Merry Christmas

A merry Christmas to everyone

The boiler man cometh

What a thoroughly splendid time I had at the School Carol Service last night. Feel that my performance should guarantee co-option into the choir next year. Of course, this is the first time I'd been back to the church since my first year at the school. The class had been taken there in the run up to Christmas to practice for the Service at which we would all sing. I was picked out to practice singing a solo. Obviously my angelic looks, and blond wavy hair made me the ideal soloist. Barely two bars in though, it seems my voice was not quite as angelic. I was halted in my tracks and returned to the massed ranks. I can't quite remember what was said to me, but what I can say is that ever since, I've loved listening to music, but barely sing above a whisper in case I cause mass offence. Amazing how a few poorly words can affect you for the rest of your life. Thank heavens for the Mulled Wine after the service.

We left the church to a blizzard...how fabulous is that...just the perfect start to Christmas.

When we arrived home I wandered off to take a couple of photos....everyone assumed I was indoors, so the front door was slammed on me, leaving me to ring the door bell to be let in.

This morning we woke to not quite as much snow as we were expecting...but it was still lovely and white, the tubes were still running, so no need to jump in the Jeep to get to the office. As I gingerly stepped across the drive, a man with a big smile on his face opened the gate and shook my hand. Yes he has come to replace our nearly 40 year old boiler. Perfect timing. There'll be no heat in the house tonight.

Skating on thin ice

With increasingly monotonous regularity, I am abandoning the boy at home whilst I'm out gallivanting. It's only fair. He'll be doing that to me soon enough, so I might as well get my revenge in first. As I'm not returning home to he smell of cigarettes, empty vodka bottles or used condoms, I assume he's still at the stage of gluing his eyeballs to the computer screen to chat with friends on MSN. My only worry last night when I called him to check he was OK was that his response to the question about food and evening meal was "I've just had porridge". I guess that's good training for University.

Last night I was ice skating at the Tower of London. As the snow started to fall yesterday afternoon, it seemed we were going to be blessed with a skate in enchanted surroundings being gently covered in snow flakes. What a shame then that the snow turned to drizzle and we just got soggy. Also a shame that I confused the Tower of London with Tower Bridge, so arranged to meet my friends south of the river, rather than the north. They thought the pub was an odd choice, and so indeed it was. But it wasn't more than a ten minute walk across the river in the rain and bitter wind. Our only delay was Tower Bridge being raised...we gazed on like tourists, instead of the weary Londoners we are who cross it every day.

Our skating prowess was unquestionably improved by the two large glasses of red wine we had before launching on to the ice. But for some reason we were a bit wobbly. I think the wine also helped minimise the impact of noticing that everyone else was still in the twenties. Clearly this is a young persons' sport. Apologies to my fellow skaters who I barged past when I didn't know how to stop.

Tonight it's the school Carol Concert. After our office Christmas lunch. I fully intend to be joining in and bellowing out some traditional Christmas tunes. Apologies to the boy in advance.

Dennis Severs

Last night we were out on a school night....well it is the season to be jolly. As ever nothing went quite a smoothly as it should....I drove into London having driven to Cheltenham and back for a 45 minute meeting at 12. I got a coffee, but not even the hint of a sandwich let alone something more seasonal. Jeeeeeeez.

Anyway, when I found where I needed to park, it had one of those meters that you can pay by phone. As I had no coins, it was a good option. It's a bit of a phaf (faf?) as you have to keep pressing digits on your phone. Did I want to park my motor bike? No. Did I want to park my scooter? No. Did I want to park a new vehicle. Yes. Please enter pin number or last four digits of credit card (FYI, the card was replaced a couple of weeks ago). PIN not recognised, please try again. PIN not recognised. Goodbye. Repeat six times. Sh*t, damn and blast. So I turned to the concierge on the door of the restaurant that I parked outside. Could they break a £5 note for me? "I'm sorry sir we don't carry cash here. But don't worry I'll look after your car. It'll be fine" And indeed when I returned the car was still there, and no parking ticket. I felt the need to tip him. By this stage I had just a £10 note, so he got that...somewhat more than the £1.50 it would have cost if I'd had the coins!

