It's that time I'm afraid. It comes to us all. It's time to go our separate ways. To be honest it's hard, but it must be done. It's for the best.
The Cat's Mother, The Cat, Queen Anne and Hopeful are heading west. The Wild West. Well New York really. It's the same thing.
The Boy is heading North. The Far North. The Frozen North. Well The Lake District. It's the same thing.
I am heading East. The exotic east. The snowy mountains of France. It's the same thing.
The Cat's Mother is flying (of course - she couldn't go by ship as the Titanic evidently went down some time ago).
The Boy is travelling by mini-bus for his adventurous training.
And I'm going by train. From St Pancras to Albertville is 10 hours. It's my idea of heaven...I love train travel, and I've never crossed France in the daytime - when The Boy and I used to go by train we were always on the sleeper.
The Cat's Mother and the Cat will be staying in the Four Seasons. I'll be staying in a cosy chalet. And The Boy will be in a tent. Three of us have struck lucky and I don't envy the other.
The Cat's Mother will be shopping and enjoying the culture. The Boy will be yomping. And I''l be slipping and sliding.
But here's the thing we're all doing something we want to do. We'll all be with friends. And we'll all come back refreshed and looking forward to spending time together. Absence make the heart grow fonder.
Saturday, 7 April 2012
Friday, 6 April 2012
Right Said Fred
Are you a Harold Lloyd fan? Or Charlie Chaplin? Or Laurel and Hardy? At the moment I'm a fan of the two unnamed builders who are providing the entertainment in the yard outside our office.
To protect the innocent, names have been changed. Let's call them Bob (pronounced just as Black Adder pronounces it in the second series) and, in the interests of ethnic balance and diversity, Ali. I would make one of them a woman...but truly have you ever seen a woman builder? And I would, again in the interests of balance, make one of them disabled, but for reasons that will become obvious, that would be impossible. Whilst I try my utmost to be completely politically correct, I'm afraid I have to say that these two embody every stereotypical aspect of the traditional British builder.
Some months ago, I had to pop back to the office one night, but could only get there with an immense amount of difficulty due to the street being blocked by several fire engines and many hunky firemen. Blue flashing lights along the narrow street added to the sense of excitement. I couldn't smell anything nor could I see flames. But it was exciting all the same. So exciting that by the time I'd got home some 40 minutes later I'd forgotten all about it.
At the beginning of March, the narrow mews entrance to our office was blocked by a scaffolding truck for several days as athletic young men erected ever higher scaffolding on the side of the building. To make it even better, they also constructed a meccano-like frame which stretched across the roadway. This road way, which is already only just wide enough for a milk float is the route by which the rubbish truck enters and leaves the mews. Reducing the width meant our rubbish and everyone else's rubbish was not removed for long enough that we all started wearing nose gays. Eventually the truck decided it could get through, the rubbish was removed and all was happy again.
In the meantime, outside our office a large container (a ship container) had been delivered and next to it a skip. So you get the picture, our office is round the corner and a couple of hundred yards away from the building with the scaffolding. At the time I didn't relate the two.
After a few days, the container was slowly filled with an endless stream of building materials, and a few days after that Bob and Ali were to be seen bringing large amounts of waste material in a wheel barrow to the skip. Slowly it became obvious even to the dim-witted that this waste was coming from the scaffold-enclosed building. Some 200 yards away. It would be remiss of me not to mention that to the side of said building is plenty of open space; certainly enough to place a skip and a container. Perhaps Bob and Ali just want the exercise. Not too much though, as their wheelbarrow regularly dumps half its load on the roadway before it reaches the skip.
These days generally when there's building work going on at the top of a building, there is a shoot which looks to have been made out of colourful dustbins down which all the builders materials are ejected. Not in this case though. Every piece is lovingly carried down in either the lift or the stairs by Bob and Ali to the wheel barrow. It's a slow process. But that's good, because it gives us all something to watch and pass the day with.
It was only when Bob and Ali started bringing out burnt timbers that I suddenly associated the works with the fire engines all those months ago. I'm not that quick witted sometimes. I'm guessing that whilst the top flat was the one that was damaged by the fire, it is the firemen's water that has run through the entire building causing extensive damage inside and indeed outside. It looks as though the whole building is being replastered (this place was only put up in the last ten years), and it has been covered in wholes as surveyors poke around to see what damage has been done to the structure of the place. My feeling is that if I lived there, I'd sell up...it can't be good.
In the meantime, Bob and Ali are clearly on a tight budget. To avoid having the skip emptied too often, they're using sheets of mdf to create higher walls round the edge of the skip. This makes emptying material into the skip as the mdf walls are now above their heads. The waste gets piled up pretty high indeed. And when the skip lorry driver arrives there are filthy looks and the odd growl.
As a special floor show for a few days, Bob and Ali have, at the end of the day used their mobile scaffolding tower as a racing car. One pushes whilst the other sits on the top of the 15 foot tower like a gladiator...much the same way I loved to push The Boy around in a shopping trolley when he was two. And now I come to think about just like many a drunken exploit as a student a few years before that. Like all shopping trolleys this is somewhat less than controllable, and the highlight is seeing just how many parked cars they can just about avoid hitting. It's heart pounding stuff.
Sometimes, when they have larger stuff to move Bob and Ali use fill up their oversized Transit van. Loading it up, driving it the two hundred yards and then emptying it in the skip. The van is too big to manouevre into a parking bay, so it sits there blocking anything else coming in or going out. It's exhausting stuff - for us. On a daily basis there seems to be little squabbles erupting. We can never quite hear what they're about, and they never get too heated. It's just like a couple who've been married for decades and just need to bicker to keep things going. Our two heroes never seem to tire, never seem to move at anything more than a snails pace and at this rate will be here for ever. It's going to be a long hot summer and we're going to enjoy every moment of it.
*P.S. this post was really just an excuse to show the video (which of course doesn't even feature builders) which I saw on a daddy Blogger's page...if only I could remember who it was...sorry!
To protect the innocent, names have been changed. Let's call them Bob (pronounced just as Black Adder pronounces it in the second series) and, in the interests of ethnic balance and diversity, Ali. I would make one of them a woman...but truly have you ever seen a woman builder? And I would, again in the interests of balance, make one of them disabled, but for reasons that will become obvious, that would be impossible. Whilst I try my utmost to be completely politically correct, I'm afraid I have to say that these two embody every stereotypical aspect of the traditional British builder.
Some months ago, I had to pop back to the office one night, but could only get there with an immense amount of difficulty due to the street being blocked by several fire engines and many hunky firemen. Blue flashing lights along the narrow street added to the sense of excitement. I couldn't smell anything nor could I see flames. But it was exciting all the same. So exciting that by the time I'd got home some 40 minutes later I'd forgotten all about it.
At the beginning of March, the narrow mews entrance to our office was blocked by a scaffolding truck for several days as athletic young men erected ever higher scaffolding on the side of the building. To make it even better, they also constructed a meccano-like frame which stretched across the roadway. This road way, which is already only just wide enough for a milk float is the route by which the rubbish truck enters and leaves the mews. Reducing the width meant our rubbish and everyone else's rubbish was not removed for long enough that we all started wearing nose gays. Eventually the truck decided it could get through, the rubbish was removed and all was happy again.
