In Memoriam: Milky Bar

Posted on by Platypus Man

We were deeply saddened to learn a few days ago that our dear friend Milky Bar has passed away. He had been visiting us for more than ten years and claimed ownership of our garden, although he graciously allowed us to use it so long as we left him in peace to pursue his hobbies. MB’s hobbies included birdwatching, fishing and eating dragonflies. I have no doubt that he was personally responsible for a shortage of dragonflies in our part of the county.

We first became aware of him a little over 10 years ago, at a time when Mrs P had given up work while I was still doing my bit at the office several days a week. Spending a lot more time at home than previously, she soon became familiar with our regular feline visitor and emailed me often with reports of his escapades. That period was the most challenging of my career, and the news and photos of Milky Bar helped improve my mood, helped keep me sane at a time when I was surrounded by madness.

Milky Bar set clear boundaries. The garden was his, but the house was ours. Unlike his buddies Malteser and Caramel – whom he introduced to us – he never crossed the threshold into our home, nor did he normally accept edible treats. Just at Christmas would he relent when he wolfed down small pieces of roast turkey, but only if we tossed them onto the patio so he could eat them in the security of the garden.

On most days public displays of affection were an alien concept to MB. He normally kept his distance, was relaxed alongside us in the garden without demanding chin strokes or ear twiddles or belly rubs. Just occasionally he would approach and persuade me to scratch the back of his neck (OK, I confess, I didn’t need much persuading!), but such encounters always happened on his terms. Milky Bar was very much his own cat, and I admired him enormously for that.

Earlier I listed some of Milky Bar’s hobbies, but omitted his most favoured pastime: snoozing. I wouldn’t say he was lazy, but physical activity was rarely on his agenda. Snoozing, however, was something he practised regularly. He was very good at it.

On warm sunny days MB would retreat to any patch of shade – under the weigela, under the bay tree, under the big red rhododendron – and happily sleep for hours on end. Other times he would doze on the little wooden bridge that spans the pond, on the garden seat, on the patio or even on the bird table. Just occasionally he would open an eye to check for dragonflies or assess my gardening skills (which are rubbish, incidentally), but for the most part he slept soundly, secure in the knowledge that while in our garden he was completely safe.

And that was what I appreciated most about him, that – although he lived elsewhere, and regarded another family as “his humans” – he trusted us implicitly and knew that whenever he was in our garden he could totally relax. It may not have been an overtly affectionate relationship, but it was warm, gentle and honest on both sides.

Over the last couple of years it became obvious that MB was slowing down. He was clearly struggling a bit, limping slightly as he walked and no longer able to leap athletically onto the fence that surrounds our garden. We knew in our hearts that his days were numbered.

Interestingly, the very last time I saw him – just a couple of weeks ago – MB approached me, looked into my eyes and miaowed. Such behaviour was almost unprecedented, and when I bent down to scratch his neck he purred gently. I know this sounds like sentimental, anthropomorphic rubbish, but as I look back on it now I can’t help thinking he was aware of his fate and was – in his own way – saying goodbye to a dear friend.

Rest in Peace, Milky Bar, you were a very special cat. We will never forget you.

Presidential goats – the enduring truth (it’s a mad, mad world!)

Posted on by Platypus Man

A recent prompt from WordPress encouraged me to revisit the standalone blog I wrote in 2019 about a wonderful trip to New Zealand. More specifically it pointed me to a post on that blog with the intriguing title “Where goats get to be President.” I have to confess I couldn’t remember writing this, so I was pleased to read it again. Partly because it seems whimsically witty and tolerably well written (do please forgive my immodesty, so un-British of me!), but mainly because of the enduring truth lurking at its core – increasingly, all over the world, goats are in charge.

If you’re still reading this you must think the Platypus Man has finally lost his mind entirely. So, without further ado, here is the post I published on 3 October 2019, just seven days before we boarded the flight to New Zealand.

* * * * *

It can happen anywhere, I suppose. Ordinary citizens who are quietly minding their own business, living decent, honest lives and doing no harm to man nor beast, go to bed one evening and when they get up next day discover they’re being ruled by a goat.

As I sit at my laptop writing this I can think of at least two great nations with proud histories that are currently each led by someone whose demeanour and behaviour compare unfavourably with your average goat. I’ll leave the identity of the nations and individuals in question to your imagination!

