Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh

FRIDAY

"Have you got any homework?"

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


SUNDAY

"How's the homework coming along?"

"I finished it all Saturday morning"

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

"Yeah, I'll do that in bed"

"Erm yes, if you're sure"


MONDAY AM

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

"See you later"



MONDAY PM

"How was school?"

"Yeah, fine. All good"

"How did the French test go?"

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

"Ummm. Erm. Why?"

"Well that's what I was told"

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

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

"But I thought you were doing it today?"

"No. Friday"

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

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

"So you're retaking it?"

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

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

"We don't have French on a Monday"

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

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

"When was the test then?"

"Friday"

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

"No Friday."

"You mean last Friday?"

"Yesssssssssssssssss"

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

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

"Oh right"

*Bangs head repeatedly on wall*

Six degrees of separation

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

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

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

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

The gig? Oh brilliant...loved it.

Education is in vogue

This is the boy's school. In my day, its main claim to fame was having the longest dormitory in the country.

The school mummies are all a twitter looking at the frocks, the dads are just looking at the models and that Rolls Royce...

Yes it was just like this when I was there...including all the lovely, gorgeous mummies. I wish. As teenagers, of course, all the mummies were yummy. But I do remember that when we were in need, the parents of the boy who was driven to school in the Rolls wouldn't help us out by giving me a lift in the morning.

I'm left pondering on whether it is wise of the first ever headmistress of the school to have made two significant decisions since she started a year ago - change the school uniform and allow the photoshoot.....some degree of stereotyping seems to be coming out...

Erm

City life

Do you remember the days when the worst people in the world were estate agents, or perhaps lawyers or even PR people? Those were simple times. It was easy to know who to focus your venom on. But of course, in the last eighteen months a lot has changed. We're all unemployed, saddled with houses which are worth half of what we paid for them, and can't afford to go abroad on holiday because our £1 is worth thruppence ha'penny. And now the very worst people in the world are bankers, and everyone who works in the world of finance. High finance has become low finance, but the bankers and their supporting cohorts continue to rake in their millions. Is it any wonder we hate them. Surely though not all these people can be monsters? Or can they? I'd like to share with you some correspondence over the last 24 hours:

Dear Mr Nota Bene,

Regarding Council Tax account 12345678

I need to contact the named person below who, according to my records, was a tenant and previously lived at 'rented flat'

Mr Former Tenant

According to our records the above is liable for Council Tax from 03-NOV-2007 to 07-MAY-2008.

Please can you confirm a forwarding address and any other contact details Mr Former Tenant?

Your assistance in this matter is greatly appreciated and I thank you for your co-operation, please reply by return of this e-mail.

Best Regards

Revenues Officer

Revenues Collection Company
Lake House
Shared Service Centre
Phoenix Road
Barrow-in-Furness
Cumbria
LA14 2UG

Hello.

These are the contact detail I have, although they may now be out of date:

Former Tenant
Banking Business (UK) Inc
Paternoster Square
London
office: +44 (0)20 1234 5678
mobile: +44 (0) 7890 123 456
email: former.tenant@bankingcompany.com

kind regards

Dear Nota Bene,

Thanks very much for your help.

It’s much appreciated.

Regards


Revenues Officer


Dear Mr Former Tenant,

I am writing with regard to unpaid council tax for 'rented flat', account ref 12345678. There is an outstanding balance of £ 246.40 on your account for the period you were a tenant at the property, from 03-NOV-2007 to 07-MAY-2008.

Please telephone 020 1234 5678 to arrange payment of the outstanding balance.

When making any payment you must quote your Council Tax account reference 12345678. Failure to make contact with me and make full payment of the outstanding balance will result in me applying for an Attachment of Earnings Order where I will deduct the outstanding balance direct from your wages from your employer, Bankingcompany (Uk) Inc, to recover the outstanding balance.

Please do not hesitate to contact me should you need any further information with regard to the above.

Regards

Revenues Officer

From: Former Tenant
Sent: Wednesday, November 11, 2009 12:05 PM
To: 'Revenue Officer'
Subject: RE: Council Tax account reference 12345678

As I am no longer an employee in England, that would be challenging indeed for you to deduct wages from there!

I have the paperwork proving that I paid the full 6 months that I lived at Rented Flat. Please let me know where to fax the paperwork and I will do so within the next few days. Most of my paperwork is still in boxes from my move, so it will take me a few days to locate it.

Additionally, please send me the dates of the balance as well as an invoice for precisely what is being charged in the event that I was no longer even a tenant for the period in question.

