Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category


Quaintesttest of Yarnspinners

October 18, 2017

Regarding the yarnspinners, whose threads of fate link holy places; how apt that a sheep fair was held at Yarnbury, spun from Cradle Hill.

Yarnbury Sheep Fair 1889


The lay of the land around Wheely Down

January 25, 2016


Apparently, the worst selling LP in Warner Brothers’ catalogue is Richard Thompson’s Henry the Human Fly (1972), his first solo recording after leaving Fairport Convention. A folk rock enthusiast by my late teens, I bought this around about 1978-79. While I was a little bit disappointed on listening to it, I was very intrigued by the song title, ‘Wheely Down’, because it was a place I knew from my long cycle-rides around the Hampshire countryside and hours spent poring over Ordnance Survey maps looking for ‘ley-lines’. Indeed, I’d plotted three such alignments – leys – converging on two tumuli on the highest point of Wheely Down.

Image (119)

Wheely Down is the area occupied by the two tumuli (Bronze Age round barrows) north of Beacon Hill and south-west of Weeley Farm on this 1810 map.

At the time, I deduced nothing from the lyrics of the song (as far as I could hear them) that would correlate it directly with the actual place. I wondered how Wheely Down, the place, found its way into the consciousness of Richard Thompson, the songwriter. Was it somewhere he and his bandmates in Fairport Convention had passed in 1969 on their journey to Farley Chamberlayne – thirteen miles west, as the crow flies – to record Liege & Lief? Had he spotted the name on a map as they travelled west, ‘to rouse the spirit of the earth, and move the rolling sky’? Perhaps not such an unlikely prospect in the years before the construction of the M3, M25 and A3(M), and I do continue to follow the A32, along the Meon valley via Warnford, to Farnham and thence to London over the Hog’s Back.


As I discovered last night, this is the first verse of the song (as reproduced on this site)

She womanly lay like the lay of the land
The land around Wheely Down
And every curve was a high, high hill
To hang above the town
From Holland they came to make the maps
And they had made her well
For the rivers danced all across the green
And the pinewood sweet did smell

Thompson evokes here an image, not unlike that imagined by Michael Dames in The Avebury Cycle (1977), of a giant landscape goddess – a ‘lady of the land’ – formed by hill and vale.

Yesterday a trip to see friends near Warnford took us past Wheely Down, in the fading, misty daylight before that night’s Full Moon. We pulled over at the crossroads north of Beacon Hill, to the south of the two ploughed-out barrows of the Down and the nipple-like profile of the Ordnance Survey trig point adjacent to them. I swear that by the action of the plough the outline of the one barrow visible on the horizon gets more and more indistinct with each passing year; certainly more indistinct than it was two or three years ago, when I last looked. Look at the picture below, taken from the crossroads. Just to the left of the pillar of the trig point, you may be able to make out a subtle bump on the skyline: that is the barrow.


I wonder whether it is from these two barrows that Wheely derives its name, for it combines the Old English words, weoh (shrine, idol, or sacred precinct) and leah (grove, or woodland clearing) (Stanton 2001: 101).

The song ‘Wheely Down’ has been described here as ‘the album’s brooding centrepiece’, borne out by the sombre lines of the last verse:

All things must change within the earth
The moving and the lame.
For the worms will rot the miller’s wheel
And the rats will eat the grain.
And the armies of deliverance
Are run into the ground,
And the kestrel turns in the empty skies
On high over Wheely Down.


Dames, M. 1977. The Avebury Cycle. London: Thames and Hudson.

Stanton, F.M. 2001 (1971). Anglo-Saxon England. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Third Edition.


The Last Eel Catcher

January 23, 2016


In Norfolk a 3,000 year old tradition comes to an end as Peter Carter, the last eel catcher in Britain, hangs up his nets, unable to find a successor or make a living.

“It breaks my heart but I can’t live on empty pockets.”

“So the last wicker eel hive and grigg have been lifted from the river, I will not be making any more. I’ve found employment elsewhere but still working around the waters.”

Peter said he was still trying to come to terms with the momentous decision he had taken as he’d always identified spiritually with thousands of other eel fishermen down the ages.

“I feel I have let all the eel men of the past down – 3,000 years of Fen life has finally gone,” he said. “Let the eels swim free as I lift my punting pole for the last time.”


