The weather is not good for my health. It's not that wet and damp is getting to my lungs, it's just that in this very wet weather ("More than two month's rain in 48 hours" screamed this morning's newspaper) it's not been possible, or sensible to cycle into the office. So having started the year well, it' snow over three weeks since I put foot to pedal. As it's the only exercise I do, I can feeling the muscles wasting away and the flab piling on. So I'm hoping for a turnaround in the the grey skies for the sake of my health and well being.
Hope you've been following the Leveson Inquiry...it's entertaining stuff even if you're not much interested in newspapers or politicians. Essentially you seem to have one bunch of grubby little men (and women) having a pop at another bunch of grubby little men (and women). And none of them come out of it with any credit. Would you give any of them house room? I know I wouldn't. This week we have The Murdochs (junior and senior) realising that their goose is cooked so far as having any real influence any more...and therefore adopting a scorched earth policy...taking down everyone they can. Nice. It would be good to think that at some stage we will have reason to admire the political and economic elite rather than just gaze on at their unrelenting awfulness. Wouldn't it?
You may have noticed that we have quite busy lives. This can be fun. Indeed it is fun. We like it that way. But has its downsides. Exhaustion being one of them. Hence the need to be fit, to keep up the pace. We're flagging a bit.
Last night The Cat's Mother and I took ourselves off to Pizza East...the cutting-edge pizza restaurant in uber trendy Shoreditch. We were the oldest by about 50%. Damn we must learn to act our age. It was good that The Cat's Mother was there because the last time I was ate at Pizza East, it was a Saturday night and I was with friends without her. Some of her friends spotted me, and it caused something of a scandal. Even though everything was innocent and above board. It was just that I'd abandoned her ill at home in bed whilst I went out gallivanting. Totally innocent.
We then went downstairs to 'Concrete' to enjoy and intimate cabaret...Chabaret!...we estimate the audience was 100 - 150 folks. The evening was in aid of Twelveathon - a mad bugger running twelve marathons in 2012 to raise £12,000 for UNICEF and a less well known but very worthwhile cause Scene and Heard.
As ever with cabaret there was a mixed bad. Compared pretty spectacularly by Radio 6 DJ Shaun Keaveny we got to enjoy the delights of:
A unnamed juggler who's work was cut out by the low ceilings...ever tried juggling with the ceiling just a foot above your head? He was excellent, so I wish I had his name. He even managed to apparently cut his arm off by throwing a knife. Of course we ALL KNEW it was a trick...but, but, but it provoked uncontrolled hysterical laughter. I was weeping with mirth...
"The Blue Peril – Benjamin Louche from the Double R Club is the world’s newest superhero. You’ll believe a man can fly. Just not this man."
Shirley and Shirley - I can't tell you what they did with a slice of Brie, nor a two foot long sausage, but they were very funny indeed.
Ginger Blush who did a slightly odd 'burlesque' version of Back to the Future, which nearly went hideously wrong when she couldn't clip her bra. I couldn't find a video of that performance, but here's another for your delectation
Sarah Louise Young as Bernie St Clair - the bitterest mother you'll ever meet. Funny if you're not a mother. She's also one member of Fascinating Aida, so this gives me an excuse to post my favourite piece by them (although she's not actually in it)
The very hilarious Mandy Muden, magician
The very funny Richard Herring, who told us about his life philosophy - "The enemy of my enemy is my friend". Which worked well until his enemy chose "Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer". He then went on to talk about his wife of thirty nine day's list of 100 things to do before she dies which he first read when the met years ago. Number three was build a Ferrero Rocher pyramid..as per the ambassador's ad. Not difficult, but as he pointed out, she couldn't be bothered to do it. So he decided to help her out by buying her a Ferrero Rocher on their anniversary. Second year he realised this was going to take a long time so he bought two. Year three he realised he'd got to buy four, then 8, 16, 32...you get the picture. Evidently by 2020, he'll be having to build some two million full size pyramids. But then he'd discovered she'd been eating the chocolates. Well you probably had to be there. Here's a clip
And finally, Frisky and Mannish who do very clever, very funny mashed up versions of your favourite pop songs in the style of other pop stars. It got quite confusing with Old MacDonald Has A Farm...but we laughed ourselves off our seats.
Thursday, 26 April 2012
Tuesday, 24 April 2012
Roa..art's not what it used to be
In amongst the post-holiday exhaustion, we managed to pack a few things in last week. No doubt it was that which gave me a nasty bout of man flu from Friday through to today.
Friday we went to the opera to see a production written by Neil Hannon...better known the Divine Comedy. As The Divine Comedy he is divine. He may be a divine opera writer, but apart from the scene about Natasha, I suspect not. As The Guardian says
"Since 2010, the ROH2's OperaShots initiative has offered a range of composers working outside the operatic medium a chance to try their hand at the genre. It's a worthy idea, but it's fair to say that thus far the results have been disappointing; too many of those commissioned have turned out to lack a sufficiently strong set of technical skills to create something viable.
Friday we went to the opera to see a production written by Neil Hannon...better known the Divine Comedy. As The Divine Comedy he is divine. He may be a divine opera writer, but apart from the scene about Natasha, I suspect not. As The Guardian says
"Since 2010, the ROH2's OperaShots initiative has offered a range of composers working outside the operatic medium a chance to try their hand at the genre. It's a worthy idea, but it's fair to say that thus far the results have been disappointing; too many of those commissioned have turned out to lack a sufficiently strong set of technical skills to create something viable.
