Unpalatable

Here is the centre piece of our back yard.

You may think it's a pallet. And a bent one at that.

But you'd be wrong. It is an amazing natural resource which offers endless raw materials for making many different things.

It comes from the boy's school, and was thrown by them into a skip ready for disposal on some landfill site. Fortunately the eco-warrior decided to rescue it and carried it home - just as the ancient Brits carried the rocks for Stonehenge from Wales to Salisbury Plain all those many centuries ago.

The boy has always picked things up and brought them home. We have lots of oversized rusty nuts and bolts to prove it; we have lots of broken bits of bumper or indicator lights to prove it; we have lots of sticks and twigs from the forest to prove it - most memorably the large stick that once it dried out released some crazed beast that had previously had a lead role in Starship Troopers before trying to find peace and quiet in the damp vegetation of Epping Forest.

He carefully placed the pallet in the middle of the yard ready for recycling into some fantastical art piece in the near future. Or perhaps it would turn into a cupboard. Or a piece of furniture.

Although my memory isn't what it was, I seem to recall this momentous event took place in the late spring, or perhaps early summer. And of course, it has lain undisturbed ever since. What was a finely crafted pallet has now developed a bit of a bow from where it has been rained on consistently throughout this year's "it's going to be a barbeque" summer. And I am sure it will stay there undisturbed for a good number of months yet.

I would hope that in his head, the boy is formulating a Grand Plan, calculating which pieces he can use whole, and which pieces he will need to cut to size to create his artwork.

But really, deep down I know differently. I know he is a boy-man. And that means he is practicing for later life. I already feel sorry for his wife. Perhaps I should warn her. I can picture his living room floor, even now. Covered in pieces from a 'soon to be' rebuilt motorcycle. I can picture his bathroom with one wall half-tiled, with pipes connected to nothing but an empty space. I can picture his bedroom, with the holes drilled (unevenly) for a shelf that will never be put up. I can picture his dining room, with the woodwork half painted, and the feature wall half finished.

Because, as you know, every man grows up knowing that it is task in life to start DIY projects and never finish them. I'm so glad he has started early.

Wallpaper*

There are some things I feel I can share with you. And some things I just can't. Today I shall share with you that there is enough dust spread around the Brighton flat to make a whole new Kalahari desert. It would be a very dark desert as the dust is black, but it would be a desert. Or perhaps I could rent the flat as a lunar landscape for the next 'fake moon landing'. Conspiracy theorists, please gather here.

The reason for the dust is that since the early part of the year, we have been rennovating and decorating. The builders claim to have taken out 60 bags of rubble. And should be admired for that given that this is a fourth floor flat. With no lift. I had planned to wait until the new carpet is laid before I shared this with you. But I'm an impatient man. So the carpet is not yet ordered, let alone down, but I feel you should see the efforts of my wallet.

The two things I am most pleasedest with are the kitchen and the stairwell. I adore the stairwell now and intend to sit there through the long lonely evenings of winter. I will sit there and stroke the flock of the wallpaper.



The kitchen is full of new gadgets and I've reached a stage where I can no longer work out how to use new gadgets. Even with the instruction book. So I am hoping the boy will develop a passionate interest in cooking. I do know that the hob is an induction hob. I didn't know when I bought it that I had to have iron saucepans for an induction hob to work. So the aluminium ones I bought six months ago will have to find a new home. I have brought out some of the things that have been hidden in the back of a cupboard for 20 years. So welcome back Maggie and Ronnie the teapots.




I may one day share with you the trauma of getting to here, but not now.

Dinner time

The night before we headed off to Cyprus was the annual Old Boys Dinner. Of course these days, as there are girls at the school its a mixed evening. But still referred to as the Old Boys Dinner. Which probably doesn't go down too well with the boys (and girls) that left only last year, let alone any Old Boys who still claim to be 37. It's exactly the sort of thing you would expect (and if you have any prejudices against Public Schools, they are all completely fulfilled at these events) - a few drinks in the bar before, a few drinks over dinner, followed by a few drinks in the bar. Usually I have a couple of friends staying over and we have a few more drinks at home afterwards. But age, the need to be sober to travel and an unfortunate incident last year resulting in one of the friends taking the bedding away to be cleaned meant that we stayed sober this year. Relatively.

