In the family way

Having previously explained my saintliness, I have now to insist that when you visit here, you kneel at the throne of royalty, or at least doff your cap. Please.

Some families are close and some not. My brother and I have been virtual strangers most of our lives...I blame it on the fact that you couldn't find two more different people - he is monstrously tall, with dark skin, straight dark hair and is powerfully built. I, on the other hand, grew up with a mop of wavy white-blond hair, have always been moderately proportioned (although now find myself indulging in some horizontal development). At school, I was academically inclined and went on to university, whilst he preferred the University of Life from, well, the age of about 13. Which is an interesting comment on nature vs nurture - he was after all just as bright as me. Jobs wise, I've had a fine middle-class career whilst his jobs fluctuated. However, over recent times we have become closer...perhaps age makes the differences in our lives more interesting rather than alienating.

In general, our family has not been a close one...and I find it fascinating when I come across people who have close family ties. I'm not sure if I'm jealous or just curious. It is definitely one reason that I am so passionate about the boy keeping in touch with his sister, and disappointed that they're not as close as I would hope.

However, when I do get the opportunity to I do very much enjoy spending time with extended family...as much as anything I find it amazing what can lie buried in the family history...even if it's run of the mill to everyone else. Just the other week, there was a gathering of the Bradstock clan...and I took a day out from work to make sure I could spend time with them.

The first thing I learnt was that Bradstock is a corruption of Bradenstoke, and the second is that there is a village which is our Mecca (not the bingo hall you uncultured lot). This is Burton Bradstock down on the south coast. If you don't want to read all, and I can't blame you, the village name comes from the local priory - Bradenstoke Priory. Now, I've not managed to research this any further, but someone mentioned...and this is the critical bit of the post...that the family name came over with the Norman conquest, and is directly linked to French Royal lineage. I like the royal...worried about the French bit.

As a result I have taken to wearing a crown around the house. And I might buy a corgi.

On a less cerebral but puff-your-chest with-pride note, I discovered that Grandma in Cyprus' cousin Alan has been significantly involved in the building in the UK of the first steam train for half a century. He is regularly to be seen riding on the footplate. The boy thinks it's pretty cool...but he's of a genration that doesn't want to grow up to be a train driver.



Food was provided by cousin David - he held the lofty position of head chef at Harrods; not Gordon Ramsey perhaps but we certainly got a fine lunch without any swearing. Other little gems were Uncle Jack (actually Grandma in Cyprus' uncle) who is 94 and still as sharp as ever. I'd like to be like that when I grow up. And the story of a great (great?) grandfather who remarried (how shocking) having previously been married into a Jewish family, quite forgetting to mention that he was born and grew up a gentile. When the offspring from our family tried to get in touch with their elder half-siblings, they were disdainfully turned away.

Rumour has it, that when a little girl, Grandma in Cyprus kept a stuffed pet rabbit on her bed, scaring the living daylights out of cousin Dorothy. But I accept that may just be a memory and a story that's got distorted over the ages. But I'd soooo love it to be true.

We seem to have a long line of butchers, bakers and candle-stick makers in our ancestry and I'm looking forward to next year's gathering.

It's a technological world

I've had my shiney new phone for nearly two weeks now. And it's very nice. I can see all my friends on Facebook, watch BBC iPlayer wherever I am, see the weather now and for a week in advance anywhere in the world, I can listen to music, watch videos and take pictures. Sending messages whether text or e-mail is a doddle. I can also navigate around the country with the navigation software and find 'things of interest' too. I can record sounds and voices. I can update the software and podcast. Write and edit office documents whether they're words, numbers or presentations. And I can play games until my thumbs fall off.

The thing is, it's taken me the full two weeks to work out how to answer a call.

Stop press: I save the world

As I have matured, I have increasingly seen it as my place to lead the world to a better place. I emphasise the word matured...it is not as if I am ageing, of course. Tuesday will be my birthday. At the moment I am 37 and on Wednesday I will be 37. I don't have any issues or hang-ups with my age...it's just other people that do.

