Today is the last day of the boy's summer holiday. All nine weeks of it. I know it's been nine weeks because his maths teacher told me on Saturday night after I danced with his wife. The maths teacher is looking forward to going back to school, I think the boy is too. He's spending his last day with his girlfriend. No doubt they'll take the dog for a walk in the Forest, and I hope Fido doesn't run away and get lost if his walkers are distracted.
We were at at 50th birthday party on Saturday night. This was not just any 50th party. This was an Essex 50th party. For the 110 guests, the champagne flowed all night. The marquee was large and luxurious. It did have a disco ball hanging from the centre. The waitresses kept us topped up with food and bubbly. The garden around was adorned with 750 sculptural lights which illuminated a 4' bronze sculpture of a running hare which had been specially commissioned for the celebrations. The talk was generally about life in the City, and a toast was given to 'the most important man in my life. The man who has made all this possible. Mr JP Morgan.'
The boy had been invited as a guest of the daughter who he's at school with, I was invited as a friend of the birthday girl. We were given a lift by the father of the boy's best mate, and he kindly collected us too. Whilst it made me feel young to be ferried around by a parent, it felt equally very uncomfortable too. As indeed did being the only singleton at the party, and having to respond to questions about where my partner was. The explanation that I didn't have one was met with astonishment, and I hung my head in shame. Next time I'll rent.
Not so long ago, I went to the 50th birthday parties of the parents of my friends, and it's taken the wind out of my sails a bit to discover that having gone through the engagement party stage, the wedding party stage, the house warming stage, the christening stage, the divorce party stage, I'm now at the half centenary party stage. Next it'll be the wake stage. And Grandma in Cyprus hasn't helpd by ringing to mention that it's Big Brother's fiftieth this year. I'd like to pretend there's a decade and more between us, but that would be a Big Fib. We count the difference in our ages in months, not years.
So Monday is not looking good - social pariah for not having a wife, and heading to my grave as a lonely old sod. I'm going back to bed and staying there. Or maybe it's time for fake tan,hair dye and a facelift. After all I do live in Essex.
Monday, 7 September 2009
Saturday, 5 September 2009
Dr Who?
Tenants. Who'd have 'em?
Today I've been running around after one of the tenants. Somehow he'd managed to fly to the USofA on an out of date passport. They let him in but they won't let him out. Which seems a funny way of going about it. Perhaps thats the approach all illegal immigrants should take. So I've had a continuous flow of calls from his mum, dad and sister as we tried to find a spare set of keys to the flat so that sister could go in and find his proper passport and FedEx it to him. They're all very grateful of course, but in these days of terrorists plotting to blow us up left right and centre, I'd love to know how you can travel half way round the world with an out of date form of identity. The same way I guess that when we flew to Germany, unthinkingly I had in my hand luggage a large bottle of sun tan lotion, after shave, toothpaste and deodorant. We sauntered through security at Stanstead, but the hyper efficient Germans at Munich wouldn't let me fly back with it as it wasn't in one of those see-through plastic bags - they must be very clever if they manage to stop an explosion.
Other tenant adventures having been rung up in the middle of the night once. "We've got no electricity" "Oh dear - have you looked in the fuse box?" "That's fine" "Oh, erm, erm" "There's no electricity anywhere" "You mean there's a power cut?" "Yes. We thought you could ring the electricity company and find out when it will come back on" "Feck off"
Or:
"My bicycle has been stolen" "Oh no - the flat has been broken into?" "No it was downstairs, outside." "Erm, oh. Was it locked?" "No" "Feck off"
Or:
"The heating's not working" "Oh dear, do you know if the boiler is switched on?" "Yes, its on" "I'll come round and have a look". When there, I look at the radiators "They're turned off" "Yes we did that for the summer". "You're an idiot"
Or even:
"Whenever we use the washing machine it fills up with foam" "How much detergent do you use?" "About four cups or five cups" "Have you ever done any washing before?"
and indeed:
"We've got no hot water" "Is the hot water switch turned on?" "No it's in the off position" "Oh really"
Even:
"There's no bed in the flat" "You specified you wanted it unfurnished so we took the bed away." "I know, but I want a bed" "Feck off"
And oh so many more....
