From hero to zero

I've got a bad habit. One I'm ashamed of. I'd like to give it up but I can't. I started it knowing I could handle it, but now I'm just obsessed.

I'm refering to the little site meter perched somewhere in the nether regions of the sidebar. I put it there because I wanted to know where my vistors were from...and even who they might be. And I'm delighted to have had vistors from every corner of the globe - Australia, Japan, Korea, Saudi Arabia, Chile, The Philipines, Obamaland, Canada and so on. Some come because they're looking for my blog, some arrive but dint of an erroneous Google search. An early example was the search for men and boys, then there was a few drawn by my mention of jingle bells, and last week someone searching for a cure for panic attacks. And that's all nice and I'm delighted to welcome anyone even if tey don't stay very long.

But the problem is, the meter creates a big chart of how many visitors have been and gone. Now, I'm not competitive in any way shape or form, but I do run a business, and whilst I don't know much, I do know that when a chart goes up that's good, and when it goes down, that's bad. And so I check the chart on a daily basis, just to see the month's progress. I don't want to, I just can't help it. It's especially bad because I started Don't Panic RTFM just for me so I don't forget things that I inevitably will as time goes by....and that is still very much the case. But, I can't help wanting to see the chart grow and grow. Of course today, the 1st of the month is as bad as it can get...as the monthly bar starts at 0 on the stroke of midnight.

I've given up tea and coffee for Lent - perhaps I shoud've given up my Sitemeter. Perhaps I should delete it, but then I'd never know who my foreigh visitors are Perhaps I should go to Sitemeter Addicts Anonymous.

Hush

Peace and quiet had descended over the home. Or at least an eerie silence. The boy departed on the school classics trip to Sorrento at 4.00 am Saturday morning. He felt the need to rise at 3.00, where as I had a leisurely lie-in until 3.30. Although the schoolis normally within easy walking distance, at that time of day it certainly wasn't. So we drove, having scraped the ice off the windscreen, and it took all of two minutes to get there. I apologise immediately to the environment for my selfish actions in adding unnecesary pollution, but I was tired and cold. All the other parents were gathered. Well actually, all the mums were gathered...clearly the dads had more sense. It's good to see that we live in a world of equality, and no sexual stereotyping exists at all. Whatsoever. In any way. Still, many of them are taking the opportunity to have a few days a way in warm foreign climes whilst their little treasures disgrace themselves in Italy. Foolishly I've allowed work to come before pleasure so will be in the office bright and early on Monday morning.

I returned home, but not to bed. Instead I elected to have hot drink (still on the caffeine free binge until Easter), hot shower, and then jumped on the motorbike to ride to Brighton...about twice as far as I've ever ridden before...so I'm not quite up to going round the world...just yet. It was early enough that I enjoyed the sunrise as I came over the Thames at the Dartford Crossing whilst mother nature did her best to blow me the several hundred (do I exagerate?) feet off the bridge and into the water. I arrived in one piece in Brighton to be met by a scene of indescribable destruction.

Yes, foolishly, I've had electricians in during our absence and a job that was supposed to last four days has already stretched to two weeks, and by the state of the place will go on for at least another seven days. (I know Laura you told me not to do this sort of thing again, but old habits die hard). The flat's on two floors, and the lower one had no power, and there was no TV signal to be found anywhere.

Unfortunately I couldn't head for bed, as I had more visitors due - a decorator, a floor layer and an Italian polished plasterer...all to give quotes. Two out of the three materialised, so at around 11 a.m. my bed beckoned. I rematerailised sometime in the afternoon, but in a completely befuddled state, in which I remained for the rest of the day and evening. So I wasn't much company at Moshi Moshi, but hey ho.

Sunday didn't help, with that lost hour taking it's toll...and now I can't work out whether my lovely Aussie friend is an hour closer or an hour further away. And no doubt by the time I've worked it out, it'll be time to put the clocks back again.

Back in Buckhurst Hill, I realise I've suffered from premature evacuation. It turns out that Jade Goody's funeral and the ensuing media circus is next Saturday, not this one, so my cunning plan to spend the time away has been in vein. I need to come up with plan B, and so far the best I can think of is to ring the TV companies and offer to allow them to park on my drive for an apropriate fee. Or perhaps offer tea and cakes to all those poor journalists who will have to stand outside whilst the service goes on in the church itself. So at £1 a cuppa and biscuits 25p each, I may yet find that I too can join the vultures and turn a profit out of this whole ghastly affair.

Oh and I should mention there was a message on my answer machine froma fellow parent tasked with letting me know the boy and his comrades in arms have all arrived safely. Good to know, even if it's forecast to rain there for the next week.