This problem recurs in this year's double bill with Neil Hannon's Sevastopol, written to his own libretto and based on Tolstoy's experiences in the Crimean war, as recounted in his Sevastopol Sketches. Hannon tells his episodic tale with spoken introductions leading into individual sections that don't cohere. The word-setting is awkward, the harmony and instrumentation drab and the ideas frequently kitsch; one or two moments suggest an audition piece for a West End musical, but without the necessary theatrical vitality.
John Lloyd Davies's staging cannot disguise the piece's static nature, though the cast give it a good shot, with Richard Burkhard's Tolstoy holding the centre ground."
At the other end of the artistic scale we went to see the new exhibition of Roa's works. I'm an absolute groupie when it comes to Roa, so had gone to some lengths to get to the preview. Contrary to most people's expectations, these street artists are not daft...they're confidently commercial, so no wonder we walked away with a limited edition book that cost several times the price of the next most expensive book I've ever bought. The show was in two places...and it was just absolutely magical to see his talent. One of the great things about street artists is that they don't mind you photographing their work...in fact it's positively encouraged.
Monday, 23 April 2012
Unsinkable
Meanwhile we're getting ready for the Royal Jubilee by adding to our collection of limited edition Marmites...we love the stuff, so Ma'amite will go down well on the day.
In an example of ocer-reaction which is all too common these days, I see that a local fair in Northern Ireland was in all sorts of trouble for having an inflatable slide for the kids...it was in the shape of a sinking ship, and evidently a lot of people were upset. So they probably wouldn't appreciate The Boy's antics. He renamed his iPad The Titanic...just so that when he plugs it in it will sync...or not...
Saturday, 21 April 2012
Socks
We all know about the sock stealing fairy don't we? We've all had our favourite pairs turned into unfavourable singles. The sock fairy is an elusive little bugger and one of the bigger irritants in life. Normally when the fairy has visited, after a couple of days I simply dispose of the remaining sock. Unless it's one of my many black ones in which case it can stay because when the sock fairy visits again, it can once more become a pair. It was unusual, therefore, that I've kept a single red, orange black and grey check sock (it's not as bas as it sounds) for several months, since it's partner did a runner. And spookily it seems that I did the right thing. Because as it turns out the sock fairy lives in France. As I was packing to go home I suddenly found that I was holding the other sock. Magic. Still the Fairy was not to be seen, but at least I have the sock back and it has now been reunited with its other half. Any suggestions that I just hadn't properly unpacked my bags last time we travelled are scurrilous and I will consult my lawyers if you dare to suggest it.
We've all returned back home...me last Sunday, The Cat's Mother and The Cat Monday morning and The Boy in the afternoon. It's nice to be re-united as a quartet. Nobody in the house seemed to be able to stay awake for more than an hour or two at a time... a sign of good holidays and exhausting travel.
My journey took me from the (winter) Olympic town of Albertville through the beautiful gorges and valleys of France and onwards through the Olympic town of Stratford. I stopped off for a coffee in Paris and whilst sitting outside a staggering British marathon runner complete with medal sat himself down. An interesting co-incidence as I'd lent my flat to The Spanish Girl who was running in the Brighton marathon on Sunday. We'll also be watching from various points along the route of the London Marathon tomorrow as we have a friend running. Running is one sport I've never enjoyed, so 26 miles doesn't appeal at all, but that doesn't stop me being in awe of those that do. If you would like to sponsor, feel free to click here - it's all in a very good and worthwhile cause.
In the meantime, I had a last minute invitation to a Warner Brothers event for Bloggers...essentially to show everyone how you can get their films on your computer, tablet, phone, X Box, PS3, etc, etc. I was in a room full of women and screaming children (I'd forgotten it was a parent blogging thing, and mothers make the best parents). All very clever. Anyway it was quite useful if nothing else to realise that the days of having cupboards stuffed full of DVDs are coming to an end. I'll mourn the passing of having a box full of printed stuff to look at, but there's no doubting that having instant access to pretty much any movie you want at any time is a useful thing. My parting gift was a bag full of goodies, including a Dobby soft toy. And of course we all know how important socks are to Dobby the elf don't we?
Friday, 13 April 2012
An Englishman abroad
When he was younger and The Boy went away, I always thought it was good for us both to have a break from each other, so unlike many of his friends parents I didn't call him everyday, nor did I expect him to call me. The result was that we didn't communicate at all. Now as a man I understand that no communication can be a good thing. Clearly with women in our lives,things are different. So now even though he is in the highlands and lowlands of the Lake District we have daily contact. I wonder if you can tell from his texts what our nationality is:
"Munging weather"
"Weather terrible"
"Rain, sleet hail and snow"
"Feet not great"
I think he's having a brilliant time.....
"Munging weather"
"Weather terrible"
"Rain, sleet hail and snow"
"Feet not great"
I think he's having a brilliant time.....
Wednesday, 11 April 2012
I think
I think the man who booked my train tickets hated me. That can be the only reason to explain why I was seated at the back of the Eurostar which meant when we arrived in Paris I had to run the entire length of the train carrying my skis, my rucksack and my holdal to make sure I caught my connecting train.
I think the man who booked my train tickets hated me. That can be the only reason that he reserved me a seat on the top deck of the double-decker TGV, so I had to carry my skis, my rucksack and my holdal up the stairs. And down again at the other end. I've never travelled across France in the daytime and it was truly glorious. Especially with my elevated view.
I think that in these days of modern communications The Cats Mother and I should be able to hold a conversation one in France the other in the US without it cutting out all the time.