Elijah Wells, Peter’s great uncle, with his wife and traditional eel traps.




The obscure soul of the world, a darkness shining

January 17, 2016

The title is a direct quotation from the ‘Nestor’ episode of James Joyce’s Ulysses, when Stephen Dedalus employs the ‘ethics of the chiaroscuro perspective’ (Mahaffey 2009: 206) to challenge the  dualism of Deasy, who equates darkness with evil and the foreign ‘Other’ sinning ‘against the light’. The ‘darkness that shines’ that Joyce wishes to claim for a humankind made whole in its diversity, in ‘a triumph of heterodoxy’ (ibid.), is illustrated in a sixteenth-century alchemical text by Salomon Trismosin, Splendor Solis, in the image of the Black Sun (Sol Niger).

black sun

This image came to mind on viewing for the first time, this week, the video of the title song of David Bowie’s last album, Blackstar, released on his 69th birthday, on January 8th, just two days before his sad passing on January 10th. I apologise for the apparent opportunism of focusing upon Bowie’s last work in the week that he died, but the coincidence of his passing – a shocking event which I absolutely had not anticipated – with my last post, itself on the theme of dream darkness and mortality, I wish to explore by the obscure light of some alchemical allusions in Blackstar.

Bowie Blackstar

This still from the beginning of the video shows the body of an astronaut lying in the light of a darkened sun. Perhaps the viewer familiar with the earlier work of David Bowie is led to surmise that this is the last resting place of Major Tom after his helpless drift through space. A woman is shown approaching the body; she appears to have a tail protruding from her dress. She opens up the visor on the astronaut’s helmet to reveal a jewel encrusted skull, which she detaches from the rest of the body before being shown bearing it in a glass casket towards a mysterious city.

skull bowie.png

A circle of women is shown preparing to receive the skull – with all the reverence due to a holy relic – while the skeletal remains of the astronaut are shown drifting across space, twisting and receding towards the darkened sun, evoking for me the image I had dreamt last October of a winding sheet or swaddling clothes metamorphosing into ‘the Lamb of God’. The whole video shines with a light similar to that of the dream.

The whole song and the imagery of the video is rich in symbolic associations and possible meanings but I shall discuss only the image of black sun (‘black star’) and skull for the sake of brevity. In Emblem no. 9 from the Philosophia Reformata of Johann Daniel Mylius (Frankfurt 1622), a skeleton is shown standing on a flaming black globe, holding a black crow in its right hand, symbolising the alchemical stage of putrefactio. Perhaps the drifting of the headless skeleton towards the black star in Bowie’s video is intended to evoke that image. Which ‘blackness of Nature’, according to a text attributed to Marsilio Ficino, ‘the ancient philosophers called the crows head or the black sun’ (Marsilius Ficinus, ‘Liber de Arte Chemica’. Theatrum Chemicum, Vol 2, Geneva, 1702, p172-183. Transcribed by Justin von Budjoss, from here).


One section of the Blackstar video shows three crucified scarecrows appearing to twitch and gyrate in ecstasy. This is an obvious reference to the Crucifixion of Christ and the two thieves crucified on either side of him at the place known as Golgotha, ‘the place of the skull’. Their identification as scarecrows is a deliberate allusion, I believe, to the crow as the black sun, while Golgotha plays a central role likewise in the alchemical phase of putrefactio or nigredo, the blackening of matter as the first step in the pathway to the Philosophers’ Stone, a starting-point understood as the caput mortuum (death’s head), the substance remaining after putrefaction, symbolised by a skull (Magee 2001: 145-146). The reconstitution of the Philosophers’ Stone in the alchemical process partakes of the theme of the Resurrection, symbolised by the image of the Phoenix and the risen Christ. Bowie’s song, Lazarus, from the Blackstar album, also partakes of this theme.

Aware of his looming departure, David Bowie seems to have drawn on and played with a wealth of occult sources and imagery to convey the idea that death is not the end but a beginning…


Mahaffey, V. 2009. Love, Race and Exiles: The Bleak Side of Ulysses, in Harold Bloom (ed.), James Joyce. New York: Bloom’s Literary Criticism, Infobase Publishing, pp.205-220.

Magee, G.A. 2001. Hegel and the Hermetic Tradition. Ithaca: Cornell University Press.