Obviously, my concern with the state of the world has much to do with the realisation that I have brought another human being into this world, and it is my duty to make sure that he inherits it in as good a condition as possible.

So, as I have previously mentioned, the Beemer has gone. Now, at this point (and indeed many points henceforth) I'm going to ignore Miss Spoilsport Auntie Gwen's comment in my last post. After careful consideration I felt the need to address the dual world crises of the environment and the economy. So this reduced my choice of new vehicle considerably. However, I am pleased to say that having researched the matter considerably, I have chosen wisely.

Firstly, I have moved from petrol to diesel power. I am told by my green friends this is a good thing. Secondly I selected an engine that is 40% smaller than the last one - so no longer a gas guzzling 4.5 litre V8 monster, a mere 2.8 litres of pure environmental friendliness. Most importantly, it has won a Gold Award in the leading Green Award Scheme. And just as importantly, its simple construction means that its manufacturing carbon footprint (dust to dust is the phrase) is lower than that of the famous enviro-wagon beloved of Hollywood celebrities, the Toyota Prius. And I have made significant steps to improve fuel consumption...in fact by 25%

This you may well say is sufficient to elevate me to saintliness. But I say no. This is not enough. I want to do more.

So in the spirit of the current recession...the worst since the 1930's I hear...I have chosen a much better value vehicle. In fact the cost is just 25% of the Beemer (yes that was one of the more extravagant ones)...so I think a cut back lesson our government would do well to follow. And according to the manufacturer it costs less to run per mile than a Toyota Yaris (that's the small one in case you don't know the model range of every car company by heart) by almost 20%.

I hear you now trying to lift my halo above my head. But wait, I'm not yet ready.

I could have bought second-hand as a further economy measure, but no I was thinking of other people. So buying new has enabled me to sustain employment here in the UK at the dealership, and overseas where it was manufactured. Thereby helping develop improved international relations too.

Even now, I am not yet quite ready for my elevation.

I have indeed pointed out that here in the land of plenty (of gold, suntan and bleached blondes) BMWs are poor man's transport, and it is true with every house having a combination of Mercedes, BMW, Porsche, Aston Martin and Bentley parked on the driveway. I feel there is a need to redress the balance, and to make a stand for social equality, by making the people around me recognise that flashing your cash is not the way to achieve worthy recognition. Indeed, our new transport is so rare (you can count on the fingers of one hand the number that have been sold this year) that it turns heads wherever we go. In their eyes, I can see the flash of green...although as I'm colour blind some may say it is red. Whatever.

Yet more. The boy has lusted after one for decades (he's 14 you know) and in acquiring this vehicle I have significantly boosted his self-esteem and indeed standing amongst his peers.

So now I am ready.

And below is a picture for you to have and to hold.

Farewell fond friends

Parting is such sorrow, even though I always knew it would happen. I knew this day would come - and in all honesty the date has been known to me since the day we met. Truth be told I didn't want us to part, but you are being taken away from me. I admit that you're being replaced with something younger...but you must understand that the appeal of youthfulness never fades. Through good times and bad, I know you've always been there for me, and I know we've had our ups and downs, but you've never deserted me. Although I can't say you've always been a reliable friend.

However onwards and upwards.

So goodbye to my Nokia phone, your contract came to an end, so you're replaced with another so complicated that it'll take me a year at least to work out how to call my friends. And goodriddance to Vodafone and hello to T-Mobile - I like your adverts, so I hope the service is as good.

And goodbye to fat plutocrat autobahn express BMW. A lovely, speedy beast which has taken us on many wonderful adventures. Auntie Gwen thought it was far too flash...but actually in this neck of the woods, a poor man's car. So now replaced with sometthing, erm different. erm.

