The one that got away

I wrote a post last week...Friday I think it was, and then deleted. On purpose, but mistakenly. You'll appreciate it was the greatest post ever. Brilliant if I say so myself. Shakespeare would have been proud, Ian McEwan would have been proud. My English teacher would have been proud. But alas, once deleted, it's never to be found again. It was about how much I enjoy finding things like this on the interweb:








The downside, is that sometimes you get taken to the sort of sites that your mum wouldn't want you to go to. No problem providing you remember to close the pop up for 'Adult Dating', but definitely a problem if you don't spot it, thereby leaving it open for the rest of the office to find when they check your computer for urgent e-mails. So instead, I will just take my own from here on in:

North by north west

On the car, there is a digital compass which lets you know which of eight directions you are heading in. I'm sure it's very handy in the outback, and for anyone who's accidently put the wrong destination in their satnav, it will help them see they're heading in the wrong direction.

On the trip to take the boy to Wales, (from West Essex) it consistently pointed SW. All the way from start to finish. It may be that Wales has moved southwards, I'm not sure, but I don't remember any earthquakes of the sort that recently moved New Zealand two foot closer to Australia. Worse still, coming back, it consistently said South East. So at a guess, I'd say Buckhurst Hill must have moved to where Folkestone used to be.

The instruction book advises that it can be re-calibrated by driving round in circles in a car park or open space free of large metal objects. I feel obliged to point out that the car is itself a large metal object. So I'm not sure how I will achieve that.

In the same vein, here is a picture of my sandals.



If you click on the picture you will see there's a yellow label that clearly says 'Waterproof'. You may observe at the same time, the many holes which are a feature of sandal design. And I can confirm that I have undertaken some consumer testing by standing in my sandals in a bath of very cold water, and my feet got very wet. So clearly not waterproof in anyway.

As we have turned into such a litigious society, I feel obliged to call my solicitors Messrs Grabbit and Runn, and put in a claim for several million pounds. I am confident of success.

This post written entirely in the spirit of the silly season which is dominating our newspapers as real news goes on holiday in August.

Under direct threat of a vast legal suit, by Auntie Gwen and Kellogsville, I have put a direct link here

and here

All ship shape and Bristol Fashion

Bristol and I have never really seen eye to eye. I don't know why. It's a city with a fine history, but I've never really had a great Bristolian experience.

My first visit was when looking for an interview suit. I know I'm pernickety, but I still don't think it should have taken a whole day of traipsing around nameless, faceless shops to end up with something that was average.

Since then, I've been there a few times, nearly always for business, whilst never quite getting it. And it's a long way down the M4 for nothing. On one occasion, I drew up in my swanky, soft-top PR Executive sports car, to be asked by a very scrawny, drug and virus addled woman if I wanted to do business. It was 8 o'clock in the morning. I then had to park said TT and spent the entire meeting wondering how much of the car would be left when I returned. The car was there, but no contract.

I took the boy there when he was a mite, and we had a lovely day @Bristol, but train delays on the way home meant that I was in desperate trouble with the soon to be ex Mrs Nota Bene.

I did a launch there for Great Western, but in the post press-conference confusion, we managed to leave Mr Great Western at the hotel when we all headed to the station for the Great Train race (train vs car - first one to Paddington wins). We didn't keep them for long after that.

I also took a girlfriend there once. I stayed and she left. Never heard from her again.

This weekend was going to be different. Having abandoned the boy in Wales, I headed back to Bristol to see the Banksy exhibition. The boy had decided he didn't want to see it, as he preferred to see original works in situ (he spent much of his younger life in and around the Banksy haunt of Hoxton).

I followed the satnav, but putting in Queens St rather than Queens Road, meant I ended up at the arse end of Avonmouth docks. If I'd slowed down, I think the local populace would have lynched me. Still I did manage to come in to the city the attractive route, and for the first time sampled the wonderful Clifton Suspension Bridge and SS Great Britain. My spirits soared.

Sometime later I closed in on the gallery to see a queue about as long as a queue could be. Normally I'm happy to do things by myself, but three hours in a line of happy families didn't appeal, so I just carried on back to Buckhurst Hill. Somewhat disappointed to say the least. I shall just have to spend the week skulking around the backstreets of Hoxton and Islington on the look out for undiscovered works.

