The Lego imagination

It has been a bit quiet on the blog front recently, the result of a house-move, too much to do, and not enough hours in the day to write it all up!  But in amongst the madness and the mayhem of getting the house ready in time for Christmas, we managed to put a day aside to get up to London’s ExCeL Centre, and step into a world of bricks, blocks and minifigures – Brick 2014, one of the great pilgrimages of the Lego fan.

This blog has already established the limitless possibilities of Lego, but it was interesting to read Justin Parkinson’s article on BBC News Magazine last week, entitled Has the imagination disappeared from Lego.  Too many big pieces, too many instructions, too advanced, too... Prescriptive?  Parkinson debates both sides of the coin, without really drawing his own conclusions or opinions (good writing, I think.)  So, has Lego lost its imagination?  Read on for my take…

Top of the visit list at Brick 2014, the Fan Zone, where exhibitors (admittedly mostly adults) have shown what imagination they still have, in creating everything from skyscrapers to mountain hideaways.  Some of their work is seriously impressive, but what always astounds me is the minute level of detail that these builders go to.  A bubbling Jacuzzi.  The cooking of a pirate on a Polynesian island.  A tiny penny-farthing propped up on a Victorian street scene.  Lego makes an impact in the macro, but what remains in your memory is always the micro, and for me, this is where the toy really comes into its own, where it always steals a lead on its market competitors.  Lego’s attention to detail is terrific, a quality that has clearly not gone unnoticed by its legions of followers.  Even as a child I poured over the catalogues, looking out for the witty little scenes (I even remember seeing one slightly naughty scene going on at the side of the railway station – clearly one for the mums and dads!)  In those days, you could sometimes collect a poster for your wall, and these provided hours of entertainment, where there was always something new to spot.

I suppose there are two reasons for my visit Brick 2014.  Firstly, I like the models, their scale, their sense of fun, but also their architectural brilliance.  But secondly, perhaps more pertinent, is the nostalgia.  I like to see what other people have done with the sets that I used to own, to reconnect with those “I used to have that” memories.  Early 80s children may well remember the Fabuland series, the Lego world inhabited by animals, and the associated story books.  Here at Brick 2014, laid out across several square metres, was Fabuland itself – every house, every car, and every creature, calling you back, ringing those bells of childhood and screaming “hey, remember me?”  Yes, I remember Fabuland – how could I forget the bulldog policeman, the florist lamb, the grocer rabbit, and their idyllic, simple little world?

Lego, I think, will always inspire children.  Through building their own worlds they will learn about the world – about history, science, society.  One builder had set about the painstaking task of recreating the Battle of Rorke’s Drift, from the Anglo-Zulu War, an event that even I had to look up when I got home, proving that the power of education isn’t just limited to children.  Give a child a toy, with a theme, and surely they’ll naturally pursue an interest.  Building Airfix kits got me interested in the Second World War.  My mum’s old jigsaw puzzle of English counties sparked an enthusiasm in British geography.  And I know that having Lego knights, forest men, monarchs and bandits was at least a contributing factor, setting me on the road to a love of history I’ve held since I was a boy.  Kids are not stupid – and if they’re anything like I was, they look for the context in things because it gives an even richer, more fascinating playtime.

I think it’s unimaginative to suggest that Lego is unimaginative.  For the roads that lead out of this plastic brick toy will take you anywhere if you allow it, and if you yourself have an imagination.  In fact, I’d go as far as to say that, in the age of 24-hour mobile technology, where computer games are on-tap and kids’ TV beams preconceived ideas straight into young minds, Lego’s need in childhood is greater than ever.  How else can you create a whole cityscape in your own bedroom?  Journey to an exotic island on a pirate ship?  Storm a castle with a catapult and steal away the king’s treasure?  Just accept that the carpet is a vast, endless ocean, believe that the bed is a huge, treacherous mountain, and you'll find it all there for the taking, there if you have the imagination to begin with, whether you follow the instructions to the letter, or create your very own off-the-wall creations.  Maybe the girl with the Lego castle will grow up to be an archaeologist.  Perhaps the boy with the pirate ship will one day join the Navy.  It may be that they’ll never touch Lego again; but it might just prove to be one of the biggest influences in their young lives.  Has the imagination disappeared from Lego?  Nah, I don't think that's possible.

Remembering

For Remembrance this year, I'm looking at a simple pleasure I derive in life, and how much I would miss such small things if they were so drastically and suddenly replaced.  A gardener - a tomato grower - has enlisted to fight the Great War in France.  Leaving his young tomato plants in the care of his mother, he looks forward to his return, when he will pick the ripe fruits, and marvel at the wondrousness of life.

The Gardener

“All over by Christmas”

That’s what the newspapers wrote

My adventure awoken

So I journeyed to France on a boat

Gazed out over the Channel

And scribbled my mother a note:

“How are my tomatoes?”

My tomatoes grow tall and grow strong,

In the warm Springtime sun.

