A cultured life

There's culture and there's culture. There's also the mould that grows on a petri dish...that's the sort of culture I tend to find in the boy's bedroom when I brave going through the door to retrieve plates of half-eaten food that have been hidden under the bed for days, weeks, and I suspect months. I've tried banning food and drink from going upstairs, but really when the boy is killing a million aliens on the X-Box, it seems completely unreasonable for me to prevent him from re-energising. I just wish that he could summon up the energy to carry plates downstairs afterwards.

We've been doing culture too. Proper culture. Last weekend we went to a fortieth birthday party. The boy and some friends were along too....their disapproving looks at my Dad dancing were to be expected. This wasn't just any 40th though. This was a Whitechapel Art Gallery party. Yes disco dancing in the presence of Art. Real art. We drank delicious cocktails in the presence of "Where Three Dreams Cross: 150 Years of Photography from India, Pakistan and Bangladesh". I'm sure they were very good. We're all sure the pictures were very good. But we didn't really look. We should have as we gathered initially in the exhibition space. But then we went upstairs and drank more whilst dancing to tunes we had all pre-selected. I wanted to girate to Kylie or Soft Cell, but couldn't resist The Raconteurs....Broken Boy Soldier I cleared the dance floor, and my track was taken off well before the final chord. Uncultured lot.

Staying with an eastern theme, on Friday it was Taal night. This was put on by the School's Budhist, Hindu, Sikh and Muslim Society. The boy had a starring role - as the love interest of an Indian girl who has to go through an arranged marriage. It's a very hot topic....but in a script written by a couple of the pupils, they handled it both with sensitivity and humour....although I'm sure some of the jokes were pretty close to being censored! And indeed some were certainly racist...Indian mothers and fathers were the butt of many jokes. And it was a very full-on production...putting the best Bollywood productions to shame....well that may be a slight exageration, but I'm allowed to be a little biased There was a cast of 60...and given that for a couple of set-pieces where everyobe was on stage, it was a little cramped. The music was brilliant...I was so impressed with both the boys and girls who had put so much effort into it...an excellent way to spend a Friday night. The boy played his part well...but felt a certain uneasiness with the 'I've been so wronged' scene...the bitter anger and diappointment he conveyed seemed strangely reminiscent of a recent argument at home....





But enough of the East, on Saturday it was off to the west. The wild wild west. A fundraising dinner and dance on behalf of the NSPCC. I looked my finest in my check shirt, 'kerchief, stetson and boots....and was praised mighty highly for for my lassooing action on the dance floor. To eat we had sausages, beans and baked potatoes. They were real authentic....the sausages were near charcoal, the potatoes had turned to mush and the beans...well the beans. Oh my word the beans. I've been told they were cooked over a period of several days. There was some line dancing. But not much. But plenty of Hi Ho Silver Lining. I'd tell you more. But that tequila's a deadly thing......

Separated at birth

I've never been slow to comment on how different my brother and I are. Our paths have been very different indeed. And physically we are about as different as you can get...he is tall, powerfully built with straight dark hair and dark skin... I, on the other hand, spent most of my young life with blonde curly hair, and was so slight that if I turned side ways I could slip between the floor boards; height wise I am about 5'8"...which is just about average I am told. I think Grandma in Cyprus picked up the wrong baby at the hospital - although whether it is my brother or me, I have no idea.

So it is worrying that my friends have started to point to an uncanny resmblence between me and ex-Russian President Vladimir Putin. What do you think?

I'm the one without the comb-over if you were wondering.




The matter has been the subject of much debate over the last few days because we are off to Russia: Moscow and St Petersburg - for a holiday at the beginning of April. And as someone who studied Soviet politics at University, I am expected to provide the expert commentary. Evidently. I have pointed out repeatedly that within a matter of months after I left the hallowed corridors of education, the Soviet Union ceased to be, so nobody should expect me to be back Kremlin watching. But that doesn't wash evidently, so I must dig out a few bluffers guides and hope that I can get away with it. Or perhaps my long-lost sibling will meet and greet us all at the airport....

Praying

Grandma in Cyprus sent me this....she says, "Thought might like to see our tame mantis - she has been living in our shed for about 3 months and last night she laid her eggs. They are in the little white ball in the corner of the picture, that ball should hold about 200 eggs, she appears to be guarding them. They can take up to 3 months to hatch it depends upon the heat of the weather"

How very exciting to be reminded of the exotica that lives with her in Cyprus. Of course I'm not talking about Step-Grandad in Cyprus as he is usually pretty down to earth. But whenever we've gone out there both the boy and (especially I) have enjoyed our David Attenborough moments - green frogs that will occasionally jump on you, and dragon flies that sun bathe next to the pool...we're yet to see the poisonous snakes that will finish you off pretty quickly, but it's only a matter of time. Near the airport (newly built because the old one is on land owned by a Turkish Cypriot) are flocks of flamingo if you arrive at the right time of year.

