came out in 1797 and was an immediate success. He published the second edition, Water Birds, in his own right in 1804 to similar public acclaim.

Uglow shines a light on the person that Bewick was – a family man, a toper, a good conversationalist but of fixed views and a fiery temper, a radical who despaired of the route that the oppressive Pitt regime was taking. I felt he was someone I would want to share a few pints with. And the book is full of his marvellous prints.


Charlotte Bronte was a great fan and Bewick’s British Birds is name-checked in Jane Eyre where it becomes the model for her experimentations with drawing and the missile that John Reed throws at the eponymous heroine. Bewick also had a swan and a wren named after him.

A lovely, peaceful book.

Quacks Pretend To Cure Other Men’s Disorders But Rarely Find A Cure For Their Own – Part Twenty Eight


Dr McMunn’s Elixir of Opium

This latest potion to come under our microscope was at least up-front as to what was in it, or at least up to a point. It was developed in the 1830s after a New York doctor, one John B McMunn, claimed to have made an important discovery in the preparation of opium by adopting a method that separated the noxious elements from the pure opium. Indeed, a key selling point of the elixir was its purity, it being denarcotised and, therefore, safer than laudanum.

The Elixir became a wild-fire seller in the United States after a drug company by the name of A B & D Sands bought the recipe in 1841. According to the advertising puff it was more effective than morphine and its effects were to produce sleep and composure, to allay convulsions and spasmodic action, to relieve pain and irritation, nervous excitement and and morbid irritability of body and mind. Its target market spanned all age groups, from the smallest babe in arm to the most mature adult. What’s not to like?

The dosage instructions were disconcertingly vague. It was recommended that a baby aged a month or less could have between a half and two drops whilst a child up to the age of 6 months might take between 3 and 10 drops. Adults, however, could take between 10 and 60 drops or, alarmingly if the pain and other symptoms were suitably severe, twice or three times that amount mixed with two or three teaspoons of water. To cover themselves further the manufacturers recommended that users should begin with the smallest doses and increase the dosage until the required effects are produced.

As is often the case with the best of quackery the advertisements came complete with glowing testimonials from satisfied users and people of distinction. In 1836 a gentleman  described as an eminent chemist of New York, wrote that “the process is in accordance with well-known chemical laws and that the preparation must contain all the valuable principles of opium, without those which are considered as deleterious and useless”. The adverts concluded with the warning to beware imitations which are spurious and vile and a reminder that a bottle cost 25 cents.

Although the recipe was shrouded in mystery its supposed natural and pure characteristics made it popular with the medical fraternity and it was widely advertised in their journals. However, the patina of respectability began to flake in 1864 when the recipe for the elixir came to light. What was used to purify the opium and remove the narcotines was sulphuric ether, which itself had narcotic properties, was known to create a temporary dependence and a desire to consume more. Good for sales, perhaps, but not so the patients. Indeed, there is no reason to suppose that it was any less addictive than any other opium based product.

A doctor recorded in the early 20th century that a woman who had been using the elixir for 31 years had lost 16 new born babies to its congenital effects. And the dangers of misdiagnosis were ever present. In 1875, for example, it was reported that a 17 month-old boy exhibited symptoms of worms and an old woman recommended that his mother give the child the elixir as it would cause the worms to have a good sleep. The mother gave him 15 to 20 drops every hour. The result was that not only did the worms have a good sleep but the child died, within 12 hours of the last dose.

Greater awareness of its properties and tighter drug standards at the turn of the 20th century meant that the elixir’s days were numbered.

Master Recycler


Ai Weiwei – Royal Academy

You must have lived in a hermetically sealed bubble not to have heard of the Chinese artist, Ai Weiwei, and that he is the subject of the Royal Academy’s major exhibition this autumn. He is, after all, a consummate self-publicist. And it is not hard to feel a great deal of sympathy for him. His so-called dissident activities have brought him to the attentions of the Chinese authorities, causing him to have his studio destroyed and him being incarcerated in prison, spending periods under house arrest and living under travel restrictions.

I first came across his work at the Tate Modern some time ago when he filled the Turbine Hall with 100 million porcelain seeds. The nagging question I had as I went to the Members’ Preview at the RA was there any substance behind the public persona? Is his art any good? And the overwhelming feeling I had on exiting was probably not. Mind you, by the time I go to the exhibition I was not in the best of humours having walked through a torrential cloudburst – I looked as though I had wee-weed my trousers. The force of the rain meant that the collection of tree like sculptures in the courtyard received only the most cursory of inspections.

The principal impressions of an exhibition spread out over 11 galleries are of the sheer scale of the exhibits – it must have been a logistical nightmare transporting and assembling some of the pieces and the size and weight of the exhibits must be testing the load bearing limits of the venerable old building – and the underlying sense of vandalism running through much of his work.


I hope Neolithic pots and vases from the Hang Dynasty are ten to the yuan in China. Be that as it may, there is something inherently wrong in my view in painting them in gaudy colours or putting a Coca Cola sign on one or displaying a cupboard of jars stuffed full of dust from crushed Neolithic pots. And then there is the triptych of photographs showing our artist dropping a vase from the Han dynasty – all in the name of art!


Weiwei is a master recycler. Perhaps for me the most satisfying piece is in the final gallery – an enormous chandelier with bicycles forming the central part of the structure. Fragments in the fifth gallery uses wooden beams from four temples and pillars made from Ming dynasty furniture to create an odd structure which you can walk through. But the real meaning of the piece – apparently it is shaped to represent the geographical limits of China, something which can only really be appreciated from on high – is lost on the viewer.


Souvenir of Shanghai is made from a pile of rubble – what was left of Weiwei’s studio after it was demolished by the Chinese authorities – interspersed with elaborate wood carvings. Later on, we have a room comprising of cubes made from crystal, wood and one from compressed tea leaves. In some of the earlier galleries pieces of furniture, principally stools, are conjoined to make interesting shapes and, of course, we have the coat hanger bent into the shape of man’s face, the famous Hanging Man.


Probably the most powerful piece in the exhibit is Straight which features a mass of metal rods from the damaged buildings in the 2008 Sichuan earthquake laid out to make an undulating pattern with the names of the 5,000 child victims posted on the walls.


I also liked the enormous piece called stroller, made out of marble and featuring a perfectly carved push chair in a field of what looked like bunches of two-bladed grass. To remind us of porcelain seeds we have a pile of crabs made out of porcelain in a corner of one of the galleries and of his incarceration a series of dioramas representing various aspects of his life under lock and key. The latter were strangely underwhelming and had something of an exhibit an impecunious provincial museum would knock up to attract some attention.

Weiwei’s work certainly was provoking and the RA are to be commended for putting on this first major exhibition of his work. But it didn’t really grab me. I have enormous sympathy for him as a man and his fight for freedom of expression and rather like Voltaire, I left thinking I may not like your art, but I will fight to the death for your right to produce it.