Today I've been running around after one of the tenants. Somehow he'd managed to fly to the USofA on an out of date passport. They let him in but they won't let him out. Which seems a funny way of going about it. Perhaps thats the approach all illegal immigrants should take. So I've had a continuous flow of calls from his mum, dad and sister as we tried to find a spare set of keys to the flat so that sister could go in and find his proper passport and FedEx it to him. They're all very grateful of course, but in these days of terrorists plotting to blow us up left right and centre, I'd love to know how you can travel half way round the world with an out of date form of identity. The same way I guess that when we flew to Germany, unthinkingly I had in my hand luggage a large bottle of sun tan lotion, after shave, toothpaste and deodorant. We sauntered through security at Stanstead, but the hyper efficient Germans at Munich wouldn't let me fly back with it as it wasn't in one of those see-through plastic bags - they must be very clever if they manage to stop an explosion.
Other tenant adventures having been rung up in the middle of the night once. "We've got no electricity" "Oh dear - have you looked in the fuse box?" "That's fine" "Oh, erm, erm" "There's no electricity anywhere" "You mean there's a power cut?" "Yes. We thought you could ring the electricity company and find out when it will come back on" "Feck off"
Or:
"My bicycle has been stolen" "Oh no - the flat has been broken into?" "No it was downstairs, outside." "Erm, oh. Was it locked?" "No" "Feck off"
Or:
"The heating's not working" "Oh dear, do you know if the boiler is switched on?" "Yes, its on" "I'll come round and have a look". When there, I look at the radiators "They're turned off" "Yes we did that for the summer". "You're an idiot"
Or even:
"Whenever we use the washing machine it fills up with foam" "How much detergent do you use?" "About four cups or five cups" "Have you ever done any washing before?"
and indeed:
"We've got no hot water" "Is the hot water switch turned on?" "No it's in the off position" "Oh really"
Even:
"There's no bed in the flat" "You specified you wanted it unfurnished so we took the bed away." "I know, but I want a bed" "Feck off"
And oh so many more....
Thursday, 3 September 2009
Skeletons in the cupboard
I wanted to write about how rubbish Homebase is, but as I'm still fuming, I'm going to leave it until I've calmed down. By which stage I probably won't care.
Instead, here's a picture of the contents of the cupboards of our kitchen. There are two Maggies, a Ronnie and a Diana. If you're the first to find them, I'll send you one of the bottles of wine. Unless you're Grandma in Cyprus, in which case I'll bring it.
Instead, here's a picture of the contents of the cupboards of our kitchen. There are two Maggies, a Ronnie and a Diana. If you're the first to find them, I'll send you one of the bottles of wine. Unless you're Grandma in Cyprus, in which case I'll bring it.
Monday, 31 August 2009
Oberjoch
A totally, self-indulgent post....sorry! but I kind of wrote it as I went along...
From Wikipedia:
The Oberjoch Pass (1178 m) is a mountain pass in the Allgäuer Alpen just one kilometre west of the Austrian border. Between 1938 and 1945 the pass was caled "Adolf-Hitler-Pass".
Sunday
The day started a little earlier than planned due to usual restlessness I feel when staying in hotels. Our first challenge was to find the car rental office which had eluded us the day before. We scoured Bahnhofplatz top to bottom to no avail. A call was ignored so we asked in the toursit information office. With a wry smile he directed us to an office above platform 20. The girl behind the counter politely told us that yes thank you they knew the address on the web site was wrong. Inglorious basterds.
I sent a text to a friend across the other side of the globe. The reply I got was "what time is it over there?" 30 times I've had that now and still counting but like echoes in a cave or ripples in a pond when a pebble is dropped, with less frequency...12 hours later.
