Run Fat Boy Run

They say that as you get older, time goes more quickly.  There's even some scientific reasoning to it.  When you're two, one year is fifty per cent of your life, when you're fifty it's two per cent.  So I must be ancient beyond belief as I hadn't noticed how quickly the last week rolled round.

The Boy did return in one piece.  I'm told that if we wait six months we will hear all the horror stories one by one.  So far he has mentioned "there is only one night I don't remember'.  Contrary to our text conversations during the week, I now discover they were essentially leaving their apartment at midnight to go and enjoy themselves...and there was I thinking they were all safely tucked up in bed by then.  According to him 'Geordies are a different breed'.  He means it in a negative way.  I agree with him, but mean it in a positive way!

The Cat's Mother and I went to see Goldfrapp on Saturday evening at Somerset House.  It's a beautiful location, and no band ever sounds bad there.  The Boy's first concert was at Somerset House...we saw Turin Brakes there, and the group remains one of our favourites.  As for Goldfrapp though, oh dear.  She has a beautiful, intoxicating voice and there was no doubting the performance (I think she just about made 50 minutes) sounded glorious.  But the set started off with some slow numbers that nobody knew, and you could see the thumbs twiddling...it wasn't until the last twenty minutes that that the favourites were played. Good for her for not pandering to our lowest common denominator, but really we're a shallow lot and needed her to kick the gig off with something more lively.  She did suffer from a touch of the Kings of Leon too...long breaks between songs when they seemed to be deciding what they were going to play next...so even when the songs were lively, there was no real momentum.  Anyway, a bit of a disappointment...but that won't stop me from buying the new album in September.

I'll skip over the two days spent rehearsing and performing in The Olympic Park for the 'GoLocal' event.  It was quite fun to be up on the same stage that Bruce Springsteen had strutted his stuff to earlier this year, but I was there for the last time doing the choreography as a 'Working Man' from the Olympic Opening Ceremony' with the pandemonium Drummers...what I came to realise is that these things have a finite life...and that time has come and gone.  I loved it at the time, I've enjoyed reprising my stuff, but time to move on...so goodbye to the 35,000 people that were watching us this time.

The absolute highlight of the last week was my run.  The National Lottery Run was 5 miles, around the Olympic Park finishing in the stadium itself.  I really don't enjoy running at all, so have found it a challenge to get 'race fit', but as I suspected lining up with 14,999 of my closest friends was a truly amazing experience. At the front were the celebs...Mel C, Victoria Pendleton, Paula Radcliffe and we were started by Chris Hoy.  Round the park we went until we entered the stadium to the waiting audience (we had all been given two tickets for spectators) to enormous roars and cheers.  Amazingly I was able to spot The Cat's Mother and The Boy and waved happily back as they cheered and whooped.  I loved it.  I may even do some more running...not too much as it will shake my body to bits, but just enough to keep me in shape.

Red hot

When I drove back from Brighton the other evening, I was overtaken by this

It is indeed a stretch-limousine Ferrari.  I can only hope that it is the result of two written off Ferraris being rebuilt as one, rather than someone taking a fabulous sports car and ruining it.  My one other thought though is that from my (limited) Ferrari experience, it'll be so noisy and low inside that nobody will be able to either converse or enjoy themselves.

With just four days to go, I have discovered that I will be competing with Paula Radcliffe at the Anniversary run.  Now we all know lovely Paula, so I have decided that at all costs I must start the race ahead of her and keep ahead, in case she has one of her 'incidents'.  Mind you. I have less of an issue chasing after Victoria Pendleton.

The Boy let me know that tonight he is going here.



Oh dear, oh dear.  What happened to my baby boy?

Now or never

I drove down to Brighton by myself on Saturday.  As the sun was shining, I was able to take the top off the car...no this isn't like a fancy BMW or Mercedes where you push a button and it magically disappears in a few seconds, this is a Jeep, so you twist the latches, unscrew the bolts and lift the roof panels off.  With  a bit of patience you can fit them in the back of the car.  With the poor summers over the last couple of years, you won't be surprised to know that this hasn't happened for a while...if there's a sudden downpour, you just get soaked whilst you struggle to put it all back together.

