I fancy a pretty little Italian

Like all young men I lusted for a sports car.  Something mid-engined and Italian.  In my early years working for firstly Austin-Rover (as it was then) I was restricted to a company made car...hence an MG Metro was the best I managed.  My next job was with Nissan when most people still called it Datsun and every week we'd receive threatening letters from war veterans.  The management were somewhat more relaxed, recognising as they did that Datsun's were not made for thrusting young executives.  So not too many eyebrows were raised when I turned up driving a Lancia Monte Carlo. Which looked something like this

It was beautiful, bright shiny red and for the cynics amongst you, not a hint of rust to be found.  I loved driving it, with the engine behind my head.  Like all Italian mid-engined sports cars it had its problems.  The best documented (apart from the rust issue) was the braking performance.  But that didn't stop me driving it like a sports car should be driven and as only a young man knows how to.  One night, I was driving down the country roads of Sussex, and I didn't steer the car round the corner as it should.  In fact the tail whipped out, and then back and then out again and we careered up the grassy bank which did a very good job of flipping the car over on its roof before we eventually landed in the hedge the right way up.  As we climbed out we saw that we had stopped literally half a dozen feet from the edge of a quarry.  Luck was on our side.

May be I should have learnt my lesson, but I didn't and when he insurance company wrote it off, I went and found another one.  This time in silver:

It wasn't quite so bright and shiny, and mechanically it had a habit of breaking down.  On reflection it was a bad habit really.  But I loved it, and I still think it's one of the most beautiful cars I've ever seen.  It took The Boy's mother to hospital on  the night she gave birth.  Ridiculous really, but I couldn't give it up.  I drove it for a few years more before I was presented with a company car.  At that point it became surplus to requirements and sensibly it would have been sold.  But I didn't.  It went into storage whilst I harboured dreams of getting it rebuilt and back to original condition.  Weeks rolled into months which rolled into years and I never quite managed to find the money to get it sorted.  But my enthusiasm never waned.  Ridiculous.

But then last week the garage rang to say that one of their other customers was looking for a project, and would I be interested in selling it.  Oddly this had quite an upsetting effect on me.  I can't think why really.  So now it is decision time.  Do I sell, or do I do what I've always threatened?  Spend what I suspect will be a small fortune to refurbish a car that will never be worth very much. Of course the decision is obvious, simple and easy.  But I haven't yet worked out what to do.  Men and cars.  Ridiculous.

Mad March

Rather than concentrate on the road this morning as I rode along on my motorcycle in the rush hour traffic, I was pondering the ups and downs of changing the clocks.  The Monday morning traffic was pretty distracted, and quite dangerous as everyone was still half asleep.  Although our bedside clock changes automatically, it didn't stop us waking up in a panic on Sunday morning, run around the house until we'd satisfied ourselves that we weren't running an hour late.  I can't wait for Scottish independence, then we won't have all those pesky farmers in the northern wastelands preventing reform of the summertime issue.

Have you ever laughed at a funeral?  Me neither, but I did the equivalent of it yesterday.  I'm still mortified.  And it has confirmed all The Cat's worst fears about me.  Oops.

Friday night we headed up to the Suffolk coast.  After a previous experience of heading towards east Anglia using The Cat's Mother's built in navigational skills, we turned on the Garmin Sat Nav to ensure we arrived without getting lost and in good time.  Both objectives were achieved.  Aldeburgh is a terrific place...managing to combine oldie worldy charm with oldie worldy charm perfectly...narrow streets, little cottages and not a Starbucks to be found.  If you're ever in that direction I can highly recommend a stay at the Brudenell Hotel...the rooms were fabulous.  It appears you can take the girl out of Essex, but you can't take Essex out of the girl.  As we dined, the table behind us was occupied by people who could have stepped straight out of The Only Way is Essex...bleached blonde blokes and bronzed girls in tight dresses that nearly reached their legs.  It was 'proper home from home'.

If we'd known in advance there are just twenty hares on Havergate island we'd probably not have booked...after all the island is 7.5km long, so it would be a bit like finding a needle in a haystack.  As it turns out twenty is more than enough, as they all tend to congregate together in one area.  The first thing we saw when we stepped off the boat was a hare, so sometimes ignorance is bliss.  They were introduced to the island by the farming community there, and stayed long after the farmers had gone.  The salty environment is not actually good for them, so they have a life span just 70% of hares in more traditional hare country.  The RSPB have a policy of non-intervention, which means the population stays pretty stable...as nature intended.  They have no real predators there, although just occasionally a fox will reach the island (although it was never quite explained how) and will do what foxes do best.