The boy and I have been having boyish giggles at the thought of going up to a chip vendor and saying. "Frites" to get the reply, "No my names is Hans". "yes Hans fritz". Well it makes us giggle...it hasn't actually happened. Yet.
Our journey to Oberjoch was lovely, even the detour was easily accomplished. An enormous traffic queue was caused by a helicopter landing on the road. We were both reminded of our mortality, as the bike the rider was on lay in pieces. At least he may have been alive as they don't send air ambulances to pick up the dead.
I shed a tear as we reached Oberjoch. A place I hadn't been to for 30 years, and one for which I retain a deep, deep affection. The hotel hasn't changed from when I worked here. There are still photos from the 1930's with swastikas flying outside the building and references to Adolf Hitlers visits. The boy and I smiled. An embarassed smile I think.
Tomorrow we conquer the Iseler.
Monday
We did indeed conquer some things today. And one of them was the Iseler. A mountain that 30 years ago I regularly bounded up like a mountain goat. In recent years I've struggled with heights, and so as the boy's levels of excitement increased as we neared the summmit, so did my levels of terror. In temperatures nearing 30 degrees I was still breaking out in a cold sweat. But a strange thing happened on ce we were at the top; all my fears disappeared completely, and I was able to bounce down the muntain with a smile on my face. Having got half way down we did re-ascend in search of an elusive mountain path much to the amazement of other hikers who clearly put us in the mad dogs and Englishmen category. Perhaps we should have said we are in training for the Olympics.
For some reason we are attracting Professors here. Up the mountain we chatted to a professor of agricultural sciences, and last night our meal was shared with a professor of physics and astronomy. Due to a slight misunderstanding he has gone away thinking that a torn ligament is simply known as a torn. My apologies, it could have been much worse. Enough of academia, tomorrow a mad prince
Tuesday
Today we travelled to the second of my places of employment in Bavaria. The Braustuberl in Hohenschwangau. There are also a couple of castles there - Neuscwanstein featured quite heavily in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Truth be told my memory of my time here first time round is a little hazy as beer was consumed from eight in the morning til three in the morning. I believe a good time was had by all; apart from the eels which were illegally fished from the lake and then dispatched with ammonia. Times haven't changed - we gathered three of the Irish workers had left this mornning after a particularly hard party the night before. We had sausages and chips from the Braustuberl whilst the rain poured down around us. Alpine storms are spectacular and well worth experiencing. i think the boy was pleased to see where I worked, to walk up the mountain and see round the castle. I know he loves his Bayrishe hat with feather that we bought - we went in every shop to make sure we got the right one.
Wednesday
Something new today...a gorge outside Oberstdorf. Stunning. Just stunning. As indeed was the pebble beach alongside the river where walkers had built hundreds of cairns from one foot high to upwards of six. It was as if the gnomes dancing at night had been caught by the sunrise and turned to stone. We added our own.
Thursday
Postcard writing day. But only if we can remember your address. Sorry Grandma in Cyprus you are in our thoughts, but we can never remember the address so we'll send yours when we're back in Blighty.
Thirty years ago I would climb the Hirsch Alpe, lie down and snooze in the afternoon sun. And get woken by a kiss from a cow. The boy was delighted when the cows seemed to want to continue the tradition. Very friendly indeed.
I also have to contemplate the value of the boy seeing his father in abject terror as we negotiated some fairly easy mountain paths.It's the vertigo thing again which puzzles and frustrates...I can see it's safe and all I have to do is put one foot in front of the other. But absolute panic ensues and the feeling of nausea is immense. The boy is very helpful and supportive which is appreciated more than he'll ever know. I'm determined not to allow it to stop me scaling new peaks.
Friday
We thought we'd go to another village, where I'd swam in the lake a long time ago, butit's a bit more developed so we just kept driving to Reutte, on to the Plansee, then to Oberamegau (the play's not 'til next year)and ended up at Schloss Linderhof - small but perfectly formed. We returned to the hotel, not knowing where we'd sleep, as we'd been told there wasn't a room for us (some confusion in the bookings. Over a glass of a potent burning schnapps, a room was found.
