Fantastic Invention No. 15 - The Lawnmower

It turns out that Weird Bloke was not actually dead which was lucky for him. He had to go to hospital with a traumatic head injury and would most likely never be the same again which was also lucky. Peter the Viking turned out to be the Museum child handler and not a Viking at all. He went out of his tree about the centurion wig mix up and threatened us from ever going back to his museum again. We all cheered. So, things were not a total failure AND we did not have to finish the worksheets.

To soothe myself I am showing you one of the greatest unknown inventors, Edwin Beard Budding and his fantastic invention, the lawnmower. Be amazed.

Edwin Beard Budding (1745 – 1846) lived in Stroud in Gloucestershire. He was an engineer and got the idea for a lawnmower from seeing a cloth trimming machine in the local mill. Maybe he had a terrible grass cutting trauma when he was a child; perhaps he was forced into grass-cutting labour at a very young age. Whatever the reason he looked at some blades set in a cylinder in a factory and it made him somehow ponder about their grass-cutting possibilities and then the lawnmower was born. He said, "country gentlemen may find in using my machine themselves an amusing, useful and healthy exercise." Dad does not find the lawnmower amusing at all and actually has alot of arguments with it. I tell him he does not appreciate what it was like before.

In 1830, Edwin Beard Budding invented the lawnmower. It is almost impossible to understand how long it took to cut the grass before that date. If you had a big house, you had an army of gardeners with scythes to keep your lawns trim; that or you brought in a flock of hungry sheep to do the job. The sheep could be a problem if you wanted to sunbath or go out for a romantic stroll or play a game of lawn tennis – they and their poo just got in the way. If you lived in a small house then you might not even bother with grass; being outside for fun was only for the people in big houses. If you did not want to starve, you would probably fill your garden with vegetables because grass was not going to fill you up.

Lawnmower world will tell you all you want to know about other sorts of lawnmowers. In the meantime here is a picture of a man with a beard using an actual Budding lawnmower. Look how happy he is. We are going on holiday to Stroud very soon and Grandpa Jack will be left in charge of the house and the stick insects. Hmmm.

Who Has Been Interfering With The Roman Centurion?

Saint Benedict was the saint of nettle rash. Not the sort of saint I want to be.

We are in the blue bit of The Museum and this is the Vikings. Weird Bloke is rushing which is weird because we cannot fill out our delightful worksheets properly. So, for example, one of the questions is:

If you were a Viking what name would you call yourself?
Draw a picture of you as a Viking plus your house and a diary for the past 5 years (include your favourite food and pastimes!)

Miranda is all set to spend the rest of the day on thinking about her name alone. When Weird Bloke shouts at her, she comes up with, Jade. Dexter and Me call ourselves, 'Peter' and Isambard puts down Sven because that is his brother's name.
'Excellent!' screeches WB and tangles up his legs as he scrabbles to his feet.
We LOOK at each other.
'I'll just put this worksheet in the bin...' says Isambard and he sidles over to a Viking cauldron.
'Yes! Yes! Very good!' says WB and now he is getting his big hanky out and mopping actually underneath his wig. 'Bit hot in here.'
Then Dexter spots something interesting. 'Battle axes! Clubs! Look at this!' He touches the pointy end of a sword which is completely forbidden by law and WB screams.
'My head!' he cries. 'It's on fire!'
It is defintely scarlet and it is now covered in bumps.
'Poison ivy,' says Isambard.
'Course not!' says Miranda. 'That is not a native species!' Her Dad is a world famous insect man and she thinks she is an expert on anything to do with nature and everything else in the world.
'Could be nettles,' I say. 'You need to spit on some dandelion leaves and rub it over you.'
'Get it off me!' he cries.
He is wrestling with the shoelace round his head. The wig is now half round his face like a mad beard. He runs and wrestles his way through the red bit which is the victorians. This is a shame because of all the fantastic inventions but now we are absolutely flying through history.

