HISTORICAL DATA: 4 (June 1968; Headmaster's study) 1. All 40 boys of the Fifth stood up from their seats in near unison as the Headmaster opened the door of the classroom; he entered, closed the door, walked to the centre of the room, stood about three feet in front of the double-blackboard, then said, "Good afternoon, boys. Please sit down." 38 of the 40 seated boys, who invariably appeared to «hang on the Headmaster's every word» in the school's daily Assembly, as good manners required, «hung on the Headmaster's every word» in a much more literal sense. Then, in alphabetical order, though the boys were not sitting as such, he proceeded to read out each boy's surname followed by the names of the three approved A-level subjects. 2. I had no other expectation than he would read out, "Peters: History, Geography, and Biology.", as the necessary prerequisite to my sitting the Oxford scholarship examinations in the Upper Sixth during late autumn 1969. 3. He read out, "Peters: leaving." The feeling of betrayal by Mum and Dad was instantaneous and absolute: 'Nothing, ... absolutely nothing makes sense, ... except the Headmaster, ... but I haven't spoken to him for five years. ... I stare at him in utter despair, praying with every fibre of my being that he won't leave the room without saying something to me, ... anything. ... I'll be dead within five minutes if he doesn't. ... My eyes never leave him as his eyes successively focus on each of the other boys as he continues to read from the list. ... [Then he reached the surnames beginning with T.] ... I begin to panic, my heartbeat begins to rise rapidly. ... Please, ... please, ... please don't leave me, ... please I beg you, don't, don't, ... please don't, ... etc., etc.' [Then he stopped reading the list.] 4. He returned my terrified stare of utter despair for the first time, then said loudly and very forcefully, "Peters, see me in my study straight afterwards!" I tried to speak, but because the sense of temporary relief was so overwhelming, I merely mumbled, "Yes, Sir." He left the classroom immediately. 5. From this point on, I tried to focus on his study and being in his presence there. When the bell rang, I walked from the classroom to his study; I just wanted him to take away my absolutely unbearable pain of loneliness and incomprehension. 6. I knocked on the door of the headmaster's study, ["Come in."], then opened same, to be greeted by, in truly compassionate tones, "Roger, ... I'm so sorry." The sense of permanent relief was truly overwhelming; I felt absolutely safe: no harm could come to me in his presence. 7. After a distinct pause, he pointed to the picture by his desk and exclaimed forcefully, "Remember the picture, Roger! ... That's why I gave you the scholarship! ... That's why I wanted you here!" 8. I looked at the picture and then the Headmaster, and would do so repeatedly as I thought, 'You can't remember, ... I haven't spoken to you since then, ... I haven't told anyone, ... it barely lasted two minutes, ... but you do. How? ... And why the scholarship? ... I didn't say anything about the picture. ... Why here? ... It doesn't make sense, ... but it's got to be true. ... No, you can't remember, ... I haven't been near your study, ... but you do. ... Why the scholarship, ... why here? ... I don't understand: but it's got to be true, ... etc., etc.' Eventually I was mentally exhausted, so I looked at the floor, took a couple of deep breaths, then looked at the Headmaster. 9. He said, in tones of conviction, "I don't know how, Roger, but I will help you. ... I will be there for you, Roger, ... I promise!" In reply, I mumbled, "Thank you, Sir." 10. Then he said, in gentle tones, "All right, Roger, off you go." I said, "Yes, Sir. ... Thank you, Sir." I left his study. Note that: firstly, the Headmaster's use of my forename was the first time I had heard it at school since the scholarship interview; secondly, in his study, I felt intuitively that he was not speaking to me in his role as headmaster; thirdly, the purpose of his exclamatory sentences was, in the first instance, to expunge my suicidal thoughts in an absolutely safe place; and fourthly, he provided me with unequivocal hope for the future by concluding the succession of phrases with "I promise!", stated in the spirit of a «true man».

E. After I left the headmaster's study, I disappeared from the school grounds in order to find additional relief through my vice in life: smoking cigarettes. Whilst I was puffing on my first evil weed, I promised myself that I would never break a promise in my life if the Headmaster "saw me through this". To date, I have not done so: because he kept his promise in spirit and to the letter. Over the next four years, I would see him only five times and exchange about a dozen letters; but it was he, and he alone, who allowed me somehow to reconstruct my life, which had been shattered in every important respect: my relationship with Mum and Dad, my dream of going to Oxford, and, most importantly in the short-term, my self-confidence, self-belief, and feelings of self-worth were distinguished only by their absence.

F. In autumn 1968, merely because I didn't want to work in an office and biology was the only science I had liked at school, I accepted a position as a laboratory assistant in the pharmacology department of a major pharmaceutical company; it suffices to say here that, apart from finding my first three lodgings unsatisfactory, I loathed the job from the first week onwards.

G. In mid-February 1969, although I did not realize it at the time, I had my first piece of good fortune since leaving school: I obtained lodgings with a couple in their early-60s, who were deeply in love and probably had been since the day they first met; she spoilt me rotten and, after returning from my job each afternoon at about 5 o'clock, he regaled me with no end of interesting and extremely funny stories from his younger days. At 7 o'clock each evening, whilst they watched the television, I respected their privacy by going to my room, where I would either read or listen to BBC Radio 4; at 10 o'clock on the dot, the good lady brought me a mug of hot cocoa.

H. In early April 1969, I began mulling over my former Headmaster's exclamatory sentences — "Remember the picture, Roger! ... That's why I gave you the scholarship! ... That's why I wanted you here!" — without making head nor tail of them, aside from accepting that they must be true. Nevertheless, I needed to determine for myself the answers to two interrelated questions: "Was I worthy of a scholarship? Would I have gone to Oxford?" Accordingly, I went to the public library, consulted an A-level History syllabus, borrowed several seemingly relevant books, and read intensely and annotated conscientiously from 7 o'clock to 10 o'clock each evening, with two additional sessions each day of the weekend. Some 8 or 9 weeks later, in early June, shortly before my 17th birthday, after no more than 300 hours of individual study, I sat the two, three-hour essay-based examinations in A-level History; I found out that I had passed in August. Given that I had planned about 500 hours of intense reading during the summer vacation between the Fifth and the Lower Sixth, I judged that I was indeed worthy of a scholarship and that I would have gone to Oxford.

I. My success in A-level History gave me a smidgen of self-belief, but it was my former Headmaster's belief in me and his steadfast support from afar that provided my «lighthouse», outside the workplace, for the next three years.