Saturday
The clouds came down, the rain poured and we bade our fairwells, drove to Munich. The question is if Dad and son walk into a shop and both see a leather jacket they really, really like, who should get it. Father and son require a different size. Perhaps they should buy one each?
Sunday
The English Garden - not sure an Oompah band playing away whilst everyone eats sausages and saukaraut and drinks weisse beer is very English. Absolutely sure that naked people in the middle of a public par playing volley ball is not English at all.
We arrived home, late, very late tired, but elated after I relived my history, and the boy discovered a new country. I hope he likes it as much as I did and still do. He certainly likes his new hat.
If you fancy popping round to see the our holiday pics, you're welcome...we took over 900 of them, so come well equipped.
From Wikipedia:
The Oberjoch Pass (1178 m) is a mountain pass in the Allgäuer Alpen just one kilometre west of the Austrian border. Between 1938 and 1945 the pass was caled "Adolf-Hitler-Pass".
Sunday
The day started a little earlier than planned due to usual restlessness I feel when staying in hotels. Our first challenge was to find the car rental office which had eluded us the day before. We scoured Bahnhofplatz top to bottom to no avail. A call was ignored so we asked in the toursit information office. With a wry smile he directed us to an office above platform 20. The girl behind the counter politely told us that yes thank you they knew the address on the web site was wrong. Inglorious basterds.
I sent a text to a friend across the other side of the globe. The reply I got was "what time is it over there?" 30 times I've had that now and still counting but like echoes in a cave or ripples in a pond when a pebble is dropped, with less frequency...12 hours later.
The boy and I have been having boyish giggles at the thought of going up to a chip vendor and saying. "Frites" to get the reply, "No my names is Hans". "yes Hans fritz". Well it makes us giggle...it hasn't actually happened. Yet.
Our journey to Oberjoch was lovely, even the detour was easily accomplished. An enormous traffic queue was caused by a helicopter landing on the road. We were both reminded of our mortality, as the bike the rider was on lay in pieces. At least he may have been alive as they don't send air ambulances to pick up the dead.
I shed a tear as we reached Oberjoch. A place I hadn't been to for 30 years, and one for which I retain a deep, deep affection. The hotel hasn't changed from when I worked here. There are still photos from the 1930's with swastikas flying outside the building and references to Adolf Hitlers visits. The boy and I smiled. An embarassed smile I think.
Tomorrow we conquer the Iseler.
Monday
We did indeed conquer some things today. And one of them was the Iseler. A mountain that 30 years ago I regularly bounded up like a mountain goat. In recent years I've struggled with heights, and so as the boy's levels of excitement increased as we neared the summmit, so did my levels of terror. In temperatures nearing 30 degrees I was still breaking out in a cold sweat. But a strange thing happened on ce we were at the top; all my fears disappeared completely, and I was able to bounce down the muntain with a smile on my face. Having got half way down we did re-ascend in search of an elusive mountain path much to the amazement of other hikers who clearly put us in the mad dogs and Englishmen category. Perhaps we should have said we are in training for the Olympics.
For some reason we are attracting Professors here. Up the mountain we chatted to a professor of agricultural sciences, and last night our meal was shared with a professor of physics and astronomy. Due to a slight misunderstanding he has gone away thinking that a torn ligament is simply known as a torn. My apologies, it could have been much worse. Enough of academia, tomorrow a mad prince
Tuesday
Today we travelled to the second of my places of employment in Bavaria. The Braustuberl in Hohenschwangau. There are also a couple of castles there - Neuscwanstein featured quite heavily in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Truth be told my memory of my time here first time round is a little hazy as beer was consumed from eight in the morning til three in the morning. I believe a good time was had by all; apart from the eels which were illegally fished from the lake and then dispatched with ammonia. Times haven't changed - we gathered three of the Irish workers had left this mornning after a particularly hard party the night before. We had sausages and chips from the Braustuberl whilst the rain poured down around us. Alpine storms are spectacular and well worth experiencing. i think the boy was pleased to see where I worked, to walk up the mountain and see round the castle. I know he loves his Bayrishe hat with feather that we bought - we went in every shop to make sure we got the right one.