Anyway, it was a lovely drive, and when the traffic ground to a halt, it was quite fun to be able to stand on the seat and have a look around, just like Rommel in North Africa.  Even better was the return journey home.  There is something truly special driving in the dark with the sky above you and the wind rushing through (what's left of) your hair.  I've even done it when it's been snowing, although many would class that as foolishness.

Whilst the temperature hit 30 degrees as I passed Gatwick, by the time I'd gone through the South Downs, we were at a rather more pleasant 20 degrees.  The sky was still blue, and there was not a spare inch to be found on the beach.  Brighton at it's best.  In the early evening I continued my preparations for next Sunday's run, managing a very creditable 5.8km in 38 minutes.  I will have one more run on Wednesday, when I aim to do the full 8 km, then I'll be set for the Olympic Stadium and ever lasting glory (cough).

I had travelled to the south coast because The Boy and his Sister have a whole pile of stuff in storage there.  In the aftermath of their mother's death, much was put into storage rather than put them through the trauma of having to shift through her belongings and through away stuff that would they would have been emotionally attached to.  However, more than a decade has now passed, the storage costs are phenomenal at £100/month, so the time has come to sort it out.  But we've not visited the facility for ten years so I had to act as the advanced party...firstly finding the place again, then making sure the code for the entrance was still working before opening the combination lock.  I fell at the last hurdle when I realised that the padlock didn't contain two of the digits that I 'knew' the code would consist of.  I had to ask the man to cut it.  Fortunately just as he was about to, he realised that I wasn't pushing 'the button'...so I did, thought of a number, doubled it, added 45, divided by three and then took away the number I'd first thought of and it sprung open.  A quick check shows that most of it is just going to be junked.  I shan't be there as The Cat's Mother and I will be away, so it will be The Boy, his Sister, their Uncle and Grandma in Wales who will be looking through everything.  It will be a very emotional moment I don't doubt, but better now than ten years ago and better now than never.

Bile

Here's some art being painted by ROA, who remains my favourite street artist:



If you want a small moment of amusement go to the Vogue magazine website at
http://vogue.co.uk then using the arrow keys press up up, down down, left, right, left, right, b, a. Keep your eyes at the bottom of the screen.
There is no news from Magaluf which I regard as a good thing. They may be up to some terrible things, but at least (so far) nothing has gone hideously wrong.
We can't help but read the reviews of the things we've been to see at the theatre/cinema...it may be a sign of insecurity I guess. We read one review of Despicable Me2 which had the story so wrong that we concluded the reviewer hadn't actually see the film; we read a review of Kenneth Branagh's MacBeth that a) told the story b) quoted some of the lines as if this was the first time they'd ever been spoken...really if this is what being a critic is all about, I've missed my vocation. I was highly amused to read that after JK Rowling was revealed as the author of a detective novel, sales of the thing have rocketed. Robert Galbraith, as she calls herself, had penned a fine book called The Cuckoo's Calling which had garnered praises from many critics, but sold just 1500 copies. What I wonder suddenly makes it so much better now that JK is known to have written it? Of course I do know...people are like sheep and find comfort in familiarity...I working in the 'brand' industry so understand the value of a brand...this is a great case study. But really, really, really...either a book is something you want to read..it really doesn't get better just because you know who the author is. In my case, I don't like detective stories usually so I'll be saving my pennies.
I love where we live...Epping Forest is a beautiful place.
But, but, but... I struggle with the people who live in our neck of the woods, and the town of Loughton itself. It is a cultural desert. If you walk down the high street, the culinary highlight is a Kentucky Fried Chicken, most of the shops are dull and uninteresting and the place simply has no heart. Is this really the state of small towns across the country? I hope not...it's desperate. The houses in general are also dull and uninspiring - mostly mid-war, many post war with a sad conformity. Even the people who have money (and there are many) choose to create hideous nouveau-riche mansions of which the main feature will be a couple of romanesque pillars either side of the front door, and an electronically operated gate to the paved 'front garden'. The need to show off your wealth means that even the smallest terraced house will have a Porsche or Range Rover parked outside. The people too are a challenge...I notice this mostly when I've spent a few hours in Brighton. They are brash, aggressive and inelegant in their perma-tans and buttock-clenching short shorts or bright scarlet velour jumpsuits.
Friday night was the highlight of the local social calendar - the local sports club Ball. The sight of so many middle-aged and beyond women with their bleached blond hair, even more orange faces and rolls of fat pouring out of dresses that were at least two sizes too small for them and acres of blingy jewellery was hideous. Not that the men were any better...at least it's difficult to go wrong with a Dinner Suit, even if some of the shirts would look better as curtains in the Sound of Music. Obviously 'present company excluded'.
Anyway, I'll no doubt get lynched when I head home tonight.