In the meantime, outside our office a large container (a ship container) had been delivered and next to it a skip. So you get the picture, our office is round the corner and a couple of hundred yards away from the building with the scaffolding. At the time I didn't relate the two.
After a few days, the container was slowly filled with an endless stream of building materials, and a few days after that Bob and Ali were to be seen bringing large amounts of waste material in a wheel barrow to the skip. Slowly it became obvious even to the dim-witted that this waste was coming from the scaffold-enclosed building. Some 200 yards away. It would be remiss of me not to mention that to the side of said building is plenty of open space; certainly enough to place a skip and a container. Perhaps Bob and Ali just want the exercise. Not too much though, as their wheelbarrow regularly dumps half its load on the roadway before it reaches the skip.
These days generally when there's building work going on at the top of a building, there is a shoot which looks to have been made out of colourful dustbins down which all the builders materials are ejected. Not in this case though. Every piece is lovingly carried down in either the lift or the stairs by Bob and Ali to the wheel barrow. It's a slow process. But that's good, because it gives us all something to watch and pass the day with.
It was only when Bob and Ali started bringing out burnt timbers that I suddenly associated the works with the fire engines all those months ago. I'm not that quick witted sometimes. I'm guessing that whilst the top flat was the one that was damaged by the fire, it is the firemen's water that has run through the entire building causing extensive damage inside and indeed outside. It looks as though the whole building is being replastered (this place was only put up in the last ten years), and it has been covered in wholes as surveyors poke around to see what damage has been done to the structure of the place. My feeling is that if I lived there, I'd sell up...it can't be good.
In the meantime, Bob and Ali are clearly on a tight budget. To avoid having the skip emptied too often, they're using sheets of mdf to create higher walls round the edge of the skip. This makes emptying material into the skip as the mdf walls are now above their heads. The waste gets piled up pretty high indeed. And when the skip lorry driver arrives there are filthy looks and the odd growl.
As a special floor show for a few days, Bob and Ali have, at the end of the day used their mobile scaffolding tower as a racing car. One pushes whilst the other sits on the top of the 15 foot tower like a gladiator...much the same way I loved to push The Boy around in a shopping trolley when he was two. And now I come to think about just like many a drunken exploit as a student a few years before that. Like all shopping trolleys this is somewhat less than controllable, and the highlight is seeing just how many parked cars they can just about avoid hitting. It's heart pounding stuff.
Sometimes, when they have larger stuff to move Bob and Ali use fill up their oversized Transit van. Loading it up, driving it the two hundred yards and then emptying it in the skip. The van is too big to manouevre into a parking bay, so it sits there blocking anything else coming in or going out. It's exhausting stuff - for us. On a daily basis there seems to be little squabbles erupting. We can never quite hear what they're about, and they never get too heated. It's just like a couple who've been married for decades and just need to bicker to keep things going. Our two heroes never seem to tire, never seem to move at anything more than a snails pace and at this rate will be here for ever. It's going to be a long hot summer and we're going to enjoy every moment of it.
*P.S. this post was really just an excuse to show the video (which of course doesn't even feature builders) which I saw on a daddy Blogger's page...if only I could remember who it was...sorry!
Wednesday, 4 April 2012
Tutto coso sono buono...you won't grind me down Blogger!
I'm so upset. I'm so angry. I put up a post earlier today and its gone. Disappeared into the ether. Vamoos. It's kaput. It was there one minute, gone the next. it may not have been the greatest post ever but it was mine, and now it's as if it never existed. is there anywhere to contact Blogger? No. Not that I can find. How is it that a 'social media' organisation can't be contacted. Surely that's a pretty basic thing.
Anyway, I can't remember what I wrote, other than it was ABOUT LAST night when we abandoned The cat's Mother who was still lying ill in bed. The Cat, The Boy, me and The Muffins went to see Bugsy Malone as presented by Future Cinema. A fabulous experience best shown in this You Tube clip:
As I mentioned, no one got to see the end of the film as we all got involved in a cream pie and splurge gun fight.
Just the best...if only The Cat's Mother had been there with us!
Anyway, I can't remember what I wrote, other than it was ABOUT LAST night when we abandoned The cat's Mother who was still lying ill in bed. The Cat, The Boy, me and The Muffins went to see Bugsy Malone as presented by Future Cinema. A fabulous experience best shown in this You Tube clip:
As I mentioned, no one got to see the end of the film as we all got involved in a cream pie and splurge gun fight.
Just the best...if only The Cat's Mother had been there with us!
Monday, 2 April 2012
I'm sick of this
It seems that temporarily the petrol panic has abated. I was lucky to find some on Friday night when I left work...few garages had any fuel and my motorbike was running on fumes. Madness, utter madness.
The week end finished as it started - swimming in vomit. Friday night, The Boy and The Cat were at a party. The Cat stayed over, The Boy was brought home by three mates in a 'bit of a state'. In fact, as he was helped through the front door, he loitered long enough, head in hands, only long enough for me to ask his friends if he was all right. In a case of mis-placed loyalty, two said yes he was fine, whilst the third said "I wouldn't say that". The Boy then dashed/staggered past the bathroom (?!) and on towards the kitchen sink to empty out his stomach. The noise churned my stomach too. A few more heaves and wretches over the next twenty minutes seemed to be sufficient for him to want to stagger upstairs to bed, complete with plastic bowl 'just in case'. As dutiful father I popped in a few times through the night to make sure everything was OK.
In the morning it transpired that he'd first thrown up in the garden of the house where th party was being held. As it's the home of one of his teachers (the daughter is a classmate) he was sent round with a bunch of flowers and a card.
I have to say that I don't approve of all the teenage drinking that goes on. Yes I know, we all got drunk when we were young, but alcohol wasn't as freely available as it is now. More particularly, there seems a greater desire to drink as much as possible irrespective of the consequences. Adults seem more tolerant of teenage excesses (I include myself in this), and little attempt to educate the young on why too much alcohol is not good. The Government is bringing in a minimum price for a unit of alcohol, and that's a step (however I suspect most of the alcohol for this party was bought by parents anyway), but the enormous leap that is needed is an educational one I think. Am I just being 'parental' about it?
I may have mentioned before that where we live is a culinary desert. There's plenty of chain restaurants (an evening at Pizza Express is still my idea of heaven), but gourmet food is unknown. Last year we had a new restaurant open. The chef was from a top London restaurant and you could tell...the food was scrumptious. Briefly. In the course of the year, the service has become diabolical and the food is now well below par. It's a shame, but must reflect demand I guess. Also last year, a pub in the forest re-opened as a gastro-pub. Now I don't know what your idea of a gastro pub is, but I doubt it's this...gaudy interior decor and food that is 'boil in the bag' rather than home prepared in a busy kitchen by chefs that love their job. It's a big step forward from the drug dealing and bikers pub that was there before, but is still struggling to move itself out of the 1970s. It was to there that we repaired for a friend's 50th birthday celebration on Saturday night. I enjoyed myself immensely. I've never had a waitress put black pepper on my pate before, nor French role that's been sliced and left in the sun to dry out. I even enjoyed the boil in a bag cod and bashed potato, although almost everyone on our table left most of it. The rhubarb crumble was interesting, as you could lift your plate through 90 degrees and it wouldn't slide off. The look of horror on our hostess's face when she saw that no one was touching the food was a picture to behold, but I don't think it stopped her enjoyment.