Wednesday
Something new today...a gorge outside Oberstdorf. Stunning. Just stunning. As indeed was the pebble beach alongside the river where walkers had built hundreds of cairns from one foot high to upwards of six. It was as if the gnomes dancing at night had been caught by the sunrise and turned to stone. We added our own.
Thursday
Postcard writing day. But only if we can remember your address. Sorry Grandma in Cyprus you are in our thoughts, but we can never remember the address so we'll send yours when we're back in Blighty.
Thirty years ago I would climb the Hirsch Alpe, lie down and snooze in the afternoon sun. And get woken by a kiss from a cow. The boy was delighted when the cows seemed to want to continue the tradition. Very friendly indeed.
I also have to contemplate the value of the boy seeing his father in abject terror as we negotiated some fairly easy mountain paths.It's the vertigo thing again which puzzles and frustrates...I can see it's safe and all I have to do is put one foot in front of the other. But absolute panic ensues and the feeling of nausea is immense. The boy is very helpful and supportive which is appreciated more than he'll ever know. I'm determined not to allow it to stop me scaling new peaks.
Friday
We thought we'd go to another village, where I'd swam in the lake a long time ago, butit's a bit more developed so we just kept driving to Reutte, on to the Plansee, then to Oberamegau (the play's not 'til next year)and ended up at Schloss Linderhof - small but perfectly formed. We returned to the hotel, not knowing where we'd sleep, as we'd been told there wasn't a room for us (some confusion in the bookings. Over a glass of a potent burning schnapps, a room was found.
Saturday
The clouds came down, the rain poured and we bade our fairwells, drove to Munich. The question is if Dad and son walk into a shop and both see a leather jacket they really, really like, who should get it. Father and son require a different size. Perhaps they should buy one each?
Sunday
The English Garden - not sure an Oompah band playing away whilst everyone eats sausages and saukaraut and drinks weisse beer is very English. Absolutely sure that naked people in the middle of a public par playing volley ball is not English at all.
We arrived home, late, very late tired, but elated after I relived my history, and the boy discovered a new country. I hope he likes it as much as I did and still do. He certainly likes his new hat.
If you fancy popping round to see the our holiday pics, you're welcome...we took over 900 of them, so come well equipped.
Saturday, 22 August 2009
Achtung!
Well we're cheerily tucked up in our hotel after a day that started at 4.30 a.m. And now in the fatherland its 11ish. We were at the back of everything at the airport...queue to check in, queue for the luggage to be x-rayed an dsat at the back of the plane. But we were first onto German soil and first with our luggage and first to miss the bus to the city centre. no sonner were we at our hotel than we left to go to the specacular BMW museum. Well we are boys. We then toured the equally spectacular Olympic park which is being completely rebuilt perhaps for 2012. We had traditional Bavarian food for dinner, although the boy declined the opportunity to sample brain, lung or pigs knuckle. I can't think why. So far in the land where rules rule we've managed to jay walk in front of a police car and get threatened with a 500 euro fine for trying to take a picture of a tube train. The boy thinks its very clean and tidy and I wouldn't disagree in the slightest. Tomorrow we must find the car rental office which has eluded our efforts inspite of us having an address and a sat nav...the onwards journey could see us lost in the hinterland....
Friday, 21 August 2009
Holiday time
Our holiday has rolled round, and we're off tomorrow morning. When I say morning, I really mean morning. I can't for the life of me imagine why I decided to book a flight at 8.00 to Munich. There are hundreds of flights all day long to this popular holiday resort (erm), and I really feel like I could do with a lie in. So to Stanstead it is at he crack of sparrow, along with the great unwashed. We too will be unwashed as with a degree of inevitability, our bath decided to start leaking yesterday, and it won't be fixed by the a.m. The water has poured down the walls, and it's not that comforting to hear the light switch in the kitchen below crackling and fizzing. I'm checking our holiday insurance for holiday style accidents and our home insurance for what we do when we return to a burnt down house.