By the time we run into the Romans (yellow), Mr Trundle's head is scarlet all over.
'I love the Romans!' says Miranda. She smooths out her worksheet.
'HELP!' squeaks WB.
This calls for action. I grab at a Roman centurion, find the short dagger and charge at WB's shoelace. 'Hold him down!'
'You've got a gladius,' says Miranda, lying across WB's legs and ticking a little box on the worksheet. The others then jump on top of Mr Trundle and I saw through the shoelace and rip off the wig. The underneath is plastered with nettles. '
'Just as I thought - see!' I thrust the wig at Miranda.
'Humph!' She throws it away. It lands on the centurion' s helmet. 'A galea,' she murmurs. Tick.
'He's not moving,' says Dexter, climbing off his head. 'He's not breathing much either.'
'Just sleeping, I expect,' I say. 'He has been quite busy.'
'Could be dead,' suggests Isambard. He prods him quite hard with a nearby roman sandal. ('Caligae.' Tick.) 'He is dead.'
'Get his wig back on, then no-one will know anything,' says Dexter in a mysterious kind of way. He jumps up and pulls at the centurion's helmet. The helmet comes off together with WB's wig and another blonde wig belonging to the centurion. Dexter places the blonde wig on WB's head. 'There, much better.'
'You killed him,' says Miranda, pointing at me. 'I'm telling.'
'Then we'll have to kill you as well!' I jump up, dagger at the ready.
She glances at the information board next to the centurion. 'I'll just take that scutum and your pilum!' she says, grabbing a shield and a spear.
Dexter and Isambard crouch down. 'Wilf! Wilf! Wilf!' they yell.
Mirnanda and me circle the dead body of Mr Trundle. I snarl. Then Peter the viking appears.
'Oops,' I say.
'Wasn't me,' says Miranda.
Dexter has legged it. Isambard is studying the insides of a roman kitchen.
Peter strides over to WB stretched out on the roman pavement. He bends down and stares at him. 'Who?' he roars. 'Who has been interfering with the Roman Centurion??!!'
And he plucks the wig from WB's dead head.



Miranda has no chance against ME (see pic)

Greetings Time Travellers!

So, we are late getting to The Museum because Mr Trundle made the coach stop while he hunted down his wig. When he put it back on his head EVERYONE stared because it looked as though the top of his head had exploded. Mr Trundle just carried on. By the time the coach breaks down half a mile from where we should stop, Mr Trundle has used his shoelace to strap his wig down. He is a mad genius.

Inside the museum, a tall man called Peter dressed in Viking uniform, says,
'Greetings, time travellers! You're late. We need to catch up with our schedule, so gather ye round!'
He makes a list of instructions which mostly involve not touching anything and not eating near the exhibits or eating the exhibits and not straying from our group leaders.
'Here are your worksheets. Enjoy!' he says to finish.
I look at Dexter and he sticks a finger in his mouth and gags. Unfortunately, Mr Trundle hears him.
'You're not going to be sick as well are you?!?' he asks in a voice which races towards the end of the sentence. 'Sick? Sick? I'll open a window!' I think he is traumatised.
'NO!' shouts Dexter. He rolls his eyes at me. 'I hope we don't get him as our group leader.'
'He is our group leader already,' I tell Dexter. 'That is why he started talking about fishing to you.'
Dexter's eyes go big with horror. 'Now I AM going to be sick.'

Isambard, Dexter, Miranda and Me trundle round after Mr Trundle. He has colour coded our way round the Romans, Vikings and Victorians but in the wrong order. I cannot hardly think about what happened next because it is not nice. I will write it down for next week. I can tell you that Roman centurians and bad wigs do not mix. In the meantime here is a bit about a possible way of time travelling using black holes. I do not think Peter will have done this.

Time Travelling with Black Holes can be Dodgy

When stars are so absolutely massive they run out of puff and collapse. This implosion creates black holes. They have really strong gravitational fields. It is so strong that nothing can escape. Not even Mr Trundle's wig. Around the black hole is an event horizon. If you even touch it you will be sucked in never to escape. Aghhhhhhhhhhhh!

