Sorry Grandma in Cyprus if that comes as a shock (again) - I know you met my first (and only, so far) wife only after we'd tied the knot. But I like to keep you on your toes.
I was much pleased when a rather attractive young woman asked me to marry her yesterday. She is, as I say, young and attractive. More than that she knows what I like, and feeds me fine food. So I feel it is the right thing to do. Her head has no doubt been turned by my charm, my good looks, my simple being. And tush to any of you who suggest for one moment it's because she works in the local sandwich bar and is struggling to get a visa. I'm sure we will live happily ever after. And I'm sure the boy will like his new step-mum, who is at least five years older than him.
This is the first time someone has asked me to marry them, but I have been asked out on several occasions. It's always good for me. I'm not sure it's good for them.
I was once the lucky owner of a rather gorgeous soft-top sports car (one of the first Audi TTs in Britain - it always turned heads) and once when driving back to town from a weekend at the beach, a car with two women pulled alongside. Remarkably as we cruised along the motorway at speeds likely to incur the wrath of the local constabulary, one of them reached out of her window and passed me a note with her phone number on. We did indeed meet up, and that's when I discovered that you can't tell how tall someone is when they're sitting in a car. I looked up to her six foot from my five foot eight and admired her blond locks.
On our recent trip to the Fatherland, the boy and I chatted to a couple of women as we climbed one of the mountains. When we came down to breakfast the next day, there was a note for me that had been left at reception. The waiter said he had no idea what it said, which I took as meaning he had devoured every bit of it. And so he should. It was a name, a number and the suggestion of some nocturnal activity. I've kept the note for posterity.
And earlier this year as I dropped the boy off for a school friend's party, the mum came across and suggested it would be fun to go out for a drink. I ran away giggling.
It's nice to feel wanted.
Thursday, 1 October 2009
Monday, 28 September 2009
Anish Kapoor
You may have to wait for up to 20 minutes to see anything happen, but well worth it:
Click here
I went to a lunch time lecture today - skiving off work - to hear words of wisdom from the curator. And I highly recommend everyone pays a visit at least once before December
Click here
I went to a lunch time lecture today - skiving off work - to hear words of wisdom from the curator. And I highly recommend everyone pays a visit at least once before December
Saturday, 26 September 2009
It wasn't me
Once upon a time, I worked in the car industry. It was glitzy, it was glamorous. Especially as I was a PR man. A master of spin. I'd got in by default - on the milk round, I'd simply wanted a job with a big company who could train me. I ended up at Rover, in the days just after Red Robbo. It was more peaceful than it had been, but there were still strikes, and when there was a strike, and you had to visit one of the other sites, you always make sure you took a company car, as you were likely to have a brick hurled at you. As I was a snotty, just out of university, the world owes me a living graduate, that was probably not unreasonable. Apart from those exciting days, generally the best parts of the job were the motor show and car launches. I moved to Nissan at the time they were building their factory ooop north, so when we had a launch we did it in style. A week in the south of France, staying in a hotel where every room had its own swimming pool; it was frequented by Kings, Queens and Presidents. But even I blushed when I was tasked with finding a laid of he night for our one of our journalist guests. I loved it.
But not as much as I enjoyed the press trips when we were showing off our 4x4s. A couple of days driving through the mud and ruts in an enormous Japanese tank was my idea of heaven. We used Shugborough in Staffordshire - the home of Lord Litchfield if I remember rightly. It's a beautiful place to visit.
After I left the car industry, I carried on with the 4x4 thing driving a hairdresser's car - a white soft top Suzuki Vitara. The car was fabulous. It was a company car, and I didn't much care if it got damaged. My best and worst moment was getting stuck in the middle of a lake when the whole of the underneath got clogged with mud. The AA towed me out, and there was some explaining to do at the office on the Monday. Most of the other people doing it used Land Rovers and always looked down on my pretty little car.
This year with the purchase of the Tonka Toy, and with the enthusiastic support of the boy, we decided to go to an event and christen the car...another friend with a big 4x4 decided to come too. An off road event near Abingdon, which promised thrills and spills on a 'non-damaging' course. But as the date neared, the boy's commitments at school increased, and for some reason my enthusiasm lessened. It was going to be difficult to fit it in, so I decided that we would give it a miss. Perhaps it was the thought of expensive potential garage bills. So what was planned to be a weekend of camping and mud crawling (and as it turns out, in perfect conditions), has ended up with me watching the boy play rugby, and him rehearsing for the school drama competition. We could have just about squeezed in a trip to the event - a dash round the M25 and along the M40, but we didn't. Perhaps it wouldn't have been wise to have tackled the mud under pressure, but truth is I think I wimped out. So I'm a little annoyed and disappointed with myself. The boy is a little disappointed too. My friend still went and he texted the picture above. He had a brilliant time. Today is a glass half-empty day. Damn it Janet.
Thursday, 24 September 2009
The Scottish question. A rant - please feel free to ignore
I've long been known to rant about the state of the UK and I've been known to rant long about this government's interferance in the minutae of our daily lives.