Regards,
Former Tenant

Thanks, Nota. I’ll make sure that I have them hound you down for the 6 day gap between the time that my lease legally ended and the time the new tenants lease began.

The best part about this being that I had previously paid the full balance and have proof. But since you seem more than willing to create headaches for me, I will return the favor.

Kind regards,

Former Tenant

Former Tenant,

I'm sorry if you feel that way. I am legally obliged to give them your contact details. If you have paid there is nothing for you to worry about, merely supply the information they need. Their language can be quite aggressive, but that is the nature of English local government. I am so sorry you have reacted in this way as their [sic] was absolutely no malice on my part.

Kind regards

Nota Bene

Yes, and I'm sure the law requires you to divulge my email address. Right. Let's play ball, nota. You want trouble. Then I'll give you trouble. Now I just need to figure out new ways to screw you over. Don't worry... I'm creative!!!

And can you not use correct personal pronouns. English is YOUR language, yet you use it so poorly. That makes me sad.

-Former Tenant

Hi Former Tenant.

I'm not sure what has provoked this outburst from you. However, in the circumstances, I shall pass your threat on to my lawyer, and will also, if necessary, pass a copy of your e-mails to your employer.

Again, I can only repeat that if you have paid there is nothing for you to worry about.

Regards

Nota Bene

Lol. My threats? That is funny. I just believe in equalization.

- Former Tenant

Unpalatable

Here is the centre piece of our back yard.

You may think it's a pallet. And a bent one at that.

But you'd be wrong. It is an amazing natural resource which offers endless raw materials for making many different things.

It comes from the boy's school, and was thrown by them into a skip ready for disposal on some landfill site. Fortunately the eco-warrior decided to rescue it and carried it home - just as the ancient Brits carried the rocks for Stonehenge from Wales to Salisbury Plain all those many centuries ago.

The boy has always picked things up and brought them home. We have lots of oversized rusty nuts and bolts to prove it; we have lots of broken bits of bumper or indicator lights to prove it; we have lots of sticks and twigs from the forest to prove it - most memorably the large stick that once it dried out released some crazed beast that had previously had a lead role in Starship Troopers before trying to find peace and quiet in the damp vegetation of Epping Forest.

He carefully placed the pallet in the middle of the yard ready for recycling into some fantastical art piece in the near future. Or perhaps it would turn into a cupboard. Or a piece of furniture.

Although my memory isn't what it was, I seem to recall this momentous event took place in the late spring, or perhaps early summer. And of course, it has lain undisturbed ever since. What was a finely crafted pallet has now developed a bit of a bow from where it has been rained on consistently throughout this year's "it's going to be a barbeque" summer. And I am sure it will stay there undisturbed for a good number of months yet.

I would hope that in his head, the boy is formulating a Grand Plan, calculating which pieces he can use whole, and which pieces he will need to cut to size to create his artwork.

But really, deep down I know differently. I know he is a boy-man. And that means he is practicing for later life. I already feel sorry for his wife. Perhaps I should warn her. I can picture his living room floor, even now. Covered in pieces from a 'soon to be' rebuilt motorcycle. I can picture his bathroom with one wall half-tiled, with pipes connected to nothing but an empty space. I can picture his bedroom, with the holes drilled (unevenly) for a shelf that will never be put up. I can picture his dining room, with the woodwork half painted, and the feature wall half finished.

Because, as you know, every man grows up knowing that it is task in life to start DIY projects and never finish them. I'm so glad he has started early.

Wallpaper*

There are some things I feel I can share with you. And some things I just can't. Today I shall share with you that there is enough dust spread around the Brighton flat to make a whole new Kalahari desert. It would be a very dark desert as the dust is black, but it would be a desert. Or perhaps I could rent the flat as a lunar landscape for the next 'fake moon landing'. Conspiracy theorists, please gather here.

The reason for the dust is that since the early part of the year, we have been rennovating and decorating. The builders claim to have taken out 60 bags of rubble. And should be admired for that given that this is a fourth floor flat. With no lift. I had planned to wait until the new carpet is laid before I shared this with you. But I'm an impatient man. So the carpet is not yet ordered, let alone down, but I feel you should see the efforts of my wallet.

The two things I am most pleasedest with are the kitchen and the stairwell. I adore the stairwell now and intend to sit there through the long lonely evenings of winter. I will sit there and stroke the flock of the wallpaper.