Here is an ice-cream cone. The top bit is the top of the black hole and the cone goes down to a singularity. Here, everything goes mad. If you travel down this ice cream cone, bad luck, you will be crushed beyond recognition. He-he-he. BUT if you get sucked into a rotating black hole, you can start shouting for joy because you might just come out of the other side in a different time and space. This is what a scientist called, Kerr said. Some people do not believe him but I do. It is fantastic.

Weird Bloke

The nightmare that is the school trip is here. I sit on the back seat next to Dexter, Miranda and a new boy called Isambard. I like Isambard, mainly because he has a worse name than me but also because he is quite keen on Buzz Aldrin and wants to be an astronaut.

Here are the good bit about the bus. Weird Bloke is a helper.
Mrs Trundle, headteacher and part-time assassin is on a course about being nice to children so Weird Bloke is with us instead. He is short and has no lips (quite weird). He speaks in a high pitched rush, like he is trying to get all his words in before being crushed by a giant foot (really weird) and he is married to Mrs Trundle (SHIVER). He is always trying to make you interested in boring stuff like fishing and poems about daffodils. Anyway, he is not often seen outside, because of his head. The fact is, his head is not really attached to his hair nowadays. He thinks that nobody knows this fact but he is wrong.

We are on the motorway. Weird Bloke has turned round to us. He is opening his mouth to talk about fishing to Dexter. Dexter is going all shifty eyes. If he was not sitting on a coach he would be running away. Isambard and Miranda stare out of the windows at the interesting motorway metal barriers. Only I can help. There is one chance.

'I feel sick, Mr Trundle,' I say.
'Sick?' he says, 'sick? Sick?'
I nod. 'Too hot,' I bend over. 'Ugh. Need air.'
'Air?' says Mr Trundle, 'air? Air?' He looks round, maybe for some air.
'Up there, the window in the roof!' I say.
'The roof, of course, the roof, the roof!' He reaches up and pushes at the glass.

It opens in a rush. His wig flies upwards and is sucked outside. It dances about outside the window for a bit and then escapes into the woods.
Weird.


The Austrian-born wigmaker established the House of Louis Feder, Inc., in 1914, created his famous "Tashay" (he did not like the word, "toupee") and advertised it as "a hurricane-resisting hairpiece that can be combed and brushed, kept on in high winds and when swimming, and worn for weeks without removal."

A Few Non Lethal Weapons

Aunt Harpy is staying in a secret location somewhere nearby. She will not tell Mum where it is, just in case MI5 come and find her for interrogating purposes. This is mad and also slightly annoying as we do not know when she will turn up and cannot prepare ourselves for a visit by being out.

Anyway, Dexter came round to show me his tennis racquet. His Dad bought it off e-bay and it used to belong to five times Wimbledon champion, Bjorn Borg. So it is a bit worn out. We go into the back garden and I get out Mum's old bat from her shed but we cannot find a ball. This is a problem, so we look for other things to hit. We find cat poo, a mouldy apple and a dead baby bird. The cat poo shatters into cat poo rain and the mouldy apple does not even make it to the racquet. The dead bird bounces the best but soon falls apart. So we then have to fight each other with fallen branches until Dexter gashes his arm on the end of my stick and breaks it. We stop and ponder our rubbish weapons and think about ones that do not produce so much blood.

Here are a few:

1. Fast setting glue. This could be like the stuff Spiderman uses and shoots out of his hands.

2. Instant banana peel. This is where you make the road so slippery nothing can stay upright. There might be a few problems trying to get people off the super-slippery roads though. They would probably be all over the place trying to escape. You might have to use something like...

3. Instant stiffening powder to cut down on flailing. Then you could use a giant shovel pusher and shove them into custody. Once everyone had stopped laughing.

4. Knock out gas or dart. Trials of these were carried out at Porton Down. They used a drug called 'apomorphine'. Something must have gone a bit wrong because they stopped the trials saying there was, 'an unacceptably high risk of death'. This is not good if you are just trying to stop a bingo night getting out of hand or somesuch.

