Well after many, many pieces of advice (and they will all come in for anniversaries and Christmases to come), I found a present to suit the boy. A video camera that he can attach to his helmet, when cycling skiing or erm even swimming. An enormous sigh of relief to discover that I made the right choice....it was opened straight away and taken to school to film hoodlum things. I felt I was GOOD DAD for taking him breakfast in bed - it's just that he's not used to me standing in his door and bellowing his name to wake him up...so the poor lad fair hit the ceiling in shock/fright.
The evening was taken up with a trip to Brixton to see Doves (not THE Doves, evidently they don't like that). We were accompanied by Auntie Gwen who probably describes it far better than me. Even if I did enjoy torturing her by insisting we drove with the roof down, and could feed her paranoia that everyone was looking at us. The boy brought his best mate from school and a jolly time was had by all; even if the journey (in both directions) was a little more challenging than it should have been. Ag may have missed out some of the highlights - passing through 'Ackney Lay'on and Dawstun, cruising past my favourite strip club...not that I've ever been there, I just like the neon sign, and being waved at by a rather large man who felt the need to stop his BMW alongside ours (he was travelling in the opposite direction) and raise his middle finger in greeting.
The strangest thing about the gig...and it was a good one for sure...was the constant stream of people heading out to either the bar or the toilets...or perhaps it was both. Any ho, I managed to restrain myself from telling them all to sit down and just enjoy the music. Of course, I was only jealous because as driver I couldn't indulge.
So that's one birthday over for another year. Grandma in Cyprus is next...fortunately, no present buying challenges there. But I do hope that for the first time in living memory I'll remember to send her card in time. I won't but I can hope...I think she knows better and has come to realise that her offspring are an ungrateful bunch
Monday, 4 May 2009
Wednesday, 29 April 2009
Help!
Disaster looms as the boy's fourteenth birthday is on Friday. I'm delighted it's one step closer to him no longer being a teenager (yes I know there's plenty of years left to fill yet)...but I have no idea whatsoever, at all, in any way, shape or form of what to get him by way of a birthday present. My levels of despair are sent plummeting yet further with polite texts and requests from friends and family alike asking for suggestions. At least it means I am not alone, and hopefully if the ship of presents goes down, we'll all go down together. It's not helped by my self-imposed rule of not giving money or vouchers....I got enough of those as a youngster, so I have to just have to find something that is interesting, inspiring and will be appreciated.
It's not that I've not thought about it. I have, good and plenty. Morning noon and night. For months on end. But all to no avail. At this rate it might just be a mangled card which has been sitting in the garage shop for the last ten years, and a can of Castrol GTX.
Oh no, oh no, oh no.
It's not that I've not thought about it. I have, good and plenty. Morning noon and night. For months on end. But all to no avail. At this rate it might just be a mangled card which has been sitting in the garage shop for the last ten years, and a can of Castrol GTX.
Oh no, oh no, oh no.
Sunday, 26 April 2009
A question of perspective
This was an ad from The Guardian a couple of decades ago...actually more like three decades, probably.
It's remained a favourite, and I'm a daily Guardian reader to this day.
The boy has started his own blog...and if you look closely on my sidebar you'll find it listed. I give him free reign to read my blog (lord help me) and I read his from top to bottom. Usually I'll write my thing and he'll write his. Just occasionally our paths will cross. As it has done on this occasion.
Of course it's all a question of perspective. And if you can see two sides of an argument, you probably get the full picture.
It's remained a favourite, and I'm a daily Guardian reader to this day.
The boy has started his own blog...and if you look closely on my sidebar you'll find it listed. I give him free reign to read my blog (lord help me) and I read his from top to bottom. Usually I'll write my thing and he'll write his. Just occasionally our paths will cross. As it has done on this occasion.
Of course it's all a question of perspective. And if you can see two sides of an argument, you probably get the full picture.