And on to Sunday...The Cat's Mother has come down with the vomiting bug that is doing the rounds at the moment. We tended to her every need (not hard as she wanted to be left alone with a glass of water as she repeated The Boy's Friday night performance). I was banished to the top floor guest bedroom as she doesn't want me catching it just before the Easter break...a nice thought, but I suspect that if I'm going to get it, I'm going to get it. I hope not as the noises coming out of the bathroom might well have come from Nightmare om Elm Street.
The week end finished as it started - swimming in vomit. Friday night, The Boy and The Cat were at a party. The Cat stayed over, The Boy was brought home by three mates in a 'bit of a state'. In fact, as he was helped through the front door, he loitered long enough, head in hands, only long enough for me to ask his friends if he was all right. In a case of mis-placed loyalty, two said yes he was fine, whilst the third said "I wouldn't say that". The Boy then dashed/staggered past the bathroom (?!) and on towards the kitchen sink to empty out his stomach. The noise churned my stomach too. A few more heaves and wretches over the next twenty minutes seemed to be sufficient for him to want to stagger upstairs to bed, complete with plastic bowl 'just in case'. As dutiful father I popped in a few times through the night to make sure everything was OK.
In the morning it transpired that he'd first thrown up in the garden of the house where th party was being held. As it's the home of one of his teachers (the daughter is a classmate) he was sent round with a bunch of flowers and a card.
I have to say that I don't approve of all the teenage drinking that goes on. Yes I know, we all got drunk when we were young, but alcohol wasn't as freely available as it is now. More particularly, there seems a greater desire to drink as much as possible irrespective of the consequences. Adults seem more tolerant of teenage excesses (I include myself in this), and little attempt to educate the young on why too much alcohol is not good. The Government is bringing in a minimum price for a unit of alcohol, and that's a step (however I suspect most of the alcohol for this party was bought by parents anyway), but the enormous leap that is needed is an educational one I think. Am I just being 'parental' about it?
I may have mentioned before that where we live is a culinary desert. There's plenty of chain restaurants (an evening at Pizza Express is still my idea of heaven), but gourmet food is unknown. Last year we had a new restaurant open. The chef was from a top London restaurant and you could tell...the food was scrumptious. Briefly. In the course of the year, the service has become diabolical and the food is now well below par. It's a shame, but must reflect demand I guess. Also last year, a pub in the forest re-opened as a gastro-pub. Now I don't know what your idea of a gastro pub is, but I doubt it's this...gaudy interior decor and food that is 'boil in the bag' rather than home prepared in a busy kitchen by chefs that love their job. It's a big step forward from the drug dealing and bikers pub that was there before, but is still struggling to move itself out of the 1970s. It was to there that we repaired for a friend's 50th birthday celebration on Saturday night. I enjoyed myself immensely. I've never had a waitress put black pepper on my pate before, nor French role that's been sliced and left in the sun to dry out. I even enjoyed the boil in a bag cod and bashed potato, although almost everyone on our table left most of it. The rhubarb crumble was interesting, as you could lift your plate through 90 degrees and it wouldn't slide off. The look of horror on our hostess's face when she saw that no one was touching the food was a picture to behold, but I don't think it stopped her enjoyment.
And on to Sunday...The Cat's Mother has come down with the vomiting bug that is doing the rounds at the moment. We tended to her every need (not hard as she wanted to be left alone with a glass of water as she repeated The Boy's Friday night performance). I was banished to the top floor guest bedroom as she doesn't want me catching it just before the Easter break...a nice thought, but I suspect that if I'm going to get it, I'm going to get it. I hope not as the noises coming out of the bathroom might well have come from Nightmare om Elm Street.
Friday, 30 March 2012
It's Ma'm as in jam
There's no doubting that Dave 'pasty' Cameron and his team of muppets has helped create a fuel crisis. Suggesting that we all keep jerry cans at home has driven petrol sales through the roof. But equally, there is a real problem with the British mind-set which is equally to blame. It was the same with Olympic tickets...there was a panic to snap the things up - people were ordering £thousands of tickets, even for sports they weren't interested in. The result has been that millions have missed out altogether. And lots of people have been lumbered with tickets that in truth they don't really want. I suspect, that this is, in part, a symptom of an overcrowded island; it is certainly a sign of an neurotic and insecure population which moves from one panic to another. The reason for this I am convinced is because throughout the years of rule by New Labour, there was a policy of rule by fear...a form of state-sponsored terrorism... constantly they communicated one threat to us after another so they could then show how they had 'saved the day'. It was a good technique for keeping votes and keeping the population in check. Clearly it worked and is an approach which the coalition has adopted. As I rode in on my motorbike this morning, the fuel tank warning light came on. So far I've been to two garages to put in petrol that I need to get to a meeting and then home without luck. Panic buying has created quite a mini-crisis for me.
Last night we went to see 'She Stoops To Conquer' - another live streaming by the National Theatre. It's a lively period romp which pales by comparison to last year's classics London Assurance and One Man Two Guv'nors, but provided a good evening's entertainment. We'd booked tickets for the cinema at 'Olympic' Stratford, only to discover that it was on at our local cinema...I bet it was on at yours too. Keep an eye open for them as they really do bring a new experience. The live streaming concept has evolved quite significantly since we first saw one last year...and now instead of a static camera, you get several cameras, close ups and a real sense that someone has thought about production values. Where it really works is that you can much more clearly see the expressions on the actors' faces and as the Oldies with us said "I could actually hear everything". Everyone came home happy at a good evening's entertainment.
In her jubilee year, the Queen is touring around to meet and greet her subjects. I'm not a royalist, but I know it creates a lot of excitement and happiness. Yesterday she popped off to Valentines Park in Ilford to be greeted by 1500 school children and 10,000 other loyal subjects. Among them was The Boy in full army cadet uniform. He's spent weeks polishing his boots, creating a shortage of polish in our local Waitrose. It would be an understatement to say that you could see your face in them. He looked very smart indeed in his uniform, and was clearly delighted to be going. I was delighted for him, and even more delighted to receive a text "I SAW THE QUEEN!!! SHE WAVED!!! Which only goes to show that just because you don't agree with something doesn't mean that it isn't a good thing. Ma'm.
Last night we went to see 'She Stoops To Conquer' - another live streaming by the National Theatre. It's a lively period romp which pales by comparison to last year's classics London Assurance and One Man Two Guv'nors, but provided a good evening's entertainment. We'd booked tickets for the cinema at 'Olympic' Stratford, only to discover that it was on at our local cinema...I bet it was on at yours too. Keep an eye open for them as they really do bring a new experience. The live streaming concept has evolved quite significantly since we first saw one last year...and now instead of a static camera, you get several cameras, close ups and a real sense that someone has thought about production values. Where it really works is that you can much more clearly see the expressions on the actors' faces and as the Oldies with us said "I could actually hear everything". Everyone came home happy at a good evening's entertainment.
In her jubilee year, the Queen is touring around to meet and greet her subjects. I'm not a royalist, but I know it creates a lot of excitement and happiness. Yesterday she popped off to Valentines Park in Ilford to be greeted by 1500 school children and 10,000 other loyal subjects. Among them was The Boy in full army cadet uniform. He's spent weeks polishing his boots, creating a shortage of polish in our local Waitrose. It would be an understatement to say that you could see your face in them. He looked very smart indeed in his uniform, and was clearly delighted to be going. I was delighted for him, and even more delighted to receive a text "I SAW THE QUEEN!!! SHE WAVED!!! Which only goes to show that just because you don't agree with something doesn't mean that it isn't a good thing. Ma'm.
