Bookish

I read today that Mr Tony Blair is thinking of making his presence felt in politics again.  I hope not. I really hope not.  I'd like to see him locked up in jail and the keys thrown away.  For someone who offered so much before he was elected, he delivered nothing of any value and left a legacy of global conflict.  I hope he rots.

But enough of that.

I've been reading.  Actually I've been reading pretty much all my life.  There's real pleasure to be had from literature that simply cannot be found at the cinema or on TV.  Is it because you get to use your mind to visualise the characters, the settings and the emotions?  My reading goes in fits and starts, and I'm not a great one for remembering either book titles or the authors...my interest starts with page 1 and finishes at the end.  So that generally makes it difficult to get recommendations out of me.  So it's unfortunate that I can't tell you the name of a book I read earlier this year that I thoroughly enjoyed...it was set in an Irish catholic school run by priests...all I can remember is that the last part of the title was ".....is dead"  Which fairly reflected the fact that the key character dies within the first two pages.

I see nothing wrong with judging a book by its cover....when you're in the book shop confronted by shelf upon shelf of novels, you've got to start somewhere.  Perhaps this is why digital books don't yet appeal to me...I need to explore before I choose.  To make my selection I always turn to somewhere in the middle of the book and read a couple of pages.  If I like what I've read, the book is bought.  So far it's been pretty failsafe.

When I went away skiing I took with me 'Do androids dream of electric sheep'.  It was an unusual choice as I don't usually read science fiction, and I've never before bought the book that a film is based on after I've seen the film...Blade Runner.  The film is brilliant, one of my all time favourites; the book itself is not so brilliant...and deeply confusing when it's different to the film which I'm so familiar with.  In my head Dekkard was still Harrison Ford, and the characters in the book continued to be portrayed by the actors in the film.  So perhaps my mistake to read the book in the first place.  But I'm glad I did.


Neither in the book, nor even in the film script

I then picked up Rivers of London by Ben Aaranovitch....a light hearted magical romp which is a sort of metropolitan police Harry Potter...probably better written and with a few swear words added.  It was fun, but tellingly, I suspect, I realised that I tended to scan rather than read many pages because I was neither gripped not involved.  It's probably aimed at teenagers anyway who'll enjoy the unnecessary swearing.

And the current read is The Master by Colm Toibin...it's a portrait of Henry James.  And I absolutely fell in love with the language on page one.  It's quite dense, so even after a week I've only got to page 75, but it ticks every box for me...there's not a lot of action, it's all emotion, the writing conjours up the most beautiful, atmospheric imagery and the characterisation is superb.  I guess it's a bit like a French film really.  Anyway, it's worth picking up.  As it's my the last book in my unread pile, I'll need to find some more...so any recommendations will be gratefully received....as we have long journeys to make next week.

There is, of course, another sort of literature, and I was amused to see that someone I knew at school set up a sex shop almost the moment he walked out of the hallowed portals.  He's just bought a brand new £250,000 Bentley with personalised registration.  I'm not sure how his education contributed to this, but I doubt the school is holding its head up high on this one.

Roughly 140

Last night was the start of our rehearsals.

Confidentiality is a key message that was drummed in over and over and over again.

There were I guess some four hundred of us gathered last night of all shapes and sizes.  Clearly it wasn't a beauty parade.  But the enthusiasm was infectious.

I now have my Olympics ID card, and an Oyster Card reserved just for Olympic participants.  We all felt pretty special.

Danny Boyle was there, of course, and he's a charming, delightful man.  Whether he'll manage to maintain that demeanour as the opening day approaches, will be interesting to see.

The choreographer is the man that choreographed War Horse....Toby Sedgewick.  We were asked who had seen it.  Everyone's hands went up.  Then we were asked who'd seen it on the stage, and only a few of us left our hands in the air.

After an introduction...we should remember that we are the true embodiment of the Olympic spirit because we volunteered and have given up a lot to participate, unlike the athletes who will make shed loads of money (I'm only quoting here)...where we were shown the stadium and how it will look on opening night, we were taken through our section of the evening's entertainment.  Like a terrorist cell we were given only the information we needed, so we don't have a grand view of the entire ceremony...just our part.

It's been meticulously planned, and I can say that if it goes according to plan it will be a night to remember.  Nothing like the Beijing ceremony, but spectacular, engaging and something for participants and viewers to be proud of.

So that's the first four hours of a total rehearsal time of 140 hours over the next two months done.  It would have been literary dynamite if it had been 127 Hours, but you can't have everything.   I'm looking forward to the next 136, and desperately hoping I can live up to it.

1-0

Last night The Cat's Mother asked what I was doing seventeen years ago. I had to think before I answered.

Today is The Boy's 17th birthday.

This morning I felt I was the luckiest person in the world when, as I crossed the street, I pulled out the money to pay for my coffee and managed to let three £20 notes flutter off towards an open drain cover. Miraculously, none of them went down the hole. So I ended up paying £2.50, not £62.50!