One day, I'll find a good thing about Bristol

Popcorn

My life in films



I stole this idea I’m afraid because it rather appealed…I thought it came from either of two of my favourite reads, Sunset over Slavit or Bloggertropolis, but even though I’ve searched high and low I can’t find it again. But pay them both a visit anyway as both their blogs are well worth a good read. And please tell me if you come across the original poster to whom I apologise profusely.

There is a strange discrepancy here, which I hope you won’t notice. Although I proclaim my age as 37, and have done for a little while now, the list starts in 1961. I can’t really explain why. It's not quite a list of my favourite films (but close), as I had to make some sacrifices in the interest of relevancy, even if they’re awful…

1961 - Breakfast at Tiffany’s – fabulous film, if quite a distance away from its origins. When in New York, I offered to buy the boy’s mum anything she liked from Tiffany’s. I’m glad she turned down the offer as I’d never have been able to afford it anyway

1962 – Dr No- a hard choice, with strong competition from Lawrence of Arabia, but at the end of the day Bond, James Bond has kept me and the boy entertained for longest

1963 – Charade. With Audrey Hepburn and a meeting that takes place in Megeve, my favourite skiing resort, it couldn’t be any other

1964 – Mary Poppins – no childhood would be complete without a sprinkling of Disney magic

1965 – Sound of Music and I’m not ashamed I went to see the stage version a couple of years ago too. But I think I should really plump for Dr Who and The Daleks, as it’s the first film I remember being taken too by Grandma in Cyprus. I don’t remember my father being there

1966 – Alfie. My life as I imagine it would be given half a chance…but please edit out the ending

1967 – Barefoot in the Park – I’m a true romantic at heart and love this film. But I’ve had to ignore other firm favourites – The Jungle Book, The Graduate and To Sir, With Love

1968 – The Thomas Crown Affair. All style over substance, and sums me up pretty well (PR is in my blood). I liked the remake too; probably more. Well it was either that or Barbarella, which is every school boys perfect fantasy film. And was responsible for Duran Duran

1969 – The Italian Job. The original is as popular with me as its remake is with the boy. We both know the line “You’re only supposed to blow the bloody doors off”. I’d like to have chosen They Shoot Horses Don’t They? But it’s a bit depressing

1970 – Catch 22. Well that’s life, eh?

1971 – The French Connection. Not because of the car chase, but because it’s the first time I remember watching a film thinking “I can’t remember his name”, looking up Gene Hackman, and then forgetting it 10 minutes later. I’ve lived in mortal fear since

1972 – What’s Up Doc. Dreadful film. I can’t believe I was taken to see this, when I’m sure I could have sneaked in to see The Godfather

1973 – Not a classic film year, and I'm really struggling to find any I really like or relate to. I've never Tangoed in Paris, nor have I said a Long Goodbye, so I'll plump for Papillon which goes to prove you can like the film even if you don't like the actor

1974 – The Odessa File. Frederick Forsyth was my equivalent of JK Rowling. I wish I read more now

1975 – Rollerball – I was taken to see the film with my brother by the local vicar. He was later sent down for kiddie fiddling. We had a lucky escape.

1976 – The Omen. My first 18 certificate film. I’m not sure how my fellow school chums and I got in

1977 – Equus – my life will remain incomplete until I see this. In recent years, there’s many a film I’ve missed at the cinema because of parental duties. Thank heavens for cheap DVDs

1978 – National Lampoons Animal House. It taught me never to waste my money going to see this type of film. Ever

1979 – The Tin Drum. To say this was an enjoyable film would be slightly perverse, but it opened my mind to the power of European cinema

1980 – Ordinary People. I walked out of this because it was so dull. Lesson for life – if you're in a situation that you shouldn’t be. Leave

1981 - Raiders of the Lost Ark. Indiana at his best. Wouldn’t we all like to be him

1982 – Blade Runner. “I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time to die.” We should all be able to say that at some time

1983 – The Right Stuff. I got stopped by a researcher in the street, asked if I wanted to see this and answer a few questions afterwards. I’ve been addicted to answering questionnaires ever since

1984 – The Company of Wolves. For years my favourite film, and I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve watched it

1985 – Brazil. I am Sam Lowry

1986 – 9 ½ Weeks. It was banned in Brighton…and you thought the city with Europe’s largest gay population was liberal-minded? The police also went through a phase of raiding pubs where anyone danced to the juke box – you need a dance licence you see

1987 – Wings of Desire. I secretly want to be an angel. But not yet for sure.