J. In autumn 1969, I accepted a position as a scientific assistant in the Analytical & Quality Control Department of Smith, Kline & French in Welwyn Garden City, Hertfordshire. Given that I had not shown the slightest aptitude for any practical subject at school, I had the gravest doubts that my tenure would last beyond the probationary period: but my pessimism proved unfounded for three complementary reasons. One, I took to the job like the proverbial «duck to water»; in part because I clearly understood that innumerable persons unknown to me were implicitly relying on my pharmaceutical analyses for their mental or physical health, and in part because I had subconsciously absorbed lessons about quantitative analysis from the practical assignments in O-level Physics at school. Two, the laboratory was awash with warm-hearted people, each of whom showed forbearance whenever my personal troubles surfaced. And three, most importantly, the quite extraordinary supervisory skills of Mr. Allan Cameron. In particular, Allan created an environment that ensured continuous improvement in the quality, quantity, depth, difficulty, and range of my analytical work; with the relevant reference to his irrefutably genuine authority, he made his disappointment crystal-clear to me whenever my self-confidence in my diverse skills veered into counterproductive over-confidence; and he was both sympathetic and pragmatic whenever the occasion demanded.

K. In late spring 1972, my former Headmaster wrote a letter to me, whose substance and tone, prefigured in our meeting of late autumn 1971, was as follows: 'Roger, you cannot afford to stay another year at Smith, Kline & French; you'll just be treading water. Go to university; get a degree, no matter what the subject: and let the future take care of itself.'

L. In the laboratory there was copy of Finar's Organic Chemistry, then the country's most widely-used undergraduate textbook in the subject, whose author was a certain Dr. I. L. Finar, «Principal Lecturer, Department of Chemistry, Polytechnic of North London». After determining that this institution offered biology as a degree subject, I applied to same and was accepted to read Biology, Physical Biology, and Chemistry for Part I, and Biology for Part II (finals). Following my acceptance for this degree course, Hertfordshire County Council, on behalf of the generous rate payers of the county, awarded me a full maintenance grant for three years.

M. Also in late spring 1972, Allan Cameron presented me with one final gift: the task of revising all the laboratory's volumes of standard analytical methods; and, as a result of his generosity, I had an extensive opportunity to write scientific-technical English for the first time.

N. In early autumn 1972, I arrived at the aforementioned institution and immediately adopted the following modus operandi: full attendance and commitment to the lectures, tutorials, and practicals in Biology and Physical Biology; reasonably dutiful attendance to same in Chemistry; and, devoid of any distractions, three-hour spells of intense reading of biology monographs during the evenings and the weekends.

HISTORICAL DATA: 5 (November 1972; Chemistry tutorial room) 1. Together with about 17 other 1st year science undergraduates, I meandered into a classroom slightly late for a chemistry tutorial. With his customary warm smile, Mr. John Bull, a tutor who wore his scholarship lightly, handed each of us a tutorial sheet of advanced calculations. I walked to my usual spot in the far right corner, sat down, and determined that all of my chums in the close vicinity were as baffled as I as to the raison d'être for this particular tutorial sheet. 2. I leaned back on the chair, put my feet up on the desk, lit a cigarette, and thought, 'Life's grand: a spot of cheap tasty grub in the canteen with my chums after the tutorial; back to my room; knock off the calculations, with the help of the textbooks — which were bound to reveal the raison d'être somewhere or other; a three-hour spell of intense reading of some 2nd year biology monograph; cocoa with a cigarette in bed; sleep.' 3. Shortly after lighting my second cigarette, some 15 minutes into the tutorial, the door opened: a gentleman framed himself in the doorway, a few of the undergraduates looked up to see who had opened the door, then immediately resumed their work — presumably because, like me, they had never seen him before. The gentleman's eyes slowly swept the room, from left to right, and alighted on the tutor — who had been regarding the gentleman, in a relaxed manner, throughout. 4. Since this gentleman provided a pleasing change of scenery, I continued to observe him. He walked towards the tutor, appeared to discuss the tutorial sheet for a minute or so, then looked up and his eyes started to slowly sweep the room, again from left to right. As soon as he started this sweep, I suddenly realized that, should he decide to talk to anyone, the only logical person was me; I was the anomaly, because everyone else was doing what he or she was supposed to be doing. Nevertheless, that aside, there could be no reason for him to talk to me, so I continued to lean back on the chair, with my feet up, and inhaled on the cigarette. 5. As I exhaled, his eyes met mine, and I realized that he was indeed going to talk to me; I thought, "Oh well, guest in the house." I took my feet off the desk, stubbed out my cigarette, leaned forward, and waited to receive my guest. In the interim, he had swivelled round, passed behind the tutor, walked purposively towards me, then pulled up a chair, and sat close to me. 6. In a warm but purposeful tone — devoid of accusatory, artificial, condemnatory, condescending, judgemental, patronizing, sarcastic, or whimsical elements — he asked, "And what are you meant to be doing?" 7. With a wave of my hand towards the tutorial sheet, I immediately replied, "I'm meant to be doing these calculations. I can do them. I'll do them this evening." Then I paused, looked at him directly, and said, in a very intense manner, "But I don't know why I'm meant to be doing them." He paused briefly, then, in the same warm but purposeful tone, he said, "I see. Shall we start at the beginning?" I replied with mild enthusiasm, "Sure.", in a since there's nothing else better to do manner, then took up a piece of paper, sketched a particle in a box, and looked at him enquiringly: he nodded affirmatively. 8. For the next 15 minutes or so, I proceeded to sketch diagrams and scribble diverse mathematical formulae, guided by his invariably warm but purposeful tones despite my occasional errors. Then, for the first time, I had a fleeting thought that what we were doing might be going somewhere. I paused, scribbled down Schrödinger's equation [HY = EY], drew a few arrows to same from selected sketches and scribbles, paused, then looked at him enquiringly: he nodded very affirmatively. I continued to scribble for about five minutes as he interspersed, as appropriate, a succession of "And?", "Or?", "But?", and "Therefore?": then I stopped dead, looked at him intently for about five seconds — during which time he held my gaze and I thought, "No. ... Surely not?" — then pointed to one of the scribbled equations, and asked him: firstly, "So, if you calculate this approximately, then ..." [He replied firmly, "Yes."]; and secondly, "And, if you calculate it more accurately, then ..." [He replied very firmly, "Yes."]. I thought, "Therefore!" 9. For the next two minutes or so, I directed a torrent of the resulting implications at a good number of the scribbles, then paused, and thought, "Chemistry makes sense! ... ... He's just guided me to a self-consistent and comprehensive model of the chemical world." I drew a deep breath, directed my gaze at him, and said, in a very intense tone expressing my deepest gratitude, "Thank you so much." He replied, in a richly warm tone, "My pleasure." Then, just as he was about to get up, his expression changed into one which can only be described as mischievous; he wagged a finger at me, and said, "Now, you've had your twenty minutes of fun. Get on with your sums!" I collapsed laughing: and he got up and walked away. 10. During the next two or three minutes, he walked down the aisle between two lines of desks, pausing occasionally to observe discreetly the efforts of some of the other undergraduates; he either nodded approvingly to himself or raised a quizzical eyebrow. I, in the meantime, was busy reflecting upon the whys and wherefores of the previous twenty minutes. Just as he reached the end of the aisle, I realized that 'I had never understood chemistry before because I had never started at the beginning, ... but that was his suggestion, I didn't say anything, ... eh!?' Then he nodded to the tutor and headed towards the door. I thought, "Nobody, but nobody has done that with my brain in twenty years. Whoever that gentleman is, I want to do a Ph.D. with him [as in a three-year vehicle for thinking: not the qualification]." 11. Feeling in seventh heaven or beyond, I lit a fresh cigarette, and thought, "Life can't get any better than this." 12. Upon stubbing out my cigarette, I suddenly realized that I hadn't the vaguest idea who the gentleman was; I had never seen him before and might never see him again. I approached the tutor, and asked, "Excuse me, please, who was that gentleman I've just been speaking to?" The tutor replied, "He was Dr. Owston. He's the Head of the Chemistry Department." I said, "Thank you.", and returned to my seat hardly any the wiser; I had never heard the name, and I had never given the slightest thought to who was what in the Chemistry Department since I had no other intention than to read Biology for finals. Note that had I consciously distinguished any one of the tonal elements stated above, or had I consciously recognized that the gentleman's first question was rhetorical, I would have provided a completely different answer.