I think that when I send photos by bluetooth from my phone to the Tablet computer I'm using to write this I should actually be able to find them again. So this post is without pictures.
I think it was a mistake to say all PR s are dreadfulwhen sitting next to a fellow PR in the ski chalet. She may also hate me.
I think I was incredibly lucky to arrive in the blazing sun, have snow overnight and perfect conditions the next day.
I think I will return home several kilos heavier after eating from dawn to dusk.
I think I feel sorry for The Boy who is marching across the Lake District in the wind, the rain and the cold
I think I'm very lucky to be spending a week with some very dear old friends.
I think the man who booked my train tickets hated me. That can be the only reason that he reserved me a seat on the top deck of the double-decker TGV, so I had to carry my skis, my rucksack and my holdal up the stairs. And down again at the other end. I've never travelled across France in the daytime and it was truly glorious. Especially with my elevated view.
I think that in these days of modern communications The Cats Mother and I should be able to hold a conversation one in France the other in the US without it cutting out all the time.
I think that when I send photos by bluetooth from my phone to the Tablet computer I'm using to write this I should actually be able to find them again. So this post is without pictures.
I think it was a mistake to say all PR s are dreadfulwhen sitting next to a fellow PR in the ski chalet. She may also hate me.
I think I was incredibly lucky to arrive in the blazing sun, have snow overnight and perfect conditions the next day.
I think I will return home several kilos heavier after eating from dawn to dusk.
I think I feel sorry for The Boy who is marching across the Lake District in the wind, the rain and the cold
I think I'm very lucky to be spending a week with some very dear old friends.
Saturday, 7 April 2012
Going our separate ways
It's that time I'm afraid. It comes to us all. It's time to go our separate ways. To be honest it's hard, but it must be done. It's for the best.
The Cat's Mother, The Cat, Queen Anne and Hopeful are heading west. The Wild West. Well New York really. It's the same thing.
The Boy is heading North. The Far North. The Frozen North. Well The Lake District. It's the same thing.
I am heading East. The exotic east. The snowy mountains of France. It's the same thing.
The Cat's Mother is flying (of course - she couldn't go by ship as the Titanic evidently went down some time ago).
The Boy is travelling by mini-bus for his adventurous training.
And I'm going by train. From St Pancras to Albertville is 10 hours. It's my idea of heaven...I love train travel, and I've never crossed France in the daytime - when The Boy and I used to go by train we were always on the sleeper.
The Cat's Mother and the Cat will be staying in the Four Seasons. I'll be staying in a cosy chalet. And The Boy will be in a tent. Three of us have struck lucky and I don't envy the other.
The Cat's Mother will be shopping and enjoying the culture. The Boy will be yomping. And I''l be slipping and sliding.
But here's the thing we're all doing something we want to do. We'll all be with friends. And we'll all come back refreshed and looking forward to spending time together. Absence make the heart grow fonder.
The Cat's Mother, The Cat, Queen Anne and Hopeful are heading west. The Wild West. Well New York really. It's the same thing.
The Boy is heading North. The Far North. The Frozen North. Well The Lake District. It's the same thing.
I am heading East. The exotic east. The snowy mountains of France. It's the same thing.
The Cat's Mother is flying (of course - she couldn't go by ship as the Titanic evidently went down some time ago).
The Boy is travelling by mini-bus for his adventurous training.
And I'm going by train. From St Pancras to Albertville is 10 hours. It's my idea of heaven...I love train travel, and I've never crossed France in the daytime - when The Boy and I used to go by train we were always on the sleeper.
The Cat's Mother and the Cat will be staying in the Four Seasons. I'll be staying in a cosy chalet. And The Boy will be in a tent. Three of us have struck lucky and I don't envy the other.
The Cat's Mother will be shopping and enjoying the culture. The Boy will be yomping. And I''l be slipping and sliding.
But here's the thing we're all doing something we want to do. We'll all be with friends. And we'll all come back refreshed and looking forward to spending time together. Absence make the heart grow fonder.
Friday, 6 April 2012
Right Said Fred
Are you a Harold Lloyd fan? Or Charlie Chaplin? Or Laurel and Hardy? At the moment I'm a fan of the two unnamed builders who are providing the entertainment in the yard outside our office.
To protect the innocent, names have been changed. Let's call them Bob (pronounced just as Black Adder pronounces it in the second series) and, in the interests of ethnic balance and diversity, Ali. I would make one of them a woman...but truly have you ever seen a woman builder? And I would, again in the interests of balance, make one of them disabled, but for reasons that will become obvious, that would be impossible. Whilst I try my utmost to be completely politically correct, I'm afraid I have to say that these two embody every stereotypical aspect of the traditional British builder.
Some months ago, I had to pop back to the office one night, but could only get there with an immense amount of difficulty due to the street being blocked by several fire engines and many hunky firemen. Blue flashing lights along the narrow street added to the sense of excitement. I couldn't smell anything nor could I see flames. But it was exciting all the same. So exciting that by the time I'd got home some 40 minutes later I'd forgotten all about it.
At the beginning of March, the narrow mews entrance to our office was blocked by a scaffolding truck for several days as athletic young men erected ever higher scaffolding on the side of the building. To make it even better, they also constructed a meccano-like frame which stretched across the roadway. This road way, which is already only just wide enough for a milk float is the route by which the rubbish truck enters and leaves the mews. Reducing the width meant our rubbish and everyone else's rubbish was not removed for long enough that we all started wearing nose gays. Eventually the truck decided it could get through, the rubbish was removed and all was happy again.