On Friday night we went off to Tate Modern to get a guided tour of Damien Hirst's first retrospective. Actually I arrived an hour early and used the time to buy myself (yet another) Anish Kapoor book...he's been my favourite artist for a couple of decades now...and a coffee in the Members Room. All very relaxing. Which was good because the guide was somewhat manic. But thank heavens we had him. Otherwise we'd have just been looking at flies feasting on dead meat, a giant ashtray, a shark, some sheep and cows cut in half and some butterflies pinned to a wall. Because we had the guide we were able to realise that wasn't what we saw; instead we were looking at a commentary on the fragility of life. Evidently you're supposed to look at the famous shark head on and ponder on the thought that you are being at the same time confronted by certain death whilst realising that it is the shark that is dead, rather than you who will be...The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living. I quite enjoyed it, as did we all, but there was certainly a feeling as we left the gallery that Mr Hirst is a smart showman who would have made a fortune whatever he turned his hand to. And let's hand it to him, he did shake up the British art world and made a fortune whilst doing it...although the souvenir shop is yet to sell any of his limited edition £36,000 skulls they're offering the gullible. I like his concepts...but really the execution is hardly artistic.







More modern art on Saturday with a fleeting visit to Gilbert and George at the White Cube Gallery. A series of pictures which bring together in categories headlines from the Evening Standard from the last several years. Very nice. It kept us interested for at least ten minutes.


We then headed to a new production of Educating Rita starring the unfortunate Matthew Kelly and ex-Brookie Claire Sweeney. We felt an affinity to dear Claire as one of our friends was dating her for a while, and couldn't help but mention that he was helping her learn her lines. Anyway, she was a shrill Scouser from beginning to end, and probably not as responsible as Mr Kelly for sending six of the eight of us to sleep during the first half. Sadly, he wasn't up to the part...merely repeating his lines without much sign of emotion or commitment. He was hindered too by some poor staging plus being required to change his cardigan every scene to demonstrate the passing of time. There were a lot of scenes. Plus, the truth is that the themes are quite dated, so it's quite difficult to empathise with the play. I didn't much like the concept and the execution struggled with its artistry See the film with Michael Caine, you'll enjoy it much more.

Yesterday I was at The Tribunal. The other side wanted to do a deal. And I let them. My natural state is confrontational, so I thought it would do me well to enjoy the process of negotiation. Their barrister was a delightful fellow. Oddly he seemed to be on my side...which I guess is their art. Anyway I got everything I asked for, which I suspect means that I've been gently shafted from behind without me realising it.

P.S. if anyone can tell me why all my most recent posts have that strange formatting...with the white background halfway down, please let me know...and more importantly let me know how to fix it!

The big one

It's a big week next week.  Really big.

The Boy is 17.  That's the last one before he's officially grown up.  And only a year to go before he can take me down the pub and buy that pint I've been demanding for some years now.

It will also be the first birthday where I've not been there to celebrate with him.  Tuesday is my first Olympics rehearsal.  From 5.30 through to 9.30.  Not surprisingly I'm rather excited.  Not surprisingly I still haven't shaken off the cough and cold that laid me low last weekend, so I'll be wheezing around the studio trying not to look like I'm breathing my last.  To celebrate I bought a new pair of trackie bottoms...probably the first pair I've bought for 35 years.  And the last ones I ever will.

Before then I'm at a property tribunal fighting the cause against a greedy, avaricious, deceitful and dishonest freeholder.  To make sure I'm best placed to win my case, I asked a solicitor to prepare the paperwork whilst I was on holiday and submit according to the timetable we'd been given.  That was a couple of weeks ago....yesterday I received a call to say the paperwork was not correct.  I spent the morning getting it right and taking it to the Tribunal, but the reality is there's a reasonable chance my case will simply be thrown out. Depressing.  Expensive.  I may have to sue the solicitors.  That won't be good for my well being.  I'll know more on Monday.

And before then we have some friends down for the weekend.  It's a busy schedule starting tonight.  Tonight we're seeing the Damien Hirst exhibition, and then off for a meal.  Beyond that I don't know:  The Cat's Mother never tells me anything, and when she does I don't listen.  It's a dangerous combination.

The Cat's Mother says that I should check the You Tube video I put up.  Evidently, the Shirley and Shirley one yesterday is inappropriate.  As is Ginger Blush.  As is Richard Herring.  But you're safe watching the Frisky and Mannish one.  Anyway, I'm not listening.

Life is a Chabaret

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.

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.

1. OperaShots
2. Linbury Studio, 
3. London

1. Until Until 28 April
2. Box office: 
   020-7304 4000
3. Details

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.

Unsinkable

Have you seen those occasional news stories when people claim to have found the face of Jesus in a piece of toast, in an old rag, the inside of a tomato and so on?  It was inevitable I guess that the moment the powers that be declared a drought, the heavens opened up and its not stopped since.  Noah would be a happy man.  Although it means I can't ride my motorbike, there are many upsides..including our lawn turning green for the first time in many months.  Walking through the local park in Bermondsey, I spotted this puddle....it may not be the face of Jesus, but it certainly looks like a terrier to me...

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...

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?

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.....

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.

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.

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!

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!

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.