O. That same evening I executed the tutorial sheet's advanced calculations «through the lens» of the just recently acquired chemical model. Then I decided, albeit with a heavy heart, to ditch Biology and read Chemistry for finals; whereas biology made some sense — via «the characteristics of living organisms» — chemistry made absolute sense. Finally I decided to investigate discreetly this Dr. Owston, who was the first person that I had found in this institution who could give me what I needed (i.e., make my grey matter do what it couldn't do by itself), in order to determine whether there might be any possibility of me being his doctoral student.

[At undergraduate level, the inclusion of such topics such as the genetic code and recombinant DNA technology were several years away for most institutions on both sides of the pond.]

P. I saw Dr. Owston only once more during my 1st year; we nodded to each other, in the manner of having seen someone before, but did not converse.

[The elusiveness of the Chemistry Department's staff was baffling: e.g., Dr. Finar, he of Finar's Organic Chemistry, a makeshift door-stopper rather than a cozy read with one's bedtime cocoa, would become visible for the first time only when I attended his opening lecture at the start of my 2nd year; and one can only assume that my other future doctoral supervisor shared an office with him, presumably proofreading a new edition of this splendid tome — quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus.]

Q. Everything I discovered about Dr. Owston indicated there was no possibility of me being his doctoral student. Thus, his doctoral and postdoctoral supervisor was the crystallographer Dame Kathleen Lonsdale (1903-1971), who had attained a plethora of firsts for a female scientist, and whose doctoral supervisor was the polymath Sir William Bragg (1862-1942), who had been awarded the 1915 Nobel Prize in Physics, and is regarded as the «father» of modern-day crystallography [cf., Abbé René-Just Haüy (1743-1822)]; he had three degrees (B.Sc., Ph.D. and D.Sc.); he was a renowned expert in the both physical and chemical X-ray crystallography — the latter appeared to me sine quâ non for most worthwhile research projects, but the former would be effectively inaccessible from my decidedly modest base of O-level Physics; he had just completed a 20-year period occupying very high level positions at ICI — then the largest manufacturing company in the Commonwealth, and commonly regarded as the «bellwether of the British economy»; he had no active research programme, but would inevitably choose graduates and doctorates from prestigious universities when he did so; he had a heavy administrative burden; etc., etc., etc.; and, lastly, I couldn't see the slightest advantage to him in being my Ph.D. supervisor. Accordingly, there appeared to be no other option than to continue with my former Headmaster's Plan A: '... get a degree, and let the future take care of itself.'

[In the November 1964 issue of New Scientist, one reads "Electron Spin Resonance by Dr P. G. Owston" (pp. 373-376); one also reads the prescient "Biology and climate changes by Dr G. W. Heath" (pp. 347-348) — one must profoundly regret that "Violin wood and deforestation by Nero", presumably rejected by peer review, has continued to be shoved under the carpet by nearly one and all from Kyoto to Davos.]

R. On the second or third day of my 2nd year, I walked through a set of swing doors to catch an elevator at the very moment Dr. Owston stepped out of one. Immediately he said, in a warm and welcoming tone, "Hello, Roger." I replied, "Hello, Dr. Owston." He continued, "What have you been up to all summer?" I replied, "Well, I spent a few weeks working at Butlin's [holiday camp] on Barry Island [a peninsular on the Welsh coast], but it was absolutely dreadful, so I went back to Smith, Kline & French to keep my hand in." He said, "Mmm, good.", nodded, then passed besides me; I took the next elevator.

S. For the next two years, I was the Chemistry Department's elected student representative on the Academic Board and on the Science Faculty Board, as well as being the sole student representative on the Academic Planning Committee in my 3rd year; I accepted fully my responsibilities by thoroughly reading the minutes (verbosity was limited to the unwieldy Academic Board), carefully listening to each contributor (except the other student representatives on the Academic Board, because none of them said anything remotely germane to the topic in hand), and contributing whenever I judged that my perspective might be worthwhile (attentiveness was the hallmark of the twenty-strong Faculty Board and de rigueur for the seven-strong Planning Committee). I concluded from my experiences as a student representative that the efficacy of any truly serious-minded assembly increases as the number of participants decreases; this relationship has held true to date.

T. Despite my best intentions, my earliest contributions to the Academic and Faculty Boards were sprinkled with faux pas and non sequiturs. I sought Dr. Owston's advice, and during the tea-break or at the conclusion of a meeting he would generously bring his wisdom to the table, so to speak. From about the 8th week of my 2nd year onwards, I regarded Dr. Owston as my de facto personal tutor; we never once talked about my past, chemistry, or my future.

U. Early in my 3rd year, Dr. Owston appeared to me to be close to making a major departmental decision which appeared to be an unequivocal breach of contract; this was deeply disquieting. Accordingly, after the indispensable discussion with my closest (and subsequently life-long) chum Jim Johri, I sought extremely detailed information from Dr. Mary McPartlin, who generously devoted many long hours of her invaluable time; following my independent verification and analysis of this good lady's information, I concluded that his projected but unpopular decision was not merely correct, but the only decision which would have allowed him to fulfil his contract. Therefore, Dr. Owston had, unknowingly, irrefutably proven himself to me as a «true man».

V. My unwavering conviction that Dr. Owston would not agree to be my doctoral supervisor forever delayed my decision to broach the matter, because I knew that it had to be him or no one, and I had the greatest uncertainty that I was mentally strong enough to deal with the anticipated rejection; Plan B, a return to Smith, Kline & French, would be merely a booby prize. Nevertheless, with the end of my undergraduate career looming, I decided to execute Plan C: nothing ventured, nothing gained.

