A "Neanderthal" Feeling Intimidated...

A typical weekday morning in August. For once, here in the UK, the usual circular area of low pressure that features the wind, the overcast sky, and the rain, which typifies an average British Summer, must have taken the day off and thus, allowed the sun to shine through the broken cloud. 

As I lay in bed beside my beloved, she made a suggestion. Why not go to Reading? The large town is now defined as a city but has little to show other than the view of the River Kennet as it passes through a modern shopping plaza before joining the River Thames, a little way north of the town. I thought, no, I was there only last week. A trip to London instead? Again, I felt little enthusiasm, but I decided to make a day out of it.

I guess that is what it's like, having retired from paid work due to both age and poor health combined. Not that I see myself as "old aged" - far from it - but being drugged to the hilt with prescribed medication to keep my heart beating at a regular pace... As for "Pensioner" - that's the name of the money I receive each week - a pension. Just as a professional receives a Salary and a manual worker receives his Wages, it's all the same thing, several names, but with equal spending power.

I picked up my camera immediately before leaving for the station. Knowing that I was carrying a camera suddenly inspired me to go to Oxford instead of London. At last, I had a specific purpose for the trip - to photograph some fossils at the University Museum of Natural History. The photos featured in this blog were all taken on this trip.

Oxford University Museum of Natural History

As far as I remember, I had visited this museum twice before. My first visit was with my beloved wife in her wheelchair, and my PhD friend, Andrew, who slowly wheeled her around the galleries while I was giving my full attention to the exhibits. My second visit was on my own a few months later. Both visits were made before the Coronavirus pandemic. On these occasions, I recall the museum having free admission. Therefore, I felt slightly alarmed when I saw what looked like a toll booth placed just outside its entrance.

While I paused, a pretty young female approached, holding a clipboard. She then asked me whether I had booked my timeslot on the Internet before arriving. I felt my skin crawl as I protested that I had come all this way and knew nothing about any online booking. Especially if I had merely walked straight in on my previous visits. Was I about to be turned away? Would I be looked upon as one refused admission by a nightclub doorman? Had I wasted thirty minutes of my life waiting at the station platform as I changed trains midway through the journey?

I think the young lady could see the shock on my face. Thankfully, she decided that I can be allowed in without any need to book. But first, I had to go to the kiosk, where a conversation was taking place between the assistant and another visitor, and I had to wait further until the visitor moved on.

The kiosk was not a toll booth but a "ping station" - where I had to give my name and home phone number. If I came into contact with an infected person, I would receive a phone call with the instruction to isolate myself for ten days. All written with a pencil on paper, as I don't even own a smartphone, let alone being a recipient of the hated "ping" app. At last, I was able to walk into the museum with a massive sigh of relief.

Petrified Crinoids, a soft body organism.

Oxford - a world-famous centre of advanced learning. The very city where young, fledgling medical doctors are in the making. Therefore, I assume that the precautions taken against the virus were more sensible at the museum than, say, all those crammed together in a sealed tube flying some 36,000 feet in the air, or even in a packed nightclub, restaurant, or bar. Indeed, the museum is probably the size of a cathedral. Or cavernous enough to have a high, vaulted roof and perhaps, an adequate ventilating system in operation, hence my freedom to question the need for advanced booking. Indeed, I'm grateful for her with the clipboard. She didn't stick to her formal protocol. Had she, I believe that I wouldn't have been alone in walking away feeling robbed, sad and dejected.

The shortest walking distance to the museum from the station was about a mile, 1.62 km, a twenty-minute trek for most people, according to Google Maps. But by having stiff leg muscles, the walk took me more than twenty minutes each way, probably up to thirty minutes. However, on the outgoing walk, I diverted into the city centre and once there, I had a lunch of tomato soup with a buttered roll, a side bowl of potato wedges and a cappuccino coffee at the Marks & Spencer cafe. Very refreshing and filling, too! But what I found most delightful was, after a fairly long wait for my meal to arrive, how my smile of relief has uplifted the waiter's spirits, enough for the two of us to hold a brief conversation.

The waiter was obviously an immigrant, although from exactly where I couldn't be certain, as I didn't ask. He looked Asian, quite likely Oriental. The incident had opened my eyes. In such a department store environment, there is usually a wait between ordering a meal and actually receiving it. This is even truer, I believe, during the busier lunch period when I chose to order. The tired expression on his face indicated that due to the waiting - complaints, moaning, and the flack thrown at him by customers constantly in a hurry had stressed him out.

Trilobites and Brittle Starfish all died at once.