Friday, 24 April 2009
Dads are rubbish
Having been posting for a round a year or so, I've had plenty of opportunity of seeing and reading loads of interesting blogs. One of the things that quickly became really obvious is that men and women are different. I know at my age (37, exactly the same as it has been for many, many years) I should have spotted that sooner, but sometimes I'm just not that observant. I am, after all, just a bloke.
Sweeping generalisations are always open to savage criticism, but hey ho, here we go. I am, after all not criticising, just making some observations. Women seem to be far more supportive than men...especially of other women, but in general as well. So when someone posts a dilema they're facing, comments made by women, are warm, gentle and supportive, where as the men use humour in a more deprecating way....I know, I do it myself. I'm so funny, I make myself laugh. But not necessarily anyone else.
There always seems to be a 'female/Mums blogging festival' going on somewhere, where as in the last year, I think 've only seen one for men/Dads...thank you Sticky Fingers. So the knowledge, bonhomie and camaraderie between women grows. Perhaps men don't need it, and that explains why we can go down the pub, share no more than a few grunts, yet have a great evening. Women are so engrossed in each other's conversations, that they have to continue them in the loo.
So it comes as a joy to find that sometimes Dads need to bond, and lo and behold there is Dad Club. http://dadclub.ning.com A place for Dad's to share stuff and other stuff. Of course, the first thing you'll notice is that it's not as busy as Piccadilly Circus, and it lacks a feminine touch...no cushions or pink things. But its a great place just to drop in. But you don't have to say anything...just the odd grunt or swear word will do. Just like the pub really. Now if only it had a pool table.
Sweeping generalisations are always open to savage criticism, but hey ho, here we go. I am, after all not criticising, just making some observations. Women seem to be far more supportive than men...especially of other women, but in general as well. So when someone posts a dilema they're facing, comments made by women, are warm, gentle and supportive, where as the men use humour in a more deprecating way....I know, I do it myself. I'm so funny, I make myself laugh. But not necessarily anyone else.
There always seems to be a 'female/Mums blogging festival' going on somewhere, where as in the last year, I think 've only seen one for men/Dads...thank you Sticky Fingers. So the knowledge, bonhomie and camaraderie between women grows. Perhaps men don't need it, and that explains why we can go down the pub, share no more than a few grunts, yet have a great evening. Women are so engrossed in each other's conversations, that they have to continue them in the loo.
So it comes as a joy to find that sometimes Dads need to bond, and lo and behold there is Dad Club. http://dadclub.ning.com A place for Dad's to share stuff and other stuff. Of course, the first thing you'll notice is that it's not as busy as Piccadilly Circus, and it lacks a feminine touch...no cushions or pink things. But its a great place just to drop in. But you don't have to say anything...just the odd grunt or swear word will do. Just like the pub really. Now if only it had a pool table.
Tuesday, 21 April 2009
Who am I?
For a few short months between the rigours of school and the laxness of university I shared an office with someone who had the same name as me. Given that my name is neither Smith nor Brown, that was quite a coincidence.
This week, google launched something called 'similar images' which allows users to look for images that are visually similar to an existing result. For some reason this fascinated me, so I wanted to give it a go. Naturally I don't google my name very often (erm), but in this instance I wondered what might pop out of the digital ether. So here's a selction of people who share my identity on google:
I'm not bald, nor do I wear glases (anymore). And is that a vest?
Watch out Lewis Hamilton
Running for the bus probably
I'm always smiling
I wish I could
Award winning
It'll be the Mandarin link
I could never master the recorder let alone a saxophone
Getting down
No, I don't know either
At the back, still not me, and still wearing a vest
A tattoo? Are you kidding me
NB the DJ
This week, google launched something called 'similar images' which allows users to look for images that are visually similar to an existing result. For some reason this fascinated me, so I wanted to give it a go. Naturally I don't google my name very often (erm), but in this instance I wondered what might pop out of the digital ether. So here's a selction of people who share my identity on google:
I'm not bald, nor do I wear glases (anymore). And is that a vest?
