I'm not a bitter man, but my swanky mobile that took me many weeks to learn to use is back for repair for the third time in six months, and I'm reduced to using a phone that's five years old. Not really a problem, but what I've discovered is that I've known nearly all my current friends less than five years. And even Grandma in Cyprus has had the temerity to move abroad in that time. So I'm getting texts and I'm not sure who they're from, and I'm not able to call or text other people I'd like to. Such is the modern world.
I'm not a bitter man, but I've just had to have the petrol tank on the motorbike replaced after just a year. Evidently petrol dripping onto a hot engine is not a good thing, and I could have been flame grilled. I like Burger King.
I was lucky enough last year to go and see Jude Law in Hamlet. He was a surprisingly good, and the whole play was fab....the staging was fantastic. I've no idea what the critics thought. But the main topic of conversation over the interval drinks was how big his hands are. Even now, I hold in my memory a spitting image memory of a man with gigantic hands.
I was lucky enough this weekend to go and see Kiera Knightly in the Misanthrope. She was surprisingly good - although she started off no better than a sixth form drama student, by the end she had captivated the audience with her performance. I've no idea what the critics thought. But the main topic of conversation over drinks at the interval was that her nipples were very prominent. Chapel hat pegs was the phrase used. And not just hers. Tara Fitzgeralds's too. I must quickly point out that it was the women that started this topic and the men just gazed wistfully at the floor, the ceiling, the wallpaper, and nodded as if they hadn't noticed. It must have been cold on the stage....and we were sitting in the front row.
Tuesday, 2 February 2010
Sunday, 31 January 2010
School inspectors
An e-mail arrived yesterday from the Headmistress. The independent school inspectors are descending in five days, and would we be kind enough to fill in their questionaire. There's one for the boy to do too. Of course, I did it straight away, and filled it with glowing comments about the school, the teachers and the community spirit there.
But having reflected a bit now, I may have been too quick off the mark, and perhaps I should have thought a little longer, rather than giving my unquestioned support.
Last term was a rough one for the boy. Not disastrous, and in fact his school report was excellent. But there was enough happening to demoralise someone who is described by the Headmistress as 'one of my stars'. She should be in PR.
The boy has three loves at school. Four, if you count his girlfriend. He loves being on the stage, and was angered that the play he was in for the House competition was disqualified by one of the teachers because it took the odd pot-shot at some of the staff. All in the best possible taste, and nothing that hasn't been done in a far more cruel way in the past (according to my old English teacher. But I still feel the indignation of a hard done-by 14 year old.
He loves the Army Cadets...his love of which may finally break my heart if he does what he says he will and joins the armed forces. I've told him I'm busy on the day of his funeral. There was an 'incident' (bears in the woods) at Camp, and the subsequent investigation to find the culprits brought out the worst kind of bullying by one of the teachers. I had to step in, and my anger was apparent.
He loves his rugby, but was sent off for a punch to the opposition. Provocation is a hard thing. He was devastated, and served his three-match ban with stoicism. Helped no doubt by the kudos the crime had given him. But to add insult to injury, at the end of term, when awards (Colours) were given out, he was told he would have got them, but for the sending off. To me it was a double punishment, and he should never have been told that. Cue call to headmistress and all round agreement that it had been badly handled. But damage done.
This term has not got off to a good start. There is a performance he is involved in Taal (the school's celebration of Asian culture)). He has a leading part. He is still doing CCF - and getting high praise. And he has been selected for a lead role in the middle-school play. And therein lies the problem. The teacher running this (who, allegedly is the teacher that disqualiified the boy's House play) believes that the whole world should revolve the play, effectively banning all other activities. Supposedly he had discussed the matter with the CCF, and Cadets who are in the play will be excused parade on relevant days. Except the CCF didn't seem to know about this, and have tutted disapprovingly at the boy. It appears there is a game of territoriality going on amongst the teaching staff, with the pupils suffering unnecessary pressure and stress.
I may just be bleating...but may yet re-submit my comments
But having reflected a bit now, I may have been too quick off the mark, and perhaps I should have thought a little longer, rather than giving my unquestioned support.