We got to and from there in a little boat, and it was a pleasure not to be forced to wear life jackets by the health and safety Nazis in either direction.  The sun shone and the gentle breeze made it a very pleasant little trip.

As it turns out twenty is more than enough, as they all tend to congregate together in one area. So we were able to spend a couple of hours watching them...sadly none of them boxed.  But then when there's only twenty I guess fighting off a suitor is probably not advisable.  They keep it in the family.

They generally sat around eating, didn't appear to be too bothered by our presence and when they decided to move, appeared to have only one speed - lightening fast.  Beautiful.   I've stolen some great pictures The Cat took and added them to mine so you can get a flavour of our delightful day.

 It doesn't end well for some

 There were more than just hares

Did I mention it's a bird sanctuary?

Eat the elephant

This weekend we are shooting hares*

Last night I went off to a talk by Dr Edwin Moses...probably better known as the hurdler Ed Moses.  An interesting man who doesn't seem quite reconciled to his legendary status....he didn't enter the room until we were all sitting quietly, where as the other speakers had, and acknowledged the applause as he walked to the podium.  As he said, it's better to be a living legend rather than just a legend.  He spoke for almost an hour with no notes and almost no repetition...but then he was speaking about his sporting career, which he should know pretty well.  Evidently he wasn't much of an athlete when he was younger, and he puts his success down to passion, planning, determination and overcoming fear.  At least I know where I went wrong.  I could have been a contender.

Despite being egged on by the people with me, I did resist the temptation to go up to him and say "It's good to meet a fellow-Olympian".  It didn't strike me that humour was his strong point.

Another part of the evening included one of the Olympic Games major sponsors.  One of their senior managers was quoted on video as saying " You need to eat the elephant one spoonful at a time".  Given her size, one suspects it was a large spoon and several elephants.  Don't you just hate corporate-speak bollocks?

Another business quote, retold by the Lord Bishop of London, I heard this week was "I hire for skills, and fire for character"  Probably true if I look back over the last twenty five years....something to keep in the back of the mind.

*we're off to Suffolk tonight to go on an RSPB (shouldn't that be RSPH?) boat trip to an island which is full of hares.  As the Cat's Mother is obsessed with is a hare enthusiast with a fine collection of hare pictures, sculptures and 'objet', this trip was bought as a present for her by her sister.  Ten of us will be laying siege to Aldeburgh.  This is the time of year when hares box...we hope to get to see that.  In my case, I'll hopefully be taking some pictures.   I read this week that the generally accepted view that it is male hares that box for territory and mating rites is wrong.  Evidently it's the females fending off unwanted suitors.  I hope The Cat's Mother doesn't get any ideas.

Park yourself right here

I was surprised, really surprised to see on the BBC that the NHS is the world's third largest employer.  Evidently, by reputation it is the world's largest employer.  I really appreciate what the NHS gives us, but can't quite understand the figures...there are other countries that offer a nationalised health system, but they didn't appear at all on the list.  Is it the way we count?  Is it that the health service is over-staffed?  Is it that we have more sick people than other countries?  Is it because offering 'choice' has created duplication?  Is it because there are too many bureaucrats? Do we include services under the NHS that other countries exclude?  I just don't know and I would like a reasoned and impartial explanation rather than one driven by social or political dogma.  It would help me understand the latest round of NHS reforms- why is it that health, like education is kicked around like a political football by one government after another.  It certainly seems strange that a relatively small country like ours has any organisation in the list of largest employers.

After the church service for the 275th which I mentioned earlier this week, we repaired to the hall of the livery company that supports the school.  It is a very splendid place indeed, full of the pomp and ceremony that shouts 'tradition' from the rooftops.  You may well have seen this place - it was the king's coronation room in The Kings Speech, and previously featured as the the KGB headquarters in one of the James Bond films....for that one the pictures of our monarchs were covered with flags bearing the hammer and sickle.  I wonder how they felt about that.  As we all chatted politely, food was brought out.  Few of us got to try it as the 'scholars' rushed to surround the waiters and waitresses and strip their serving platters of every last crumb, like lions devouring a zebra.  It was quite extraordinary really, and caused more than a few comments.  In my day we would have been respectful enough to have salivated, but held back whilst our elders got first pickings, sure in the knowledge that they would take just a few things before waving the waiting staff on.  It is not as if the kids are not exposed to the right environment...mostly middle-class, they all get fed well at school and should pick up some of the basic rudiments of manners. The subject came up at home, and The Cat rushed to their defence "They were hungry". Yes but manners maketh the man (and woman).  We spent some while talking about it, but perhaps it was a generational thing as neither could see the other's point of view.