Once upon a time it was quite difficult to break the law, so you could be sure that if you did, you were a signed up member of the criminal fraternity. Ignorance was no excuse. However, these days it is often easier to break the laws of the land than stay within them. There are so many rules and regulations to bind us that I'm sure soon none will have gold stars for behavious, we'll all just have black marks. I've lost count of the rules I've broken by mistake, and fines I've paid as a result...and it starts to make you feel you're a seasoned law-breaker...
My instinct is that our beloved, upright, honest politicians are driving towards a totalitarian state, with each citizen monitored 24 hours a day for their entire life. Fear has been a political tool in this coun try for a dozen or so years, and shows no sign of abating - even for serious issues such as swine flu, the information coming out of the government was designed to cause panic and fear. And most issues, Joe and Joanne Public are treated as guilty until proved innocent. And in case we think we're right, it's only because they know something we don't, so we're wrong and they're right
So I laughed until I fell off my chair at the problems of our Attorney General. I've nothing against Baroness Scotland herself, but as part of the Government she got nothing more than she deserved. I took the opportunity to try and find out what you need to do if you employ a foreign national, and not surprisingly it was a herculean task to work it out. I'm not Hercules, so am still not entirely sure. But what I did find was the documents I was supposed to read. And the nearest I got was List A and List B of documents which 'Provide an excuse'...which to me is the language of "guilty, but you can get away with it", rather than if you want to employ someone these are the documents you should have.
To me it feels that this isn't the country I was brought up to believe in. I wonder if the boy will be feeling the same in 34 years time.
End of rant. Normal service resumed soon.
Once upon a time it was quite difficult to break the law, so you could be sure that if you did, you were a signed up member of the criminal fraternity. Ignorance was no excuse. However, these days it is often easier to break the laws of the land than stay within them. There are so many rules and regulations to bind us that I'm sure soon none will have gold stars for behavious, we'll all just have black marks. I've lost count of the rules I've broken by mistake, and fines I've paid as a result...and it starts to make you feel you're a seasoned law-breaker...
My instinct is that our beloved, upright, honest politicians are driving towards a totalitarian state, with each citizen monitored 24 hours a day for their entire life. Fear has been a political tool in this coun try for a dozen or so years, and shows no sign of abating - even for serious issues such as swine flu, the information coming out of the government was designed to cause panic and fear. And most issues, Joe and Joanne Public are treated as guilty until proved innocent. And in case we think we're right, it's only because they know something we don't, so we're wrong and they're right
So I laughed until I fell off my chair at the problems of our Attorney General. I've nothing against Baroness Scotland herself, but as part of the Government she got nothing more than she deserved. I took the opportunity to try and find out what you need to do if you employ a foreign national, and not surprisingly it was a herculean task to work it out. I'm not Hercules, so am still not entirely sure. But what I did find was the documents I was supposed to read. And the nearest I got was List A and List B of documents which 'Provide an excuse'...which to me is the language of "guilty, but you can get away with it", rather than if you want to employ someone these are the documents you should have.
To me it feels that this isn't the country I was brought up to believe in. I wonder if the boy will be feeling the same in 34 years time.
End of rant. Normal service resumed soon.
Monday, 21 September 2009
What shall I buy?
I have a rule...in fact I have many rules. But the one that's important here is that if I ever get a parking ticket or something of that ilk, whatever the fine, then I will spend the same amount on a treat. I think it's the ideal solution to combat the immeasurable depression that's brought on by the thought of having to donate yet more money to the wasters that occupy many a town hall - with immediate and abject apologies to the public sector staff that do provide a genuine service to the community.
I think I mentioned a fortnight ago, a tenant managed to get himself from here to the States without a valid passport, meaning I spent my Saturday finding a key so his sister could get into the flat and FedEx his passport to him. On my return journey, my phone went, and I pulled over thinking it was the sister who had a problem. And therein lies the problem. I hadn't realised I stopped in an empty bus lane. As evidenced below.
It's cost me £60 (reduced from £120 for good behaviour), so I need to find a £60 treat. And convince myself that in future I should do anyone any favours. At all.
I think I mentioned a fortnight ago, a tenant managed to get himself from here to the States without a valid passport, meaning I spent my Saturday finding a key so his sister could get into the flat and FedEx his passport to him. On my return journey, my phone went, and I pulled over thinking it was the sister who had a problem. And therein lies the problem. I hadn't realised I stopped in an empty bus lane. As evidenced below.
It's cost me £60 (reduced from £120 for good behaviour), so I need to find a £60 treat. And convince myself that in future I should do anyone any favours. At all.
Wednesday, 16 September 2009
My hero
We live at the top of a hill. Quite a high hill actually. And the tube station is a at the bottom of it, about twenty minutes walk away.
Last night I had to take the tube home because SOMEONE had broken my scooter so it's spending a few days at the garage. I didn't want to go hime in my biker gear, so changed into the linen suit I keep at the office. As the tube got closer and closer to home, the rain got heavier and heavier. Monsoon is an understatement. I had no umbrella, and taxis are few and far between in our neck of the woods.
