Photo daily

This is Essex last October.  It was hot, it was sunny and the colours were vibrant.  It's taken a long time to find that sunshine again

Gone to lunch

The Cat's Mother is in Berlin today.
She's gone to meet a friend for lunch.
And will be back for tea-time.
Enough said (but feel free to comment below).

Yet again I forgot it's Tara's Gallery day...and as it's The Gallery's 100th birthday, I thought it would be unforgiveable if I didn't make a special effort.  So here's my picture postcard contribution.  It's Konos Bay.  It is indeed picture-postcard perfect.  If you've been to the eastern side of Cyprus you'll know it's the best beach to spend a day lying on.  Or snorkeling.  I love snorkeling, and this time when we were over for Grandma in Cyprus' 80th birthday, I was rewarded  with the sighting of an enormous octopus, which was being eyeballed by a big stripy fish.  The octopus obviously didn't have the stomach for a fight, and eventually retreated into a dark crevice out of harms way.  Sadly my camera doesn't go underwater, so this is my picture of the Bay.

Picture daily

Some very colourful office blocks in central London

Made in Dagenham

You are cordially invited to bid on my special Olympics Torch paragraph below.  Reserve price is £752,000, or you can Buy It Now for just £3.2million.

"We had a little debate last night about the morals or otherwise of Torch Bearers flogging off their torch.  Morally it seems indefensible - even the ones offering to give to charity are giving just 10 or 20 per cent of their ill-gotten gains.  Some, as The Cat pointed out, may not be in a position to not sell - economic issues which have challenged many of us, have brought others to their knees or lower.  If I had been lucky enough to have been a bearer I would certainly have kept it for my grand children (now, there's an assumption).  I'd have been proud to have carried the flame and it would have taken pride of place on the mantle piece.  What I think we've seen is the grubby greed that has permeated these Isles in recent years.  Anything that could turn a profit should be sold.  There's no soul to be found, no pride, no spirit.  Anything for a bob or two.  But just as mad and bad are the people ready to bid absurd amounts for these things.  According to the organisers they're worth less than £500...but even ignoring the hoax bids, people are prepared to pay tens of thousands for them....no doubt in the daft assumption that they are an investment which can be sold off at a profit later.  A quick bit of research showed that you can by a Munich Olympics torch for £3000, and more significantly a Berlin Olympics torch for £4000...both those Games have real historical significance.  Let's hope the London Games don't.  The same hungry pack mentality took over for Olympics tickets...people applying for £thousands when they didn't really want them, they just didn't want to miss out.  I smile a very wide smile when I speak to people I know who gambled thousands to end up with tickets for events they actually don't want to go to."

I must mention that one of our friends is a baker and has been chosen to bake a cake for the Queen.  It will follow her in a barge down the River Thames on the day of the flotilla.  That's truly something to be proud of.

Last Sunday I was in Dagenham....famously home to Ford in Britain, and slightly more famous since the film about the winning of equal pay by women workers at the plant.  If you haven't seen it I suggest you get a copy of Made in Dagenham...its one of those that's heavily discounted and a fabulous watch.




There is an irony that Britain's industrial decline has left hundreds of acres of land empty in what was the heart of Ford's British empire.  And that is fortunate.  If you drive east along the A13 you come first to what's left of the Ford works, then their giant wind turbines before you can gaze to your left to see a colourful circus tent in the old dusty, pot-holed Ford car park.  And that is where the rehearsals for the Olympics are taking place. We have moved from the idyllic TV and film studios in central London to the windswept bleakness of the Thames estuary.  So now something new and exciting is being Made in Dagenham.  I'm not revealing anything that isn't public knowledge, because the space is clearly marked with large signs.  But we would all be grateful if you could drive past with your eyes closed so you don't get a sneak preview of what we're doing.  It's a surprise and you wouldn't want to spoil the surprise would you?  This Sunday and for the forthcoming weekends I and several thousand others will be there getting movement-perfect.  Only another 22 rehearsals to go

If it all goes to plan it will be a modern wonder.  'If' is a big word.  There's a lot to do, but I think we'll get there. Forget Beijing, our ceremonies will be different and much more in British theatrical tradition.  If you haven't seen it, here is an interview by Danny Boyle earlier this year on the BBC.   In answer to all those cynics who keep asking "Will it embarrass us"  The answer is a very firm and scathing "No".  It will do us proud.

I personally though may yet embarrass everyone.