In the meantime, outside our office a large container (a ship container) had been delivered and next to it a skip. So you get the picture, our office is round the corner and a couple of hundred yards away from the building with the scaffolding. At the time I didn't relate the two.
After a few days, the container was slowly filled with an endless stream of building materials, and a few days after that Bob and Ali were to be seen bringing large amounts of waste material in a wheel barrow to the skip. Slowly it became obvious even to the dim-witted that this waste was coming from the scaffold-enclosed building. Some 200 yards away. It would be remiss of me not to mention that to the side of said building is plenty of open space; certainly enough to place a skip and a container. Perhaps Bob and Ali just want the exercise. Not too much though, as their wheelbarrow regularly dumps half its load on the roadway before it reaches the skip.
These days generally when there's building work going on at the top of a building, there is a shoot which looks to have been made out of colourful dustbins down which all the builders materials are ejected. Not in this case though. Every piece is lovingly carried down in either the lift or the stairs by Bob and Ali to the wheel barrow. It's a slow process. But that's good, because it gives us all something to watch and pass the day with.
It was only when Bob and Ali started bringing out burnt timbers that I suddenly associated the works with the fire engines all those months ago. I'm not that quick witted sometimes. I'm guessing that whilst the top flat was the one that was damaged by the fire, it is the firemen's water that has run through the entire building causing extensive damage inside and indeed outside. It looks as though the whole building is being replastered (this place was only put up in the last ten years), and it has been covered in wholes as surveyors poke around to see what damage has been done to the structure of the place. My feeling is that if I lived there, I'd sell up...it can't be good.
In the meantime, Bob and Ali are clearly on a tight budget. To avoid having the skip emptied too often, they're using sheets of mdf to create higher walls round the edge of the skip. This makes emptying material into the skip as the mdf walls are now above their heads. The waste gets piled up pretty high indeed. And when the skip lorry driver arrives there are filthy looks and the odd growl.
As a special floor show for a few days, Bob and Ali have, at the end of the day used their mobile scaffolding tower as a racing car. One pushes whilst the other sits on the top of the 15 foot tower like a gladiator...much the same way I loved to push The Boy around in a shopping trolley when he was two. And now I come to think about just like many a drunken exploit as a student a few years before that. Like all shopping trolleys this is somewhat less than controllable, and the highlight is seeing just how many parked cars they can just about avoid hitting. It's heart pounding stuff.
Sometimes, when they have larger stuff to move Bob and Ali use fill up their oversized Transit van. Loading it up, driving it the two hundred yards and then emptying it in the skip. The van is too big to manouevre into a parking bay, so it sits there blocking anything else coming in or going out. It's exhausting stuff - for us. On a daily basis there seems to be little squabbles erupting. We can never quite hear what they're about, and they never get too heated. It's just like a couple who've been married for decades and just need to bicker to keep things going. Our two heroes never seem to tire, never seem to move at anything more than a snails pace and at this rate will be here for ever. It's going to be a long hot summer and we're going to enjoy every moment of it.
*P.S. this post was really just an excuse to show the video (which of course doesn't even feature builders) which I saw on a daddy Blogger's page...if only I could remember who it was...sorry!
To protect the innocent, names have been changed. Let's call them Bob (pronounced just as Black Adder pronounces it in the second series) and, in the interests of ethnic balance and diversity, Ali. I would make one of them a woman...but truly have you ever seen a woman builder? And I would, again in the interests of balance, make one of them disabled, but for reasons that will become obvious, that would be impossible. Whilst I try my utmost to be completely politically correct, I'm afraid I have to say that these two embody every stereotypical aspect of the traditional British builder.
Some months ago, I had to pop back to the office one night, but could only get there with an immense amount of difficulty due to the street being blocked by several fire engines and many hunky firemen. Blue flashing lights along the narrow street added to the sense of excitement. I couldn't smell anything nor could I see flames. But it was exciting all the same. So exciting that by the time I'd got home some 40 minutes later I'd forgotten all about it.
At the beginning of March, the narrow mews entrance to our office was blocked by a scaffolding truck for several days as athletic young men erected ever higher scaffolding on the side of the building. To make it even better, they also constructed a meccano-like frame which stretched across the roadway. This road way, which is already only just wide enough for a milk float is the route by which the rubbish truck enters and leaves the mews. Reducing the width meant our rubbish and everyone else's rubbish was not removed for long enough that we all started wearing nose gays. Eventually the truck decided it could get through, the rubbish was removed and all was happy again.
In the meantime, outside our office a large container (a ship container) had been delivered and next to it a skip. So you get the picture, our office is round the corner and a couple of hundred yards away from the building with the scaffolding. At the time I didn't relate the two.
After a few days, the container was slowly filled with an endless stream of building materials, and a few days after that Bob and Ali were to be seen bringing large amounts of waste material in a wheel barrow to the skip. Slowly it became obvious even to the dim-witted that this waste was coming from the scaffold-enclosed building. Some 200 yards away. It would be remiss of me not to mention that to the side of said building is plenty of open space; certainly enough to place a skip and a container. Perhaps Bob and Ali just want the exercise. Not too much though, as their wheelbarrow regularly dumps half its load on the roadway before it reaches the skip.
These days generally when there's building work going on at the top of a building, there is a shoot which looks to have been made out of colourful dustbins down which all the builders materials are ejected. Not in this case though. Every piece is lovingly carried down in either the lift or the stairs by Bob and Ali to the wheel barrow. It's a slow process. But that's good, because it gives us all something to watch and pass the day with.