5. Capture nets. These could explode into the air in thin coils of wire covered in glue. Then they land on people and hold them down.

All of these are actual ideas from actual scientists being paid money. I think you could use modified stick insects to crowd control people. You load their legs with glue and shoot them at people. They scream and flail but the stick insects stick to their heads or wherever. And if this is not enough then the stick could inject a dose of knockout gloop from its mouth parts.



I do not expect anyone will ask me but if the PM telephones me again at least I will have something good to tell him.

Geroge And Me Have Things To Talk About

Anyway, we are having a visit from Grandpa Jack' s sister called Hatty. She is even more Irish than Grandpa Jack because she actually lives in Ireland all the time. We have never met her but Grandpa Jack says she speaks english and likes to boss people around and tell them what is going wrong in their lives and how much better her life is. She does not travel very often because she does not like to fly but Grandpa Jack says all witches like flying (ha ha). Grandpa Jack calls her a harridan and a harpy and he is going on holiday while she is in the country. He is afraid of her.

Dad is hiding in the cellar with his teeth collection when the front door bells rings and rings and does not stop ringing until I open the door. I stop a gasp. An old woman is there. She is like a human stick insect, all thin and long and sticky but with strange hairy clothes on, the colour of sick. She has grey hair barging out of her head like it is having a noisy dance party. She looks down at me through really thick glasses.
'To be sure, you are taller on the telephone, Dr Marshall,' she says and her thin lips snap together like a purse. 'I would not be putting my teeth in your hands, I think.'
'That's my Dad,' I explain. 'He is bigger than me and actually older and he has a beard as well.'
She stalks past me and hands me her hairy jacket. It is so furry, I am worried it is going to bite me. I throw it in the cupboard under the stairs - just in case.
'I will be taking five sugars in my tea and not one granule more. Where is your dear mother George?'
'Mum's name is Daphne,' I tell her, 'not George.'
She laughs like I have made a big joke.
'I must say I expected you to be a little more...' she pauses and adjusts her glasses. '...more like a baby.'
'George is the baby,' I say, 'I am Wilf and I am 9.'
'Your mother did not inform me of another child in the house!' she screeches. 'Anyway, you are too small to be nine years of age. My Derek was a good five foot ten at your age and strong as great big giant.'
'I am not small,' I say, 'I am the 4th tallest in my class and I am very strong.'
'Oh, Aunt Hatty!' says Mum. 'How are you?' George is squirming in her arms going red. I KNOW what he is doing.
'This must be George at last,' says Aunt Harpy. 'I will take him now and look him over.' She grabs him and George smiles. 'See, he loves me, all babies and small children love me - it's a gift I have. I am like a goddess to my grandson.'
'How is Peter?' asks Mum.
'Six foot four and still growing,' says Great Aunt Harpy, looking at me. 'Unlike some people.'
At that moment, George lets out a massive stinky poo. It goes on and on and he goes purple in he face. I am sure he winks at me.
'I think I'll take that tea now,' says Aunt Harpy, sniffing madly. 'You may have the baby back.'
'I will take him,' I say. 'George and me have things to talk about.'
Baby poo has an up side.

Fascinating Inventor No.4 - Edward Harrison, Inventor of the Small Box Respirator 1869 - 1918

My best friend Dexter comes round. He stands on the doorstep and sniffs.
'Hello,' I say for starters, and, 'come in.'
He shakes his head and carries on standing and sniffing like a complete gerbil.
'Your house smells,' he announces. He leans forward. 'You smell as well.'
'What of?' I ask. And, 'so what?'
'Baby poo, you whiff of baby poo.' He pulls a face.
'CLOSE THE FRONT DOOR!' Dad yells from the kitchen, 'ALL THE AIR IS ESCAPING!'
I picture Dad on the floor, flapping his legs and gasping for air, like a goldfish accidentally tipped out of the tank. I am about to amuse Dexter with this exciting image when he pipes up.
'Can't stay.' And he runs off.
I close the front door and sniff the imprisoned air. I shake my head sadly. Dexter is right - the waft of poo is everywhere. And it took my best friend to tell me.
It makes me think of the little known inventor hero, Edward Harrison.