Soldier, soldier

The boy and his Dad have been somewhat troubled by him remaining unrewarded for all his exertions for the school. He's played rugby for the first and second teams, and swum in the junior team...but no 'Colours'. He's won the javelin during school sports two years on the trot. He's top of the class in history (when he wants to be) and also in English...but nothing to collect on Prize Day.

So we are very much delighted that he has been awarded 'Most promising Cadet' for his efforts since joining the CCF.

Stand tall and proud young man!

Death is all around

At the moment it feels that we're surounded by death...but fortunately not quite touched by it.

Natasha Richardson was very sad, leaving two teen kids and a grieving husband. Having bought a ski helmet for the first time this year, after some twenty years on the slopes,I have become something of an evangelist on the subject. And it could have been so different for her if only she'd worn a helmet. In most resorts now they're fashionable as well as safe. So I hope that anyone who read about her untimely passing, and heads off to the slopes either buys or rents some brain protection. For the boy, it's been required ski wear since the moment he first strapped some wooden planks to his feet, and now it's second nature to him.

I didn't initially pay too much attention to to the disappearance of Jude Richmond her and disabled daughter Millie. It seemed a sad piece of news and there was a sense that the search would end in only one way (as indeed it has). However, the radio was on in the office, and the news team were interviewing the ex-husband. The voice was immediately recognisable to me, and so I checked the story out on the web. Sure enough, it was someone I used to work with and I well remember the trauma of Millie's birth. A sad start to life and a tragic end, but from what I know the bit in the middle was joyous.

Lastly, the death of the year is Jade Goody. Whilst I thought her celebrity status was the ultimate comment on the vacuousness of our celeb-culture, I can't help but feel for anyone who doesn't live beyond 27 years...and her two small children. Her funeral will take place at a church just 150 yards from our house, and curiously she was brought up in Bermondsey where my office is.

So Mr Grim Reaper, no more death for a little while please

Harsh Dad

I seem to be out of kilter with the parental norms here in deepest Essex.

A couple of years ago, whilst sitting in an Austrian bar, the parents of a 17 year-old were saying how difficult they were finding it to stop him smoking. "We just don't know how he can afford it" they chimed. At that moment he walks in, and is duly handed the 15 euros he asked for. I wonder what he spent them on?

Last night I was chatting to a fellow parent and mentioned that as the Boy's attention to schoolwork has slipped somewhat, he was banned from MSN until after the school trip to Sorrento. "Oh I don't think I could get away with that" she said.

The Boy has a mobile phone allowance, and if he goes over it, he has to pay me double what the phone company charges. It seems a good way to encourage him to keep a check on how many texts and minutes he has left. "What a good idea, I wish I could do that" said another parent recently.

The boy gets pocket money - paid monthly into his bank account. He can spend what's in the account and no more.

"They all go down Starbucks and have a coffee and muffin, and that's £5 gone. Still I wouldn't want to stop her, so I give her extra" was the conversation with another mum. Well if the boy's got £5 he can go, and if not he can't. I remember Grandma in Cyprus lecturing us about the value of money. I hope the boy learns young. After all when he's 18 he inherits a goodly chunk from his mum, and neither of us can afford it going to his head.

All his friends have quite elaborate birthday parties, to which the guests bring a card and a present. Strangely (I think) the present consists of £5 notes. One child managed to accumulate over £500 from his friends gifts. The boy is banned from that - I make him find a present that's right for the person, although I will allow a book token or iTunes voucher.

I wonder if I'm just a grumpy old Dad.

Photo tag

I was tagged by the lovely Rosiero who writes a very brave and interesting blog http://alcoholicdaze.blogspot.com

The tag is to find the fourth photo in the fourth folder and tell the story behind it. Then I'm supposed to nominate four more. As usual, and just to be awkward, I'm going to do it a little differently...Grandma says its because I'm cussid, whilst I like to think I'm creative. Er erm.

Anyway, this is roughly the 4th of the 4th (depending on which way up I hold the computer), and I've waited roughly 4 weeks to do this...so hopefully that gets me out of nominating four more - but if you want to take up the challenge, please do just to get me out of this hole which I've dug for myself.

And here's the photo. As you can see it's been taken on a somewhat damp and overcast day. You may have guessed its Brighton beach. This is our annual gathering of friends and always takes place on the beach come rain or shine...and on this occasion it chose to shower...so the picnic courtesy of Monsieur Marks et Spencer got a little soggy.

