Late
up (surprised? Oh, don't be!) and yet another excellent breakfast. Could
get way too used to these. They consist of Lincolnshire sausages (except
for Roxana, who has veggie sausages), bacon (except for Roxana, who has
cardboard), scrambled egg made with cream, baked beans, and mushrooms.
There's also toast, and tea or coffee. Steve makes most of it, but everyone
pitches in with the toast or the tea or the serving, and later with the
washing up, in a communal sort of way. And we talk lots while eating.
Today of course Alan was back, but the rest of us are: Steve, Ian, Roxana,
Geoff, and me. Ian composed another limerick:
There was a young man with a stutter
Who had trouble with words he would utter
Ashamed of his diction
And vocal restriction
He chose not to speak, only m-m-m-m-mutter
A scrabble into the bathroom for all of us, and then the briskest of brisk walks across the vast windy plain of the coach station car park towards Fisherton Street and the station, for Roxana, Steve and me to see Ian safely away on the 12.26 to Waterloo. Then a much slower walk into Salisbury for the rest of us, a little (unsatisfying) shopping (why did M&S have just one type of overcoat for sale?), then another stint in the Haunch. Oh the strange lure of that place! Home, and a doze on the sofa for me, while Steve and Roxana both slept upstairs (both apparently having odd dreams).
After the dinner which Roxana is now preparing, she, Steve, Geoff and I are going in the Mini to a party in Burcombe. I shall report on that next year! A very happy and prosperous 2007 to you. Cheers!
There was a young man with a stutter
Who had trouble with words he would utter
Ashamed of his diction
And vocal restriction
He chose not to speak, only m-m-m-m-mutter
A scrabble into the bathroom for all of us, and then the briskest of brisk walks across the vast windy plain of the coach station car park towards Fisherton Street and the station, for Roxana, Steve and me to see Ian safely away on the 12.26 to Waterloo. Then a much slower walk into Salisbury for the rest of us, a little (unsatisfying) shopping (why did M&S have just one type of overcoat for sale?), then another stint in the Haunch. Oh the strange lure of that place! Home, and a doze on the sofa for me, while Steve and Roxana both slept upstairs (both apparently having odd dreams).
After the dinner which Roxana is now preparing, she, Steve, Geoff and I are going in the Mini to a party in Burcombe. I shall report on that next year! A very happy and prosperous 2007 to you. Cheers!
We
won't be drinking again in the George & Dragon, Castle Street, Salisbury
Late
to bed last night, then up early this morning to get provisions
from Tesco's. Another fine breakfast by Steve was followed by
the household splitting up and going their separate ways. In my
case this meant taking Roxana's new scanner acquired last night
from PC World (emergency purchase after we found the old one was
knacked) and the laptop round to Mum and Dad's, to scan in what
ended up totaling fifty-one mostly black-and-white photographs
of ancient relatives and - more interestingly - many photos of
my parents courting (see right), and my father in his Army (national
service) days. Wow! I came away as they were off out, but was immediately summonsed to the Haunch. I met one drunk brother, one drunk sister, and one drunk husband. I couldn't catch up. On the way home we wandered into the George & Dragon on Castle Street, a "recently refurbished" establishment. I didn't know it before, although it had come recommended. Now however, it has become, in Ian's words, "anodyne and shite". I agree wholeheartedly. My main objections were these: the smoking area was tiny and disproportionate to the size of the pub; the landlady was rude and arrogant; the gents (called Knights - the ladies was called Damsels) opened straight onto the corridor; the hand-dryer didn't work; and the hand-basin was the size of a teacup. Is that enough? Don't go there. Home to pizza. Yum. And silliness. |
 |
Yesterday
we had thought we might go for a walk, but what with one thing and another
it ended up too late, so we put off the idea for today. But waking up
this morning we discovered it was raining, persistently and very, very
wetly. So after another fab breakfast, we sat around for quite a while
before heading off to Fifield Bavant in the car and a fifteenth century
church, then to Broad Chalke and the Queens Head. Back home and a few
cups of tea later, Ian, Steve and I walked, through what was by now driving,
freezing rain, to meet Roxana at the Haunch. We dried in the snug in time
to meet Geoff at the Poultry Cross, and get darned wet again walking through
town to the Rai d'Or, a pub-cum-Thai restaurant where we ate a very fine
meal indeed. Ian unwisely chose a curry several degrees too hot even for
him, but the rest of us fared rather better. As we couldn't face the rain
again we got a taxi home and spent a couple more hours listening to music,
looking at Peru on Google Earth and then looking through some of Geoff's
photos. A very good day was had by all.
Stress-free
living
Alison
and Richard came round, and more presents were exchanged. Then
a day of shopping for certain important items (a milk saucepan,
some boots, a shower hose and the makings of a curry dinner) in
Salisbury has ended in the Haunch (pictured), and several pints
of Courage Best, and is currently sliding into slow inebriation
as we wait for Steve to prepare the korma. For some reason pickled
onions are featuring. |
 |
We
left Croydon early, and drove up to Steve's parents for lunch and to exchange
a few presents. As we left London behind us, and particularly later as
the West Midlands receded into the distance, we felt the stresses leave
us. Steve had a very nasty cough by the time we got to Salisbury, but
the combined efforts of Roxana, Ian, a stiff whisky and lemon toddy, a
stiff brandy and lemon toddy, and a bizarre concoction designed to cure
just about anyone of just about anything (1 tsp cider vinegar, 1 tsp honey,
top up with hot water) seemed to cure him, by the time bedtime came around...
pretty late as it goes.
Boxing
Day 2006
A
bad start to the day, with the electricity failing while I was in the
bath. However, the man from EDF came very promptly and replaced the power
company's fuse, and all is now well.
All became even better after several pints down the pub with Steve and Clive.
All became even better after several pints down the pub with Steve and Clive.
Christmas
Day 2006
We
started early, with a bottle of pink Champagne (a wedding present from
Peter and Chris), and opened pressies before Steve really got stuck in
in the kitchen. After a truly scrumptious four course lunch (paté,
duck with all the trimmings, a fine selection of cheeses, and Christmas
pudding, washed down with a splendidly deep St Emilion) we watched a DVD
and snoozed until Doctor Who came on.
A
hunter returns
Steve
went into town, returning with a fat duck. Would be nice to imagine he'd
just returned from a shooting trip with gun over shoulder, but in fact
it was just from M&S. I sat on the floor with Carols from Kings on
the telly, surrounded by wrapping paper and sellotape. My favourite sort
of Christmas Eve.
Nearly
there
Having
been food shopping yesterday evening, we had a reasonably relaxed trip
into town today to buy a couple of last minute things. Crowded though.
"What
do you mean - the kitchen's closed?"
A
fight last night to get the advertised room service in my Worcestershire
hotel caused me to question their four stars, a feeling confirmed this
morning at breakfast where we were subjected to constant Radio 1.
Cloud
nine
Another
long drive today, from Edinburgh once more, to Worcestershire - then a
little diversion to Gloucestershire and back to Worcs. Earlier, near Penrith
on the M6, approaching the summit at Shap, I actually climbed through
a layer of cloud into the clear blue sky above for a time.
St
Albans day 2
A
wander through St Albans in the crisp winter sunshine, a look
at the Abbey (pictured) with its eclectic architectural styles,
a wander past Roman ruins and across muddy fields (good rugby
conditions), and finally to a warm pub, and a good lunch. Afterwards
along a most picturesque street (with possibly the world's most
dangerous kerb) to another pub, where the best beer was Beijing
Black, but as I was the driver we got a carry-out for me to enjoy
at home later. |
 |
St
Albans day 1
To
St Albans to stay, with Mike and David, at their mother's house. A pleasant
evening, involving a pub, I recall, followed by home cooking. Still a
little delicate, so care was taken.
Ssssshhh...
Last night was our team's Christmas do in Swindon. Stupidly I started the evening, on an empty stomach, with a strong winter ale, and then continued by mixing my drinks and smoking too much. Consequently I went to bed with a banging head, woke in the middle of the night to hurl impressively, and today am feeling very, very delicate.
Sinister,
dexter, sinister, dexter
After
breakfast at my Northumberland hotel, I set off westwards along the B6318,
which very closely follows the course of Hadrian's Wall. It feels rather
odd looking into a field and seeing an extant, if decapitated, section
of wall built nearly two thousand years ago just there, in some cases
as part of a field boundary, or with sheep grazing around it. In some
places the road itself is clearly running above where the wall once was,
as it is on top of the ridge, and very straight. I stopped a couple of
times, but the near horizontal rain and bitter wind forced me back into
the car. On another occasion, in better weather and with more time, I'd
like explore it more, and actually visit Housesteads and Vindolanda, and
the many mile-forts.
As I drove, and even more so when I was out of the car, I was struck by
the bleak and rather hostile terrain, and imagined a patrolling Roman
soldier, posted here from perhaps Spain or north Africa, muttering and
stamping his feet in the cold, and cursing his commander, the Emperor,
the gods, and all Britons (and the barbarous Picts and Celts to the north)
for his finding himself here, rather than some posting a little nearer
home!
Self-closing
drawers
To
Peter and Chris's, to drool over their new kitchen, and have a meal.
Three
capitals in a day
My
colleague phones me. I ask him if he has spoken to [name withheld],
who texted me this morning. Yes, he replies, he has spoken to
her. "I think she fancies you, mate," he tells me. "Well,"
I reply, "since I'm gay and she's a lesbian, I don't think
that's really going to work out, do you?" Honestly, some
people... How much is the contents of a whole tanker of Marmite worth? Started this morning in Edinburgh, drove down to South Wales (not quite Cardiff, but very near) and then home to Croydon (which for the purposes of the headline we'll assume is London). Well, OK, three countries anyway. Assuming you class Wales as a country. Oh whatever! |
 |
Wot
no J-Cloth?
| Am
I further away from home than Steve today? He's in Amsterdam,
and I'm in Edinburgh. On my drive up here (on the back roads,
natch) I was held up by temporary traffic lights at the site
of a bridge repair. It was very pleasing to see a gang of proper
stonemasons working, including some youngsters learning the
trade. Unable to book into my favourite Edinburgh hotel (the Malmaison in Leith), I decided instead to take a self-catering apartment for my one night up here. Couldn't find it (post code and even road not in sat-nav) so parked up near where I thought it was and called The Man (mobile phone - slightly worrying). He told me where to drive to, and to look out for a silver Mercedes and flash my lights when I saw him. Hmmm. So he led me into the underground car park - the roof of which was held up in places by a large number of temporary steel props - of a series of very modern apartment blocks, most of which were still being built. I mean, essentially the whole place was a building site. He took me up to the fifth floor, and ushered me into a very stark, but nevertheless enviably trendy, loft-style, open-plan apartment. Two bedrooms, en-suite, and a view towards HMY Britannia. Then he showed me the building work: enormous diggers were emptying vast quantities of earth into the nearby dock, and he explained that this whole site was on reclaimed land. Suddenly the props (and the huge pools of water) in the underground car park, as well as the fact that my sat-nav showed me to be in the water, made sense. Nicely appointed kitchen, but no tea towel and no J-Cloths. What is the world coming to? |
 
|
Scene:
a hotel reception somewhere in Lancashire; morning
Receptionist:
(conspiratorially) Oh, I've taken that off for you sir (pointing
to an item on the bill as she slides it across the counter for Hamish
to examine).
Hamish: (reading the bill but not understanding it) I... I didn't even know you'd put it on. What is it?
Recep.: It's just for our charity. When you checked in last night you were given a leaflet.
Hamish: (showing her his key-card and key) No I wasn't, I was just given this.
Recep.: (looking annoyed) Well, anyway, I've taken it off for you. How would you like to pay?
Hamish hands her his American Express card.
Recep.: There's a £2 charge for that.
Hamish: Why?
Recep.: Because it's a credit card. (Then, helpfully) You can put it on a debit card for nothing...
Hamish: OK. Well I'd just like to point out that the radiator in my room doesn't work, the shower sprays water literally all over the bathroom floor, and you can't turn the bedside lights off without taking the key-fob out of the holder over by the room door - which means you can't even turn the bathroom light on during the night.
Recep.: (after a tiny pause) Shall I put it on the card for you?
Hamish: (resigned) Yes, please.
Hamish: (reading the bill but not understanding it) I... I didn't even know you'd put it on. What is it?
Recep.: It's just for our charity. When you checked in last night you were given a leaflet.
Hamish: (showing her his key-card and key) No I wasn't, I was just given this.
Recep.: (looking annoyed) Well, anyway, I've taken it off for you. How would you like to pay?
Hamish hands her his American Express card.
Recep.: There's a £2 charge for that.
Hamish: Why?
Recep.: Because it's a credit card. (Then, helpfully) You can put it on a debit card for nothing...
Hamish: OK. Well I'd just like to point out that the radiator in my room doesn't work, the shower sprays water literally all over the bathroom floor, and you can't turn the bedside lights off without taking the key-fob out of the holder over by the room door - which means you can't even turn the bathroom light on during the night.
Recep.: (after a tiny pause) Shall I put it on the card for you?
Hamish: (resigned) Yes, please.
An
intimate moment with a straight man
I was parked up near the goods entrance to a large Manchester shopping
centre, at around ten at night, waiting for someone. The road was clearly
a major route between pubs and clubs, judging by the number of impractically-attired
youths walking along it. Two girls approached, one of whom was wearing
an extremely short skirt, and extremely long legs. A small group of girls
and lads walking in the opposite direction were chatting. One of the boys,
tall, dark and very good-looking, spotted the leggy girl, and couldn't
help staring, and, as lads do, looked around him to see who else might
be enjoying the view. Noticing me in my car, and catching my eye, he grinned,
in a conspiratorial, straight-bloke-to-straight-bloke, kind of a way.
Even though I am normally annoyed - or at the very least uncomfortable
- at blatant assumptions that I am heterosexual, I couldn't help grinning
back. It was worth it, because he had a really lovely grin.
Winter
warmer
Well,
it isn't winter yet, clearly, but when Peter and Chris came over this
evening Steve had prepared a really rich, warming casserole. It was deeply
comforting, and everyone came back for seconds. We talked into the early
hours
Return
At
the end of our team meeting this afternoon Marion joined us, and came
out with us bowling and to Pizza Hut for a meal. It was so nice to see
her again, although I know how difficult it was for her.
Blond
bombshell
Our
first delivery today from Ocado (Waitrose) was, by all accounts (I was
asleep) wonderful from a customer service point of view. Our trip to PC
World later in the day was anything but.
In the evening we drove to the Vue cinema on Purley Way to watch Casino Royale, which was splendidly different - and Daniel Craig is Bond - but the end was rather spoiled by the projectionist cutting the film, switching the house lights up full and putting the advert slides on half-way through the credits. Admittedly we are a bit sad and like to sit through the credits of films until the end, but with Bond it's different because it's nice to see the very last line: "Bond will return in ...". Now we'll never know.
In the evening we drove to the Vue cinema on Purley Way to watch Casino Royale, which was splendidly different - and Daniel Craig is Bond - but the end was rather spoiled by the projectionist cutting the film, switching the house lights up full and putting the advert slides on half-way through the credits. Admittedly we are a bit sad and like to sit through the credits of films until the end, but with Bond it's different because it's nice to see the very last line: "Bond will return in ...". Now we'll never know.
I'm
a good boy, I am
It
amazes me how often, when driving through speed-restricted roadworks on
the motorway, I'm the only person going even vaguely close to the speed
limit. I have six points on my licence currently (I had nine but three
came off in May, and the next three come off next summer) so I can't afford
not to, I suppose.