Inbetween

As I sit here, six brave/foolish young women are scaling The Shard to protest against Shell drilling for oil in the Arctic.  If you're quick, you may just catch it here

If you missed it, not to worry, it's all over the news.

The Cat's Mother has a new car, and she's very excited about it.  A little Toyota Yaris (in fact it's a standard size Yaris, which is a little car).  I've yet to get in it, but I know it's full of gadgets...sat nav, connect you phone through bluetooth, etc, etc so obviously it's good.  Best of all is the glass roof, which almost makes it a civilised cabriolet....almost.

Anyway, on the day she got it, The Cat was out with the 'old' Yaris which is now being shared between her and The Boy.  Whether it happened when she was carefully maneuvering in the car park, of whether it was swiped by someone else, I don't know, but there is now a rather large scratch and dent down the side.  On a new car, it would be a tragedy.  On a car driven by teenagers, it's to be expected and won't be fixed.

The Boy has gone off with some mates for an end-of-school holiday.  He's packed the sun tan lotion and some Euros, and not much else.  They're off to Magaluf.  I'm nervous as hell, and we've both given him a stern talking to.  It'll have fallen on deaf ears no doubt.  And providing he comes back in one piece I'll be happy.  I hope he does at least send me one text a day.  Anyway, for the next week I will not be watching this film

It's grim up north

My running is getting better at the moment.  There's only another 12 days until I have to do five miles around the Olympic Park, so I think I've done well to get it up to nearly 5km.  I continue to loathe the idea of running, although having realised that I can listen to music on my phone helps enormously.  If only the damned headphones didn't keep popping out; I may have to resort to doing what we did in the Ceremony...taping them in.  Anyway, I'm quietly confident that I will actually make it.

Poor UP remains stuck in the hospital.  It's always nice to be relaxing when the weather's nice, but I suspect this may not be his idea of fun.  I popped in for a quick visit yesterday and realised that he was doing well to keep his spirits up.  It's one thing to be practically comatose through illness, where being in bed all day doesn't really matter, but when you're awake and fully functional, it must be tedious in extremis.

Up was supposed to come with The Queen and The Cat's Mother and I to Manchester this weekend, but his injuries prevented this...another reason he will be feeling low.  We went up there to see some friends...and to see Kenneth Brannagh perform MacBeth.

The Scottish play was being performed in an abandoned church in Manchester's North Quarter.  This is one of those areas that is full of satanic mills which are gradually being turned into hyper-trendy shops, offices and  apartments.  Bravo I say...it is a tragedy to see these places being ripped down, when with a bit of imagination they can be turned into fantastically attractive areas.  There is a slight however:  at the moment I would guess there isn't the economy to support the development... I'm talking partially blind here, so may just be talking nonsense, but it certainly felt as though much of the property stock was empty, and the area still had a feeling of desolation.  This provoked a discussion on the way home about how our experience was at least in our experience of the accountancy field and the creative sector, there is not a strong enough underlying economy outside of London to support the level of business the country needs to support its urban societies.  In fact after a gin and tonic or two, we speculated on  the impact not of Scotland seceding from the Union, but what would happen if everything inside the M25 broke free?  Anyway, that's soft southerners talking a load of old drunken nonsense really.