1988 – Biloxi Blues or Big Blue. I’m not sure, but clearly blue was the colour of the year. Neil Simon is a cracking writer, and I loved Brighton Beach Memoirs, even though it’s The Brighton Beach on the wrong side of the Atlantic. Luc Besson and Jean Reno…a great combination

1989 – Cinema Paradiso. The world would be a better place if we could all escape to the fantasy land of cinema every day

1990 – Comfort of Strangers. By far and a long way Ian McEwan is my favourite author. My first experience of him was reading Black Dogs cover to cover whilst waiting for a plan in Turkey. He’s become more subtle as he’s got older.

1991 – Frankie and Johnny – shows why you should see these things at the theatre. Unlikely cast.

1992 - Reservoir Dogs. Tarantino walks on water. 'Stuck in the middle with you' was never the same again. And I am Mr…..

1993 – True Romance – love conquers all. And a film that I manage to keep missing the beginning, the end or some of the middle until I got the DVD a couple of weeks ago

1994 – Four Weddings and a Funeral. In my youth I used to serve champagne at weddings just like these ones. I got married in a registry office. And I have to mention Pulp Fiction – what is in the case?

1995 – Desperado. I’m glad the boy plays the guitar, very well indeed. But I hope he doesn’t take up guns. Robert Rodriguez is a great director. Oh and by the way this is the year the boy made his presence felt

1996 – The English Patient. Amazing book, poor film. Last time the boy’s mum and I went out on a date was to see this.

1997 – Flubber. First film the boy ever saw at the cinema. He sat entranced through the whole thing. Not bad for a two year old

1998 – Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels – my first DVD purchase, and a good one too. Shot in and around Borough where we used to live – I love seeing films with familiar places in

1999 – The Sixth Sense – didn’t see it until it came out on DVD. I don’t like horror films as they scare me, so curiously I chose to watch this by myself at 2.00 am when I couldn’t sleep.

2000 – Malena. On my list of five, Monica Bellucci is numbers 1 through to 5. The critics must have watched a different to film to me as my interpretation is a million miles away from theirs

2001 – Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone – The boy had been reading the books from a very young age, and we also bought (at exorbitant prices) Stephen Fry’s excellent talking books for car journeys. I can’t believe I missed chatting JK Rowling up when we were at Exeter University

2002 - The Quiet American. I never really liked Michael Caine until this film; Brendan Fraser was ace in George of The Jungle. A mesmerising film, and I’ve been desperate to go to Vietnam ever since. Fed my George Bush-inspired dislike of all things American, now thankfully cured. Scrat from Ice Age is probably my all time favourite film character. Which is worrying. City of God contained the most shocking scene I’ve seen.

2003 – Kill Bill. This breaks a self-imposed rule for the list, but it just had to be in here. So instead I choose Touching The Void. If you believe in yourself, you can achieve the impossible. But I’m not encouraging the boy to go climbing

2004 – The Motorcycles Diaries. I ride a bike (now). After the financial and political shananigans, may be it’s time for a revolution. And just how fascinating is South America. Wanderlust.

2005 – The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Don’t panic!

2006 – Fearless. Crouching Tiger, hidden Dragon, House of Flying Daggers, Hero, Curse of the Golden Flower. Never has the cinema had such beautiful cinematography

2007 – Sweeney Todd. I think. Mainly because the brother of French Woman in our office was going out with Vanessa Paradis’ sister. Vanessa Paradis being married to Johnny Depp. Proving the law about six degrees of separation. On the other hand 300 was beautiful, and in the same vein as Sin City a couple of years earlier

2008 – Hancock. We watched this on the flight back from Cyprus. A year before Grandma in Cyprus had stopped being Grandma not in Cyprus, and I suspect that it’s the best decision she (and Step Grandad in Cyprus) ever made

2009 – Worryingly I’ve not made it to the cinema this year. The boy goes with friends, and I don’t feel able to go to see Ice Age 3 by myself. I have a gig buddy, I need a film buddy.

You may think you're doing this for fun, but....

Here's an article that was sent to me in the course of my daily labours by the American publication MediaPost. I earn a living as a spin doctor, but am troubled when I receive press releases to the blog - hypocrisy? Maybe. Of course, it's nice when people send you things, but it's a shame there's always a commercial consideration behind them (there are some parts of my life that I'd like to keep free from the realities of the economy), even if sometimes it's well-hidden:

Facebook and MySpace: Beware Of The Mommy Bloggers
by Catharine P. Taylor , Wednesday, July 29, 2009

I was reading the write-ups of last week's BlogHer conference in Chicago secretly jealous that even though I'm a mommy and a blogger, this junket was simply not in the cards for me.