Anyway, we went to Dennis Severs House. Which is an amazing experience. Especially in the dark. Especially at Christmas. It's hard to describe what it's like....a sort of living, breathing museum. But don't look at the objects individually. Soak up the atmosphere, start to believe in and experience the 'story' Truly amazing stuff.

If you don't know anything about Dennis Severs, it is worth reading up on him. A real character. Here is his obituary...but it misses some of the madness of the man

Washing day blues

There are some things in life I just can't understand. Like how can a cat be alive and dead at the same time. You have to find out from Erwin Schrödinger here. Personally I'm a dog man, so prefer Pavlov's dog here

In our house we have neither cats nor dogs, but plenty of spiders to keep us company. And we've obviously done something to upset the neighbourhood fox, who insists on a daily crap right in the middle of our driveway. I don't understand why, surely he or she would prefer to do it in the woods. Like bears, or indeed Army cadets.

However, the thing that mystifies me most and occupies my waking day is why there is always, but always washing to do. We seem to put the machine on every night. And worse still that means there is always ironing to be done. I've mentioned that before. How can that possibly be for just 14 shirts, 28 socks and fourteen pairs of man pants a week? (Don't worry, I don't iron socks and under clothes). It completely drives me nuts...especially as we have no tumble drier, nor much space to hang the wet stuff to dry. I have tried to allay my suspicions that the boy uses the dirty clothes bin instead of putting his clean clothes on the shelves and in the drawers in his room. I'm told that's a harsh thought, but it keeps coming back. Like a bad penny. Especially because every time I put my head around his door, all I can see is clothes everywhere. Except in the wardrobe or drawer unit. The floor is the premium hanging space, with other items draped liberally over the ends and sides of the bed. I assume that when I say (shout) that I'm not cooking supper until the room is tidy, he achieves this by scooping everything into the laundry basket. Harsh but fair.

Losing my shirt

I'm never really sure about Christmas shopping. On the one hand, I love buying people presents, but on the other I'm always conscious about the budget, and on my third hand I know there are some people that should be getting presents that well just won't be....I'll run out of time energy and money, and then justify myself by saying "I won't be seeing them over Chrsitmas anyway"

This year it's been hard to get in the Christmas spirit...as much as anything because it just doesn't seem to be Christmassy. There is not a single Christmas light up on my route to work, and the part invites have been few and far between. May be I'm just a bit bah humbug.

However, this weekend was Christmas present buying weekend. So we headed for Brighton. Andd I'm delighted to say the place was festooned with Christmas lights...the most atmospheric being the ones down the North Laine, where a traditional Christmas still seems important. And not offensive.


I did quite well on the present buying in between stopping for coffee, lunch, coffeee, coffee and then coffee. Naturally I didn't feel it was right to be sepnding all this time and money on other people, without indulging myself. And I happened to spot this shirt:



The boy's response was that it was awfuland I should dress my age. Harsh. Very harsh. I called for a second opinion (how wonderful is photo messaging?!). Opinion was split 50/50, so I decided to vote again as the deciding vote. £75 later and it was in the bag. Time for another coffee. And as we emerged freshly perked, it was pouring with rain, so we grabbed a cab.

It was only as we went to bed some hours later that I realised that the shirt was missing. The only thing from the previous day's attempts to single-handedly boost the UK economy that was mine, and it had gone. We searched every nook and cranny. But it really wasn't in the flat. There were tantrums, there were tempers, there was stomping around, there was door slamming.

In the morning some frantic calls were made...to no avail. So the mystery is which lucky bstrd is going to have an early Christmas present of my completely inappropriate shirt?

It's a man's world

I'm concerned that in an all-male household, the boy is failing to grasp some of the important things in life. The things that make a man a man. Take last night, he grumbled he had a sore throat, "It's like I've got a tennis ball shoved down there" he said. He had some Benilyn and at precisely eight minutes past nine took himself to bed. Not a moan or a groan to be heard from him. Naturally I had been alll sympathy and understanding, "Oh dear" was my response. This morning he woke up and got up (before me as usual), managed to shower and fix breakfast before I could utter, "So how are you tthis morning" "Better than last night" he said.

So from this I have deduced that he has failed to grasp the concept of Man Flu. That horribly repelent illness that inflicts us men so badly. Swine Flu is as nothing by comparison. The aches, the pains, the nausea, the prospect of imminent death are all symptons,with only a long-suffering female to tend to your every need (whim) able to alleviate this marauding sickness.