Hodology of a Dream

January 10, 2016

R. Hisda says: an uninterpreted dream is like an unread letter

Chaim Lauer

In the early hours of October 7th 2015 I had a strange dream. By the very nature of dreaming it’s hard to describe when wide awake a chronology or chain of events when there’s a collage of narrative/visual elements impinging upon each other in a moveable timespace, as if what happened in the dream earlier happened after what happened later or both were happening at the same time, while thoughts, feelings and impressions that elude description are at least as important as what is seen in whatever order.

One of the stimuli of the dream was an exchange I had on twitter with the writer, David Southwell, a few days before. My interest had been piqued by a comment of his, posted on October 3rd:

The hodology of London, the roads that shaped the city, came from the cattle walked to slaughter. London formed in blood shadow.

Without then knowing the meaning of hodology (the study of paths) I envisioned the old drovers’ routes running into London from different directions, from the West, the South, Wales, Scotland, the North. I thought of the cattle market in front of St Martin-in-the-Fields (where Trafalgar Square is now), and Smithfield. I thought of the lapsed project to seek a correlation between Red Cow pubs and the course of the Roman Road, Watling Street (based on the idea that the legendary black, white and red cows who formed the first roads in Ireland may have had a correlate in Britain).

As it turned out, Watling Street – in the form of the Edgware Road, the length of the street running north-west of Marble Arch, from the site of the Tyburn gallows – was described in conversation by David Southwell as

the old straight track through Middlesex Forest to London… my ancestral route of death.

Why an ancestral route of death? Because a forebear, Robert Southwell, a Jesuit priest convicted of high treason, was executed at Tyburn in 1595. The execution site stood at the junction of Edgware Road and Oxford Street, the latter also marking the course of a Roman Road, The Portway, which led to Silchester (Calleva Atrebatum) in Hampshire.

tyburn tree

Picture from International Times

Such thoughts of ancient paths trodden by cows and Catholic martyrs, routes of death, must have made a deep impression, when I found myself by night at a staggered road junction, a composite of at least two places separated by a mile in waking life – the junction of Rownhams Lane and Botley Road in North Baddesley, and the junction of Castle Lane and Winchester Road/Bournemouth Road in Chandler’s Ford, now just 100 yards apart. I was standing facing up a long straight road (corresponding to Castle Lane, but with a resemblance to Nine Mile Ride in Berkshire), waiting for an unidentified woman – likely a composite of different people – who was driving a car that was indicating to turn towards me from a junction to my right, to drive up Castle Lane. I waited and waited, but the woman driving the car had not turned, she had gone, disappeared.

I then found myself – still in the dark of night – stood outside the empty shell of a church or chapel. From the street I walked through an arch into an unroofed courtyard, its stone flags glistening in the moonlight, though the moon was unseen. I thought it slightly reminiscent of Holy Rood church in old Southampton, an empty shell without its roof, destroyed in the Blitz of November 1940. I turned to face the way I came in, seeing a chamber built into the external wall of the church. Looking into the chamber through a small window I saw it was a giant stone vat, full of laundry – white sheets – soaking in water. As I looked in, the ‘vat’ became a dark, faintly starry, dynamic space. The white cloth – swaddling clothes come to mind as I write – started twisting and receding into the distance, like a drifting galaxy, shrinking from view until coalescing into the tiny form of a lamb. At this point, a disembodied voice announced, sonorously, “The Lamb of God”.

On waking, it didn’t take me long to correlate the dream with the significant date – October 7th. It was the due date calculated for the birth of our son, Joshua, in 1991. To our distress Joshua didn’t survive pregnancy and the suffering of his premature birth. At the time of his passing I had had a dream in which most of the letters of his name – J-O-S-H-U-A – were incorporated anagrammatically in the name of a dream character called John Hughes, visualised in the dream as a soldier who dies in battle, just as Joshua struggled to the end. The Lamb of God. Always loved. As I wondered about the import of the unidentified woman driving the car who disappeared, I realised that another anniversary was imminent, for October 9th – John Lennon’s birthday – was the anniversary of my wife’s sister’s death just a few years before.