But it wasn't just jealousy that drove my interest, it was how the mommy bloggers inadvertently, perhaps, uncovered a central truth about social media marketing: it isn't at all about carefully targeted display ads, or search ads, but about relationship-building. Unfortunately, that isn't something the Facebooks and MySpaces of the world have learned to monetize very well yet. So, while the discovery of the mommy bloggers is great for advertisers, it's not so great for those who are trying to be the broker that connects the bloggers with the marketers. That connection is already happening directly.

I'm going to quote a competitor to Mediapost, Advertising Age, but its packaged-goods reporter, Jack Neff, said it best: "BlogHer helps solve the mystery of how marketers will manage to spend money on social media despite showing relatively little interest in ads on Facebook or MySpace and the numerous free opportunities available everywhere."

Neff than goes on to quote Jill Beraud, the Global Chief Marketing Officer of PepsiCo, who explains that wooing the mommy bloggers is a long-term ROI effort. As for the entire roster of advertisers at BlogHer, it reads like a who's-who of the blue chip: Wal-Mart, Procter & Gamble, General Motors, Gymboree, Unilever, Kodak.

When you look at that list, you begin to wonder whether the more-than-1,000 women who showed up for the conference are the new reach and frequency. If you believe that word-of-mouth, and the word-of-mouth created by mommy bloggers, is more powerful than banner ads, not to mention TV commercials, you can envision the ramparts of traditional marketing breaking down.

I'm not such a radical to think that TV commercials will go away, but there is still something seismic going on here -- not just in a shift of media dollars away from traditional media, but in advertisers finding that perhaps the best way to market in social media channels has nothing to do with paid media. As Facebook and MySpace try to build their monetization models (and Facebook finds itself embroiled in its second click-fraud suit in recent weeks), let's hope, for their sakes, that they are watching this trend closely, and working on ways to get paid by facilitating the connections between social media moms and advertisers, and/or providing marketers with the intel they need to understand their markets.

Strangely, as I was writing the paragraph above, I got a press release in my email from PQ Media predicting that word-of-mouth, which was a $300 million sector in 2003 will reach $3 billion by 2013. Predictions, as we know, can be pretty faulty, but it's clear that the general trend is up.

It's no coincidence that concurrent to the mommy blogger conference, a small group of mommy bloggers began "Blogs with Integrity," which has been described as a Good Housekeeping-style seal of approval emphasizing that content read on blogs with the organization's seal are not subject to, well, blogola. That both points to the problems with courting mommy bloggers with products and services, and their power. If mommy bloggers can hold onto their credibility, the future is theirs.

You go, girls!

Catharine P. Taylor has been covering digital media and advertising for almost 15 years, and blogs daily for BNET Media.

Builders Bum/Grand Designs

As anyone will tell you, I'm one for tidyness. The evidence of clothes strewn around my bedroom floor and dirty dishes perched precariously on the arm of the sofa may count against me, but in my heart, I like things to be in their place. You can understand then how much angst there has been for the last seven months as we have had to live in a state of perpetual chaos. Because 2009 has been the year of living in a building site. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not whingeing, I'm just looking for all the support and sympathy I know you have to offer me in my hour of need.

In Buckhurst Hill, we have had a new tiled floor in both the kitchen (replacing some curling linoleum) and the bathroom (replacing some beige carpet left by the previous owners - I really can't stand carpet in the bathroom), new bathroom extractor fan (it gets steamy for all the wrong reasons) and shaver sockets (left unsupervised, the electrician fitted them in the ceiling too - WTF?), completely replastered the landing and staircase walls (I'm not one for Artex). The job involved chipping all the old stuff off the wall, and even now I find places with enough dust to recreate a whole new Sahara in our back yard. And we put down a new cream carpet to replace the dark blue with swirly flowers one which would have been nice about forty years ago.



We also replaced the back door with a new one - a stable door - that task should have taken a couple of days, but ended up stretching on for five weeks.



It would have been worse, but my friend at Wallpaper magazine threw her arms up in horror when I suggested removing the York Stone fireplace. Evidently it's a la mode, de rigeur and quite avant garde. I'm not a follower of fashion, but if the bible of the design cognescenti speaks, I feel I should listen.