But it’s not just the big boys that make unconventional political choices. Mrs P was telling me the other day that while we’re in New Zealand we’ll be passing close to the tiny Republic of Whangamomona.

Heard of it? Probably not. You could check it out on a BIG map of New Zealand, but take care not to drop any biscuit crumbs or you’ll never find it.

In 1988 the citizens of this unremarkable little town on New Zealand’s North Island showed their contempt for the local council by declaring Whangamomona a republic. Eleven years later, Whangamomonans plainly decided that a further protest was required, at which point local goat Billy the Kid was elected the town’s first non-human president.

Billy was followed in office by Tai the Poodle and Murtle the Turtle, although when the latter died in 2015 Whangamomona seemed to suffer a crisis of confidence and elected one Vicki Pratt as president, albeit against her will.

I can’t help admiring free spirits, individuals and communities that don’t take themselves – or life in general – too seriously. For this reason we’ll be sure to take a side-trip to Whangamomona in a couple of weeks, and drop in at the local hotel for lunch and to get our passports stamped.

Stunts like this are harmless fun, and also good for business if they encourage people like us to visit and spend money there. Across the world communities are always on the look out for the big idea, something that will make them stand out from the crowd and get them on tourists’ itineraries. In Whangamomona it’s all about republicanism in general, and goats in particular.

By way of contrast, as we discovered to our amusement a couple of years ago, one small town in Newfoundland, Canada, has banked everything on calling itself Dildo, no doubt hoping to bring in crowds of curious punters all desperate to feel earth move.

Makes Whangamomona’s obsession with goats seem almost normal, doesn’t it?

* * * * *

See what I mean. You couldn’t make it up, could you? (no, I didn’t, honest!). When I wrote the post in question I probably thought we were all just going through a bad patch, and that before long the world would come to its senses and get rid of the goats. But as I look around me today at the conflict, chaos and misery afflicting so many countries across the globe, I can see I was wrong. In many places the goats are still in charge, going from strength to strength. And where they’re not in charge they are often on the rise, ramming at the doors of reason with their horns of hatred. It’s a mad, mad world, eh? Scary beyond belief.

Thank you, WordPress, for reminding me of this post, which sadly seems just as relevant today as it did seven years ago. I fervently wish it were not so.

Sceptics confounded: crowds flock to Falkirk to admire the Kelpies

Posted on by Platypus Man

Our recent visit to Scotland finally gave us an opportunity to admire the Kelpies by night. I have blogged previously about the Kelpies, a pair of massive, 98 feet (30m) high horsehead sculptures located in Helix Park on the outskirts of Falkirk, but this time we wanted to see them glowing in the dark. And we were not disappointed – illuminated by a shifting sequence of colours including red, blue, yellow and purple, the Kelpies were just as awesome as they are in daylight.

We were not alone in Helix Park that evening. Countless other people had also made the trip, all gazing in wonder at what must be one of Scotland’s most impressive pieces of public art. Completed in 2013 as part of the Helix Park project, which sought to turn 350 hectares of under-used industrial land between Falkirk and Grangemouth into a thriving community green space, the Kelpies cost around £5m (USD 6.6m) to create. Sceptics and cynics may well question whether spending such a huge sum on public art can ever be justified. Surely, they might say, that money would be better spent on something that is of real benefit to ordinary people rather than being frittered away on a frivolous piece of sculpture.

But the sceptics and cynics are wrong! Every year the Kelpies attract huge numbers of visitors to Falkirk and the surrounding area, visitors whose spending significantly boosts the local economy. Mrs P and I are living proof of this. We’ve visited the Kelpies twice in the last four years, staying overnight in local hotels and eating in local restaurants. But there is no way we would ever have visited this area of Scotland and contributed to the local economy through our spending if the Kelpies had not drawn us in.

A socio-economic impact survey published in 2024 revealed that between 2014/15 and 2023/24 the Kelpies and the wider Helix Park development – of which the Kelpies are the iconic, beating heart – attracted over 7 million visitors. Just think how much money those visitors brought to the local economy. Indeed, the survey estimates that during their first decade the Kelpies / Helix Park generated around £81m (USD 107m) and led to the creation of 110 f.t.e. (full time equivalent) jobs.

