Full circle

This is a Singer Chamois - the posh version of the Hillman Imp.



It was a rather natty little car produced by the Rootes Group, and is a less well remembered competitor to the Mini. Whilst the Mini won the affections of the buying public, the Singer Chamois, never came close to achieving the same fame. It did, however, help bankrupt the company that made it - much like the Mini helped bankrupt British Leyland.

We had a Singer Chamois when I was a boy and I loved it. It was a rather elegant Bournville chocolate brown with a sporty white stripe along the side. It was Grandma in Cyprus' first car after she passed her test and was bought by my father after he failed to persuade her of the virtues of a Triumph Herald Convertible. Far too racy I think. The Singer was fab, and as far as I remember let us down only the once - the accelerator cable broke. So Grandma in Cyprus was sternly instructed how to drive the car to the garage without an accelerator. At 5mph. I don't think the other cars on the road appreciated it very much. It used to regularly take us down from Hertfordshire to sunny Eastbourne to GinC's mother. So that'll be Great Grandma by the sea. And it was long before the M25 was even a glimmer in some road planner's eye. Our Singer Chamois' registration number was MYH 583D.

And this is a KTM Super Duke.



A 990cc piece of unsurpassed Austrian engineering. It's very noisy. And when I pluck up the courage will be very quick. Indeed. The boy loves it. And soon it will take me long distances. It too has been bought by my father. Or at least with some of the money he left in his still to be resolved will. The registration number is GX 58 MYH.

And how fitting is that?

Muddle Aged (2)

Well I've been goaded into this, so I take no responsibility whatsoever....

You know you're (a) middle-aged (woman) when:

You wear your daughter's mini-skirts and think you look like her

Your make-up bag is twice the size it used to be, but it gets used twice as quickly

You drive a beige car called Penny, but tell everyone how sporty it is

You want to mother the boys in the latest boy band

You think the boys in the latest boy band will fancy you

You stop waiting for 'the one'

You wear a one piece swimsuit because you think you should, not because it's the height of fashion

You can look at a middle-aged man and know that you're better than him, but know you shouldn't tell him

Middle age

I know I shall be in trouble for this, but...

...I was having a conversation the other day, and the topic of 'middle age' came up. I can't think why. After all,I'm 37, and have been that age for some long time now. So no prospect or intention of ever reaching middle age.

Any way, SHE said:You know you are a middle aged man when...
You buy a motorbike
You wear a stripy scarf looped around your neck
You wear vertically striped shirts
When young women in bars talk to you, you think you still have it
You think trying to hold in your tummy fools anyone

Now, I think she's wrong, because men NEVER know when they're middle-aged. Unless they were born middle aged, in which case they have been wearing beige cardigans for a very long time indeed and are proud of it.

As the boy reminded me this evening, Bill Oddie once said, "You know you are middle-aged when your daughter's best friend looks at you. And all she's thinking is, 'You're my best friend's Dad'.

Some indications of the progression of middle-age must be, when you try and do something you could do 20 years ago and it comes as a surprise that you can't do it now. I wonder what that could be. When you come home from work, and you're asleep on the sofa by 8.30...every night. When you can't understand the texts you get from anyone more than five years your junior...let alone from The Boy When the video recorder is beyond you. When you still enjoy repeats of the New Avengers, Minder and The Persuaders.

The reason this conversation took place will become all too apparent soon enough.

But the killer end to the conversation was when I was asked, "So, how do you know if you're a middle-aged woman?" Probably best not to answer methinks.

Three buildings and a picture

I've been somewhat inspired by Not Enough Mud's recent blog about returning home from distant shores, and enjoying the sights of London town.

Borough and Bermondsey are my favourite places in London...I've probably said that before. But they are really lovely - still retaining the village character of old. Plus you can scrump figs off the tree in the graveyard at the bottom of Bermondsey St. Olde Worlde buildings continue to provide character, but even some of the new ones are interesting in their own way. I like the contrast between the old and the new.