On the far left is Adam, and then his daughter and wife. I met Adam through work, and we started a brainstorming group - meeting once a month at a tip top restaurant which also sold fireplaces (yes). Our best idea...and one that has on various occasions nearly come to fruition was to put a restaurant on the top deck of a London Double-Decker...a two hour tour with meal. Earned me a place on Dragons Den, but I ducked out last minute.

Then we have 'Fiercely competitive Dad'...who's very nice when he's not being competitive...and now his eldest daughter is faster than him on the ski slope, perhaps he'll relax a bit. Next to him is his youngest daughter who's anything but competitive. Further along is eldest daughter in the red stripey shirt...previously featured in our holiday photos. Only fifteen but probably devours boys for breakfast.

Sitting down is 'Mr Museum Designer'...yes he really dose that for a living. What a great job - I'd like to do that when I grow up. His wife says he's very grumpy. And he is, but he bares it with good humour. He's also very good at beach rounders - a game we play that drives everyone else off the beach.

The head behind the wall is the boy. You know him. He's probably with the daughters of Man Taking the Picture. I'm not sure they should be left alone together for so long.

And there I am, with now ex girlfriend. I'm 5'9", and she's 6', so she always looked down on me. Really lovely, sweet person. She's moved to Switzerland; I have another ex girlfriend who moved to Alaska. Surely it would be easier just to say they don't want to see me any more?

Next is ex-girlfriend of Man Taking Picture. There seems to be a lot of exes in this picture.

At the end is Wife of Mr Museum Designer (and her youngest), known in her own right as Ms Design PR. She was an angel when I first started up and for ten years we have been the greatest of friends, and always had a joint company Christmas celebration until a couple of years ago when at the very last minute she decided she preferred to go Xmas shopping in New York, causing our usual plans to fall into disarray; we've barely spoken since. Perhaps I should stop sulking.

There's another picture with us all smiling...after all why should a little rain stop a typical english picnic

When the weather improves in July, you're all invited.

Tow the line

I was once asked if I was to go somewhere interesting would I travel by motorway or country road. And when I return which route would I take. Evidently getting there by country road and coming back by motorway means I fall in love slowly, but fall out of love quickly. Be warned.

Completely unrelated, sort of, I spent most of last summer cycling the twelve and a half miles to work. I spent ages checking the maps to see which was the quickest route, and taking my life in my hands (or pedals) I've been following that route ever since. Its not very beautiful but it's quick - I do it in just under an hour. So this year I feel the need to find a different route. And I have. It makes the journey another four miles longer in each direction. But it's beautiful - I can take the path along the canal all the way from the Lea Valley Road to the Rotherhithe tunnel. And then coming back I can follow a slightly different route up the Regents Canal. I cannot believe the peace and tranquility to be found when going through some of the roughest and noisiest parts of smokey London. Simply stunning...here are some the siights to be seen:





Beautiful Bow Bridge



There'll be tears at bedtime



It really is the Olympic Stadium going up



Beauty in destruction



Brilliant grafitti



Another sort of crane



Methinks there used to be more



Duck!



Roadworks everywhere



Rotherhithe Tunnel...you can cycle through if you can hold your breath long enough



Amazing wrought iron stairs halfway through the tunnel



Three Mills



Recycle everything



Another crack in the wall



Some grafitti is stunning



Old Ford lock (I think)



What a character!







They used to make Matchbox toys here



The lock at Lea Valley

So if asked the same question now I would have to say...by slow boat in both directions

Happy Anniversay to me

Yesterday was the first anniversary of me starting blogging.

I spotted it today.

Dang! how I hate missing anniversaries.

Although Grandma in Cyprus will happily point out that hell will feeze over when I remember to send her a birthday card on time.

Poetry in motion

This Friday, the boy is going to his girlfriend's birthday party. It's just dawned on me that she'll be 14, and he's still a baby 13. Toy boy! He'll never live it down.

If I have my way.

The impending party meant that last w/e was largely taken up with trawling the shops for a suitable present. I had to guide him away from the ski maintenance shop...on the basis that that was a present that he might want, not her. Surprisingly he agreed. Better add that to his birthday list. I did suggest a ski hat with fur...but he didn't think that was quite right. We wandered into gift shops, gadget shops and every other kind of shop. Eventually I suggested a book might be an idea. He suggested the antique bookshop.

So off we went, and we spent hours amongst the dusty cobwebs until he found a beautifully bound book by Walter Scott. A book of poetry. They may not be love poems, but they are poetry. The perfect present. And just £5 to boot.

Hope she enjoys it. A truly romantic gesture. Say aaaaah....