" To save our armies from poison gas he have his last full measure of devotion."

These are words on a war memorial to him. I think they mean that he worked himself to death. And although Mum and Dad are always saying that they work far too hard and also, what did my last slave die of and I will be the death of them; I do not think they really understand what working yourself To Death is like. Edward Harrison did it and it is fatal as well as being absolutely heroic. Because Mum and
Dad definitely did not die striving to design and get into mass production the first gas masks or small box respirators.

Apparently, he and other chemistry heroes went into sealed rooms full of gas, to test the mask. This is mad but VERY brave and of course absolutely fatal.

And, although the Prime Minister of Great Britain, did use the telephone to tell me to go to bed, he did not speak to The Parents and offer his admiration, condolences and the revelation that he had decided to promote them to Brigadier-general in charge of all chemical warfare. Which is a big relief actually. By the time Winston Churchill wrote to Edward Harrison, to say, bother and he was going to give him all of those things - he was dead. By the time the French got round to giving him a medal called the Legion d'honeur, he was dead. By the time the war ended, Edward Harrison was dead but lots and lots of men (and dogs, see pic) who might have died, did not.

Fascinating Inventors No. 3 - Lord Baden Powell

Fascinating Inventors No. 3 – Lord Baden Powell, Robert Stephenson Smyth Baden-Powell (1857 – 1941)

Baden-Powell invented the boy-scout movement but before that he was a grown-up tracker- scout in the Boer War in South Africa. He learnt how to follow men and animals without being seen which is quite something. People there were always giving him nicknames – maybe because his own name was a bit of a mouthful. He was known by the Zulus as "M'hlala Panzi"-‘The man who lies down to shoot’. This does not mean that he was a bit lazy or his gun was too big for him; no, apparently it means, the man who takes careful aim and thinks before he acts. Another nickname was, "Impeesa"- ‘Wolf who never sleeps’ which is impressive but, "Kantankye"- ‘He of the big hat’ is not quite so good.

In 1899, Baden-Powell and his men were cut off by enemies, in a small town called Mafeking. He won the siege through daring determination, using dummies and pretend bombs and biscuit tin searchlights. After that he became the youngest Major-General in the British army. When he arrived home he found he had a lot of fans. They had read his book, ‘Aid to Scouting’ and they wanted to be just like him. So he set up the Boy Scouts. He knew that boys liked making gangs and whittling sticks with penknives, and he knew that they did not like being marched about and given orders so he invented a movement for doing woodwork in gangs and mucking about with fires and tents – and no marching. He made up lots of laws for the scouting movement, like always smiling and whistling and being friendly to animals but the main things were to ‘do good’ and ‘be prepared’.

'What do you think about politics?'

Dad is so excited that he is NOT going into the cellar to sort out his teeth collection every spare second. No, Dad is sitting by the telephone in the hall.
'Why are you sitting here all the time?' I ask him.
'I'm not here ALL the time,' he says. I take a step forwards. 'You can't use the phone!' he says, snapping.
'I do not want to use the phone,' I explain. 'Mum has told me to collect your plate and says, do you want pudding out here as well?'
It turns out that the Prime Minister is using the telephone alot as well. Dad has been waiting for one whole day and night and now another part of a day, so he can tell the PM how to run the country better. He has a long list of things to say marked, 'urgent' 'quite important' and 'if time'. I look at the top of the words and almost fall asleep instantly with absolute boredom and think he would actually be a good hypnotist on the television.
Anyway, I leave him to read all about how to make a simple electro magnet which is packed full of interest.