So here are some of the ones that I most like:

This one looks like an over-sized garden shed stuck on the top of a genteel Edwardian(?) building. I just love it, but can't see it passing current building regulations:






And this is a new arrival...still being built, it's been plated with copper. Beautifully reflecting the sun light today, I think it'll look just as gorgeous when it has oxidised



This one is a puzzle for me - newly built, this end wall has these curious 'balconies' - but you can't get to them (the windows are sealed units I think) and even if you could, the 'floor is just eighteen inches wide. And no one's come up with a reasonable answer.




Finally, this is a trompe l'oeil...and if you look really closely you might see a cat in the window...but he does seem to come and go a bit

The Omen

I'm not superstitious in any way.

Although I don't walk under ladders, if I spill the salt, I throw a few grains over my shoulder, panic if I break a mirror, don't cross the path of a black cat, nor pass anyone on the stairs. And generally avoid doing anything on Friday 13th.

However, I've decided to take as a good omen being given an American Dime in my change this morning.

I shall also celebrate with a glass of something tonight in the hope that the 44th President of the United States will live up to the promise.

I am a Goldfish

We all have senior moments..and one of the pleasures of the last thirteen years, is to see that we have them from the day we're born. Well almost, but it's certainly true that the boy does forget things, and gets in a panic about it.

And possibly they come a bit thick and faster as the years begin to take their toll. Generally I don't worry about it as there is always so much to think about that it's inevitable that some things just get lost in the brain cells.

This weekend though, has not been a good one on the memory front.

Last night, I made myself a cup of coffee...I really fancied it. Once made, I sat on the sofa, putting the coffee on the shelf within easy reach. An hour later remembered it. It was cold, so I heated it up in the microwave (sorry, bloke thing to do). I put it on the shelf by the sofa again. I found it this morning, completely untouched.

This evening, I thought I would check my work e-mails using something called 'gotomypc.com'. It's a clever piece of software that let's you actually look at your computer from anywhere...they've got a dreadful ad running on the TV at the moment. Anyway, when I logged on, it told me my work computer wasn't on. Panic immediately set in, because I knew I'd checked them on Friday night. I had no choiice but to drive to the office to see whether or not we'd been burgled (again) or perhaps the place had burnt down. The office is about three-quarters of an hour away. So off I set at 9.30. I got within a mile of my destination, when it suddenly dawned on me, that I had turned my work computer off when I left on Friday, and had been able to check my e-mails by directly logging on to the mail account from the laptop at home. Doh! Double doh!

I haven't yet fessed up to the boy as such things tend to damage my hero status.

Clearly the daily dose of Ginko Biloba is not doing its job.

Anyway, just going to make a cup of coffee now.

Overheard telephone conversation

In a very rough,run down industrial estate, just next to where the 2012 stadium is being built. In heavy East-End accent

"Hi Simon. Got a mate doing some property developing in Romania with a bloke called John (deleted for fear of legal or other retribution). You know - the cigarette family. Anyway, he's gone off with £5.7 million of my mate's money. Can't get hold of him anywhere. We think he's got a place in Monte Carlo. Do you have anyone down there that could sort it out. You do? Great. Let me know."

I must stop going to these places.

The Dark Days

Five years ago today, I was at a very fashionable bar called Home in the very fashionable Hoxton with some very fashionable people. The party I'd been invited to was to celebrate with the editor of the very fashionable Blueprint magazine who was leaving to start his fashionable freelance career. As usual I was circulating, gossiping to many familiar faces as well as introducing myself to new people that I thought might be profitable to know. I also spent much of the evening in humorous (I thought) conversation with a very talented Czech photographer called Hana Jakrlova who I rather fancied. It was a splendid and enjoyable evening, and one I'll never forget.