For the waiter to see me grinning as I directed him to my table, and then receiving a hearty "Thank you" - out of relief that my appetite can now be satisfied - had indeed brought some spiritual refreshment into his otherwise dull existence. This, I find amazing. A smile, a word of appreciation, a gesture making him feel worthy, what an impact that can make! Sitting alone at that table made for one had brought more fulfilment than just a full stomach. After lunch, I continued my walk to the museum.

In the city centre, not a suit-and-tie was seen anywhere, especially in warm weather. But, as I walked through Parks Road towards the museum, a very different crowd passed by, walking in the opposite direction. They all looked incredibly smart. The men wore immaculate suits and ties. The women wore summer frocks or skirts. None of the females was wearing trousers. Some of the men even sported a white carnation in their breast pocket, giving me the impression that they were all attending a lavish wedding. Whatever venue they were heading to, it must have been very posh. Posh enough to arouse my curiosity.

Amazingly enough, after spending around two hours at the Museum, I saw the same posh crowd of young men and women I had seen earlier, heading in the opposite direction as I began my trek back to the station. As they walked past, my curiosity was again aroused, along with a feeling of frustration over my sense of curiosity remaining unfulfilled. One was on his own, a young man, perhaps young enough to be my grandson. As he approached, it was at the tip of my tongue to ask him what this was all about, where he had been and what he was doing. But I did not see any sign of an invitation for me to ask. Instead, he looked straight ahead as he walked past. This English-looking toff was a far cry from the Asian waiter I greeted earlier in the day.

Was I chicken? Perhaps. Or rather, compared to his tall height, slim physique, well-dressed Caucasian, I felt - and perhaps looked - more like a Neanderthal than a Cro-Magnon or simply a modern Homo-Sapien. My fear of being reproved by him was a deterrent from asking, and receiving this kind of answer:-

Where I've been or what I was doing, what business is that to you? 

Indeed, a rebuke I dreaded hearing coming from him. I have wondered whether this crowd were members of the notorious Bullington Club, a society made up from the cream of aristocracy, who attended public schools such as Eton, Harrow, Westminster, St Paul's, Winchester, and Rugby. Our former Prime Minister David Cameron and our present PM Boris Johnson were members of the Bullington Club - which was notorious for its drunken and lewd behaviour. Both leaders of our country were Etonians and former club members. Then I also remembered: the club is exclusively male, with no female members. The passing crowd of toffs at Parks Road, consisting of both men and women, doesn't fit the criteria.

My snap decision to come to Oxford instead of London, the meeting of the waiter at M&S, the sight of smartly dressed toffs marching past me and heading in the opposite direction - what is happening? The reason for visiting the museum was to take photos of some of the exhibits. It's perfectly legal. There are no notices posted anywhere within the building forbidding photography.

Close up view of petrified fish with scales intact.

This blog isn't about any attempts to disprove Evolution. There is enough Creationist's material available to do that. But here, I make a comparison between these smartly dressed Oxford University students (I assume that's who they were) and the likes of myself. Compared to them, I feel like a Neanderthal! Any idea that the Neanderthal was descended from Noah's family doesn't seem to sit well in either a physical, mental or cultural sense, at least, not with me, anyway. But here, the Bible can be reassuring. If the Cro-Magnon and the Neanderthal were both descendants of Noah, then there is nothing stopping them from interbreeding - and that is a theory supported by even the most secular of evolutionists. That means even these toffs, at the pinnacle of the most modern Homo Sapien species, are likely to have traces of the Neanderthal genome in the nucleus of each of their body cells.

The striking detail of petrified fish scales.

But had any of them were in the museum with me, he would laugh with scorn at any idea that these fossils were formed in a catastrophic flood a few thousand years ago. Can't I read the accompanying labels? They say these fossils are from the Jurassic Age, around 160,000,000 years old. That is why, although the details of the fish's scales remain intact, all these soft bodies had petrified. That is, the soft flesh had metamorphosed into stone by the infusing of minerals whilst buried beneath the seafloor.

I suppose here lies the contest between a well-educated toff and the common sense of the "Neanderthal". According to observations, most smaller fishes are eaten alive by larger predators. I would say that the vast majority of smaller fish are eaten alive. But those that die naturally very seldom settle on the seafloor, let alone buried in mud. They are either eaten by scavengers or decompose. The decomposition is normally caused by bacteria living in the water. The chance of a dead organism settling on the seafloor (or on the riverbed) is extremely rare. Yet, these fossils show multitudes of organisms that died suddenly at once and were instantly buried. A catastrophe such as the Flood, recorded in the Bible?

It was a great day out!