Crisis?
What crisis?
I
think I've given up having Birthday Crises. I realise I'm getting older,
and there's nothing I can do about it. I've stopped gasping every time
I work out that it's, for example, twenty-eight years since I first started
at boarding school, or that I've been in work now for twenty-one years
- twelve of them with WHSmith come the middle of next week.
Somewhere in Oxfordshire, or possibly Warwickshire, around 8.30 this evening, my car clicked over to 125,000 miles. Just thought I'd share.
Somewhere in Oxfordshire, or possibly Warwickshire, around 8.30 this evening, my car clicked over to 125,000 miles. Just thought I'd share.
An
idle thought
There
is an English word, which describes, I think, a small, slightly raised
piece of ground. But the word cannot be spoken alone without the listener
thinking of a very particular adjective, without which the word seems
somehow naked, but with which it invokes a particular sequence of events
which took place in 1963. The poor word, it occurs to me, can never again
be used just to describe a small, slightly raised piece of ground.
The word? Knoll.
The word? Knoll.
It
feels much more autumnal today, in terms of the colour of the leaves on
the trees, and the number on the ground. But for heaven's sake, it's the
14th of November! It should look like this around the middle of September.
This
afternoon I'm having a bit of an adventure. After staying overnight in
Lancashire, I had a meeting with someone in Nottinghamshire at lunchtime.
So I went across the Pennines on the M62, had my meeting, then decided
that as my next appointment was many hours away, in a small town in southern
Buckinghamshire, I would ask my sat nav to navigate me there by the shortest
(rather than the fastest) route. I was also fairly anxious to
avoid the M1 and M25 on a Friday afternoon. It set up as straight a line
between the two places as it was possible to do, and I set off merrily
through tiny little villages separated by huge fields, past little churches
and friendly-looking pubs, once in a while joining a main-ish road for
a short section before turning off again. Fortunately I didn't meet too
many cars coming the other way on the narrow lanes. Occasionally I had
to back up when I realised that I had been looking out of the window at
the scenery and not concentrating on the directions, and I'd missed a
turning. Tremendous fun, and a great way of seeing a little more of our
wonderful countryside: you should try it some time. And all told, it probably
took about the same amount of time as the motorway route would have done,
and I shall do more of this when the opportunity presents.
For some time to come I will remember the elderly lady in the hat and the scarlet jacket, directing the equally elderly flat-capped gent on the tractor as he tried to reverse up to a trailer, happily blocking the whole road; the ridiculous pedestrian crossing in Oakham, its lengthy red light sequences causing longer and longer tailbacks through the village every time someone wanted to cross the road; passing a 'Wards Of Olney' removal van and recalling how they packed and drove most of the contents of our house out to East Berlin in 1978, and back again two years later; noticing, driving through Olney itself, how there seem to be even more estate agents and antique dealers than ever before, at the expense of ordinary shops; the industrial estate on the edge of Milton Keynes where I had my first ever driving lesson; seeing a sign for the Open University at Walton Hall in MK, where I first learned how television studios work, and incidentally how to edit video; and other general recollections of a previous life, driving through such a familiar area.
For some time to come I will remember the elderly lady in the hat and the scarlet jacket, directing the equally elderly flat-capped gent on the tractor as he tried to reverse up to a trailer, happily blocking the whole road; the ridiculous pedestrian crossing in Oakham, its lengthy red light sequences causing longer and longer tailbacks through the village every time someone wanted to cross the road; passing a 'Wards Of Olney' removal van and recalling how they packed and drove most of the contents of our house out to East Berlin in 1978, and back again two years later; noticing, driving through Olney itself, how there seem to be even more estate agents and antique dealers than ever before, at the expense of ordinary shops; the industrial estate on the edge of Milton Keynes where I had my first ever driving lesson; seeing a sign for the Open University at Walton Hall in MK, where I first learned how television studios work, and incidentally how to edit video; and other general recollections of a previous life, driving through such a familiar area.
Once
upon a time there was a section of the Post Office called Telephone Engineering.
One day, the Government, who owned it (well, on behalf of all of us, in
fact) decided to sell this section off. It became British Telecommunications
plc - BT to you and me. Not unnaturally, when mobile phone technology
started to become widespread, BT were at the forefront. With their huge
market advantage, and tons of capital, they created the foremost mobile
phone infrastructure and network in the country. It was called BT Cellnet.
At some point, completely inexplicably, they decided that they, the main
British telecommunications company, should no longer be running the most
technologically advanced mobile phone company in the country, so they
sold it off. Unsurprisingly, this mobile phone company went on to greater
and greater heights (bizarrely changing its name somewhere along the way
to O2).
Then, some time later, sanity caught up with BT and they decided that perhaps they did ought to have a mobile phone business after all. Like, durrr. So they set one up, this time calling it BT Mobile. But of course they couldn't go out and create another whole technical infrastructure, so they had to use someone else's. And they could hardly use O2's. So they plumped for piggy-backing Vodaphone's - O2's historic rival. It's all such complete nonsense.
Then, some time later, sanity caught up with BT and they decided that perhaps they did ought to have a mobile phone business after all. Like, durrr. So they set one up, this time calling it BT Mobile. But of course they couldn't go out and create another whole technical infrastructure, so they had to use someone else's. And they could hardly use O2's. So they plumped for piggy-backing Vodaphone's - O2's historic rival. It's all such complete nonsense.
Lost
in translation
My work mobile broke last week, in an annoying way: I could make and receive
calls, and I could hear the person at the other end of the line perfectly.
They just couldn't hear me! On Monday I used the clunky, ambiguous, German
software (the phone is made by Siemens) to remove the 497 contacts from
the 'Addressbook' (phone's memory, as opposed to the 'Phonebook', which
is the SIM memory...) and save to the PC. Yesterday I swapped the phone
at head office. Today, I tried to put the 497 contacts back on to the
new phone. "This operation has Failed", it told me. Repeatedly.
Buggering thing. So I'm now carrying everywhere with me 10 pages of those
497 contacts in 6pt, woefully-formatted, type. The only saving grace is
that my company has finally decided to ditch Orange for another provider,
very soon. Halleluia! I'd like to think my own nagging over the last months
has played a tiny part in their decision. I'm hoping - against the odds,
admittedly - that the Nokia software which I expect will come with the
new phone can make some sense of the file with the 497 contacts in...
I'll let you know.
Get
down
Last weekend we went to IKEA and bought a wonderfully extravagant, enormous,
duck feather and down duvet, and a snow-white cotton cover for it. It
has been blissful sleeping under it! But one cover and set of pillow-slips
isn't enough, so today we searched Croydon for another worthy of it. And
predictably perhaps we ended up in House of Fraser.
Spamalot
Less than a week after losing the internet, I checked my e-mails this
morning. 518 messages, of which 109 were not spam. Despite filters
everywhere. At the moment, while there are still plenty of offers to increase
the size of my manhood, and to help me overcome my obesity, most suggest
I buy the stock of various companies in order to make a quick killing.
The scourge of our technological age.
More intolerable racket from upstairs all day.
More intolerable racket from upstairs all day.
Soup
and more beer
Steve
set off for work leaving the rest of us to stagger into hung-over wakefulness.
We eventually got ourselves together and into London (diverting to the
rather spectacularly-appointed Black Friar pub somewhat by accident),
where Ian and I visited the Photographers' Gallery to look at some...
well... photographs. We enjoyed soup in their informal canteen, watched
an odd Arab movie, shopped in the gift/book-shop, and then rejoined Mike
in the Porcupine on Charing Cross Road, where Steve arrived later. We
drank a little more, as you do, said goodbye to Mike, and headed home,
where we found we now had internet access again after nearly a week, and
ordered curry.
links:
photographers'
gallery
My
Birthday
Ian
arrived this afternoon into Croydon by train, met by Steve, both joining
Mike (who also arrived by train) and myself at the Royal Standard for
a few drinks before my birthday meal at Bibi and Beppe's Italian restaurant.
Very pleasant evening, even if too much was drunk by all.
The Cambridge Two brought a fine wooden cheese board and wonderful, French, bone-handled cheese knives, and Steve gave me a truly magnificent watch. He's also taking me to Berlin in the New Year. Mike also brought a DVD of our Civil Partnership ceremony, so at last we were able to see what happened. I think it did go OK, as everyone told us at the time. Still, nice to actually see it as others did. Thanks again, Mike.
The Cambridge Two brought a fine wooden cheese board and wonderful, French, bone-handled cheese knives, and Steve gave me a truly magnificent watch. He's also taking me to Berlin in the New Year. Mike also brought a DVD of our Civil Partnership ceremony, so at last we were able to see what happened. I think it did go OK, as everyone told us at the time. Still, nice to actually see it as others did. Thanks again, Mike.
More
than an hour is spent this morning listening to 'on hold' music. Firstly
at the so-called service company who are going to come - again - to fix
our washing machine. No apology when they do answer.
And then at what I thought was Virgin Money about my Virgin credit card. Actually, it turns out to be MBNA that I'm talking to. What I don't understand, and I can't get them to understand, is why I don't understand how come, when I paid in full by the due date earlier this month, I should be charged over £11 in interest. Admittedly the previous month I had paid late - one day late - and had therefore a) been charged £12 'late fee'; b) been charged £8 in interest; and c) had forfeited the 0%-interest-on-all-purchases-for-six-months deal which is why I'd taken out the card in the first place. So that's a slap on the wrist, a kick up the arse and a right hook to the chops for being - I repeat - ONE DAY LATE the month before. So how in God's name can they then charge me interest when I do exactly what we're all brought up to do - pay, in full, by the due date? Something about being charged interest daily. Something about moving the goal-posts, more like. I got a bit heated with them. They remained calm, but resolute. And incomprehensible. But they put me through to someone else who listened to me again, explained their nonsense again, and then agreed as "a gesture of goodwill" to refund the £11 interest, and to reinstate my zero percent, which runs out 'in November'. It's November tomorrow, so that was an empty gesture, which I pointed out to her.
I'm exhausted now, and I haven't even started on BT (we've had no broadband since Saturday morning).
And then at what I thought was Virgin Money about my Virgin credit card. Actually, it turns out to be MBNA that I'm talking to. What I don't understand, and I can't get them to understand, is why I don't understand how come, when I paid in full by the due date earlier this month, I should be charged over £11 in interest. Admittedly the previous month I had paid late - one day late - and had therefore a) been charged £12 'late fee'; b) been charged £8 in interest; and c) had forfeited the 0%-interest-on-all-purchases-for-six-months deal which is why I'd taken out the card in the first place. So that's a slap on the wrist, a kick up the arse and a right hook to the chops for being - I repeat - ONE DAY LATE the month before. So how in God's name can they then charge me interest when I do exactly what we're all brought up to do - pay, in full, by the due date? Something about being charged interest daily. Something about moving the goal-posts, more like. I got a bit heated with them. They remained calm, but resolute. And incomprehensible. But they put me through to someone else who listened to me again, explained their nonsense again, and then agreed as "a gesture of goodwill" to refund the £11 interest, and to reinstate my zero percent, which runs out 'in November'. It's November tomorrow, so that was an empty gesture, which I pointed out to her.
I'm exhausted now, and I haven't even started on BT (we've had no broadband since Saturday morning).
I'm
really sorry
Hey
guys, I haven't posted for a long time, and I'm really, really sorry.
I haven't been motivated to, despite lots of exciting things having happened.
There are a dozen or so entries below, some in short-form, and which I've
highlighted in green so you can see what I'm posting today; but I'll remove
the highlighting in a while and it'll all kind of merge in again. I never
intend not to post, but sometimes I don't get a chance for a few days,
then I get behind, then I get depressed about being behind, then I lose
the will... you probably know how it goes. Anyway, it's all done and up-to-date
now, and I hope it won't get more than a day or two behind from now on.
The
return
Very,
very choppy Irish sea, so the journey back from Douglas, on board Ben
My Chree, was a bit rough. They'd cancelled the morning's SeaCat
service, so all those passengers and vehicles had to be crammed onto our
boat, too. I got up at some ungodly hour, and the boat left late, so I
slept a bit on the passage across, and was knacked by the time we arrived
in Heysham. Fortunately I'd had the presence of mind to book a reserved
seat in the so-called 'Quiet Lounge', and so I was luckier than some.
Interesting news from Hamilton Road this evening. Not entirely unexpected news, mind you, but interesting nevertheless. If you know, you know.
Interesting news from Hamilton Road this evening. Not entirely unexpected news, mind you, but interesting nevertheless. If you know, you know.
links:
ben
my chree
Loon
It's
blowing a gale in Douglas this afternoon. I've just come across on the
SeaCat from Liverpool, and - perhaps because I was early checking in -
I've got a room with a sea-view. I've just spent five minutes watching
a total loon kite-surfing (or whatever it's called) across the bay and
back. He has to be the coldest and wettest person on the Isle of Man right
now - and there will be a lot of cold, wet people here today. I'll be
getting cold and wet shortly, 'cos I've got to go out in the rain. But
this guy presumably wants to be there. Oh well.
Each year on this day I think about my old sixth-form room-mate Andrew Strangeways, whose birthday it is exactly one week before mine. Happy birthday Andy, wherever you are (Australia, last I heard?). Get in touch if you read this.
Each year on this day I think about my old sixth-form room-mate Andrew Strangeways, whose birthday it is exactly one week before mine. Happy birthday Andy, wherever you are (Australia, last I heard?). Get in touch if you read this.
Someone's
being positive
On
the M1 today I've seen a number plate in the 'new' format which I predicted
would exist, on a rather expensive-looking black Range Rover - YE51CAN.
Selling
the family silver
Does
anyone, apart from some mega-rich corporations, own anything in this country
anymore? I ask after having read that even the BBC doesn't own its own
television transmitters. Everything's been flogged off for a quick profit
and an eternity of rental charges, it seems to me. A good deal on this
year's balance sheet, not so good in the years to come.
Very
good seats indeed...
...at
the Lyceum Theatre, to watch the Lion King musical. Novel, and huge fun,
spoiled only slightly by the little undisciplined brat and its useless
mother sitting next to us.
links:
lion
king
Going
to London to visit the Queen
We're
going to see the Queen on Saturday.
And today we met Roxana off her flight from Italy, and saw all her bites.
And today we met Roxana off her flight from Italy, and saw all her bites.
links:
the
queen
Oh
what a circus, oh what a show!
Please
excuse the predictable headline for our visit to Evita this evening, at
the Adelphi Theatre in the Strand. Again organised by Steve's colleague
Simon, with part of the ticket price going to Asthma Research, it was
a thoroughly enjoyable experience. Mind you I was nearly late, what with
the bloody Underground partially closed...
The lead actress, who incidentally danced beautifully, was in fact from
Buenos Aires, which was unusual; and the actor playing the Che character
seemed to take a while to get into his stride, vocally, although I suppose
that may be because
I'm sort of conditioned to expect to hear Antonio Banderas. No matter:
the staging was inspired, the cast energetic, and the songs as good as
they ever were.
Afterwards a group of us retired to the Retro Bar (formerly Popstarz)
just off the Strand, for a few wee drinkies.
Garbage
Have
you ever read the Terms and Conditions - pages and pages and pages of
them - before signing up to some online service or other? What in the
name of all that is holy does "the granting of usufructuary rights"
commit me to? Or them to? I didn't sign up.
After a week away in Italy, and then all that has gone on in the last few days, today we had a mountain of laundry and ironing to do, but hey-ho, it has to be done. And now it is, and the flat's straight again.