Thursday, 29 March 2012
The Most Incredible Thing
I love the arrogance of the young.
This week there's been a work experience lad in the office. He's a confident lad. Very confident indeed. Which is a good thing. He's quick too, and that's a quality to be admired. But he's so quick that the number keys on the door keypad entry lock can't keep up, so the door remains stubbornly closed when he wants to come in. Eventually he has to ring the bell for someone to let him in. Of course he's not sheepish about that, he rants that the door lock is rubbish, it doesn't work and it's stupid. The fact that he is the ONLY person in the office that can't use the keyboard doesn't matter to him. He's right, the world is wrong. We shouldn't snigger should we?
You can't knock the Pet Shop Boys can you? From West End Girls onwards they've knocked out some pretty impressive and memorable tunes which have kept me and many others listening for I guess thirty years. So it was with a degree of curiosity that The Cat's Mother and I decided to go and see their ballet at Sadlers Wells this week. It's based on a Hans Christian Anderson tale about a king who offers half his kingdom and his daughter's hand in marriage to the creator of The Most Incredible Thing. As ever, this isn't a full review, just my musings. We both quite enjoyed it, but couldn't quite see why it has won awards. Although a dance piece, which meant the story is pretty straight forward, they decided that we needed sub-titles...I guess they recognised that they had to appeal to a non-Sadlers Well type audience. The interval was in the wrong place, by about ten minutes - it came right slap bang in the middle of a scene, and would have worked slightly later when there was so obviously a natural pause. The music was generally Pet Shop Boys ish, which worked well in places, but got a bit tedious in others. The music that didn't work well was the pieces that were very unPet Shop Boyish. The only thing was set in a Stalinist style society, which when I think about it was slightly odd given that it was ruled by a kindly fairytale king. There were some great scenes - the opening one for example, the wedding, and when the Princess was dancing to a song by her favourite popstar who's image - we watched from the outside with the idol's image being projected onto the walls, and some overly-long ones (the magical clock lost some of its magic after a while). If you're in town, it's probably worth seeing, and there are plenty of tickets available. If you want to know more, this is a seriously long documentary You Tube clip, so only watch it if you've poured yourself a large Gin and Tonic...I've not managed to get through it myself
Our celebrity spotting included Janet Street Porter who followed us to the bar on the second floor after we'd been papped together and Chris and Neil who sat four seats in front of us. They seemed to be enjoying themselves...and lets face it if they didn't who else would? The rest of the audience was made up of alternately the usual Sadlers Wells crowd (why is it that each theatre has a sort of rentacrowd?) and Pet Shop Boys fans. I would say groupies, but as they were girls, I'm not sure the boys would be too interested...some were planning to see it several times during its very short run this year.
There's a couple of ship-related anniversaries at the moment - one is the raid on St Nazaire during WW2. It was not something I was not aware of until my girlfriend at University took me home to meet her parents. Her father was a veteran, and was very proud of his exploits - he maintained close links with the veterans association. I was at an age when the war seemed like ancient history, and I never really showed the sort of interest that I should. If I'd not been quite so self-absorbed, I'd have looked it up so I could talk to him about it. But in those days there was no Google and research was not the thirty second thing it is now. I guess the same must be true of today's youths when confronted with the numerous wars that we've been involved in in recent years. Essentially Operation Chariot involved ramming a ship, the Cambelltown into the dock gates at St Nazaire and then blowing it up to make the docks unusable by the great German warship the Tirpitz. It was the sort of madcap thing that is the story of legends, but wouldn't happen now. The objective was achieved, but inevitably at great loss. As I read today, one of those that died shared my family name. It has provided an interesting and thought provoking link back to the bravery of the past.
The other anniversary is that of the sinking of the Titanic on which comes up on the14th April 2012. No wonder Titanic 3D has been released at the cinemas. I still haven't managed to see it, and I can't imagine I will this time round., but there's always profit to be made out of tragedy. That is also the case of the trustees and debenture holders of the Albert Hall who have been touting their allocation of tickets for the Teenage Cancer Trust. Some people have no conscience.
This week there's been a work experience lad in the office. He's a confident lad. Very confident indeed. Which is a good thing. He's quick too, and that's a quality to be admired. But he's so quick that the number keys on the door keypad entry lock can't keep up, so the door remains stubbornly closed when he wants to come in. Eventually he has to ring the bell for someone to let him in. Of course he's not sheepish about that, he rants that the door lock is rubbish, it doesn't work and it's stupid. The fact that he is the ONLY person in the office that can't use the keyboard doesn't matter to him. He's right, the world is wrong. We shouldn't snigger should we?
You can't knock the Pet Shop Boys can you? From West End Girls onwards they've knocked out some pretty impressive and memorable tunes which have kept me and many others listening for I guess thirty years. So it was with a degree of curiosity that The Cat's Mother and I decided to go and see their ballet at Sadlers Wells this week. It's based on a Hans Christian Anderson tale about a king who offers half his kingdom and his daughter's hand in marriage to the creator of The Most Incredible Thing. As ever, this isn't a full review, just my musings. We both quite enjoyed it, but couldn't quite see why it has won awards. Although a dance piece, which meant the story is pretty straight forward, they decided that we needed sub-titles...I guess they recognised that they had to appeal to a non-Sadlers Well type audience. The interval was in the wrong place, by about ten minutes - it came right slap bang in the middle of a scene, and would have worked slightly later when there was so obviously a natural pause. The music was generally Pet Shop Boys ish, which worked well in places, but got a bit tedious in others. The music that didn't work well was the pieces that were very unPet Shop Boyish. The only thing was set in a Stalinist style society, which when I think about it was slightly odd given that it was ruled by a kindly fairytale king. There were some great scenes - the opening one for example, the wedding, and when the Princess was dancing to a song by her favourite popstar who's image - we watched from the outside with the idol's image being projected onto the walls, and some overly-long ones (the magical clock lost some of its magic after a while). If you're in town, it's probably worth seeing, and there are plenty of tickets available. If you want to know more, this is a seriously long documentary You Tube clip, so only watch it if you've poured yourself a large Gin and Tonic...I've not managed to get through it myself
Our celebrity spotting included Janet Street Porter who followed us to the bar on the second floor after we'd been papped together and Chris and Neil who sat four seats in front of us. They seemed to be enjoying themselves...and lets face it if they didn't who else would? The rest of the audience was made up of alternately the usual Sadlers Wells crowd (why is it that each theatre has a sort of rentacrowd?) and Pet Shop Boys fans. I would say groupies, but as they were girls, I'm not sure the boys would be too interested...some were planning to see it several times during its very short run this year.