It was only when Bob and Ali started bringing out burnt timbers that I suddenly associated the works with the fire engines all those months ago. I'm not that quick witted sometimes. I'm guessing that whilst the top flat was the one that was damaged by the fire, it is the firemen's water that has run through the entire building causing extensive damage inside and indeed outside. It looks as though the whole building is being replastered (this place was only put up in the last ten years), and it has been covered in wholes as surveyors poke around to see what damage has been done to the structure of the place. My feeling is that if I lived there, I'd sell up...it can't be good.
In the meantime, Bob and Ali are clearly on a tight budget. To avoid having the skip emptied too often, they're using sheets of mdf to create higher walls round the edge of the skip. This makes emptying material into the skip as the mdf walls are now above their heads. The waste gets piled up pretty high indeed. And when the skip lorry driver arrives there are filthy looks and the odd growl.
As a special floor show for a few days, Bob and Ali have, at the end of the day used their mobile scaffolding tower as a racing car. One pushes whilst the other sits on the top of the 15 foot tower like a gladiator...much the same way I loved to push The Boy around in a shopping trolley when he was two. And now I come to think about just like many a drunken exploit as a student a few years before that. Like all shopping trolleys this is somewhat less than controllable, and the highlight is seeing just how many parked cars they can just about avoid hitting. It's heart pounding stuff.
Sometimes, when they have larger stuff to move Bob and Ali use fill up their oversized Transit van. Loading it up, driving it the two hundred yards and then emptying it in the skip. The van is too big to manouevre into a parking bay, so it sits there blocking anything else coming in or going out. It's exhausting stuff - for us. On a daily basis there seems to be little squabbles erupting. We can never quite hear what they're about, and they never get too heated. It's just like a couple who've been married for decades and just need to bicker to keep things going. Our two heroes never seem to tire, never seem to move at anything more than a snails pace and at this rate will be here for ever. It's going to be a long hot summer and we're going to enjoy every moment of it.
*P.S. this post was really just an excuse to show the video (which of course doesn't even feature builders) which I saw on a daddy Blogger's page...if only I could remember who it was...sorry!
Wednesday, 4 April 2012
Tutto coso sono buono...you won't grind me down Blogger!
I'm so upset. I'm so angry. I put up a post earlier today and its gone. Disappeared into the ether. Vamoos. It's kaput. It was there one minute, gone the next. it may not have been the greatest post ever but it was mine, and now it's as if it never existed. is there anywhere to contact Blogger? No. Not that I can find. How is it that a 'social media' organisation can't be contacted. Surely that's a pretty basic thing.
Anyway, I can't remember what I wrote, other than it was ABOUT LAST night when we abandoned The cat's Mother who was still lying ill in bed. The Cat, The Boy, me and The Muffins went to see Bugsy Malone as presented by Future Cinema. A fabulous experience best shown in this You Tube clip:
As I mentioned, no one got to see the end of the film as we all got involved in a cream pie and splurge gun fight.
Just the best...if only The Cat's Mother had been there with us!
Anyway, I can't remember what I wrote, other than it was ABOUT LAST night when we abandoned The cat's Mother who was still lying ill in bed. The Cat, The Boy, me and The Muffins went to see Bugsy Malone as presented by Future Cinema. A fabulous experience best shown in this You Tube clip:
As I mentioned, no one got to see the end of the film as we all got involved in a cream pie and splurge gun fight.
Just the best...if only The Cat's Mother had been there with us!
Monday, 2 April 2012
I'm sick of this
It seems that temporarily the petrol panic has abated. I was lucky to find some on Friday night when I left work...few garages had any fuel and my motorbike was running on fumes. Madness, utter madness.
The week end finished as it started - swimming in vomit. Friday night, The Boy and The Cat were at a party. The Cat stayed over, The Boy was brought home by three mates in a 'bit of a state'. In fact, as he was helped through the front door, he loitered long enough, head in hands, only long enough for me to ask his friends if he was all right. In a case of mis-placed loyalty, two said yes he was fine, whilst the third said "I wouldn't say that". The Boy then dashed/staggered past the bathroom (?!) and on towards the kitchen sink to empty out his stomach. The noise churned my stomach too. A few more heaves and wretches over the next twenty minutes seemed to be sufficient for him to want to stagger upstairs to bed, complete with plastic bowl 'just in case'. As dutiful father I popped in a few times through the night to make sure everything was OK.
In the morning it transpired that he'd first thrown up in the garden of the house where th party was being held. As it's the home of one of his teachers (the daughter is a classmate) he was sent round with a bunch of flowers and a card.
I have to say that I don't approve of all the teenage drinking that goes on. Yes I know, we all got drunk when we were young, but alcohol wasn't as freely available as it is now. More particularly, there seems a greater desire to drink as much as possible irrespective of the consequences. Adults seem more tolerant of teenage excesses (I include myself in this), and little attempt to educate the young on why too much alcohol is not good. The Government is bringing in a minimum price for a unit of alcohol, and that's a step (however I suspect most of the alcohol for this party was bought by parents anyway), but the enormous leap that is needed is an educational one I think. Am I just being 'parental' about it?