To further my son's school career, I have allowed myself to be volunteered for organising the event next year. Unfortunately the person that volunteered me forgot to tell anyone else, so another person was volunteered too. She was on the same table as me at the dinner, and jolly fine company too. In common parlance, I think she would be known as a game girl. When it came to the usual table photo, one of our fellow diners (and a very senior Director of a Bank that has a white bow tie as its logo), felt it appropriate to grab her right boob. She thought it hilarious. And that on a day when I see two female city workers are suing their employers for £3 million for some inappropriate name calling. Five minutes later, another Old Boy came along told her that the zip on the back of her dress was 'provocative' and immediately unzipped it. All the way down. She laughed and fluttered her eyelids. She did re-zip it. Not much later I left.

Because she and I will work together for next year's dinner, I have sent her my contact details. The reply I got was "Yes would love to get together over dinner"

I am somewhat non-plussed.

Cypriot wildlife

In no particular order....because I'm trying to do this from my phone, and haven't a clue how this will turn out! So here is a green frog, feral homo sapiens, ex-sheep, kingfishers, green oranges (they're like that in hot countries I'm told...still orange inside though)and the board walk, just because I like it...and we saw lots of crabs on that particular beach - they're all hiding in the sand.

Airport

We've sneaked away this week...so this is being penned from Cyprus...and despite her protestations to the contrary, Grandma in Cyprus has done my washing. After all, what's a Mum for, if not to wash your smalls. Naturally, the boy and I have taken up residence as all male offspring should. Feet up on the sofa, demanding to be fed and attended to on a regular basis. Disappointingly, we've not been brought a cup of tea in bed to wake us up every morning. I don't know why. We are enjoying toast and coffee out on the terrace,just by the pool for breakfast and the temperatures are reported as 'unseasonably high.' So that means low to mid-thirties. But we are assured of thunderstorms for the rest of the week. That'll be a shame. We'll just have to go diving again.

The boy and I have been left home alone, whilst Grandma and step-Grandad have gone off on an adventure. They are going to test out the new airport - I think they will pretend to be travelers to Zurich. Why Zurich I just don't know. They will walk in, walk through customs, and walk back. I hope they don't get searched. For their efforts they will get a small gift. And the pleasure of knowing they were amongst the first into the airport.

For there to be a new airport terminal at Larnaca, they must be doing well I hear you say, tourism must be booming despite the recession I guess you're thinking. But no, the truth is that the original terminal, it turns out, is owned by a Turkish-Cypriot. And Larnaca is in the Greek half. So to avoid any issues, the old one is closing and a new one being put up just at the other end of the runway. It's what happens, I guess, when a small island has been divided for thirty odd years, and both sides seem pretty entrenched in their own self-righteousness.

It seems politicians are the same. Whichever country you're in.

Islington Council

Yesterday was my day in court. And as someone who doesn't frequent these places, I found it fascinating. I suppose it shouldn't have come as a surprise that the place was filled with the sort of people you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley...or perhaps that view just comes from the prejudice of expectation. Naturally the proceedings are orchestrated by nice middle-class folks who come attired in their designer labels. The contrast with the summonsed couldn't have been greater. Nor should I have been surprised that as I chose to attend in suit and tie (oh my word it was difficult to remember how to knot one of those) I was mistaken for a solicitor. Perhaps I should have taken my chances on that score...Catch me if you can.

The outcome for me was not quite what I'd hoped, but as I had expected given my experience (mainly the divorce court) of courts to do their level best to satisfy no one. The case was adjourned until 10th November to give Islington Council time to contact the trustees and confirm that they accept they are responsible for the outstanding Council Tax. This was even though the court accepted that Islington Council had no prospectof getting a liability order against me.

But for me there was a bigger issue, which entirely hardened my view that Islington Council is incompetent and spiteful. As part of the procedings yesterday, the council was asking the court to agree to something approaching 6000 liability orders. As theses sessions are monthly, I understand, that makes roughly 72,000 orders a year. I find that figure mind boggling, and in itself implies something fundamentally wrong with the council's approach to taxation and the collection there of. But, and this is really what got me going..... the council has to prove that they have sent the demands and the summonses. They do this by having a post book in which they record what has been despatched. The problem yesterday was that the figures in the post book didn't match the number of summonses the Council claimed to have issued. As the court pointed out, that meant that if the liability orders were issued, then some people could receive an order when they haven't received a summons...and if it was an elderly person the shock could be fatal. The council didn't have an answer for that and the whole lot got thrown out. All 6000 of them. The council charges £120 per summons, a cost of £720,000. Plus the loss of revenue...say at a modest of £200/summons...that's £1,200,000. A rough total of £2million. Now call me prejudiced, but that strikes me as grossly incompetent and suggests a completely cavalier attitude to the legal system and to the general public and public funds. I hope the council officials are contrite, but somehow I doubt it judging by their response. And don't forget we pay for this with our taxes - all of us - because the bulk of council revenue comes from central government.