Picture daily

So I worked it out...each day a picture with the heading Picture Daily...if you want to look then great, otherwise normal posts as erm normal

This is a rather splendid shop in the east end...it was so splendid that I liked the idea that you could only really look at it from the outside rather than go in...

Exhausting

So I leapt in saying I'd post a picture every day, and so I will.  But I didn't really think it through.  Should I do the Daily Picture Posts as separate to the main ones, should I combine them, should I describe the pictures, should I just put them up, should they go up in the morning, or whenever during the day.  I'm at a loss.

So here's another picture, and then a proper post..

This was The Boy, who had just turned nine, in Portsmouth.  That's a pretty happy face eh?

Meanwhile I crashed into bed early last night utterly, utterly exhausted.  It took me a while to realise why

On Monday we'd flown back from Cyprus and travel's always tiring

On Tuesday I was in the office, and then went to an industry 'do' in the evening

On Wednesday I was back in the office having stressed about a potentially tricky meeting with my favourite client, and then in the evening I went to a 'house' meeting at one of the flats which involved some fairly tricky issues to be resolved

On Thursday it was a first meeting with a new client...always a challenge, before (to my joy) I had an early lunch with The Cat's Mother.  After work I rushed off to the House of Commons for a Palestinian Solidarity reception, before rushing off again.  We were then out to dinner with friends in the evening - away away in West London

On Friday a really early start to get to ride on a fast rib on the Thames (that's a speed boat to you...no doubt some of you got the invite too?) - I don't get too many great press junkets as a Blogger, but I fancied this one, early start 'n all.  Then a late client meeting starting at 4.30 before weaving my way home on the scooter trying to avoid being hit by the Friday (grumpy) traffic.

Saturday we were round at a friends for a dinner party.  When I asked for a whisky on arrival, the host simply went to the cupboard got out a glass and presented with a bottle to help myself.  I can resist everything except temptation.  A rich meal and a few glasses of red wine later we gently swayed home at some ungodly hour.

Sunday morning I was up early as I had to be in Dagenham (more on that later) for an all day rehearsal for your pleasure on the 27th July.

In the meantime, at home, the stresses of the exam season were showing.

Phew.....

Sunshine = flowers

Oh for a bit of sunshine to bring out the flowers

Just a picture

I found this on a walk tracing the original route of the River Fleet.  It was the entrance to one of the back street garages that gave the motor trade such a bad name in the sixties and seventies.  And eighties and nineties.

An act of kindness

Anyone who has owned a pet will tell you that there are times when the object of their love and affection is so ill that the only reasonable option is to put it out of its misery.  It leads to guilt and sorrow, but really it's for the best, and everyone knows and accepts that.  The Euro is the pet project of European politicians, and what is clear even to the most casual observer is that it is a creature that is so severely wounded that a lethal injection is the kindest thing to be done.  It's just a month to the next Greek elections with a racing certainty that they'll veer even more towards the politicians that won't impose austerity.  The almost inevitable consequence will be a bankrupt Greece ejected from the Euro with confidence in the currency collapsing across the globe.  Difficult as it may seem, the sensible choice is to give the Euro that injection now; the one that will put it and us out of our collective miseries.

Whilst I'm on a rant, let me just mention ratings agency Moody's again.  They downgraded a number of Spanish banks last night, including Santander in the UK.  But it takes only thirty seconds to discover that Santander in the UK is independent of the Spanish operation and actually a strong, well managed business (some customers may disagree with this).  So in my books this is yet more proof (if any was needed) that the ratings agencies are pig-ignorant and should be banned from rating anything more than a cup of coffee.

Amongst my list of pleasures, I rate sleep very highly indeed.  Unlike The Cat, who has turned it into an Olympic sport in which she wins gold every day, I find sleep quite a challenge.  I think I must have a switch on the side of my head. More often than not, the moment my head hits the pillow, my brain switches on and I can't stop it.  Grandma in Cyprus would tell you that even from a young age my mind was very active at night...giving me the most terrifying nightmares.  Even now The Cat's Mother will tell you know I will regularly have animated conversations in the middle of the night in between thrashing around, sitting up and waving limbs in one direction or another.  My dreams can be so vivid, that I'm affected by their mood for the entire following day.  But at least if I'm dreaming it means I'm asleep.  More often than not just getting to sleep can be an impossible task.  Sometimes I just lie there, and on others I get myself out of bed, and wander downstairs.  Once there  I can be found doing a variety of things.