HISTORICAL DATA: 6 (Early May 1975; Dr. Owston's office) 1. I knocked on the door of Dr. Owston's office, ["Come in."], then opened same, to be greeted by, in his customary warm and welcoming tones, "Hello, Roger." 2. I asked, without further ado, "Dr. Owston, would you do me the honour of being my Ph.D. supervisor?" 3. He replied, "Yes, Roger, with pleasure. ... I've been expecting you." (I thought, "How odd! ... Why?", then gathered myself ready to present three caveats to my second and far more important question: but my gathering, so to speak, was interrupted.) 4. He asked, "Why, Roger, ... ... why do you want to be my research student?" 5. I immediately replied, in tones of the gravest doubt, "You don't by any chance remember the first time we met?" 6. He replied, in assured tones, as if our first meeting had occurred the day before, "Yes, Roger." (I thought, "You can't do!" — followed by a fleeting mental image of my former Headmaster referring to the picture in June 1968.) 7. I asked, in tones of someone who is trying to get to the bottom of a matter, "When you guided me from a particle in a box to a comprehensive model of chemistry in twenty minutes flat!?" 8. He replied, again in assured tones, "Yes, Roger." 9. I was flabbergasted, but said immediately, "Well, you've answered your own question! Nobody, but nobody had done that with my brain in twenty years!" He inclined his head very slightly. 10. I gathered myself once again, in order to present the first caveat, then said, "I don't want to do [physical] crystallography." He nodded. 11. Then I said, "I don't want you to teach me how to do research." He raised a quizzical eyebrow. (Interpolating from certain gestures he used in his role as my de facto personal tutor, this meant: 'Broadly speaking, young pup, what you say is right: but there are one or two things you can learn from this ageing master.') 12. Then I said, "And there'll be tears before bedtime." At which point his expression changed to the mischievous one he adopted at the tail-end of our meeting in November 1972, and he said, in over-dramatic broad tones, "Yes, Roger, ... I know!!" 13. Resisting the temptation to share his mischievousness, I gathered myself once again, and said, "I'll do everything to make this work." (This was my inarticulate way of expressing that I would be thoroughly conscientious with respect to the research, fulfilling the formal requirements of the degree, our relationship, etc.) He nodded. 14. Then, in what I regarded as the most important question that I would ask someone in my life, I asked, in a very deliberate manner, "Will you give me ... what I need, ... when you think ... I need it?" He adopted a focused expression, then replied, in the severest tones he would ever use to me, "Yes, Roger, I will." 15. Finally I said, in a very intense tone expressing my deepest gratitude, "Thank you so much, Dr. Owston." He replied, in a richly warm tone, "My pleasure, Roger."

Caveat 4. A worthwhile definition of a «good teacher» might be: Someone who successfully guides a student from something he or she does know to something he or she doesn't, in steps that makes sense to that particular student, without endangering his or her self-confidence in the present or for the future.

An unknown gentleman [Dr. Owston], who understood the «voice of the learning process», guided an undergraduate student to a self-consistent and comprehensive model of chemistry in November 1972. Dr. Owston's technique mirrored that of Mr. Chalcraft, the teacher of woodwork and metalwork at Kent College, Canterbury, during the 1960s; thus, after carefully demonstrating the correct method of either using a craft tool or executing a specific technique to the whole class of twenty students, he would then patiently and successfully guide each student individually to the required level of competence or beyond without endangering that particular student's self-confidence.

The method of teaching by both Dr. Owston and Mr. Chalcraft precluded any element of competition and required neither gentleman to be an inspiration to his respective student: but did require the student to show both concentration and a measure of commitment. Their method was paralleled by Mr. Hughes, a teacher of history at Kent College during the same period, who similarly dispensed with competition, structured his lessons so that each student concentrated on the subject — and nothing but the subject — for 1½ hours (the length of a typical O-level examination paper), and devised a method of assessment whereby the pass mark, 70% (the percentage required to obtain the top grade at O-level), was within range of each student; this inevitably increased both the self-confidence and achievement of «weaker» students — who often languished in the lower region of the rank ordering within the class for almost any given subject — because they became the equal of «stronger» students, both in principle and in practice.

The foregoing may prompt you to judge that these exemplars alone shatter two received wisdoms prevalent in education: that «a good teacher must be an inspiration to his or her student», and that «competition drives up standards». However, both common sense and prudence demand that you seek independent verification of your judgement; and, in my opinion, this is achievable by reference to Donald Wheeler's Understanding Variation; The Key To Managing Chaos (1993), from which the following two paragraphs are drawn from his Introduction:

"Numerical illiteracy is not a failure with arithmetic, but it is instead a failure to know how to use the basic tools of arithmetic to understand data. Numerical illiteracy is not addressed by the traditional courses in the primary or secondary schools, nor is it addressed by advanced courses in mathematics. This is why even highly educated individuals can be numerically illiterate. Fortunately, the cure for numerical illiteracy is very simple. The principles are easy to grasp, and very easy to implement. This book is written to help the reader overcome numerical illiteracy."

The qualitative precepts within this book should be more readily appreciated if: firstly, you consider it to have the working title of «Making Sense of Data»; secondly, you focus your attention on Donald Wheeler's perceptive distinction between the «Voice of the Process» and the «Voice of the Customer»; and thirdly, you co-opt a «good teacher».


Caveat 5. For the last forty years, in a nearly-parallel universe, Britain's «powers that be» have required that Lennon-McCartney songs are a compulsory element in each student's secondary education: no other composers have been so «honoured». This is equivalent to asserting that any song in the Lennon-McCartney canon is of more educational value than any song composed since time immemorial, including any one on Fairport Convention's Liege and Lief (1969), The Who's Tommy (1969), Deep Purple's In Rock (1970), Frank Zappa's Hot Rats (1970), Simon & Garfunkel's Bridge Over Troubled Waters (1970), Jethro Tull's Aqualung (1971), Led Zeppelin IV (1971), The Strawbs' Grave New World (1972), Fleetwood Mac's Rumours (1977), and Home Service's Alright Jack (1986), to name but ten albums. You are invited to consider «Revolution 9», the final track on The Beatles' White Album (1968), as a reference point.

For the last forty years, Britain's «powers that be» have required that Shakespeare is a compulsory element in each student's secondary education: no other author has been so «honoured». This is equivalent to asserting that any passage, scene, play, poem, or sonnet in the Shakespearean canon is of more educational value than any work written since time immemorial, including and in particular The Holy Bible, The Holy Quran, and The Constitution of the United States; regardless of one's religious or political views, for better or worse, these three works have guided the lives of untold millions since they first graced this earth: ... and will continue to do so in the foreseeable future.

Now, these «powers that be» are typically highly educated, in the commonly understood sense of the term: yet they have uniformly failed to provide one substantive reason why Shakespeare should be so «honoured», much less provide any substantive evidence that even one student has become more enlightened than he or she would otherwise have been by reading any other author. You are invited to consider — but are not limited to considering — Mark Twain (Is Shakespeare Dead?, 1909), Giles Cooper (Unman, Wittering and Zigo, 1958), Robert Bolt (A Man for All Seasons, 1961), George MacDonald Fraser (Flashman, 1969), Patrick O'Brian (Master and Commander, 1969), Angie Debo (A History of the Indians of the United States, 1970), John Innes Mackintosh Stewart (The Gaudy, 1974), Finlay J. Macdonald (Crowdie and Cream, 1982), Pauline Maier (American Scripture: How America Declared its Independence from Britain, 1997), and Homer Hickham (October Sky, 2000).


