Road hogs

In the Nota Bene family, we have a good record of passing our driving tests - all of us have managed it first time having spent relatively small amounts of money on lessons. With Grandmother In Cyprus learning to drive was a necessity...and I'm not sure she has ever really enjoyed it, but needs must...especially now that she lives in a country where a car is the only realistic way of getting to a shop. And when I sit in the passenger seat I feel I am in safe hands.

My brother was car-crazy from a very young age, and I suspect he could drive before he could walk. He could certainly drive before he took his 11-plus. I wouldn't like to hazard a guess as to whether he took advantage of this skill at such a young age - I do remember him sitting on our father's lap when he was small enough that his legs couldn't reach the pedals. But he could steer and change gear. Naturally as a very practical lad, he could also fix engines with ease. A very helpful skill. Since then he has raced all sorts of cars.

I was altogether different.

Taking an academic approach, I was a car enthusiast and could tell you every model in every range from every manufacturer any where in the world. I could also tell you which were the good cars and which were rubbish - I knew because I'd read all the test drives and their word was gospel. I didn't understand it when my cousin claimed that you can't really know what a good car is until you've put your foot on the accelerator pedal. Pah! I passed my driving test whilst at University...I learnt in a Mini (as did everyone in those days, before they got posh) and I liked it as the front of the car went up when the clutch reached its biting point. My test was fine even though I did manage to get in a queue for a car park in the middle of it. I also managed to pass my motorcycle test first time some seven or eight years ago.

In the not too distant future it will be the boy's turn to learn. He has a too much of an interest in motorcycles...but I've sternly told him he's not allowed one until he's 35. And at that age he still will not be too big to put over my knee if he defies me. He is now to be found every morning sitting in the driving seat of the car, waiting to leave. He turns on the engine 'to warm it up' he says. Reluctantly, he climbs in the back seat when it is time to go. This morning though, the wait was a little too long, and that left him fiddling. With the gear stick. Just as I was walking in front of it. I jumped a mile. He looked sheepish...but with a big grin on his face. He won't be doing that again. Mind you, as it's a Toyota, I feel a call to the media followed by a call to my lawyers will elicit vast compensation...I'm sure it must have been the accelerator that stuck.

50%

Yesterday I was riding the MLC* and followed a car with a flat rear tyre. When we pulled up at traffic lights - just 100 yards from a garage - I tapped on his window. A slightly terrified man wound the window down and listened to what I said. As the lights turned green, he shot off onto a dual carriageway, tyre still flat. I stopped for petrol, and then took a different turning. I assume that somewhere on the dual carriageway this man was stopped with his tyre ripped to shreds. Hopefully he didn't cause an accident. I do understand that a gnarly biker tapping on your window may come as a little bit of a shock, but sometimes it seems it doesn't matter how much you want to help someone, they just don't listen.

At the office we have a selection of radio stations we listen to...Q Radio and XFM vie for favourite station....but sometimes if I have a heavy head Smooth does the trick...

The biggest problem with XFM is the advertising...I'm not adverse to the odd ad or two...indeed if I'm heading to the cinema, I need to get their early enough to see the ads as I just love them. No, the problem with the ads on XFM are that they are all government ones. And that makes my blood boil. Whilst most commercial businesses are moving away from broadcast advertising because (as I believe Henry Ford once said, "Half my advertising is wasted, I just don't know which half), the government are now the UK's biggest advertising spenders. That's your money, my money and our children's future tax bill.

It wouldn't be so bad, but many of these are simply ridiculous things to be advertising. Most annoying was the ad I heard whilst travelling in the West country for an NHS hospital - it's key selling point was that it had he lowest infection rates....no doubt that's very nice, but when I have an accident, I just want the nearest hospital to fix me up. And fix me up good. Ads I've heard this week include reminding parents to sort out the MMR jab, putting up a stair gate to stop their child tumbling down, putting a battery in your smoke alarm, for the Blood Bank, car tax, getting back to work, apprenticeships, health and safety executive, transferring your vehicle registration when you sell the vehicle, children's accidents in the home, know your consumer rights, level crossing and paying your VAT on line.

Some of these things are just plain common sense and people should be given credit for working it out themselves, some are things that can be better targeted (paying your VAT online - HMRC know who has to do this - businesses are all registered with them, and could communicate directly when sending out the form) and for the rest...well really it's just a complete and utter waste of money.