Watch out Lewis Hamilton
Running for the bus probably
I'm always smiling
I wish I could
Award winning
It'll be the Mandarin link
I could never master the recorder let alone a saxophone
Getting down
No, I don't know either
At the back, still not me, and still wearing a vest
A tattoo? Are you kidding me
NB the DJ
Saturday, 18 April 2009
Postal strike
When I was a young lad I remember a postal strike. I can't remember what caused it, but I do remember that it went on for months and months and months...in the same way that summer holidays used to last for ever, and every day was sunny. I think the leader of the postal workers was called Tom and he had a fabulous handlebar moustache. The worst thing about the strike for me was that I used to get a science partwork sent to me on a regular basis...I guess it was every fortnight, but that detail slips my mind now. And with the strike, I didn't receive it. And that was very disappointing. Once the strike was resolved, it started arriving again, and for amny years afterwards, long after the series had finished, the arrival of the post was very exciting.
In more recent times, and as my face has become a little more wrinkled and other parts of my body have begun to sag, the post has taken on a different meaning. Usually it consists of just bills or junk mail, or bits of official correspondence. And as I increased the number of propoerties I own the amount of post has become a torrent of unwanted paperwork, filled with nothing but bad news (at worst) or uninteresting information.
As a result I've become increasingly reluctant to look through it, and I guess I've developed a fairly finely tuned sense of spotting which envelopes need to be opened and the contents actioned. I guess I get it right around 85% of the time; the 15% has led me into some fairly difficult situations often only resolved by a nasty fight with a government bureaucrat or banker. On one occasion though, an envelope I wouldn't normally have touched was accidently opened to reveal a cheque for £2000.
This year, the situation had reached a critical point, with a pile of unopened post that was about five foot high. Some dating back to the last millenium. So rather shamefacedly, I've just paid someone to open every envelope and sort the contents into manageable files - each flat has a file, and within that the various suppliers and organisations associated with it. There's a pile of miscellaneous stuff that should be kept, but isn't easily categorised.
Sadly no more cheques were found, but equally Gwen (no, not Auntie Gwen) hasn't come running up with any threatening writs either. It's a great relief to have it done; the house is tidier for it and I can clear my conscience too.
But I wonder now if I'll be able to pluck up the courage to open every piece of mail that pops through the letter box, and deal with promptly as I should. Answers on a postcard please.
In more recent times, and as my face has become a little more wrinkled and other parts of my body have begun to sag, the post has taken on a different meaning. Usually it consists of just bills or junk mail, or bits of official correspondence. And as I increased the number of propoerties I own the amount of post has become a torrent of unwanted paperwork, filled with nothing but bad news (at worst) or uninteresting information.
As a result I've become increasingly reluctant to look through it, and I guess I've developed a fairly finely tuned sense of spotting which envelopes need to be opened and the contents actioned. I guess I get it right around 85% of the time; the 15% has led me into some fairly difficult situations often only resolved by a nasty fight with a government bureaucrat or banker. On one occasion though, an envelope I wouldn't normally have touched was accidently opened to reveal a cheque for £2000.
This year, the situation had reached a critical point, with a pile of unopened post that was about five foot high. Some dating back to the last millenium. So rather shamefacedly, I've just paid someone to open every envelope and sort the contents into manageable files - each flat has a file, and within that the various suppliers and organisations associated with it. There's a pile of miscellaneous stuff that should be kept, but isn't easily categorised.
Sadly no more cheques were found, but equally Gwen (no, not Auntie Gwen) hasn't come running up with any threatening writs either. It's a great relief to have it done; the house is tidier for it and I can clear my conscience too.
But I wonder now if I'll be able to pluck up the courage to open every piece of mail that pops through the letter box, and deal with promptly as I should. Answers on a postcard please.
Thursday, 16 April 2009
On a knife edge
Yesterday on the morning of the boy's banishment we were chasing around trying to find some wrapping paper for Grandma in Wales' present. For some curious reason that meant I put my hand in his coat pocket (not an obvious place for wrapping paper I'll grant you). And therein lies our next problem.