Rules are meant to be broken

In recent weeks you will have spotted a thread of anarchy beginning to spread through the Nota Bene household. First the ticket for stopping in the bus lane, then for disobeying a red traffic light, followed by The Boy's violent affray on the rugby pitch. To be sure, we are not a law-abiding lot, although we have not yet plumbed the depths of Ronald Biggs misdemeanour, nor the Kray twins - although there is a passing resemblence between the boy and myself.

So you will not be surprised to learn that I have taken my cocking a snoot at authority to new levels. There are reasons for this, of course. I feel the heavy hand of authoritarianism of our New Labour master ever more heavily on my wallet and my very being. It is time for rebellion and revolution. I have been boning up on my Che to help me on my way.

Last night I was at the heart of our democracy and I took my opportunity. It was just one small step on the road to revolution, although I'm not sure I am yet a Bolshevik icon, but it's the small things that make a difference.

Here are a couple of pictures from inside the House of Commons. The policeman was not best pleased, and I was expecting to be marched down to the cells. And I don't think it'll give much away to Al Qaeda. The flock wallpaper in committee room 10 was very nice, but I was disappointed there was no chicken balti on the menu.

His Royal Highness

Winter has arrived. I don't need to read the weather forecasts to know this. I feel it in my bones. In my finger bones in particular. That's not some strange physical quirk on my part, and I don't get cold feet in the night either. It's just that when I'm on the motorbike, the cold gets through. Doesn't matter what I do, I freeze. And the leaves haven't even fallen yet. In most places they're still green, although Epping Forest is beginning to turn brown, orange and golden yellow. It's a beautiful place to walk your dog. I wish I had a dog.

But at least it's warm in the cottage (inspite of British Gas declaring war on my boiler and decreeing it defunct and the sole cause of global warming). For the boy, though, he's not had that warmth this weekend. He's been away on is Duke of Edinburgh Award hike, sleeping under canvas. He's back tonight, and hopefully not encased in a block of ice, like Scrat. I'm looking forward to it in eager anticipation of being subjected to a non-stop barrage of tales of daring and adventure from arrival until bedtime, and then again at breakfast tomorrow...and for the following days, weeks and months thereafter.

This weekend appears to be the weekend for everyone to do their DoE...I've seen numerous bedraggled pictures of friends' offspring on Facebook. In my day, it was the few and not the many that made the sacrifice. But these days, it seems a basic qualification for life. The boy appears to enjoy it - he's also doing cycling down at the local club, and helping out at the Drama Club. So his evenings and weekends are pretty full, even before the rigours of homework, and putting his socks in the wash basket.

I hope the Duke is proud of what the youth do in his name.

James Bond arrives

After a period of being a company of 'no fixed abode' due to my failure to organise us when the lease of our old office came to an end, we moved to Bermondsey St...half way between Tower Bridge and London Bridge three years ago. To be entirely fair to me, we had started the process of buying the office six m months before...but evidently that wasn't long enough. It clearly wasn't helped by my solicitor asking four months into the process "Do you want a break clause?". On a 999 year lease. Yes I think so, about year 423 please. We found a new solicitor.

Anyhoos, we moved in having furbished an empty shell which was a modern addition to the old London warehouses that are a feature of the neighbourhood. I'm sure that at the height of the Port of London's success, the whole area must have been an amazing hive of hustle and bustle. Surprisingly there are very many old buildings which still exist and exude charm on the neighbourhood. I love it, and so do most people when they come visit - it's one of the least recognised places in London. There are old windy streets, a village hall, scruffy pubs, the antiques market, restaurants, real, local people and a sense of community, Bermondsey food market, parks and well anything you want in life. Apart from Marks and Spencer.

And that may be why our new neighbours have chosen to occupy the office opposite, which has been empty for the entire time we've been here. When we met the guys on their first visit there was a certain 'air' about them. Ever so slightly intimidating, but not in anyway unfriendly. A certain unexpected calmness. They exude confidence and they look extremely fit. There's a slightly militaristic way to the way the walk, speak and hold themselves.