Last night I checked how many tickets we have for the Temper Trap next week - four, not the two we thought, so we need to find a couple of people to come with us.  I then proceeded to sprinkle ant powder around the conservatory and kitchen to fend off the advancing ant army whose  advance party has been breaching our Maginot line for several weeks now.

I then headed to my laptop to catch up on some of the blogs I've missed over the last several days.  The thing is being a bit dopey, I managed to put my blog's web address into Google.  And what a surprise it was.

Poor old Langley Grammar School evidently uses it as source material for their AS Geography course!!! ????  So apologies to all those lads and lasses who will end up with an E as a result.

On the other hand, I discovered some kind soul (please step forwards and get your well deserved pat on the back and vigorous handshake) has nominated me for the MAD blog awards in the photography category.  I had no idea, I'm quite delighted, I didn't/won't win, but the nomination created a nice warm glow which enabled me to climb back up to bed, lay my head on the pillows and sleep soundly.

And it has inspired me a little.  So for the next year I am going to post a picture every morning.  Some will be old, some will be new, some will be technically good, some bad, but I'll do my best to make them interesting.

Here's the first

Surely only in Paris, on the bank of the Seine, could you find a saxophone being played in the middle of the day.  From our trip to France last year

Not Grandma in Cyprus' birthday*

I can't deny that travel was a problem.

As we were traveling on days not frequented by the package holiday set, we went out on Aegean Airlines and came back on the world's favourite airline.    Going out, the seats were six abreast with an aisle in the middle, meaning that I got the window seat, The Cat's Mother was beside me, and then there were three clear seats to the young woman staring out the port window.  At least that was the case until we'd been in the air for  40 minutes, by which time The Cat's Mother was asleep.  An older woman came and sat across the aisle, proceeded to take out the sick bag and begin vomiting, which she continued to do for the remainder of the five hour flight.  She used up all the sick bags around her.  The stewardesses did their level best to ignore her.  I would have been sympathetic....but why the feck did she think it was better for her to puke near us rather than her traveling companions?

On the way back, we arrived nearly four hours early, 'just in case' - there was a taxi drivers' blockade of the airport, and we thought we may have to walk a long way to get to the terminal.  As it happens, the police kept the entrance to the airport open...although they were less fussed about letting people out.  Behind us on the plane sat a man-mountain...he was literally that shape, and would put Ben Nevis in shade.  All was well until the captain announced twenty minutes before landing that we would be arriving at Terminal 3.  We had departed from Terminal 1.  We could have walked from Cyprus quicker than it takes to walk from Terminal 3 to Terminal 1.

We had pre-booked the parking to save costs.  But I hadn't realised that I'd turned into Car Park 1, not Car Park 1a...our designated parking area.  No wonder then that our ticket wouldn't work, and then when we got the machine to read it, it demanded £259.  On the upside, the help desk girl must get this happening several times a day and let us go without a fight.  On the downside I was more than a little agitated.

As there wasn't enough room at Grandma in Cyprus' house with my brother and his family there, we stayed at a hotel.  Our hotel was the five star Adams Beach Hotel.  And very nice it was too.  So thought all the Russians that were staying there.   There may have been two dozen Brits, not more, in a hotel of three or four hundred rooms. I don't know if you've ever come across the Russians en masse, and for a Brit they are an interesting bunch.  I'm told that unlike the Brits abroad, they don't spend money, so that doesn't make them popular.  It would explain why in the breakfast area (outside...it was a pleasant 30 degrees) Russian mothers could be spotted great piles of food from the buffet into their babies' buggies to keep them going through the day.

It would be fair to say that there were plenty of attractive young Russian women staying at the hotel.  On the beach they wore dental floss to protect their modesty.  Initially attractive to any young male, it soon wore off and the phrase 'less is less' came to mind.  Off the beach they wore short, clingy dresses and high heels that last saw service in Debbie does Dallas.  I wandered into the hotel shop at 9 in the morning to be confronted by young filly dressed in matching scarlet lycra dress and scarlet high heels.  An hour later she was to be seen walking on the golden sandy beach in the same outfit...heels sinking six inches down before stripping off to her floss.  By contrast, even at a young age, it appears the Russian men take the shape of a T34 tank.  As enormous and unkempt as the young women are skimpy and 'beautifully' presented.