I feel that the issue needs to be addressed in some way. But which way, or when I'm just not sure. After all I have no intention of taking over the role of Florence. But if he doesn't understand the rules, how on earth will he be able to grow up, marry and make someone's life entirely miserable....or at least a life of servitude and inequality?

Whilst the boy was suffering his own misery, I managed to avoid mine. Last night was ironing night. It was ironing night because the airing cupboard is full to overflowing with shirts, socks and man pants. Only the former get ironed. It is a task I loathe and despise above all others in my life. I do it as infrequently as possible, and then always under protest. Last night I incentivised myself by having a tumbler of red wine, known in our house as Vino Collapso. As it turned out that didn't motivate me. Nor did the big tub of Ben and Jerry's Pfish Food that followed. In fact I was tipsy and full, and went to bed with the entire pile left in the airing cupboard. Any volunteers?

There was a powerful smell of eau de cologne when we walked through the doors

Yes we must have been dining out in Chigwell. At a pub restaurant that was quite close in character to a Harvester. The difference being that the people were ever so smart and the car park was full of Porsches and Range Rovers. There were plenty of perma tanned blondes (with their wives), some shirts open to their waist (almost) and even the odd gold chain. This is the land where the local clothes shop has been known to receive an order by text from Rio Ferdinand...to the value of £31,000. Mind you with jeans a thousand pounds a pop, that's not too many items is it?

The food was.....well just about the same as you get in a Harvester. That's not fair. It was slightly better. My pork kebabs were fine. The wine was a Montepulciano. Although it didn't actually say that on the label. It did on the wine list. I'm not sure if that's quite right?

The strange thing about LaLa Land is that there's so much money sploshing about that you are border line poor if you only have one Porsche and one Range Rover on your drive. By comparison we live well below the poverty line. I was once pulled over by PC Plod on London Bridge for a 'routine check'. When he saw my address, his comment was that 'Even the poor people are rich there." I'm not sure if it helped or hindered my cause.

There is no appreciation of fine food around here at all. I find that bizarre. Plenty of tacky night clubs, and chain cafes. But not a decent gastro-pub or a not-quite Michelin starred restaurant. Not even the pub at the beauty spot of High Beech serves anything better than a dried up bacon butty or sausage and eggs.

The boy was abandoned at home to play with matches and sharp knives. He had a Waitrose steak and ale pie and oodles of mash. He may well have had the better meal.

Butcher, baker and candlestick maker

I'm sitting here with a sore head. Not a bear with a sore head. But one of those fuggy, thumpy heads that sits on top of a weary, sluggish body. It's not my fault. Last night I met up for the annual reunion with my old school chums. And we had a good turn out - there was eight of us. We religiously go to the Anchor & Hope which is a fine gastro pub on The Cut by Waterloo. We consumed beer and wine.

We're a mixed bunch these days, and I remember the first time we did it, sitting there thinking "What on earth am I doing with these conservative, middle aged men?". It took a couple of goes before I got it...even though I had been the one that had encouraged the get together. Of the eight of us 4 were divorced and four still married. My guess is that of the latter four only two haven't strayed.

Our group consisted of someone who is VERY VERY SENIOR indeed in Lloyds (insurance not banking). He earns more in a week than I do in a year. Footballers wages. And one day he will be at least a Sir, and probably a Lord, chest decorated with an MBE, CBE or OBE. He was always the sensible clever one who would catch the attention of the teachers. His career choice entirely suits him. He has achieved everything you would expect.

Then we have the banker who stumbled in his career and is now a regulator...but not on the mainland. He was head of house. Three years ago, he dropped me a line to say his marriage of twenty years was over. He didn't seem to know why, which distressed me. He was nonchalant, and asked for advice on where to find 'women'. The only thing I could offer was that after a period of 'chasing tail' he would get bored and want to find someone permanent in his life again. Last night he thanked me for that advice. He has indeed found someone to settle with.