After a week away in Italy, and then all that has gone on in the last few days, today we had a mountain of laundry and ironing to do, but hey-ho, it has to be done. And now it is, and the flat's straight again.
'Bye
sis, 'bye bro
Today
we took Roxana to Stansted and put her on a plane to Napoli, then we carried
on to Cambridge, where Ian showed Denis, and us, around Trinity Hall,
and we ended the evening with a meal in the Clarry before leaving Ian
at his pad and returning to Croydon.
Tomorrow morning Steve will take his Dad into London and make sure he gets his coach home.
Tomorrow morning Steve will take his Dad into London and make sure he gets his coach home.
Well
what a day!
If you're reading this, you were probably there. I say that, not really
knowing who reads this, but assuming it to be mainly close friends and
family...
If you weren't, and don't know - well, Steve and I got married today!
There are pictures (click on pics in the bar at the top
of the page), but essentially what happened was this: big posh 8-seater
taxi picked up Steve and me, Steve's Dad, Ian, Roxana, Matt and Rhona
from the flat and took us to the Register Office, where another wedding
was about to start. So we waited in the gardens opposite, and loads of
people turned up, and kind of mingled. The weather was pretty good, which
was lucky.
Eventually the registrars arrived, the previous ceremony finished, and
Steve and I, together with Roxana and Matt - our official witnesses -
went in to go through some formalities and brief them on the music. Then
we stood at the front and everyone came in, and pretty much filled the
place.
After that, it's a bit of a blur, to be honest. I think there's a video
floating about somewhere, so I may well get to see what everyone else
did at some point. I do recall some laughter and some applause, so I'm
assuming it wasn't a complete bo**ocks. Roxana read - beautifully - The
Passionate Shepherd To His Love by Christopher Marlowe (the one that
begins "Come live with me and be my love"), which was partially
reprised in song by Annie Lennox on a CD while we were signing the register.
That was the bit that officially made us Civil Partners, which is the
closest we get to being 'married'. Before that, though, we read vows to
each other which we had written ourselves. Well, as I say, that was all
what the script said - I have very little recollection.
Earlier, before we left home, I had a beautiful text from Marion wishing
us luck (see 21st August entry below for why that was so poignant).
Then we all adjourned on foot round the block to the Spreadeagle pub,
where we had booked the function room upstairs. There was Champagne, (good)
beer, and food, and Steve and I tried to get round to see everyone who
had made us so happy by being there to share the day with us. We missed
a few people who we would have loved to have seen there, but about 40
actually came on the day, which was wonderful.
Then around twenty people came back to the flat, which had never been
so full! Our neighbour Clive brought down the flowers and Champagne which
should have been delivered, courtesy of Peter and Chris, long before we
left in the taxi earlier - but actually arrived after we'd left, just
as Clive was leaving to get to the ceremony. A further good time was had,
I think, by all, until gradually everyone left, leaving Steve and I to
open our cards and presents, along with Denis, Roxana, Ian and Leith.
Travelling
While
Steve went in to London to meet his Dad, and Ian, off coaches and trains,
I drove to Salisbury and picked up Roxana, her luggage for Italy, and
a car-full of bedding. We all ate, back in Croydon, at a noisy Il Ponte,
and contemplated the morrow.
Home
again
Back
from Italy tonight - very late. There will be, or is (depending when you
read this), a holiday journal. Look under travel
| past
We
tried to cheer ourselves up with a trip into town today, and a little
retail therapy. Having recently learned that the famous Beanos second-hand
record store is to close after thirty years, we took a trip there and
picked up some bargains, and we traipsed around Marks and Spencer's food
hall trying to find the veg to go with the main dish we'd chosen, but
ended up strangely drawn to the Italian desserts. We found them in the
end (the veg that is) and got some cheese for 'afters' instead.
This evening we settled down to watch a borrowed DVD of the Acorn Antiques West End musical. A good distraction.
This evening we settled down to watch a borrowed DVD of the Acorn Antiques West End musical. A good distraction.
links:
beanos
|
acorn
antiques
Pippa
has been getting more and more ill recently, and hasn't eaten for five
days. She's barely drunk any water either, and has got very very weak.
So Steve and I made the dreaded decision last night, and I took her to
the vets this morning, who confirmed that we were doing the right thing
for her. I'm sorry to everyone who knew Pippa. She was an unusual cat
in many ways, and Steve and I are already missing her like mad. It hasn't
been a good day.
Malcolm's
funeral was today. The crematorium, in Worcester, was packed, a fitting
tribute to the man most people knew simply as 'Hobday'. I don't want to
say too much, other than the service was very thoughtfully planned, and
a true celebration of his life. Marion, and Hobday's daughters, were extremely
brave, and I'm so pleased I attended.
It
has been gently pointed out to me that what I wrote (below) last Thursday
is a little opaque. What I was trying to convey was the almost unimaginable
horror of having to cope with the sudden death of your partner. I'm sorry
if that didn't come across.
Seems
someone else had the same idea (see entry 'Wingnuts' below). Rebecca in
New York is starting the whole seven series of The West Wing from the
beginning, weekly, and blogging about it.
By the way, please don't forget that you can read this blog on your pda, mobile or other portable small-screened device, by going to http://haymee.com/pda.htm Soon I hope to have a .mobi URL for that, and incorporate more features from the site in addition to the blog.
By the way, please don't forget that you can read this blog on your pda, mobile or other portable small-screened device, by going to http://haymee.com/pda.htm Soon I hope to have a .mobi URL for that, and incorporate more features from the site in addition to the blog.
links:
1600
memory lane
Why
have the Fates decided that at the most desperate time in your life when
you need the comfort and support of the closest person you know and love,
that person cannot offer it to you?
Shocking,
tragic news this morning. A phone call direct from Ian, the head of my
department, to inform me that my close colleague Malcolm died yesterday
morning of a heart attack. Completely unexpected, no signs or indications
beforehand. Malcolm enjoyed life, his job, his colleagues and his family.
I cannot begin to imagine what his partner Marion, who is my boss, must
be having to cope with now. Ian summed it up when he said that Malcolm
was her soulmate, at work and at home. Some difficult times lie ahead
for her and the rest of his family, and, through my own grief, I'm feeling
very much for them.
An
important day - we walked to the Register Office in Croydon this morning
to formally give notice of our intention to sign the Civil Partnership
Register. A very nice man - watched by an over-enthusiastic trainee lady
- asked us a lot of questions and filled in the responses on his screen,
after which we received our Notices (copies of which are on public display
in the Register Office).
Then we went to House of Fraser for a coffee and a danish whirl.
Then we went to House of Fraser for a coffee and a danish whirl.
"Cyclists
were left confused by a bilingual road sign telling them they had problems
with an inflamed bladder. The "cyclists dismount" sign between Penarth
and Cardiff became "llid y bledren dymchwelyd" in Welsh - literally "bladder
inflammation upset" (or tip or overturn). The Vale of Glamorgan Council
said new signs were being made. It is possible that an online translation
led to confusion between cyclists and cystitis. The temporary sign at
roadworks is to be replaced." Made me laugh.
One of my French friends in Edinburgh needs your vote to win the Street Performer of the Year Award (see the link below). He does amazing conjuring tricks and fire-eating too, as well as the rather scary activities you can see in the video on the FestivalHub website.
One of my French friends in Edinburgh needs your vote to win the Street Performer of the Year Award (see the link below). He does amazing conjuring tricks and fire-eating too, as well as the rather scary activities you can see in the video on the FestivalHub website.
My
sister's homemade marmalade is absolutely delicious!
I'm off work this week - excepting Thursday when I have a meeting - and I'm busy finishing things and tidying things and repairing things. And wasting time and dreaming and relaxing a bit too much, but hey, I don't care!
I'm off work this week - excepting Thursday when I have a meeting - and I'm busy finishing things and tidying things and repairing things. And wasting time and dreaming and relaxing a bit too much, but hey, I don't care!
Standing
in the reception at the vets this evening clutching a small test tube
of straw-coloured liquid. Mr Braid-Lewis walks past, smiles at me, and
says, "Your sample?" "Ha ha," I reply, "not mine!"
Clenched teeth. Mr Braid-Lewis, clever vet chappy that he is, didn't have
to wait in all day checking the little pile of special inert white bits
of litter in an otherwise empty tray every few minutes, waiting for Pippa
to decide to have a wee so I could pounce with the pipette and extract
a fresh sample. She eventually decided to go half-an-hour before the vets
closed.
Recorded
last weekend, we watched this evening the last West Wing ever. Very sad.
I think it went downhill after Aaron Sorkin stopped writing it after Series
4, but it still had its moments. We immediately got Series 1 off the DVD
shelf and watched the pilot. One episode a week, we've decided, until
we've watched the lot again. If you think we're a bit sad, that's your
prerogative.
links:
the
west wing
We
met late in the morning at the cemetery on London Road: Mum and Dad, Alison,
Roxana, Ian and me, and then David and his wife up from Blandford. Father
Andrew breezed in on his motorbike, disappeared somewhere and emerged,
robed, to conduct a simple ceremony to inter the small wooden casket of
ashes into the ground where Vera's sister (my grandmother), and their
father, also lie. We took turns to pick up a little dry earth and throw
it into the hole; as I did so I quietly said "Goodbye Aunty"
and turned around as unsentimentally as I could, just as I know she would
have done. In fact I could see her beside me in a blue dress, a slight
smile on her face, slightly stooped, clutching her handbag as we headed
for the car.
A
funeral is a strange event, I always think. It's not something you can
rehearse for, either practically or emotionally. You are - as with family
weddings - flung together in a slightly messy emotional state with people
with whom you may share little in common other than some DNA. However,
today we had in common our love and respect for that matriarch (wrong
word - she was a spinster, but the oldest person in the family) who had
now passed on. Newmans of Salisbury did her proud, and the Requiem Mass
at St Osmund's in Exeter Street (a short walk from where she lived most
of her life), and the shorter committal service at the crematorium, were
teary but celebratory affairs. In particular I should mention the Eulogy
written and delivered by my second cousin Gary - also a teacher. Father
Andrew conducted everything at a very decent pace, allowing silence its
own place in the services - to me at just the right moments, for exactly
the right length.
Vera
Harfitt 1906-2006
News
arrived this evening that the aged great-aunt passed away at 6.30pm. Expected
though this was, you cannot ever fully prepare, can you, for the phone
call? I have a fairly small number of nevertheless very strong memories
of her. To me, she was always a retired, slightly elderly, lady, still
with a strong instinct to teach, and who never patronised, always assumed
I was a grown-up and could make sensible decisions, even as a child. Having
said that, she didn't stand any nonsense, and a tut with pursed lips from
her said a great deal very economically.
I stayed with her during some half-term holidays from boarding school, where I would sit on her bed every morning as she drank a cup of tea, and 'help' her do the Telegraph crossword, and then perhaps we'd walk to Harnham and feed the ducks, or take a trip to a zoo or some gardens, but always at the end of the day return to write up a holiday diary (a habit I still have). She concocted - shall we say, interesting - meals, and worshiped the sun. There were always postcards and souvenirs around from what seemed to me at the time exotic holiday destinations like Austria or Switzerland.
She was a friendly, decent, clever and generous lady, and I share some of her genes and, I hope, a little of her character, and I'm very, very sad she is gone now.
I stayed with her during some half-term holidays from boarding school, where I would sit on her bed every morning as she drank a cup of tea, and 'help' her do the Telegraph crossword, and then perhaps we'd walk to Harnham and feed the ducks, or take a trip to a zoo or some gardens, but always at the end of the day return to write up a holiday diary (a habit I still have). She concocted - shall we say, interesting - meals, and worshiped the sun. There were always postcards and souvenirs around from what seemed to me at the time exotic holiday destinations like Austria or Switzerland.
She was a friendly, decent, clever and generous lady, and I share some of her genes and, I hope, a little of her character, and I'm very, very sad she is gone now.
The
usual
The
King William IV was once again our Sunday lunch venue, as members of the
party variously recovered and sought further liquid, or solid, sustenance.
Cheesecake
days
Up
very, very - and I emphasise, very - early, for me to briefly go to work
in north London, and then we flew as quickly as possible up the M11 to
Cambridge, where, after a short tour of a short French market, we enjoyed
a very pleasant barbecue/picnic on the banks of the Cam near Grantchester.
There were, eventually, I think, eight of us. We sent Ian off on a cheesecake
hunt, and he did very well, returning with a frozen selection, but throwing
himself (and the cheesecakes) recklessly from his bike on his way back.
Neapolitan
The holiday is booked. And we're flying BA, not Crap Air. We've asked
D&K if they can take us up Vesuvius this time, and to Herculaneum
(we 'did' Pompeii last time).
Monster
trucks
You know my views, I think, on unnecessarily oversized 4x4s; in fact,
I find myself in complete agreement with Ken who wants to start charging
£25 a day for access into the Congestion Charge zone for 'Chelsea
Tractors'. Well today I saw possibly one of the most ridiculous examples
of the type I have ever seen: it was a large American Dodge (or similar)
pick-up, but this particular one had huge, oversize, flared wheel arches.
Why? Because it had a double wheel each side at the rear! It took up far
too much road, and frankly should be paying extra road tax for the privilege.
Why people buy and drive these things anywhere (except for genuinely utilitarian
reasons) is beyond me, but in the UK? On our roads?
And we've made a decision to go to Santa Maria di Castellabate in September, in a kind of pre-ceremony honeymoon.
Memories
Once
upon a long ago I lived in a house in Farnborough. It was a very very
nice house. I had fun there. I went to school around the corner. Daddy
had a big white car. My brothers had a bedroom and played with their train
set there. When my big sister got married she left from the house in a
coach and four - well on a coach (it's a long story). I played
in the garden and I played on the stairs and I learned to ride a bike
there and I held my Mummy's hand when we went up the road to the shops...
Well, the house is still there, as we discovered when we drove past today. The roads have all changed and are scarily confusing now. It's not on a main road any more - it's sort of off an annexe off a cul-de-sac off a slip road - but it was kind of fun to sit outside and stare. Not sure what the occupants would have made of us if they'd seen us, but hey.
Well, the house is still there, as we discovered when we drove past today. The roads have all changed and are scarily confusing now. It's not on a main road any more - it's sort of off an annexe off a cul-de-sac off a slip road - but it was kind of fun to sit outside and stare. Not sure what the occupants would have made of us if they'd seen us, but hey.
A
day of consequence
To
Salisbury today, initially on my own.
Roxana sad as young Geoff set off early the other morning on a huge adventure. He left Heathrow for a short flight to Madrid, and then onwards to Peru, on an exchange. The furthest away from home I went from school (not counting Berlin where my parents lived) was France, so he is indeed a lucky young man. He will look back on this time with an enormous sense of pride and gratitude later, even if it's a bit scary right now.
My main reason for coming down was to visit my aged great-aunt, Vera, who is ninety-nine, and very unwell. She is an independent lady, but has had to leave her residential home and go into hospital. I drove Mum and Roxana up there. It's the same hospital where I was born. She's in a busy ward, but said she enjoyed listening to the bustle. She is jaundiced, and very, very weak. I'm glad I saw her, although - except for a brief moment as she lifted herself off her pillow - she wasn't recognisable as Aunty Vera. I fear it will be the last time I see her. We popped in to see Dad when we dropped Mum off, then after a shopping trip to the supermarket and eating at Roxana's we went into Salisbury and met Steve, who had taken a train from London as soon as his conference was over. We discussed this, that and the other, and - I'm not sure why it happened there and then, exactly - decided we were going to do the Civil Partnership thing, and we set a date. So there it is then: we're getting hitched! Sorry if you read it here first, but I will get round to inviting everyone soon. Oh, the date? 28th September, Croydon Registry Office. Nothing formal - just a few friends and then a drink or two in the pub across the road. Do come!