Wednesday, 19 August 2009
Brookies back
It's been a hive of activity in the Lane this week. Firstly, and sadly next door but one suffered the dual shock of the death of Granny and death of dog. A cruel blow to them. The knock on has been that the planned eighteenth birthday party for their lad has been cancelled....not postponed but cancelled, which is a shame.
One further down had an attempted break in which led to door to door investigations by Essex constabulary. Their probing questions were, what's your name, do you live here and did you see anything suspicious. The culprit is yet to be apprehended, but it's only a matter of time. This happened on the day I read that the Brighton flat is slap bang in the middle of one of Britain's burglary hot spots.
And then last night as I rode home, I followed a fire engine with lights flashing and sirens blaring, and felt my heart sink as it turned down the Lane and slowed to a halt. I'm pleased to report the boy had not been playing with matches, but the next house up from ours had a fire which appeared to be in the garden. Don't tell anyone, but I suspect it was a bonfire, or perhaps even a barbecue.
So I expect there will be lots of twitching of curtains over the next few days to see if we'll have our first lesbian kiss or body buried under the patio. Alas and alack we will not be able to partake of the twitching as we have received our made to measure wooden blinds and have removed our curtains. I might just mention that I did the measuring, and am distraught to discover that you're supposed to do it accurately. So I've re-ordered. On the other hand, it's probably best not mentioned at all.
One further down had an attempted break in which led to door to door investigations by Essex constabulary. Their probing questions were, what's your name, do you live here and did you see anything suspicious. The culprit is yet to be apprehended, but it's only a matter of time. This happened on the day I read that the Brighton flat is slap bang in the middle of one of Britain's burglary hot spots.
And then last night as I rode home, I followed a fire engine with lights flashing and sirens blaring, and felt my heart sink as it turned down the Lane and slowed to a halt. I'm pleased to report the boy had not been playing with matches, but the next house up from ours had a fire which appeared to be in the garden. Don't tell anyone, but I suspect it was a bonfire, or perhaps even a barbecue.
So I expect there will be lots of twitching of curtains over the next few days to see if we'll have our first lesbian kiss or body buried under the patio. Alas and alack we will not be able to partake of the twitching as we have received our made to measure wooden blinds and have removed our curtains. I might just mention that I did the measuring, and am distraught to discover that you're supposed to do it accurately. So I've re-ordered. On the other hand, it's probably best not mentioned at all.
Sunday, 16 August 2009
Kate Moss woz here
Having previously mentioned that Bristol and I are not as one - see here it's time to report my feelings towards Croydon. I'm beginning to feel a bit like Boris Johnson here, my fellow pickaninnies.
Croydon is the place most famous for producing Kate Moss and....nothing else as far as I'm aware. My main experience of Croydon over the years has been when the commuter train from Brighton stops at East Croydon station. It's not a great place. And neither at the start of your journey nor at the end.
Last year a brave 13 year old (that'll be the boy) and I decided to cycle from Brighton to Buckhurst Hill. The distance is roughly 120km. We did it in a very respectable 10 hours, not bad as it included numerous pit-stops and the occasional detour. I reported on it here. For a thirteen year old it was a real achievement, and something I hope he tells his children and grandchildren about. The high point was when we crossed the M25...it felt like we were crossing from one country to the next. Particularly as immediately afterwards we had to cycle up the North Downs, and to be honest at the time it felt we were repeating Sherpa Tenzing's epic achievement.
And I'm pleased to say there were no mishaps.
The low point of the entire trip was Croydon - by the time we got there we were tired, and a wee bit chilly and starving hungry. And most importantly we were neither at the start of or journey, nor at the end. I'm sure it's a point experienced by all long distance athletes....not that we're claiming that accolade.