There's a couple of ship-related anniversaries at the moment - one is the raid on St Nazaire during WW2. It was not something I was not aware of until my girlfriend at University took me home to meet her parents. Her father was a veteran, and was very proud of his exploits - he maintained close links with the veterans association. I was at an age when the war seemed like ancient history, and I never really showed the sort of interest that I should. If I'd not been quite so self-absorbed, I'd have looked it up so I could talk to him about it. But in those days there was no Google and research was not the thirty second thing it is now. I guess the same must be true of today's youths when confronted with the numerous wars that we've been involved in in recent years. Essentially Operation Chariot involved ramming a ship, the Cambelltown into the dock gates at St Nazaire and then blowing it up to make the docks unusable by the great German warship the Tirpitz. It was the sort of madcap thing that is the story of legends, but wouldn't happen now. The objective was achieved, but inevitably at great loss. As I read today, one of those that died shared my family name. It has provided an interesting and thought provoking link back to the bravery of the past.
The other anniversary is that of the sinking of the Titanic on which comes up on the14th April 2012. No wonder Titanic 3D has been released at the cinemas. I still haven't managed to see it, and I can't imagine I will this time round., but there's always profit to be made out of tragedy. That is also the case of the trustees and debenture holders of the Albert Hall who have been touting their allocation of tickets for the Teenage Cancer Trust. Some people have no conscience.
Wednesday, 28 March 2012
I fancy a pretty little Italian
Like all young men I lusted for a sports car. Something mid-engined and Italian. In my early years working for firstly Austin-Rover (as it was then) I was restricted to a company made car...hence an MG Metro was the best I managed. My next job was with Nissan when most people still called it Datsun and every week we'd receive threatening letters from war veterans. The management were somewhat more relaxed, recognising as they did that Datsun's were not made for thrusting young executives. So not too many eyebrows were raised when I turned up driving a Lancia Monte Carlo. Which looked something like this
It was beautiful, bright shiny red and for the cynics amongst you, not a hint of rust to be found. I loved driving it, with the engine behind my head. Like all Italian mid-engined sports cars it had its problems. The best documented (apart from the rust issue) was the braking performance. But that didn't stop me driving it like a sports car should be driven and as only a young man knows how to. One night, I was driving down the country roads of Sussex, and I didn't steer the car round the corner as it should. In fact the tail whipped out, and then back and then out again and we careered up the grassy bank which did a very good job of flipping the car over on its roof before we eventually landed in the hedge the right way up. As we climbed out we saw that we had stopped literally half a dozen feet from the edge of a quarry. Luck was on our side.
May be I should have learnt my lesson, but I didn't and when he insurance company wrote it off, I went and found another one. This time in silver:
It wasn't quite so bright and shiny, and mechanically it had a habit of breaking down. On reflection it was a bad habit really. But I loved it, and I still think it's one of the most beautiful cars I've ever seen. It took The Boy's mother to hospital on the night she gave birth. Ridiculous really, but I couldn't give it up. I drove it for a few years more before I was presented with a company car. At that point it became surplus to requirements and sensibly it would have been sold. But I didn't. It went into storage whilst I harboured dreams of getting it rebuilt and back to original condition. Weeks rolled into months which rolled into years and I never quite managed to find the money to get it sorted. But my enthusiasm never waned. Ridiculous.
But then last week the garage rang to say that one of their other customers was looking for a project, and would I be interested in selling it. Oddly this had quite an upsetting effect on me. I can't think why really. So now it is decision time. Do I sell, or do I do what I've always threatened? Spend what I suspect will be a small fortune to refurbish a car that will never be worth very much. Of course the decision is obvious, simple and easy. But I haven't yet worked out what to do. Men and cars. Ridiculous.
It was beautiful, bright shiny red and for the cynics amongst you, not a hint of rust to be found. I loved driving it, with the engine behind my head. Like all Italian mid-engined sports cars it had its problems. The best documented (apart from the rust issue) was the braking performance. But that didn't stop me driving it like a sports car should be driven and as only a young man knows how to. One night, I was driving down the country roads of Sussex, and I didn't steer the car round the corner as it should. In fact the tail whipped out, and then back and then out again and we careered up the grassy bank which did a very good job of flipping the car over on its roof before we eventually landed in the hedge the right way up. As we climbed out we saw that we had stopped literally half a dozen feet from the edge of a quarry. Luck was on our side.
May be I should have learnt my lesson, but I didn't and when he insurance company wrote it off, I went and found another one. This time in silver:
It wasn't quite so bright and shiny, and mechanically it had a habit of breaking down. On reflection it was a bad habit really. But I loved it, and I still think it's one of the most beautiful cars I've ever seen. It took The Boy's mother to hospital on the night she gave birth. Ridiculous really, but I couldn't give it up. I drove it for a few years more before I was presented with a company car. At that point it became surplus to requirements and sensibly it would have been sold. But I didn't. It went into storage whilst I harboured dreams of getting it rebuilt and back to original condition. Weeks rolled into months which rolled into years and I never quite managed to find the money to get it sorted. But my enthusiasm never waned. Ridiculous.
But then last week the garage rang to say that one of their other customers was looking for a project, and would I be interested in selling it. Oddly this had quite an upsetting effect on me. I can't think why really. So now it is decision time. Do I sell, or do I do what I've always threatened? Spend what I suspect will be a small fortune to refurbish a car that will never be worth very much. Of course the decision is obvious, simple and easy. But I haven't yet worked out what to do. Men and cars. Ridiculous.
Monday, 26 March 2012
Mad March
Rather than concentrate on the road this morning as I rode along on my motorcycle in the rush hour traffic, I was pondering the ups and downs of changing the clocks. The Monday morning traffic was pretty distracted, and quite dangerous as everyone was still half asleep. Although our bedside clock changes automatically, it didn't stop us waking up in a panic on Sunday morning, run around the house until we'd satisfied ourselves that we weren't running an hour late. I can't wait for Scottish independence, then we won't have all those pesky farmers in the northern wastelands preventing reform of the summertime issue.
Have you ever laughed at a funeral? Me neither, but I did the equivalent of it yesterday. I'm still mortified. And it has confirmed all The Cat's worst fears about me. Oops.
Friday night we headed up to the Suffolk coast. After a previous experience of heading towards east Anglia using The Cat's Mother's built in navigational skills, we turned on the Garmin Sat Nav to ensure we arrived without getting lost and in good time. Both objectives were achieved. Aldeburgh is a terrific place...managing to combine oldie worldy charm with oldie worldy charm perfectly...narrow streets, little cottages and not a Starbucks to be found. If you're ever in that direction I can highly recommend a stay at the Brudenell Hotel...the rooms were fabulous. It appears you can take the girl out of Essex, but you can't take Essex out of the girl. As we dined, the table behind us was occupied by people who could have stepped straight out of The Only Way is Essex...bleached blonde blokes and bronzed girls in tight dresses that nearly reached their legs. It was 'proper home from home'.
If we'd known in advance there are just twenty hares on Havergate island we'd probably not have booked...after all the island is 7.5km long, so it would be a bit like finding a needle in a haystack. As it turns out twenty is more than enough, as they all tend to congregate together in one area. The first thing we saw when we stepped off the boat was a hare, so sometimes ignorance is bliss. They were introduced to the island by the farming community there, and stayed long after the farmers had gone. The salty environment is not actually good for them, so they have a life span just 70% of hares in more traditional hare country. The RSPB have a policy of non-intervention, which means the population stays pretty stable...as nature intended. They have no real predators there, although just occasionally a fox will reach the island (although it was never quite explained how) and will do what foxes do best.
We got to and from there in a little boat, and it was a pleasure not to be forced to wear life jackets by the health and safety Nazis in either direction. The sun shone and the gentle breeze made it a very pleasant little trip.