I may have mentioned before that where we live is a culinary desert. There's plenty of chain restaurants (an evening at Pizza Express is still my idea of heaven), but gourmet food is unknown. Last year we had a new restaurant open. The chef was from a top London restaurant and you could tell...the food was scrumptious. Briefly. In the course of the year, the service has become diabolical and the food is now well below par. It's a shame, but must reflect demand I guess. Also last year, a pub in the forest re-opened as a gastro-pub. Now I don't know what your idea of a gastro pub is, but I doubt it's this...gaudy interior decor and food that is 'boil in the bag' rather than home prepared in a busy kitchen by chefs that love their job. It's a big step forward from the drug dealing and bikers pub that was there before, but is still struggling to move itself out of the 1970s. It was to there that we repaired for a friend's 50th birthday celebration on Saturday night. I enjoyed myself immensely. I've never had a waitress put black pepper on my pate before, nor French role that's been sliced and left in the sun to dry out. I even enjoyed the boil in a bag cod and bashed potato, although almost everyone on our table left most of it. The rhubarb crumble was interesting, as you could lift your plate through 90 degrees and it wouldn't slide off. The look of horror on our hostess's face when she saw that no one was touching the food was a picture to behold, but I don't think it stopped her enjoyment.
And on to Sunday...The Cat's Mother has come down with the vomiting bug that is doing the rounds at the moment. We tended to her every need (not hard as she wanted to be left alone with a glass of water as she repeated The Boy's Friday night performance). I was banished to the top floor guest bedroom as she doesn't want me catching it just before the Easter break...a nice thought, but I suspect that if I'm going to get it, I'm going to get it. I hope not as the noises coming out of the bathroom might well have come from Nightmare om Elm Street.
The week end finished as it started - swimming in vomit. Friday night, The Boy and The Cat were at a party. The Cat stayed over, The Boy was brought home by three mates in a 'bit of a state'. In fact, as he was helped through the front door, he loitered long enough, head in hands, only long enough for me to ask his friends if he was all right. In a case of mis-placed loyalty, two said yes he was fine, whilst the third said "I wouldn't say that". The Boy then dashed/staggered past the bathroom (?!) and on towards the kitchen sink to empty out his stomach. The noise churned my stomach too. A few more heaves and wretches over the next twenty minutes seemed to be sufficient for him to want to stagger upstairs to bed, complete with plastic bowl 'just in case'. As dutiful father I popped in a few times through the night to make sure everything was OK.
In the morning it transpired that he'd first thrown up in the garden of the house where th party was being held. As it's the home of one of his teachers (the daughter is a classmate) he was sent round with a bunch of flowers and a card.
I have to say that I don't approve of all the teenage drinking that goes on. Yes I know, we all got drunk when we were young, but alcohol wasn't as freely available as it is now. More particularly, there seems a greater desire to drink as much as possible irrespective of the consequences. Adults seem more tolerant of teenage excesses (I include myself in this), and little attempt to educate the young on why too much alcohol is not good. The Government is bringing in a minimum price for a unit of alcohol, and that's a step (however I suspect most of the alcohol for this party was bought by parents anyway), but the enormous leap that is needed is an educational one I think. Am I just being 'parental' about it?
I may have mentioned before that where we live is a culinary desert. There's plenty of chain restaurants (an evening at Pizza Express is still my idea of heaven), but gourmet food is unknown. Last year we had a new restaurant open. The chef was from a top London restaurant and you could tell...the food was scrumptious. Briefly. In the course of the year, the service has become diabolical and the food is now well below par. It's a shame, but must reflect demand I guess. Also last year, a pub in the forest re-opened as a gastro-pub. Now I don't know what your idea of a gastro pub is, but I doubt it's this...gaudy interior decor and food that is 'boil in the bag' rather than home prepared in a busy kitchen by chefs that love their job. It's a big step forward from the drug dealing and bikers pub that was there before, but is still struggling to move itself out of the 1970s. It was to there that we repaired for a friend's 50th birthday celebration on Saturday night. I enjoyed myself immensely. I've never had a waitress put black pepper on my pate before, nor French role that's been sliced and left in the sun to dry out. I even enjoyed the boil in a bag cod and bashed potato, although almost everyone on our table left most of it. The rhubarb crumble was interesting, as you could lift your plate through 90 degrees and it wouldn't slide off. The look of horror on our hostess's face when she saw that no one was touching the food was a picture to behold, but I don't think it stopped her enjoyment.
And on to Sunday...The Cat's Mother has come down with the vomiting bug that is doing the rounds at the moment. We tended to her every need (not hard as she wanted to be left alone with a glass of water as she repeated The Boy's Friday night performance). I was banished to the top floor guest bedroom as she doesn't want me catching it just before the Easter break...a nice thought, but I suspect that if I'm going to get it, I'm going to get it. I hope not as the noises coming out of the bathroom might well have come from Nightmare om Elm Street.
Friday, 30 March 2012
It's Ma'm as in jam
There's no doubting that Dave 'pasty' Cameron and his team of muppets has helped create a fuel crisis. Suggesting that we all keep jerry cans at home has driven petrol sales through the roof. But equally, there is a real problem with the British mind-set which is equally to blame. It was the same with Olympic tickets...there was a panic to snap the things up - people were ordering £thousands of tickets, even for sports they weren't interested in. The result has been that millions have missed out altogether. And lots of people have been lumbered with tickets that in truth they don't really want. I suspect, that this is, in part, a symptom of an overcrowded island; it is certainly a sign of an neurotic and insecure population which moves from one panic to another. The reason for this I am convinced is because throughout the years of rule by New Labour, there was a policy of rule by fear...a form of state-sponsored terrorism... constantly they communicated one threat to us after another so they could then show how they had 'saved the day'. It was a good technique for keeping votes and keeping the population in check. Clearly it worked and is an approach which the coalition has adopted. As I rode in on my motorbike this morning, the fuel tank warning light came on. So far I've been to two garages to put in petrol that I need to get to a meeting and then home without luck. Panic buying has created quite a mini-crisis for me.