How clever am I?  Pretty damned if you ask me.  When I got one of those new-fangled Android smart phones last year I was pretty pleased with it, especially as it had more storage than my iPod so I'd be able to put all my favourite tunes on it. And generally it's all worked pretty well, but for some music it decided that it wouldn't recognise the name of the artist.  So in amongst all my favourites, I've ended up with a whole load of 'unknowns'.  Several hundred of them in fact.  I've searched high and low, but there doesn't seem to be an answer.  Until I worked it out myself.  I simply create a playlist in the name of the artist and add the songs to that.  Perfect.  I'm really very pleased with myself indeed.  How geeky is this paragraph?

I'm rarely accused of being politically correct...one of my bugbears is 'disabled parking'. It's not that I'm against it.  Not at all. In fact it seems perfectly reasonable and sensible to me.  But, and this is a big but, we seem to have gone overboard.  Down in Brighton we can spend literally hours searching for a parking spot at home, whilst dozens of disabled bays remain stubbornly empty.  And last weekend we went to Westfield where I took this picture.  As you can see, the standard parking bays are all full, whilst the dozens and dozens of disabled bays remain empty.  It seems in this matter we lack a sense of proportion.  I wonder if I'll feel differently when I'm really old and creaky?

In the pink

I've loved this picture since the moment I took it five or so years ago.   I have it down in the side-bar of my blog, but here's the full version.   It made me realise that you don't need a great camera to take a great picture (I say modestly).  In fact it was taken with a camera phone when these things were still in their infancy...just 2 mega-pixels (these days, they're eight or more). Of course, there's some trickery here as I shot the boat in black and white, and the camera setting added the colour.  This was Brighton beach, and this is one of the boats that gets dragged up on the shore every day after it's collected a small load of fish which you can buy either on the beach or at the fishmongers in Shoreham harbour.

Would it work just as well in black and white?  No, in this picture, as in life, colour makes things better.

This post is for Tara's weekly photo gallery on the theme of colour

275 and going strong

I think The Boy is now qualified to be an air steward with British Airways...at least in Germany.  I read in the weekly school bulletin (no, don't be ridiculous, of course he didn't tell me) that he has passed his BA Flag Award.  Or may be it's just that he can tell the difference between all those flags painted on the tailfins of their planes...you know the ones that so enraged Margaret Thatcher.

I was at a party once, and I think it will for ever stick in my head as a particularly surreal event in my life.  It was a very loud party indeed.  It was work-related, and I was attending just a few days after The Boy's mother had died.  I was hardly in the party mood.   But the client was there, so I had to be too.  During the middle of it, my phone rang, and I answered it.  Through the noise, I could just make out it was the father of one of the children The Boy was at school with.  He was offering sympathy, although it was hard to tell, and I dread to imagine what he thought about me partying the night away at such a time.  Grace Jones was singing on the stage, Miquita Oliver (of TV, now bankruptcy fame) was chatting to her friends and I stood chatting to some girl who at some stage thrust her phone number at me.  It was only as I walked away I realised that I'd been chatting to Skin from Skunk Anansie.  Over in the corner were the VIPs, including a very glum looking David Frost.  It didn't look much fun for them either.

As part of my job I've been known to give media training...telling the innocent and the stupid how to deal with journalists.  I think in future I should save my breath, and just point everyone in the direction of Frost on Interviews, which aired last week.  It was fascinating...really interesting stuff...whether you're interested in politics, celebrities, or the media.  I was quite captivated.  It wasn't without fault though.  In fact there seems to be a trend at the moment of big-name presenters not being reigned in by their Director/Producer/Editor.  I ranted recently about the awfulness of Jeremy Paxman's Empire series and here the problem was similar.  The programme was really poorly structured and organised, with some sections just not fitting.  Tragic as it was to see successive interviews with Mohammed Ali as he went from being mentally nimble as a bee to barely being able to string a sentence together, the impact was lost largely because it was out of place.  It's as if no one is prepared to take the decisions to make a great piece of television.  But I did like the point he made that as people like me have given interviewees the expertise to deal with probing questions, the interviewers have got more aggressive.  This creates an atmosphere of stalemate where the interviewee won't open up and give illuminating answers for fear of being tripped up and made to look a fool whilst the interviewer gets ever more aggressive.  A vicious circle.  Anyway, I'm sorry for ruining your TV pleasure.