I'm told by someone who knows that the glut of advertising is because Government departments need to use up their budgets before the end of their budget year, rather than because of any compelling need for these communications. It would be nice if we could all run our finances like that. So perhaps, if like me you have an overdraft and the bank chases you, you can merely explain that you are using up the remainder of your annual budget.....

* that's a KTM SuperDuke motorbike, but Auntie Gwen calls it my Mid-Life-Crisis

Russian invasion

There are some countries that you just shouldn't invade. Afghanistan is one. I learnt that at 'O' level (when we did proper exams). It doesn't matter what you do, it cannot be conquered. So why our dearly beloved politicians think we can now, I just don't know. I'll also mention that in some places western-style democracy doesn't suit either. So why we think that like 19th Century Christian missionaries we can spread the word in places that have no history of democratic process I equally don't know.

Another country that is best avoided when conjuring up plans of world domination by invading their land is Russia. Napoleon found that out, as indeed did the Nazis. And now it is my turn. Not that I was planning to do it with the massed ranks of the local regiment. There's just 14 of us. And to date we have failed in our mission.. So far 4 trips have been undertaken to obtain visas. Amongst our many failures have been to leave blank sections of the application that are optional - when the girl behind the counter was asked why they were being rejected for lack of optional information she declared in heavy Russian accent, "You must fill it in". "Shouldn't it it be marked as compulsory?" "Yes. There is a mistake". " Shouldn't you change the form to show it is compulsory?" Response - a simple shrug of the shoulders. You have to list all the countries you have visited in the last ten years and the years. For one of our party that took her application onto three pages. "You cannot have three pages. It is only two." "But you told us to list everything". A shrug of the shoulders. And on and on and on. So we now have to apply on an urgent track - that's £150 Each. Thank you very much...I could have got a holiday in Greece for that. Including breakfast.

Anyway, we're nearly there. The women behind the desk are everything you would expect. Quite pretty, but as stern as stern can be. Completely humorless. And clearly decades of bureaucratic process are part of their DNA. I'm not sure that Russia will ever develop a tourist industry like Marbella.

The boy and I will in any case be beating an early retreat, having messed up with previous arrangements for him to go on adventurous training. At the moment he is odds on for travelling by train to Windermere, assuming that we can get him from a British Airways plane that lands at 5.30 to Euston by 7.30.

A shambles

Just for a change...nothing from me about another mistake....but instead a picture:



The Shambles in York has been voted Britain's prettiest street. I remember going there as a student to visit some friends at the Uni. Well yes, the buildings are lovely, and the narrow, twisty street is quite endearing. But for heavens sake...look at all those estate agent boards and the ice cream signs...they don't exactly enhance the look of the place. Naturally, I'm biased twoards the Lanes in Brighton anyway. But in any case, shouldn't this street clutter be controlled?

Sorry...bad night's sleep last night. Need to let off steam!

Covered in glory

I've always enjoyed the cinema, but when the boy came to live with me on a permanent basis it became difficult to juggle single-fatherhood with an active social life. As a consequence I became a regular buyer of DVDs, and watched them on a projector that would beam a picture six foot across on to the sitting room wall. If I'd bought a popcorn machine, I'd have been in seventh heaven. This arrangement worked pretty well when he was younger and going to bed at 8, then 8.30, 9.00 and even 9.30. But by the time he was heading up to bed at around 10, my film watching days seemed to be over - it didn't seem fair (or something I wanted to happen) for him to be consigned to another room whilst I indulged in the latest 15 or 18 certificate movie. So although I've continued to buy DVDs, they seem to pile up on the shelf unopened, unwatched and unloved. A friend lent me a fabulous Korean film called Oldboy which after three months I've returned...unwatched.

It was with some excitement that I sat down last night and opened a Christmas present and slotted it into the DVD player. I'm a great fan of Tarantino, and having missed his latest at the Odeon, I was really looking forward to seeing Inglorious Basterds. And indeed, it pretty much started as I expected - a pastiche of everything that's bad about American War movies - poor title graphics, mono soundtrack...and I really liked the touch of having all the production team given Italian names...very good. It carried on, and the voices were nearly synced, the acting was the prefect take on B movie woodenness. The characters were caricatures - and the acting suitably wooden. I loved some of the explosions with bodies flying up into the sky obviously attached to wires - and the bit which made me laugh out loud was when the renegades came across a group of naked women, who turned on them with machine guns. Gratuitous it was and well done - although a bit like Deathproof, it was a joke difficult to sustain over the course of the whole film.