Roxana sad as young Geoff set off early the other morning on a huge adventure. He left Heathrow for a short flight to Madrid, and then onwards to Peru, on an exchange. The furthest away from home I went from school (not counting Berlin where my parents lived) was France, so he is indeed a lucky young man. He will look back on this time with an enormous sense of pride and gratitude later, even if it's a bit scary right now.
My main reason for coming down was to visit my aged great-aunt, Vera, who is ninety-nine, and very unwell. She is an independent lady, but has had to leave her residential home and go into hospital. I drove Mum and Roxana up there. It's the same hospital where I was born. She's in a busy ward, but said she enjoyed listening to the bustle. She is jaundiced, and very, very weak. I'm glad I saw her, although - except for a brief moment as she lifted herself off her pillow - she wasn't recognisable as Aunty Vera. I fear it will be the last time I see her. We popped in to see Dad when we dropped Mum off, then after a shopping trip to the supermarket and eating at Roxana's we went into Salisbury and met Steve, who had taken a train from London as soon as his conference was over. We discussed this, that and the other, and - I'm not sure why it happened there and then, exactly - decided we were going to do the Civil Partnership thing, and we set a date. So there it is then: we're getting hitched! Sorry if you read it here first, but I will get round to inviting everyone soon. Oh, the date? 28th September, Croydon Registry Office. Nothing formal - just a few friends and then a drink or two in the pub across the road. Do come!
Imagine,
if you will, that the year is 1594. You live a few miles south of London.
It is a hot summer Saturday, and you travel northwards, to the capital,
where you meet some friends who have also travelled in. You meet at an
inn in Southwark, and quench your thirst with some local beer, and then,
after something to eat in a nearby hostelry on the edge of the River Thames,
you make your way, along with crowds of others, to the Globe Theatre,
right on the river bank. You find a seat off to one side - others are
standing in the hot sun in front of the stage. Packed in on the bench
seats, you watch in awe one of Mr William Shakespeare's newest plays,
Titus Andronicus, performed by the Company. It is a violent play, and
a little hard to follow the action from that angle, and in fact you and
your companion decide to leave half-way through, and instead of sitting
through the second half, you wander across the bridge to the northern
bank, and sit quietly in the shadow of St Paul's Cathedral until the play
is over, and you walk back across the river to meet your friends and enjoy
a late afternoon drink nearby.
Much the same thing happened 412 years later.
Much the same thing happened 412 years later.
Lose
your blues / Everybody cut footloose
The
energy of the show caught the entire audience by surprise even before
the start, with the orchestra crashing into the overture and bright, bright
lights shining onto us from around the stage. We had superb seats, just
a handful of rows back from the front of the stalls, and right in the
centre.
The cast were, almost without exception, very good indeed, led as they were by David Essex and Cheryl Baker; and the two principles, Derek Hough as Ren and Amy Pemberton as Ariel, really lifted the show. The big, well-known numbers ('Holding Out For A Hero', 'Let's Hear It For The Boy' and of course 'Footloose' itself) were eagerly anticipated, and flawlessly choreographed and performed. In fact the first of those was a truly spectacular show in itself, leaving us gasping and laughing in equal measure at its brash sexiness and breathless energy.
My only criticism was not of the production or the cast, but rather the story itself, which, in its execution, and even allowing for the absurd constraints and artifice of the musical theatre form, stretched credibility. Well it did mine anyway. But that is not to say that I didn't enjoy it: I did, thoroughly. Go see it!
The cast were, almost without exception, very good indeed, led as they were by David Essex and Cheryl Baker; and the two principles, Derek Hough as Ren and Amy Pemberton as Ariel, really lifted the show. The big, well-known numbers ('Holding Out For A Hero', 'Let's Hear It For The Boy' and of course 'Footloose' itself) were eagerly anticipated, and flawlessly choreographed and performed. In fact the first of those was a truly spectacular show in itself, leaving us gasping and laughing in equal measure at its brash sexiness and breathless energy.
My only criticism was not of the production or the cast, but rather the story itself, which, in its execution, and even allowing for the absurd constraints and artifice of the musical theatre form, stretched credibility. Well it did mine anyway. But that is not to say that I didn't enjoy it: I did, thoroughly. Go see it!
links:
footloose
Take
a bow, my sister
My
sister's name is Roxana. It's amazing what you can find out by googling
someone's name. The Columbia Encyclopedia, Sixth Edition, 2001-05, gives
the following definition for Roxana: "d. 311 B.C., wife of Alexander
the Great. She was the daughter of Oxyartes, a Bactrian baron, and Alexander
married her (327) to consolidate his power in Persia. She and Alexander’s
posthumous son, Alexander IV, were, after Alexander’s death, embroiled
in the wars of the Diadochi and were imprisoned by Cassander at Amphipolis
in Macedonia. They were later killed."
Additionally, there's a town called Roxana in Illinois; Daniel Defoe wrote a book called Lady Roxana; Roxana & Fabian are a pair of Argentinean tango dancing instructors; Roxana Tohaneanu-Shields is a Romanian painter, now studying at Reading University; Roxana Robinson is an American author, and there is a Hollywood actress called Roxana Zal; Roxana Hayward Vivian, also American, was a mathematician, born in 1871 (her Ph.D. dissertation was on "Poles of a Right Line with Respect to a Curve of Order n"); at Newcastle-upon-Tyne University Business School is a lecturer called Dr Roxana Radulescu (which also sounds Romanian); Roxana Pope is an Anglo-Iranian director, writer, performer and musician, and is a member of Boilerhouse, a "leading Scottish theatre company"; Roxana Whelan from Nottingham has been swimming off the Dalmatian coast for charity; Roxana Hernández is a Peruvian digital artist; and... OK I'm bored now.
This afternoon, we watched the England v Ecuador match. A bit odd you might think, but the reasoning was that the flat upstairs were going to have the commentary on anyway, so we might as well watch the bloody thing. In fact, all was reasonably quiet upstairs, but the match was entertaining nevertheless, even if it was down to more luck than skill that 'we' won.
Additionally, there's a town called Roxana in Illinois; Daniel Defoe wrote a book called Lady Roxana; Roxana & Fabian are a pair of Argentinean tango dancing instructors; Roxana Tohaneanu-Shields is a Romanian painter, now studying at Reading University; Roxana Robinson is an American author, and there is a Hollywood actress called Roxana Zal; Roxana Hayward Vivian, also American, was a mathematician, born in 1871 (her Ph.D. dissertation was on "Poles of a Right Line with Respect to a Curve of Order n"); at Newcastle-upon-Tyne University Business School is a lecturer called Dr Roxana Radulescu (which also sounds Romanian); Roxana Pope is an Anglo-Iranian director, writer, performer and musician, and is a member of Boilerhouse, a "leading Scottish theatre company"; Roxana Whelan from Nottingham has been swimming off the Dalmatian coast for charity; Roxana Hernández is a Peruvian digital artist; and... OK I'm bored now.
This afternoon, we watched the England v Ecuador match. A bit odd you might think, but the reasoning was that the flat upstairs were going to have the commentary on anyway, so we might as well watch the bloody thing. In fact, all was reasonably quiet upstairs, but the match was entertaining nevertheless, even if it was down to more luck than skill that 'we' won.
Happy
Birthday Steve
Noisy
upstairs again, so glad to be off out into London this afternoon. A drink
at a pub just around the corner from the New London Theatre on Drury Lane
set us up for Steve's Birthday Treat: the Blue Man Group. A very, very
entertaining show I would unhesitatingly recommend to anyone.
Then a walk along the Strand and over the Golden Jubilee Bridge towards Waterloo, and a pleasant meal at Thai Silk.
Finally, home to a disappointing episode of Dr Who.
Then a walk along the Strand and over the Golden Jubilee Bridge towards Waterloo, and a pleasant meal at Thai Silk.
Finally, home to a disappointing episode of Dr Who.
The
longest day
Midsummer's Day started with me driving across the M8 back towards Edinburgh
in the wee small hours, wondering if the light in the sky was the remains
of the setting sun, or the beginnings of a new dawn. I concluded that
as I was four and a half degrees further north than London, on the longest
day of the year, and with the light coming not from east or west but in
the northern sky, it was the hour or two of darkness masquerading as night
as the sun's progress underneath the earth from its place of setting to
its place of rising, normally well hidden behind the scenes, was just
now clear to all who were awake.
Happy
Birthday!
I regret that I am away from home and it is Steve's birthday today. I
plan to make it up to him at the weekend.
Cherry
cherry CHERRY!
Today I am deaf in my right ear, except for brief periods when a hiccup
or the right sort of yawn clears it for a few minutes. Pardon?
Steve is sneezing loads; he blames "tree sex".
Into town for a pair of hair cuts, to our favourite Turkish barbers. They bizarrely have two small 'England' flags on the counter, but as the proprietor explains to Steve, he has been here for forty years. They still think we're brothers though. Bless.
Whilst in town, a determined trip to the travel agents to start to seriously look at Oz/HK for next year. We bamboozle poor Monica behind the desk with what-ifs and what-abouts and sudden thoughts, until she promises to us call back after the weekend with a firm quote. As we leave we pick up a couple of brochures with thoughts for a break later this year: maybe Morocco, maybe Dubai...?
Walking back we stop dead as we realise: we have nothing for dinner. M&S food hall is right at the other end of town, but the market is nearby. The traders' calls and the barrow-boys' "mind yer backs!" is unchanged for centuries, I'm sure. Oh, and by the way, excellent produce, especially for a summer salad.
Tonight Pippa is eating almost like before.
Steve is sneezing loads; he blames "tree sex".
Into town for a pair of hair cuts, to our favourite Turkish barbers. They bizarrely have two small 'England' flags on the counter, but as the proprietor explains to Steve, he has been here for forty years. They still think we're brothers though. Bless.
Whilst in town, a determined trip to the travel agents to start to seriously look at Oz/HK for next year. We bamboozle poor Monica behind the desk with what-ifs and what-abouts and sudden thoughts, until she promises to us call back after the weekend with a firm quote. As we leave we pick up a couple of brochures with thoughts for a break later this year: maybe Morocco, maybe Dubai...?
Walking back we stop dead as we realise: we have nothing for dinner. M&S food hall is right at the other end of town, but the market is nearby. The traders' calls and the barrow-boys' "mind yer backs!" is unchanged for centuries, I'm sure. Oh, and by the way, excellent produce, especially for a summer salad.
Tonight Pippa is eating almost like before.
Radio
4
Which is more correct, or at least unambiguous? This, as heard on BBC
News today: "The two men described their ordeal at a press conference...",
or my alternative: "At a press conference the two men described their
ordeal..."?
It was sometime between midday and one o'clock, and I idly wondered, as I drove, what was on the radio. I turned up the volume just long enough to hear a man say: "...which could lead to serious injury or death..." before I turned the knob back to zero. Ah yes of course, You & Yours.
At one point I passed very close to the Emley Moor transmitter. Wow, it really is huge!
I'm usually a huge fan of the north of England: the people are generally pleasant, it's a great place and I always feel welcomed. However, today, in this particular area of West Yorkshire, I've been nearly run off the road twice by commercial vehicles driving too fast and overtaking things on their side of the road as I approached on my side, and I've also noticed an increase in the number of unnecessary (i.e. urban, not agricultural) 4x4s driven, and parked, by arrogant tossers. Ah well.
It was sometime between midday and one o'clock, and I idly wondered, as I drove, what was on the radio. I turned up the volume just long enough to hear a man say: "...which could lead to serious injury or death..." before I turned the knob back to zero. Ah yes of course, You & Yours.
At one point I passed very close to the Emley Moor transmitter. Wow, it really is huge!
I'm usually a huge fan of the north of England: the people are generally pleasant, it's a great place and I always feel welcomed. However, today, in this particular area of West Yorkshire, I've been nearly run off the road twice by commercial vehicles driving too fast and overtaking things on their side of the road as I approached on my side, and I've also noticed an increase in the number of unnecessary (i.e. urban, not agricultural) 4x4s driven, and parked, by arrogant tossers. Ah well.
links:
emley
moor
Reprieve
This morning I had to take Pippa to the vet. She's really hasn't been
well recently, and in fact after some blood tests revealed she is developing
renal (kidney) failure she ended up spending a day in the surgery on a
fluid drip. Actually the kidneys themselves are apparently OK at the moment,
but the heart isn't providing them with enough blood, fast enough, so
Pippa is now on a course of tablets. Anyway, today was crunch day, when
the vet and I possibly had to make a decision. However, after an examination
of her, and some questioning of me, he pronounced himself happy for the
time being, and even concluded that the blood poisoning which the kidney
problems has been causing is probably getting better, which is why she
is now eating again, although hesitatingly. He likened it to a human hangover,
when there is too much crap in the system which has to take its time flushing
through. And as he said, when you've got a bad hangover, you really don't
feel like eating. Which, of course, is why Pippa, long over-weight, has
lost around a third of her body weight over the last two or three weeks.
So she came back home with me, and I was happy.
The happiness theme continued as the washing machine repair man called and diagnosed a burnt-out motor, and having obtained permission from the insurers (to whom we have more than paid for a new machine in premiums over the years), he fitted a new one and the machine, like the cat, fairly purrs again now.
The happiness theme continued as the washing machine repair man called and diagnosed a burnt-out motor, and having obtained permission from the insurers (to whom we have more than paid for a new machine in premiums over the years), he fitted a new one and the machine, like the cat, fairly purrs again now.
Mad
dogs and Englishmen
What is going on on the M3? Heading southwestwards my first encounter
was with a car stopped on the hard shoulder, seemingly broken down, although
up on the grass bank above the carriageway was reclining a pretty girl
wearing just a bikini and reading a book. Now maybe the car really had
broken down and she was waiting for the AA and thought she'd take advantage
of the sun; or, I thought, maybe she'd just gone for drive to somewhere
with free parking.
A little further along, with absolutely no sign of a vehicle nearby, was a group of half a dozen or so shirtless lads all sitting down on the verge on the opposite carriageway with cans of drink, or wandering about aimlessly. They all seemed to be having a great time.
A little bit of sun and it goes to everybody's head.
Just call me a tadpole: I was conceived in Warsaw, so I'm slightly Polish, hence I'm a ... (geddit?)
A little further along, with absolutely no sign of a vehicle nearby, was a group of half a dozen or so shirtless lads all sitting down on the verge on the opposite carriageway with cans of drink, or wandering about aimlessly. They all seemed to be having a great time.
A little bit of sun and it goes to everybody's head.
Just call me a tadpole: I was conceived in Warsaw, so I'm slightly Polish, hence I'm a ... (geddit?)
By
the light of the silvery moon (sort of)
Driving back through a hot, sweaty, heaving London in the early hours,
over Waterloo Bridge with a watery moon heading towards the horizon. Summer
in the city.
Water
water everywhere
Kwik Fit in Salford: complete strangers to the notion of customer service,
so they didn't get my custom. By contrast, the Formula 1 Autocentre in
Kettering I would unhesitatingly recommend.