Caveat 6. Every year since 1919, on 11th November at 11 a.m., the people of Britain have observed two minutes silence, in remembrance of those members of the armed forces who paid the ultimate sacrifice whilst serving their country, including and in particular the 900,000 or more who did so during World War I (1914-1918).

For the past few decades, students have been introduced to the poetry written during this war, including Wilfred Owen's Dulce et decorum est: whether this particular poem is appropriate is a decidedly moot point, for at least three reasons.

First, the title is only the first half of a Latin tag, which reads, Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori, and means, "It is sweet and fitting to die for one's country." But the reader can have little or no appreciation of the poem's savage irony without an understanding of the second half of the tag.

Second, from Wilfred Owen himself — who, in October 1917, wrote to his mother from Edinburgh, "Here is a gas poem, done yesterday [...] The famous Latin tag (from Horace, Odes) means of course it is sweet and meet to die for one's country." — to innumerable individuals in the intervening years, the assertion that the words of the tag were 'widely understood' is false. Thus, in contrast to this irrefutably brave soldier-poet, who received secondary education to the age of 18, at least 90% of those who sacrificed their lives during this war had not received one day's secondary schooling, much less one lesson of Latin (note, the 1893 Elementary Education Act raised the minimum schooling leaving age to 11, and the 1918 Education Act made secondary education compulsory up to the age of 14); moreover, 100% of women were disenfranchised until the 1918 Representation of the People Act.

And third, albeit unwittingly, the poem's subject obscures the fact that the greatest cause of death in this war, as in so many others prior to World War II, was disease (such as dysentary, cholera, and typhus).


Caveat 7. Whimsically stated ... In June 1992, a young lass in Year 6 named Cavia Porcellus, known to her chums as Ginny, sat her Key Stage 2 examinations in three subjects which are a statutory part of the National Curriculum: English, Mathematics, and Science. Unsurprisingly, Ginny was none too fussed about whether her performances would result in her primary school being promoted or demoted the following season. Be that as it may, Ginny was expecting her examination papers to be forwarded to «big school», during the long summer vacation, so that her Year 7 teachers in these subjects could carefully go through these raw data with her, so that she had specific details of her weaknesses with respect to her understanding of each subject and her examination techniques. Needless to say, perhaps, but Ginny was sorely disappointed in September 1992. However, although this will be of ice-cold comfort to the now considerably older Ginny, roughly half a million of her Year 7 peers were in the same Brobdingnagian-sized boat as she was; moreover, in each of the last nineteen years, a new such boat has been added to the fleet. Nevertheless, Ginny is ever the optimist: she hopes that copies of Donald Wheeler's Understanding Variation will weigh down Santa's sacks one magical Christmas in the not too distant future, even if this means Rudolph's nose-bag being weighed down with extra lichen and the ubiquitous robin being given the heave-ho.

Seriously stated ... From the perspective of the «powers that be», whoever they be, the percentage mark — e.g., 47% — in an internal or external examination is often the be-all and end-all of assessment. However, from your perspective, as the student, the most important aspect of any examination should be the precise determination of the reasons for your «missing percentage» — here, 53%; amongst others, these might be misreading of one or more questions, inattention to the mark scheme, incomplete or lack of understanding of one or more concepts, lack of factual knowledge, or health problems on the day of the examination. And, once you have determined precisely these reasons, via individual debriefing with a «good teacher», then you will have acquired sufficient self-confidence in your ability to achieve a higher percentage — e.g., 55% — in the next examination: ... and so on and so forth.


Caveat 8. Since time immemorial, the received wisdom would appear to be that a teacher asking a single factual question to a class of students is a worthwhile exercise; examples of single factual questions are: "Where is the headland known as Cape Trafalgar?" [In the province of Cádiz, south-west Spain]; "When was the Battle of Trenton?" [26th December 1776]; "In Romeo and Juliet, who was Romeo courting before he espied Juliet?" [Rosaline]; "What is the first differentiation of y = x³?" [dy/dx = 3x² or f'(x) = 3x²]; "What is the SI unit of force?" [Newton]; "What is the second differentiation of y = x³?" [d²y/dx² = 6x or f''(x) = 6x]; "What is the Latin for «Let the non-believer beware.»?" [Caveat infidelis]; "What is the abbreviation for ribonucleic acid?" [RNA]; and "What is the French for «I don't know.»?" [Je ne sais pas.] ... But!

In September 1995, Mr. Chips — who was the venerable teacher of chemistry in Years 10 and 11 at Ginny's «big school», and whom each student in Year 10 vaguely suspected of having laid the foundation stone for England's first blast furnace (in 1491) — had swashbuckled his way through a presentation of the «Extraction of Iron». Early in the following academic year, Mr. Chips asked the same class of students, now in Year 11, "What is the principal ore used in the extraction of iron?", which resulted in six of the twenty-five students raising their hands. Choosing one of these six, he asked, "Yes, Ms. Porcellus?", who replied, "Haematite, Sir." He said, "Correct. Well done, Cavia!", and then, in the time honoured manner, moved on to the next topic. ... Yet!

There were at least four reasons why a student might not have raised his or her hand: one, he or she had never registered this fact, perhaps because of inattention in Year 10; two, he or she had simply forgotten this fact; three, he or she had lacked self-confidence in the presence of his or her peers; and four, he or she didn't care one way or the other: but Mr. C. made no attempt to determine which reason was applicable to any one of the nineteen students who didn't raise his or her hand. Furthermore, Mr. C. made no attempt to determine whether any one of the other five students who raised his or her hand did indeed know the correct answer. And finally, although Ginny's answer was correct, this could have been of no value to Mr. C. — nor to any one of the other twenty-four students — because he did not know why Ginny knew the correct answer; and, without knowing the why, he had not increased the likelihood of Ginny — nor of any one of the other twenty-four students — producing the correct answer for any time when it truly matters. ... So!

Seemingly, Mr. Chips was unaware of, or had ignored, the dictum of Cyril Hinshelwood, who was awarded the Nobel prize for Chemistry in 1956 — that "Science is not the mere collection of facts, which are infinitely numerous and mostly uninteresting, but the attempt by the human mind to order these facts into satisfying patterns." — and, in consequence, he had not considered asking his question in an anchored and potentially more fruitful way: e.g., "Recalling, firstly, that cobaltite and chromite are the principal ores used for the extraction of cobalt and chromium, respectively, and secondly, that haemoglobin is an iron-containing protein which carries dioxygen in the blood of mammals, write down the name of the principal ore used in the extraction of iron."

Whilst you may care to examine further the ostensible worthwhileness of the aforementioned received wisdom, by considering single factual questions in diverse subjects and with diverse class sizes, in my opinion you would be well advised to accept the spirit of Hinshelwood's dictum in pursuing your studies in each subject, by anchoring each fact in a potentially fruitful context.