Last term was a rough one for the boy. Not disastrous, and in fact his school report was excellent. But there was enough happening to demoralise someone who is described by the Headmistress as 'one of my stars'. She should be in PR.
The boy has three loves at school. Four, if you count his girlfriend. He loves being on the stage, and was angered that the play he was in for the House competition was disqualified by one of the teachers because it took the odd pot-shot at some of the staff. All in the best possible taste, and nothing that hasn't been done in a far more cruel way in the past (according to my old English teacher. But I still feel the indignation of a hard done-by 14 year old.
He loves the Army Cadets...his love of which may finally break my heart if he does what he says he will and joins the armed forces. I've told him I'm busy on the day of his funeral. There was an 'incident' (bears in the woods) at Camp, and the subsequent investigation to find the culprits brought out the worst kind of bullying by one of the teachers. I had to step in, and my anger was apparent.
He loves his rugby, but was sent off for a punch to the opposition. Provocation is a hard thing. He was devastated, and served his three-match ban with stoicism. Helped no doubt by the kudos the crime had given him. But to add insult to injury, at the end of term, when awards (Colours) were given out, he was told he would have got them, but for the sending off. To me it was a double punishment, and he should never have been told that. Cue call to headmistress and all round agreement that it had been badly handled. But damage done.
This term has not got off to a good start. There is a performance he is involved in Taal (the school's celebration of Asian culture)). He has a leading part. He is still doing CCF - and getting high praise. And he has been selected for a lead role in the middle-school play. And therein lies the problem. The teacher running this (who, allegedly is the teacher that disqualiified the boy's House play) believes that the whole world should revolve the play, effectively banning all other activities. Supposedly he had discussed the matter with the CCF, and Cadets who are in the play will be excused parade on relevant days. Except the CCF didn't seem to know about this, and have tutted disapprovingly at the boy. It appears there is a game of territoriality going on amongst the teaching staff, with the pupils suffering unnecessary pressure and stress.
I may just be bleating...but may yet re-submit my comments
Friday, 29 January 2010
Wednesday, 27 January 2010
The Godfather
Despite our aetheistic tendencies, the boy has two Godparents. I suppose they are like insurance policies. If the shit hits the fan and there isn't a parent to do their duty, they are there to pick up the pieces. Equally I guess, that given the boy has only one parent now, it is only reasonable there is only one Godparent around.
The Godmother was always lovely, charming and totally unreliable, so it came as no great surprise that very shortly after the boy's mum died, she disappeared and has never been tracked down. The disappearance was nothing new...whenever the pressure got too much, she became uncontactable for days, weeks even months at a time. Given the nature of this stressful incident, now that we are 5 years and 363 days down the line, I doubt we shall here from her again. The boy gave up a long time ago asking after her.
The Godfather has been different. A senior journalist who can tell you everything and more about gadgets, computers and websites, he has been religious in his commitment to keeping in touch with the boy. Even though his own life has changed dramatically. A couple of years ago, he gave up the daily chore of work, sold his property and did what I suspect we all want to do...went travelling. Most people do this as teenagers, some take a career break in their thirties, but I don't know of anyone who has done it post-50. there is hope for us all yet.
In the couple of years since he started, we've had postcards from distant shores, phone calls in the middle of the night and occasional catch ups over coffee. He even managed to find a fig tree for the boy to scrump from down the church yard in Bermondsey St on one of his returns to Blighty.
At some stage on his travels...I can't quite remember whether he was in Fiji or Hawaii, he met SOMEONE, and they are planning to be married. For the Godfather this will be his first marriage. Wow. She is American, and they plan to settle in the States - well, why would you come to the UK? But this means visa issues - and for periods he has had to retreat from Uncle Sam's land. He is currently trying to persuade the American authorities of his honourable intentions with the lady in question in order to get a residence permit...and that the uncertainty of the timescale means he is resident here. As he is homeless, I offered him the Brighton flat.
Poor man. Lucky me...the place gets lived in for the first time in ages.
On the one hand it's very useful for him. On the other, he has to live amongst the debris, and on the third he feels that he must be extremely careful about the newly decorated bits. And that doesn't come naturally to a life-long bachelor.