Yesterday, The Boy's/The Cat's/my school celebrated it's 275th anniversary with a service at St Helens Church in Bishopsgate London.  The venue was chosen because the school's founder was buried there.  In fact, although his tombstone is inside the church, he had managed to buy the freehold.  Yes that part of the church no longer belonged to the church.   It would be fair to say that the school's founder was not a popular man.  In fact as his coffin was carried through the City streets it was pelted with manure.  He was a successful 'city fixer'.  It would be good if this tradition could be revived whenever any of our current batch of city fixers passes over.   When he died, he left the very princely sum of £28,000 which remarkably was enough to found a school and almshouses in Mile End.  It doesn't sound a lot, but it must have been.  This was a school for one hundred children, twenty of whom would be children who would not normally be able to pay for an education.  So he may have been a bastard, but his heart was in the right place when he went to meet his maker.  I wonder how many of our present day bankers will feel suitably charitable at the end of their days?  Not many at all I suspect.  Greed is good, especially if you're ungodly.  The service was attended by governors, parents, teachers and scholar pupils.  I'm not quite sure how they choose, but in one case (and I suspect many), the parent is a partner in one of the UK's largest accountancy firms.  I suspect that it wasn't because they're short of money.  Greed is good.

I'm glad the school has set up a new foundation to help the less well-off to attend and gain an excellent education.  I was able to attend with the help of a grant from the county council, so it is something that I am all in favour of.

The service was conducted by the Lord Bishop of London.  I'm not a great fan of organised religion...in fact I regard it as a root cause of many of the world's evils.  But here was a man who was worth listening too.  He boomed out as you would hope a senior member of the church would, and everything he said was riveting. The school was founded in times of tectonic change, when three of the five world powers were Muslim, and it celebrates its 275th birthday at a time of similar tectonic change.  I was not alone in being impressed...in fact the entire audience (congregation?) left muttering about his wit and wisdom and how he had conveyed his views on the founder, the city and the world order very clearly without offending a single person.  If he was standing for Archbishop of Canterbury I would vote for him...albeit in the knowledge that it is something of a poisoned chalice.  Not that I have a vote anyway.

Champagne Charlie

My celebrity spot today was seeing Gok Wan sitting eating outside one of the cafes in Bermondsey Street.  It made me realise that I knew the face, I knew the name but I've never seen anything he's ever done.  Such is the extent of fame these days.

Saturday night was spent at a fundraiser for the NSPCC.  The Cat's Mother is the local treasurer, so we all get dragged along whenever there's an event.  This was a Royal event, an early celebtation of the Queen's jubilee.  The place was dressed up with bunting and photos of our favourite Royal.  The format is always similar...after all why change a winning formula?  The host on each table brings along the food - the menu is decided upon by the committee.  I'd spent my afternoon arranging slices of soda bread with mackerel into a union jack and a crown.  I'm not sure anyone noticed, but I was pleased.  There was a glass of champagne for everyone as they arrived.  The champagne had been donated, but the first bottle smelled and tasted of sherry.  So it became my responsibility to taste all the other bottles.  They were all fine.  The rest of the evening was all a blur for me.  The sacrifices we all make.  It was probably also a blur for The Boy.  He was one of the waiters...that didn't stop him having a glass of beer in his hand every time he made an appearance.

Sunday was one of The Muffin's birthday...she's 9, so we all trooped round to play Wii Games whilst also eating mini toad in the hole.  Although the age range was from 80 down to five everyone seemed to have a great time.  Although some people were wondering how on earth I will manage to co-ordinate with everyone else during the dancing at the opening of the Olympics.  I wonder myself to be honest.

Sunday was, of course, Mothering Sunday.  A date that The Boy and I have ignored for some years for obvious reasons, but times change so this year was different.  The Cat's Mother was brought  breakfast in bed...the day before I'd gone out and bought champagne, smoked salmon and eggs and issued 'guidelines' to the Teens that 9.00 would be a good time to serve it as this would ensure we were still in bed.  That was probably my mistake as true to form The Boy regarded this as an order to be carried out with military precision, whilst The Cat thought this meant that sometime between 9.30 and 10.00 would be spot on.  Words were evidently exchanged in the kitchen.  Anyway, it was delivered.  One plate of scrambled egg and smoked salmon and one glass with the bottle of pink champagne.  Fortunately The Cat's Mother is a sharing sort.  Flowers also delivered, and The Cat presented her with a couple of beautiful gifts and a bunch of daffodils.  Lovely.