The other Russian highlight was the photograph taking.  For you or me, all that's needed is to turn and smile at the camera whilst the picture is taken in a jiffy.  For the Russian guests, it was a major operation.  Finding the right place to pose would take minutes...perhaps even hours.  And then there were the poses.  If you've got a copy of Playboy handy, it would make my life easier as I won't have to describe the contortions they got themselves into to get the perfect shot.  This was the case even when the person behind the camera was their father.  Or may they were their lover.  Either way it left us feeling queasy.

* warning: contains mild peril and racism

Grandma in Cyprus' birthday

Just to clarify, we abandoned the teens at home, because they were just about to start their exams.  AS levels are important, very important, so we had been faced with a dilemma, but ultimately decided that at 17 they were old enough to look after themselves providing we stocked the fridge until it was fit to burst, and there were regular visitations from local relatives.  It would have been marvelous if they could have come with us, but the harsh realities of modern schooling meant that not a moment could be wasted in the quest for that best possible grade.

These four days were unusual: it was the first time my brother, I and our mum have been together for more time than any of us could remember.

80 is a big birthday so everyone had made a very special effort.  Even Grandma in Cyprus who even did a double count on the years, as was not convinced that the 80 years between 1932 and 2012 could possibly have gone so quickly.

When we had been thinking about what to do the first decision had been where the celebration should be held. We had decided Cyprus as that is where her friends are...the people who she enjoys spending her days and evenings with.  There are still plenty of family in the UK, but actually I think birthdays are for friends first and foremost.

The celebration meal took place in her favourite restaurant with 25 of her closest friends, her two sons and their families.  We ate and drank 'til late in the night, before retiring to her home for further celebrations and cake cutting.  Her dogs joined in too at that stage.

The next day we'd hired a boat.  Big enough for forty, it took just seven of us down the coast.  Very calm, very civilised, very relaxing.  Whilst the captain cooked, we went swimming in the very nearly warm Mediterranean sea.  Our sweetcorn worked best as fish food, driving the fish into a frenzy, that made you think they may just have been piranhas and we'd had a lucky escape.

The third day of celebrations involved just one thing.  Her Grandson's present which you can see below:

Life begins at eighty.

Top Cat, Deputy Dawg

Tomorrow we fly to Cyprus for a short break.  It's Grandma in Cyprus' 80th birthday on Saturday, so celebrations are in order.

Democracy is a curious beast.  In Greece it could lead to the collapse of the Euro.  To be fair to the Greeks, if you've been used to being paid for 14 months in every twelve, retiring almost before you've started, with a pension that would make a banker weep with envy, and had a job that is done by ten people, austerity must be hard.  So I have some sympathy...even though the consequences of the hope to renege on their commitments will be a disaster for the global economy.  The French too are making it all look a bit tricky.  Some of the proposals of the new President (how on earth did the French elect someone called Hollande?) make me raise my eyebrows...reducing the retirement age (for some) to 60 from 62, whilst the rest of us have to work until we stagger into the grave.  But I do quite like the concept that there's merit in trying to make the economy grow, rather than grind it down as Punch and Judy are trying to do here.

As an amusing little side-note, someone in our office has had their mortgage application rejected because it was printed on 80gsm paper rather than 100gsm.  If you're not familiar with paper weights (as opposed to paperweights) 80gsm is the sort of paper that EVERYONE uses in their printer.  Frankly it's no wonder we continue to live in economic misery.

I've learnt a lesson...never comment on one of Nursemyra's posts from your mobile phone.  a) because it's tricky b) because Wordpress automatically subscribes you to follow-on comments.  It seems impossible to turn them off, no matter how many times you click the unsubscribe box.  And Nursemyra gets a lot of comments.  And she lives 'down under'...so the comments tend to arrive through the night on your phone.  I blame Wordpress, certainly not my techno-incompetence.

One of the absolutely marvellous things about being a parent is that occasionally your offspring give you such a sense of pride, that you can puff your chest out and march down the street happy, smiling, and bathing in the reflected glory.  First off The Cat has been made Head of House...a fine achievement of which the Cat's Mother and all the family are cock-a-hoop.



The Boy has been made Deputy Head of his house...again a fabulous achievement.  They're both much liked and respected at school, both participate and show the qualities of leadership that will do them well in future life.



The Boy has also been awarded 'Best Cadet'..a fine silver cup which will have his name added to it.  We've got our fingers crossed that he may be put in charge of the Contingent...but are certainly not counting our chickens as there are more than enough animals in this post already.

Today I like being a parent...

