I was back at the James Cook University Hospital for a meeting this morning – I previously featured it on 4th April.

I hadn’t ever really noticed until today how pretty the signs outside are. They’re a bit overshadowed by the massive lettering on a nearby fence.

I was going to make a sarcastic comment about the hospital’s “expresso bar”, but it turns out that expresso is, in fact, merely the Spanish to Italian’s espresso. There are, it seems, quite a few expresso bars. So I learned something new there!

This is the 160m Tees Barrage, built to maintain the upstream river at a constant level, preventing flooding and allowing excellent watersports facilities to be created: so good, in fact, that the 2001 World Canoe Championships were held here. The white water course is to be an international training location for London 2012.

It took from 1991 to 1995 to construct, and was the country’s biggest civil engineering project during that time. Its construction cost £50m, and used 650 tonnes of steel and 15,000 cubic metres of concrete; and a further £4.6m is currently being spent on upgrading the facilities. The Gazette has some very dramatic pictures of the original construction, including one arresting shot showing how the Tees was temporarily diverted from the site to allow construction.

It’s a remarkable feat of engineering, combining brute strength with precision control, made all the more remarkable by a fairly charming appearance.

I wanted to reflect my nine years of blogging in today’s photo-a-day, so had the idea of nine fairy cakes assembled in the shape of a 9… I’m not entirely sure I pulled it off to the extent that you’d realise it was a 9 without being told…

I wrote a bit more about my nine years of blogging earlier today, if you’re interested!

Today marks nine years since I started blogging. Nine years. Increasingly, people are becoming concerned about the permanence of stuff posted the internet. Rick Santorum’s presidential campaign was hampered by the web, and the fact that for almost everything he said, he’d previously given an equal and opposite quote to some other source at some point in the past. And, of course, there’s many other less prominent examples of people’s online history coming back to haunt them.

Anyone with a blog, like me, can essentially make a choice. I could delete a load of old stuff. It wouldn’t make it completely unavailable online, as content from this site is cached all over the place; I guess it might make it slightly more difficult to find. But I’ve chosen not to do that. I’ve chosen to keep the complete sjhoward.co.uk blog intact. And I’m sure many people wonder why.

Firstly, let me say that it’s not because I think everything on here is great. It’s not. There’s some terrible stuff. There’s stuff that’s just plain dross. I’ve written things that I’m a ashamed of, like using “gay” almost as a punchline, or referring to the entire French population as “crazy frogs”. There’s positions I’ve asserted that, at best, are altogether blunter than I’d ever express now, like saying “I’m very anti-smoking”. And that’s before we even open the can of worms labelled “unnecessarily base humour”.

So why, you might ask, do I keep this stuff online, with my name written at the top of the page in a massive font size?

This is something I’ve thought a lot about. In the end, my reasoning was fairly simple. What I wrote in 2003 might have been unprofessional, but I wasn’t a professional then. It might have been immature, but so was I. The date is clearly and prominently shown on all the posts I’ve written. Of course I don’t hold all the same opinions I did when I was 18 – does anybody? We grow, we develop, our viewpoints and opinions change.

One of the more remarkable things about this little site is that you can how it happened. You can see the softening of my opinion on Tony Blair, from barely concealed hatred, to grudging admiration, to actual respect. My changing interests are reflected, from the 2005 election, during which I published daily “swing updates” based on a complex formula weighting different polls, to the 2012 local elections which were only mentioned in passing beneath a pretty picture of a bus stop.

All of this history, and all of these changing opinions, set out the path to where my politics and opinions lie today. And, of course, both will continue to shift over time.

In the end, I guess I came to the conclusion that if someone chooses to judge me on a personal opinion I held a decade ago, then so be it. Though I’d suggest that a far more interesting and intelligent approach is to ask questions: “You once said you thought x: do you still believe that?” or “Your position used to be y, now it’s z. What changed your mind?”