Some random thoughts on bottled mineral water. Volvic I find too hard; Evian is fine, but a little too soft; my favourite is Vittel, but perhaps this is because when I was growing up in Paris that was the one we bought. Funny to think that just a few years ago you couldn't drink the tap water in one of the western world's greatest capital cities! Back to the subject... Sainsbury's own Caledonian Still is very metallic-tasting; and actually London tapwater, although very hard, is tolerable if filtered and cold from the fridge.
I'm developing a driver's tan (right forearm only).
Some random thoughts on bottled mineral water. Volvic I find too hard; Evian is fine, but a little too soft; my favourite is Vittel, but perhaps this is because when I was growing up in Paris that was the one we bought. Funny to think that just a few years ago you couldn't drink the tap water in one of the western world's greatest capital cities! Back to the subject... Sainsbury's own Caledonian Still is very metallic-tasting; and actually London tapwater, although very hard, is tolerable if filtered and cold from the fridge.
I'm developing a driver's tan (right forearm only).
links:
formula
1 autocentres
An
odd day. Steve's done some tidying, but the cleaning which I should be
doing to accompany it in preparation for Chris and Jane's stay tomorrow
night hasn't happened yet; Michael has cancelled Steve's visit so he won't
see him again now before he goes back to Australia, so he's a bit upset;
the washing machine smells like it's catching fire every time it runs;
the 'music' from upstairs is getting bad enough again that I'll have to
go and buzz their flat shortly, and I really don't want the confrontation;
someone else is using a drill elsewhere in the block; and our cat, Pippa,
who is getting on a bit now, seems to be off her food, and is generaly
slowing dow, and frankly I fear the worst. I'm going to take her to the
vets on Wednesday.
Well I did go up and ring the flat above's bell - repeatedly, and knocked - until they answered. I was accused of "aggressively ringing the bell". I could barely get a word in. I had some support from another neighbour. Eventually, and rather surprisingly, the man told me he didn't want any trouble, and that if they were disturbing us we only had to ask them to turn it down. And they did. Not a peep since. Well a bit of shouting for a few minutes at one point, but nothing too outrageous. Don't understand it: one minute they act as if they have no concept of acceptable behaviour in a block, the next, nice as pie.
Well I did go up and ring the flat above's bell - repeatedly, and knocked - until they answered. I was accused of "aggressively ringing the bell". I could barely get a word in. I had some support from another neighbour. Eventually, and rather surprisingly, the man told me he didn't want any trouble, and that if they were disturbing us we only had to ask them to turn it down. And they did. Not a peep since. Well a bit of shouting for a few minutes at one point, but nothing too outrageous. Don't understand it: one minute they act as if they have no concept of acceptable behaviour in a block, the next, nice as pie.
I
rarely go into London. Sometimes I do for work, as indeed I did yesterday,
but then I'm nearly always driving. I came back across Waterloo Bridge,
which has my favourite view of a panorama of London along the Thames.
I'll make a picture one day... In fact, if I do venture into the capital,
I am wont to imagine, childlike, that I'm off on An Adventure.
Anyway, as I was saying, I rarely go into London unless I'm driving. Today, I went in and returned twice. Two Adventures. The first was a journey, for work, starting at stupid o'clock, by train via London Bridge and then the Jubilee Line westwards and northwards. It felt like a novelty to be travelling in, in my rarely-worn suit, with the commuters. I realise to some people reading this, this is a daily occurrence of little significance and huge annoyance. But indulge me, the merely occasional traveller.
I returned at lunchtime, had a couple of hours at home, and then went back to East Croydon station and boarded a train once more for London Bridge, but this time more casually dressed, and only one stop on the Jubilee line, to Southwark, and a short walk to Steve's office where I sat - like a child on a school holiday at his dad's office for the day - until Michael (see two entries below) appeared and was presented, on his final afternoon, with some trinkets, displays of the huge regard and affection in which he is held by his (now ex-) colleagues. Then to Doggett's, a pub by Blackfriars Bridge, airless and noisy, where the drinking began. Michael held court, adorned in the "I [heart] London" T-shirt and Union Jack baseball cap he had been bought. We stayed in the Friday night drinking crowd for two pints, then said our goodbyes and walked along the early evening, early summer river towards the concrete South Bank complex, and the Pizza Express tucked behind. We had a very pleasant meal there, spoilt only by the very high noise level. We caught a train from Waterloo along the edge of the river, past the back of the MI6 building, through Vauxhall to Clapham Junction, then changed to a train taking us further into the suburban sprawl of south London and thence homewards to Croydon.
Steve will see Michael tomorrow, but I won't see him again until next year when we travel to Australia to see Aunt Jean and two of my cousins.
Anyway, as I was saying, I rarely go into London unless I'm driving. Today, I went in and returned twice. Two Adventures. The first was a journey, for work, starting at stupid o'clock, by train via London Bridge and then the Jubilee Line westwards and northwards. It felt like a novelty to be travelling in, in my rarely-worn suit, with the commuters. I realise to some people reading this, this is a daily occurrence of little significance and huge annoyance. But indulge me, the merely occasional traveller.
I returned at lunchtime, had a couple of hours at home, and then went back to East Croydon station and boarded a train once more for London Bridge, but this time more casually dressed, and only one stop on the Jubilee line, to Southwark, and a short walk to Steve's office where I sat - like a child on a school holiday at his dad's office for the day - until Michael (see two entries below) appeared and was presented, on his final afternoon, with some trinkets, displays of the huge regard and affection in which he is held by his (now ex-) colleagues. Then to Doggett's, a pub by Blackfriars Bridge, airless and noisy, where the drinking began. Michael held court, adorned in the "I [heart] London" T-shirt and Union Jack baseball cap he had been bought. We stayed in the Friday night drinking crowd for two pints, then said our goodbyes and walked along the early evening, early summer river towards the concrete South Bank complex, and the Pizza Express tucked behind. We had a very pleasant meal there, spoilt only by the very high noise level. We caught a train from Waterloo along the edge of the river, past the back of the MI6 building, through Vauxhall to Clapham Junction, then changed to a train taking us further into the suburban sprawl of south London and thence homewards to Croydon.
Steve will see Michael tomorrow, but I won't see him again until next year when we travel to Australia to see Aunt Jean and two of my cousins.
It was fun watching the Grand Prix from Monaco on TV this afternoon, and
pointing to places and saying, "We've been there" and, "Look,
that's where we walked" and, "we drove along there", and
stuff. But please, Murray, come back. And on the BBC.
Michael is Australian. It's not his fault, obviously, and to be fair he's
actually a very nice chap. Right now he works with Steve, but in a couple
of weeks he's off back to Melbourne, to a new job, and so this afternoon
Steve and I went in to London to meet up with him for a kind of cheerio.
We had a couple of drinks in the rather funky Waxy O'Connor's, then a
not-too-bad meal in Chinatown, before a trek down to the river and along
to the Walkabout at Temple. A young and beautiful twenty-something crowd,
who were prepared to pay £7 admission and then be advertised at
from hundreds of plasma screens, were packing the place. Michael got us
a little something to try, a rum he recommended, although to me it tasted
of disinfectant, so we stuck with VB (Victoria Bitter - in very cold bottles)
after that. Each trip to the bar was a hazardous, long, expensive and
frustrating experience; however it was nice to see the youngsters enjoying
themselves so much. The music, including a set from a band, was very good.
I won't tell you I thought it was a bit loud, because then you'll imagine
I'm feeling old before my time, which I'm not. Mind you, when Bonnie Tyler's
Total Eclipse of the Heart came on, I thought "great", until
I discovered it was a version recorded at least double-speed, and rather
highlighted the generation gap. I'm not moaning; I had a great night out,
and I'm totally certain about that because I was nearly sick on the train
home. Hmmmm...
links:
waxy
o'connors | temple
walkabout
If you ever drive through the Tyne Tunnel, turn your vehicle's ventilation
system off. There don't appear to be any fans to extract the exhaust fumes,
and you will feel rather unwell otherwise. Always happy to help. haymee.com
- you know it makes sense.
There could very well be contemporaries of mine from Prior Park College - where I went to school - who have sons or daughters who are themselves at PPC today... which is a scary thought which popped unexpectedly into my head today.
After several days and nearly a thousand miles driving a heavy, underpowered, fifteen-year-old Transit van without any power steering, I re-discovered the joy of driving my car again today: when you put your foot on the accelerator, it shifts, and when you touch the brake pedal, it stops!
Notwithstanding what I wrote the other day about this not being a general moan... I was driving on the M25 today, in moderately heavy rain, with most of the traffic doing a safe 70mph, when we were all slowed by gantry speed limits (these gantries have cameras) to 60mph, a large matrix sign explaining: "Queue Ahead". Ok, no problem, but then the next gantry reduced us to 40mph, with a similar matrix sign. Much heavy braking to ensure we passed the cameras at the right speed. Then over the crest of a slight rise, the next gantry speed limit signs were set to... National Speed Limit! Of course there was a frickin' queue ahead - it was caused by the speed limits themselves. D'oh!
There could very well be contemporaries of mine from Prior Park College - where I went to school - who have sons or daughters who are themselves at PPC today... which is a scary thought which popped unexpectedly into my head today.
After several days and nearly a thousand miles driving a heavy, underpowered, fifteen-year-old Transit van without any power steering, I re-discovered the joy of driving my car again today: when you put your foot on the accelerator, it shifts, and when you touch the brake pedal, it stops!
Notwithstanding what I wrote the other day about this not being a general moan... I was driving on the M25 today, in moderately heavy rain, with most of the traffic doing a safe 70mph, when we were all slowed by gantry speed limits (these gantries have cameras) to 60mph, a large matrix sign explaining: "Queue Ahead". Ok, no problem, but then the next gantry reduced us to 40mph, with a similar matrix sign. Much heavy braking to ensure we passed the cameras at the right speed. Then over the crest of a slight rise, the next gantry speed limit signs were set to... National Speed Limit! Of course there was a frickin' queue ahead - it was caused by the speed limits themselves. D'oh!
Ever
felt a bit deflated, when a party you've been hosting has just ended and
everyone's gone, or you've just left somewhere fab and you're on your
own? That's kind of how I felt this afternoon. The work I have been doing
up here has had an amazingly good outcome (those who know what I do probably
already know what that is), and the team of people - my colleagues - with
whom I have been working over the last few days, and with whom I have
shared this really great result, have all disappeared south and homewards,
leaving me feeling a bit forlorn.
Mind you one of them, rather disturbingly, has been quoting great chunks of my blog back to me. Although he didn't actually know exactly what a blog was. He did however point out that his overall impression was that haymee.com is just Hamish's general whinge about the world... I suppose he has a point, although I do try to be positive about stuff on here, and talk about interesting or unusual things that have happened, rather than just a dumping ground for my ire.
The lift in my hotel is German, and barks at you. Try saying this with a bit of a cod German accent, in the style of a guard in a German POW camp in a WWII movie, and you'll get it just right: "Lift moving downward."
Mind you one of them, rather disturbingly, has been quoting great chunks of my blog back to me. Although he didn't actually know exactly what a blog was. He did however point out that his overall impression was that haymee.com is just Hamish's general whinge about the world... I suppose he has a point, although I do try to be positive about stuff on here, and talk about interesting or unusual things that have happened, rather than just a dumping ground for my ire.
The lift in my hotel is German, and barks at you. Try saying this with a bit of a cod German accent, in the style of a guard in a German POW camp in a WWII movie, and you'll get it just right: "Lift moving downward."
Left
this morning and drove up to the north-east, and right now I'm sitting
in my hotel room feeling rather lonely and a little sad. I hate going
away to work at the weekend, and in this case I won't be home again until
probably Wednesday evening, so it feels very odd. Saturdays are for shopping
with Steve and coming home to a nice dinner he prepares and cooks, and
curling up on the sofa with some wine and watching Doctor Who on the box
- and tonight Eurovision as well; and Sundays are for slobbing and cleaning
and laundry and ironing, and more nice food. I'll be lucky to get some
room service sandwiches tonight.
The day didn't start off particularly well to be honest, not helped by me getting soaked to the skin popping out to put some kit into the van I'm using this weekend, and getting my 'nice' jeans dirty. They're hanging up in my bathroom here now, the success of my attempts at sponging the dirt off waiting to be revealed when they dry properly.
The day didn't start off particularly well to be honest, not helped by me getting soaked to the skin popping out to put some kit into the van I'm using this weekend, and getting my 'nice' jeans dirty. They're hanging up in my bathroom here now, the success of my attempts at sponging the dirt off waiting to be revealed when they dry properly.
I'm
not even going to start to describe it here. Read the journal under travel
| past | monaco
and see the pictures in the... erm... pics section.
In
preparation for our Monaco trip we went to the spaceship of a shopping
centre at Bluewater today. Digressing slightly, when we went to Madeira
a few years ago, Steve bought me a beautiful leather jacket from the Massimo
Dutti shop in Funchal. Well they have opened one or two shops in the UK
now, including at Bluewater, so I got myself a very nice pair of jeans.
And as I love linen so much, I got a new linen shirt from House of Fraser,
and because we need to be smart one night, I bought a dark suit - I don't
possess one, and I thought I ought to really. So I'm all set. Steve bought
a few things, and we came back with a laden boot and empty wallets.
One forgets that robins don't just appear as if by magic at Christmas: one was hopping round the garden this afternoon. I mean a robin was. One wasn't!
One forgets that robins don't just appear as if by magic at Christmas: one was hopping round the garden this afternoon. I mean a robin was. One wasn't!
links:
massimo
dutti
Now
I understand where 'new' Minis come from. I parked Steve's Mini Cooper
(red with a white roof) in a space in Sainsbury's car park, next to an
'original' Mini Cooper (red with a white roof). When I emerged with my
shopping trolley full of white plastic bags, the original Mini had transformed
into an identical 'new' Mini (also red with... you guessed it). So now
I know how Steve's was born.
At
exactly midday, on the A1 near the village of Kirk Smeaton, north of Doncaster,
the odometer in my car clicked over to show 100,000 miles. Since I acquired
the car from new in January 2004 I have averaged over 3,600 miles a month
in it - and over the last few months that average has been over 4,500
miles. Unfortunately I will have to wait until the end of this year before
being able to choose a new car, and so, by the time I hand it in, this
car's mileage will be somewhere in the region of 136,000.
Passing Duxford, I beheld the glorious sight of a Spitfire hurtling across the sky over the M11 from the direction of the airfield.
Passing Duxford, I beheld the glorious sight of a Spitfire hurtling across the sky over the M11 from the direction of the airfield.
Well,
my future anyway, or perhaps I should say our future. It's in the Jedburgh
Woollen Mill. When we're old and "a bit wobbly on our pins,"
as we'll no doubt constantly say, in another... well... thirty years time,
perhaps, we'll go for "drives out" to places like the Jedburgh
Woollen Mill, and we're going to totter around in there like all the people
I saw tottering around in there today, and we're going to go "Ooooh!"
over little boxes of Vanilla Fudge, and whisky miniatures, and scarves
made in a dubious tartan. Oh God, knock me on the back of the head with
a big hammer before that happens.
Having a very pleasant journey down from the Scottish Borders in a south-easterly direction to pick up the A1 just north of Newcastle. The road I'm on (the A68 and then the A696) is absolutely beautiful, although it's a very twisty-windy switchback of a road in places: all the sick-inducing thrills of the rollercoaster without any of the feeling of safety. Once in Northumberland (is 'Land Of Sheep' the county motto?) I actually saw a bouncing spring lamb. Which was nice.