As it turns out twenty is more than enough, as they all tend to congregate together in one area. So we were able to spend a couple of hours watching them...sadly none of them boxed. But then when there's only twenty I guess fighting off a suitor is probably not advisable. They keep it in the family.
They generally sat around eating, didn't appear to be too bothered by our presence and when they decided to move, appeared to have only one speed - lightening fast. Beautiful. I've stolen some great pictures The Cat took and added them to mine so you can get a flavour of our delightful day.
Have you ever laughed at a funeral? Me neither, but I did the equivalent of it yesterday. I'm still mortified. And it has confirmed all The Cat's worst fears about me. Oops.
Friday night we headed up to the Suffolk coast. After a previous experience of heading towards east Anglia using The Cat's Mother's built in navigational skills, we turned on the Garmin Sat Nav to ensure we arrived without getting lost and in good time. Both objectives were achieved. Aldeburgh is a terrific place...managing to combine oldie worldy charm with oldie worldy charm perfectly...narrow streets, little cottages and not a Starbucks to be found. If you're ever in that direction I can highly recommend a stay at the Brudenell Hotel...the rooms were fabulous. It appears you can take the girl out of Essex, but you can't take Essex out of the girl. As we dined, the table behind us was occupied by people who could have stepped straight out of The Only Way is Essex...bleached blonde blokes and bronzed girls in tight dresses that nearly reached their legs. It was 'proper home from home'.
If we'd known in advance there are just twenty hares on Havergate island we'd probably not have booked...after all the island is 7.5km long, so it would be a bit like finding a needle in a haystack. As it turns out twenty is more than enough, as they all tend to congregate together in one area. The first thing we saw when we stepped off the boat was a hare, so sometimes ignorance is bliss. They were introduced to the island by the farming community there, and stayed long after the farmers had gone. The salty environment is not actually good for them, so they have a life span just 70% of hares in more traditional hare country. The RSPB have a policy of non-intervention, which means the population stays pretty stable...as nature intended. They have no real predators there, although just occasionally a fox will reach the island (although it was never quite explained how) and will do what foxes do best.
We got to and from there in a little boat, and it was a pleasure not to be forced to wear life jackets by the health and safety Nazis in either direction. The sun shone and the gentle breeze made it a very pleasant little trip.
As it turns out twenty is more than enough, as they all tend to congregate together in one area. So we were able to spend a couple of hours watching them...sadly none of them boxed. But then when there's only twenty I guess fighting off a suitor is probably not advisable. They keep it in the family.
They generally sat around eating, didn't appear to be too bothered by our presence and when they decided to move, appeared to have only one speed - lightening fast. Beautiful. I've stolen some great pictures The Cat took and added them to mine so you can get a flavour of our delightful day.
It doesn't end well for some
There were more than just hares
Did I mention it's a bird sanctuary?
Friday, 23 March 2012
Eat the elephant
This weekend we are shooting hares*
Last night I went off to a talk by Dr Edwin Moses...probably better known as the hurdler Ed Moses. An interesting man who doesn't seem quite reconciled to his legendary status....he didn't enter the room until we were all sitting quietly, where as the other speakers had, and acknowledged the applause as he walked to the podium. As he said, it's better to be a living legend rather than just a legend. He spoke for almost an hour with no notes and almost no repetition...but then he was speaking about his sporting career, which he should know pretty well. Evidently he wasn't much of an athlete when he was younger, and he puts his success down to passion, planning, determination and overcoming fear. At least I know where I went wrong. I could have been a contender.
Despite being egged on by the people with me, I did resist the temptation to go up to him and say "It's good to meet a fellow-Olympian". It didn't strike me that humour was his strong point.
Another part of the evening included one of the Olympic Games major sponsors. One of their senior managers was quoted on video as saying " You need to eat the elephant one spoonful at a time". Given her size, one suspects it was a large spoon and several elephants. Don't you just hate corporate-speak bollocks?
Another business quote, retold by the Lord Bishop of London, I heard this week was "I hire for skills, and fire for character" Probably true if I look back over the last twenty five years....something to keep in the back of the mind.
*we're off to Suffolk tonight to go on an RSPB (shouldn't that be RSPH?) boat trip to an island which is full of hares. As the Cat's Motheris obsessed with is a hare enthusiast with a fine collection of hare pictures, sculptures and 'objet', this trip was bought as a present for her by her sister. Ten of us will be laying siege to Aldeburgh. This is the time of year when hares box...we hope to get to see that. In my case, I'll hopefully be taking some pictures. I read this week that the generally accepted view that it is male hares that box for territory and mating rites is wrong. Evidently it's the females fending off unwanted suitors. I hope The Cat's Mother doesn't get any ideas.
Last night I went off to a talk by Dr Edwin Moses...probably better known as the hurdler Ed Moses. An interesting man who doesn't seem quite reconciled to his legendary status....he didn't enter the room until we were all sitting quietly, where as the other speakers had, and acknowledged the applause as he walked to the podium. As he said, it's better to be a living legend rather than just a legend. He spoke for almost an hour with no notes and almost no repetition...but then he was speaking about his sporting career, which he should know pretty well. Evidently he wasn't much of an athlete when he was younger, and he puts his success down to passion, planning, determination and overcoming fear. At least I know where I went wrong. I could have been a contender.
Despite being egged on by the people with me, I did resist the temptation to go up to him and say "It's good to meet a fellow-Olympian". It didn't strike me that humour was his strong point.
Another part of the evening included one of the Olympic Games major sponsors. One of their senior managers was quoted on video as saying " You need to eat the elephant one spoonful at a time". Given her size, one suspects it was a large spoon and several elephants. Don't you just hate corporate-speak bollocks?
Another business quote, retold by the Lord Bishop of London, I heard this week was "I hire for skills, and fire for character" Probably true if I look back over the last twenty five years....something to keep in the back of the mind.
*we're off to Suffolk tonight to go on an RSPB (shouldn't that be RSPH?) boat trip to an island which is full of hares. As the Cat's Mother
Thursday, 22 March 2012
Park yourself right here
After the church service for the 275th which I mentioned earlier this week, we repaired to the hall of the livery company that supports the school. It is a very splendid place indeed, full of the pomp and ceremony that shouts 'tradition' from the rooftops. You may well have seen this place - it was the king's coronation room in The Kings Speech, and previously featured as the the KGB headquarters in one of the James Bond films....for that one the pictures of our monarchs were covered with flags bearing the hammer and sickle. I wonder how they felt about that. As we all chatted politely, food was brought out. Few of us got to try it as the 'scholars' rushed to surround the waiters and waitresses and strip their serving platters of every last crumb, like lions devouring a zebra. It was quite extraordinary really, and caused more than a few comments. In my day we would have been respectful enough to have salivated, but held back whilst our elders got first pickings, sure in the knowledge that they would take just a few things before waving the waiting staff on. It is not as if the kids are not exposed to the right environment...mostly middle-class, they all get fed well at school and should pick up some of the basic rudiments of manners. The subject came up at home, and The Cat rushed to their defence "They were hungry". Yes but manners maketh the man (and woman). We spent some while talking about it, but perhaps it was a generational thing as neither could see the other's point of view.