I don’t know exactly when the meaning of the term “flip-flopping” in political discourse changed from being about presenting different views to suit different audiences to being about actually changing your mind on a given issue, but I don’t think it’s a helpful change. I’m vaguely suspicious of people who claim to have “always believed” something – it has a slight whiff of valuing dogma above thoughtful and reiterative consideration of the issues. I can only speculate that the increasingly tribal nature of politics has led to increasing institutional derision of free thought: we must all toe the party line.

If you ask me, the sooner we lose the vogue notion that a change of opinion or reconsideration of position represents a weakness, the better off we all will be.

He tries to convince us that ‘we’re all in this together’, and doesn’t realise how disingenuous it makes him sound.

It’s not original to say that Cameron’s the heir to Blair, but it was a little arresting to find this sentence in a post I wrote almost seven years ago about Tony Blair – certainly not the Prime Minister most associated with that particular phrase these days.

These are a few of the 600,000 pink “mistress” tulips in The Alnwick Garden’s remarkable cherry orchard. At least, I trust that there were 600,000 altogether – I didn’t personally count! It certainly looked very pretty, though!

I think these are kittiwakes, but dad would be more likely to make an accurate identification than me! Either way, they were winged visitors to the Baltic Centre for Contemporary Art this afternoon – very cultured!

I was at St James’ Park today for a mock exam. Luckily, it didn’t involve any demonstration of footballing skill, otherwise it might have gone rather less well for me.

St James’ Park is, of course, the 52,000 seater home to Newcastle United, now officially called the Sports Direct Arena. Whilst that name is undoubtedly controversial, the old one is more controversial than many people realise. While the stadium’s official name was “St James’ Park” (with an oddly placed apostrophe), both of the local Geordie newspapers refer to it as “St James’s Park”. The nearby Metro station further muddies the waters, with the apostrophe-less name “St James”. And that’s before we even broach the debate about whether there should be a full stop after “St”!

I’ve spent some time today reading Balance’s stuff about responsible marketing of alcohol… then was forced to walk through my local Tesco’s makeshift aisle of discounted alcohol in order to get into the store. Hint: this doesn’t tally with Balance’s idea of best practice.

I don’t often venture into Tesco, but I had some bedding to return today, so popped along. The customer service was truly awful.

The customer before me didn’t speak great English, and had a coupon that had been refused at the checkout. The *two* customer service assistants adopted the Basil Fawlty method of communication, almost shouting at the lady that the terms and conditions on the voucher excluded e-topups. The customer’s protestations were met with increasingly loud insistence, until one of the assistants had the inspired idea of actually reading the terms and conditions. The customer had been right: e-topups were not excluded.

As the customer left, the assistants started a frankly racist conversation about the preceding customer, before one beckoned me over with a wave. I asked to return the bedding, and the assistant continued her conversation, directing only three words at me: “receipt”, “clubcard”, and “card”. They were quite literally the only three words she said to me throughout the encounter. She didn’t greet me, she didn’t ask why I was returning the bedding, she didn’t say goodbye, and she certainly didn’t thank me; her rudely continued conversation with her colleague did provide a live demonstration of parochial bigoted opinions that was deeply disrespectful to the previous customer.

Tesco’s problems, it seems, run deep.

Tomorrow is local election day, and politicians seem to like nothing more than talking about “broken Britain”. So, here’s a square metre or so of Britain that’s truly broken.

Not only has this bus stop sign fallen over, it’s also in the middle of nowhere: closer stops exist to both the local town and the industrial sites in the background. The road it’s beside has a speed limit of 60mph, and has a single lane in each direction: any stopped bus would cause quite the obstruction. There’s no pavement on which passengers can wait, nor anywhere for a disembarking passenger to walk. In summary, this is a broken bus stop in the middle of nowhere, with nowhere for the bus to stop, and nowhere for the passengers to wait.

So, really: what’s the point?