The boy rang (our tube line is above ground) to see how I was getting on....and without hesitation offered to walk down to the station with an umbrella for me.
How cool is that? He is my superhero.
Last night I had to take the tube home because SOMEONE had broken my scooter so it's spending a few days at the garage. I didn't want to go hime in my biker gear, so changed into the linen suit I keep at the office. As the tube got closer and closer to home, the rain got heavier and heavier. Monsoon is an understatement. I had no umbrella, and taxis are few and far between in our neck of the woods.
The boy rang (our tube line is above ground) to see how I was getting on....and without hesitation offered to walk down to the station with an umbrella for me.
How cool is that? He is my superhero.
Tuesday, 15 September 2009
Crash bang wallop
I've always puzzled at why people smoke, in the full knowledge that it's likely to finish you off early in a nasty way. I guess that at heart we're all gamblers. But I don't smoke.
On the road, I ride either my gorgeous Vespa or my staggeringly scary KTM (MLC - AG). I love the freedom and fresh air and seeing the tarmac disappear beneath the bike. In London, the Vespa is really the only way to get around - I can weave in and out of traffic jams and get from a to b in half the time of any other mode of transport...apart from the cycle. It's a lot of fun, but I'm pretty careful and get left in the dust by teenage tearaways who've just discovered the freedom that two wheels bolted to an engine can give you.
But there is an inevitability with bikes. At some stage, sooner or later you will come off. No matter how careful you are, it's as certain as bears pooing in the woods...
So I've never understood why anyone would ride without appropriate protective clothing. I suspect for boys/men a scar is proof positive of their manhood...like a big tattoo, but more painful to acquire. But it quite breaks my heart to see women/girls on the back of their boyfriend's bike with nothing more than a t-shirt and short-skirt to protect their modesty. I have a pair of motorcycle trousers and the label says, "Helps prevent muscle stripping." That's a powerful visual phrase. A friend told me that if you come off at 30 mph, it takes 0.3 seconds to go from skin to bone. Ouch, ouch, ouch. Sheer agony. And effectively irreperable. Not a good look in a bikini.
I've had three significant tumbles on the Vespa in the last seven years - the first was when I used to take the boy to school on the back. We skidded on gravel at the traffic lights and both tumbled off. I was completely unscathed, he broke his foot. He's forgiven me; I haven't. The second was at the bottom of the Lane, a car hurtled round the corner leaving me to slip on a wet drain cover into the bushes. I carried on to work, had lunch with a client and then went to hospital...and got my broken arm strapped up. No wonder I'd been sweating all morning. Today, I rounded a bend I've been on a thousand times. The wheels just skipped away from me as I crossed some gravel and I tumbled to the floor. I've severely broken my over-inflated ego, but apart from that the only injury is a bruised thigh. The bike is scratched and dented; it'll cost a pretty penny to fix (but not worth claiming on the insurance). My kevlar-reinforced jeans are scuffed, but fine. Hurrah. And the little widget for my phone is dented....deeply upsetting as I dislike my phone, so it would have been a good thing for it to have been flattened. The real peculiarity is that my shirt is ripped to shreds on the left shoulder, even though the jacket was unscathed. Odd.
Oh and sorry, Grandma in Cyprus, I know you don't like reading about these things
On the road, I ride either my gorgeous Vespa or my staggeringly scary KTM (MLC - AG). I love the freedom and fresh air and seeing the tarmac disappear beneath the bike. In London, the Vespa is really the only way to get around - I can weave in and out of traffic jams and get from a to b in half the time of any other mode of transport...apart from the cycle. It's a lot of fun, but I'm pretty careful and get left in the dust by teenage tearaways who've just discovered the freedom that two wheels bolted to an engine can give you.
But there is an inevitability with bikes. At some stage, sooner or later you will come off. No matter how careful you are, it's as certain as bears pooing in the woods...
So I've never understood why anyone would ride without appropriate protective clothing. I suspect for boys/men a scar is proof positive of their manhood...like a big tattoo, but more painful to acquire. But it quite breaks my heart to see women/girls on the back of their boyfriend's bike with nothing more than a t-shirt and short-skirt to protect their modesty. I have a pair of motorcycle trousers and the label says, "Helps prevent muscle stripping." That's a powerful visual phrase. A friend told me that if you come off at 30 mph, it takes 0.3 seconds to go from skin to bone. Ouch, ouch, ouch. Sheer agony. And effectively irreperable. Not a good look in a bikini.
I've had three significant tumbles on the Vespa in the last seven years - the first was when I used to take the boy to school on the back. We skidded on gravel at the traffic lights and both tumbled off. I was completely unscathed, he broke his foot. He's forgiven me; I haven't. The second was at the bottom of the Lane, a car hurtled round the corner leaving me to slip on a wet drain cover into the bushes. I carried on to work, had lunch with a client and then went to hospital...and got my broken arm strapped up. No wonder I'd been sweating all morning. Today, I rounded a bend I've been on a thousand times. The wheels just skipped away from me as I crossed some gravel and I tumbled to the floor. I've severely broken my over-inflated ego, but apart from that the only injury is a bruised thigh. The bike is scratched and dented; it'll cost a pretty penny to fix (but not worth claiming on the insurance). My kevlar-reinforced jeans are scuffed, but fine. Hurrah. And the little widget for my phone is dented....deeply upsetting as I dislike my phone, so it would have been a good thing for it to have been flattened. The real peculiarity is that my shirt is ripped to shreds on the left shoulder, even though the jacket was unscathed. Odd.