He's very particular about keeping things as they are in the flat...so I love that now he has put the heating on, he's switched off the radiators in the rooms he's not using, but left little notes to remind us of what the thermostatic valve was set to, so when we turn it back on, all will be as it was.
He's distraught that he left the hob on, and thought he'd destroyed both cooker and shiny new saucepan. Fortunately, a long 'phone call to Siemens has persuaded them to sort the thing out. No doubt he used the line, 'I'm a journalist, and I think I shall have to write about how your automatic cut off doesn't work. A stain on the new wooden worktops is a pain - I'm not sure how to fix that. For my part, I'm beginning to think the kitchen is just doomed....
And this has been a great opportunity for him to renew his relationship with the boy...it's fascinating to see how it changes as the boy grows up - instead of being in awe of his knowledge of gadgets and games machines, there's now an element of, "Well wouldn't it be nice to go travelling. I shall encourage.
The Godmother was always lovely, charming and totally unreliable, so it came as no great surprise that very shortly after the boy's mum died, she disappeared and has never been tracked down. The disappearance was nothing new...whenever the pressure got too much, she became uncontactable for days, weeks even months at a time. Given the nature of this stressful incident, now that we are 5 years and 363 days down the line, I doubt we shall here from her again. The boy gave up a long time ago asking after her.
The Godfather has been different. A senior journalist who can tell you everything and more about gadgets, computers and websites, he has been religious in his commitment to keeping in touch with the boy. Even though his own life has changed dramatically. A couple of years ago, he gave up the daily chore of work, sold his property and did what I suspect we all want to do...went travelling. Most people do this as teenagers, some take a career break in their thirties, but I don't know of anyone who has done it post-50. there is hope for us all yet.
In the couple of years since he started, we've had postcards from distant shores, phone calls in the middle of the night and occasional catch ups over coffee. He even managed to find a fig tree for the boy to scrump from down the church yard in Bermondsey St on one of his returns to Blighty.
At some stage on his travels...I can't quite remember whether he was in Fiji or Hawaii, he met SOMEONE, and they are planning to be married. For the Godfather this will be his first marriage. Wow. She is American, and they plan to settle in the States - well, why would you come to the UK? But this means visa issues - and for periods he has had to retreat from Uncle Sam's land. He is currently trying to persuade the American authorities of his honourable intentions with the lady in question in order to get a residence permit...and that the uncertainty of the timescale means he is resident here. As he is homeless, I offered him the Brighton flat.
Poor man. Lucky me...the place gets lived in for the first time in ages.
On the one hand it's very useful for him. On the other, he has to live amongst the debris, and on the third he feels that he must be extremely careful about the newly decorated bits. And that doesn't come naturally to a life-long bachelor.
He's very particular about keeping things as they are in the flat...so I love that now he has put the heating on, he's switched off the radiators in the rooms he's not using, but left little notes to remind us of what the thermostatic valve was set to, so when we turn it back on, all will be as it was.
He's distraught that he left the hob on, and thought he'd destroyed both cooker and shiny new saucepan. Fortunately, a long 'phone call to Siemens has persuaded them to sort the thing out. No doubt he used the line, 'I'm a journalist, and I think I shall have to write about how your automatic cut off doesn't work. A stain on the new wooden worktops is a pain - I'm not sure how to fix that. For my part, I'm beginning to think the kitchen is just doomed....
And this has been a great opportunity for him to renew his relationship with the boy...it's fascinating to see how it changes as the boy grows up - instead of being in awe of his knowledge of gadgets and games machines, there's now an element of, "Well wouldn't it be nice to go travelling. I shall encourage.
Monday, 25 January 2010
Five go skipping
We're on the home straight for the Brighton flat. I think. 2009 was the year of decorating and building works, and it would be a nice thought that in 2010, we might actually get to spend some time there. At leisure. Without the builders. Without the rubble and dust. There is, after all just the flooring to do. Oh yes and the second bathroom. And getting rid of stuff. There's lots of stuff to get rid of.
We had a skip delivered on Friday to chuck away 20 years worth of accumulated treasures. Which mysteriously appear to have turned largely into crap. Reverse alchemy I think. In Brighton, and I suppose elsewhere, you have to apply for a permit, which we did - a special one so that we could put it in a residents parking bay. Unsupervised, the skip people dumped it in the road. On a double yellow line. Not to worry, it only slightly blocked the road and inconvenienced all the neighbours. As it was raining all Friday, I was thinking of changing the plan and charging for entry to our community swimming pool.