There is the GP from the home counties. Married for all his adult life and very settled where he lives. As a boy, his parents were in the forces and moved regularly. He has treasured the certainty of life as a pillar of local society. A while ago, he and I went clubbing, but the allure of dancing with girls less than half our age soon faded. Even if we thought 'We still have it'

The entrepreneur who sells medical devices. Always has has a glint in his eye, and not even a bald head can diminish that. Now on his second marriage, and to the daughter of our old physics master. But for all his spirit and charm, he's not quite as successful as I would have expected. I'm not sure why - what is it that makes some people fantastically successful, and others not. Perhaps the roving eye applies as much in business as it does at home.

The Sikh who now has to be called by his proper name, rather than Ali which we knew him as at school. That has Muslim connotations. Many a fun hour was had stretching his starched turban fabric so he could wrap it round his head. He is charming, well mannered and restrained and I would trust him with my life. And it's interesting to remember with him all the things we all did as unruly kids, and compare that to the man we see now. I like that he is very much part of the clearly defined Sikh culture, but can still seamlessly join in with us. It is how it should be.

There is a garage door salesman. Never a great academic, but a good sportsman. Even thirty years later, the shortest email from him can take an hour to decipher. And his claim this year was to spend an hour on the Fourth Plinth, promoting the benefits of the Scouting movement. He has a special place in our hearts as it was he that inspired the boy to learn to swim.

And then lastly there was the boy who was rubbish at sports, rubbish at school work but remained a popular boy for his offbeat humour. All the teachers predicted he would go nowhere, and it is good that he has proved them wrong by rising to be a Director of a large insurance business. Happily married with two lovely children. And not only that, he runs, rides and swims triathlons. Which he started doing in his forties. That should be an inspiration to anyone. Good man.

Top of the class

I don't much care for school league tables in the same way I don't much care for hospital league tables, or any other league tables that the government has cobbled together in the last dozen years. Actually I don't like league tables full stop - given that my favourite football team is wallowing somewhere near the bottom of what I always used to know as Division Two. For me the Government's approach has led to box ticking, with a single-minded focus on achieving a good result irrespective of whether it achieves real quality or actually benefits the person going through the system, whether it's as a pupil or a patient. I've been told on more than one occasion by SOMEONE WHO KNOWS that actually the success or failure of a school is more to do with the number of parents who have middle-class attitudes to education and insist their children buckle down to the daily homework. Who knows, perhaps it's an urban myth....

I know at the boy's current school, they are limited in the number of GCSEs they can take because fewer A* grades is better than more subjects at a lower level of achievement...I'm not sure whether that is a good or a bad thing, but I know it meant the boy had to drop one subject he wanted to take further. In this case though, the restriction is nothing to do with government league tables, and more to do with the criteria that universities set for entry. Who knows, perhaps its just Oxford or Cambridge....

I happened to notice on the Beeb today I could check the primary school leagues...so I did, which is odd given that I have 15 hours work to do in less than eight, and I have no intention whatsoever of ever producing another mini-NB. And I can't help but admit that I was please to see that my primary school was in the Top 5 for Essex. I know you're not supposed to look at it like that. But I did. And I was pleased. This was my first primary school...the village one. The one that is now described as a 'community primary'...I don't know why they need to call it that...surely a village is a community?

I don't remember too much about it really...I think I left there for private education at about the age of 8. If I remember rightly, the termly fee was £45, and on one occasion I lost the cheque I was supposed to hand in. I think I was in a lot of trouble for that.

But back to my original school. There are only four things that come to mind. Once I left the classroom with a friend thinking it was play time. After hanging around in the playground for what seemed hours (but was probably two minutes), we decided we must be wrong and returned to the classroom, claiming we had gone to the toilet. I can't remember if we were told off for that.

Secondly I remember getting hit full in the face by a football. It stung beyond measure. I'm sure I didn't cry. Perhaps I did. I never enjoyed playing football after that. Nor rugby. Small things can be life-changing.

Thirdly I remember Mrs Newman. Or in fact Mrs Newman's classroom. Perhaps her name was Newcombe. It was a little while ago. The thing about her classroom was that it was a caravan. They call them Portakabins, but we all know that's a fancy name for a caravan. It was clean, modern and light and bright. Unlike the brick classrooms. What on earth I was taught I have no idea.

Lastly I remember during a noisy classroom session, someone put a drawing pin on my chair for me to sit on. A girl snatched it away at the last minute and saved me. I think I still love her for that. If only I could remember her name, what she looked like and her voice it would be perfect. Perhaps.