And it’s not just the economic benefits that are important. The social benefits have included the creation of a highly attractive public space in which local people can exercise in safe, pleasant surroundings. In addition there is the feelgood factor – the Kelpies have raised awareness of the Falkirk and Grangemouth area across the rest of the UK, and indeed across the wider world. Having an iconic visitor attraction where you live must have been a big psychological boost for people living in a part of Scotland struggling to redefine itself in a post-industrial world.

In the run up to the Kelpies 10th anniversary celebrations, the Leader of Falkirk Council was quoted as follows:

The Kelpies stand tall as icons of Scotland, embodying the spirit of innovation and heritage. As we mark this milestone, we reflect on the profound impact these magnificent structures have had on Falkirk and beyond. With a return on investment of almost 8:1, the Kelpies have not only captured the world’s attention but have also fuelled local growth, with significant economic benefits to the local area. The Kelpies are also an important part of Falkirk’s identity and regeneration story – helping create attractive places and quality of environment.

Retrieved on 03/10/26 from a press release on the Scottish Canals website

Whether by night or day, the Kelpies are enormously impressive. They are, in my view, a perfect illustration of how large-scale investment in public art can be beneficial to modern society. Kudos to the risk-takers who first came up with this project. They were willing to defy the sceptics and the cynics in order to create something truly inspirational, something that will have a positive impact on the local community and the wider world for generations to come.

Wallowing in nostalgia – a visit to Newcastle’s Lit & Phil Library

Posted on by Platypus Man

For nearly half a century libraries dominated my life. First as a student, when I spent my days scouring the bookshelves in search of an answer to the latest question posed by my professors, and then as a qualified librarian committed to ensuring that access to culture, information and learning was available to everyone regardless of their personal circumstances. Mrs P is also a librarian – yes, that’s right, we first met in a library! – so it is no surprise that when we are travelling we make a point of checking out interesting local libraries.

The library of the Literary and Philosophical Society definitely proved worthy of a visit, when we recently stopped off in the city of Newcastle-on-Tyne for a couple of days while travelling north to Scotland. The Lit & Phil, as it is popularly known, was founded as a “conversation club” in 1793 with an annual membership subscription of one guinea, equivalent to about £200 (265 USD) in today’s money. Its members were therefore inevitably drawn from the elite of Newcastle society, enterprising and inquisitive souls who were keen to expand their horizons and drive progress.

While the social exclusivity of the original Lit & Phil perhaps feels a little uncomfortable today, at the time the Society was seeking to drive change rather than act as an obstacle to it. It was liberal in its outlook and tone. For example, in a world in which misogyny was deeply ingrained, it is notable that by 1804 women were being admitted as members. It is also notable that in 1820, The Newcastle upon Tyne Society for the Gradual Abolition of Slavery in the British Dominions was established at a meeting held at the Lit & Phil. The world was changing and the Literary and Philosophical Society, supported by the resources of its magnificent library, was an agent of that change.

The current library building dates from 1825

In this modern, digital age we have the whole world at our fingertips; copious quantities of information on every conceivable subject – and quite a few inconceivable ones too! – just a few clicks away. We have, I believe, come to take this for granted, and the younger generation in particular finds it difficult to comprehend that printed books were once vital keys to personal learning and development. Nearly 200 years before the creation of the internet, the founders of the Newcastle’s Literary and Philosophical Society clearly understood the importance of printed material, and so it was inevitable that the Lit & Phil’s library would be the beating heart of their grand project.

The legacy of the Society’s founders lives on today in a library that is home to around 170,000 volumes, making it the largest independent library outside London. Some of the books date back centuries, while others were published just the other day. Our visit felt like stepping back in time, and although some users were huddled over their laptops and one or two tapped away at their mobile phones, printed books dominated the show. Mrs P and I felt totally at home there, and could happily have set up camp!

Lit & Phil members enjoy some elegant surroundings!

But the Society has never been just about the books. From the very beginning membership offered the opportunity to meet up with like-minded people, and to attend lectures, debates and demonstrations of ground-breaking technology. That tradition continues. Today an annual subscription of around £200 gives the Lit & Phil’s 1,900 paid up members borrowing rights in the library, and access to a range of events and activities including book launches, concerts, lectures, readings and workshops covering a variety of topics and issues.