It was an extraordinarily tiring weekend, even though we had recruited help - there were five of us, and only two of them apathetic teenagers. The flat is 93 steps up from street level, and in our fine grade 2 (1) listed building, the age of the lift has not yet arrived. I'm not sure it would be of interest to list everything we chucked out, but it included drawers, shelving, computer tables, dead computers, dead DVD players, cushions, videos...in fact it was a veritable treasure chest of stuff for anyone wanting to start a new home on the cheap. And not surprisingly, the scavangers descended. "There's some great stuff in here" said one lady, "Yes, there is" I said. "Oh is it yours?" "Yes....please help yourself" And she did, shamelessly, all day Saturday and Sunday "I'm going to sell it for charity she said" And I'm sure she will. Of course, this help make room for more stuff. Of which there was plenty. It was never ending, and by Sunday evening, we still hadn't managed to finish - all the boys toys were left to be sorted for another occasion. The skip was full. Over full really. How could there possibly be so much stuff...clearly my hoarding tendencies have got the better of me for two decades. I feel somewhat cleansed.
Naturally, it cost me a pretty penny in bribes to the teenagers, who for once seemed to see the attraction of spending as much time as possible doing as much homework as possible. I don't blame them.
The high point, or low point was breakfast on Sunday. Being served about 1 o'clock. Bacon, egg, beans and tomato. After about half an hour of cooking by the teens, I heard, "Oh fuck" and "Shiiiiiiit" followed by a woosh and billowing smoke. I rushed into the kitchen to see flames reaching up towards the ceiling. They'd set fire to the bacon under the grill. And decided to put it out by putting it in the sink and pouring water on it. Haven't they seen the fire safety demonstration? And my poor, poor, newly decorated kitchen.....so just the flooring, a bathroom and a bit of kitchen to do....
The skip at lunchtime on Saturday
We had a skip delivered on Friday to chuck away 20 years worth of accumulated treasures. Which mysteriously appear to have turned largely into crap. Reverse alchemy I think. In Brighton, and I suppose elsewhere, you have to apply for a permit, which we did - a special one so that we could put it in a residents parking bay. Unsupervised, the skip people dumped it in the road. On a double yellow line. Not to worry, it only slightly blocked the road and inconvenienced all the neighbours. As it was raining all Friday, I was thinking of changing the plan and charging for entry to our community swimming pool.
It was an extraordinarily tiring weekend, even though we had recruited help - there were five of us, and only two of them apathetic teenagers. The flat is 93 steps up from street level, and in our fine grade 2 (1) listed building, the age of the lift has not yet arrived. I'm not sure it would be of interest to list everything we chucked out, but it included drawers, shelving, computer tables, dead computers, dead DVD players, cushions, videos...in fact it was a veritable treasure chest of stuff for anyone wanting to start a new home on the cheap. And not surprisingly, the scavangers descended. "There's some great stuff in here" said one lady, "Yes, there is" I said. "Oh is it yours?" "Yes....please help yourself" And she did, shamelessly, all day Saturday and Sunday "I'm going to sell it for charity she said" And I'm sure she will. Of course, this help make room for more stuff. Of which there was plenty. It was never ending, and by Sunday evening, we still hadn't managed to finish - all the boys toys were left to be sorted for another occasion. The skip was full. Over full really. How could there possibly be so much stuff...clearly my hoarding tendencies have got the better of me for two decades. I feel somewhat cleansed.
Naturally, it cost me a pretty penny in bribes to the teenagers, who for once seemed to see the attraction of spending as much time as possible doing as much homework as possible. I don't blame them.
The high point, or low point was breakfast on Sunday. Being served about 1 o'clock. Bacon, egg, beans and tomato. After about half an hour of cooking by the teens, I heard, "Oh fuck" and "Shiiiiiiit" followed by a woosh and billowing smoke. I rushed into the kitchen to see flames reaching up towards the ceiling. They'd set fire to the bacon under the grill. And decided to put it out by putting it in the sink and pouring water on it. Haven't they seen the fire safety demonstration? And my poor, poor, newly decorated kitchen.....so just the flooring, a bathroom and a bit of kitchen to do....