On the other hand, in getting home organised, I'd forgotten my own responsibilities I hadn't sent a card to Grandma in Cyprus.  She has a lot to put up with.  Thank heavens her other son is a better son and had sent a card.  I Skyped, but it's not quite the same is it?

Bowlocks

I've mentioned George before.  He's the demon barber of Bermondsey Street.  He's been here for ever I suspect, and is one of the last bastions of traditional Bermondsey...a little run down shop that hasn't seen a lick of paint since England won the World Cup.  You my recall that I tend to go there when the naked girl on his calendar changes.  The last time I was there he showed me the calendar that had been donated by the local garage.  Obviously times have moved on because rather than being an elegant collection of  naked girls carefully posed to hide the very last vestiges of their modesty, this one was full of girls who had obviously got confused and had ended up at the photographers studio, rather than the gynaecologist where their poses would have been more appropriate. Fortunately George knows the difference between what's acceptable and what belongs under the mattress, so he didn't put that one up...he put up one from 2005.   I must say that over the last few times I've been there, George has been losing his touch slightly, and I've ended up with several nicks...always explained away as "You must have had a scratch" and I've gone with the flow.  This time, I asked for my usual... a Number three on top and Number two on the sides.  George clipped the blades on started the trim.  Immediately I knew that something wasn't right.  There was just too much hair falling on the floor.  Though he denies it, I swear this was a Number two on top (may be a number one even), and I came out looking like a Millwall Football supporter.  I can see my scalp through my hair, and feel my skull if I rub my hands over it.  All I needed was a pair of braces, white T shirt and H.A.T.E to be tattooed on my knuckles, and I would blend in with the locals nicely.  And I got a little nick to go with it. I no longer have my beau locks.

One of the odd results is that when I cycled in this morning, for the first time ever I could feel the rush of the air over the skin on my head.  It was odd.  It may have been this that distracted me, so that when I had to get off to carry the cycle up the steps of the bridge at Bow Locks, my feet didn't unclip properly and I just tumbled over.  No harm to me but I smashed my new cycle lights.  Bollocks.

To compensate, the Police had closed Rotherhithe Tunnel to traffic, and so I was able to cycle through as the only vehicle in the tunnel.  An odd but exhilarating experience.

Another brick in the wall

When I was just a young lad, Grandma in Cyprus bought me an Encyclopaedia Britannica.  It's always been something I have treasured, especially as it was quite a sacrifice for her to buy.  Although my memory of the times is hazy, it was I believe not long after she and my father were divorced and I am sure money was tight.  I came home from school one day, GinC wasn't there, but there was a note which said "There's a mess in your room can you tidy it up please".  Of course, as there was always a mess in my room, I ignored it until it was too late.  She arrived home before I went upstairs, so I somewhat spoiled the wonderful surprise.  The Encyclopaedia was never easy to use because it wasn't (in 30 volumes) in alphabetical order.  No that would be insufficient for the intellectuals wouldn't it?  Instead it was divided into two sections - ten volumes in the first and twenty in the other.  In order to find anything that you wanted to know about, you had to first look it up in the first section to find the reference in the second.  Getting to the bottom of any query was a labyrinthine challenge.  That was part of the fun.  Did it teach me anything?  Well yes, probably that the harder you work for something the better will be the reward.

When I moved to Brighton the Encyclopaedias eventually followed me.  In fact I think they nearly killed Grandad in Cyprus as I had moved in to a top floor flat with no lift and he helped bring them up.  In fact he may have carried most of them up.  There were over a hundred steps to the top.  Each part of the Encyclopaedia is thicker than a telephone directory (oh do those still exist?).  Legs, arms and hearts were well exercised that day.

They sit now in the 'library' - the small box room that we've given a rather grand title, as an icon and testament to a slower age.  It still gets thumbed through...although it looks pristine.  And the information is woefully out of date...but it is still an object of beauty.

Yesterday I read that the Encyclopaedia in print form will exist no more, replaced instead by a 'media rich knowledge experience'.  Yes I know there will be more in it, it will be interactive, there will be videos to go with the words and pictures and it will be constantly updated.  But, but, but will it have the stature and status.  Somehow I doubt it.  That's a shame.