A knife. No not a butter knife hidden away to avoid the washing up, but a full on 'blade'. Which locks into place to create a fearsome weapon.
Knife culture has become quite a thing in the UK recently, and there's many a teenager that has paid for it with their life. Of course, most youngsters who've been caught carrying claim it's for defence. As indeed it probably is. But simply the act of carrying a knife can lead to terrible, tragic consequences. In this case, I'm not sure the idea was to even carry it...it was simply an object to have and to hold. But for me that was irrelevant, especially as it had been bought surreptitiously on the Sorrento trip where he'd been tasked with keeping a record of everything he'd spent.
Having spent the previous evening doing father-son bonding by hanging new blinds around the house (Boys and men do DIY you know), it all fell to pieces again.
It was a very angry father who put his son on a train to Cardiff
A knife. No not a butter knife hidden away to avoid the washing up, but a full on 'blade'. Which locks into place to create a fearsome weapon.
Knife culture has become quite a thing in the UK recently, and there's many a teenager that has paid for it with their life. Of course, most youngsters who've been caught carrying claim it's for defence. As indeed it probably is. But simply the act of carrying a knife can lead to terrible, tragic consequences. In this case, I'm not sure the idea was to even carry it...it was simply an object to have and to hold. But for me that was irrelevant, especially as it had been bought surreptitiously on the Sorrento trip where he'd been tasked with keeping a record of everything he'd spent.
Having spent the previous evening doing father-son bonding by hanging new blinds around the house (Boys and men do DIY you know), it all fell to pieces again.
It was a very angry father who put his son on a train to Cardiff
Tuesday, 14 April 2009
Banished
In fairy tales of yore princesses get banished to catles or towers distant. In greek mythology errant deities are sent to the underworld. In more recnt times political dissidents disappear to Siberia. On a lesser note it's not unheard of for people to be sent to Coventry.
After a truly miserable Easter the boy is being banished to Wales until the weekend. Hopefully the few days apart will enable us both to get our heads straight and everything back on an even keel. And at least Grandma in Wales will be truly delighted to share her 80th with both her grandchildren.
The boy was already in the doghouse after several conversations with the school had revealed a lack of commitment - not just with school work but with extra curricular activities including the swimming squad (dropping out when there were no immediate galas coming) and school play (lines not learnt by dress rehearsal. And this was crystalised by a poor school report.
For months there has been a plan to have professional portrait of the boy and his sister taken to give to his grandmother. This was set to be taken in Brighton which suited everyone. Last week it transpired the venue had shifted to Woodford. It didn't suit me as I'd prefer to spend the weekend in Brighton or his sister who had to drive two and a half hours to get there. As it was Saturday it had meant Good Friday was spent kicking our heels. I had reluctantly agreed that he could spend Saturday meeting his friends. It turned out this was his girlfriend and the long walk in the woods was certainly not focused on the dog they were supposed to be looking after.
Saturday pm, he announced he was planning to spend the next week helping friends with their revision. My eyebrows did a bit of a Roger Moore at that, and given the above, rather suspected thise wad just a way of seeing the girlfriend. His response was erm forthright, as indeed was mine. The upshot (at that point) was that it was his decision how he revised, I wouldn't tell him what to do, but he needed to be aware that IMHO it wouldn't lead to the good results he needed to get.
The boy has limited computer access to retrict time spent on MSN and prevent the viewing of in appropriate material. It transpired over the weekend that to get round the restrictions he had sneekily watched me log in to my laptop and had been using it when I was out.
I got barely a grunt of acknowledgement for the Easter egg I bought him and not even a creme egg in return...but then I did have to buy my own Christmas present.
Of course now I've put it all down it doesn't seem so bad; but then I've always thought of the blog as therapeutic. But in any case there are some trust issues, and my relaxed approach to parenting which has worked well in the past clearly needs significant modification now that boundaries are being stretched, challenged and broken. Can I have my little baby back please?