The Lit & Phil feels a bit quaint and quirky in our mad modern world, but that is part of its charm. It provides a peaceful safe haven from the ranting and raving of duplicitous politicians, and offers a deliberative and thoughtful alternative to the fast-paced but shallow-minded world of social media and the internet. I have no doubt that if we lived a bit closer to Newcastle, Mrs P and I would happily pay the membership fee and spend many happy hours in the Lit & Phil library, wallowing in nostalgia for a lost world.

A new addition to the Rogues Gallery: Kendal, the mint cake cat

Posted on by Platypus Man

I am standing at the kitchen sink, washing a few pots and pans while idly looking through the window at the chaos we politely refer to as our back garden, when I spot an unfamiliar figure. Cats are regular visitors here. I write often about Milky Bar, Malteser and Caramel, three felines who regularly grace us with their presence, but today an altogether different character has put in an appearance.

The new guy is peering into the pond, no doubt hoping a tasty goldfish will swim into view. But I know for a fact he’s going to be be disappointed – I learned long ago that visiting cats regard my pond as a convenient self-service snack bar, and have installed netting to thwart their ambitions.

But he doesn’t seem unduly perturbed, and sets about exploring the rest of the garden. Glancing up at the window he knows I’m watching, yet doesn’t seem at all bothered. He’s vaguely curious, keeping half an eye on me, but is focussed on finding out what other opportunities our madcap garden might offer him. It seems like he’s intent on sticking around for a while, which suits me just fine – he is, quite simply, adorable.

I call Mrs P, who immediately abandons whatever project has been pre-occupying her and dashes downstairs clutching her camera, keen to capture a few images of the stranger cat to add to our burgeoning Rogues Gallery. She’s been photographing our feline visitors for many years, and quickly confirms my instinct that this is a new cat – the pale blue collar is a big giveaway, a fashion accessory none of our other furry friends possess. He’ll make a fine addition to the Rogues Gallery, but before he can officially take his place he must be given a name.

Our tradition of naming visiting cats dates back to the time when Mrs P had retired from her career and spent most of her days at home, while I was still doing my bit at the office. To brighten my day and improve my mood she would often drop me a short email with news of a feline visitor to the garden, and to avoid the need to revert to descriptions like “the fat black and white one” or “the little ginger one with the bushy tail” we agreed that they should all be named.

How it was that every cat visiting the Platypus Towers estate came to be named after a confectionery item or a biscuit (that’s a candy or a cookie to North American readers!) is lost in the mists of time, but it works for us. As well as Milky Bar, Malteser and Caramel the Rogues Gallery also records for posterity visits by Flake, Oreo, Titan, Toblerone, Mars Bar, Minstrel, Yorkie and Ginger Nut. Who next, we wonder.

After some debate, we agree that our new visitor will be known as Kendal – Ken for short – named after the Kendal Mint Cake. I’m guessing that few people outside the UK will have come across this tasty treat, and even most Brits will be unaware of its surprising history. Kendal Mint Cake is a sugary, peppermint-flavoured confectionery item, said to have originated from a production error in 1869 when a batch of glacier mint syrup was left overnight at a factory in Kendal and solidified into a cloudy, sugary block.

The first confectionery item to visit the summit of Everest! IMAGE CREDIT: Cnbrb, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

The Mint Cake’s biggest claim to fame is that in 1953 it became the first confectionery item to be taken to the summit of Mount Everest, when it served as an energy bar for Sir Edmund Hillary and his team. But even before then the Kendal Mint Cake was a well-travelled treat, having accompanied Sir Ernest Shackleton on his famed Antarctic expeditions early in the 20th century.

We’re very pleased with the name we’ve bestowed upon our latest feline friend, and hope to see a lot more of him. However, Milky Bar, Malteser and Caramel may well raise some objections. While they tolerate one another in our garden, previous experience suggests that they will be less forgiving of any other cat setting foot on the Platypus Towers estate, even a cat with an illustrious name and natty blue collar.

The next few weeks could get a bit lively! Watch this space…

(Almost) Wordless Wednesday – Elk of Iron

Posted on by Platypus Man

Wordless Wednesday is a simple blog post featuring a photo or photos. It seeks to convey a message or tell a story, but speaks for itself without using words. We came across these sculptures of three Irish elk at Snibston Colliery Park in Coalville, Leicestershire. Sculptor Sally Matthews created them in 1994 from welded scrap metal, old farming equipment and mining implements.