2: ABSOLUTE INDEPENDENCE OF MIND

INTRODUCTION Each child, at birth, has absolute independence of mind, and, from birth, attempts to make sense of the world as it is represented, so as to establish the truth about the world. This truth, whatever it be, is acquired from both the child's own investigations and one or more sources of titular authority (typically his or her parents) — whom the child trusts as sources of genuine authority. From infancy onwards, in attempting to make sense of the world, the child's brain receives a veritable hotchpot of demonstrable truths and received truths — mere acceptance of the latter inevitably results in a decrease in the child's independence of mind, regardless of whether any given received truth is itself true or false. This decrease in the independence of mind appears to be the universal rule, rather than the exception, in the species Homo sapiens, and would indicate that the resultant neural networks established in (at least certain parts of) the brain during infancy are likely to be broadly similar for all individuals of the species, save those who have the tragic misfortune to suffer from either a congenital or an acquired mental disorder. The corollary of the substance of the three preceding paragraphs is that the retention of absolute independence of mind will be possible only if: one, the child has the opportunity to examine independently a received truth, judged to be important by either the child or the child's only source(s) of genuine authority for the truth; two, the child determines that this received truth is false; and three, the trauma of this falsity results in the establishment of neural networks which permanently lock the child into investigating anomalies and received truths as the default position for making sense of the world, and so establishing the truth about the world. Note that, during infancy, and indeed throughout life, an individual's brain will also receive — but correctly and timely analyse only rarely — a seemingly ever-increasing ragbag of antiphrases, half-truths, Humpty-Dumpty words and phrases, inadvertent errors, lies, misinformation, non sequiturs, platitudes, and uncontextualized information from sundry sources of titular authority. [Antiphrase: a phrase conveying the opposite meaning to the one intended literally. Disinformation: falsehood(s) by omission. Humpty-Dumpty word or phrase: one chosen by its author to mean whatever that same author chooses it to mean. Lie: a deliberate falsehood. Misinformation: falsehood(s). Non sequitur: an inference or conclusion not logically following from the premises. Platitude: a trite or banal statement, especially one expressed as if it were significant and original.]

CONTENTION Namely, that I have retained absolute independence of mind because all three of the aformentioned conditions were satisfied on Christmas Day 1957 at a children's home. Thus: 1. Both houseparents had insisted that lying was always bad, wrong, evil. 2. Both houseparents had stated that Father Christmas would bring presents. 3. A boy, aged 5½, had observed that all his presents were second-hand and that about half of them were broken, whereas all the other boys' presents were new: this was anomalous. 4. So this child, who felt absolutely safe in the presence of the houseparents, attempted to make sense of the world as it was represented: firstly, by asking himself, 'Why had Father Christmas brought all the other boys new presents and not him?'; secondly, by attempting to resolve the anomaly by asking himself, 'Had he lied or been naughty recently?' ["No."]. 5. And thirdly, following gentle prompting, by asking the housemother, 'Why had all the other boys got new presents and not him?' Her answer, "[because] They've all got aunties.", revealed that both houseparents — who, hitherto, the child had trusted absolutely — had lied about Father Christmas. 6. The child had, albeit unwittingly, independently investigated a received truth stated by two individuals who were his only sources of genuine authority for the truth: and had found this received truth to be false. 7. The trauma of this falsity resulted in the establishment of neural networks — via epigenetic modifications [see Rajiv Sharma, David Gavin & Dennis Grayson (2010), and references cited therein] — which permanently locked the child into independently investigating anomalies and received truths as the default position for making sense of the world, and so establishing the truth about the world.

TWO RECOGNIZED MANIFESTATIONS From 1958 to 1972, and indeed beyond to the present day, manifestations of my absolute independence of mind have been variously interpreted as aberrations, bloody-mindedness, contrariness, childishness, ignorance, immaturity, irrationalism, lack of supposèdly due respect for authority, or rudeness: except on extremely rare occasions, none of these interpretations has been correct, save that of authority in the sense of titular authority. Nevertheless, on two particularly important occasions, such manifestations were not only correctly interpreted, but prompted each individual to take truly exceptional measures. The first occurred in June 1963, in the headmaster's study at Kent College, Canterbury. 1. A young boy, aged nearly 11, had observed a picture whose presence there didn't make sense: it was anomalous. 2. This «child», who felt absolutely safe in the presence of an unknown gentleman who had spoken to him in a warm and welcoming tone, attempted to make sense of the world as it was represented by rooting through his mind to determine where he had seen this picture before. 3. And when this «child» was asked by this gentleman — in a warm but purposeful tone, devoid of accusatory, artificial, condemnatory, condescending, judgemental, patronizing, sarcastic, or whimsical elements — "You keep on looking at that picture?", he voiced his true thoughts, to a favourably disposed individual whose titular status was unknown to him: "Yes, Sir. I've seen that picture before; I don't know where: it must be in something I've read." 4. This gentleman, [whose titular status was Headmaster], immediately realized that the young boy before him, aged about 11 and academically more than competent for this age, had revealed his default characteristic: the child-like behaviour of absolute independence of mind. And, as such, was a danger to himself; that is, his greatest strength was also his greatest weakness. In consequence, as subsequently evinced by his exclamatory sentences in June 1968, "Remember the picture, Roger! ... That's why I gave you the scholarship! ... That's why I wanted you here!", he immediately decided that he must not only offer this boy a scholarship for the full tuition fees, but also ensure one way or t'other that he would obtain for him a grant for the full boarding fees, for three reasons. First, his titular position, together with its intrinsic modus operandi in the background, allowed him to watch over the boy discreetly from afar, for the purpose of determining the latter's additional weaknesses — which would need to be ameliorated during his period in the Sixth Form, whose structure facilitated a high degree of independent study. Second, the boy's education and welfare would necessarily be directed by his colleagues in the foreground, whose particular and essential commonality was unwavering fair-mindedness. And third, as a boarder, the boy would have the necessary continuity of education from the beginning of Year 7 to the end of Year 13 (the Upper Sixth), even if his parents moved geographically outside a convenient commuting distance. And the second occurred in November 1972, in an undergraduate tutorial room. 1. A young man, aged about 20, had considered a tutorial sheet containing merely advanced calculations to be anomalous in a chemistry tutorial. 2. This «child» attempted to make sense of the world as it was represented, albeit without success, by asking his fellow undergraduates the raison d'être for the tutorial sheet. 3. When this «child», who felt absolutely safe in the presence of an unknown gentleman, is asked by him — in a warm but purposeful tone, devoid of accusatory, artificial, condemnatory, condescending, judgemental, patronizing, sarcastic, or whimsical elements — "And what are you meant to be doing?", he voiced his true thoughts, to a favourably disposed individual whose titular status was unknown to him: "I'm meant to be doing these calculations. I can do them. I'll do them this evening." 4. Then the «child» effectively restarted his attempts to make sense of the world as it was represented by stating to this gentleman, in an intense manner, "But I don't know why I'm meant to be doing them."; this is equivalent to stating: 'Because these calculations are anomalous in a chemistry tutorial, I want to know why I'm meant to be doing them.' 5. This gentleman, [whose titular status was Head of the Chemistry Department], immediately realized that the young man before him, aged about 20 and academically more than competent for this age, had revealed his default characteristic: the child-like behaviour of absolute independence of mind. And, as such, was a danger to himself; that is, his greatest strength was also his greatest weakness. In consequence, he immediately decided that he must be the young man's future doctoral supervisor, for two reasons. First, his titular position, together with its intrinsic modus operandi in the background, allowed him to watch over the young man discreetly from afar, for the purpose of determining the latter's additional weaknesses — which would need to be ameliorated during the period as his doctoral student, when independence of mind would be particularly valued. And second, the young man's education in degree-standard chemistry would necessarily be directed by his colleagues in the foreground, whose essential commonality was expertise in this subject. Appendix 2 presents strong circumstantial evidence for the preparedness of the minds of the Headmaster and Dr. Owston for their respective first meetings with me, given that I had shown a high degree of independence of mind, at the very least, on prior and relevant occasions.