Back to Kenneth...performed in a deconsecrated church with the audience of an aisle filled with mud, this was a MacBeth that will be talked about for a long time.  At the start, water pours as rain from above to confirm this is the bleak highlands.  THroughout, the actors have to wade knee deep through the mud as they move from one end to the other...they must have been exhausted especially wearing such heavy costumes in hot weather.  We were in the front row which meant that we had to keep ducking as heavy metal swords clashed just inches from our heads....you could smell the sweat.  It was earthy indeed.  Poor Banquo came to his very sticky end right in front of our noses, spraying mud and blood everywhere - no wonder the organisers said don't wear your best frock.  The weird sisters were extremely weird, keeping an eye on things with their sinister machinations throughout the performance. Kenneth played his part well...very well, as did Alex Kingston as the mad and bad Lady MacBeth, MacDuff was superb.  Anyway, although tickets have long sold out, you can still get to see it as a cinema near you on 20th July through National Theatre Live.  I don't quite know how they will convey the atmosphere created in the church, but if they can you will be in for an absolute treat...really I do recommend you don't miss it.

Yes, that is blood splattered all over my t-shirt...a MacBeth souvenir from the Globe that caused much comment and appreciation...even from the actors themselves

Norfolk'n'Good at maths

In case you were wondering, UP spent the weekend in hospital.  The Cat's Mother took him off to A&E, and they sternly advised against going anywhere.  His heel is broken in several places...and the swelling has been so bad he's blistered badly.  As usual, in my ever helpful way, I've offered him this to help him get better:

It's funny how mathematical problems can crop up unexpectedly.

Rog wrote last week about a new 'app' that identifies each 3sq metre spot on the earth in just three words...this being easier than trying to memorise 14 digit digital codes.  He did the maths to show that it was more than possible even though there are nearly 57 trillion squares around the globe.  It was a sunny Friday afternoon when I read it, my brain was a bit slow, and it's a long time since I did maths (you should see the monthly invoices I send out...invariably wrong!), so not surprisingly I couldn't quite follow his workings.  That does not make him a bad teacher, but it may make me a bad pupil.  It's worth a read here

They say you can't judge a book by its cover, which is, in my book, nonsense.

Many, many years ago I went on a holiday to Turkey...and our flight home was delayed.  I headed to the bookshop which was quite sparsely populated with books strangely.  My usual technique for choosing a book is to open it at a random page, and if I like what's on that page I'll buy it.  I may have done it on this occasion, but I'm not sure.  I was certainly more drawn to the cover...a dirty, sandy yellow, with the dark shadow of a hound across it. It bellowed MENACE.  As we waited for our flight, I settled in to the book.  I was so engrossed, so hooked, that I managed to read it before the flight was finally called.  It was a dark and indeed menacing tale by an author who, at the time I had never heard of - Ian McEwan and was called Black Dogs.  I then went on to buy all his books and read them avidly.   Some have been made into films or TV programmes, and they are lapped up as well.  I wouldn't like to say whether I prefer Atonement or The Comfort of Strangers - they were both excellent on the screen. I'm still an absolute fan and look forward to every novel.  As he has aged, the core of 'fear and menace' that inhabits his books has declined, and both his most recent books - Solar and Sweet Tooth pretty much avoid it altogether.  But I still enjoy his work very much indeed.