Down in Brighton, its been a similar tale, so we've had no where to escape to.

Just before the New Year, I summoned (oh yes the feeling of power when I know I'm going to be writing a fat cheque) the builder/project manager who had previously created the office, and in Brighton had previously fitted a new bathroom, ripped out old kitchen and turned it into a bedroom (don't worry, our flat was once two, so we had two kitchens which is at least one more than I need). I went through and explained everything that needed to be done, and sat back and waited. And waited. And waited. By the beginning of March I still didn't have a quote. So I had to start again, without the benefit of a project manager. Firstly I got in an electrician who fitted new sockets, switches and fuse board (they're not called fuses any more, but hey ho) and left them to hack as many holes in the walls as they possibly could whilst putting a number of sockets in the walls at a delightful angle - different angle every socket. Nice. The dust was spectacular. So I set about cleaning up...but it's hard when all you can see is holes in walls.

Next in came the decorator, and in fairness to him, he is fabulous. But as every room was being decorated, everything I own was piled into the middle of each room making it impossible to find anything. Brighton is an old Regency building, and as he peeled old wallpaper (some of which could probably have made an appearance on Antiques Roadshow), the wall would come with it. In large chunks. Combine that with lots of rubbing down and guess what? Yes, yet more dust and rubble. You could walk in the flat, and within a moment your mouth was filled with a gritty taste. Nice.



My mistake was to allow him to cut away the edges of the well-worn and very tired carpets, as that means whether I want to or can afford to I have to replace them all.

At the same time the damp-proofers came in to sort out the damp that had plagued the flat for years. Several tries and several weeks later, the damp is still there, just in different places. Newly decorated places too.

Back at the start of May we also went into the kitchen shop as the current one would be condemned by the health and safety thought police. What I thought would be a straightforward process became very tortuous, and it was only last week that we were able to actually order it. And if we're lucky they might begin to instal it sometime in September...but only if I acquiesce to the very extortionate over-charging the installer is demanding for the removal of the old one. Still it'll look lovely when it's done. And it evidently comes complete with beautiful sunset out the window.



The decorating is finished, all except the entrance hall and landing - which we can't start whilst we've still got the old kitchen to go out and the new one to come in. The plan is for a beautiful polished venetian plaster finish. But no one mentioned that to do that all the bendy crooked two-hundred year-old walls will need to be skimmed. And I've had to abandon refurbishing the upstairs bathroom until next year...it's just too much for a stressed out homeowner like me. The boy is very pleased with his rather plainer room than the space-rockets and stars and planets of his childhood. I'm just waiting for pictures of busty page 3 girls to go up. I'll sneek a peek.

So if all goes according to plan B, or plan C or even plan D, I reckon we might just be free of workmen by Christmas. Or the New Year. But I'm not saying which New Year.

Say cheese!

contains mild horror

We've not been down to Brighton much this year...growing pains and the need for the boy to see more of his friends here in sunny Essex, as well as an ongoing builder saga (of which more later) have seen to that.

It's about six weeks since I last dragged the boy down, but I managed to escape to the coast a fortnight ago (when he was yomping over the Downs). It was sunny enough for me to spend a couple of hours on the beach with a picnic from Tescos - some melon pieces, sausage rolls, a drink of apple juice and two bags of mixed cheeses (they were on offer). Most of it got eaten, but the cheese was too much so was dropped on the kitchen table when I got home.

We returned to Brighton on this Friday evening early enough to see the end of Hotel Babylon and to be feeling a little peckish. I wandered into the kitchen to find the cheese - yes it had been left there forgotten over the warm previous fourteen days and nights. Naturally, I shoved it in the fridge for five minutes before deciding I was actually really hungry. So I took it out, gave it a swift sniff (yes it smelled of cheese) and peeled open the camembert as I sat on the sofa. Three crumbs of rind fell on my T-shirt so I picked one up and dropped it in my mouth, before looking down to pick up the other two crumbes. They were moving. They were wriggling. I screamed a girlie hysterical scream. The cheese was crawling.

Yes I'd eaten a maggot.

I still feel sick.

RIP Captain Pugwash

Well this is a shame.

Of course, amongst schoolboys Captain Pugwash was most famous and popular for having a shipmate called Master Bates. And like many of the best stories, complete rubbish, but it still makes me titter.

Children's programmes are not what they used to be

Goodbye Weird John

We have one fewer people in the office, and there weren't many to start with. Nothing to do with the economy - we've had a lodger, for nigh on a dozen years and he is now departed.