The kitchen is full of new gadgets and I've reached a stage where I can no longer work out how to use new gadgets. Even with the instruction book. So I am hoping the boy will develop a passionate interest in cooking. I do know that the hob is an induction hob. I didn't know when I bought it that I had to have iron saucepans for an induction hob to work. So the aluminium ones I bought six months ago will have to find a new home. I have brought out some of the things that have been hidden in the back of a cupboard for 20 years. So welcome back Maggie and Ronnie the teapots.




I may one day share with you the trauma of getting to here, but not now.

Dinner time

The night before we headed off to Cyprus was the annual Old Boys Dinner. Of course these days, as there are girls at the school its a mixed evening. But still referred to as the Old Boys Dinner. Which probably doesn't go down too well with the boys (and girls) that left only last year, let alone any Old Boys who still claim to be 37. It's exactly the sort of thing you would expect (and if you have any prejudices against Public Schools, they are all completely fulfilled at these events) - a few drinks in the bar before, a few drinks over dinner, followed by a few drinks in the bar. Usually I have a couple of friends staying over and we have a few more drinks at home afterwards. But age, the need to be sober to travel and an unfortunate incident last year resulting in one of the friends taking the bedding away to be cleaned meant that we stayed sober this year. Relatively.

To further my son's school career, I have allowed myself to be volunteered for organising the event next year. Unfortunately the person that volunteered me forgot to tell anyone else, so another person was volunteered too. She was on the same table as me at the dinner, and jolly fine company too. In common parlance, I think she would be known as a game girl. When it came to the usual table photo, one of our fellow diners (and a very senior Director of a Bank that has a white bow tie as its logo), felt it appropriate to grab her right boob. She thought it hilarious. And that on a day when I see two female city workers are suing their employers for £3 million for some inappropriate name calling. Five minutes later, another Old Boy came along told her that the zip on the back of her dress was 'provocative' and immediately unzipped it. All the way down. She laughed and fluttered her eyelids. She did re-zip it. Not much later I left.

Because she and I will work together for next year's dinner, I have sent her my contact details. The reply I got was "Yes would love to get together over dinner"

I am somewhat non-plussed.

Cypriot wildlife

In no particular order....because I'm trying to do this from my phone, and haven't a clue how this will turn out! So here is a green frog, feral homo sapiens, ex-sheep, kingfishers, green oranges (they're like that in hot countries I'm told...still orange inside though)and the board walk, just because I like it...and we saw lots of crabs on that particular beach - they're all hiding in the sand.

Airport

We've sneaked away this week...so this is being penned from Cyprus...and despite her protestations to the contrary, Grandma in Cyprus has done my washing. After all, what's a Mum for, if not to wash your smalls. Naturally, the boy and I have taken up residence as all male offspring should. Feet up on the sofa, demanding to be fed and attended to on a regular basis. Disappointingly, we've not been brought a cup of tea in bed to wake us up every morning. I don't know why. We are enjoying toast and coffee out on the terrace,just by the pool for breakfast and the temperatures are reported as 'unseasonably high.' So that means low to mid-thirties. But we are assured of thunderstorms for the rest of the week. That'll be a shame. We'll just have to go diving again.

The boy and I have been left home alone, whilst Grandma and step-Grandad have gone off on an adventure. They are going to test out the new airport - I think they will pretend to be travelers to Zurich. Why Zurich I just don't know. They will walk in, walk through customs, and walk back. I hope they don't get searched. For their efforts they will get a small gift. And the pleasure of knowing they were amongst the first into the airport.

For there to be a new airport terminal at Larnaca, they must be doing well I hear you say, tourism must be booming despite the recession I guess you're thinking. But no, the truth is that the original terminal, it turns out, is owned by a Turkish-Cypriot. And Larnaca is in the Greek half. So to avoid any issues, the old one is closing and a new one being put up just at the other end of the runway. It's what happens, I guess, when a small island has been divided for thirty odd years, and both sides seem pretty entrenched in their own self-righteousness.

It seems politicians are the same. Whichever country you're in.

Islington Council

Yesterday was my day in court. And as someone who doesn't frequent these places, I found it fascinating. I suppose it shouldn't have come as a surprise that the place was filled with the sort of people you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley...or perhaps that view just comes from the prejudice of expectation. Naturally the proceedings are orchestrated by nice middle-class folks who come attired in their designer labels. The contrast with the summonsed couldn't have been greater. Nor should I have been surprised that as I chose to attend in suit and tie (oh my word it was difficult to remember how to knot one of those) I was mistaken for a solicitor. Perhaps I should have taken my chances on that score...Catch me if you can.