On a plate

I don't want another baby...one was enough work thank you very much. But this appeared on the gadget website Gizmodo and I just felt it has a place in my life. I'm not sure where. Perhaps I have to wait for the boy to grow up and have his own children. But until then it can reside here, just because I think it's a great idea and would have made my life so much easier 13 years ago.

Here's what they said:

Labeled as "gravity-defying," this spill-resistant bowl uses gyroscopes to avoid spillage, no matter which way kids turn, tip and flip it. Impressive, but I'm sure I can still find ways to create a mess.

In fact, the other day as a kid—while eating my sugary breakfast cereal—I would jump on my bed with my bowl still in hand: Spillage. Then there were those times I'd throw my bowl across the room when my mom would make me eat brussels sprouts: Spillage. Granted, those bowls didn't have the same type of technology, but gravity-defying? The Loopa gyroscope-equipped bowls probably would only be able to resist spilling to an extent, but anything involving kids and food cannot be 100% spill-resistant, can it?

Although it seems like just another gadget for gullible mothers, with a $8.95 price tag, it still might actually be worth giving the Loopa spill-resistant bowl a shot.

can't cook won't cook

We've been working hard over the last year to make meals more interesting...I used to cook a reasonable amount, but when I was single and living alone, my cullinary skills deteriorated to opening boxes from Sainsbury's. With the boy around creating something has become a challenge. The boy himself has always enjoyed being in the kitchen...and encouraged by his mum he used to rustle up pizza from raw ingredients, could bake a cake and probably if pushed boil an egg.

I can't remember whether Grandma in Cyprus ever tried to pass on her culinary skills to either of her offspring, but I do remember her keeping herself busy in the kitchen. I do recall the odd Vesta meal...which were all the rage in the new age of pre-prepared meals. They were indeed odd. I also remember that she would occasionally serve tinned ravioli to her two boys. In those days...or maybe it was just her way of doing things...the trick was to warm the tin gently in a saucepan of boiling water. One day she got distracted, leaving the saucpean to boil dry - redecorating the entire kitchen with Heinz sauce, pasta and meat. In the interests of getting fed the next time we head off to Cyprus, I will point out that Grandma in Cyprus now serves delicious, fresh, beautifully prepared meals.

the boy's repertoir is now heading towards student meal fodder....beans on toast and so on. But he has developed an enviable ability to cook a mean stir fry. His technique seems to be to empty everything from the cupboard into the frying pan, but the end result is always delicious. But it does take me a couple hours to clear up after him.....(perhaps he's learnt the GinC ravioli technique)

Last week we bought everything he needed for chilli con carne, and in an overt demonstration of 'I have complete faith in you' I left him to it. I should mention that unlike most men he has the ability to multi-task...so whilst cooking he was also chatting to his girlriend on the phone. 40 minutes later I was summoned for supper. There was one missing ingredient. Rice. Completely abandoned. So the water was put on and 20 minutes later I was summoned. Fabulous. But one other missing ingredient. Chilli. So we had a delicious meal of chilli con carne sans chilli.

As they say, practice makes perfect.

Responsible parenting

Last night was open evening at the boy's school. Parents and pupils of the Lower Fourth (public school talk I'm afraid, and sorry no idea what that is in the real world...he's half way through his third year). We were summoned as part of the process to choose GCSE's...although we've had the form for a couple of months now.

But it was a chance to listen to a very stiff master explain everything in the minutest detail. All the children (Children? most of them tower way over me) take 10 GCSEs. And not more. And they can only take the courses on offer. Evidently it's all about texturing. Which I've translated as this is the best way of ensuring the school achieves the best grades irrespective of what pupils and parents might want. Still no reason to be petty about it eh?

After the short speech, we all had the opportunity of visiting the sixth form common room where each subject had an exhibition stand. There was also wine and nibbles on offer to sustain us through the evening.

What I hadn't expected was that each teacher was desperately flogging their wares. I dread to think of the atmosphere in the staff room before and afterwards. Even the Reverend was pitching RE as the best foundation for a legal career...it's all about morals you see. Not that I can see any relevance to the legal profession myself.

I should now point out that the boy had firmly decided his options a couple of months ago, so he decided to treat it as a social event. Not to be outdone, I thought I should too, so headed to the bar, where I spent the evening pouring a fine red wine (well the fees are high enough to pay for it) down my throat. I should now also point out that I'm not much of a drinker. So I was enjoying myself....and did manage to engage one or two of the teachers and plenty of other worried looking parents in animated conversation. Though never about geography or history or Latin, or anything else which vaguely resembled academia.