After a truly miserable Easter the boy is being banished to Wales until the weekend. Hopefully the few days apart will enable us both to get our heads straight and everything back on an even keel. And at least Grandma in Wales will be truly delighted to share her 80th with both her grandchildren.
The boy was already in the doghouse after several conversations with the school had revealed a lack of commitment - not just with school work but with extra curricular activities including the swimming squad (dropping out when there were no immediate galas coming) and school play (lines not learnt by dress rehearsal. And this was crystalised by a poor school report.
For months there has been a plan to have professional portrait of the boy and his sister taken to give to his grandmother. This was set to be taken in Brighton which suited everyone. Last week it transpired the venue had shifted to Woodford. It didn't suit me as I'd prefer to spend the weekend in Brighton or his sister who had to drive two and a half hours to get there. As it was Saturday it had meant Good Friday was spent kicking our heels. I had reluctantly agreed that he could spend Saturday meeting his friends. It turned out this was his girlfriend and the long walk in the woods was certainly not focused on the dog they were supposed to be looking after.
Saturday pm, he announced he was planning to spend the next week helping friends with their revision. My eyebrows did a bit of a Roger Moore at that, and given the above, rather suspected thise wad just a way of seeing the girlfriend. His response was erm forthright, as indeed was mine. The upshot (at that point) was that it was his decision how he revised, I wouldn't tell him what to do, but he needed to be aware that IMHO it wouldn't lead to the good results he needed to get.
The boy has limited computer access to retrict time spent on MSN and prevent the viewing of in appropriate material. It transpired over the weekend that to get round the restrictions he had sneekily watched me log in to my laptop and had been using it when I was out.
I got barely a grunt of acknowledgement for the Easter egg I bought him and not even a creme egg in return...but then I did have to buy my own Christmas present.
Of course now I've put it all down it doesn't seem so bad; but then I've always thought of the blog as therapeutic. But in any case there are some trust issues, and my relaxed approach to parenting which has worked well in the past clearly needs significant modification now that boundaries are being stretched, challenged and broken. Can I have my little baby back please?
Saturday, 11 April 2009
The selfish gene
Next Wednesday is Grandma in Wales' 80th birthday. That's a great achievement, especially as she remains as bright as a button and as sharp as a Sabatier carving knife. In any argument or discussion she's always been a fearsome opponent, and remains so to this day. Best not to engage. And she continues to dominate the home where she lives with the boy's 50 plus uncle in the way that you would expect of a Welsh Valleys matriarch. And she retains a cheery demeanour as she has done since the death of her daughter, the boy's mum, five years ago. She is stoic in the face of this terrible loss...a parent should never see the death of their child; sometimes I think she would have been better to let her grief out. But each person has to deal with grief in their own way.
She has made it clear that the traditional large party was not for her, but a smaller gathering of family would be just right. Not surprisingly her two grandchildren have been of the utmost importance over the last five years, so she's been looking forward to having them both down at the same time to celebrate her four score. So next weekend we journey west for a Saturday lunchtime celebration that has been organised for months.
Yesterday, whilst talking to Live at Home Uncle, I discovered that the boy's sister will not be there. Her father has decided to take her and her step brother away for the weekend to the Peak District. She will go instead on Wednesday. So I have been asked if I can take time off work from Wednesday so that the boy and his sister can be in Wales at the same time. It's not something I can do, and truth be told I'm not sure why I should. Perhaps I would if it was a one off - but its a pattern we've seen for the last five years and it makes my blood boil.
The boy won't go down by himself, because he's revising for his exams....and needs to catch up from his rather slack approach last term. So the celebration will be incomplete. Which is a crying shame.
The sister's father and family have an absolute disregard for any one other than themselves. But then this was a family that asked the estate trustees if the sister's inheritance could be used to build an extension on their house, and charged the girl rent from the moment she arrived full time....at the tender age of 15.
The rather tardy compromise will work for no one, but no doubt between knowing glances at the table next weekend, the issue will, yet again, be brushed under the carpet.