3: SELECTED INTRODUCTORY ASPECTS OF EPIGENETICS

A FIRST PRELIMINARY ASPECT In order to communicate succinctly and efficiently with one another, scientists in general, and biologists, biochemists and chemists in particular, use diverse types of «shorthand»; these include abbreviations, chemical equations, reaction schemes, and line formulae. Setting aside the finer details, the basic «rules» of line formulae are as follows. Each carbon of the skeleton is shown as a vertex; each full line connecting the vertices represents one localized covalent bond; each hydrogen bonded to the skeletal carbons is omitted; and all other functional groups are shown explicitly. [The term "localized covalent bond" describes the mutual electrostatic attraction of two adjacent nuclei for a shared pair of electrons which occupy the same molecular energy level.] The structural and line formulae of hexane (1), hex-1-ene (2), and hex-2-ene (3) are: The structural and line formulae of cyclohexane (4), cyclohexene (5), and cyclohexa-1,3-diene (6) are: Personal preference, guided by the context, very often determines which carbons are designated skeletal; e.g., methylcyclohexane might be shown as 7a, 7b, or 7c — either of the latter two would probably be used when an author wished to emphasize this compound's topological similarities and/or differences to other substituted cyclohexanes (such as 8 and 9).

A SECOND PRELIMINARY ASPECT In eukaryotic cells — that is, those present in certain unicellular organisms [e.g., Saccharomyces cerevisiae, brewer's yeast] and all multicellular organisms [e.g., Arabidopsis thaliana, thale cress, Caenorhabditis elegans, a free-living nematode, Drosophila melanogaster, the common fruit fly, Apis mellifera, the Western honey bee, and Homo sapiens] — the entirety of an organism's hereditary information is encoded in chromosomal DNA and mitochondrial DNA, present in the nucleus and the cytoplasm, respectively; the components of, and their arrangement in, double-stranded DNA are shown below. Double-stranded DNA includes both protein coding sequences (genes) and non-protein coding sequences; respectively, these are about 25% and 75% in C. elegans, and about 2% and 98% in H. sapiens. During mitotic cell division, both strands of the DNA are duplicated: by contrast, only one of the equivalent DNA strands is required to serve as the coding template for the synthesis of a given protein. [Gene: a sequence of codons, where each codon is a group of three nucleotide bases.] A copy of the gene is transcribed to give mRNA (messenger RNA), which usually contains both exons (expressed codons) and introns (inexpressed codons); the latter are spliced out, and the resulting RNA is then translated to the necessarily precise amino acid sequence of the requisite protein. For the past fifty years or so, the lion's share of biological, biochemical, genetics, and genomics research has been directed at elucidating, in ever-greater detail, diverse aspects of the DNA sequence variations of an ever-increasing number of living organisms. Such a focus has been more than justifiable, simply because of the irrefutable importance of proteins in the correct and aberrant functioning of cells in all living organisms. Nevertheless, during the last twenty years or so, there has developed a justified consensus that innumerable fundamental aspects of theoretical and applied biology can only be addressed via research programmes which incorporate epigenetics. So, epigenetics, as «Cinderella» — who, incidentally, may have been held back by gaggle of antediluvian «Ugly Sisters» who continue to roam the earth — must be an equal and permanent partner to genomics, the «Prince».

THE EPIGENETIC LANDSCAPE In 1957, Conrad Waddington introduced a conceptual framework for epigenetics via an image representing the metaphorical epigenetic landscape, which allows the visualization of cellular development. As various cells differentiate — that is, become more specialized — each one may be considered as occupying a position in a trough lower down the hill; the diagram below shows Waddington's image, modified to illustrate the positions of a few cells as reference points. Numerous cell types — including cardiomycetes, cartilage cells, insulin-secreting cells, and neurons — are not only fully differentiated, but the appropriate organ does not have a reservoir of less specialized cells — either intrinsically (e.g., the heart does not have cardiac stem cells) or because they have been destroyed by disease (e.g., the b-cells in the pancreas) — to remake such fully differentiated cells. In consequence, the destruction of such cells typically results in severe health problems (e.g., type I diabetes). In 2006, Kazutoshi Takahashi and Shinya Yamanaka reported the creation of induced pluripotent stem cells (iPS cells) from mouse fibroblasts, which are the main differentiated cells in connective tissue. And, in the intervening few years, innumerable researchers have extended their research to the creation of iPS cells from diverse human tissues and donors — thereby paving the way, at least in principle, for their therapeutic usage in the treatment of, amongst other diseases, diabetes, haemophilias, and osteo-arthritis.

EPIGENETIC MODIFICATIONS The first epigenetic modification to be identified was DNA methylation; and, in 1975, Arthur Riggs, and Robin Holliday & John Pugh separately published the proposal that 5-methylcytosine may have an important role in controlling gene expression. In 1980, Peter Jones and Shirley Taylor published substantive evidence that the use of cytidine analogues prevented the methylation of cytosine residues in DNA; in particular, the use of analogue 5-azacytidine was shown to be a potent inhibitor of DNA methylation. In 1985, Adrian Bird and his colleagues published further evidence linking DNA methylation and gene expression; in particular, the importance of «islands» of CpG methylation. And in 1998, Adrian Bird and Alan Wolffe, and their respective colleagues, published research that showed that DNA methylation affects gene expression indirectly by changing the affinity of sequence-specific DNA-binding proteins for their target sites. Broadly speaking, when mammalian DNA is methylated, it binds a protein called MeCP2 (Methyl CpG binding Protein 2), which, in turn, attracts other proteins that prevent gene expression. And, when genes and their promoters are very heavily methylated, the DNA of the chomosome becomes very tightly coiled up, which prevents gene transcription via mRNA. [Nucleosome: the basic unit of DNA packaging in eukaryotes, consisting of a segment of DNA wound in sequence around eight histone protein cores.] A second epigenetic modification involves the histone proteins intimately associated with DNA, typically by acetylation of their lysine groups. Broadly speaking, when mammalian histones are modified, gene expression increases near a specifically modified nucleosome: nevertheless, the histone code, published in 2001 by Thomas Jenuwein and David Allis, representing the patterns of modifications, is extremely complex. And a third epigenetic modification involves non (protein) coding RNA (ncRNA), many of which are also involved in gene expression, whose base length varies from about 25 bases ('short' ncRNA) to greater than 3,000 bases ('long' ncRNA).