The composite of Castle Lane/Nine Mile Ride was evidently a route of death of the kind alluded to by David Southwell, comparable to the spirit roads and corpse paths along which the departed travel, whether in corporeal or more incorporeal form as fairies or ghosts, or even the terrestrial correlates of the flight paths of witches or shamans. I realised that the road off which Castle Lane runs in real life – Bournemouth Road/Winchester Road – was the route along which the body of King William Rufus was carried from the New Forest to Winchester. I couldn’t resist trying out some cartographic dream interpretation/divination when I unfurled the 1:50 000 OS map and the two foot ruler, to see if any patterns emerged.


The tomb of William Rufus in Winchester Cathedral depicted in 1832 (Wikimedia Commons).

Results, while inconclusive, were suggestive. In extending the alignment of the straight section of Castle Lane as it approaches Bournemouth Road/Winchester Road a series of road junctions and old farms seemed to converge on the line. The pattern was slightly more promising along the eastern length – it includes the junction of Mortimers Lane and Winchester Road at Lower Upham (by the Alma Inn – named after the Crimean War battle), a Bronze Age round barrow in woodland at Hazel Holt, and grazes the southern terminal of a Neolithic long barrow known locally as Giant’s Grave, in the shadow of Old Winchester Hill. [In fact, as of 9/1/16 I found a rather more compelling alignment from that Castle Lane junction, which I shall outline in a future post]. For reasons explained below, the place name Hazel Holt was part of an arresting coincidence when I  revisited this alignment on the evening of October 10th.

Stronger than death

I had no forewarning until the evening of its broadcast on October 10th of a major documentary on the poet, Ted Hughes. Once I found out, I hadn’t anticipated a TV programme with such enthusiasm for years, and I wasn’t disappointed on watching Ted Hughes: Stronger Than Death. His birth and early years in the village of Mytholmroyd, near Hebden Bridge, resonated with a weekend stay in the town three years before when my wife, Jo, and I attended a dayschool in commemoration of the arrest and trial of the Pendle Witches in 1612 (see here). A fascinating consideration of Ted Hughes as ‘Shaman of the Tribe’, written by Brian Taylor, was published in Hebden Bridge-based Northern Earth magazine a few years ago, a pdf of which can be found here, a theme further discussed on Brian’s Animist Jottings blog here.


Needless to say, the shadow of Ted Hughes, Sylvia Plath and the tragedy of their relationship loomed large on September 29th 2012 when John Billingsley, dayschool organiser and editor of Northern Earth, led a party of us that evening to Heptonstall churchyard, where Sylvia Plath is buried.


Remembering this excursion, it dawned on me that the ruined church of Heptonstall (its successor stands yards away) offered a model of the church I had dreamt of a few nights before, just as much as Holy Rood in Southampton, maybe more so. As I’ve just read, the old church is dedicated to the martyr, St Thomas á Beckett. The graveyard is reputed to contain the remains of over 100,000 people.


The realisation that Heptonstall contributed part of the composite imagery of the dream led in turn to the realisation that the unidentified woman in the dream, who I had observed from about a 100-yard distance indicating to turn towards me but didn’t arrive, could now just as well have been Sylvia Plath as my sister-in-law, Ginnie, at least at that distance.


Sylvia Plath


Watching the documentary on October 10th I was disquieted by the visceral theme of a radio play written by Hughes and first broadcast in January 1963, The Difficulties of a Bridegroom, a storyline which now I find impossible to disentangle from a passage in a letter to Olwyn, his sister, dated 10th February 1963, about visiting his lover, Assia Wevill:

I drove up to London, ran over a hare (by pure chance – it’s impossible to do it deliberately) sold it to a butcher’s in Holborn and he gave me five bob. I spent it on roses – 4 I got for 5/-, smashed two, & gave 2 to Assia.

It was suggested on the documentary that hearing the play may have unsettled Sylvia Plath, who took her own life on February 11th, 1963. According to this site the play was broadcast on the Third Programme on February 9th; the site quoted the following synopsis:

Sullivan, driving up to London to see a girl, runs over a hare. Its death triggers off in the invisible world of his mind a sequence of happenings which determine what shall be allowed to happen in the visible world. The outer freakish accident seems almost to have been arranged purposely to fit the inner events.

On checking the cast list of the play I was astonished to find one of the characters identified as ‘The Women’ was played by someone called Hazel Holt.