Oh and sorry, Grandma in Cyprus, I know you don't like reading about these things
Monday, 14 September 2009
Prat
Peter Mandelson today said added that Labour should have "the mindset of insurgents who are restless with the status quo, not incumbents".
Well that's alright then - insurgents in Iraq and Afghanistan are simply restless with the status quo. And it's ok to blow up British soldiers.
Well that's alright then - insurgents in Iraq and Afghanistan are simply restless with the status quo. And it's ok to blow up British soldiers.
Thursday, 10 September 2009
Hair today, gone tomorrow
Hair has been an important thing in our house. Last week alone I had to fork out £92 to have a man come and unblock the plughole because someone who'll remain nameless sheds hair like it's going out of fashion, and washes it down the sink. I'm off to Robert Dyas to buy one of those things you put over the whole to stop rubbish going down. This could be the best £3.50 I've ever invested.
Fortunately, the boy can afford to lose some locks because he has a fabulous mane, courtesy of his mother. Although peculiarly he's blessed with Grandma in Cyprus' eyebrows. Eyebrow. Looking after his hair seems to provide an endless challenge and fascination (I assume fascination is why he can't pass a mirror without a glance to the side, and a gentle fiddling with his hair for a few minutes thereafter). His concern for its well being is undoubtedly why we have half the world's stocks of hair gels, mouses, sprays, clays and putty spread around various rooms.
Here's a Christmas present from one of his school friends. Were they making a point?
His hair grows at a rate of knots, and it seems no sooner has it been cut then it's back longer and messier than it was before. Getting it cut is an expense that makes the mortgage look cheap. Once upon a time, when we went into the hair cutters (are they hairdressers or barbers these days?), he would say what he wanted to the barber, whilst I stood behind and indicated whet was actually needed. That used to get me into a lot of trouble, so I've stopped doing it. Sometimes though that means his direction doesn't always translate into the right end result. And the last cut left him with a long tail. Which he wasn't happy about. But failed to persuade the barber to resolve. So I have been brought in to sort it out. With my scissors. I don't want any comments about living in Essex must mean I'm a hairdresser. In the Sassoon stakes I'm more Siegfried than Vidal. Nonetheless, with a rusty, blunt pair of Ikea scissors, I have now chopped and hacked.
He's pleased, I'm pleased but I'm still wondering if the cuttings should have been shoved down the plug hole?
Fortunately, the boy can afford to lose some locks because he has a fabulous mane, courtesy of his mother. Although peculiarly he's blessed with Grandma in Cyprus' eyebrows. Eyebrow. Looking after his hair seems to provide an endless challenge and fascination (I assume fascination is why he can't pass a mirror without a glance to the side, and a gentle fiddling with his hair for a few minutes thereafter). His concern for its well being is undoubtedly why we have half the world's stocks of hair gels, mouses, sprays, clays and putty spread around various rooms.
Here's a Christmas present from one of his school friends. Were they making a point?
His hair grows at a rate of knots, and it seems no sooner has it been cut then it's back longer and messier than it was before. Getting it cut is an expense that makes the mortgage look cheap. Once upon a time, when we went into the hair cutters (are they hairdressers or barbers these days?), he would say what he wanted to the barber, whilst I stood behind and indicated whet was actually needed. That used to get me into a lot of trouble, so I've stopped doing it. Sometimes though that means his direction doesn't always translate into the right end result. And the last cut left him with a long tail. Which he wasn't happy about. But failed to persuade the barber to resolve. So I have been brought in to sort it out. With my scissors. I don't want any comments about living in Essex must mean I'm a hairdresser. In the Sassoon stakes I'm more Siegfried than Vidal. Nonetheless, with a rusty, blunt pair of Ikea scissors, I have now chopped and hacked.
He's pleased, I'm pleased but I'm still wondering if the cuttings should have been shoved down the plug hole?
Monday, 7 September 2009
50 not out
Today is the last day of the boy's summer holiday. All nine weeks of it. I know it's been nine weeks because his maths teacher told me on Saturday night after I danced with his wife. The maths teacher is looking forward to going back to school, I think the boy is too. He's spending his last day with his girlfriend. No doubt they'll take the dog for a walk in the Forest, and I hope Fido doesn't run away and get lost if his walkers are distracted.
We were at at 50th birthday party on Saturday night. This was not just any 50th party. This was an Essex 50th party. For the 110 guests, the champagne flowed all night. The marquee was large and luxurious. It did have a disco ball hanging from the centre. The waitresses kept us topped up with food and bubbly. The garden around was adorned with 750 sculptural lights which illuminated a 4' bronze sculpture of a running hare which had been specially commissioned for the celebrations. The talk was generally about life in the City, and a toast was given to 'the most important man in my life. The man who has made all this possible. Mr JP Morgan.'