Toy Story

After weeks of procrastination and excuse-making, I finally managed to persuade my weary limbs to climb back on the bike to cycle to work. It had gone through a phase of not being quite right...not changing gear, flat tyres, broken hub, broken front cogs which gave me plenty of reason to stay on two wheels with an engine. Of course when it's a 16 mile journey, the weather has to be right too...not too much wind, or indeed rain (strangely I don't mind the rain too much, it's quite refreshing). Not that I've been entirely without cycling...in pursuit of the boy's quest for Bronze, Duke of Edinburgh Award, we have been making a weekly pilgrimage to the Redbridge Cycling Centre...but an hour round the circuit is not the same as a 32 mile round trip.

And many things have changed in the last few weeks - notably the Olympic site is going up at a pace...it's good to see. But one sad change is that they have started to knock down the old Lesney Industries factory. Lesney was, of course, the owner of Matchbox cars. And many, many a happy childhood hour was spent vroom vroom vrooming across the swirly carpet. Matchbox cars had the benefit of being pocket-money size and price, so whilst Corgi toys were bigger and better, they were reserved for Christmas and Birthdays. Hot Wheels were the great upstart...very fast when pushed hard, but most of their models bore no resemblance to any vehicle I've ever seen. So although the factory has been closed for many years, it feels that this is the passing of an era. Car games are now played on the screen with an X-Box or PlayStation - no doubt better in many ways, but I'm not sure it's quite the same experience. Perhaps it's time to pull up the arm chair and get out my pipe and slippers whilst downing a whiskey and reading The Times.

Down in Brighton, another era is about to pass. The boy's toy-room was emptied for redecoration, and now looks splendid, but rather more minimalist. The one toy that remains is the Playstation. The rest were loaded into boxes and sit forlornly in the dining room (well, there was simply no where else for them) waiting to be sorted into 'keep because it is still played with' (remote control cars, planes, boats, robots, and erm dinosaurs), 'keep because it has real sentimental value' (wooden train track), 'chuck because it's broken' (any expensive plastic must-have toy of the moment - Tracey Island) or 'give away' (everything else that's still working and in OK condition). That will be a challenge...especially not allowing sentimentality to get in the way of common sense - and I certainly don't want to be the victim of accusations when the boy is all grown up of "I can't believe you threw away that...I loved it". For the toys that are to be given away, I need to find the right charity...I already donate on a monthly basis to Save the Children, so am tempted to donate to the children of Palestine, who seem to suffer in an unreasonable and unbearable way. Any other suggestions equally welcomed.

Boys stuff

It's been a weekend of boys own stuff for us....

...in recognition of the end of summer (well it was hard to know when it started, so we've been holding on for sure recognition that it's come to an end) we put the hard top on the car. You probably won't recall, that earlier this summer we put the soft-top on. It was traumatic as I explained here May be I should have encouraged the boy to have had a healthier interest in Lego/Meccano/Airfix, but he's never shown any inclination. I think our car-building (re-building?) skills have improved, because it took us just 45 minutes to do. And we now have a roof that's good enough to keep out the Cumbrian gales. Not that we live in Cumbria, and that's fortunate at the moment.

We also managed a lot of sex this weekend. Perhaps I should re-phrase that.

Friday night saw us at Tate Modern, recalling the years when we used to live round the corner and used it as our local cafe. We wanted to see the black box...and indeed we did. But it was disapoointingly not that black really. So my suggestion to Nicholas Serota is to TURN THE LIGHTS DOWN. So we went upsatirs to see the Pop Life exhibition. Three rooms were given over to adult material, so the boy had to walk around with hands clasped firmly over his eyes. From my perspective, I've got nothing against pornography, but Mr Koons really you having sex with an italian blond is not in anyway erotic, nor is it art in anyway, sense or shape. It said nothing to me.

As the boy missed out on sex at the Tate, we went to see Breakfast at Tiffany's on Saturday (obv). All I can say is that most of the audience clearly thought they were still watching Brookside. Many arrived late, chatted through the first ten minutes and continued rustling their sweet packets throughtout the first and second halves. Nor did they laugh at any of the humourous bits....although given the quality of the acting it may be that more than just the man sitting behind me who had fallen asleep. Ms Friel did indeed appear naked as promised, so I hope that was a treat for the boy; she's certainly pert.