We travelled to Cambrai

We dug into this dank, dirty trench

With mud on our faces

And no end to the damp deathly stench

Our hearts full of Blighty

But we learned the land like we were French;

My mind full of tomatoes,

My tomatoes bear little green fruits,

In the new summer sun.

Now the fighting was vicious

Like nothing we’d witnessed before

We lost so many faces

Guns, shells, mines; all the armour of war

People riddled with bullets

And a man’s mind can take nothing more;

But my lovely tomatoes,

My tomatoes are plump, and they blush!

In the late summer sun.

I’m remembered at Pozieres

Though no soldier my body could find

So they marched back to Calais

Leaving all of us Fallen behind

Now the poppies grow on me

Like they grow on the heart and the mind;

As for my tomatoes,

My tomatoes, they wither and die in the shy

Autumn sun.

Back to TQ12

Ten months have passed since this happy blog post about moving into our new flat.  Ten months of fun, ten months of frustration, and ten months of hard work that confirmed what we knew all along – that our wonderfully-located city-centre flat, with its faded Georgian opulence, was our temporary stop-gap to getting on the property ladder. 

Fast forward from that late November weekend, and Lizzie and I have just become homeowners.  For me, it’s a move back to the old home town of Newton Abbot, whilst for Lizzie it’s a foray one step deeper into the Westcountry, where the accents are slightly more pronounced, and the pace of life is just that little bit slower.  We’ve made a balanced decision, the cost (financially and mentally) of the daily commute weighted up against an otherwise higher quality of life that we think we’ll enjoy in our new home. 

Dodgy bedroom

Dodgy kitchen

So, what have we got?  An ageing bathroom (complete with defunct shower), a tired boiler and some questionable electrics, none of which is ideal, but all of which will soon be sorted as we take our first steps towards making this house our home.  And if you can look beyond the imperfections, there are certainly worse places to live – the lounge-diner is spacious, the bedrooms are a good size (and there’s three of them!), there’s a garage (although the door has just fallen off its hinges) and, of course, an exceptionally interesting garden.  A lick of paint here, a touch of work there (or was that a complete refurb here, some major rewiring there?) and we’re going to see this house completely turned around into a place we’re thoroughly going to enjoy.  For both of us, this is a really exciting prospect.

Dodgy lounge

Dodgy garden

So, from here on in all blogs will be coming directly from our new home.  I hope you’ll all stay tuned for room-by-room updates!

Our new home!

Blest Isle! With matchless beauty crown’d

Rule Britannia!

When Britain first, at Heaven’s command:

Arose from out the azure main; (arose from out the azure main,)

This was the charter, the charter of the land,

And guardian angels sang this strain:

Rule, Britannia!  Britannia rules the waves,

Britons never will be slaves.

The nations, not so blest as thee:

Must in their turns, to the tyrants fall; (must in their turns, to the tyrants fall,)

While thou shalt flourish, flourish great and free,

The dread and envy of them all.

Rule, Britannia!  Britannia rules the waves,

Britons never will be slaves.

Still more majestic shalt thou rise:

More dreadful, from each foreign stroke; (more dreadful from each foreign stroke,)

As the loud blast that, loud blast that tears the skies,

Serves but to root thy native oak.

Rule, Britannia!  Britannia rules the waves,

Britons never will be slaves.

Thee haughty tyrants ne’er shall tame:

All their attempts to bend thee down; (all their attempts to bend thee down,)

Will but arouse thy, arouse thy generous flame,

But work their woe, and thy renown.

Rule, Britannia!  Britannia rules the waves,

Britons never will be slaves.

To thee belongs the rural reign:

Thy cities shall with commerce shine; (thy cities shall with commerce shine,)

All thine shall be the, shall be the subject main,

And every shore it circles thine.

Rule, Britannia!  Britannia rules the waves,

Britons never will be slaves.

The Muses, still with freedom found:

Shall to thy happy coast repair; (shall to thy happy coast repair,)

Blest Isle! With matchless beauty crown’d,

And many hearts to guard the fair.

Rule, Britannia!  Britannia rules the waves,

Britons never will be slaves.

The goodness of people

Many months ago, I logged on to the Find a Grave website as part of family history research, to see if I could find the war grave of my Grandad’s cousin, Wilfred Roy Major, who was shot down in a bomber over Germany in the Second World War.  I knew from the excellent Commonwealth War Graves Commission that he was buried at Durnback War Cemetery, Bavaria, and so put the details in, and lodged a request – more in hope than expectation –that should any photographers be passing, they might see his grave and send on a picture.

I forgot all about this service until last week, when an email popped up in my inbox, to tell me that my request has been fulfilled – somebody called “BobP” had actually taken the time, whilst at the cemetery, to find Wilfred Roy’s grave, and to upload a photograph for me.  I don’t know BobP - I don’t know who he is or where he comes from - but his act of kindness in helping to locate this important family monument will not be forgotten.  It reminds me that, in the age of the selfish, there is still goodness in people and a desire to help for nothing more than the sake of helping.