The skip at lunchtime on Saturday
Friday, 22 January 2010
Look who's talking
"Did you speak to your Grandma in Wales last week?"
"Yes"
"Is there anything you should've mentioned?"
"Erm, no"
"What about your sister's grandfather?"
"Oh yes, he died"
"Right. Anything else?"
"No"
"What about your Uncle?"
"No"
"He was rushed into hospital by ambulance for severe internal bleeding"
"But you haven't been getting on very well with them."
"Oh. Anything else?"
"No"
"What about the scarf they sent for Christmas?"
"Oh yes. It was meant for you. But I'm sure it had my name on it. So I've been wearing it."
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!
"Yes"
"Is there anything you should've mentioned?"
"Erm, no"
"What about your sister's grandfather?"
"Oh yes, he died"
"Right. Anything else?"
"No"
"What about your Uncle?"
"No"
"He was rushed into hospital by ambulance for severe internal bleeding"
"But you haven't been getting on very well with them."
"Oh. Anything else?"
"No"
"What about the scarf they sent for Christmas?"
"Oh yes. It was meant for you. But I'm sure it had my name on it. So I've been wearing it."
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!
Thursday, 21 January 2010
It's a new year. Time to go on holiday.
I know it's a new year, because the traffic coming to work is horrific. On the Vespa, it should take 35 minutes. At the moment, even with ducking and diving...and no doubt upsetting untold numbers of car drivers, it's taking an hour. And every fifty metres, I seem to hear the wail of another police/ambulance/fire engine siren. I don't know why it's like this, but it is every January. All I can think is that every Christmas holiday, people sit at home contemplating life, and realise that life is too short to be shoved up against foul-breathed, sweaty strangers in a tube carriage. So they take the car. Until they realise that the frustration of sitting noise to tail in the smog is likely to turn them into a mass murderer, at which point they return to the clutches of London Transport.
Of course, new year means time to start thinking about holidays. We selected a nice little three day jaunt to Iceland - somewhere the boy and I went to a few years back, and emjoyed every sulphur-smelling moment of it. We loved standing with one foot on the American tectonic plate, and one leg on the European. We loved the Blue Lagoon and we loved nearly vomitting for a whole two hours whilst we went whale watching. And of course not to forget the original Geyser and Golden Waterfall. We did avoid the shark meat that is buried in soil for a couple of months before being served. It's a delicacy best enjoyed by Bjork. And I did panic when a five year-old Boy insisted on running around a glacier that was full of crevices. But what was missing was a trip to the highlands to see the moonscape that is at Iceland's heart. So we picked a trip which included that and then asked the price. With the optional extra trip to the Langjokull Glacier (Europe's second largest) the cost was 20,000. That's each and we're talking great British pounds not dodgy Icelandic Krone. That's £40,000 for three days. I fell off my seat in uncontrolled laughter. No it really wasn't a mistake. And there must be some people that could and would afford that. But for three days? In Iceland? C'mon...it's not that good. I must have picked up the brochure for gullible idiots. Single handedly I feel we would solve their debt crisis. So it's back to the drawing board on the short break February holiday.
Of course, new year means time to start thinking about holidays. We selected a nice little three day jaunt to Iceland - somewhere the boy and I went to a few years back, and emjoyed every sulphur-smelling moment of it. We loved standing with one foot on the American tectonic plate, and one leg on the European. We loved the Blue Lagoon and we loved nearly vomitting for a whole two hours whilst we went whale watching. And of course not to forget the original Geyser and Golden Waterfall. We did avoid the shark meat that is buried in soil for a couple of months before being served. It's a delicacy best enjoyed by Bjork. And I did panic when a five year-old Boy insisted on running around a glacier that was full of crevices. But what was missing was a trip to the highlands to see the moonscape that is at Iceland's heart. So we picked a trip which included that and then asked the price. With the optional extra trip to the Langjokull Glacier (Europe's second largest) the cost was 20,000. That's each and we're talking great British pounds not dodgy Icelandic Krone. That's £40,000 for three days. I fell off my seat in uncontrolled laughter. No it really wasn't a mistake. And there must be some people that could and would afford that. But for three days? In Iceland? C'mon...it's not that good. I must have picked up the brochure for gullible idiots. Single handedly I feel we would solve their debt crisis. So it's back to the drawing board on the short break February holiday.