I am in bed and I hear the telephone ring. Mum is trying to sing a soothing song to George upstairs. It is horrible, just like Serena the cat would sound if she started to sing. And George does not like it either. He is screaming. I run downstairs and trip up on Dad who is asleep on the floor. I hit him quite hard but he just mumbles.
'Your turn to change George's nappy...'
I pick up the receiver.
'Hello,' I say for starters. 'Wilf speaking.'
'Hello,' says a deep Scottish voice. 'Is that the Marshall household?'
'Not all of us,' I point out. 'Just me. Dad's asleep on the floor and Mum is upstairs wailing at my brother. I can tell you - he is absolutely screaming.'
Cough, cough. Throat grumblings.
'I quite understand, Wolf,' rumbles the voice, 'I share in the pain of the hard working people of Britain.' Pause.
'Me too,' I say. 'Who are you?'
Throat grumblings..
'The Prime Minister,' says, The Prime Minister. 'And tell me, Wolf, 'what do you think about politics?'
This is a good question. I ponder and think deeply but I can only remember my electro magnet.
'Have you read, 'The Dangerous Book for Boys?' I ask him.
Rumble, rumble. 'I will do so, you can be assured of that,' he says.
'Right, there's a really good bit about making a periscope which I have already done and then there is a simple electro magnet which is next on my list and...'
He leaps in. 'Let me point out my ten point action plan.'
'I do not think I can stay awake for that long,' I say, yawning. There is a big silence. 'I am supposed to be in bed,' I explain. 'And there is just one more thing. As well as having all the fantastic things that a boy needs to know in just one book, there is totally nothing about politics in it which is brilliant - apart from the rules of cricket, I suppose.'
'Hmph,' says the PM and he snorts as well. 'Perhaps you should go to bed.' The phone goes dead.
Not only do The Parents tell me to go to bed, all the time but the Prime Minister of Great Britain phones me up specially to do it as well. This is The End.
If I had a 'bed module' like this, I would be in bed all the time.

The Shouting Handbag

It is a true fact that, The Parents are meandering their weary way into the 21st century. I have actual proof of this. I will explain. Because of my baby brother George, I am now used to being shouted at. I was shouted at over the fantastic numbers of stick insects being born in George's bedroom. I was shouted at because I blunted the bread knife when I used it for whittling and I was shouted at completely by accident when Dad tripped over me doing jumping training on the stairs. Times are tense in this house. So, you can see I am quite used to being shouted at when The Handbag happened.

I am in the kitchen making some interesting biscuits. I have an Apollo 11 biscuit cutter, some left over vegetables for healthiness, some stuff from the fridge and half a bag of flour. I whizz them all up in the new machine bought for squishing up George's food into something that looks like sick (he likes it). It is when I am giving some of the interesting mixture to Serena the cat for testing that I hear the shouting. It is tiny shouting, like a pixie trapped in a hole or what a stick insect might sound like if it got angry. I look around. Mum's hemp and bamboo handbag is wedged inside the bread bin. At least it is not in the fridge like last week. Anyway, I can hear a voice shouting from the inside of the handbag. I listen.
"Hello! Hello!" the voice is saying. For a mad moment I wonder if Mum has shrunk to an incredibly small size and got stuck inside her own handbag. Or more likely she has captured someone very, very little and maybe even now is demanding a ransom for them. Grim. I decide to help.
'Who are you?' I shout at the handbag. 'Tell me what you want.'
'Answer me!' squeaks the tiny person inside the handbag.
'I'm going to free you,' I say, 'just keep quiet!'
I take the handbag and keeping an eye out for snapping traps, I rootle around its mysterious innards. And there it is.
A MOBILE PHONE.
I pick it up. Mum has got a mobile phone. I never thought of that. I am open-mouthed as I listen to it weebling at me in a familiar sort of way. I put it to my ear.
'Is that you, Grandpa Jack?' I ask.
'Who else would it be!' yells Grandpa Jack. 'Tell your mother to keep her phone under control will you now? She keeps phoning me every two seconds and then giving me the silent treatment!'
'I think she just forgot to lock the phone, Grandpa,' I explain.
'Lock the phone! Lock the phone! Give me the strength of ten men! Does she not trust you, my lad? That is typical...'
And he is off on a rant about the evils of locking telephones and all related topics. I hold the phone away from my ear and boggle at its meaning.

Here is Mum's pre-George idea of a mobile phone

Here is Mum's actual mobile phone.