Having a very pleasant journey down from the Scottish Borders in a south-easterly direction to pick up the A1 just north of Newcastle. The road I'm on (the A68 and then the A696) is absolutely beautiful, although it's a very twisty-windy switchback of a road in places: all the sick-inducing thrills of the rollercoaster without any of the feeling of safety. Once in Northumberland (is 'Land Of Sheep' the county motto?) I actually saw a bouncing spring lamb. Which was nice.
Thanks
to Scotland's 'progressive' health laws, otherwise known as anti-liberal
social engineering, I had to stand outside a bar in the rain to smoke
a cigarette tonight.
The
washer/dryer has been sounding as if was about to give up working for
a while now, and this morning it finally did, with two pairs of work jeans
and a top inside over which it had spent an hour and a half pouring quantities
of water without once turning the drum; they were, as you can imagine,
wringing wet in some places, bone dry in others, and as filthy as when
they went into the wretched machine. So, for the first time in my thirty-*cough*
years, I went to the launderette. Well, we went to the launderette
for the first time, Steve clearly having led as sheltered an upbringing
as mine. I think we must have looked a comical pair wandering around reading
all the labels and signs and whispering to each other, quite obviously
not having the proverbial clue. Imagine Frasier and Niles in similar circumstances
and you'll get the general gist. People were helpful - I'm sure we provided
no little amusement - and we got the job done, of course. Not understanding
launderetiquette, we didn't take our own powder (it might not have been
the 'done thing') and so will in all probability now suffer from itchy
skin due to the non-availability of 'non-bio' powder for sale there.
By the way, I have known how to spell "launderette" correctly since that film "My Beautiful Laundrette" came out with the famously mis-spelled title.
By the way, I have known how to spell "launderette" correctly since that film "My Beautiful Laundrette" came out with the famously mis-spelled title.
I
am sick and fed up with anti-social behaviour in this country - mainly
from people who cannot control their noise output. This afternoon I have
had to put up with music thumping through the ceiling from the flat above
at such a low frequency it doesn't matter where you are in the building,
it just just goes through your body, through your head. It's not particularly
loud, it's just very, very penetrating. Anyway, having left for work with
relief that I'm getting away from that, I soon find some car comes roaring
up behind me with exactly the same sort of 'music' vibrating out of it
and penetrating the entire neighbourhood. It's not right, it's not fair,
and how the hell do you get away from it? Or is there a way of arranging
things so that it doesn't matter? What's the answer? Somebody, please?
There's
a bridge over the M6 Toll motorway which has a sign by it saying 'Lichfield
Canal Aqueduct', but the bridge isn't joined at either end to anything,
it's just a bridge, like a lintel, that doesn't do anything. Either that
or the Lichfield Canal is very, very short. Like, about 25m long.
This afternoon I had the (dubious) honour of receiving a phone call from the leader of Croydon Council himself asking me how I intended to vote.
This afternoon I had the (dubious) honour of receiving a phone call from the leader of Croydon Council himself asking me how I intended to vote.
Following
our team meeting last week, where two colleagues very kindly and generously
brought along their diseases to share with the rest of the class, coughing
and spluttering their way through the day, and after a couple of days
incubating all the donated germs nicely, today I am quite ill.
Apparently
people who stick straw on house roofs are no longer called thatchers,
but - perhaps following some Thatcherite entrepreneurial spirit - now
term themselves 'Thatching Specialists', at least according to the van
I was following for a time this afternoon. Mind you, my job description
has it that I am not a simple Technician but rather a Technical Support
Specialist, so I guess it goes all ways.
Driving
along the motorway today I passed a van bearing the (to me) unmistakable
logo of Challenger floor cleaning machines. Once upon a long ago one of
my customers to whom I sold a (rather expensive) video camera and editing
equipment was Mr Walter (or was it Mr Broadley?) of the Northampton-based
manufacturers of Challenger floor cleaning machines, Walter-Broadley.
Research on the web reveals that the company is now owned by an American
competitor, Tennant - and indeed their name, and not that of Walter-Broadley,
appeared on the van I saw. However, Tennant's UK address appears to be
the old address in Northampton, so I sincerely hope Messrs Walter and
Broadley, and their employees, did well out of the deal.
If
the first sign of spring is not hearing cuckoos or seeing daffodils, but
instead is signaled by the first time in the year I put the aircon on
in the car, then today's the day.
Got a spare seven minutes? Want to see an Airbus A380 being built? Click the link.
Got a spare seven minutes? Want to see an Airbus A380 being built? Click the link.
Admittedly arriving earlier than politeness dictates, I checked into a
'country hotel' in the unlikely-named Leicestershire village of Quorn
to discover the staff are a little haughty, and the handbasin in the bathroom
is so over-designed it's impossible to tell which is the cold tap, and
to understand how the 'plug' worked you would need to have completed a
course in Advanced Engineering - perhaps at Welbeck, the Defence Sixth
Form College, which happens to be just up the road.
The iRiver's on shuffle, and the fab 'Fairy Godmother Song' by Jennifer Saunders from Shrek 2 has just come on, so all is well again!
The iRiver's on shuffle, and the fab 'Fairy Godmother Song' by Jennifer Saunders from Shrek 2 has just come on, so all is well again!
Loan
sharking is alive and well in the UK in the twenty-first century. Want
to borrow £100 until payday? A company whose very professional and
reasonable-looking website I've just seen will do so, and then expect
you to pay back £125, which is an APR of 1355%.
I'd
like to draw your attention to an inserted entry below (Fri 10 March),
accidentally forgotten in the updates.
It's been hailing this afternoon, somehow appropriate after a variable but generally very, very wet week, including what was practically a hurricane the other day in Bristol. Fortunately I was in the car and my destination was an underground loading bay so I didn't suffer as the pedestrians and cyclists clearly did.
It's taken me a good couple of hours to update these entries today. I tend to write notes in odd places throughout the week, and talk into my little tape recorder as I'm driving, but I really should post them more promptly. And I need to learn some more advanced web skills to enable me to do some form of auto updating. I know it's possible, but it's getting down to doing it, as ever...
It's been hailing this afternoon, somehow appropriate after a variable but generally very, very wet week, including what was practically a hurricane the other day in Bristol. Fortunately I was in the car and my destination was an underground loading bay so I didn't suffer as the pedestrians and cyclists clearly did.
It's taken me a good couple of hours to update these entries today. I tend to write notes in odd places throughout the week, and talk into my little tape recorder as I'm driving, but I really should post them more promptly. And I need to learn some more advanced web skills to enable me to do some form of auto updating. I know it's possible, but it's getting down to doing it, as ever...
This
evening we are enjoying Champagne, courtesy of Steve's employer. Why?
Well I ironed his best dress shirt and sent him off yesterday to an awards
do at a hotel in Birmingham... and he only went and won Team Leader Of
The Year! Clever chap, and nothing less than he deserves with the hard
work and commitment he has been putting in to the job he really, truly
loves. Hence the Champagne. Oh and the little matter of the all-expenses-paid
weekend to Monte Carlo we are going on next month! It's all helicopters
and quad-biking and four-star hotels and very, very expensive restaurants,
and... well you get the idea.
So tonight it's Champagne, and tortellini with carbonarra sauce followed by a Gü pudding (the best chocolate puddings in the world), and Planet Earth on the box.
So tonight it's Champagne, and tortellini with carbonarra sauce followed by a Gü pudding (the best chocolate puddings in the world), and Planet Earth on the box.
links:
gü
I've
been idly thinking while driving, as I often do: if I won the lottery
tomorrow what fast car would I buy? I've always been a huge Porsche fan
(particularly the 911 and its successors), but unfortunately like the
BMWs I also used to really like, and the Lexuses (Lexi?) I have never
really liked but have always respected engineering-wise, I see more and
more of them being driven by, frankly, w**k**s . So not a Porsche, then.
The absolutely iconic luxury car make for me, and therefore the expected answer to the question, should be an Aston Martin. I used to live just outside Newport Pagnell where they were made and test-driven (before Ford bought the company and moved production to Warwickshire), but recently I have actually seen AMs being driven by what I can only describe as boy-racer types. This is appalling, as it used to generally be the case that the more expensive the car, the better, or at least the more courteously, it was driven. They should appear in your rear-view mirror with the clear desire to press on, but not to bully. Sadly, times have changed.
You rarely see a badly-driven Ferrari, but I've never really aspired to the marque.
So my final answer might seem rather surprising, and not very aspirational, but I've never seen a badly-driven Nissan 350Z: they always seem to be driven respectfully, and always wait patiently to get past, then get a real shift on. And of course Nissan produced the fabulous Skyline, an example of which one of my neighbours keeps and drives regularly, delighting me with its delicious, burbling exhaust note.
Well OK, if it really happened, I guess I might get a Maserati coupé.
Since we're talking cars... perhaps the best-looking car ever (in my humble opinion) was the Mark II Jaguar (as driven by Morse, but I've been in love with it far longer than that), and what I particularly admire about the Jaguar design team is that they have a sense of history, and the lineage is - and always has been - clear in each new model. The current S-Type is a great example, wonderfully evoking the Mark II. And don't get me started about the E-Type. I know that now Ford own Jaguar too, the X-Type is nothing more than a rather expensive Mondeo, but you can't have everything.
The absolutely iconic luxury car make for me, and therefore the expected answer to the question, should be an Aston Martin. I used to live just outside Newport Pagnell where they were made and test-driven (before Ford bought the company and moved production to Warwickshire), but recently I have actually seen AMs being driven by what I can only describe as boy-racer types. This is appalling, as it used to generally be the case that the more expensive the car, the better, or at least the more courteously, it was driven. They should appear in your rear-view mirror with the clear desire to press on, but not to bully. Sadly, times have changed.
You rarely see a badly-driven Ferrari, but I've never really aspired to the marque.
So my final answer might seem rather surprising, and not very aspirational, but I've never seen a badly-driven Nissan 350Z: they always seem to be driven respectfully, and always wait patiently to get past, then get a real shift on. And of course Nissan produced the fabulous Skyline, an example of which one of my neighbours keeps and drives regularly, delighting me with its delicious, burbling exhaust note.
Well OK, if it really happened, I guess I might get a Maserati coupé.
Since we're talking cars... perhaps the best-looking car ever (in my humble opinion) was the Mark II Jaguar (as driven by Morse, but I've been in love with it far longer than that), and what I particularly admire about the Jaguar design team is that they have a sense of history, and the lineage is - and always has been - clear in each new model. The current S-Type is a great example, wonderfully evoking the Mark II. And don't get me started about the E-Type. I know that now Ford own Jaguar too, the X-Type is nothing more than a rather expensive Mondeo, but you can't have everything.
links:
older
porsche pic | newer
porsche pic
| aston
martin |
nissan
350z |
maserati
coupé |
mk.II
jaguar pic
Today
is an absolutely gorgeous day; I've driven from Northamptonshire to home
under a blue, slightly hazy sky, with a temperature of 10 degrees. It's
lovely.
I know I'm turning into a grumpy old man before my time, but my experience at Newport Pagnell services, and in the hotel last night, have pushed me to it: staff who really don't care about their jobs and even less about their customers, and organisations clearly run for their own benefit and not that of their customers... grrrr.
I know I'm turning into a grumpy old man before my time, but my experience at Newport Pagnell services, and in the hotel last night, have pushed me to it: staff who really don't care about their jobs and even less about their customers, and organisations clearly run for their own benefit and not that of their customers... grrrr.
For
real? As in the movie 'Greystoke: The Legend of Tarzan, Lord of the Apes'?
Earl of Greystoke and all that? Driving south from Scotland I saw a Land
Rover simply bearing the words 'Greystoke Castle'.
Having done a bit of surfing back home, I've discovered that Greystoke Castle does indeed exist, still owned by the same family, the Howards, for over five hundred years. And the Tarzan legend is said to have originated from a former Earl. Today the family run the estate as an outdoor/country sports centre and a wedding and conference venue.
You see: haymee.com - almost Reithian: informing, educating, entertaining.
Having done a bit of surfing back home, I've discovered that Greystoke Castle does indeed exist, still owned by the same family, the Howards, for over five hundred years. And the Tarzan legend is said to have originated from a former Earl. Today the family run the estate as an outdoor/country sports centre and a wedding and conference venue.
You see: haymee.com - almost Reithian: informing, educating, entertaining.
links:
greystoke
castle
A
'mirror image' match: the drive and determination of Ireland - the better
team - in the first half was mirrored by the courage and persistence and
power of England in the second. A great, flowing game with long periods
of continuous play was marred by some serious blindness on the part of
the match officials. With fifteen minutes to go and scores level at 21-all,
the drama picked up, and the last few minutes, where ultimately Ireland
won the Triple Crown, was - excuse the cliché - a roller-coaster
of emotions as the Irish took the lead, and, with the scoreline being
what it was, failed to stop France winning the whole championship. A good
St Patrick's Day weekend for them anyway, I guess. And after last Sunday's
performance by England, a much, much better showing today.
I've only watched the matches involving England, but I've thoroughly enjoyed following the season. As John Inverdale said at the end of the coverage, just another forty-two weeks to go until it starts all over again!
I've only watched the matches involving England, but I've thoroughly enjoyed following the season. As John Inverdale said at the end of the coverage, just another forty-two weeks to go until it starts all over again!
Wasn't
I complaining recently about a lack of flow in the game, and a paucity
of tries? Well, there were tries this time around, the first after forty-one
seconds, but sadly all French. A pretty appalling showing by England,
which I don't want to dwell on.
In
what cartoon does a character wander about with a black cloud always hovering
above him, raining on him and only him? I can't remember, but I was that
character yesterday driving from south Wales up towards York; having looked
at the weather forecast last night I noticed there was a band of rain
travelling in basically a north-easterly direction up the British Isles,
and I seem to have spent most of the day underneath it. All this despite
feeling quite happy today!
Driving up the M18 I noticed a couple of radio masts on a hilltop on the horizon, and a little way away another one which seemed to be under construction. There was a crane next to it with its jib at an angle of about 30 degrees from the vertical. However the lower part of the structure of the crane was painted white, and so initially I could only see the upper part, which seemed to me to be suspended in the sky. The whole arrangement of masts and crane moved relative to each other as I drove along, until I thought they were going to form the Channel 4 logo there in front of me! (Can you tell how bored I get driving sometimes?)
Driving up the M18 I noticed a couple of radio masts on a hilltop on the horizon, and a little way away another one which seemed to be under construction. There was a crane next to it with its jib at an angle of about 30 degrees from the vertical. However the lower part of the structure of the crane was painted white, and so initially I could only see the upper part, which seemed to me to be suspended in the sky. The whole arrangement of masts and crane moved relative to each other as I drove along, until I thought they were going to form the Channel 4 logo there in front of me! (Can you tell how bored I get driving sometimes?)
I
really don't want to be rude about a nation's language, but... have you
ever been driving in Wales and you see a sign and you're trying to work
out what the abbreviation stands for when you realise that, despite appearances,
it's actually a word - in Welsh? I have.
And have you ever driven along the edge of Horseshoe Pass? The road's very close to the edge and it's a **** of a long way down!
I should have made more time for my journey southward through Wales: so many places inviting you to stop and look at something - a railway line, a slate quarry, whatever.
Was it in 1972 that John Cleese and Connie Boothe created the character of Basil Fawlty? Thirty-four years later and I've just got the joke on his surname. D'oh.
What a cradle snatcher Kenneth Cummins is: at 106 yesterday he is one of only three men alive who fought in both World Wars. He lives in Wiltshire with his wife Rosemary who is... a mere 78.
And have you ever driven along the edge of Horseshoe Pass? The road's very close to the edge and it's a **** of a long way down!