The boy had been invited as a guest of the daughter who he's at school with, I was invited as a friend of the birthday girl. We were given a lift by the father of the boy's best mate, and he kindly collected us too. Whilst it made me feel young to be ferried around by a parent, it felt equally very uncomfortable too. As indeed did being the only singleton at the party, and having to respond to questions about where my partner was. The explanation that I didn't have one was met with astonishment, and I hung my head in shame. Next time I'll rent.
Not so long ago, I went to the 50th birthday parties of the parents of my friends, and it's taken the wind out of my sails a bit to discover that having gone through the engagement party stage, the wedding party stage, the house warming stage, the christening stage, the divorce party stage, I'm now at the half centenary party stage. Next it'll be the wake stage. And Grandma in Cyprus hasn't helpd by ringing to mention that it's Big Brother's fiftieth this year. I'd like to pretend there's a decade and more between us, but that would be a Big Fib. We count the difference in our ages in months, not years.
So Monday is not looking good - social pariah for not having a wife, and heading to my grave as a lonely old sod. I'm going back to bed and staying there. Or maybe it's time for fake tan,hair dye and a facelift. After all I do live in Essex.
We were at at 50th birthday party on Saturday night. This was not just any 50th party. This was an Essex 50th party. For the 110 guests, the champagne flowed all night. The marquee was large and luxurious. It did have a disco ball hanging from the centre. The waitresses kept us topped up with food and bubbly. The garden around was adorned with 750 sculptural lights which illuminated a 4' bronze sculpture of a running hare which had been specially commissioned for the celebrations. The talk was generally about life in the City, and a toast was given to 'the most important man in my life. The man who has made all this possible. Mr JP Morgan.'
The boy had been invited as a guest of the daughter who he's at school with, I was invited as a friend of the birthday girl. We were given a lift by the father of the boy's best mate, and he kindly collected us too. Whilst it made me feel young to be ferried around by a parent, it felt equally very uncomfortable too. As indeed did being the only singleton at the party, and having to respond to questions about where my partner was. The explanation that I didn't have one was met with astonishment, and I hung my head in shame. Next time I'll rent.
Not so long ago, I went to the 50th birthday parties of the parents of my friends, and it's taken the wind out of my sails a bit to discover that having gone through the engagement party stage, the wedding party stage, the house warming stage, the christening stage, the divorce party stage, I'm now at the half centenary party stage. Next it'll be the wake stage. And Grandma in Cyprus hasn't helpd by ringing to mention that it's Big Brother's fiftieth this year. I'd like to pretend there's a decade and more between us, but that would be a Big Fib. We count the difference in our ages in months, not years.
So Monday is not looking good - social pariah for not having a wife, and heading to my grave as a lonely old sod. I'm going back to bed and staying there. Or maybe it's time for fake tan,hair dye and a facelift. After all I do live in Essex.
Saturday, 5 September 2009
Dr Who?
Tenants. Who'd have 'em?
Today I've been running around after one of the tenants. Somehow he'd managed to fly to the USofA on an out of date passport. They let him in but they won't let him out. Which seems a funny way of going about it. Perhaps thats the approach all illegal immigrants should take. So I've had a continuous flow of calls from his mum, dad and sister as we tried to find a spare set of keys to the flat so that sister could go in and find his proper passport and FedEx it to him. They're all very grateful of course, but in these days of terrorists plotting to blow us up left right and centre, I'd love to know how you can travel half way round the world with an out of date form of identity. The same way I guess that when we flew to Germany, unthinkingly I had in my hand luggage a large bottle of sun tan lotion, after shave, toothpaste and deodorant. We sauntered through security at Stanstead, but the hyper efficient Germans at Munich wouldn't let me fly back with it as it wasn't in one of those see-through plastic bags - they must be very clever if they manage to stop an explosion.
Other tenant adventures having been rung up in the middle of the night once. "We've got no electricity" "Oh dear - have you looked in the fuse box?" "That's fine" "Oh, erm, erm" "There's no electricity anywhere" "You mean there's a power cut?" "Yes. We thought you could ring the electricity company and find out when it will come back on" "Feck off"
Or:
"My bicycle has been stolen" "Oh no - the flat has been broken into?" "No it was downstairs, outside." "Erm, oh. Was it locked?" "No" "Feck off"
Or:
"The heating's not working" "Oh dear, do you know if the boiler is switched on?" "Yes, its on" "I'll come round and have a look". When there, I look at the radiators "They're turned off" "Yes we did that for the summer". "You're an idiot"
Or even:
"Whenever we use the washing machine it fills up with foam" "How much detergent do you use?" "About four cups or five cups" "Have you ever done any washing before?"
and indeed:
"We've got no hot water" "Is the hot water switch turned on?" "No it's in the off position" "Oh really"
Even:
"There's no bed in the flat" "You specified you wanted it unfurnished so we took the bed away." "I know, but I want a bed" "Feck off"
And oh so many more....