We were fortunate enough last week to be able to listen to the man himself talk about Sweet Tooth at an event staged by the Guardian Book club.  This is not the first time I've heard him talk about his work - I went to a similar discussion some years ago.  It was most illuminating...not least because of the way an author can debunk some of the nonsense written about his own works...what do people's names mean?  Nothing - he tries to keep them completely neutral, although by some remarkable coincidence, the 'hero' of Sweet Tooth nearly shared his name with a real lecturer at Sussex University that had the same interests.  Why was the address of one location so precise?  Because it came up on Google Maps. Etc, etc.  He's a witty, interesting and clearly very clever man indeed...I shall return to Sweet Tooth and have a re-read.  It was a great evening...especially for me, although The Cat's Mother hasn't actually read the book...ooops.

One of the topics of discussion at the evening was the 'Monty Hall Problem'...it's something that makes an interesting appearance in the book.  The scenario is that you can select one out of three doors and behind one of the three is a prize; behind the others, nothing.  Once you have chosen (the door remains closed at this stage), Monty Hall will open one of the other doors revealing that it does not contain the prize.  You are then give the opportunity to switch your choice to the other box or stay with your original choice.  The question is...does it matter if you switch?.  Most people get it wrong...but do you know the right answer?  Problem better explained, and answer given here


And a brief description of how the problem is mis-told in McEwans book (thank you Significance Magazine)


Haley re-imagines the problem as a tale of suspected cuckoldry, in which, after some development, a jealous husband finds himself before three hotel room doors (401, 402, and 403) and knows that his wife is behind one of the doors with another man. He has one chance to break down a door and catch her in the act of betrayal. But which door to choose? Haley's protagonist settles on 403 just as an Indian couple with several small children leave room 401. Convinced that he now has a two-thirds chance of catching her if he switches his initial choice: "He makes his run, he leaps, the door of 402 smashes open and there are the couple, naked in bed, just getting going". Haley titles the story "Probable Adultery".

Haley's work, as Serena well recognizes, is a disappointment logically and artistically. Misguided by rash enthusiasm, he has tried to house a betrayal plot within the shaky walls of a mathematical conundrum, missing the critical point that Monty does not choose a door at random and the larger point that, either way, no reader of fiction is likely to care. What will be of interest to readers is the way, through Frome's reaction to the story, McEwan masterfully turns Haley's creative failure into his own success. By unjustly blaming herself for Haley's mistake--a mistake minds as brilliant as Paul Erdös didn't need a gorgeous blonde to help them make--Serena adds to a pattern of self-condemnation in romantic relationships that has dictated the course of her young life. As with the heterosexual experiments of Jeremy Mott and the dirtied blouse left in Tony Canning's hamper, Serena is simply incapable of telling a man that he has had a silly idea. So, rather than confront Haley with her misgivings, she sheepishly rewrites the details of his hotel scene to make the story, if not artistically interesting, at least logically correct. In this way, the Monty Hall Problem becomes a surprising backdrop to the early romantic frustrations of a female spy and lover of novels.

McEwan's decision to give the most famous of probability problems such prominence in his novel suggests more than a passing interest. The structure of Monty's game, in fact, resurfaces later in the story, when a piece in the Guardian exposing MI5's backing of Haley forces Serena to make a critical and final decision--maintain the lie about her role or confess and risk losing everything. Like so many of the game show contestants that have stood before Monty's two unopened doors, Serena does not turn to a mathematical law or logical rule to get out of her predicament. She relies, instead, on intuition, which proves, in this instance, a less disastrous guide in love than it is probability.

A bit crowded

Crowd-sourcing is a big thing at the moment.

Yesterday, the Egyptians crowd-sourced a new President.  I'm not too happy about that, but hey ho, they've probably done it better than the Syrians, or the Turks come to that.

I have mixed experience of crowd-sourcing myself.