On Sunday we decided to return from Brighton re-tracing the route of last year's epic ride. But this time were in the Jeep. It was surprisingly difficult to manage, and more than a few u-turns were made. But I'm pleased to report there was only one mishap - the waitress at the pub we stopped at managed to trip and drop our chocolate mousses. The last two they had.
The highlight was crossing the M25 which felt like crossing from one country to another.
But sure as sure, it was Croydon that provided the low point of the journey. Our last year route was blocked by road works, and the end result was a detour that lasted a whole Jose Gonzalez album. Not even the satnav would help. And trust me, the back streets of Croydon have nothing to recommend them. Rows and rows of decaying houses interspersed with empty shops, or shops selling nothing more than rubbish. It's faceless Britain at its worse. And I hope I never have reason to go back. Not even for the impressive shopping centre. Or a gig at the Fairfield Halls.
Croydon is the place most famous for producing Kate Moss and....nothing else as far as I'm aware. My main experience of Croydon over the years has been when the commuter train from Brighton stops at East Croydon station. It's not a great place. And neither at the start of your journey nor at the end.
Last year a brave 13 year old (that'll be the boy) and I decided to cycle from Brighton to Buckhurst Hill. The distance is roughly 120km. We did it in a very respectable 10 hours, not bad as it included numerous pit-stops and the occasional detour. I reported on it here. For a thirteen year old it was a real achievement, and something I hope he tells his children and grandchildren about. The high point was when we crossed the M25...it felt like we were crossing from one country to the next. Particularly as immediately afterwards we had to cycle up the North Downs, and to be honest at the time it felt we were repeating Sherpa Tenzing's epic achievement.
And I'm pleased to say there were no mishaps.
The low point of the entire trip was Croydon - by the time we got there we were tired, and a wee bit chilly and starving hungry. And most importantly we were neither at the start of or journey, nor at the end. I'm sure it's a point experienced by all long distance athletes....not that we're claiming that accolade.
On Sunday we decided to return from Brighton re-tracing the route of last year's epic ride. But this time were in the Jeep. It was surprisingly difficult to manage, and more than a few u-turns were made. But I'm pleased to report there was only one mishap - the waitress at the pub we stopped at managed to trip and drop our chocolate mousses. The last two they had.
The highlight was crossing the M25 which felt like crossing from one country to another.
But sure as sure, it was Croydon that provided the low point of the journey. Our last year route was blocked by road works, and the end result was a detour that lasted a whole Jose Gonzalez album. Not even the satnav would help. And trust me, the back streets of Croydon have nothing to recommend them. Rows and rows of decaying houses interspersed with empty shops, or shops selling nothing more than rubbish. It's faceless Britain at its worse. And I hope I never have reason to go back. Not even for the impressive shopping centre. Or a gig at the Fairfield Halls.
Saturday, 15 August 2009
Hair today gone tomorrow
Once upon a time in a different life, I travelled a lot on business. As a single guy, the jet set lifestyle was a great one. I miss it occasionally, but take things as they come. The one lesson I took from it is that stereotypes do apply. I guess that's why htey're stereotypes.
As a man I know that women go to the loo together, and discuss things that I just don't want to know about. Here in the house of boys, we get our hair cut together. Invariably the boy comes out complaining it's not a good cut. I always point out that he has to tell the barber what he wants and that's progress on the days when I used to hide behind the boy and tell the barber how I wanted his hair cut.
Today was haircut day, and after the boy was trimmed it was my turn. Whilst sitting there, the chair next to me was taken by a young German guy. He said to the hairdresser (and it helps if you do the next bit with a 'ello, 'ello accent in your head). "I vould like my hair cut short. Not too short, but short. I vould like it zirteen millimetres on zer zide and eighteen on zer top. Zank you."
I'm very pleased we got our hair cut today.
As a man I know that women go to the loo together, and discuss things that I just don't want to know about. Here in the house of boys, we get our hair cut together. Invariably the boy comes out complaining it's not a good cut. I always point out that he has to tell the barber what he wants and that's progress on the days when I used to hide behind the boy and tell the barber how I wanted his hair cut.