At around eleven o'clock I checked my mobile...something I tended not to do very much after office closing hours. There were 11 missed calls, and as many messages so I ran upstairs out of the party noise to listen to the voicemails. The messages were from both The Boy and The Nanny. His messages were just to say to call the nanny urgently, and no doubt had been made because since divorce fron his mum, The Nanny and I had had a falling out, living in a state of uneasy peace. The Nanny's messages were more direct. The boy's mum had had a brain haemorrhage whilst in Ireland on business. She was in hospital...and fortunately still alive. When I called we talked about what had happened, and agreed that on Friday I would take Fred, out of our usual sequence of one weekend on, one weekend off. That at least I was happy with as I'd always fought tooth and nail for more time with him.

Since that day my mobile is never away from my side and checked for messages far more than is reasonable, and if I do happen to have a forgetful moment and leave it at home when I'm out, I always make sure I get hold of the boy to let him know where he can get me.

I returned very briefly to the party to say my goodbyes, and walked home to Borough. Not knowing the seriousness, or otherwise of the situation, it crossed my mind that she could die, and that much would change if she did. But I dismissed the thought on the basis that often I think the worst and it never happens.

And indeed she didn't die then.

That was two weeks later.

Every year since, for the next two weeks, I live with a very dark and heavy cloud over my head. I call these the dark days. And we burn a candle for her from the 15th through to the 29th.

My loss is as nothing to The Boys, yet he seems less conscious of the time than me (but interestingly he is always more fractious in January than the rest of the year), and that I think is the healing power of youth, but I don't doubt that underneath he misses her as much now as he ever did. Perhaps more.

Cut backs

As the recession is now in full swing, it is time for some cut backs. I've conducted a complete review and of my entire life, and have been able to identify where I can make savings.

Before Christmas, we had present buying issues (the boy didn't want to, having spent all his money on coffee at the Loughton branch of Starbucks), school grade issues (actually all very good, apart from dreadful maths grades which he just didn't seem to care about) and girlfriend issues (his, not mine as I don't have one). And then into the new year we have room tidy issues (again, again, again), house tidiness isuues (his stuff spread liberally around every possible room) helpfulness issues (he won't help out around the house, attitude issues (very confrontational for no reason), girlfriend issues (his again, not mine as I still don't have one), mobile phone issues (how do you get through more than a thousand texts in a month?) and language issues (the sailors are blushing).

So I've decided to make a 100% reduction in my parental responsibilities. Financially, this won't save me a bean, but it seems as sensible as Gordon Brown reducing VAT by two and a half per cent.

I hope you all agree

Dangerous walking

This is the promenade in Hove; in the background the Bandstand is at long last being repaired. Hurrah!

In the foreground, perhaps an indication that people's dangerous walking habits need to be controlled....

Nearly famous

On many an occasion I've wondered what it says about us (and in all probability nothing at all) that we often seem to brush close to the famous, without ever quite achieving it for ourselves.

The thought crossed my mind again this evening when The boy and I were watching a new ITV programme called Demons. It's complete nonsense about supernatura; goings on in London, and no less enjoyable for that. But for me the highlight is that the hero lives in a building that I instantly recognised as somewhere that I own a flat....it's very art-deco and designed by the same architects as the rather more famous Hoover Building. The Alaska's history is rather less illustrious though, as it was constructed to process seal fur:

"Another fascinating ex-industrial building is the former Alaska Factory. This opened in 1869 for working seal fur. Only the brick entrance gates with the carving of an Alaskan seal on its façade remain of the old factory. Behind the gate stands a clean white art deco building made by the Architect Wallis Gilbert, who also designed the Hoover buildings in London. Originally the workmen would work endless shifts with barrels of beer instead of canteens and play spontaneous games of football. As working techniques and demands changed, the factory was continuously added to or rebuilt. It was bombed twice in WWll. In the fifties it had its first canteen, organised sports teams and new regulations about working hours, all of which seem to be reflected in the clean white scientific new building."