Friday, 15 January 2010
Wednesday, 13 January 2010
Bugger Bogner
It's not that I think that everyone on the dole or benefits is a scrounger, it's just that I've always felt that some of them should try harder. Pull their socks up. Buck up. I'm not here to work myself into an early grave just to pay for their colour TV licence.
Our return to the UK was delayed by Easyjet's decision to cancel the flight long after we had checked in at Geneva Airport and thought we were about to step ovet the threshold...but it was not to be. The boy was sent to retrieve our skis in one direction, whilst I stood in a queue in another direction. I wasn't sure what I was queuing for, but I'd be told to queue there, along with several thousand others. The boy retrieved the skis whilst I managed to keep my place in the queue and find the rest of our luggage as well. Mostly it was good humoured, although I'm sure that the lad who collapsed and was given a saline drip by the paramedics won't remeber it as the happiest moment of his life. We got to the front of the line after a couple of hours and were given an accomodation voucher, food vouchers and local transport vouchers. Unquestioning, we took them all and headed off for two unexpected days with the Swiss. If I'd bucked up, pulled my socks up, tried a little harder, we could probably have found another flight with another airline. But why should we...it was very comfortable staying in a 4 star hotel at Easyjet's expense.
We enjoyed every last minute of it.
We did culture - a jaunt around Old Geneva and a climb up the twin towers of St Pierre Cathedral. We did entertainment - a friend treated us to an evening of Guiness and Chinese food. We did educational - a visit to the Red Cross Musuem and The United Nations. The boy particularly treasures his UN visitors pass...we particularly savoured being in the Chamber where last year President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad declared Israel should be wiped off the map. Our (Japanese) guide suggested he had said 'something he shouldn't'. It felt that we were in a VERY IMPORTANT PLACE...history was all around us....
Sunday, 27 December 2009
Christmas time....
It could have been the start of a porn film...:
"I stood under the shower, the powerful stream of water pulsing over my naked body. The rivers of water washed over my chest. With a wrench in one hand and a screwdriver in the other I was ready for action."
Unfortunately it was simply a matter that the on/off lever had broken when I jumped in the shower after our morning cycle....through the icy mud of Epping Forest. There wasn't a plumber to be had, even on the 27th of December, so I took on the task myself, on the basis that if I didn't we'd use up the UK's entire water resources in 24 hours and would flood the kitchen below as well. DIY has never been a strong point (ask my old woodwork teacher), but needs must. After removing all sorts of screws and wrestling with a very reluctant cog, I managed to turn the torrent off. SO we will remain without shower for the next 'phew' days. Fortunately we have a bath so won't smell. Much.
It's been an unusual Christmas for us...normally we're in Wales with the boy's grandmother and uncle...on his mother's side. It's not something I've enjoyed for the last six years, but it's been done out of concern that Grandma in Wales should get to see her grandson if she can't have her daughter. Occasionally we've been graced by the boy's sister, but not for the last couple of years. And she wasn't going to be there this year either. Christmas Day has generally involved little more than a big lunch, and watching TV. Which to be honest isn't my idea of Christmas.
So with a heavy heart and conscience...and with the Boy's encouragement, we decided to stay in Essex - and spend Christmas Day with friends. This was in many ways a much more traditional Christmas...eighteen people, an enormous lunch (at half past four in the afternoon), lots of little children who were massively over excited, a 'magical snowman' who set them fun tasks all day long, and plenty of party games. Everyone there was required to give a performance of some kind. Which may not seem too onerous, until you realise that one person is head of music at the ENO, another was an opera singer until she became a neuro surgeon and even the six year old could play the violin. With my heavy cold (nay man flu), I'm sure my reading of a series of texts between Mr and Mrs Santa was probably a bit flat, but it was the best that as an unmusical I could manage. And it was politely received. The boy did a duet with an easy confidence. Good lad for restoring the family pride. I'd ask him whether he enjoyed himself, but he got an X-Box for Christmas, and conversation since then has been little more than grunts.....