Today I've been running around after one of the tenants. Somehow he'd managed to fly to the USofA on an out of date passport. They let him in but they won't let him out. Which seems a funny way of going about it. Perhaps thats the approach all illegal immigrants should take. So I've had a continuous flow of calls from his mum, dad and sister as we tried to find a spare set of keys to the flat so that sister could go in and find his proper passport and FedEx it to him. They're all very grateful of course, but in these days of terrorists plotting to blow us up left right and centre, I'd love to know how you can travel half way round the world with an out of date form of identity. The same way I guess that when we flew to Germany, unthinkingly I had in my hand luggage a large bottle of sun tan lotion, after shave, toothpaste and deodorant. We sauntered through security at Stanstead, but the hyper efficient Germans at Munich wouldn't let me fly back with it as it wasn't in one of those see-through plastic bags - they must be very clever if they manage to stop an explosion.
Other tenant adventures having been rung up in the middle of the night once. "We've got no electricity" "Oh dear - have you looked in the fuse box?" "That's fine" "Oh, erm, erm" "There's no electricity anywhere" "You mean there's a power cut?" "Yes. We thought you could ring the electricity company and find out when it will come back on" "Feck off"
Or:
"My bicycle has been stolen" "Oh no - the flat has been broken into?" "No it was downstairs, outside." "Erm, oh. Was it locked?" "No" "Feck off"
Or:
"The heating's not working" "Oh dear, do you know if the boiler is switched on?" "Yes, its on" "I'll come round and have a look". When there, I look at the radiators "They're turned off" "Yes we did that for the summer". "You're an idiot"
Or even:
"Whenever we use the washing machine it fills up with foam" "How much detergent do you use?" "About four cups or five cups" "Have you ever done any washing before?"
and indeed:
"We've got no hot water" "Is the hot water switch turned on?" "No it's in the off position" "Oh really"
Even:
"There's no bed in the flat" "You specified you wanted it unfurnished so we took the bed away." "I know, but I want a bed" "Feck off"
And oh so many more....
Thursday, 3 September 2009
Skeletons in the cupboard
I wanted to write about how rubbish Homebase is, but as I'm still fuming, I'm going to leave it until I've calmed down. By which stage I probably won't care.
Instead, here's a picture of the contents of the cupboards of our kitchen. There are two Maggies, a Ronnie and a Diana. If you're the first to find them, I'll send you one of the bottles of wine. Unless you're Grandma in Cyprus, in which case I'll bring it.
Instead, here's a picture of the contents of the cupboards of our kitchen. There are two Maggies, a Ronnie and a Diana. If you're the first to find them, I'll send you one of the bottles of wine. Unless you're Grandma in Cyprus, in which case I'll bring it.
Monday, 31 August 2009
Oberjoch
A totally, self-indulgent post....sorry! but I kind of wrote it as I went along...
From Wikipedia:
The Oberjoch Pass (1178 m) is a mountain pass in the Allgäuer Alpen just one kilometre west of the Austrian border. Between 1938 and 1945 the pass was caled "Adolf-Hitler-Pass".
Sunday
The day started a little earlier than planned due to usual restlessness I feel when staying in hotels. Our first challenge was to find the car rental office which had eluded us the day before. We scoured Bahnhofplatz top to bottom to no avail. A call was ignored so we asked in the toursit information office. With a wry smile he directed us to an office above platform 20. The girl behind the counter politely told us that yes thank you they knew the address on the web site was wrong. Inglorious basterds.
I sent a text to a friend across the other side of the globe. The reply I got was "what time is it over there?" 30 times I've had that now and still counting but like echoes in a cave or ripples in a pond when a pebble is dropped, with less frequency...12 hours later.
The boy and I have been having boyish giggles at the thought of going up to a chip vendor and saying. "Frites" to get the reply, "No my names is Hans". "yes Hans fritz". Well it makes us giggle...it hasn't actually happened. Yet.
Our journey to Oberjoch was lovely, even the detour was easily accomplished. An enormous traffic queue was caused by a helicopter landing on the road. We were both reminded of our mortality, as the bike the rider was on lay in pieces. At least he may have been alive as they don't send air ambulances to pick up the dead.
I shed a tear as we reached Oberjoch. A place I hadn't been to for 30 years, and one for which I retain a deep, deep affection. The hotel hasn't changed from when I worked here. There are still photos from the 1930's with swastikas flying outside the building and references to Adolf Hitlers visits. The boy and I smiled. An embarassed smile I think.
Tomorrow we conquer the Iseler.
Monday
We did indeed conquer some things today. And one of them was the Iseler. A mountain that 30 years ago I regularly bounded up like a mountain goat. In recent years I've struggled with heights, and so as the boy's levels of excitement increased as we neared the summmit, so did my levels of terror. In temperatures nearing 30 degrees I was still breaking out in a cold sweat. But a strange thing happened on ce we were at the top; all my fears disappeared completely, and I was able to bounce down the muntain with a smile on my face. Having got half way down we did re-ascend in search of an elusive mountain path much to the amazement of other hikers who clearly put us in the mad dogs and Englishmen category. Perhaps we should have said we are in training for the Olympics.