After an hour I was puzzling about the absence of Brad Pitt, and couldn't quite figure out who had won an Oscar for best supporting actor...I called to the boy and asked if he could Google it. He picked up the packaging and asked what I was watching. "Inglorious Basterds" I said. "Oh the one with Brad Pitt?" he replied. "Uh huh" I said. He looked at the packaging to reveal the terrible, terrible truth. "This isn't the one with Brad Pitt in. That's Inglorious Basterds. This is the original Inglorious Bastards. You're watching the wrong film."

Indeed I had been. For a whole hour. A whole hour of my life in a state of confusion and mis-understanding.

He was quite matter of fact about it. Obviously parents are stupid, so mistakes like that are inevitable.

I blame Santa. He has a lot to answer for.

An almighty cock-up

In a Coals to Newcastle moment, we are off to Russia in a couple of weeks, and amongst our party of 14, everyone has decided to bring a bottle of vodka. Not just any vodka, but our list so far includes rhubarb vodka, horseradish vodka, cucumber vodka and (for the kids - allegedly) toffee vodka. No doubt this list will grow longer as the holiday gets ever nearer. And no doubt it will all be a lot cheaper when we get there. I'm taking whisky.

Sometime in the deep distant past last year, the boy was booked to go on Adventurous Training with the school cadets. It was so long ago that we didn't have a calendar or a diary to put the dates in...so we noted them down on a piece of paper kept on the kitchen window.

Our Russian trip was recently booked with the dates having shifted a few times to try and co-ordinate everyone. And that's where the problems started. Although we only noticed last week. I am never the most organised of people, but this is about the worst I've managed.

We return from the land of the Tsars two days after the boy is due to depart to the North of England. And that would mean he will miss the activities he most wants to do do - mountain biking and gully walking.

So we have been searching high and low for a flight to return us early to Blighty. Of the flights on offer, we thought it best to avoid the £4000 British Airways flight - naturally only because they may well be on strike! And I've heard of the safety record of some of the Russian airlines.

There were a variety of cheap flights that would take us to exciting airports for a connecting flight - Warsaw, Copenhagen, Vienna, Paris and so on...and at a not unreasonable cost...so actually it started to become a bit of an adventure (or so I told the boy). The journey time was around six hours, which is not too bad...although Alitalia suggested an 18 hour flight...not sure where it went to, but I'm guessing it was somewhere hot and south of the equator. But as it happens, the travel agent has come up with a direct flight, and the cost of that is saved against the accommodation we no longer require.

The downside though, is that we land at half past five in the afternoon, and to get the boy to his destination we will need to drive directly up to the deep, distant frozen north - the school bus will have left a few hours before. It's a six hour drive...and much as I love the Jeep, it's not a high-speed autobahn cruiser.

This I regard as punishment for my own ineptitude (I have decided to ignore the suggestion from someone who shall not be named, that it is the boy's own fault for not spotting the problem..."Teenagers need to take more responsibility for themselves").

Now all I need to do is work out exactly where we've got to get to...these places tend to be a little off the beaten track...and we'll be trying to find it in the dark. Hopefully with all his training, the boy will be able to read a map...

It will be a long day indeed. I may need that vodka....

I think my mother hates me

I received this e-mail today.

"Hi Nota
Just to thank you for your Christmas card it has just arrived. We live in Cyprus and you have to pay a different rate to come here. A first class English stamp does not work. Any way thanks again
Love Mum

April 1st

I read this on Civil Society and as someone who lives in Essex, I couldn't resist it:

New charitable project challenges perceptions of 'Essex girls'

A charitable fund set up to tackle the stereotyping of Essex girls has raised £38,000 six months after its inception.

The Essex Women’s Advisory Group (EWAG) describes its aims as to "empower girls who live in Essex to broaden their vision, self-worth and belief, and hopefully to inspire them to reach further, higher and live the dream of an enhanced future regardless of stereotyping".

It has been set up as an endowment fund within the Essex Community Foundation.

Project leader Daphne Field, 70, said she established the group after becoming aware that girls from the Essex area - such as X Factor contestant Stacey Solomon - suffered from the 'Essex girl' stereotype. She told Civil Society she wanted to challenge the inaccurate public perception.

"It's a shame because there are so many successful people in Essex but many are labelled as dumb because of where they come from," Field said. "When, in reality, there are 'Essex girls' in every county in the country."