After the documentary finished, I looked for the file of pictures taken on the Hebden Bridge and Heptonstall visit. I opened up an image of one of the many old gravestones in Heptonstall churchyard. I was mindful of the florid heart motif which, as John Billingsley had informed us, symbolises the soul in funerary iconography, in style almost assuming the facial characteristics of the head carvings in their embellishment.


As I regarded the picture, the phone started ringing. It was past 11pm. Concerned, I answered the phone. It was a close friend with news of his father, who had that day suffered a massive stroke and was not expected to survive. He passed away a few days later.

This week, sat in the van, I was writing on a piece of scrap paper an account of what I’d dreamt on Joshua’s due date, the part where the vat of soaking laundry became a starry space and the white cloth or swaddling clothes resolved into the form of a lamb. At the same time as I was writing this, a piece of music called Adieu, by Karlheinz Stockhausen, was introduced and played on the radio. Stockhausen dedicated the composition to the deceased son of a friend, who had been killed in a car-crash.

You are the one
Solid the spaces lean on, envious.   
You are the baby in the barn.
Sylvia Plath,
Nick and the Candlestick

Homage to Hebden Bridge

January 6, 2016

The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed.

Walter Benjamin, Theses on the Philosophy of History

Seeing a report last night about how people in Hebden Bridge are coping in the aftermath of the floods which swept the town over the Christmas and New Year period, reminded me of a weekend spent with my wife, Jo, in and around the town at the end of September 2012. We were there to attend a dayschool to mark the 400 years since the arrest and trial of the Pendle Witches, as advertised on a wonderful poster designed by Davina Ware.

Pendle 400

It was an amazing, stimulating and inspiring weekend and I can’t for the life of me explain how it is that the Pendle 400 event and the associated socialising didn’t register in some kind of acknowledgement on this blog at the time. Perhaps it was all too much to take in at once. In a strange way certain elements of that weekend – notably the guided visit to Heptonstall churchyard that evening – insinuated themselves into my consciousness early in October last year, assuming significance as part of a web of associations and events after I had posted my ‘final‘ blog post, but I think that needs a post of its own…

We found a town and surrounding villages, like the one we were staying in, still recovering from that summer’s floods, the worst for thirty years.  That record has since been broken by the most recent Christmas deluge. My memories of that weekend are fonder than what must be the miserable reality of the clear-up now.

I find it frustrating that I’ve let so much of what was learnt that day slip away, that I didn’t follow up on some of the fascinating material discussed. We enjoyed all the presentations, though Vivienne Crawford’s on medicine as a contested site of authority in the Tudor and early Stuart periods really stood out, it was brilliant. I just wish I remembered more of it.


The peat-infused waters of the Calder flowing through Hebden Bridge.

Special thanks are due to Northern Earth editor, John Billingsley, who not only organised the day, and led the guided walk round Heptonstall in the evening, but was also kind enough to welcome us two travellers late on the Friday night when we settled in at the Hare and Hounds. The Ram Tam Ale was nice.


Northern Earth has a website here.


Otter Strangeness: From The Bitter End to New Beginnings

January 3, 2016

Last night I was just about to indulge in the irritating habit of reading something out loud to my wife, who was quietly reading an article in the local paper, when she turned to me and said, “Otterbourne has got a mummers’ troupe”. Indeed it has, and this site describes the revival of a Christmas tradition in the village where my wife spent most of her childhood. Her accidental stalling of my interruption of her reading was striking for the fact that what had been on the tip of my tongue was this passage, written by archaeologist Julian Richards here, concerning research on an Iron Age chariot excavated in Wetwang, Yorkshire.

A repair, originally invisible, showed that the harness was far from new and traces of fur showed that an iron mirror had perhaps been wrapped in the skin of an otter, a strange animal, perhaps sacred to the Iron Age people.