Caveat 9. Ronald Fisher, who was primarily a statistician, and who was a pioneer in population genetics, wrote at the beginning of his book The Genetical Theory of Natural Selection (1930):

"Natural Selection is not Evolution. Yet, ever since the two words have been in common use, the theory of Natural Selection has been employed as a convenient abbreviation for the theory of Evolution by Natural Selection, put forward by Darwin and Wallace. This has had the unfortunate consequence that the theory of Natural Selection itself has scarcely if ever received separate consideration."

Despite Fisher's cautionary words, the aforementioned "abbreviation", for better or worse, appears to have taken root with a vengeance; as is illustrated here by the following example.

'The over-use of a biocide typically results in living organisms with short life-cycles evolving resistance by the mechanism of natural selection, as exemplified by tsetse flies (Glossina palpalis), the vectors of the Trypanosoma protozoa which cause sleeping-sickness. Thus,

«Structural variation has occurred in populations of tsetse flies by natural mutations of their genome, followed by the exchange of genes via meiosis and random fertilization. Some of these mutations have resulted in some tsetse flies containing a gene which codes for the catabolism of the biocide DDT. These individuals have been the fittest in environments where the agent of selection is this biocide, and so more of these have survived to reproductive maturity. Their offspring have inherited this favourable gene; and so, within the gene pool of tsetse flies, the frequency of the DDT-resistant gene has increased.».'

A parallel construction is readily advanced for bread-and-butter flies (Panemetbutyrum circenses). Thus,

«Structural variation has occurred in populations of bread-and-butter flies by natural mutations of their genome, followed by the exchange of genes via meiosis and random fertilization. Some of these mutations have resulted in some bread-and-butter flies containing a gene which codes for the catabolism of the biocide SWAT. These individuals have been the fittest in environments where the agent of selection is this biocide, and so more of these have survived to reproductive maturity. Their offspring have inherited this favourable gene; and so, within the gene pool of bread-and-butter flies, the frequency of the SWAT-resistant gene has increased.».

However, as evinced by the following two constructions, and setting aside conceivable transgenerational inheritance via the germ cells, certain epigenetic modifications will also have consequences with respect to inheritance. Thus,

«Structural variation will occur in populations of bread-and-butter flies by epigenetic modifications on their genome. The resulting epigenomes will result in some bread-and-butter flies being the fittest in certain environments, and so more of these will reproduce. Therefore more bread-and-butter flies will inherit this genome, mutant or otherwise; and so, within the gene pool of bread-and-butter flies, the frequency of this genome will increase.»,

«Structural variation will occur in populations of bread-and-butter flies by epigenetic modifications on their genome. The resulting epigenomes will result in some bread-and-butter flies not being the fittest in certain environments, and so fewer of these will reproduce. Therefore fewer bread-and-butter flies will inherit this genome, mutant or otherwise; and so, within the gene pool of bread-and-butter flies, the frequency of this genome will decrease.».

But, in common with each living organism which has existed hitherto, 100-d% of epigenomic raw data for bread-and-butter flies has been irretrievably lost; ... as has 100-d% of environmental raw data.


Caveat 10. Finally, if you accept that you are a custodian of the only known habitable planet in the Universe for the species Homo sapiens, then you might care to mull over two interrelated received wisdoms: that «all knowledge is valuable», and that «the quantity of knowledge is increasing exponentially».

Firstly, consider if you will, as illustrative examples, the supposèdly important questions of: "Did birds evolve from dinosaurs?", and "Is there water on planets in distant galaxies?" There are only two definitive answers to either question: "Yes" or "No". But would either answer, regarding aspects of the distant past and the distant future, respectively, be of any conceivable value to a custodian who shares responsibility for the well-being of the species Homo sapiens in the present and the foreseeable future? Moreover, would resources allocated to determining the answers to such questions not inevitably result in fewer resources being allocated to determining worthwhile knowledge that is self-consistent with a custodian's responsibility?

And secondly, note that, despite common parlance, "knowledge" and "information" are not synonyms, neither are "misinformation" and "disinformation".

APPENDICES

Appendix 1: Ariadne's Thread and Captain of the Ship
Between 1975 and 2005, I occasionally attempted to determine why my Headmaster and Dr. Owston each remembered his first meeting with me, some thirty or more months after the event. Then, in 2006, whilst re-reading through and mulling over various texts in my mind, the latter paused on the following sentence: "The captain was a warm-hearted gentleman, but he expected his orders to be obeyed to the letter." The description "warm-hearted gentleman" immediately brought both my Headmaster and Dr. Owston to the forefront of my mind: and thence to the word "captain". I had never considered either of these gentlemen as the «captain of a ship»: but, for all intents and purposes, that is precisely what each one was. However, neither gentleman gave me the merest hint of an order during our first meeting; and there my deliberations might have ground to a halt, if I had not instinctively felt that I had, albeit serendipitously, finally teased out the end of Ariadne's Thread. Accordingly, I ruminated upon the roles of a captain on an 18th century ship; and, during these ruminations, I realized that everyone on board, from the ship's boy to the first lieutenant, was, in principle if not in practice, «hanging on the captain's every word». And this realization prompted the following train of thought.

When a master entered a classroom for a lesson, all twenty boys would stand up from their seats in near unison and «hang on his every word»; this was the master's subconscious expectation, because this would be the uniform occurrence. Then he would say, for example, "Good morning, boys. Please sit down." or "Bonjour. Asseyez-vous, s'il vous plaît.", whereupon all twenty boys would sit down in near unison and «hang on his every word»; yet again this was the master's subconscious expectation, because this too would be the uniform occurrence. [Then he might say, for example, "Please open your books at page ..." — and the remainder of the lesson would be in free format.] Similarly, if a master entered a classroom or a common-room outside of lesson time, any boy who was seated would stand up immediately and, together with any boy who was already standing, face him and «hang on his every word». [Then he might say, for example, "Peters, wait outside my study." — which was a clear indication that I had not received an invitation for a cozy chat and a cup of tea; ... chance would have been a fine thing.] Similarly, if Matron entered a dormitory, usually to broach the subjects of laundry and personal hygiene, every boy present would stand up immediately, face her and «hang on her every word». [Note, though, that the good lady never enquired about one's personal preference in shampoo, much less whether one wanted one's shampoo and conditioner combined or separate; ... perish the thought.] Finally, whenever and whereever the Headmaster met a boy or a member of staff, be it in his study, a classroom, a common-room, a corridor, an office, the staff-room, the refectory, the library, the chapel, within the school grounds, or outside the school grounds, the individual would «hang on his every word»; this was the Headmaster's subconscious expectation, because this would be the uniform occurrence.