The outcome for me was not quite what I'd hoped, but as I had expected given my experience (mainly the divorce court) of courts to do their level best to satisfy no one. The case was adjourned until 10th November to give Islington Council time to contact the trustees and confirm that they accept they are responsible for the outstanding Council Tax. This was even though the court accepted that Islington Council had no prospectof getting a liability order against me.

But for me there was a bigger issue, which entirely hardened my view that Islington Council is incompetent and spiteful. As part of the procedings yesterday, the council was asking the court to agree to something approaching 6000 liability orders. As theses sessions are monthly, I understand, that makes roughly 72,000 orders a year. I find that figure mind boggling, and in itself implies something fundamentally wrong with the council's approach to taxation and the collection there of. But, and this is really what got me going..... the council has to prove that they have sent the demands and the summonses. They do this by having a post book in which they record what has been despatched. The problem yesterday was that the figures in the post book didn't match the number of summonses the Council claimed to have issued. As the court pointed out, that meant that if the liability orders were issued, then some people could receive an order when they haven't received a summons...and if it was an elderly person the shock could be fatal. The council didn't have an answer for that and the whole lot got thrown out. All 6000 of them. The council charges £120 per summons, a cost of £720,000. Plus the loss of revenue...say at a modest of £200/summons...that's £1,200,000. A rough total of £2million. Now call me prejudiced, but that strikes me as grossly incompetent and suggests a completely cavalier attitude to the legal system and to the general public and public funds. I hope the council officials are contrite, but somehow I doubt it judging by their response. And don't forget we pay for this with our taxes - all of us - because the bulk of council revenue comes from central government.

Rules are meant to be broken

In recent weeks you will have spotted a thread of anarchy beginning to spread through the Nota Bene household. First the ticket for stopping in the bus lane, then for disobeying a red traffic light, followed by The Boy's violent affray on the rugby pitch. To be sure, we are not a law-abiding lot, although we have not yet plumbed the depths of Ronald Biggs misdemeanour, nor the Kray twins - although there is a passing resemblence between the boy and myself.

So you will not be surprised to learn that I have taken my cocking a snoot at authority to new levels. There are reasons for this, of course. I feel the heavy hand of authoritarianism of our New Labour master ever more heavily on my wallet and my very being. It is time for rebellion and revolution. I have been boning up on my Che to help me on my way.

Last night I was at the heart of our democracy and I took my opportunity. It was just one small step on the road to revolution, although I'm not sure I am yet a Bolshevik icon, but it's the small things that make a difference.

Here are a couple of pictures from inside the House of Commons. The policeman was not best pleased, and I was expecting to be marched down to the cells. And I don't think it'll give much away to Al Qaeda. The flock wallpaper in committee room 10 was very nice, but I was disappointed there was no chicken balti on the menu.

His Royal Highness

Winter has arrived. I don't need to read the weather forecasts to know this. I feel it in my bones. In my finger bones in particular. That's not some strange physical quirk on my part, and I don't get cold feet in the night either. It's just that when I'm on the motorbike, the cold gets through. Doesn't matter what I do, I freeze. And the leaves haven't even fallen yet. In most places they're still green, although Epping Forest is beginning to turn brown, orange and golden yellow. It's a beautiful place to walk your dog. I wish I had a dog.

But at least it's warm in the cottage (inspite of British Gas declaring war on my boiler and decreeing it defunct and the sole cause of global warming). For the boy, though, he's not had that warmth this weekend. He's been away on is Duke of Edinburgh Award hike, sleeping under canvas. He's back tonight, and hopefully not encased in a block of ice, like Scrat. I'm looking forward to it in eager anticipation of being subjected to a non-stop barrage of tales of daring and adventure from arrival until bedtime, and then again at breakfast tomorrow...and for the following days, weeks and months thereafter.

This weekend appears to be the weekend for everyone to do their DoE...I've seen numerous bedraggled pictures of friends' offspring on Facebook. In my day, it was the few and not the many that made the sacrifice. But these days, it seems a basic qualification for life. The boy appears to enjoy it - he's also doing cycling down at the local club, and helping out at the Drama Club. So his evenings and weekends are pretty full, even before the rigours of homework, and putting his socks in the wash basket.

I hope the Duke is proud of what the youth do in his name.