Last night we went to see 'She Stoops To Conquer' - another live streaming by the National Theatre. It's a lively period romp which pales by comparison to last year's classics London Assurance and One Man Two Guv'nors, but provided a good evening's entertainment. We'd booked tickets for the cinema at 'Olympic' Stratford, only to discover that it was on at our local cinema...I bet it was on at yours too. Keep an eye open for them as they really do bring a new experience. The live streaming concept has evolved quite significantly since we first saw one last year...and now instead of a static camera, you get several cameras, close ups and a real sense that someone has thought about production values. Where it really works is that you can much more clearly see the expressions on the actors' faces and as the Oldies with us said "I could actually hear everything". Everyone came home happy at a good evening's entertainment.
In her jubilee year, the Queen is touring around to meet and greet her subjects. I'm not a royalist, but I know it creates a lot of excitement and happiness. Yesterday she popped off to Valentines Park in Ilford to be greeted by 1500 school children and 10,000 other loyal subjects. Among them was The Boy in full army cadet uniform. He's spent weeks polishing his boots, creating a shortage of polish in our local Waitrose. It would be an understatement to say that you could see your face in them. He looked very smart indeed in his uniform, and was clearly delighted to be going. I was delighted for him, and even more delighted to receive a text "I SAW THE QUEEN!!! SHE WAVED!!! Which only goes to show that just because you don't agree with something doesn't mean that it isn't a good thing. Ma'm.
Last night we went to see 'She Stoops To Conquer' - another live streaming by the National Theatre. It's a lively period romp which pales by comparison to last year's classics London Assurance and One Man Two Guv'nors, but provided a good evening's entertainment. We'd booked tickets for the cinema at 'Olympic' Stratford, only to discover that it was on at our local cinema...I bet it was on at yours too. Keep an eye open for them as they really do bring a new experience. The live streaming concept has evolved quite significantly since we first saw one last year...and now instead of a static camera, you get several cameras, close ups and a real sense that someone has thought about production values. Where it really works is that you can much more clearly see the expressions on the actors' faces and as the Oldies with us said "I could actually hear everything". Everyone came home happy at a good evening's entertainment.
In her jubilee year, the Queen is touring around to meet and greet her subjects. I'm not a royalist, but I know it creates a lot of excitement and happiness. Yesterday she popped off to Valentines Park in Ilford to be greeted by 1500 school children and 10,000 other loyal subjects. Among them was The Boy in full army cadet uniform. He's spent weeks polishing his boots, creating a shortage of polish in our local Waitrose. It would be an understatement to say that you could see your face in them. He looked very smart indeed in his uniform, and was clearly delighted to be going. I was delighted for him, and even more delighted to receive a text "I SAW THE QUEEN!!! SHE WAVED!!! Which only goes to show that just because you don't agree with something doesn't mean that it isn't a good thing. Ma'm.
Thursday, 29 March 2012
The Most Incredible Thing
I love the arrogance of the young.
This week there's been a work experience lad in the office. He's a confident lad. Very confident indeed. Which is a good thing. He's quick too, and that's a quality to be admired. But he's so quick that the number keys on the door keypad entry lock can't keep up, so the door remains stubbornly closed when he wants to come in. Eventually he has to ring the bell for someone to let him in. Of course he's not sheepish about that, he rants that the door lock is rubbish, it doesn't work and it's stupid. The fact that he is the ONLY person in the office that can't use the keyboard doesn't matter to him. He's right, the world is wrong. We shouldn't snigger should we?
You can't knock the Pet Shop Boys can you? From West End Girls onwards they've knocked out some pretty impressive and memorable tunes which have kept me and many others listening for I guess thirty years. So it was with a degree of curiosity that The Cat's Mother and I decided to go and see their ballet at Sadlers Wells this week. It's based on a Hans Christian Anderson tale about a king who offers half his kingdom and his daughter's hand in marriage to the creator of The Most Incredible Thing. As ever, this isn't a full review, just my musings. We both quite enjoyed it, but couldn't quite see why it has won awards. Although a dance piece, which meant the story is pretty straight forward, they decided that we needed sub-titles...I guess they recognised that they had to appeal to a non-Sadlers Well type audience. The interval was in the wrong place, by about ten minutes - it came right slap bang in the middle of a scene, and would have worked slightly later when there was so obviously a natural pause. The music was generally Pet Shop Boys ish, which worked well in places, but got a bit tedious in others. The music that didn't work well was the pieces that were very unPet Shop Boyish. The only thing was set in a Stalinist style society, which when I think about it was slightly odd given that it was ruled by a kindly fairytale king. There were some great scenes - the opening one for example, the wedding, and when the Princess was dancing to a song by her favourite popstar who's image - we watched from the outside with the idol's image being projected onto the walls, and some overly-long ones (the magical clock lost some of its magic after a while). If you're in town, it's probably worth seeing, and there are plenty of tickets available. If you want to know more, this is a seriously long documentary You Tube clip, so only watch it if you've poured yourself a large Gin and Tonic...I've not managed to get through it myself
Our celebrity spotting included Janet Street Porter who followed us to the bar on the second floor after we'd been papped together and Chris and Neil who sat four seats in front of us. They seemed to be enjoying themselves...and lets face it if they didn't who else would? The rest of the audience was made up of alternately the usual Sadlers Wells crowd (why is it that each theatre has a sort of rentacrowd?) and Pet Shop Boys fans. I would say groupies, but as they were girls, I'm not sure the boys would be too interested...some were planning to see it several times during its very short run this year.