I should have made more time for my journey southward through Wales: so many places inviting you to stop and look at something - a railway line, a slate quarry, whatever.
Was it in 1972 that John Cleese and Connie Boothe created the character of Basil Fawlty? Thirty-four years later and I've just got the joke on his surname. D'oh.
What a cradle snatcher Kenneth Cummins is: at 106 yesterday he is one of only three men alive who fought in both World Wars. He lives in Wiltshire with his wife Rosemary who is... a mere 78.
I'm
in a miserable, rainy north Wales town - though the hotel is nice, if
bumblingly inefficient - and I have internet access so thought I'd share
this with you: I don't normally link to stories I've seen on the 'net,
because we can all go looking for our own interests, and frankly it's
too big. But this one really warmed the soul - a story of hope and courage
against bigotry and hate. The first link is to a letter to a local online
newspaper in Lincoln, Nebraska, praising the bikers who turned up last
Saturday to the funeral of an American soldier killed in Iraq. They turned
up, driving hundreds of miles, to shield the grieving family from having
to see the horrible Fred Phelps and his weird followers, who noisily protest
at the funerals of gay men and women and, recently, dead soldiers (whatever
their sexuality). The second link is to an article at the same journal
explaining what these bikers do, and it tells you a little more about
Phelps and his 'church'. I've included it because it's difficult to get
from the one to the other.
America - the USA I mean - is a weird place by any means, but what a particularly disgusting human being this Phelps is. I've come across him before, first of all in stories about the disruption he caused at the funeral of a young gay man in Wyoming, Matthew Shepard, who was beaten and left to die in 1998. Phelps and his extended family, who have a website called, I believe, godhatesfags.com or somesuch (if you really want to go looking), is a twisted man, probably repressing something. Someone writing to the JournalStar.com site suggests he and his followers are dumped in the middle of Iraq, and left. Amen to that idea.
America - the USA I mean - is a weird place by any means, but what a particularly disgusting human being this Phelps is. I've come across him before, first of all in stories about the disruption he caused at the funeral of a young gay man in Wyoming, Matthew Shepard, who was beaten and left to die in 1998. Phelps and his extended family, who have a website called, I believe, godhatesfags.com or somesuch (if you really want to go looking), is a twisted man, probably repressing something. Someone writing to the JournalStar.com site suggests he and his followers are dumped in the middle of Iraq, and left. Amen to that idea.
Does every female in Nottinghamshire call younger men "love"
or "duck"? Or is it just in the crappy hotel I'm staying in?
And they can't cook scrambled eggs. In the hotel that is, I'm sure that
isn't a Notts thing.
And I'm not counting, but in the last few of days I've been called "buddy" twice and "dude" once by colleagues in the course of phone calls.
And I'm not counting, but in the last few of days I've been called "buddy" twice and "dude" once by colleagues in the course of phone calls.
My hotel room is so badly laid out I have had to do some serious furniture
moving just so that I can sit at the desk. I mean, what's the point in
locating it at the end of the bed where there is - literally - not enough
room to put a chair in front of it? The bed is some strange, probably
folding, contraption that has a metal base which runs right around it
at floor level, hidden just underneath the counterpane, but sticking out
proud, so that every time you approach the bed, subconsciously expecting
your feet to go underneath it, you stub your toes, and then have to lean
forward unnaturally over the bed to pick up what you want. It's driving
me mad.
This morning I am heading home with a boiled duck egg inside me. Yum.
I'm avoiding the M11 which is still partly blocked following the fire yesterday which caused many hundreds of motorists, Steve's colleague Matt among them, to remain stuck for seven hours or so. Matt was supposed to be joining Steve and others on a ghostly investigation yesterday evening, but didn't make it.
I'm avoiding the M11 which is still partly blocked following the fire yesterday which caused many hundreds of motorists, Steve's colleague Matt among them, to remain stuck for seven hours or so. Matt was supposed to be joining Steve and others on a ghostly investigation yesterday evening, but didn't make it.
As I was driving south I saw a sign for the 'B & Q Distribution Centre',
and knowing how big B & Q stores are, I thought to myself, "I
bet that'll be huge" - and so I looked through the gates as I went
past. And bloody hell, yes it was! Vast!
When the Revolution comes, I have a couple of nominees for people I'd like to put up against the wall and shoot - and I saw both of them on the A1 southbound this afternoon. One of them was the chap with the van in the layby who, with casual cruelty, was lifting his small dog up off the ground by its lead to drag it where he wanted it to go; the second was the couple in the very expensive Mercedes that bore down on me in the fast lane at 90+ mph and bullied me out of the way before continuing at the same sort of speed, pushing others aside. These are the arrogant sh*ts I want to blast into oblivion.
Arrived in Cambridge, met Ian and Dave and Mike; then a brisk, cold walk to the Clarendon Arms to watch, in great company, the Calcutta Cup match where Scotland beat England 18-12. Being part Scottish, part English, I had to make a choice before the match as to who to support, and as ever I went for the unpopular option (in the Clarrie at least) of Scotland, but felt vindicated by the end of the match! It's always a shame to watch a match at that level where no tries are scored and indeed most of the points came from penalties, but nevertheless it was a very enjoyable game with some good plays, and an absolutely solid Scottish defense, particularly during the first half when play was very much in their half. Much beer was consumed, and then back to Hartington Grove (the last time I shall see it, I'm sure) for Ian's famous 'sausages and grapes'.
When the Revolution comes, I have a couple of nominees for people I'd like to put up against the wall and shoot - and I saw both of them on the A1 southbound this afternoon. One of them was the chap with the van in the layby who, with casual cruelty, was lifting his small dog up off the ground by its lead to drag it where he wanted it to go; the second was the couple in the very expensive Mercedes that bore down on me in the fast lane at 90+ mph and bullied me out of the way before continuing at the same sort of speed, pushing others aside. These are the arrogant sh*ts I want to blast into oblivion.
Arrived in Cambridge, met Ian and Dave and Mike; then a brisk, cold walk to the Clarendon Arms to watch, in great company, the Calcutta Cup match where Scotland beat England 18-12. Being part Scottish, part English, I had to make a choice before the match as to who to support, and as ever I went for the unpopular option (in the Clarrie at least) of Scotland, but felt vindicated by the end of the match! It's always a shame to watch a match at that level where no tries are scored and indeed most of the points came from penalties, but nevertheless it was a very enjoyable game with some good plays, and an absolutely solid Scottish defense, particularly during the first half when play was very much in their half. Much beer was consumed, and then back to Hartington Grove (the last time I shall see it, I'm sure) for Ian's famous 'sausages and grapes'.
I stayed last night in a hotel in Portland; I arrived in the dark and
was aware that the drive involved climbing quite high. But this morning
as I emerge I can see amazing views from the heights where the hotel is
located: right up Chesil Beach, and giving me an understanding of the
geography of this part of the coastline, and in particular how Portland
is an island.
Driving from here today northwards and seeing a sign for Cerne Abbas I regret that I am on a schedule and cannot turn off to see the large man with the large erection.
In Manchester near where one of my colleagues lives, I find myself driving down what is essentially a country lane, but in fact is called the A6144(M) so is classed as a motorway - it's very odd!
Despite my best intentions of not spending my life driving up and down the country unnecessarily, I started this morning in Portland and have driven up to the Manchester area, where, just after checking into my hotel, I fused all the lights in my room, leaving the hotel to sort out the mess after I left for my evening's job; I returned to confusion over what room number I was in (someone had moved me but only virtually on the computer). However, it's a very pleasant hotel, and the problems are being sorted out satisfactorally.
Driving from here today northwards and seeing a sign for Cerne Abbas I regret that I am on a schedule and cannot turn off to see the large man with the large erection.
In Manchester near where one of my colleagues lives, I find myself driving down what is essentially a country lane, but in fact is called the A6144(M) so is classed as a motorway - it's very odd!
Despite my best intentions of not spending my life driving up and down the country unnecessarily, I started this morning in Portland and have driven up to the Manchester area, where, just after checking into my hotel, I fused all the lights in my room, leaving the hotel to sort out the mess after I left for my evening's job; I returned to confusion over what room number I was in (someone had moved me but only virtually on the computer). However, it's a very pleasant hotel, and the problems are being sorted out satisfactorally.
OK,
who's nicked it?
This morning a waitress swiped my Private Eye - left on my table as I
went to the breakfast buffet bar for juice and cereal - and threw it away;
her mortified colleague went out and got me a replacement. I didn't like
to say, but it was the next edition, which as I subscribe will anyway
be waiting for me in a plastic envelope at home.
When did the Koran become the Qur'an? Presumably about the same time Nestles became Nestlé, Bombay became Mumbai and nougat became nougat (nugget became noo-gar).
When did the Koran become the Qur'an? Presumably about the same time Nestles became Nestlé, Bombay became Mumbai and nougat became nougat (nugget became noo-gar).
Ssshh...
Driving southwards this afternoon feeling a little delicate having had
a teensy bit too much to drink last night on top of virtually no food
all day yesterday. I went out to a great no-attitude gay pub in Edinburgh
called The Regent, at the top of Easter Road, and had a few drinks with
some recently-acquired friends, Michael & Christophe, about whom you
will doubtless hear more in due course. And, someone please explain to
me why, when The Regent hosts the LGB chapter of the local CAMRA group,
I should have drunk Tennents all evening?
Tonight I'm in a hotel in the north-west of England. Perfectly adequate, but oh dear... after the Malmaison... Well, it's only one night and there's no sense in even unpacking.
Tonight I'm in a hotel in the north-west of England. Perfectly adequate, but oh dear... after the Malmaison... Well, it's only one night and there's no sense in even unpacking.
The
Queen's bed
I was voyeuristically privileged to walk around the Royal Yacht Britannia
at her final mooring in Leith this morning, and see where the Queen slept
and worked and relaxed and so on. You have to remember that for all intents
and purposes Britannia was a working Royal Navy ship with hundreds of
sailors and Marines on board, living in fairly cramped quarters with all
the usual hierarchies of different messes and so on. She was built at
John Brown's on the Clyde, and beautifully maintained and run beyond the
highest standards of Cunard or the Navy's other ships. It's just such
a shame that when the Labour government came to power they decided the
country could no longer afford her, and an era of over 300 years of royal
yachts ended. The original plans for her construction were interrupted
by the war, and restarted at the time King George VI was very ill; however
he died, and the Queen and Prince Philip were actively involved in choosing
features and decorations. Apparently she was the one place the Queen felt
completely relaxed.
It's a good tour which I would recommend to anyone: you reach the different decks via a kind of staircase tower on the quayside, and you carry around an audio headset which allows you to take your own time, although it would be nice to be conducted around and be able to ask questions. I didn't do the engine room and those lower parts of the ship, which I will save for next time when I hope to take Steve.
Due to my inability to read I managed to miss breakfast this morning and spent most of the day, and all of the time on the Royal Yacht, hungry. I resisted the temptation to buy some fudge from the NAAFI sweet shop on board, but did buy a Yorkie bar from the gift shop at the end of the tour: a rather disappointing, marginally chocolate-flavoured, chunk of vegetable fat.
A slightly egg shaped moon tonight.
As I headed back into Edinburgh this evening I found myself quite clearly driving through Leith's red light district, identifiable by single ladies with thick coats on (it's bitterly cold today, and even hailed earlier on) wandering about with their legs on display.
It's a good tour which I would recommend to anyone: you reach the different decks via a kind of staircase tower on the quayside, and you carry around an audio headset which allows you to take your own time, although it would be nice to be conducted around and be able to ask questions. I didn't do the engine room and those lower parts of the ship, which I will save for next time when I hope to take Steve.
Due to my inability to read I managed to miss breakfast this morning and spent most of the day, and all of the time on the Royal Yacht, hungry. I resisted the temptation to buy some fudge from the NAAFI sweet shop on board, but did buy a Yorkie bar from the gift shop at the end of the tour: a rather disappointing, marginally chocolate-flavoured, chunk of vegetable fat.
A slightly egg shaped moon tonight.
As I headed back into Edinburgh this evening I found myself quite clearly driving through Leith's red light district, identifiable by single ladies with thick coats on (it's bitterly cold today, and even hailed earlier on) wandering about with their legs on display.
links:
britannia
You
are hereby granted permission to be very jealous
I am staying three nights in Leith (where my grandfather was born, incidentally),
at the Malmaison hotel. Amongst other things, in my room I have a CD player,
fresh coffee, free internet access, and toiletries I am actively encouraged
to take away (the body lotion is divine!)
The decor is funky, and the whole Malmaison ethos is intelligent and witty, although I do think they are taking the pee with the 50cl bottle of wine temptingly left in my room with 2 glasses and a corkscrew; it's South African Cabernet Merlot and is probably quite drinkable - but really, £12.95!
The decor is funky, and the whole Malmaison ethos is intelligent and witty, although I do think they are taking the pee with the 50cl bottle of wine temptingly left in my room with 2 glasses and a corkscrew; it's South African Cabernet Merlot and is probably quite drinkable - but really, £12.95!
links:
malmaison
New
crease
Looked
in the mirror this morning and noticed a major new line on my face. Age.
Bugger.
Today's best line from a BBC News article: "If you can live with the slightly scary image of eight Margaret Thatchers in purple feather boas singing a rousing gospel number about economic policy then this is definitely the show for you."
Cannot let the news that Smash Hits magazine is closing go unremarked. Used to SO love it in the eighties. I have a copy in pretty good condition, I might dig it out soon and quote a little from it.
Today's best line from a BBC News article: "If you can live with the slightly scary image of eight Margaret Thatchers in purple feather boas singing a rousing gospel number about economic policy then this is definitely the show for you."
Cannot let the news that Smash Hits magazine is closing go unremarked. Used to SO love it in the eighties. I have a copy in pretty good condition, I might dig it out soon and quote a little from it.
links:
the
razzle dazzle of maggie
Footwear
is not a verb
OK
boot is... but "flip flop"?
Crazy
name, crazy guy!
Zebedee Soames read the shipping forecast on Radio 4 tonight. Wow!
England
47-13 Wales
Forgetting
the match was today (what day of the week is it??), I caught the last
ten minutes of the first half, and watched the whole of the second. And
what a great, exciting, large game it was. I had my usual complaint -
never enough continuous play in the game these days - but this was better
than many matches I've seen recently. A highlight was a great 30-yard
drive forward by England, not really necessary but when you're in sight
of the winning post, why not indulge? And crickey, aren't some of those
Welsh forwards ugly brutes?
Slightly disconcerted towards the end when watching the action replay of one of the tries to see the camera travelling over the line above the ball; then I realised there is a small camera actually fixed to the post, presumably on some kind of jib, just above the foam wrapping. Rather clever of the Beeb!
Slightly disconcerted towards the end when watching the action replay of one of the tries to see the camera travelling over the line above the ball; then I realised there is a small camera actually fixed to the post, presumably on some kind of jib, just above the foam wrapping. Rather clever of the Beeb!
What's your view? Like most people, I suspect, I'm torn. On the one hand
I have an instinctive belief in freedom of speech. Call it 'western liberal'
if you like, but it's how I, and pretty much all the people I know and
have ever known, would view the world. Add to that a certain irreverence
and a suspicion of dogmatic rules, particularly including religious rules,
plus the deep joy which satire evokes in me, and I have a conflict with
the other side of this particular argument: that another person, with
another, completely different, belief system, might be genuinely hurt
by something we consider to be of little consequence. I was born and raised
a Catholic, but even in my most fervently religious youth (don't worry:
it wasn't that fervent) I would only have laughed at a cartoon
of the Pope, say, or indeed as I remember it the furore surrounding the
release of the film Life Of Brian, or the incomparable Not The Nine O'Clock
News team, or Dave Allen, or... well I could go on. So the notion of feeling
genuinely and terribly insulted by the mockery of religion just isn't
something I can personally relate to, whilst acknowledging that for some
others it is a problem.