Today was haircut day, and after the boy was trimmed it was my turn. Whilst sitting there, the chair next to me was taken by a young German guy. He said to the hairdresser (and it helps if you do the next bit with a 'ello, 'ello accent in your head). "I vould like my hair cut short. Not too short, but short. I vould like it zirteen millimetres on zer zide and eighteen on zer top. Zank you."
I'm very pleased we got our hair cut today.
Thursday, 13 August 2009
It doesn't add up for Biggles
The school the boy attends, is one of the very best. Academically, it has been the top performing co-educational school in the country for many years, and only occasionally slips, particularly when the government starts playing around with statistics. It's not a sweat shop and there is a lovely community, with people from all walks of life. I think the boy is very lucky to go there...he has some great friends. I too was lucky as a lad and won a scholarship at the 11-plus which enabled me to attend first as a day boy and then latterly as a boarder, and my good fortune encouraged me to send the boy three years ago. It was an upheavel as we were living just by London Bridge, so we had to up sticks and move to the countryside.
At Bancrofts, I did well, achieving some good grades at 'O' level, including an A for maths. One of my maths teachers was Mr Hagerdorn, and he taught well. He must have done, as I was far from gifted as a maths student. But it's all in the results. It's been a long time since I studied maths, and it seems that Mr Hagerdorn has not maintained his own maths standards, as you can read on the BBC.
Perhaps he was feeling under par. And now he's feeling a little teed off.
So for anyone who fancies it the question is, "How much fuel do you need if you fly from Essex to Scotland and have to divert because of bad weather?" Extra points awarded for showing your workings and a large bill added for an incorrect guess.
Tuesday, 11 August 2009
Pick your own
As its a boys house, you probably think this is about noses. But it isn't.
When we moved here, the garden was immaculate...well when I say garden, I mean the hedges. The rest had been paved over. But the paving stones were scrubbed clean and had a bright and colourful shine to them. Now they have weeds and moss growing between them, and no amount of weedkiller seems to stop nature encroaching. The hedges were trimmed beautifully, nice and square and as green as green could be. Apart from when they were covered in red berries. Beautiful. And the birds loved them. But not long after we took up residence, I, for the first time in my life, tried hedge trimming. The result was brown hedges. I don't know why. I know I did it wrong, and I don't know how to fix it. The boy is silent on the subject.
In the back garden, one of the hedges that separates us from the neighbours was the victim of their weedkiller. I hope they feel guilty. It was replaced in year two by a bramble....wtf? But now as we move into year three that bramble has been dispensing balckberries like they're going out of fashion. They're big black and juicy. Blackberry picking is a sweet childhood memory, so I hope the boy enjoys it when he doesn't even have to stroll more than twenty foot from the back door. And I feel at last we've got green fingers. But we're not quite at the jam making stage.
When we moved here, the garden was immaculate...well when I say garden, I mean the hedges. The rest had been paved over. But the paving stones were scrubbed clean and had a bright and colourful shine to them. Now they have weeds and moss growing between them, and no amount of weedkiller seems to stop nature encroaching. The hedges were trimmed beautifully, nice and square and as green as green could be. Apart from when they were covered in red berries. Beautiful. And the birds loved them. But not long after we took up residence, I, for the first time in my life, tried hedge trimming. The result was brown hedges. I don't know why. I know I did it wrong, and I don't know how to fix it. The boy is silent on the subject.
In the back garden, one of the hedges that separates us from the neighbours was the victim of their weedkiller. I hope they feel guilty. It was replaced in year two by a bramble....wtf? But now as we move into year three that bramble has been dispensing balckberries like they're going out of fashion. They're big black and juicy. Blackberry picking is a sweet childhood memory, so I hope the boy enjoys it when he doesn't even have to stroll more than twenty foot from the back door. And I feel at last we've got green fingers. But we're not quite at the jam making stage.
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Monday, 10 August 2009
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:
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:
Thursday, 6 August 2009
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
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
Monday, 3 August 2009
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
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