There's a couple of ship-related anniversaries at the moment - one is the raid on St Nazaire during WW2. It was not something I was not aware of until my girlfriend at University took me home to meet her parents. Her father was a veteran, and was very proud of his exploits - he maintained close links with the veterans association. I was at an age when the war seemed like ancient history, and I never really showed the sort of interest that I should. If I'd not been quite so self-absorbed, I'd have looked it up so I could talk to him about it. But in those days there was no Google and research was not the thirty second thing it is now. I guess the same must be true of today's youths when confronted with the numerous wars that we've been involved in in recent years. Essentially Operation Chariot involved ramming a ship, the Cambelltown into the dock gates at St Nazaire and then blowing it up to make the docks unusable by the great German warship the Tirpitz. It was the sort of madcap thing that is the story of legends, but wouldn't happen now. The objective was achieved, but inevitably at great loss. As I read today, one of those that died shared my family name. It has provided an interesting and thought provoking link back to the bravery of the past.
The other anniversary is that of the sinking of the Titanic on which comes up on the14th April 2012. No wonder Titanic 3D has been released at the cinemas. I still haven't managed to see it, and I can't imagine I will this time round., but there's always profit to be made out of tragedy. That is also the case of the trustees and debenture holders of the Albert Hall who have been touting their allocation of tickets for the Teenage Cancer Trust. Some people have no conscience.
This week there's been a work experience lad in the office. He's a confident lad. Very confident indeed. Which is a good thing. He's quick too, and that's a quality to be admired. But he's so quick that the number keys on the door keypad entry lock can't keep up, so the door remains stubbornly closed when he wants to come in. Eventually he has to ring the bell for someone to let him in. Of course he's not sheepish about that, he rants that the door lock is rubbish, it doesn't work and it's stupid. The fact that he is the ONLY person in the office that can't use the keyboard doesn't matter to him. He's right, the world is wrong. We shouldn't snigger should we?
You can't knock the Pet Shop Boys can you? From West End Girls onwards they've knocked out some pretty impressive and memorable tunes which have kept me and many others listening for I guess thirty years. So it was with a degree of curiosity that The Cat's Mother and I decided to go and see their ballet at Sadlers Wells this week. It's based on a Hans Christian Anderson tale about a king who offers half his kingdom and his daughter's hand in marriage to the creator of The Most Incredible Thing. As ever, this isn't a full review, just my musings. We both quite enjoyed it, but couldn't quite see why it has won awards. Although a dance piece, which meant the story is pretty straight forward, they decided that we needed sub-titles...I guess they recognised that they had to appeal to a non-Sadlers Well type audience. The interval was in the wrong place, by about ten minutes - it came right slap bang in the middle of a scene, and would have worked slightly later when there was so obviously a natural pause. The music was generally Pet Shop Boys ish, which worked well in places, but got a bit tedious in others. The music that didn't work well was the pieces that were very unPet Shop Boyish. The only thing was set in a Stalinist style society, which when I think about it was slightly odd given that it was ruled by a kindly fairytale king. There were some great scenes - the opening one for example, the wedding, and when the Princess was dancing to a song by her favourite popstar who's image - we watched from the outside with the idol's image being projected onto the walls, and some overly-long ones (the magical clock lost some of its magic after a while). If you're in town, it's probably worth seeing, and there are plenty of tickets available. If you want to know more, this is a seriously long documentary You Tube clip, so only watch it if you've poured yourself a large Gin and Tonic...I've not managed to get through it myself
Our celebrity spotting included Janet Street Porter who followed us to the bar on the second floor after we'd been papped together and Chris and Neil who sat four seats in front of us. They seemed to be enjoying themselves...and lets face it if they didn't who else would? The rest of the audience was made up of alternately the usual Sadlers Wells crowd (why is it that each theatre has a sort of rentacrowd?) and Pet Shop Boys fans. I would say groupies, but as they were girls, I'm not sure the boys would be too interested...some were planning to see it several times during its very short run this year.
There's a couple of ship-related anniversaries at the moment - one is the raid on St Nazaire during WW2. It was not something I was not aware of until my girlfriend at University took me home to meet her parents. Her father was a veteran, and was very proud of his exploits - he maintained close links with the veterans association. I was at an age when the war seemed like ancient history, and I never really showed the sort of interest that I should. If I'd not been quite so self-absorbed, I'd have looked it up so I could talk to him about it. But in those days there was no Google and research was not the thirty second thing it is now. I guess the same must be true of today's youths when confronted with the numerous wars that we've been involved in in recent years. Essentially Operation Chariot involved ramming a ship, the Cambelltown into the dock gates at St Nazaire and then blowing it up to make the docks unusable by the great German warship the Tirpitz. It was the sort of madcap thing that is the story of legends, but wouldn't happen now. The objective was achieved, but inevitably at great loss. As I read today, one of those that died shared my family name. It has provided an interesting and thought provoking link back to the bravery of the past.
The other anniversary is that of the sinking of the Titanic on which comes up on the14th April 2012. No wonder Titanic 3D has been released at the cinemas. I still haven't managed to see it, and I can't imagine I will this time round., but there's always profit to be made out of tragedy. That is also the case of the trustees and debenture holders of the Albert Hall who have been touting their allocation of tickets for the Teenage Cancer Trust. Some people have no conscience.
Wednesday, 28 March 2012
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.
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.
Monday, 26 March 2012
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.
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?
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