For some reason we are attracting Professors here. Up the mountain we chatted to a professor of agricultural sciences, and last night our meal was shared with a professor of physics and astronomy. Due to a slight misunderstanding he has gone away thinking that a torn ligament is simply known as a torn. My apologies, it could have been much worse. Enough of academia, tomorrow a mad prince
Tuesday
Today we travelled to the second of my places of employment in Bavaria. The Braustuberl in Hohenschwangau. There are also a couple of castles there - Neuscwanstein featured quite heavily in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Truth be told my memory of my time here first time round is a little hazy as beer was consumed from eight in the morning til three in the morning. I believe a good time was had by all; apart from the eels which were illegally fished from the lake and then dispatched with ammonia. Times haven't changed - we gathered three of the Irish workers had left this mornning after a particularly hard party the night before. We had sausages and chips from the Braustuberl whilst the rain poured down around us. Alpine storms are spectacular and well worth experiencing. i think the boy was pleased to see where I worked, to walk up the mountain and see round the castle. I know he loves his Bayrishe hat with feather that we bought - we went in every shop to make sure we got the right one.
Wednesday
Something new today...a gorge outside Oberstdorf. Stunning. Just stunning. As indeed was the pebble beach alongside the river where walkers had built hundreds of cairns from one foot high to upwards of six. It was as if the gnomes dancing at night had been caught by the sunrise and turned to stone. We added our own.
Thursday
Postcard writing day. But only if we can remember your address. Sorry Grandma in Cyprus you are in our thoughts, but we can never remember the address so we'll send yours when we're back in Blighty.
Thirty years ago I would climb the Hirsch Alpe, lie down and snooze in the afternoon sun. And get woken by a kiss from a cow. The boy was delighted when the cows seemed to want to continue the tradition. Very friendly indeed.
I also have to contemplate the value of the boy seeing his father in abject terror as we negotiated some fairly easy mountain paths.It's the vertigo thing again which puzzles and frustrates...I can see it's safe and all I have to do is put one foot in front of the other. But absolute panic ensues and the feeling of nausea is immense. The boy is very helpful and supportive which is appreciated more than he'll ever know. I'm determined not to allow it to stop me scaling new peaks.
Friday
We thought we'd go to another village, where I'd swam in the lake a long time ago, butit's a bit more developed so we just kept driving to Reutte, on to the Plansee, then to Oberamegau (the play's not 'til next year)and ended up at Schloss Linderhof - small but perfectly formed. We returned to the hotel, not knowing where we'd sleep, as we'd been told there wasn't a room for us (some confusion in the bookings. Over a glass of a potent burning schnapps, a room was found.
Saturday
The clouds came down, the rain poured and we bade our fairwells, drove to Munich. The question is if Dad and son walk into a shop and both see a leather jacket they really, really like, who should get it. Father and son require a different size. Perhaps they should buy one each?
Sunday
The English Garden - not sure an Oompah band playing away whilst everyone eats sausages and saukaraut and drinks weisse beer is very English. Absolutely sure that naked people in the middle of a public par playing volley ball is not English at all.
We arrived home, late, very late tired, but elated after I relived my history, and the boy discovered a new country. I hope he likes it as much as I did and still do. He certainly likes his new hat.
If you fancy popping round to see the our holiday pics, you're welcome...we took over 900 of them, so come well equipped.
From Wikipedia:
The Oberjoch Pass (1178 m) is a mountain pass in the Allgäuer Alpen just one kilometre west of the Austrian border. Between 1938 and 1945 the pass was caled "Adolf-Hitler-Pass".
Sunday
The day started a little earlier than planned due to usual restlessness I feel when staying in hotels. Our first challenge was to find the car rental office which had eluded us the day before. We scoured Bahnhofplatz top to bottom to no avail. A call was ignored so we asked in the toursit information office. With a wry smile he directed us to an office above platform 20. The girl behind the counter politely told us that yes thank you they knew the address on the web site was wrong. Inglorious basterds.
I sent a text to a friend across the other side of the globe. The reply I got was "what time is it over there?" 30 times I've had that now and still counting but like echoes in a cave or ripples in a pond when a pebble is dropped, with less frequency...12 hours later.
The boy and I have been having boyish giggles at the thought of going up to a chip vendor and saying. "Frites" to get the reply, "No my names is Hans". "yes Hans fritz". Well it makes us giggle...it hasn't actually happened. Yet.
Our journey to Oberjoch was lovely, even the detour was easily accomplished. An enormous traffic queue was caused by a helicopter landing on the road. We were both reminded of our mortality, as the bike the rider was on lay in pieces. At least he may have been alive as they don't send air ambulances to pick up the dead.
I shed a tear as we reached Oberjoch. A place I hadn't been to for 30 years, and one for which I retain a deep, deep affection. The hotel hasn't changed from when I worked here. There are still photos from the 1930's with swastikas flying outside the building and references to Adolf Hitlers visits. The boy and I smiled. An embarassed smile I think.