At our own house, we had lots of visitors too. Uninvited visitors. We've just had a new boiler fitted, and it seems the works must have disturbed slleping ants. Who took it upon themselves to make their presence felt in the kitchen in our absence. They were everywhere, zig zagging around. Until I got the spray out. It was a shame to zap them, but I had little choice....I so hope they don't come back...
And now onto the that time between Christmas and the New Year, where time stands still, nothing much happens, and rest and recuperation is fully enjoyed. It's a time of the jigsaw puzzle...and I'm really pleased to have found a little app for my mobile that turns every picture into a jigsaw. So it is my full intention to spend the next week doing little more than the six hundred jigsaw puzzles that now exist on my phone...what a brilliant way of looking again at holiday photos that would otherwise just be forgotten.
"I stood under the shower, the powerful stream of water pulsing over my naked body. The rivers of water washed over my chest. With a wrench in one hand and a screwdriver in the other I was ready for action."
Unfortunately it was simply a matter that the on/off lever had broken when I jumped in the shower after our morning cycle....through the icy mud of Epping Forest. There wasn't a plumber to be had, even on the 27th of December, so I took on the task myself, on the basis that if I didn't we'd use up the UK's entire water resources in 24 hours and would flood the kitchen below as well. DIY has never been a strong point (ask my old woodwork teacher), but needs must. After removing all sorts of screws and wrestling with a very reluctant cog, I managed to turn the torrent off. SO we will remain without shower for the next 'phew' days. Fortunately we have a bath so won't smell. Much.
It's been an unusual Christmas for us...normally we're in Wales with the boy's grandmother and uncle...on his mother's side. It's not something I've enjoyed for the last six years, but it's been done out of concern that Grandma in Wales should get to see her grandson if she can't have her daughter. Occasionally we've been graced by the boy's sister, but not for the last couple of years. And she wasn't going to be there this year either. Christmas Day has generally involved little more than a big lunch, and watching TV. Which to be honest isn't my idea of Christmas.
So with a heavy heart and conscience...and with the Boy's encouragement, we decided to stay in Essex - and spend Christmas Day with friends. This was in many ways a much more traditional Christmas...eighteen people, an enormous lunch (at half past four in the afternoon), lots of little children who were massively over excited, a 'magical snowman' who set them fun tasks all day long, and plenty of party games. Everyone there was required to give a performance of some kind. Which may not seem too onerous, until you realise that one person is head of music at the ENO, another was an opera singer until she became a neuro surgeon and even the six year old could play the violin. With my heavy cold (nay man flu), I'm sure my reading of a series of texts between Mr and Mrs Santa was probably a bit flat, but it was the best that as an unmusical I could manage. And it was politely received. The boy did a duet with an easy confidence. Good lad for restoring the family pride. I'd ask him whether he enjoyed himself, but he got an X-Box for Christmas, and conversation since then has been little more than grunts.....
At our own house, we had lots of visitors too. Uninvited visitors. We've just had a new boiler fitted, and it seems the works must have disturbed slleping ants. Who took it upon themselves to make their presence felt in the kitchen in our absence. They were everywhere, zig zagging around. Until I got the spray out. It was a shame to zap them, but I had little choice....I so hope they don't come back...
And now onto the that time between Christmas and the New Year, where time stands still, nothing much happens, and rest and recuperation is fully enjoyed. It's a time of the jigsaw puzzle...and I'm really pleased to have found a little app for my mobile that turns every picture into a jigsaw. So it is my full intention to spend the next week doing little more than the six hundred jigsaw puzzles that now exist on my phone...what a brilliant way of looking again at holiday photos that would otherwise just be forgotten.
Friday, 25 December 2009
Friday, 18 December 2009
The boiler man cometh
What a thoroughly splendid time I had at the School Carol Service last night. Feel that my performance should guarantee co-option into the choir next year. Of course, this is the first time I'd been back to the church since my first year at the school. The class had been taken there in the run up to Christmas to practice for the Service at which we would all sing. I was picked out to practice singing a solo. Obviously my angelic looks, and blond wavy hair made me the ideal soloist. Barely two bars in though, it seems my voice was not quite as angelic. I was halted in my tracks and returned to the massed ranks. I can't quite remember what was said to me, but what I can say is that ever since, I've loved listening to music, but barely sing above a whisper in case I cause mass offence. Amazing how a few poorly words can affect you for the rest of your life. Thank heavens for the Mulled Wine after the service.