How clever am I? Pretty damned if you ask me. When I got one of those new-fangled Android smart phones last year I was pretty pleased with it, especially as it had more storage than my iPod so I'd be able to put all my favourite tunes on it. And generally it's all worked pretty well, but for some music it decided that it wouldn't recognise the name of the artist. So in amongst all my favourites, I've ended up with a whole load of 'unknowns'. Several hundred of them in fact. I've searched high and low, but there doesn't seem to be an answer. Until I worked it out myself. I simply create a playlist in the name of the artist and add the songs to that. Perfect. I'm really very pleased with myself indeed. How geeky is this paragraph?
I'm rarely accused of being politically correct...one of my bugbears is 'disabled parking'. It's not that I'm against it. Not at all. In fact it seems perfectly reasonable and sensible to me. But, and this is a big but, we seem to have gone overboard. Down in Brighton we can spend literally hours searching for a parking spot at home, whilst dozens of disabled bays remain stubbornly empty. And last weekend we went to Westfield where I took this picture. As you can see, the standard parking bays are all full, whilst the dozens and dozens of disabled bays remain empty. It seems in this matter we lack a sense of proportion. I wonder if I'll feel differently when I'm really old and creaky?
Wednesday, 21 March 2012
In the pink
.jpg)
I've loved this picture since the moment I took it five or so years ago. I have it down in the side-bar of my blog, but here's the full version. It made me realise that you don't need a great camera to take a great picture (I say modestly). In fact it was taken with a camera phone when these things were still in their infancy...just 2 mega-pixels (these days, they're eight or more). Of course, there's some trickery here as I shot the boat in black and white, and the camera setting added the colour. This was Brighton beach, and this is one of the boats that gets dragged up on the shore every day after it's collected a small load of fish which you can buy either on the beach or at the fishmongers in Shoreham harbour.
Would it work just as well in black and white? No, in this picture, as in life, colour makes things better.
This post is for Tara's weekly photo gallery on the theme of colour
Tuesday, 20 March 2012
275 and going strong
I think The Boy is now qualified to be an air steward with British Airways...at least in Germany. I read in the weekly school bulletin (no, don't be ridiculous, of course he didn't tell me) that he has passed his BA Flag Award. Or may be it's just that he can tell the difference between all those flags painted on the tailfins of their planes...you know the ones that so enraged Margaret Thatcher.
I was at a party once, and I think it will for ever stick in my head as a particularly surreal event in my life. It was a very loud party indeed. It was work-related, and I was attending just a few days after The Boy's mother had died. I was hardly in the party mood. But the client was there, so I had to be too. During the middle of it, my phone rang, and I answered it. Through the noise, I could just make out it was the father of one of the children The Boy was at school with. He was offering sympathy, although it was hard to tell, and I dread to imagine what he thought about me partying the night away at such a time. Grace Jones was singing on the stage, Miquita Oliver (of TV, now bankruptcy fame) was chatting to her friends and I stood chatting to some girl who at some stage thrust her phone number at me. It was only as I walked away I realised that I'd been chatting to Skin from Skunk Anansie. Over in the corner were the VIPs, including a very glum looking David Frost. It didn't look much fun for them either.
Yesterday, The Boy's/The Cat's/my school celebrated it's 275th anniversary with a service at St Helens Church in Bishopsgate London. The venue was chosen because the school's founder was buried there. In fact, although his tombstone is inside the church, he had managed to buy the freehold. Yes that part of the church no longer belonged to the church. It would be fair to say that the school's founder was not a popular man. In fact as his coffin was carried through the City streets it was pelted with manure. He was a successful 'city fixer'. It would be good if this tradition could be revived whenever any of our current batch of city fixers passes over. When he died, he left the very princely sum of £28,000 which remarkably was enough to found a school and almshouses in Mile End. It doesn't sound a lot, but it must have been. This was a school for one hundred children, twenty of whom would be children who would not normally be able to pay for an education. So he may have been a bastard, but his heart was in the right place when he went to meet his maker. I wonder how many of our present day bankers will feel suitably charitable at the end of their days? Not many at all I suspect. Greed is good, especially if you're ungodly. The service was attended by governors, parents, teachers and scholar pupils. I'm not quite sure how they choose, but in one case (and I suspect many), the parent is a partner in one of the UK's largest accountancy firms. I suspect that it wasn't because they're short of money. Greed is good.
I'm glad the school has set up a new foundation to help the less well-off to attend and gain an excellent education. I was able to attend with the help of a grant from the county council, so it is something that I am all in favour of.
The service was conducted by the Lord Bishop of London. I'm not a great fan of organised religion...in fact I regard it as a root cause of many of the world's evils. But here was a man who was worth listening too. He boomed out as you would hope a senior member of the church would, and everything he said was riveting. The school was founded in times of tectonic change, when three of the five world powers were Muslim, and it celebrates its 275th birthday at a time of similar tectonic change. I was not alone in being impressed...in fact the entire audience (congregation?) left muttering about his wit and wisdom and how he had conveyed his views on the founder, the city and the world order very clearly without offending a single person. If he was standing for Archbishop of Canterbury I would vote for him...albeit in the knowledge that it is something of a poisoned chalice. Not that I have a vote anyway.
I was at a party once, and I think it will for ever stick in my head as a particularly surreal event in my life. It was a very loud party indeed. It was work-related, and I was attending just a few days after The Boy's mother had died. I was hardly in the party mood. But the client was there, so I had to be too. During the middle of it, my phone rang, and I answered it. Through the noise, I could just make out it was the father of one of the children The Boy was at school with. He was offering sympathy, although it was hard to tell, and I dread to imagine what he thought about me partying the night away at such a time. Grace Jones was singing on the stage, Miquita Oliver (of TV, now bankruptcy fame) was chatting to her friends and I stood chatting to some girl who at some stage thrust her phone number at me. It was only as I walked away I realised that I'd been chatting to Skin from Skunk Anansie. Over in the corner were the VIPs, including a very glum looking David Frost. It didn't look much fun for them either.
As part of my job I've been known to give media training...telling the innocent and the stupid how to deal with journalists. I think in future I should save my breath, and just point everyone in the direction of Frost on Interviews, which aired last week. It was fascinating...really interesting stuff...whether you're interested in politics, celebrities, or the media. I was quite captivated. It wasn't without fault though. In fact there seems to be a trend at the moment of big-name presenters not being reigned in by their Director/Producer/Editor. I ranted recently about the awfulness of Jeremy Paxman's Empire series and here the problem was similar. The programme was really poorly structured and organised, with some sections just not fitting. Tragic as it was to see successive interviews with Mohammed Ali as he went from being mentally nimble as a bee to barely being able to string a sentence together, the impact was lost largely because it was out of place. It's as if no one is prepared to take the decisions to make a great piece of television. But I did like the point he made that as people like me have given interviewees the expertise to deal with probing questions, the interviewers have got more aggressive. This creates an atmosphere of stalemate where the interviewee won't open up and give illuminating answers for fear of being tripped up and made to look a fool whilst the interviewer gets ever more aggressive. A vicious circle. Anyway, I'm sorry for ruining your TV pleasure.
I'm glad the school has set up a new foundation to help the less well-off to attend and gain an excellent education. I was able to attend with the help of a grant from the county council, so it is something that I am all in favour of.