Firstly, I'm sorry

To all and everyone who is till waiting for a Christmas card from the Nota Bene household. You may have given up on it by now, and you may have struck us off your Chrsitams card list for next year; please don't - we don't get that many in the first place, so even one fewer is a hardship for us. We are having to clear out the car...and it is truly remarkable what you can find in the mobile filing cabinet after four years. And I'm afraid to say that we have discovered all our 2008 Christmas cards, signed sealed and stamped. But not posted. At this stage I will point out that they were on the boy's side of the car, and I distinctly remember giving him clear instructions to post them. So it's all his fault. But as a minor, I think you'd be wrong to hold it against him. That is my job.

And so, in the interests of the environment and the economy, we will be using the cards for this Christmas. So expect your card early....and if you're worried you're not on our list, simply send us your address and we'll sign, seal and stamp the card for you. I'm not guaranteeing though whether late entries will get their card this year, next year or even the year afterwards.

Men are from Mars

I'm very delighted indeed to report that after weeks of dropping subtle hints, I was rewarded with two poached eggs on toast and a cup of tea in bed this morning. Pretty cool eh? Admittedly half past seven was a little early, but the boy was determined to make sure that he had it all sorted before I woke up. Ten out of ten.

On a different note, I learnt a long time ago not to argue with a woman. Well women in general actually. They come at things from such a different perspective that even if by all the rules of nature I'm right, I'm wrong. What I hadn't realised is that if men are from Mars and women from Venus, well boys are from a different universe altogether.

Like all responsible parents (there's at least three of us in the country, we have a rule that if the boy goes out he needs to tell me where he's going and when he'll be back. After many hours of lecturing on the subject he's got it. So time for a cheer. Sometimes though for a variety of reasons the rule gets bent either by the boy or me. When that happens, I send a text asking when he'll be returning. Sometimes this works, sometimes I get the panicky text back to say he's on his way home. If I've explained it once I've explained it a hundred times, I'm just asking for a time of arrival, I'm not making a demand for return. And so it was today...he'd been invited for a lunch time party with the parents of his girlfriend. No time of return had been determined, so as I was getting hungry by 8ish, I texted wanting to know if he'd be back for supper. Twenty minutes later a taxi had been ordered by the hosts and the boy rematerialised. Grrrrrrr. I didn't want to curtail his social life. Grrrrr. Grrrrr. I'm sure I've explained it in words of one syllable, but perhaps I should try using a language he can understand. I'll try texting.

Feckers

I just need to get some things off my chest. Sorry.

1. What is it with the constant stream of people coming and going throughout a gig? I know it's about the 2 Ps. Piss - well if you need to go, go before the concert starts. I was taught that when I was still a babe in arms. Pint - if you need to drink beer at a gig, buy it at the bar before the start and make it last. In both cases you've paid forty squids for your ticket, which is a complete waste if you spend half the time not actually listening to the band. These are surely the same people that can't get through a couple of hours at the cinema without munching their way through a ton of sweets and crisps and a lake of cola. Or get on a European flight without a three course meal, crisps, nuts and beer, wine and and and.

2. To the man standing next to me last night checking the e-mails on his Crackberry. Get a life you fecker

3. If you go to a gig, don't leave ten minutes before the end so you miss the rush for the tube afterwards. That's like not reading the last ten pages of a novel. Feckers the lot of them

Right. Sorted.

Oh yes, Kings of Leon? Brilliant.

Travelled down the river from London Bridge to the O2.



My apologies to Glasvegas who were the support. I love your music, it was everyone else's fault that we only caught the last song in your set. It was a very good song.

And when KoL came on everyone, even in the seated area, stood and danced from beginning to end.



Hope they're playing again soon.

Old as old could be

Old age has a nasty habit of creeping up on you unexpectedly. Whilst still feeling like a teenager in the head, you gradually realise that your skin is wrinkled and saggy, you have more aches and pains than before, you can no longer consume a skin-full of booze and get up easily the next morning, policemen (and traffic wardens) start looking younger and you prefer Magic FM to Radio 1. You realise that all those hopes and ambitions...the ideas of conquering the world (or saving it...) have long gone, and all you want to do is sit in the rocking chair with a mug of cocoa watching an episode of your favourite soap.