Tomorrow we conquer the Iseler.
Monday
We did indeed conquer some things today. And one of them was the Iseler. A mountain that 30 years ago I regularly bounded up like a mountain goat. In recent years I've struggled with heights, and so as the boy's levels of excitement increased as we neared the summmit, so did my levels of terror. In temperatures nearing 30 degrees I was still breaking out in a cold sweat. But a strange thing happened on ce we were at the top; all my fears disappeared completely, and I was able to bounce down the muntain with a smile on my face. Having got half way down we did re-ascend in search of an elusive mountain path much to the amazement of other hikers who clearly put us in the mad dogs and Englishmen category. Perhaps we should have said we are in training for the Olympics.
For some reason we are attracting Professors here. Up the mountain we chatted to a professor of agricultural sciences, and last night our meal was shared with a professor of physics and astronomy. Due to a slight misunderstanding he has gone away thinking that a torn ligament is simply known as a torn. My apologies, it could have been much worse. Enough of academia, tomorrow a mad prince
Tuesday
Today we travelled to the second of my places of employment in Bavaria. The Braustuberl in Hohenschwangau. There are also a couple of castles there - Neuscwanstein featured quite heavily in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Truth be told my memory of my time here first time round is a little hazy as beer was consumed from eight in the morning til three in the morning. I believe a good time was had by all; apart from the eels which were illegally fished from the lake and then dispatched with ammonia. Times haven't changed - we gathered three of the Irish workers had left this mornning after a particularly hard party the night before. We had sausages and chips from the Braustuberl whilst the rain poured down around us. Alpine storms are spectacular and well worth experiencing. i think the boy was pleased to see where I worked, to walk up the mountain and see round the castle. I know he loves his Bayrishe hat with feather that we bought - we went in every shop to make sure we got the right one.
Wednesday
Something new today...a gorge outside Oberstdorf. Stunning. Just stunning. As indeed was the pebble beach alongside the river where walkers had built hundreds of cairns from one foot high to upwards of six. It was as if the gnomes dancing at night had been caught by the sunrise and turned to stone. We added our own.
Thursday
Postcard writing day. But only if we can remember your address. Sorry Grandma in Cyprus you are in our thoughts, but we can never remember the address so we'll send yours when we're back in Blighty.
Thirty years ago I would climb the Hirsch Alpe, lie down and snooze in the afternoon sun. And get woken by a kiss from a cow. The boy was delighted when the cows seemed to want to continue the tradition. Very friendly indeed.
I also have to contemplate the value of the boy seeing his father in abject terror as we negotiated some fairly easy mountain paths.It's the vertigo thing again which puzzles and frustrates...I can see it's safe and all I have to do is put one foot in front of the other. But absolute panic ensues and the feeling of nausea is immense. The boy is very helpful and supportive which is appreciated more than he'll ever know. I'm determined not to allow it to stop me scaling new peaks.
Friday
We thought we'd go to another village, where I'd swam in the lake a long time ago, butit's a bit more developed so we just kept driving to Reutte, on to the Plansee, then to Oberamegau (the play's not 'til next year)and ended up at Schloss Linderhof - small but perfectly formed. We returned to the hotel, not knowing where we'd sleep, as we'd been told there wasn't a room for us (some confusion in the bookings. Over a glass of a potent burning schnapps, a room was found.
Saturday
The clouds came down, the rain poured and we bade our fairwells, drove to Munich. The question is if Dad and son walk into a shop and both see a leather jacket they really, really like, who should get it. Father and son require a different size. Perhaps they should buy one each?
Sunday
The English Garden - not sure an Oompah band playing away whilst everyone eats sausages and saukaraut and drinks weisse beer is very English. Absolutely sure that naked people in the middle of a public par playing volley ball is not English at all.
We arrived home, late, very late tired, but elated after I relived my history, and the boy discovered a new country. I hope he likes it as much as I did and still do. He certainly likes his new hat.
If you fancy popping round to see the our holiday pics, you're welcome...we took over 900 of them, so come well equipped.
Saturday, 22 August 2009
Achtung!
Well we're cheerily tucked up in our hotel after a day that started at 4.30 a.m. And now in the fatherland its 11ish. We were at the back of everything at the airport...queue to check in, queue for the luggage to be x-rayed an dsat at the back of the plane. But we were first onto German soil and first with our luggage and first to miss the bus to the city centre. no sonner were we at our hotel than we left to go to the specacular BMW museum. Well we are boys. We then toured the equally spectacular Olympic park which is being completely rebuilt perhaps for 2012. We had traditional Bavarian food for dinner, although the boy declined the opportunity to sample brain, lung or pigs knuckle. I can't think why. So far in the land where rules rule we've managed to jay walk in front of a police car and get threatened with a 500 euro fine for trying to take a picture of a tube train. The boy thinks its very clean and tidy and I wouldn't disagree in the slightest. Tomorrow we must find the car rental office which has eluded our efforts inspite of us having an address and a sat nav...the onwards journey could see us lost in the hinterland....
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)