Of course the sea is full of wonderful creatures...I've swum with a turtle, and we've found octopus, cuttlefish, and all manor of fish we didn't ever find out the name of....

By comparison, our local fare has been Mr Rat, who rumour has it is no more, and a very bold and indeed fat Mr Fox, who felt confident enough to wander across the yard ibn front of the office in the middle of the day....

Tosser

1. Me for not knowing that you can't turn a video through 90 degrees

2. The boy on Shrove Tuesday. Mind you, you should have seen his first effort...I'm keeping that little gem for his eighteenth birthday party...

Cheesed off

A couple of weeks ago I was looking at some one's blog and they had a 'word cloud'...it's the collection of words that are most used, with the most popular being biggest...so I thought it would be nice to have...but I added the wrong thing so now it's more complicated to post comments on my blog...so sorry about that and thank you for persisting...

Last night I went to a tutored cheese tasting. Which seems very pretentious, but was a lot of fun, even if the room seemed to be full of fathers with their daughters. Sweet.

Anyway, the evening was run by Neal's Yard Dairy, and was an opportunity to find out all about mountain cheeses. Evidently, Lincolnshire is full of mountains because Lincolnshire Poacher was one of the ten we got to try....our tutor explained it was because the Simon and Tim Jones who make it were tutored by a Scot from the Highlands, who learnt his cheese making skills in the French mountains before moving to Wales to carry out his business. Contrived was not the word....and I didn't much enjoy it either.

I learnt many things - including that even dairy farming involves slaughter...after all you can't milk a boy calf. Better to use it for veal. And rennet, which is used in cheesemaking) can only be extracted from the calf's fourth stomach once it has been killed. So if I ever become vegetarian, I may have to go the whole way and just eat fruit....

Favourites from the evening were Beaufort Alpage and Mont D'Or, which was melted in the oven before it was served. Low lights were Salers de Buron and Grand Jura. Our tutor rattled on for a good couple of hours, and was brilliantly interesting, but I suspect that more has been forgotten than remembered There was lots of red and white wine to wash it down with, and that's probably a good thing because my arteries are no doubt very clogged this morning. I took home a goody bag of uneaten cheese for the boy...and I have no doubt it will be all snaffled by the time I get home from the office tonight. May be on health grounds that's a good thing....

End of pier show

I wanted to share these photos by Nigel Bowles - his copyright and I expect he'll tell me if he's not happy for me to put them up - of the West Pier in Brighton which was illuminated by lasers to celebrate the Chinese New Year. It creates a ghostly impression of how the pier used to look before it burnt down decades after it was abandoned and left to rot. I wish I had been there to see it...instead of wrapped up in my bed with a rotten cold.





The wreckage of the pier at the land end is being cleared away by the Council, hopefully, so that the plans to build an observation tower can go ahead. The i360 has been designed by same team as the London Eye and will make a brilliant contribution to the City. It has been delayed by those bastard bankers who have done their utmost to bring wrack and ruin on the country whilst continuing to line their own pockets. They will hopefully get their just come uppence, and we hopefully will get a new landmark on the South coast.

Pied Piper

We have a new guest in Buckhurst Hill. I was in the garage and looking into the garden, when I saw what I thought was a large leaf blow under the pallet that the boy had thoughtfully deposited there a year or so ago...in the full expectation of turning it into something significant. I have mentioned this before here. And indeed it has turned into something significant - a hiding hole for a large brown rat. I tried to follow it as it ran away, but they're sneaky little buggers, and it disappeared - either into the neighbours garden...or into our out house where the central heating boiler is. It is warm in there, and a lovely place to live. I am sure Mr Rat (AKA John Terry) is very comfortable there...I'm confident he is sitting on a sofa, puffing on a cigarette in a holder, with a glass of whisky whilst watching Rat TV. Not a bad life. But I think he has to go. He is not something of which I am overly fond. And I'm not sure if he has friends and family, but I'm not that keen on them either. It's only a small house, and there's not really enough room for the boy and I let alone guests.

I have called Rentokil to do the business. But unlike the Pied Piper, they demand money up front. Very wise. How daft was the Pied Piper, didn't he have a credit control department to sort out his finances? Not sure he would survive in today's economic climate. So for the princely sum of £299 plus VAT, Mr Rat will be served with an eviction order. He will be forced out, and probably will rot in the gutter (there's no guarantee we will be able to trace his corpse as he may keel over anywhere). And then order will be restored in the Nota Bene household.

...and all this on the day that ITV have been fined $3000Aus for killing a rat on I'm a celebrity get me out of here. I'm not sure I follow the logic. Perhaps Australians love their rats more than we. But not camels - I keep reading about a planned cull of feral camels wandering the Aussie outback. Is it April 1st?

You could, of course just listen to some music here

Two of a kind

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.

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

For Lynne

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.

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

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!

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.