John was a strange man who I met when I first set up in business. My first client had spare space...the top floor of a building in very fashionable Clerkenwell, and they let me occupy it. 2000sq' for one person. I bet even Alan Sugar would be jealous. It was beautiful, with a glass roof opening to a terrace, and wood beams all over the place. A little grubby perhaps, but you couldn't ask for better. And it was free, and that's important when you're just starting out. It also had a rather fantastic plant that had been allowed to grow and grow; it was a bit of an Audrey II and was draped fairly elegantly all around the rafters. I tried to remember to water it once a week.

I arrived in September.

Three months later John arrived. He sat at the other end of the room, was pleasant enough, not particularly chatty, but it was definitely good to have another person to keep me company.

I came in one day and John had decided to cut back Audrey II. To its roots. Evidently it was untidy. It had taken the owners some 25 years to grow. I hid under my desk when they found out.

John had the same thing for lunch everyday. A pot of cottage cheese, bag of crisps and an apple. Everyday the same thing. Day in day out.

We had a coffee shop opposite, and would take it in turns to buy the coffee. Mostly John would take his back for being too cold/too hot/too milky/not milky enough/too foamy/why's there no foam? and so on. In two years, I doubt the shop managed to make a single penny out of selling us three coffees each a day.

In the morning we would meet for coffee at Pret a Manger and put the world to rights. Not bad considering he bought the Daily Mail everyday, and I'm a confirmed Guardian reader.

John had been married for some twenty odd years. And in his household he was master of the universe. His wife would ring at least half a dozen times a day for guidance and help. If one of his daughters had done something wrong, he would tell her off from the office...or she would have to wait 'til he got home. If anything went wrong, he would sort it out from the office or would go home to resolve it. In twelve years my favourite was "I'm going home because Jane's washing machine has broken".

His youngest daughter was born when we was in his mid-fifties. "If you don't use it, you lose it." He quoted me...and not just about the reason for having more children late in life. He will never willingly retire.

He has a dog. An alsation. Which had a kennel outside and slept there spring, summer, autumn and winter. It was never allowed to cross the threshold.

When I (now we) moved to a new office John came with us. It was the first time I noticed that his desk was always immaculately tidy. Nothing on top that needn't be. Everything in perfect order. Everything placed to within a millimtre of where it should be. You could eat your baby's lunch off it. Even when he was busy, not a thing out of place.

John built his own house. Or rather he project managed the building of his house. The battles with builders, plumbers. electricians and decorators were legendary. He bought 20,000 second hand tlles for the roof and scrubbed everyone clean. The roofer said he'd never seen tiles as clean. Sadly, when the house was complete, there were a succession of leaks as the plumber hadn't been supervised quite enough. A bit like the chickens in Sainsbury's that have been reared under the safe watch of the RSPCA...for some of the time.

And then we moved again (seven years later) and John came with us. And then we moved again to where we are now. And John came with us. His desk remained tidy throughout.

John always arrived early at the office. By 7. To do that he rose at 4 and caught a train an hour later from mid-Kent. I don't know what he did when he got to the office, but I do know he had his music on loudly. Gilrs Aloud, Ah Ha, and the like. When we arrived he turned it off. So we put the radio on. He didn't like it - "the sound quality is awful" he said. When we got a new computer with a hi-fi sound system, "It's the music, it's awful, it's not good music." We kept the radio on.

At our new office, the top step of the stairs was slightly smaller (about half an inch in width) than the rest. For six months John tripped over this whenever he came up the stairs. He couldn't cope with variation.

He didn't make tea once in seven years at our old office, but in our new office we would share the tea making. But we had to ask John to stop. Whenever he squeezed the tea bags, he bent the spoon. "But they're not as good as the ones we have at home."

When we were broken into, I gave him the money for a new computer in advance of the insurance paying out. I gave him the money on the day of our Christmas lunch; Not a word of thanks. I had to wait a couple of months for the money. It was unusual of him to come along - he always said he would, but then would find a last minute excuse not to. In twelve years, I think he came along twice. They were quite calm, relaxed and pleasant affairs. This was the nicest place.

In our office bathroom, the light was always left on inspite of a sign saying "Save the world. Switch off a light". And there were skid marks in the loo. Evidently there was no one here to run around and clear up after him. In the bathroom, the flusher was broken several times. Too much force used to push down on the mechanism.