She has made it clear that the traditional large party was not for her, but a smaller gathering of family would be just right. Not surprisingly her two grandchildren have been of the utmost importance over the last five years, so she's been looking forward to having them both down at the same time to celebrate her four score. So next weekend we journey west for a Saturday lunchtime celebration that has been organised for months.
Yesterday, whilst talking to Live at Home Uncle, I discovered that the boy's sister will not be there. Her father has decided to take her and her step brother away for the weekend to the Peak District. She will go instead on Wednesday. So I have been asked if I can take time off work from Wednesday so that the boy and his sister can be in Wales at the same time. It's not something I can do, and truth be told I'm not sure why I should. Perhaps I would if it was a one off - but its a pattern we've seen for the last five years and it makes my blood boil.
The boy won't go down by himself, because he's revising for his exams....and needs to catch up from his rather slack approach last term. So the celebration will be incomplete. Which is a crying shame.
The sister's father and family have an absolute disregard for any one other than themselves. But then this was a family that asked the estate trustees if the sister's inheritance could be used to build an extension on their house, and charged the girl rent from the moment she arrived full time....at the tender age of 15.
The rather tardy compromise will work for no one, but no doubt between knowing glances at the table next weekend, the issue will, yet again, be brushed under the carpet.
Tuesday, 7 April 2009
Easy living
"He needs to learn that charm is no substitute for hard graft" says the boy's latest school report. Yes, quite right...but actually (and don't tell him) there's many a person who's managed to carve a successful career out of charm and not hard work. They don't deserve it, but such is the world that charmers go places.
However, as 'good father' I've issued stern warnings, and backed that up by showing immense interest in his revision this holiday. Actually I'd rather not see some of it, as a reminder of the days I spent slogging away at knowledge that was quickly forgotten once the exam was finished.
And of course I don't want in any way to discourage his easy going, confident charm...it will serve him well. And since everyone around thinks he's a good looking lad who carries a guitar, he'll devastate the female population. So long as he never falls into the trap of thinking he's God's gift.
The poor fella is spending his days at home alone, and I feel for him immeasurably, as it can't be much fun, when all you've got to look forward to his a few hours swotting up on trigonometry. He has the option of coming into the office, but that doesn't appeal, given that it's an hour and a half on the sweaty tube. And his computer is now set so that it will only work for an hour a day.
Kind soul that I am, I think he can have four days off over Easter
However, as 'good father' I've issued stern warnings, and backed that up by showing immense interest in his revision this holiday. Actually I'd rather not see some of it, as a reminder of the days I spent slogging away at knowledge that was quickly forgotten once the exam was finished.
And of course I don't want in any way to discourage his easy going, confident charm...it will serve him well. And since everyone around thinks he's a good looking lad who carries a guitar, he'll devastate the female population. So long as he never falls into the trap of thinking he's God's gift.
The poor fella is spending his days at home alone, and I feel for him immeasurably, as it can't be much fun, when all you've got to look forward to his a few hours swotting up on trigonometry. He has the option of coming into the office, but that doesn't appeal, given that it's an hour and a half on the sweaty tube. And his computer is now set so that it will only work for an hour a day.
Kind soul that I am, I think he can have four days off over Easter
Sunday, 5 April 2009
The Spooky omnibus edition
The boy has returned from Sorrento. Veni, Vidi, Vici. I think. After seeing all those ancient remains, it's a real shame he's got to give up classics - his school restricts the number of subjects he can do, the the 11th choice was Latin, and that's one too many. But at least the trip was fun, and he's come back feeling very naughty as he drank a bottle of limoncello (?) which I suspect is an italian alcopop. But then sensibly had lots of water.....
...it is wonderful to have him back and the house feels complete with him cluttering up the place. Curiously my own sense of order had gone to pieces in his absence...so there were dirty dishes piled to the ceiling, unclean laundry fair bursting out everywhere, and a general mess of everything all over the place. Thursday evening was spent restoring some form of order, safe in the knowledge he would turn the place into a shambles on Friday evening, allowing me to have a gentle parental moan. How fair and just is that!