The boy came over and suggested I "chat up...erm I mean chat to" his German teacher. At this point I should also mention that she had once attended an Old Boys dinner, and two of us had mistaken her for a girl that had been at the school at the same time as us. She had been HOT STUFF. In our drunken stupor we failed to notice that she was in her twenties, a couple of decades off the age she would be if she really was HOT STUFF. So we had engaged in earnest chatting up mode, as if we were still 14. She humoured us and has continued to do so ever since. Foolishly I had told the boy this story. And I'm glad to say she continued to humour me last night.

So the evening passed in a jolly way. The boy claims that in true St Trinians fashion the headmaster (she doesn't use the term mistress)was sozzled too..I'm not so sure. But given my head this morning I'm probably not in a position to judge.

The boy escorted me home with me keeping in a pretty straightish line. I'm pretty sure I didn't disgrace myself. I think.

Anyway its a great school. Really.

RTFM

Picture added for The Dotterel

You may remember the enormous motorbike I bought earlier this year. It's big fast and orange. And made in Austria by KTM. Although one dear friend has renamed it the MLC. You may wish to work that out for yourself. Its 1000cc engine is a bit of a step up from the 125cc Vespa I've been riding around on for the last six or so years.

I like cars, and I like bikes, but I don't really know very much about them. What I do know is what I think of as the basics...you know, generally a car has it's engine at the front (although I do have one that's put the engine behind your head), a wheel at each corner and so on. Dashboards are fairly straightforward..big dial in the middle that tells you by how much you're breaking the speed limit, a needle that tells you how hot the engine is (why should I care about that) and another needle that lets you know if you'll be pushing your precious car to the garage.

I have occasionally ventured under the bonnet of my various cars...changing spark plugs on a Cortina who's engine bay was illuminated like Blackpool Pleasure Beach because one of them was cracked, filled up the radiator when an engine got thirsty and topping up the oil on an MG (errr well MG Metro anyway) which could barely reach the end of the road without needing another litre of the golden stuff. Imagine how it faired on regular trips to see my Scottish girlfriend when I was living in Coventry.

However, it seems that motorbikes may be a little different. The dashboard..sorry instrument panel is hi-tech digital. So I know precisely whether I'm doing 29 or 31 in the city. I was somewhat confused by the fuel guage...a series of bars, a bit like the bars on your mobile phone that tells you how strong the signal is. The strange thing is it obstinately stays somewhere between half and three quarters full. Even when the fuel warning light comes on. Once consulted, the manual revealed that this is not in fact the fuel guage, but is indeed the temperature guage. Which should stay somewhere in the middle.

I spotted that there's a translucent tank with minimum and maximum markings on. The water was slightly below the minimum mark. And as I know this is not the windscreen washer bottle, I thought I should top it up. It's attached to the radiator, so taking the cap off and pouring anti-freeze in seemed the right course to take. Wrong. The fluid just doesnt go down. I rang the garage, "Can I ask a stupid question?" "That's what we're here for" they say. Well OBVIOUSLY you have to unscrew and remove two side panels to get to the cap to refill the tank. And if you put water directly in the radiator you'll cause an airlock, my brother says. Doh!

The manual is not half as interesting as Che Guevara's diaries which I'm reading at the moment. And I've not even got to the bit about the chain yet. Perhaps I should have started with his motorcycles diaries, and not his exploits in Cuba...

Crisis

We have a major crisis at home, which I think puts the banking crisis into perspective. I was surprised this morning that when I picked up the papers, it hadn't made the front page, pushing Gaza, the banks, Fred the Shred and Jade Goddie to their rightful place on page 7.

The boy has had a haircut and it's too short. Once upon a time, we used to go into the barbers and he'd ask to have a trim, about half an inch of the mop to drop on the hairdressers floor, so I took to standing behind and indicating the right length to make sure we got value for money.

However, that seemed to cause a degree of friction.

In fact more friction than the Shuttle faces when it returns to Cape Canaveral.

So I stopped doing it.

But this time, the barber took it on himslef to make the boy look smart. And indeed he does. But I think there are two issues, and I'm not sure which is the most important.

"Why didn't he do what I told him?" says the boy. Well don't ask me...you were managing this project all by yourself. You need to take charge, exert your leadership skills.

And the boy is very proud of his mop...so even though it looks so much better under his army cadet cap (which he's very pleased about), he doesn't like it. And he'll have his leg pulled rotten when he goes through the school gate this morning.

And don't you dare say it'll grow back. BECAUSE THAT IS A RIDICULOUS THING TO SAY.

So if you could just organise some aid convoys to our house, that would be appreciated. Thank you very muchly.