And one day, I arrived to find the door handle for our hardwood security door in the middle of the floor. He had forgotten to unlock the double lock and used so much force on the door he broke the handle. I was not best pleased. And that provoked him into saying he was moving out inspite of my protestations to the contrary. I suggested he thought about it over the Christmas break and let me know in the new year. He never spoke to me again, but returned everyday until he left last week. Still owing me three months rent.

And this is how he returned the office keys. Yes that's gaffer tape.

Goodbye Weird John. Don't come back.

IKEA for beginners

When I was a little wee boy I used to love making models (I'd love to make a model now, but that's a poor joke in poor taste), and spent many an hour with boxes from Airfix or Revell. My favourites were a model of the Saturn V rocket...that's the one that sent Neil Armstrong to the moon, and back, a giant Hawker Hurricane - so much better that the Spitfire I thought, a Centurian tank, and a glow in the dark Phantom of the Opera. I'm not sure I was that good at it, especially the painting bit, and surprisingly my little fingers struggled with the littler pieces. But generally I thought they looked ok and were well played with. My brother, I seem to remember used to bomb his and blow them up and burn them. We were suitably encouraged by our father who used to come home with very extravagant Japanese Tamiya ones. These were excessively complicated, came with little electric motors and should never be given to anyone under the age of 45. Like trainsets, I suspect they were more for Dad than Son.

When I grew up, my poor poor girlfriend of the time had to put up with me making model 1/18th scale model classic cars. Our domestic bliss involved me making cars and her making frocks...she was a dab hand with cotton and fabric. I built loads, and they're now all stuffed in numerous drawers, dusty and probably broken.

My building skills then progressed to Ikea furniture - and being a landlord I have become a dab-hand at putting up flat-pack furniture in no longer than it takes you to sneeze and spread your swine flu to all around you. If everything goes wrong, I feel I have a career as a cabinet maker. Of the 21st Century variety rather than the 19th century.

I hope you're still following me here.

You will recall I recently got a new Jeep. It came with a hard top, but I bought a soft top as well because I love the country breeze blowing through my hair. And now that we have summer, it has become time to put it on. I gave it about an hour perhaps ninety minutes to do.

It came in a big brown cardboard box with the instructions inside on top. We followed step one: remove hard top by removing eight bolts. We did that and lifted it into the garage. Leaving us with a topless car. Which is nice in the sun.



The we read stage two, at which point we realised there were 30 steps to complete. And the roof came in 89 parts. Yes this was a kit - designed for a dealer to fit.



And the instructions were fabulous:

"Place the lower header on the side bows. Orient the side bows with the brackets up. Install two (2) #8 x 1/2" Pan Head Washer Screws to secure the lower header to each side bow. Use a Pivot Knuckle to install the #3 Bow to the side bow/header assembly"

It probably would have helped if all the parts had been correctly labelled.



It definitely would have helped if it hadn't started to rain when there was no roof of any sort on the car. We sort of managed to get it under the garage door...with the boy pushing up with all his strength.





Six hours and many tears later(mostly mine)we had a new roof.



By this stage, I'd managed to jam the steering lock on, and no matter how much I huffed and I puffed I couldn't unlock the wheels or turn the ignition on. We called out the nice man from the AA, who jumped out of his shiny van with lots of flashing lights that woke up all the neighbours. He jumped in, yanked hard on the steering wheel and freed it up. He was here and gone in less than 30 seconds, with a glance back which said, "Tosser".

It was coming up to midnight when we sat down for supper.

And I'm pretty confident that my kit building days are over. Completely.

God lives in the Post Office

I love this post

The all-conquering hero returns

It's been a lonely old week...last week. The boy has been away on Army Cadet Camp. I've got used to rattling around the ghostly corridors and returning to the bad eating habits of a singleton. But don't get me wrong, I ventured out for a couple of evenings with friends and some well-desreved (in my mind) me-time.

Some of his time was spent in the hills above Folkestone and some of the time was spent in France...exactly when he was on the continent and when he was in England I'm not really sure, but I worked on the basis that the army generally looks after its cadets pretty well so I didn't need to be worried.

Unfortunately he couldn't remember when he was returning home, and neither could I; I assumed it was Monday evening, but in the end it turned out to be mid-morning; not convenient for any working parent...and to add to the complication, I'd been called away to a meeting in Stockport, so it needed a few panicky calls to friends and neighbours ensured he wasn't left on the doorstep.