The group has already raised £38,000 which is benefiting women’s refuges in Essex, Essex Girlguiding and girls in the local Prince’s Trust. It raised half from a fundraising banquet and the other half was matched by the Community Foundation's grassroots grants scheme.

The group also plans to attract Essex businesswomen and artists to advise and mentor girls in the area.

It is planning a 'Day for the Girls of Essex' at Hylands Park in July.


It's caled EWAG...I can't believe someone isn't pulling my leg here....in a county populated by footballers and their wives and girlfriends, you wouldn't call a charity to broaden people's perceptions EWAG...would you? Would you? Or perhaps you would if you are an Essex girl...

So anyway if you're unfamiliar with Essex girl stereotyping, try this link here. Of course, I don't approve of this sort of thing...it's purely for research purposes

My life as I see it

I read all sorts of blogs for all sorts of reasons, and I've been doing it long enough to forget how I found some of them. One such is 'My life as I see it', which is always a damned good read...well written, quirky, often insightful and fun. Rashly, Tony has for a second time asked me to guest blog...so I have and here's the link. But don't spend too much time reading my post, there's plenty more on his blog that are entertaining and worth spending your time having a read of.

An alcoholic weekend

On Friday I had hoped to be at the Iraq Inquiry...I had been reassured that my ticket was in the post, and if it did not arrive, arrangements would be made to ensure I would get in. But the lines of communication went quiet and my pleading was to no avail. I went down there and was stonewalled, I went to the Secretariat office but there was no one there and I returned to the Inquiry building, but nothing going. The security guard was a jobsworth, and not willing to help even though I had any number of proofs of identity with me. I was in a foul mood for the rest of the day. Of course, the only link with the title of this piece is that my strongly held view is that we went into Iraq because Tony Blair was drunk on power. I'm resentful about that, and resentful that a simple matter of delivering me a ticket could not be achieved...no wonder our troops don't have the equipment they need.

Saturday night we went to see Cat On A Hot Tin Roof. When I say we, I mean I saw it, but the boy saw only most of it as the night before he had stayed at a friends and as far as I can gather got to bed at 7.30 in the morning having played X-Box all night. It was a stirling performance by all concerned...and James Earl Jones was every bit as impressive as you would hope. In fact all members of the cast delivered their lines with aplomb...Adrian Lester though, as Brick - the alcoholic of the play - was probably the weakest...but then he has a particularly difficult part to play. Before he play we went to Joe Allens - a restaurant that in the '80's was a real hot spot...may be because it was the first of its breed...fast food in a themed environment. But they say you shouldn't revisit, and indeed they're right (whoever they are)...and whilst the quality of food restaurants has come on enormously in the last thirty years, Joe Allens hasn't budged an inch. Our other observation of the night was that whilst west end theatre is almost exclusively a white middle-class past time, the audience was at least 25% black. With this being the first all black cast for Cat On A Hot Tin Roof, there was a simple explanation. We had a lively discussion about this...and whether it was a good thing because it was broadening the potential audience for theatre (enjoy this and then you'll go and see more), or was it a low-level racism whereby people will only go and see actors of their own colour....

And last night we went to see the now Oscar winning Crazy Heart. An alcoholic country singer who finds redemption. Bridges was superb, but the film is average.

So alcoholism makes for great plays and films...that is a great place for it to be...a story somewhat removed from reality, that we can watch, digest and comment on.

It was heart breaking, therefore to come back and catch up on some of the blogs I follow to find that the very brave, even saintly, Addy lost her alcoholic husband Greg to the ravages of drink over the weekend. For her and her daughter this must be an unbearably awful time, and no doubt full of contradictions. I wish them all the very best.

Heroics

Tomorrow I hope to be at the Iraq Inquiry to watch Gordon Brown explain away why British soldiers gave up their lives fighting in Iraq. My ticket appears to have been lost in the post, but hopefully I will still be able to find a way in....it is an issue that I am very passionate about - don't get me started. If I'm not marched away to the cells I'll let you know how it goes....if you haven't read it in the newspaper first.

Onto less serious things.

If you like superheroes, like the cinema, do visit 'My Life as I see it' and join in the fun. Tony has asked me to do a guest blog, which should be posted on Monday...but other guest bloggers are coming up beforehand.

And finally. These two links are quite fun...here and here I love the power of modern technology. You may recognise someone half way through....of course it would be great if the BBC could encourage people to buy a licence in the same way, but until then, I'll be glued to Swedish TV

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....