Equally my diet returned to student days, consisting mostly of sausages and baked beans and sausages. Scarcely a vegetable passed my lips all week. So thank heaven's the boy has returned to restore my health as well.
I managed to restore some credibility to my social life in the boy's absence - three evenings spent gallivanting. Of most note was a splendid evening in rather desolate Milton Keynes to meet with a lovely blogger friend. MK was half way between the two of us so a sensible choice....but neither of us knew the place, so the cullinery highlight was an American Hot with olives in the shopping centre. I hope Milton Keynesians have other places to go because much as I love Pizza Express, and I really do, it isn't the same as a smokey old pub. Hopefully my companion for the evening won't feel the need to mention that finding my car after the pizza was like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Ho hum.
So in between the mess and the going out a jolly week was had by all.
Highlight of Friday was Bermondsey street being full of burly men and police. No not a belated G20 riot, but the filming of an episode of Spooks. They requisitioned my local coffee shop, so thank heavens I'm on my caffeine free diet at the moment. Try as I did, I couldn't seem to attract enough attention to get roped in as an extra...you know 'man passing in the street'would have done. Expect it's because I don't have an equity card....
Low light was leaving the office early to make sure I was back for the boy, cycling as far as the Rotherhithe tunnel to discover it was closed, meaning I had to retrace my steps. Making me 40 minutes late...fortunately the boy's coach was even later. So apologies to the other parents who had to put up with a very sweaty me whilst they made charming conversation.
And on Saturday, more police and TV cameras, as THE funeral took place. Most of the roads were blocked off, and there were an awful lot of sarf Lunden accents to be heard, which makes a change from Essex dialect. And the concentration of perma tans was seriously depleted. Our local garage and foodstore had been counting his blessings, and expected to make a massive profit on extra sales today. Hopefully that'll mean he lowers the cost of a gallon of petrol on Monday. Some hope.
We however escaped to try and find a new car as the current one needs to be replaced. Foolishly we traipsed thirty miles there and another thirty back to look at a car that wasn't even in stock. Evidently as soon as they arrive, they're sold. Who said we're in a recession and the car industry is broke?
...it is wonderful to have him back and the house feels complete with him cluttering up the place. Curiously my own sense of order had gone to pieces in his absence...so there were dirty dishes piled to the ceiling, unclean laundry fair bursting out everywhere, and a general mess of everything all over the place. Thursday evening was spent restoring some form of order, safe in the knowledge he would turn the place into a shambles on Friday evening, allowing me to have a gentle parental moan. How fair and just is that!
Equally my diet returned to student days, consisting mostly of sausages and baked beans and sausages. Scarcely a vegetable passed my lips all week. So thank heaven's the boy has returned to restore my health as well.
I managed to restore some credibility to my social life in the boy's absence - three evenings spent gallivanting. Of most note was a splendid evening in rather desolate Milton Keynes to meet with a lovely blogger friend. MK was half way between the two of us so a sensible choice....but neither of us knew the place, so the cullinery highlight was an American Hot with olives in the shopping centre. I hope Milton Keynesians have other places to go because much as I love Pizza Express, and I really do, it isn't the same as a smokey old pub. Hopefully my companion for the evening won't feel the need to mention that finding my car after the pizza was like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Ho hum.
So in between the mess and the going out a jolly week was had by all.
Highlight of Friday was Bermondsey street being full of burly men and police. No not a belated G20 riot, but the filming of an episode of Spooks. They requisitioned my local coffee shop, so thank heavens I'm on my caffeine free diet at the moment. Try as I did, I couldn't seem to attract enough attention to get roped in as an extra...you know 'man passing in the street'would have done. Expect it's because I don't have an equity card....
Low light was leaving the office early to make sure I was back for the boy, cycling as far as the Rotherhithe tunnel to discover it was closed, meaning I had to retrace my steps. Making me 40 minutes late...fortunately the boy's coach was even later. So apologies to the other parents who had to put up with a very sweaty me whilst they made charming conversation.