The boy found his first grey hair today

Fullsome Friday

Friday was a busy day. I disturbed the boy at crack of sparrow by firing up the MLC just underneath his bedroom window for a quick jaunt down to the seaside. Arriving there, the man from the gas board took delight in telling me yes I could move the meter and no I didn't need to ask him. Any Corgi could do it. So a 160 mile round trip was for not much really.

However, my mind was elsewhere.

My friend in the North (well it's north to me) was asking for positive thoughts as she winged her way through a job interview for which she didn't feel qualified. As my motto is never to let the facts get in the way of a good story, I couldn't see the problem. As she was offered the job later the same day, I hope it was something to do with my motivational thinking.

In the opposite direction....many thousands of miles away...I was also thinking positive thoughts. My friend's teenage son (and his friend) had been killed by a drugged-up drunk driver some eighteen months ago. Friday was the day of sentencing. The driver was given a long sentence without the possibility of parole for eight years. Whilst you can't feel pleased about this, it does seem that for once the justice system has delivered as best it could. And of that I'm glad.

Connecting with the people you serve

GPs 'may not work amid pandemic'

And in the same vein (sic):

soldiers will not work if they're being shot at
police will not work if there's criminals on the street
firemen will not go near a burning house
ambulance drivers will not pick you up if you might die in the back
the RNLI won't come out in case they sink
Formula 1 drivers will not drive if everyone else is going too fast
...and politicians will not go to the ballot box if they think they'll lose

All quiet on the western front (2)

I'm annoyed. Really annoyed. The boy has really p*ssed me off.

We went to a school meeting this week - planning for the school's sports tours for the next three years - anyone for cricket in Namibia? Rugby in Malaysia? Netball in Australia? We bumped into the Deputy Head. Mr Bromfield to the boy. Jeremy to me. When I was at the school he was my history teacher and boarding house master. We all thought he was ancient...turns out he was just half a dozen years older than us. He still looks the same.

Jeremy said to me, "He's taller than you now."

How dare he. The boy, not the teacher. How dare he. I've told him time and time again that he will never be taller than me. Even if he reaches the height of 6', my 178cm will always tower over him. Always. My little boy will always be my little boy.

P.S. Four days to the Kings of Leon

All is quiet on the western front

The boy has been quite low profile in recent posts. And in just the same way as the newspapers never report good news, so it is here.

After some challenging moments through the spring, he's turned the corner. Every day I get a text shortly before I leave work to say what he's been doing after school, and what homework needs to be done/is being worked on.

Domestic chores are being completed without chasing....well nearly without chasing. Almost.

And generally all is well.

On the one hand, that's just fantastic. But on the other I hope the teenagerness has not been too tamed. And teenage years are the time for rebellion, and character formation. I hope he will continue to challenge and push the boundaries...he'll need to do that when he's older, so he needs to get the practice in now.

But I have to say it's a nice calm atmosphere around the house which I'll enjoy whilst I can....

Vive la revolution (2)

On the other hand, I've just come back from a speech by Lord Digby Jones. Who made more sense than anyone I've heard for a long time. On just about all the issues that get me going. He gets my vote. Except as a Lord he doesn't need it.

It may have something to do with him being Lord Digby Jones of Birmingham. A place not known for its airs and graces.

So I can cancel the boy's application to the Socialist Workers Revolutionary Party (I wonder if I should have told him that I sent it in).

As for the previous Lord, a letter to David Cameron has resulted in a call from 'Dave's' office...hopefully there'll be a result in this peasents revolution.

Vive la revolution

Time to re-introduce the guillotine and storm the Bastille.

We had a call from someone purporting to be Lord Tim Cavendish today.

He was demanding some information we didn't have.

Poor Clementine who answered the phone was verbally abused. Anyone called Clementine who works for a company called Mandarin should never be abused.

I took over, deciding to call him firstly Tim, then Mr Cavendish and then Mr Cavendish again.

He bellowed "Fuck off you little oick".

I know where he lives. I know where he works. He'll be one of the first lined up against the wall when the revolution comes.