When I was younger we had Lego.  Everyone had Lego.  It was a brilliant toy that stimulated the creative juices.  That was in the days when Lego simply consisted of rectangular bricks of different sizes and colours.  There must have been wheels too because I remember that in addition to all sorts of different buildings we used to create cars, vans and trucks...although there was no way to make the wheels steer.  Rockets and planes didn't require wheels.  Boats and ships were not very waterproof and mostly sank like the Titanic.  Each was carefully designed by my brother or I in our heads in about thirty seconds.  Built in ten minutes and then driven, flown and more importantly crashed over and over and over.

But in more recent memory, and presumably due to a decline in the creative spirit amongst small people, Lego has taken to selling 'kits'.  Fabulous constructions...often themed around the latest film sensations (Pirates of the Caribbean, Star Wars, Harry Potter, etc).  But all this you know.  I always felt this was a shame, although it didn't stop me buying the kits as gifts for kids of friends and family.  And from Lego's point of view it was the saviour of the company.  It was the way to compete in a digital age.

Then, last year I was bought a kit.  Not a Bionicle, not a Harry Potter, nor even The Death Star.  The Muffins bought me the Guggenheim from Lego's Architecture series.  Each one comes with a comprehensive set of instructions (IKEA please take note) and a booklet which gives loads of background.  Proper educational it is too.  We bought a second one (only another ten to go) and yesterday constructed the Rockefeller Center in a couple of hours.  If it took God six days to make the earth, and Rome wasn't built in a day, I think a couple of hours is quite good.  I didn't do it alone.  For both buildings, The Cat's Mother has equal billing.  The results are fabulous, and they're now displayed in our treasure trove room.  If I worked for a proper company, the HR department would probably describe it as a team bonding exercise.  Perhaps it is.

P.S. If Lego wants to send me one for "Review", I'm prepared to make the sacrifice....Fallingwater looks interesting

Off with their heads

It would be an exaggeration to say that Camilla nearly ran me over today, but it is true that her motorcycle out-rider did stop on the zebra crossing just as I was about to step out, and her car swept by but a moment later.  What on earth she was doing in the back streets of South London I have no idea.  It must be nice being ferried around everywhere completely out of touch with reality.  Much like a teenager then.

It's a Royal week this week as next weekend we are going to a charity fund raiser that is diamond jubilee themed.  This will leave me in a dilemma.  The Cat's Mother is part of the organising committee for the NSPCC, and helping children is a good thing (although on some days, I do wonder) so attendance is a pre-requisite for staying at the family home.  But she seems disinclined to allow me to go as Charles I's executioner, so I need suggestions for a costume.  Any will be welcome.

An Olympian effort

Sat here at my desk on Monday morning, I'm feeling weary.....and no wonder.

Below is the Sportstracker from my cycle into the office today.  Yes evidently I really was cycling at an average speed of 1752 km/hour for 202 km.  Only slightly different from last week's journey of 30km at 24km/hour
Maybe.

I was missing Auntie Gwen who hasn't put finger to keyboard for ages it seems.  So I sent her a text to find out what was going on.  Evidently her broadband is supplied by her company, and they have banned her blog.  Too much porn and fecking (which is one and the same really). Poor Auntie Gwen...I hope she finds a way round it - I would suggest a proxy server, but don't really know what that means or how to go about it.....

After a bit of a lull, our busy social life has begun to pick up again.  Friday night we went to see Florence and The Machine.  The last time we tried that, it nearly ended up in tears as the tickets we had been sent were forgeries...it was only through the sterling efforts of the ticketing agency that we managed to get new ones and got to enjoy a brilliant show.  This time it was easier...did I get them through American Express, I may have done, it was certainly without problems.  We four went with The Spanish Girl and her husband and went for a delicious meal first.  I'm not sure that fine dining really goes with a gig, but hey ho.  She was performing at Ally Pally, which if you've never been to is an absolutely splendid place with one of the best views of London you can imagine.  She performed brilliantly, faultlessly with a band that included a string section and a chorus.  We weren't as near to the front as I'm used to...but the days when it was just The Boy and I and we would arrive early and shoulder our way to the front are long gone, but standing on tip-toe we could generally see her (well I would have been able to if I'd brought my glasses).  Amazingly she still comes across as a rather pleasant girl from suburbia.