We left the church to a blizzard...how fabulous is that...just the perfect start to Christmas.
When we arrived home I wandered off to take a couple of photos....everyone assumed I was indoors, so the front door was slammed on me, leaving me to ring the door bell to be let in.
This morning we woke to not quite as much snow as we were expecting...but it was still lovely and white, the tubes were still running, so no need to jump in the Jeep to get to the office. As I gingerly stepped across the drive, a man with a big smile on his face opened the gate and shook my hand. Yes he has come to replace our nearly 40 year old boiler. Perfect timing. There'll be no heat in the house tonight.
Thursday, 17 December 2009
Skating on thin ice
With increasingly monotonous regularity, I am abandoning the boy at home whilst I'm out gallivanting. It's only fair. He'll be doing that to me soon enough, so I might as well get my revenge in first. As I'm not returning home to he smell of cigarettes, empty vodka bottles or used condoms, I assume he's still at the stage of gluing his eyeballs to the computer screen to chat with friends on MSN. My only worry last night when I called him to check he was OK was that his response to the question about food and evening meal was "I've just had porridge". I guess that's good training for University.
Last night I was ice skating at the Tower of London. As the snow started to fall yesterday afternoon, it seemed we were going to be blessed with a skate in enchanted surroundings being gently covered in snow flakes. What a shame then that the snow turned to drizzle and we just got soggy. Also a shame that I confused the Tower of London with Tower Bridge, so arranged to meet my friends south of the river, rather than the north. They thought the pub was an odd choice, and so indeed it was. But it wasn't more than a ten minute walk across the river in the rain and bitter wind. Our only delay was Tower Bridge being raised...we gazed on like tourists, instead of the weary Londoners we are who cross it every day.
Our skating prowess was unquestionably improved by the two large glasses of red wine we had before launching on to the ice. But for some reason we were a bit wobbly. I think the wine also helped minimise the impact of noticing that everyone else was still in the twenties. Clearly this is a young persons' sport. Apologies to my fellow skaters who I barged past when I didn't know how to stop.
Tonight it's the school Carol Concert. After our office Christmas lunch. I fully intend to be joining in and bellowing out some traditional Christmas tunes. Apologies to the boy in advance.
Tuesday, 15 December 2009
Dennis Severs
Last night we were out on a school night....well it is the season to be jolly. As ever nothing went quite a smoothly as it should....I drove into London having driven to Cheltenham and back for a 45 minute meeting at 12. I got a coffee, but not even the hint of a sandwich let alone something more seasonal. Jeeeeeeez.
Anyway, when I found where I needed to park, it had one of those meters that you can pay by phone. As I had no coins, it was a good option. It's a bit of a phaf (faf?) as you have to keep pressing digits on your phone. Did I want to park my motor bike? No. Did I want to park my scooter? No. Did I want to park a new vehicle. Yes. Please enter pin number or last four digits of credit card (FYI, the card was replaced a couple of weeks ago). PIN not recognised, please try again. PIN not recognised. Goodbye. Repeat six times. Sh*t, damn and blast. So I turned to the concierge on the door of the restaurant that I parked outside. Could they break a £5 note for me? "I'm sorry sir we don't carry cash here. But don't worry I'll look after your car. It'll be fine" And indeed when I returned the car was still there, and no parking ticket. I felt the need to tip him. By this stage I had just a £10 note, so he got that...somewhat more than the £1.50 it would have cost if I'd had the coins!
Anyway, we went to Dennis Severs House. Which is an amazing experience. Especially in the dark. Especially at Christmas. It's hard to describe what it's like....a sort of living, breathing museum. But don't look at the objects individually. Soak up the atmosphere, start to believe in and experience the 'story' Truly amazing stuff.
If you don't know anything about Dennis Severs, it is worth reading up on him. A real character. Here is his obituary...but it misses some of the madness of the man
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