My first experience was through the American web site Kickstarter.  Essentially, you see someone's idea, cough up some money and then dadaaaa they go off and produce it.  In return you get the satisfaction of helping someone with a bright idea get off the ground, and you get something back.  It's not an investment...there's no profit to be made.  So the first thing I spent my hard-earned cash on was Revolights



They're a great idea...and I'm a great believer in cycle safety, and they seem to take it to a new level during the winter nights.  It was fun watching the project progress, and eventually after some months, my reward - a set of the lights were sent to me....they are now in full production.  If I remember rightly I put $200 in, which is quite a lot for a set of bicycle lights and a T-shirt...but I don't begrudge a single penny (cent) of it.  However, when they did arrive, I looked at the instruction book and realised that the fitting process was something that could only be done by an advanced brain surgeon.  So eighteen months later, they sit on a shelf in the garage, awaiting my retirement and medical qualification.

My second has been through the website Unbound which gives you the opportunity to support authors looking to achieve publication.  With my interest in street art, you won't be surprised that I pledged to get this book published.  Six month's later, it is still only 25% funded, so I'm beginning to think it may not come to fruition.  Shame...but feel free to be one of the 557 sponsors still needed.  It would make me happy.

I seem to be on a winning streak though now.  Also at Unbound I had the opportunity of helping out poor impoverished Jonathan Meades.  From a young age I have thought of him as a clever, witty and fascinating man, so this was of great interest to me.  Pidgin Snaps has more than met its targets, so alongside my copy, we will also go to the launch event (hope it's not in Marseille).  Perfect.

Foolishly, I missed out on crowd-funding one of my favourite musicians.  I have only been to see two artists twice in the same week.  The Foo Fighters with The Boy - once for an acoustic set in Victoria, and then in Hyde Park.  Lloyd Cole - once in Union Chapel Islington, and then in Brighton - with a somewhat surprised Cat's Mother.  Lloyd Cole may not be the force that he used to be, but musically he is as talented as ever, and for his most recent album he asked for funds to pay for the studio to record it in.  I hummed and I hahahahad, but eventually hesitated too long so didn't pay my money over.  Foolish me.  The new album, Standards, is now available, and it's a real hum dinger.  Well worth every penny.  In fact I would say one of his very finest...easily the equal of any of his Commotions albums.  My favourite track is Period Place which contains the lyric 'Concrete to the left of me, flowers to my right.  these were the best of times.'  Rightly or wrongly it sent me scurrying to check the lyrics of Stealers Wheel's 'Stuck in the Middle'...I'm sure there's a tribute there somewhere.  Anyway, enjoy the video...and then go and buy because this is brilliant stuff, and he seems a lovely man to boot.

Bottom

I've aged.

It was my birthday last weekend.  To celebrate last year, I handed Danny Boyle the first medal awarded in the Olympic Stadium...a gold wrapped Cadbury's chocolate one...as we rehearsed.  To be honest things have never been quite the same between Danny and me since - after saying thank you he suggested I went to the other side of the stadium to see Emma whose birthday it was also.  "Mind you", he said, "That's more of a treat for you than it is for her".  I was hurt, so handed my seventy other chocolate medals out to the rest of my team.

Previous years have been spent seeing Kings of Leon in Hyde Park (they're rubbish live) and Foo Fighters in Milton Keynes (they're great, but The Boy and Mr Muffin were sick as dogs all day long).  This year was slightly different in that we did nothing.  And by nothing I mean nothing.  We were down in Brighton, and relaxed for the day.  It was glorious.

That is not to say we did nothing to celebrate.  On Friday night we went to see The Tempest at Shakespeare's Globe.  I don't know how well you know The Tempest, but you may in any case be interested to know this was played as a comedy.  And very, very good it was too.  The key character of Prospero I always think is one of Shakespeare's most difficult to play, so it is rarely done well.  But Roger Allam did extraordinarily well once he had warmed up...the humour of the part is something I'd never really thought about before, but it was an excellent turn.  The performance was dominated by Caliban...the fearsome monster...and he was extraordinary, although I do feel sorry for the man in the audience who had his bald head slapped a couple of times...James Garnon played the part with energy, enthusiasm and aplomb...I hope he wins an award.  I absolutely loved his rendition of the speech given by Kenneth Brannagh at the opening of the Olympics:



And Colin Morgan was as Ariel was equally outstanding...and remarkably athletic as he danced and swung around the stage.  And just in case you thought I couldn't work the Olympics into this again, try this (it's called Caliban's Dream):



Anyway, enough of the Olympics...we spent Saturday at lunch with friends and family...including The Muffins.  We started at Formans, which just happens to be the nearest restaurant to the Olympic Stadium...ooops.  Then we moved on to see a new film that I have to tell you has been very eagerly anticipated in our house for over six months now.  We were seriously over excited, and it was a really birthday treat for me.