We swapped cards, as you do. And I checked them out. They are a specialist security consultancy. They provide 'protection teams'. They provided a security cordon after the Baltic Exchange bombing. A foreign government employed them for surveillance of an arms dealer. They find corrupt South American government officials. They trace 'assets'. They seize counterfeit goods. And these are just examples from their website. I suspect that Mud is part of their team given all her foreign travels off the beaten track.

Their office is currently being fitted out. I probably shouldn't mention the floor which is being installed. It's made of one and a half inch thick steel plates. They've mentioned they are lining the ceiling as well. I wonder with what?

Never one to let my imagination run away with me, I expect to be reporting back shortly with tales of balaclava-clad soldiers abseiling in through the windows. Of local power outages as their complex systems for monitoring every radio message broadcast around the world drain the electricity grid. Burly blokes with holdalls casually thrown over their back delivering bags of used notes. And of suave agents arriving to collect details of their latest mission. Perhaps I could volunteer. After all there's nothing wrong with a bit of action and adventure, eh? See you in the Congo. "Call me Bene. Nota Bene."

Not guilty as charged

Has anyone got a good word to say about Islington Council? My encounters with them have never been good.

When we lived in central London Town, I rented a car parking space in an underground car park. It cost a lot to rent. I had to pay Council Tax on it too. To Islington Council. To the tune of £800 a year. Yes that is indeed more than many people pay for a whole house. When we moved to our cottage in the Forest (I think Little Red Riding Hood lives close) we got our own garage. In fact it's part of the cottage. Some people would turn it into a living room. We haven't becasue we like to fill it with Boy things. As we have this garage, we didn't need the one in London Town. So I wrote to Islington Council and told them we didn't use it anymore. They sent me a Tax Demand. Over the course of several months I wrote again and again, I telephoned them and I even went to visit them. Same story every time: I don't use this parking space anymore. That didn't stop them issuing a court summons. And refusing to withdrawing it. So I went to court. On the day I was supposed to be going to a friend's wedding. When I stood up in court the judge asked why I was pleading not guilty. I produced the letters, the dates of correspondence and the dates I had visited Islington Council. The judge asked Islington Council why they had issued the summons. They explained that they hadn't had time to check the space was not occupied. The judge dismissed the case. The court made the Council pay the costs and refund the Tax they had made me pay. If you live in Islington you paid for that.

When the boy's Mum died, he inherited, with his sister, a nice house in Finsbury Park. Finsbury Park is in Islington. Council Tax has to be paid on the house. When it is occupied by tenants, the tenants pay the tax. When it's vacant, the Trustees are responsible for the Council Tax. Not me. I don't own the house, I simply find tenants for it. The Trustees live in Wales; its a long way away so I help them out - why wouldn't I? It's my son's inheritance. I have explained that to Islington Council many times over the last several months. By phone, e-mail and by letter. I even have a letter from them telling me that they have removed my name from their records and I am no longer associated with the house. I've got e-mail apologies from them. But that hasn't stopped them issuing a Court Summons for next Thursday. This time I shall ask for compensation. This time I will ask the Court to make them stop harassing me. This time I expect the Court will make Islington Council pay the costs. If you live in Islington you will pay for that.

P.S. I've learnt through experience that Courts have a habit of making sure they upset everyone, so disregard the bravado above....I'm not counting my chickens, yet

Plastic surgery

I've never really understood the appeal of cosmetic surgery... especially when applied to parts of the body that seem perfectly fine to me anyway. I have chortled away at the idea of men having 'six-pack' inserts, and buttock inserts for both sexes. Be happy with what you've got, or you'll end up looking like Michael (RIP) Jackson's nose. For anyone who's suffered a misfortune, well, that's a different matter. Still we're a free country and we should be able to treat our bodies as we like - it's one area that the government hasn't though fit to delve into yet. For me, my body is a temple at which I worship with frequent offerings of food and drink.

So it came as a mild shock to find that without my knowledge, behind my back and without any care or concern for my feelings, a friend has surgically enhanced me, and pasted the results on Facebook. I hope you like NB version 2.0.

Guilty as charged

The boy and I are a pair of criminals; we've taken to walking around in stripy shirts carrying swag bags.

After my stopping in the bus lane incident, I've now been caught driving through a red traffic light. No excuse, I was lost in Chelmsford...trying to find a game of rugby...and after missing a good chunk of it was not concentrating as much as I should have been. When I rang the police to check on the photo evidence, I had to end the conversation with 'Fair cop'. He nearly laughed.