On Saturday, whilst The Boy went off on an inter-school United Nations event  The Cat's Mother and I went off to the big shopping centre at Westfield Stratford...which was the sort of mindless exercise we needed being so tired that we could have spent the whole day asleep.  The only thing to report from there is that SHE wouldn't allow me to buy a new camera, which seems quite harsh following on as it does from being told not to buy a new motorbike.  I'm feeling hard done by, but less broke than I would if I'd been encouraged.  Although The Boy didn't fully explain it, the event he was at was one where several schools get together to discuss matters of international interest.  The Boy was representing the USA, which was always going to be an uphill challenge.  Everyone is supposed to follow the views of the country they are representing.  We received some interesting texts from him during the course of the day including "Don't they understand, the USA has a hangover" and "China and N Korea are knobs".  Anyway, fortunately World War Three was narrowly avoided, even if the world order seemed to have changed - which included Portugal supporting North Korea, and some inappropriate and quite undiplomatic advances from Mexico.

Yesterday was spent at an Edwardian breakfast.  And it was a fair reflection of those times that it started at midday.  Whether it was authentic I have no idea.  I do know it was scrummy.  There were around thirty of us at Butchers Farm.  Which is owned by a baker.  There was no sign of the candlestick maker.  Breakfast consisted of:
Grapefruit (with red wine)
Porridge (with whisky)
Kedgeree (with white wine)
Eggs, bacon, sausages, black pudding, baked beans potato fritters, tomato (with port)
Pastries (with cognac)

As the clearing up started, the boys all plonked themselves in front of the TV to pass judgement on the English team and the French-speaking Irish ref.  Their view of the French team was decided long before kick-off.  The wine flowed throughout, especially as it was a nail biting game.  No wonder we were poured into the taxi at the end of it.

Sat here at my desk on Monday morning, I'm feeling weary.....and no wonder.  Oh, have I said that already?

Give me your answer do....

It's a sad day.

Daisy is leaving us.

Not that Daisy works with or for us; she's downstairs with the 'Disco Bunnies', but that hasn't stopped her being the object of our affections.  The Disco Bunnies are in fact an agency that promotes and books high-end DJs...Eric Prydz is one of their clients....or used to be, I'm not sure which.  Eric is, of course, very talented, and you can see one of his most famous and compelling videos below - don't watch it if you're of a nervous disposition:



To be honest it was never one of my favourites, but I thought I'd include it, following in the footsteps of Steve who puts up pictures of scantily clad lovelies to boost his readership.  Allegedly.

The alarm on the Disco Bunnies' office is a smoke bomb - set it off and within  a few seconds, the entire place is fully of a dense acrid smoke which both chokes you and stops you from seeing where you are.  Any burglars trying to pinch computers will most likely trip over and break their necks.  When they first moved in, the smoke bomb would be set off on a daily basis.  There were never any burglars.

The Disco Bunnies are made up of the sort of characters you would expect...at least we would expect.  There's the guy who's clearly smoked so much dope that the world is only vaguely aware of his existence, there's the girl who tends to wear moon boots and a mini skirt whether its 30 degrees above or below freezing point, there's the guy who's got so many piercings you know it must take him several hours to get through security at Heathrow, there's the beautiful east European girl who one day will smile at you and the next scowl, there's the guy who must be fifty but still dresses like a 17 year old, there's the girl who wears every colour under the sun every day on clothes that were clearly made for someone three times her size.

And then there's Daisy.  The sort of girl that we've all decided would be great on a drunken night out, but you'd never take her home to see Mummy.  We first met Daisy a couple of months after we moved into the building.  She waltzed into the office explaining that the battery on her mobile phone was nearly flat and could she charge it in our office.  She left it here for the rest of the day with it ringing off the hook.  We'd regularly see her out of our windows in the courtyard below, and we'd often hear her.  On the good days she'd be laughing and cackling on the phone, on the bad days she'd be screaming, crying and using every expletive and blasphemy imaginable.  And a few more.   As she came out of the building, mobile phone clasped to ear it was often difficult to know which way it would go, so we'd take bets and wait for the conversation unfold.  Sometimes these were client conversations, sometimes boyfriends.  On other occasions she'd be downstairs with the bosses..either over-excited at the new car they'd bought or in tears because something was not right or had gone wrong.  Stability isn't a word you'd apply to the lovely Daisy.

During the time of the riots, Daisy came up to see us one lunchtime.  She explained that neither of her bosses were in the office or available on mobiles, so given there was going to be more riots later would it be OK if she and her colleagues went home early.  "Yes" we said enjoying our new found responsibilities.

I feel our days are going to be a little bit duller.