And on Saturday, more police and TV cameras, as THE funeral took place. Most of the roads were blocked off, and there were an awful lot of sarf Lunden accents to be heard, which makes a change from Essex dialect. And the concentration of perma tans was seriously depleted. Our local garage and foodstore had been counting his blessings, and expected to make a massive profit on extra sales today. Hopefully that'll mean he lowers the cost of a gallon of petrol on Monday. Some hope.
We however escaped to try and find a new car as the current one needs to be replaced. Foolishly we traipsed thirty miles there and another thirty back to look at a car that wasn't even in stock. Evidently as soon as they arrive, they're sold. Who said we're in a recession and the car industry is broke?
Thursday, 2 April 2009
Mr Pourgourides
Mr Pourgourides was never destined for fame and fortune. When I knew him he was already well into his forties, had lost most of the hair on his head, and his belly was bulging comfortably over the top of his trousers. His sense of dress is best described as modest - a light grey sports jacket, pale shirt and non-descript tie with black trousers. All had seen better days, but still had a few years of limp life left in them. As I remember he was affable enough...good humoured most of the time, but with a grumpiness provoked by a classroom full of teenagers determined to see how far they could push him before he snapped. In less pc times, his thick mediteranean accent encouraged us to claim we couldn't understand half of what he said.
Mr Pourgourides did succeed in getting me a grade A in maths at 'o' level. Something I'm still pleased with as numbers are not something that much inspire me. So he was clearly a good teacher judging by the results. And if his name ever crops up when I'm with old school friends, he is remembered and talked about affectionately.
Mr Pourgourides has surprisingly had his fifteen minutes of fame.
This week's Horizon on the BBC featured the overrated (in my opinion - although he did once have a decent routine about Dad Pants) comic actor Alan Davies attempting to be re-inspired about maths, having found the subject too much to bare at school. To make his point, he returned to Bancroft's - a place that as far as I know he has never had a good word to say about - why the school let him back in, I have no idea. And indeed he didn't this time either, making the point that he remembers being excellent at sums at primary school. Personally I can't remember much about anything that I did at primary school other than enjoying British Bulldog in the playground. So the problem with Alan's maths seems to have started with Bancrofts and more particularly under the tutelage of Mr Pourgourides, whose name he brings up on a number of occasions.
So if you've got five minutes, catch up with Horizon on iplayer...you only have to watch the first five minutes to see Bancroft's, but in truth the whole programme is worth a viewing. But keep in mind, that if put to a vote, I suspect Mr Pourgourides would achieve favourable recognition as a maths teacher of note.
Mr Pourgourides did succeed in getting me a grade A in maths at 'o' level. Something I'm still pleased with as numbers are not something that much inspire me. So he was clearly a good teacher judging by the results. And if his name ever crops up when I'm with old school friends, he is remembered and talked about affectionately.
Mr Pourgourides has surprisingly had his fifteen minutes of fame.
This week's Horizon on the BBC featured the overrated (in my opinion - although he did once have a decent routine about Dad Pants) comic actor Alan Davies attempting to be re-inspired about maths, having found the subject too much to bare at school. To make his point, he returned to Bancroft's - a place that as far as I know he has never had a good word to say about - why the school let him back in, I have no idea. And indeed he didn't this time either, making the point that he remembers being excellent at sums at primary school. Personally I can't remember much about anything that I did at primary school other than enjoying British Bulldog in the playground. So the problem with Alan's maths seems to have started with Bancrofts and more particularly under the tutelage of Mr Pourgourides, whose name he brings up on a number of occasions.
So if you've got five minutes, catch up with Horizon on iplayer...you only have to watch the first five minutes to see Bancroft's, but in truth the whole programme is worth a viewing. But keep in mind, that if put to a vote, I suspect Mr Pourgourides would achieve favourable recognition as a maths teacher of note.
Wednesday, 1 April 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, 29 March 2009
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.
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.
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