When The Boy and I lived in Borough High St we were just spitting distance from Borough Market, which has featured in numerous films, TV programmes and ads, so there's always much excitement whenever it's seen as we chime in tandem "We used to live there"

And in Brighton too, a film (the name of which passes me by at the moment) was made at the bottom of our Square.

But it's not just our residential location to the famous, our brushes have included me being directed in amateur dramatics by Chris Timothy...best known for playing James Herriot and I believe regular appearances in Casualty. Plus I've lunched with Prince Edward (the stripogram who materialised was less than welcome), partied with Ulrika Johnson and had lots of other contacts with A listers, B listers and even Z listers. Evidently I was at school with Alan Davies, though I can't say I remember him, and I gather he hated the place.

So fame has never rubbed off on me, and I wonder if it will on the boy. Or if he wuld want it to. We'll see.

Recall: Faulty uterus

I'm not sure what's more bizarre, the fact that these are available, or that the uterus has been recalled:

"In what must be the most bizarre product recall we’ve had the pleasure to be emailed about, DKE Toys has issued a statement informing us that the Pink Uterus from I Heart Guts‘ range of body part plush toys is a potential hazard to children…

The problem? Its cheeky purple ovaries are detachable. Sadly, this means it’s been withdrawn from sale. But rest assured you can still cuddle up with the brain (nice stem!) or, my favourite in anthropomorphic offal, the pancreas."



The guts gang in happier times, before uterus was recalled due to her detachable ovaries. Clockwise from left: uterus, pancreas, gall bladder and brain. All $18

Continuing the Dr Who theme

It just keeps coming...wonder why?

AG has pointed out that she can't open the link I pasted here, so I've deleted it and instead here is the picture...



I can't believe they overlooked me for the next Dr Who!

Winterwonderland

Our few days away have been glorious...and just as a New Year should be. We took the long way round for our drive up to Peterchurch, going through the New Forest, and deciding to cross the Severn by the old bridge so we could head up the Wye Valley. We took the opportunity of stopping at Tintern Abbey - somewhere I'd wanted to go to for years. The boy was as awe-struck as me - there was a real atmosphere there, and if it hadn't been for temperatures that would make the Arctic seem tropical we would have stopped for longer. But I did buy the T-shirt for posterity.



Our gathering was at our wonderful friend's place The Barn, which manages to be both highly contemporary on the inside, yet warm and welcoming at the same time. It is a favourite place to come and relax several times a year. The house was crowdered [sic] with our friend's two lovely daughters, his ex-ish girlfriend and her poppet, Gym instructor, his wife and sons - one currently studying to be a vet in Edinburgh. Gym instructor is an amazingly gentle, fun guy...and his current claim to fame is he is the model for a new range of action dolls to be launched by the MoD. So look out in the shops. His other claim to fame is the need for furnace-like heat. So the house was kept at a constant 35C...oh yes we could all walk around in our bikinis sweating away the pounds whilst outside the frost got thicker and thicker and thicker.



We nearly had the opportunity to go off to the Point to Point in Ledbury, but seriously frozen ground meant that the horse part was cancelled. The human race was still on though (human ankles more disposbale than horse ones?). I thought I might have a crack, but ducked out when I was told it was seven and a half miles and I had no kit. The cold had nothing to do with it. Our host still went, and found himself racing against a very diminutive Richard Hammond, complete with jodhpurs. He was evidently a jolly nice chap.



For NYE, we had added friends from just up the lane, so a very full house indeed and a fine Jamie Oliver designed meal was rounded off by the boy entertaining us on the guitar. I remember thinking whilst listening and watching that I could think of no better place to be in the whole world to be spending my start to 2009. We rounded off with a good toast to to all friends, and some fireworks as near as dammit as good as London's. So no doubt there were a good few shaken sheep around.



As you can see the frost was deep, and the place took on the most magical air. Just what the doctor ordered!


Happy New Year to you all