And on Sunday a return to yet more manly pursuits...cycling in freezing wind-blown rain. Afterwards we climbed into the car soaked through; frozen through and worn out.

Roll on a quiet weekend.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh

FRIDAY

"Have you got any homework?"

"Yes, some history, maths and geography. And I've got to revise for my French test on Monday. I'll revise in bed on Sunday"


SUNDAY

"How's the homework coming along?"

"I finished it all Saturday morning"

"Brilliant. That's good...so just the French to revise then?"

"Yeah, I'll do that in bed"

"Erm yes, if you're sure"


MONDAY AM

"Have a great day at school. Good luck with the French test"

"See you later"



MONDAY PM

"How was school?"

"Yeah, fine. All good"

"How did the French test go?"

"I have to do it on Friday with the people who have to retake it."

"Ummm. Erm. Why?"

"Well that's what I was told"

"So why do you have to do it with the people who are retaking it?"

"Because that's on Friday and I'll do it with them."

"But I thought you were doing it today?"

"No. Friday"

"Why are you doing it on Friday and not today?"

"Because that's when the people who are retaking it are doing it"

"So you're retaking it?"

"No I'm doing it with the people on Friday who are re-taking"

"But why didn't you do it today?"

"We don't have French on a Monday"

"But you said you had to revise on Sunday for the test on Monday"

"Yes but we don't have French on Monday. So I'm taking it on Friday with the people who are retaking it"

"When was the test then?"

"Friday"

"Ths Friday? I thought you said only the people retaking it were doing it on Friday"

"No Friday."

"You mean last Friday?"

"Yesssssssssssssssss"

"Well why didn't you do it on Friday?"

"I was at guitar practice. I have to do it when everyone who is retaking it does it. ON FRIDAY"

"Oh right"

*Bangs head repeatedly on wall*

Six degrees of separation

Poor AG, she foolishly offered to be my gig buddy. On the up side, we've been to see some great bands - Manic Street Preachers, Doves and Coldplay for example. On the downside, I didn't take her to the Kings of Leon. And she's never forgiven me for it. I don't blame her. Worse still, there have been some howlers - Echo and the Bunnymen you know it was you.

On Saturday, I'd got four tickets for McIntoshRoss. I hear "who?" echoing around the blogoshere. If you have a long memory, you'll remember Deacon Blue....Dignity, Choocolate Girl, When the World knows your name...and so on. McIntoshRoss is Deacon Blue lite. Just Ricky Ross and Lorraine McIntosh...and their backing band. Four tickets bought in haste, and I'd had several months to regret the decision. And most improbable that I'd find someone to tout them to. But it's a lot to spend on tickets, so I thought we ought to go, and poor AG got dragged along...and remained her usual cheerful positive self.

If you did maths GCSE ('O' level in my case) you'll have spotted there were two unused tickets. I offered them to a friend who is/was also a mad-keen Deacon Blue afficionado. Someone I've known for twenty five years and have stayed in regular touch with since, although I've not seen her for about seventeen. There was a period...I'd guess four of five years when we didn't speak. That was after we stopped being engaged. I felt the need to explain this to Auntie Gwen as we headed to the gig. Perhaps I should have mentioned it earlier. I'm sorry. Ex-fiance was bringing a friend, and we agreed to meet in the bar at Cadogan Hall. As we walked through the door, the friend offered his hand in greeting. "Helllo Nota, last time we met it was in less happy circumstances" he said. Indeed it was. I'd met him only once before. At The Boy's Mum's funeral. He was an old friend of hers. I think I kept my cool, though I'm not sure I managed my usual witty repartee. I wished I'd seen Auntie Gwen's face at that moment.

Nearly everything else pales into insignificance. Perhaps to complete the picture I should mention we drove, and I felt the need to park a million miles away, even though it transpired that we could have parked outside the front door. Fortunately AG has a remarkable ability to walk in high heels. Or perhaps I should mention the snigger behind me in the bar when AG said she would slap me. I turned round and said, "Don't worry, she's Glaswegian". "So are we chimed the three Glaswegians behind us"

The gig? Oh brilliant...loved it.