James Bond arrives

After a period of being a company of 'no fixed abode' due to my failure to organise us when the lease of our old office came to an end, we moved to Bermondsey St...half way between Tower Bridge and London Bridge three years ago. To be entirely fair to me, we had started the process of buying the office six m months before...but evidently that wasn't long enough. It clearly wasn't helped by my solicitor asking four months into the process "Do you want a break clause?". On a 999 year lease. Yes I think so, about year 423 please. We found a new solicitor.

Anyhoos, we moved in having furbished an empty shell which was a modern addition to the old London warehouses that are a feature of the neighbourhood. I'm sure that at the height of the Port of London's success, the whole area must have been an amazing hive of hustle and bustle. Surprisingly there are very many old buildings which still exist and exude charm on the neighbourhood. I love it, and so do most people when they come visit - it's one of the least recognised places in London. There are old windy streets, a village hall, scruffy pubs, the antiques market, restaurants, real, local people and a sense of community, Bermondsey food market, parks and well anything you want in life. Apart from Marks and Spencer.

And that may be why our new neighbours have chosen to occupy the office opposite, which has been empty for the entire time we've been here. When we met the guys on their first visit there was a certain 'air' about them. Ever so slightly intimidating, but not in anyway unfriendly. A certain unexpected calmness. They exude confidence and they look extremely fit. There's a slightly militaristic way to the way the walk, speak and hold themselves.

We swapped cards, as you do. And I checked them out. They are a specialist security consultancy. They provide 'protection teams'. They provided a security cordon after the Baltic Exchange bombing. A foreign government employed them for surveillance of an arms dealer. They find corrupt South American government officials. They trace 'assets'. They seize counterfeit goods. And these are just examples from their website. I suspect that Mud is part of their team given all her foreign travels off the beaten track.

Their office is currently being fitted out. I probably shouldn't mention the floor which is being installed. It's made of one and a half inch thick steel plates. They've mentioned they are lining the ceiling as well. I wonder with what?

Never one to let my imagination run away with me, I expect to be reporting back shortly with tales of balaclava-clad soldiers abseiling in through the windows. Of local power outages as their complex systems for monitoring every radio message broadcast around the world drain the electricity grid. Burly blokes with holdalls casually thrown over their back delivering bags of used notes. And of suave agents arriving to collect details of their latest mission. Perhaps I could volunteer. After all there's nothing wrong with a bit of action and adventure, eh? See you in the Congo. "Call me Bene. Nota Bene."

Not guilty as charged

Has anyone got a good word to say about Islington Council? My encounters with them have never been good.

When we lived in central London Town, I rented a car parking space in an underground car park. It cost a lot to rent. I had to pay Council Tax on it too. To Islington Council. To the tune of £800 a year. Yes that is indeed more than many people pay for a whole house. When we moved to our cottage in the Forest (I think Little Red Riding Hood lives close) we got our own garage. In fact it's part of the cottage. Some people would turn it into a living room. We haven't becasue we like to fill it with Boy things. As we have this garage, we didn't need the one in London Town. So I wrote to Islington Council and told them we didn't use it anymore. They sent me a Tax Demand. Over the course of several months I wrote again and again, I telephoned them and I even went to visit them. Same story every time: I don't use this parking space anymore. That didn't stop them issuing a court summons. And refusing to withdrawing it. So I went to court. On the day I was supposed to be going to a friend's wedding. When I stood up in court the judge asked why I was pleading not guilty. I produced the letters, the dates of correspondence and the dates I had visited Islington Council. The judge asked Islington Council why they had issued the summons. They explained that they hadn't had time to check the space was not occupied. The judge dismissed the case. The court made the Council pay the costs and refund the Tax they had made me pay. If you live in Islington you paid for that.

When the boy's Mum died, he inherited, with his sister, a nice house in Finsbury Park. Finsbury Park is in Islington. Council Tax has to be paid on the house. When it is occupied by tenants, the tenants pay the tax. When it's vacant, the Trustees are responsible for the Council Tax. Not me. I don't own the house, I simply find tenants for it. The Trustees live in Wales; its a long way away so I help them out - why wouldn't I? It's my son's inheritance. I have explained that to Islington Council many times over the last several months. By phone, e-mail and by letter. I even have a letter from them telling me that they have removed my name from their records and I am no longer associated with the house. I've got e-mail apologies from them. But that hasn't stopped them issuing a Court Summons for next Thursday. This time I shall ask for compensation. This time I will ask the Court to make them stop harassing me. This time I expect the Court will make Islington Council pay the costs. If you live in Islington you will pay for that.

P.S. I've learnt through experience that Courts have a habit of making sure they upset everyone, so disregard the bravado above....I'm not counting my chickens, yet