Which only goes to prove how wrong Grandma in Cyprus is.  I am not 'grown up but act like a teenager'...I am grown up and act like an eight year old, maybe. :-)

It was a shame that we were out when my brother decided to drop in unexpectedly to deliver my birthday present of whisky... :-(  So sorry 'bruv', but the whisky is delicious, and the thought was extremely touching...

UP is down

To achieve this, UP used an interesting combination of gaffer tape, wasps nest and step ladder.

Now you know as much as me.

Monkey business

When I was a budding Richard Branson, two fellow school chums and I got together to buy albums, record them using our stereo systems, and then sell the records...each one played only three times.  There were some downsides to our approach, not least of which was trying to select which albums to buy.  I think I put the final nail in the coffin when I decided we 'had' to have the Rezillos.  Evidently I was the only person in all of Essex who liked them.  Oh dear.  We could all agree, though, on bands like Brand X (a superb Phil Collins vehicle that even our music teacher liked), Weather Report and The Alan Parsons Project.

Alan Parsons is not desperately well remembered by many, except for this rather amusing sketch from Austin Powers



His albums were not ones that I chose to re-buy when I moved from vinyl to CD, but in a moment of sentimentality, probably prompted by the end of school days, I searched them out on play.com, and found I could buy them for about £4 a piece.  So I have.  I have a feeling that listening to them may not be quite as pleasurable as I hope, but I am looking forward to their arrival....after all 'concept albums' are so 1970s, and I don't wear flares, heals and long hair anymore.

And no, that monkey doesn't belong to Justin Bieber

Babies are useless aren't they?

New baby made his third trip to the office today, and to be perfectly honest, if he doesn't shape up, he'll have to ship out.  It was his second (month) birthday, and in he trundled, not in his birthday suit, but in fact in his designer babywear.  He didn't do much.  To be honest, he simply smiled and gurgled at the women, and then went off to sleep.  They were distracted, so their productivity levels were hopeless.  He didn't even make the tea, nor even offer to wash up.  Time to pull his socks up...if he had any....

Spend, spend, spend

How stupid are our politicians?  I don't suppose that ours are any worse than any others, but that doesn't excuse them.  Tonight I'm at the House of Commons for a drinks reception...I feel like I'm walking into the lions den.

George (henceforth known as Jeffrey) Osborne tweeted out a picture of him eating a burger whilst getting the Spending Statement ready.  Nothing wrong with that, except it was a bit of contrived nonsense to show he was 'with the people' by eating a burger.  Worse still, it was a £10 burger from Byron.  Very nice I can tell you...I've had one.  But I don't claim to understand what it's like trying to feed five kids on benefits because I'm an unmarried mother who's not had a job for a decade.  I would never, ever pretend to be something I'm not but our politicos can't help themselves.  They'd be much better off coming out and saying, "Yes I've had a privileged upbringing, I've been very fortunate in life and I shall use the experience I've gained to help people less fortunate than me."  Who knows, they might even be able to say it in a less patronising way.  Anyway Jeffrey, enjoy the burger, hope you don't choke on it.

In case you think there may be some political bias here.  This is a quote from scandal rag Popbitch,

"While Chancellor George Osborne ate his mid-market Byron burger last night, Shadow Chancellor Ed Balls was sat in Rotary Bar, Shoreditch, enjoying a nice pack of crisps. And, as befits a politician sitting by Silicon Roundabout, it wasn't a packet of Frazzles. He was tucking into Leighton Brown sweet potato, cheese and jalapeno crisps. Like to see him burnish his man- of-the-people cred on Twitter with that."