Reeling from the coincidence that the two of us were on the point of uttering two tangentially linked pieces of ‘otter information’, I immediately performed a ‘sacred otter’ search, turning up this little story from The Welsh Fairy Book, by W. Jenkyn Thomas, uploaded to the Sacred Texts website here:

 ONE day two friends went to hunt otters on the banks of the Pennant, in Merionethshire. When they were yet some distance from the river they saw some small creature of a red colour, running fast across the meadows in the direction of the stream. Off they ran after it, but before they could catch it the little animal hid itself beneath the roots of a tree, on the brink of a river. The two men thought it was an otter, but at the same time they could not understand why it was red. They thought they would like to catch such an extraordinary specimen alive, and one of them said to the other, “You go home to get a sack, while I watch.” Now, there were two hole under the roots of the tree, and while one held the sack with its mouth open over one of them, the other pushed his stick into the other hole. Presently the creature went into the sack, and the two men set out for home, thinking they had achieved a great feat. Before they had proceeded the width of one field the inmate of the sack spoke in a sad voice, and said: “My mother is calling for me: oh, my mother is calling for me!” This gave the two hunters a great fright, and they at once threw down the sack. Great was their surprise when they saw a little man in a red dress running out of the sack towards the water. He disappeared from their sight in the bushes by the river. The two men were greatly terrified, and felt that it was more prudent to go home than meddle any further with the Fair Family.

The allusion to the ‘otter mother’ raised thoughts of an earlier sybilline geography-related post and an attribute of the Aquane, uncanny female beings in the folklore of the central-eastern Alps, sometimes conceived as ‘women who can change into otters’ (Fossati 2008: 40). Indeed, the aquatic connotations of the otter render it an alternative transformation for those strange female denizens of the waters, more usually depicted as mermaids. Of course, a common accoutrement of the mermaid or siren is the mirror.

Strange otters also came into a conversation that I had with one of the last Somerset coal miners sometime around 1999-2001 (his pit was closed in the 1970s). Our conversation had started in the radical bookshop we happened to be browsing in, and carried on in the Oliver Goldsmith pub next door. Our discussion ranged from the historical conflict between our respective political outlooks – my anarchist/situationist inclinations and his staunch Leninism – to a common desire for the overthrow of the capitalist class.


Having been for some time immersed in research around shamanism in Buryatia, I was astonished to find that my Somerset friend was aware of the belief that the Paris Communards of 1871 had reincarnated as otters living in Lake Baikal in Buryatia. The deepest freshwater lake in the world, holding a fifth of the world’s fresh water, Lake Baikal plays a prominent role in the local ‘cosmology of spirits’, including the Uhaan-Khaalyuud (‘water-otters’), the animal metamorphosis of the defeated Paris Communards whose spirits took refuge in the lake, to whom sacrifices are now made (Humphrey 1983: 408). In her study of a Buryat collective farm in the Soviet era, Caroline Humphrey observes that

the emergence of new spirits, such as the Uhan-Khaalyuud, who give success in fulfilling the production plan shows that the faculty for creative symbolisation in the Buryat shamanist idiom is still in existence… The idea of the Uhan-Khaalyuud conforms in every respect to the concepts of spirits in ‘traditional’ Buryat shamanism, and the very fact of the intervention of new spirits is characteristic of this religious system: the Uhan-Khaalyuud (the Paris communards) are the representatives of an idea (‘communism’), they are located in the mythical past, their power derives from vengeance for persecution… they are ’embodied’ as animals… and they are understood to be the ‘spirit-owners’ of a locality (in this case Lake Baikal) which is crucially important in… the given endeavour, the fulfilling of their plan by the fishermen

(ibid.: 411).

From the perspective of the ‘new animism’ there is much to quibble with in Humphrey’s own ‘symbolisation’. It reduces the Uhan-Khaalyuud to a representation, to a ‘mental construction’, albeit ‘utterly at variance with the Soviet ethic of how properly to go about fulfilling the plan for fish’ (ibid.), a plan conforming to a productivist ethos inimical to the biodiversity upon which life depends, a lifeworld in which the ‘shamanist idiom’is grounded.

Theoretical disputes aside, sat in a pub formerly known as The Newtown Inn, then The Bitter End (in anticipation of its impending demolition for a hospital car park – it survived to become a ‘Best One’ convenience store), both of us were delighted with the continued potency of the Paris Communards in such an unlikely context.



Fossati, A. 2008. Following Arianna’s Thread: Symbolic Figures at Female Rock Art Sites at Naquane and In Valle, Valcamonica, Italy. In Nash, G. and Children, G. (eds.) The Archaeology of Semiotics and the Social Order of Things. Oxford: Archaeopress, pp. 31-44.

Humphrey, C. 1983. Karl Marx Collective: Economy, society and religion in a Siberian collective farm. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.