The service was conducted by the Lord Bishop of London. I'm not a great fan of organised religion...in fact I regard it as a root cause of many of the world's evils. But here was a man who was worth listening too. He boomed out as you would hope a senior member of the church would, and everything he said was riveting. The school was founded in times of tectonic change, when three of the five world powers were Muslim, and it celebrates its 275th birthday at a time of similar tectonic change. I was not alone in being impressed...in fact the entire audience (congregation?) left muttering about his wit and wisdom and how he had conveyed his views on the founder, the city and the world order very clearly without offending a single person. If he was standing for Archbishop of Canterbury I would vote for him...albeit in the knowledge that it is something of a poisoned chalice. Not that I have a vote anyway.
Monday, 19 March 2012
Champagne Charlie
My celebrity spot today was seeing Gok Wan sitting eating outside one of the cafes in Bermondsey Street. It made me realise that I knew the face, I knew the name but I've never seen anything he's ever done. Such is the extent of fame these days.
Saturday night was spent at a fundraiser for the NSPCC. The Cat's Mother is the local treasurer, so we all get dragged along whenever there's an event. This was a Royal event, an early celebtation of the Queen's jubilee. The place was dressed up with bunting and photos of our favourite Royal. The format is always similar...after all why change a winning formula? The host on each table brings along the food - the menu is decided upon by the committee. I'd spent my afternoon arranging slices of soda bread with mackerel into a union jack and a crown. I'm not sure anyone noticed, but I was pleased. There was a glass of champagne for everyone as they arrived. The champagne had been donated, but the first bottle smelled and tasted of sherry. So it became my responsibility to taste all the other bottles. They were all fine. The rest of the evening was all a blur for me. The sacrifices we all make. It was probably also a blur for The Boy. He was one of the waiters...that didn't stop him having a glass of beer in his hand every time he made an appearance.
Sunday was one of The Muffin's birthday...she's 9, so we all trooped round to play Wii Games whilst also eating mini toad in the hole. Although the age range was from 80 down to five everyone seemed to have a great time. Although some people were wondering how on earth I will manage to co-ordinate with everyone else during the dancing at the opening of the Olympics. I wonder myself to be honest.
Sunday was, of course, Mothering Sunday. A date that The Boy and I have ignored for some years for obvious reasons, but times change so this year was different. The Cat's Mother was brought breakfast in bed...the day before I'd gone out and bought champagne, smoked salmon and eggs and issued 'guidelines' to the Teens that 9.00 would be a good time to serve it as this would ensure we were still in bed. That was probably my mistake as true to form The Boy regarded this as an order to be carried out with military precision, whilst The Cat thought this meant that sometime between 9.30 and 10.00 would be spot on. Words were evidently exchanged in the kitchen. Anyway, it was delivered. One plate of scrambled egg and smoked salmon and one glass with the bottle of pink champagne. Fortunately The Cat's Mother is a sharing sort. Flowers also delivered, and The Cat presented her with a couple of beautiful gifts and a bunch of daffodils. Lovely.
On the other hand, in getting home organised, I'd forgotten my own responsibilities I hadn't sent a card to Grandma in Cyprus. She has a lot to put up with. Thank heavens her other son is a better son and had sent a card. I Skyped, but it's not quite the same is it?
Saturday night was spent at a fundraiser for the NSPCC. The Cat's Mother is the local treasurer, so we all get dragged along whenever there's an event. This was a Royal event, an early celebtation of the Queen's jubilee. The place was dressed up with bunting and photos of our favourite Royal. The format is always similar...after all why change a winning formula? The host on each table brings along the food - the menu is decided upon by the committee. I'd spent my afternoon arranging slices of soda bread with mackerel into a union jack and a crown. I'm not sure anyone noticed, but I was pleased. There was a glass of champagne for everyone as they arrived. The champagne had been donated, but the first bottle smelled and tasted of sherry. So it became my responsibility to taste all the other bottles. They were all fine. The rest of the evening was all a blur for me. The sacrifices we all make. It was probably also a blur for The Boy. He was one of the waiters...that didn't stop him having a glass of beer in his hand every time he made an appearance.
Sunday was one of The Muffin's birthday...she's 9, so we all trooped round to play Wii Games whilst also eating mini toad in the hole. Although the age range was from 80 down to five everyone seemed to have a great time. Although some people were wondering how on earth I will manage to co-ordinate with everyone else during the dancing at the opening of the Olympics. I wonder myself to be honest.
Sunday was, of course, Mothering Sunday. A date that The Boy and I have ignored for some years for obvious reasons, but times change so this year was different. The Cat's Mother was brought breakfast in bed...the day before I'd gone out and bought champagne, smoked salmon and eggs and issued 'guidelines' to the Teens that 9.00 would be a good time to serve it as this would ensure we were still in bed. That was probably my mistake as true to form The Boy regarded this as an order to be carried out with military precision, whilst The Cat thought this meant that sometime between 9.30 and 10.00 would be spot on. Words were evidently exchanged in the kitchen. Anyway, it was delivered. One plate of scrambled egg and smoked salmon and one glass with the bottle of pink champagne. Fortunately The Cat's Mother is a sharing sort. Flowers also delivered, and The Cat presented her with a couple of beautiful gifts and a bunch of daffodils. Lovely.
On the other hand, in getting home organised, I'd forgotten my own responsibilities I hadn't sent a card to Grandma in Cyprus. She has a lot to put up with. Thank heavens her other son is a better son and had sent a card. I Skyped, but it's not quite the same is it?
Friday, 16 March 2012
Bowlocks
I've mentioned George before. He's the demon barber of Bermondsey Street. He's been here for ever I suspect, and is one of the last bastions of traditional Bermondsey...a little run down shop that hasn't seen a lick of paint since England won the World Cup. You my recall that I tend to go there when the naked girl on his calendar changes. The last time I was there he showed me the calendar that had been donated by the local garage. Obviously times have moved on because rather than being an elegant collection of naked girls carefully posed to hide the very last vestiges of their modesty, this one was full of girls who had obviously got confused and had ended up at the photographers studio, rather than the gynaecologist where their poses would have been more appropriate. Fortunately George knows the difference between what's acceptable and what belongs under the mattress, so he didn't put that one up...he put up one from 2005. I must say that over the last few times I've been there, George has been losing his touch slightly, and I've ended up with several nicks...always explained away as "You must have had a scratch" and I've gone with the flow. This time, I asked for my usual... a Number three on top and Number two on the sides. George clipped the blades on started the trim. Immediately I knew that something wasn't right. There was just too much hair falling on the floor. Though he denies it, I swear this was a Number two on top (may be a number one even), and I came out looking like a Millwall Football supporter. I can see my scalp through my hair, and feel my skull if I rub my hands over it. All I needed was a pair of braces, white T shirt and H.A.T.E to be tattooed on my knuckles, and I would blend in with the locals nicely. And I got a little nick to go with it. I no longer have my beau locks.
One of the odd results is that when I cycled in this morning, for the first time ever I could feel the rush of the air over the skin on my head. It was odd. It may have been this that distracted me, so that when I had to get off to carry the cycle up the steps of the bridge at Bow Locks, my feet didn't unclip properly and I just tumbled over. No harm to me but I smashed my new cycle lights. Bollocks.
To compensate, the Police had closed Rotherhithe Tunnel to traffic, and so I was able to cycle through as the only vehicle in the tunnel. An odd but exhilarating experience.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)