Add to the pot a little fundamentalism, a pinch of politics, ignite a few flames of revolution, and bring rapidly to the boil. And that's where we are.
I think I can say that whilst the original Danish newspaper, Jyllands-Posten, was perfectly at liberty to publish the cartoons, the row which developed could have been confined locally had not other European papers reprinted them, for reasons I cannot quite understand if it wasn't simply to court controversy and boost sales. I briefly considered putting these cartoons on this website, in the main because, I'm sure like many people, I was fed up with hearing and reading about the row without actually being allowed to see exactly what the fuss was about. Until yesterday, that is, when I went looking for them on the web. However, I think to put them up here is not a good idea, for a number of reasons.
But, below this entry you will see a link which should take you to a website where you can see them. If you don't want to see them, if you might be hurt by them, then you have a clear choice: don't go and look at them. But if you want to enter the debate with a fuller picture (please excuse the pun) of the arguments, then go ahead. Frankly I don't understand all of them, so any elucidation would be welcome.
Add to the pot a little fundamentalism, a pinch of politics, ignite a few flames of revolution, and bring rapidly to the boil. And that's where we are.
I think I can say that whilst the original Danish newspaper, Jyllands-Posten, was perfectly at liberty to publish the cartoons, the row which developed could have been confined locally had not other European papers reprinted them, for reasons I cannot quite understand if it wasn't simply to court controversy and boost sales. I briefly considered putting these cartoons on this website, in the main because, I'm sure like many people, I was fed up with hearing and reading about the row without actually being allowed to see exactly what the fuss was about. Until yesterday, that is, when I went looking for them on the web. However, I think to put them up here is not a good idea, for a number of reasons.
But, below this entry you will see a link which should take you to a website where you can see them. If you don't want to see them, if you might be hurt by them, then you have a clear choice: don't go and look at them. But if you want to enter the debate with a fuller picture (please excuse the pun) of the arguments, then go ahead. Frankly I don't understand all of them, so any elucidation would be welcome.
...seemingly filled
with nothing but bad things. My hotel is absolutely, desperately dreadful,
and I don't mind naming it so you are warned to never stay there: the
Apollo on Hagley Road in Edgbaston, Birmingham. It's a weird sort of
design, with all the room doors on the outside, and it kind of looks
a bit like those awful 1970s social housing blocks. The state of the
decor in the room is awful, with peeling melamine and broken fittings.
My shower experience this morning was downright dangerous, with scalding
water pouring from the tap over my feet, and the bath not draining fast
enough, even though the control was properly set so comfortably hot
water was coming out of the shower head.
Then I had further trouble trying to use my mobile phone later. Our
company has relatively recently swapped from O2 to Orange, who are,
quite simply, crap: crap coverage within the M25, crap coverage on major
motorways, crap coverage in Salisbury, and constantly dropped calls
seemingly wherever I'm driving. And to add insult to injury every time
I phone the person in our company who deals with mobile phone issues,
she tells me that I need to log every time I'm disconnected due to driving
through an area of no coverage, including providing bloody postcodes!
Which is clearly impossible most of the time. But I can't seem to make
anyone in the company understand that we have changed from what was
essentially a good service to a really bad one.
Additionally, when I first heard about our move to Orange I researched
the model of phone we were due to be issued with on the web, and found
that a number of people said it was a bit crap, but I was prepared to
give it a chance. So I went into an Orange shop and asked to see one,
but I was told it was a discontinued model, and the man kind of laughed
at me and intimated that we'd been palmed off with a bulk load of old
models. Now I'm using it I can see why they might have discontinued
it: it's crap. There's a theme here. Oh, and recently the car kit has
been seriously playing up, and trying to sort it out through Orange
Customer Services resulted in endlessly being put on hold and then them
dropping the call, although eventually I was promised a visit to repair
it in two weeks. Since then and a complaint through my company, that
has been reduced to a five day wait.
And finally,
to round things off, the A14 today seemed to be full of, to put it quite
simply, wankers. Sorry to rant, but that feels better now!
This
morning Dave was very much to worse for wear, and Ian called from Chris
and Jane's to say he wouldn't after all join us for lunch. Dave and Mike
set off to train and walk to the appointed lunchtime venue (the King William
IV in Heydon, south of Cambridge), while Steve and I got ourselves organised
and drove out there. Another friend who had been inconvenienced last night
turned up but left unhappily as he was unable to park his car satisfactorily
at the restaurant. Anyway, the four of us ate and drank well (although
Dave manfully attempted to eat a terrine, but managed I think to put away
around half of it), and we said goodbye to Ian and the others by phone.
Now we're back home and I feel a bit deflated emotionally, after a weekend of highs and lows, but physically rather INflated, a little too full of good food! And I appear to have yet another bloody cold.
Now we're back home and I feel a bit deflated emotionally, after a weekend of highs and lows, but physically rather INflated, a little too full of good food! And I appear to have yet another bloody cold.
links:
king
william iv
Today
into town with Ian, having been invited to watch part of a Congregation
at the University Senate House, a ceremony for postgraduates receiving
their Doctorates or Masters. We were privileged to be ushered to an upstairs
balcony overlooking the black-and-white tiled floor of the huge panelled
room where students in fur-trimmed gowns were introduced in Latin and
then presented individually to the Vice-Chancellor, in front of whom they
knelt, and then received their honour. I felt that we were in a room with,
yes a large number of very bright people, but actually in some way with
the people who have the future of our country - its companies, government
and media, certainly - in their hands in the years to come.
After this and a search for a working cash machine, we retired to a pub. We had settled there quite comfortably, when we got a shock phone call: the dinner was off again this year! Someone who had been entrusted with organising numbers and tickets and so on had got the date wrong, and in fact the supper would be taking place a week from today. We all met up and tried to analyse what had happened, but the long and the short of it was that we had to revert to the same Plan B as last year, and various people went in different directions searching for haggises, swedes, cheese and wine... and a couple of hours later there we all were, in our best bib and tucker, at Chris and Jane's again, with Ian this year addressing the "great chieftain o' the puddin'-race". The meal was once more very fine, and the merriment continued until really rather late when Dave, Mike, Steve and I got a taxi back to Hartington Grove, leaving Ian and the others to their own devices.
It was a good evening by any standard, but the awful cock-up had I think affected everyone to a greater or lesser degree and meant emotions were a little mixed, and people's reactions varied considerably. We also thought about other people who had, we later learned, actually arrived at Peterhouse itself only to discover the meal was off - people who couldn't be contacted to let them know. How did they eat?
After this and a search for a working cash machine, we retired to a pub. We had settled there quite comfortably, when we got a shock phone call: the dinner was off again this year! Someone who had been entrusted with organising numbers and tickets and so on had got the date wrong, and in fact the supper would be taking place a week from today. We all met up and tried to analyse what had happened, but the long and the short of it was that we had to revert to the same Plan B as last year, and various people went in different directions searching for haggises, swedes, cheese and wine... and a couple of hours later there we all were, in our best bib and tucker, at Chris and Jane's again, with Ian this year addressing the "great chieftain o' the puddin'-race". The meal was once more very fine, and the merriment continued until really rather late when Dave, Mike, Steve and I got a taxi back to Hartington Grove, leaving Ian and the others to their own devices.
It was a good evening by any standard, but the awful cock-up had I think affected everyone to a greater or lesser degree and meant emotions were a little mixed, and people's reactions varied considerably. We also thought about other people who had, we later learned, actually arrived at Peterhouse itself only to discover the meal was off - people who couldn't be contacted to let them know. How did they eat?
links:
address
to a haggis
With
both of us off work today we packed a bag and set off for Cambridge for
this year's attempt at having a Burns' Night Supper at Peterhouse. Last
year we bought djs and all the associated paraphernalia, only to discover
when we'd got there that some disgruntled employee of the college had
deliberately double-booked the room, so we had a substitute meal at Chris
and Jane's. Anyway, this year looked much more hopeful, and we checked
in with Ian at Hartington Grove as he was starting to prepare the evening
meal, before all heading off to meet the rest of the crowd at a pub (free
house). Back afterwards to the house for a very fine bolognese and plenty
of wine.
When
describing the fact that Prince Harry is to join the Household Cavalry,
why did the BBC not only mention that Andrew Parker-Bowles was an ex-member,
but also that James Hewitt had been? I mean we all know the rumours about
Harry, but it was an odd thing to actually mention, unless a point is
somehow being made...
Had the slightly bizarre experience tonight of driving round a roundabout the wrong way, due to some roadworks at the top of our road, where temporary traffic lights are blocking off half the island.
Had the slightly bizarre experience tonight of driving round a roundabout the wrong way, due to some roadworks at the top of our road, where temporary traffic lights are blocking off half the island.
I'm
in a seaside town in the south of England, and I truly believe that this
time I have surpassed myself with my choice of hotel. I have an enormous
room with a sea view, and there are various doors leading off the room
containing nothing more exciting than some coat hangers or an iron; however
one of them opens to reveal... an entire pine sauna cabin!
Tonight we watched White Mischief, which was my choice of film as Steve
had picked out Sahara last night. I last saw it at the cinema when it
first came out in 1987, and of course it contains my favourite line ever:
"Oh God, not another f***ing beautiful day."
What I thought most remarkable as I watched the film was that I remembered
back when it came out, seeing Joss Ackland as a very, very old man. I
mean I was only twenty in the summer of 1987; but now I saw him as - well
yes, clearly a man older than me, but not that old!
Well, the TV works fine here, despite having a very silly remote control
with only channel up/down and volume up/down buttons, so by the time you've
cycled through sixteen channels and you want BBC1 again, you have to go
'down' 15 times. And Big Brother isn't on.
Unfortunately I didn't discover until checking in that all the rooms here are non-smoking. And this one certainly seems to be a mobile phone-free zone too, except on the window sill. There is wi-fi (just) but sadly it's chargeable. I must start a project to find the best deal for a roaming account.
But the best bit about this room is... no, not the bottles of Highland Spring, or the little bottles of moisturiser in the bathroom "sumptuous with carrot root oil". Or even the luxurious shower cubicle. The best bit is... the LA-Z-BOY™ reclining leather armchair, with electric mechanism!
Unfortunately I didn't discover until checking in that all the rooms here are non-smoking. And this one certainly seems to be a mobile phone-free zone too, except on the window sill. There is wi-fi (just) but sadly it's chargeable. I must start a project to find the best deal for a roaming account.
But the best bit about this room is... no, not the bottles of Highland Spring, or the little bottles of moisturiser in the bathroom "sumptuous with carrot root oil". Or even the luxurious shower cubicle. The best bit is... the LA-Z-BOY™ reclining leather armchair, with electric mechanism!
This is awful, but... I'm in a hotel room, the TV doesn't work very well
so I've been flicking channels while eating my room service sandwiches,
and somehow I've found myself watching Celebrity Big Brother. And the
bit that's bad is, I'm finding it rather compulsively watchable. I mean,
it's utter trash of course, and very very annoying when they keep cutting
the sound to some chirping birds (at midnight? yeah right), but there's
something beyond crap TV reception that's preventing me from switching
off or over.
I don't even know who most of the 'celebrities' are. Well obviously that Galloway w**ker is all over the news, and Rula Lenska is lovely (if apparently a little haughty - and wasn't she married to Dennis Waterman?), and there's Barrymore... But there also appears to be some sort of transsexual/transvestite, loads of others I've never even seen (one is called 'Maggot' apparently), and then there's a rather gorgeous young man called Preston. Corrr! He's a bit fey when he's chatting, but has a wonderfully dangerous look about him when he's watching other people, and I seem to be rather too drawn to him. Cold shower needed!
Ad break: "Hi I'm Kim Wilde, and I and my family regularly shop at Holland & Barrett". Yes - we wouldn't recognise you now if you didn't tell us. And then Stephen Fry, Tony Robinson, Rik Mayall and Geoffrey Palmer all doing voice-overs on ads. Aarrgh!
Anyway... time for bed.
I don't even know who most of the 'celebrities' are. Well obviously that Galloway w**ker is all over the news, and Rula Lenska is lovely (if apparently a little haughty - and wasn't she married to Dennis Waterman?), and there's Barrymore... But there also appears to be some sort of transsexual/transvestite, loads of others I've never even seen (one is called 'Maggot' apparently), and then there's a rather gorgeous young man called Preston. Corrr! He's a bit fey when he's chatting, but has a wonderfully dangerous look about him when he's watching other people, and I seem to be rather too drawn to him. Cold shower needed!
Ad break: "Hi I'm Kim Wilde, and I and my family regularly shop at Holland & Barrett". Yes - we wouldn't recognise you now if you didn't tell us. And then Stephen Fry, Tony Robinson, Rik Mayall and Geoffrey Palmer all doing voice-overs on ads. Aarrgh!
Anyway... time for bed.
links:
steve's
blog
Did you see that episode of Doctor Who where one of the characters was
eaten by a wheelie bin? We are having our own battle with the not-so-little
plastic monsters... Three of them turned up a couple of weeks ago and
when we phoned the Council to ask why (we have a bin room where rubbish
is deposited in black bags, and the bin men take it away every week),
they said the delivery of bins had been a mistake and they would collect
them. Then we were told we did have to use them, despite the fact that
the bin room has a step into it so they can't easily be wheeled out (which
is rather the point of... erm... wheelie bins). And, whilst the three
bins just about fill the room, they don't look big enough to hold fifteen
properties' weekly rubbish... So then they tried to deliver six more -
I kid you not, six more - today. Fortunately I intercepted the men with
the lorry and made them take them away again. As we keep saying, why change
a perfectly good system which has worked here for about thirty-five years?
All in the name of progress, I should imagine...
links:
wheelie
bin eats mickey
Well the tree is down, so Christmas is over.
Note to self: must drink lots of Baileys - there's still the remains of a bottle from last year (still in date) and we were given another one this year with some rather funky glasses.
Note to self: must drink lots of Baileys - there's still the remains of a bottle from last year (still in date) and we were given another one this year with some rather funky glasses.
Am I being a sad old cynic, or are all the posters I keep seeing on buses
for dating websites anything to do with a perception that family stresses
over Christmas means lots of people are looking for new partners?
Up late, and a restocking trip to the huge Tesco a mile or so down the
road from us. It's grown vastly since the last time I was there, and presents
a rather scary vision of the future of shopping, if you ask me. Not to
mention a bit of a worry for the company I work for...
Well,
another year begins. Hope it's good for you, wherever you are.
Weren't the fireworks in London spectacular last night? We phoned Salisbury at midnight and wished everyone a Happy New Year, and got to speak to Duncan as well, who we'd missed when we were down.
Then not much sleep and up again for our trip to Alconbury to spend the day with Sue, Simon, and the delightful Maddie and Sam, who did seem to rather like their presents (or they were being more polite than 2- and 4-year olds have any right to be).
Weren't the fireworks in London spectacular last night? We phoned Salisbury at midnight and wished everyone a Happy New Year, and got to speak to Duncan as well, who we'd missed when we were down.
Then not much sleep and up again for our trip to Alconbury to spend the day with Sue, Simon, and the delightful Maddie and Sam, who did seem to rather like their presents (or they were being more polite than 2- and 4-year olds have any right to be).