Image is everything

It's been a little while since I put any pictures up...I've lost my photo mojo (or is it just that I'm lusting after a new camera so anything I take with my current camera is just not good enough?)

This bank holiday weekend we repaired to Brighton to do as little as possible...it's not something we're very good at, but at least we try.  This month is Festival month, so there's plenty to see and do, but we managed to continue my track record of not actually seeing any festival events.  Which is odd, because as you know we love theatre...I'm not sure why The Brighton Festival never gets our attention.  At the same time it is Open House, where the very many artists in and around the City open their houses so that you can see and buy their cleverness.  We went round looking at a lot...to see the art, as well as to sate our nosiness about our neighbours' properties.  We ended up at Roedean, which is celebrating 100 years of it's art studio.  they have had some talented people there including Enid Marx, whose second cousin thrice removed you may be more familiar with. She also taught the designer of the cover for The Beatles' Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band...you'll have to look that one up! Although really you ought to know.   Also a more recent pupil who has won an MBE for shoe design...and is the grand-daughter of one of the Chinese Revolution's leaders...sorry I didn't catch the names.  Evidently English boarding schools are very, very popular with wealthy foreigners from developing countries...so there is a good chance Britain's place in the world is safe for a generation or two yet.

And back to my pictures:

 The quay at Orford in Suffolk

 The old warehouses where I work are now mostly offices, and it's good to see how the character has been preserved

 Just a boat bobbing up and down in the sea off teh Suffolk coast

 I think this labrador rather enjoyed himself too much....

 Crab pots or are they for lobsters at Orford

 You may have to look twice...at first it's a beautiful view, until you see the drunk sleeping off his hangover mid-morning

 This Coca Cola umbrella was a God send as I sat supping a cold drink whilst waiting for my next train in Lyon

This is Gare de Lyon in Paris.  Oddly the French have mastered hi-speed rail, but their stations are still in the dark ages - beautifully designed when originally built, they've failed to keep pace with the needs of the modern traveller

 The Shard, now officially Europe's tallest building...less than half . the height of the world's tallest

The Cat and The Boy on the way to see Bugsy Malone

Them woz the days....

If you look closely, you'll see I've added a few more blogs to my reading list on the right.  They're actually ones I've been reading and enjoying for many, many months but for no particular reason they remained hidden on my dashboard reading list.  So, of course, I highly recommend you turn your attentions there....such a shame that Going Gently is a sad, sad post today.

We're not great TV watchers...it's not that we don't enjoy it, it's just that we have other things to do, and once you're not in tune with the TV schedules it's easy just to forget to watch.  Generally we have one series that we watch at a time, and at the moment we are enjoying the Beeb's series on the Seventies.  In those days I was young, smart and my life was full of promise.  So it's not surprising I look back through rose-tinted spectacles, and the programme has come as quite a shock to me and The Cat's Mother.  We've just watched episode three (my maths suggests that as they do two years each episode there are five to watch) and we've seen all the promise of the sixties evaporate into the doom of economic, political and social failure.  Of course, we both remember most of the events, but frankly when you're a smug teenager your awareness of what's really happening in the world and it's implications is minimal.  We saw the world changing events as nothing more than  stories in the newspapers whilst our dear parents had to bear the stress, strains and turmoil that was going on around them.

It's hard to imagine inflation running at 25%.  It's not so hard to imagine everyone going on strike.  Nor is it so hard to imagine savage public sector cutbacks being made...albeit by the Labour Government, rather than the current coalition.  We probably all remember hopelessly unreliable and outdated cars being built by Leyland (renamed to Austin Rover by the time I went to join them in the eighties).  And who can forget Punk Rock...less a musical statement and more a call for social and political change...oh that we could have Neo-Punks now!

The Seventies seems to be the forgotten decade - we all know about the swinging sixties, and the booming eighties, but the seventies seemed to be a blur of glam rock, terrible fashion and the falling pound.  In fact so unrelenting is the bad news in this series, that I'm beginning to feel that the current recession is something of a golden age.  I guess it's all a matter of perspective.  And I have a sneaking suspicion that we're just being softened up for the arrival of Maggie who will be presented as someone who rode to our rescue...next week will be a very interesting programme indeed.

So for your delectation here's some pictures from the seventies

That's me on the right, my brother on the left and in between us Grandma and Grandpa in Cyprus.  I think we were in Eastbourne on the pier at the time.

And here in the middle is my Grandmother