When gas and oil were found in the North Sea, the Norwegians did something very clever.  They put some of their new found wealth into a fund.  It's something that your granny might have taught you to do....save for a rainy day.  The result is that Norway is a wealthy country with a large social resource.  What happened in the UK?  We spent it.  We didn't save a penny of it.  There was no grand plan.  The treasury took what they could in tax revenues and spent it.  Some would say not very wisely.  I couldn't possibly comment.  I know that's a somewhat simplistic way of looking at it, but it's true enough.

The question today is, now that UK shale gas reserves are thought to be double the size previously thought, will the government tuck the extra revenue away for a future generation?  After Jeffrey has a plan to ensure our nation's finances are balanced, so extra revenue isn't something we need to spend is it?

Answers on the back of a postcard please.

If they don't we may find the whole country will one day end up like Wales

Amen

There was a story that the Beckham's first born was called Brooklyn because that is where he was conceived.  At the time many eyebrows were raised because it all seemed a bit tacky, so in her biography, Mrs Beckham explained she liked the name Brooke and it made her think of Brooklyn.  All a bit far fetched if you ask me.  In Loughton, where we live, David's sister runs a hairdressing salon.  This is situated in Brooklyn Court.  Poirot has suggested this is more likely the true origins of the lad's name.  Just thought you'd like to know.

Last week we went off to see The Amen Corner at The National, a three-act play wit singing (of course) about Sister Margaret and her Harlem Church.  Except, Rufus Norris has turned it into a two-act play...which for me at least, meant a very long first half.  As ever with The National, the production was beyond compare...great staging that certainly helped enliven a tale of hypocrisy, betrayal and change.  It was well-acted, with a particularly strong performance by Marianne Jean-Baptiste and Lucian Msamati as her wayward husband.  I wasn't quite as spellbound as our companions, or as the reviews would have me believe I should have been, but it is an excellent show....and provides a platform for a slightly broader audience make up than you normally see at The National.

I enjoy a good Martini...it's always my aperitif of choice when given the chance, and we have them regularly enough at home to keep the vodka industry profitable.  Mr and Mrs Muffin had invited us out to Dukes Bar and Hotel in Mayfair on Saturday night...the choice of venue being dictated by it being Ian Fleming's cocktail bar of choice, and by rumour where the phrase 'shaken no stirred' came into being.  They have a long list of Martinis to try, and I selected a 'Vesper'.  Not only does it include vermouth, it also incorporates both gin and vodka as well as a dash of Angostura bitters and some orange oil which may itself have contained alcohol.  It may have been a mistake.  It was certainly delicious.  And no matter how much I poured it down my throat, there always seemed to be more in my glass.  We staggered downstairs to the restaurant where I believe I had a more than passable meal.  I believe we entertained everyone as we were the only people talking above a whisper.  In fact we may have been typically Essex.  Sorry.  I was reminded on Sunday that I'd finished off with a cognac.  In actuality I got up Sunday morning, not early, and realised I was not hung over.  I was in fact still drunk.  Not tipsy.  Not a little the worse for wear.  I was completely inebriated.  I had to return to bed to sleep it off.  Anyway, thank you Mr and Mrs Muffin, I had a lovely night

There is no more school.  Friday was prize day, and the Boy and the Cat waltzed off with their share.
Today their books have been returned.  It is the end...and very sad too.  There is now a period of uncertainty and contemplation.  Exam results are awaited.  The Cat was due to head off to uni in September, but has the possible opportunity of a dream internship, so we're not quite sure; The Boy is due to head off for a ski season, but that won't be confirmed until September.  And for the parents there's the uncertainty of whether we will start our time as empty-nesters or remain as the people who nag, moan, prod and prompt.