Whenever he's away I never hear a peep...no doubt I'm forgotten in the excitement of freedom, and I'm a great believer that it's good to have a holiday from each other. Some of the Mums think that's odd, and no doubt spent the week ringing their beloved offspring on a daily basis. On this occasion, I got a couple of messages...it would have been one message and one phone call, but I couldn't work out how to answer the phone as I previously mentioned...he rang to say he'd won a 'Best Cadet' Award which he was delighted with, and indeed so am I. So long as he doesn't let it go to his head and remembers that he's not allowed to follow a military career.

I've always said that my job is to get him successfully to the end of his education and then he is free to do whatever he likes. Obviously that's nonsense as I'm discovering, and I'll have to disinherit him if he becomes a soldier or a pimp, or anything else that I randomly decide is inappropriate.

His enthusiasm for encouraging me to share in his experience meant that I got to enjoy the delights of powdered white tea, chicken stock drink and chilli beef paste. Let me assure you here and now that if you're ever tempted by army rations, don't be. You're better off rumaging through the bin. Not that I'm not grateful for the opportunity of trying the experience. Thank you my boy. We also got to play with matches that once lit won't go out...just like those trick birthday candles...and these should come in handy when we next light the bbq.

He took with him a very large rucksack (Duke of Edinburgh approved, although I doubt the Duke himself would know one from a bagpipe) and a large sports bag. And I'm pleased to report he returned with both. I know he did, because they are both in the middle of the sitting room floor, with their contents liberally spewed around the room.

He has indeed returned the conquering hero, to re-conquer his home and shape it in the way he likes.

On the naughty step

A few weeks ago we had the pleasure of visiting the Temple of Consumerism. Lakeside shopping centre. This is, as I'm sure you will know, not as posh as Bluewater or even Westside, but it certainly makes up for quantity what it lacks in quality. I wish I could remember why we went there, but I just can't. I'm confident though that whatever we went for we must have got. For the simple reason that like Harrods, anything that can be bought, can be bought there. One of the things though that we didn't buy was a set of towels that I saw and rather fancied in House of Fraser. Not that I have some sort of strange fetish for towels, it's just that we need new towels because the ones we have are old verging on the vintage if not ancient. And we don't have many of them. So when we have guests, we're rooting round for something they can dry their hands on (lord help us if they stay over, shower and then need to dry their other bits). The boy didn't like these towels, so inspite of pleading like a five year old who's just gone into the sweet shop, I was told firmly they were awful and we couldn't have them. I sulked for ages, dragging my feet along as we walked round and round in ever decreasing circles. I didn't want to go there in the first place.

At this point I will go off on a little detour and admit that we do still have a beach towel acquired by Grandma in Cyprus with Green Shield stamps when I was half the size the boy is now; like the Turin Shroud it rarely comes out, and I'm hopeful that if we keep it long enough I may be able to do a turn on Antiques Roadshow, feigning surprise and modesty when it is revealed to be a priceless classic worth many quidzillions.

In the boy's absence over the last week, I became a little bored at the weekend and ended up wandering around Habitat, spying some towels remarkably similar to the HoF ones. But different, obviously. So like a naughty school boy I purchased them, hoping upon hope that all would be ok and I would get away with it.

At home I immediately put them on the towel rail, thinking that they might just sneak in unnoticed. I know you're supposed to wash them first, but that's so boring and I didn't want to get them wet. You'll be telling me next to wash my fruit before eating it next.

Sure enough, I was out when the boy sauntered through the front door and made his way to the bathroom. I got a message left on my mobile, "Not convinced by the towels. I told you not to get them, so I'm very annoyed."

My "Aren't I clever? Look what I've done and I'm so damned smart I've got away with it" feeling evaporated, knowing for certain I would be spending some long time sat on the naughty step.

...and on a different continent altogether

My friend Nappy Valley left this green and pleasant land for the melting pot of the wild west, and not to be left out, I too have been venturing across the Atlantic.

I read around the blogosphere and occasionally trip over blogs that are more than worth reading/entertaining; one such is My Life As I see it...simple everyday situations which are given an enlightened animation by Tony. I love the way he makes his life enviably interesting. Anyway, I was quite chuffed when he dropped me a line to ask if I would put pen to paper when he went on his holidays (vacation). So here's the piece I scrawled:
The long hot summer holidays
and if you manage to get to the end of that, do have a rummage around his blog

NB