The boy has also had to face the consequences of the ruckus on the rugby field. A disciplinary committee was convened in line with RFU rules. And the result is....
....a three week ban. "It's the rules" he says. Stiff upper lip, gritted teeth whilst churning internally (I suspect). He's man enough to take his punishment, understands why and will have learnt from it. He'll get over it and then onwards and upwards to bigger and better things.

Fight Club (2)

The boy is a mild-mannered lad. Always has been. He gets by with easy-going charm, and a smile that makes the opposite sex swoon. Instead of competitive, he has a steely determination to succeed on his own terms. He's happy to see and help others succeed, confident that he will too. I've always thought that his lack of competitiveness was down to spending his first few years at a primary school in Finsbury Park where the word 'competitive' had been deleted from the dictionary; for Islington Council, it always seemed that taking part was good enough, and then only if you really, truly wanted to. And winning was shameful unless you were disadvantaged in some way.

Rugby has become one of the boy's great loves, and he has worked damned hard to get into the first team and stay there. Over the last four years he has focused on improving his skills, and this year he has been rewarded by a permanent place in the U15 squad. Second Row. And in return, I have been going to watch not just the home games, but the away ones as well. Although sometimes not knowing that the away game was being played on fields away from the school has made actually seeing the game a tad tricky.

What I have noticed, has been a revolution in the boy's performance. And more importantly a noticeable change in approach and attitude. In going for the ball, tackling and driving forwards, he has a look of absolute determination. Adrenalin has been pumping and you know he wants to WIN. It is a look to be admired and respected.

Saturday's game followed on from a hard fought and close win the week before, and a thumping victory (61-0 with the match abandoned twenty minutes early to save the other team's blushes) on Thursday. So their tales were up.

Within a couple of minutes of the start, I mentioned to a fellow parent that the game seemed different, and I even suggested that it would end in a bundle. My view appeared to be shared by everyone around. Including the medic. Which is strange because the opposition claim a distinguished alumni of 20 canonised saints and 133 martyrs. I'm sure they feel that God is on their side.

Fred's team played well, and took a good lead into the second half, complaining over the break about the cheating and provocation from the other team. And as the final whistle got closer, so did the tension rise. It finally erupted and much to my surprise, it was my boy that landed the first visible punch. His reasoning that he was having his eyes gouged and hair pulled may, or may not, seem reason enough. In the mayhem, fists flew, teachers got stuck in to pull youths apart, and floor (by tackling) the ones that were going to add to the chaos. It was a scene and a half. The receiver of the punch was carted off to A&E (martyr 134?).

The boy was distraught and contrite at being sent off, and I hope I rallied round well enough for him. He knows when he's in the wrong and is admirable at accepting fault.

It helped that with one man down, they held onto their victory.

Afterwards it transpired there has been a long history of over-competitiveness.

Amongst his peers, he currently has no equal. It was a good punch, well-landed with good reason. Amongst the teachers? Well it would be unfair to say. Of course he was given a dressing down. But I don't expect there to be any lasting damage to his career prospects. In fact the unusual show of aggression is to be admired amongst the rugby-playing fraternity. But do it out of sight.

So perhaps this is the day my boy grew up in a less than saintly way. But please. NO MORE FIGHTING.

Fight club (1)

This week has been House Play competition week. And for the first time the boy had landed a plum part. He's enjoyed dramatics throughout his school life, but this was a real opportunity to shine. His House is unlike the others in that they have a tradition of writing their own play. Quite an achievement in itself. And this year they were competing against Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead, Arsenic and Old Lace and an episode of Black Adder. The play was called The Script, and involved a clever conceit about a school where life was ruled by a Script, which accidently falls into the hands of the pupils, who then start altering it to suit themselves. It was, like all the plays, vetted by the head of drama who saw it twice before the performance. At the end of the play, the judges were due to give their verdict, and indeed they did. The play was disqualified for being inappropriate...one too many close resemblences to school masters and the head of drama was piqued. The decision has caused uproar...and not just amongst the pupils. You should see the Facebook page...it's blue. Staff walked out of the judging, and the general view is that the decision was unreasonable. I bet the staff room was a fun place to be the day after. I got my chance to see a 'modified' (censored) version on Friday. It was fall off your seat funny...and everyone gave a performance they should be proud of. But there's a lasting sense of injustice....although I suspect this particular play will be talked about long after the winning performance of Arsenic is long forgotten. And as a final note, it would have been better if the external judge hadn't talked about Rosencrantz and Guildenstein.