School's out

Well, well, well.  There's scandal at the school.  I'd like to say more, but I'm not the re-incarnation of the News of the World  and The Cat's Mother pointed out that behind every 'scandal' is a human tragedy.  Naturally we learned about it from the offspring who found out about it from the dinner ladies, who were told by the etc,etc

After the disappointment of The Boy's ski course, there's been another cock up.  The Geography 'A' level students are due to go to Iceland for a field course.  The Boy loves the place so has been much looking forward to the trip in July.  Thing is, without telling anyone the organiser changed the date, so it now starts when The Boy is on a cadet leadership course.  I've waded in...straight to the top...and told them that this sort of cock-up happens too often for comfort.  We'll see how it is resolved, beyond the note of apology I've received already.

We're having a debate at home.  How do you pronounce meme?  I say it's meemee, The Boy says meam and there are reports that some pronounce it memmy.  I think resolution of this is more important than the old scone, scon or eether, ither debates, so any help would be much appreciated.  By the way, I'm right and all other opinions are as valuable as a vote for anyone other than Putin (my word...isn't he looking like the old USSR leaders with his paunchy, wax-like complexion?) in Russia

On a positive note, after the third attempt, the garage claims to have fixed the problem that has afflicted the motorbike for the last several months.  It was  the starter relay.  Touchingly, The Cat's Mother thinks I could have fixed it.  Touchingly, I think I should have just traded it in for the very, very beautiful Ducatti they had on the forecourt.

On a second positive note, we realise that the cancellation of The Boy's ski course does not mean he will be home alone.  In fact the rest of us will have returned from our travels (me skiing, The Cat's Mother and The Cat from New York and The Boy from adventurous training.  So all is well, although we haven't yet broached the subject of where and when The Boy will take his first steps to becoming an instructor.  Sorry Kellogsville that means you can't join thousands of FB friends dancing, drinking and vomiting on the front lawn....!

Do YOU know who I am?

Lord St John of Fawsley has died.  You may neither have noticed, not cared - why should you?  For my part his death brings back the memory of an evening at The Royal Festival Hall.  This was a very long time ago.  My then girlfriend and I were there to enjoy an evening of Christmas Carols.  The subject matter made us feel it was an evening to be enjoyed in a relaxed way. Perhaps too relaxed.  We joined in.  Well why wouldn't you...that's what Christmas carols are for isn't it.  Suddenly and without warning someone behind us slapped my girlfriend round the back of the head.  Instantly I was up on my feet demanding to know what he thought he was doing.  "Do you know who I am?" was his reply.  Yes I did, but I wasn't going to let on.  "I don't care who you are" was my reply.  He and his male companion left shortly afterwards.  It was probably for the best.  After all, even then the report of a senior politician attacking an attractive young lady would have probably ended his career.  Goodbye Norman and thanks for giving me something to write about.

Another passing (no I'm not going to turn this into an obituary column, although death has featured a lot recently) is that of Ralph McQuarrie.  He's best known for his work on Star Wars.  Even now I still don't think I've seen all the films, and I've certainly not see all of them all the way through.  At my age, that's tantamount to admitting that I've spent my education has been sadly lacking.  So I'm not a great Star Wars fan, but for work I was once involved with an exhibition of his work - at The Barbican.  Even for a non-fan it was fascinating and I could see the talent.  I got to meet Kylie Minogue's then boyfriend...unfortunately not the woman herself.  More importantly though, it was an opportunity to meet up with my brother and his family.  We'd not been close, but this was a great day and helped renewed bonds.  We had a brilliant time.


The Boy was due to go on a ski instructors training course in April...he loves the sport and I think it will do him good to have this up his sleeve whether he wants to take a gap year or a couple of years out after university.  The course was to run in Hintertux which is somewhere in Austria,  At first I had planned to go with him (for company, not to go on the course itself), but then I took a deep breath and decided he would be best going by himself.  Another step to adulthood was my reasoning.  We booked so many months ago that in the meantime my hair has turned grey and I've started using a walking stick.  Of course he was over-excited...as indeed was I.  But yesterday they rang to let us know that due to a lack of numbers it was cancelled.  I think I was more gutted than him, but perhaps he just hid it better.  We now have to work out what to do - BASI run courses in the UK, but they're in a snowdome, and it's not quite the same as Austria is it?  I think he should do a UK course, but he's a bit disillusioned at the moment...there are three more levels which he will need to do and those will have to be done on the slopes proper.  On a practical level, the rest of us are all due to be away at the time he was supposed to be training....and I'm not that keen on him being home alone.