A Late Summer's Weekend Tale

I am suffering from that well known 21st Century syndrome known as Blogger’s Block. I think many of us fall victim to this from time to time – except for your Ian Dale’s and co – but I think my problem recently has been that my mind has been preoccupied with weird, wonderful and terrible things at work, and whilst part of me would like to share those stories past experience has taught me that writing about work on a blog is Not A Good Idea. Someone tried to get me sacked once because of it.


I might have written about how stunning West Side Story was at Sadler’s Wells, but Reidski’s account does that task far better than I could ever manage. So I give you –A Midsummer Night’s Dream.


Another era ago, me and a group of friends used to have a weekend in Stratford upon Avon once a year – see a play, row on the river (that’s row a boat on the river, not have a row on the river – although sometimes there would be a bit of both), and drink copious amounts of alcohol. A nostalgic trawl through old photographs of these events recently led to us deciding to bring back the Stratford weekend – and to introduce the second generation to the delights of Shakespeare. (Actually this was my second attempt to teach my lads the joys of Shakespeare – the first not being what you might call an unqualified success…see below for replay of that story.)

This weekend therefore found an unsuspecting Stratford upon Avon invaded by a group of 13 of us. Things started as they were meant to continue with a trip to the pub before the matinee performance we were booked to see. Two of us were on the white wine. We did a bottle between us before the play.

The play itself was a great success in that in had something for everyone; even my A Level English Lit student son who swears he can not understand a word of Shakespeare had enough visual funnies to keep him happy. Only one amongst us fell asleep which was a major improvement on my family’s last trip to a play at Stratford. Nine of us went to see a Christmas production of Great Expectations three years ago – I was the only one that time who did NOT fall asleep. My friend Fiona was snoring….loudly.

Getting back to Saturday we came out the theatre at about half 5 and naturally went back to the pub. Another bottle of white wine for me and M. We were both feeling the effects, when to our dismay another bottle of white wine appeared. We gamely ploughed our way through that too. 7.00 found us in a restaurant – alas – with another bottle of white wine. I am not too clear about how I managed to hold it together by this stage, but it was something to do with M getting weepy through her alcoholic intake that left me worried about and protective of her which I think must have somehow kept me reasonably alert.

The reasonably alert bit lasted until we all went back to check into our hotel. It must have only been about half 8. I remember lying down on the bed – and the next thing I knew it was quarter past one. There were slumbering young people around me and I had no idea if they had been there all the time, or if they had been in, gone out again, and come back, and I wasn’t entirely sure if in fact I might have been out somewhere with them. I found out the next morning that they had been in, gone out and come back – but that all their attempts to stir me had been in vain. I don’t think I have EVER slept as deeply as I must have done then. The good bit was that I was hangover free in the morning which was more than any of the others over the age of 17 could say.

We did row – and row – on the river later. The rowing bit comes from a disgraceful tendency to competitiveness which manifests itself amongst us where ever we are divided into two teams. We hired a boat for 6 and one for 7, and obviously it was very important to ‘win’ the officially non existent ‘race’. As some amongst us are never going to be the next Steven Redgrave the rowing action itself left a lot to be desired and some people as a result ended up very wet – and not a little pissed off. Happily the being pissed off only lasted for about three hours so it didn’t spoil anything.

All in all, a great return to our Stratford Weekends, and we would be very happy to go back again this season and see Hamlet – only it appears that Lisa and her friends have bought all the available tickets :-) I am not sure what the attraction for this particular production might be?????




Here’s the July 2005 Shakespeare story:



The National Theatre has a fantastic offer of seats for £10 each. Both my son's have read some Shakespeare at school, and they like '10 things I hate about you' which I thought was quite promising (sort of Shakespearean), and the clincher in grabbing their attention...Dumbledore is starring in Henry IV Part 1 (and that Michael Gambon is in it too, I'd heard he was 'not bad'). To cut to the chase, I got tickets for me, them and my mum.

You will have seen the 'hoodie' debate. To summarise; any teenage boy who wears a top with a hood up is clearly a hooligan and must therefore be banned from polite society, which apparently includes the good shoppers of Bluewater Shopping Centre. I have never been there but clearly it must be packed with refined persons who would never slap their kids in public, swear loudly at their partners or drop chewing gum any where. It must therefore be unlike any shopping centre I have ever visited. I digress.

Seating arrangements were from aisle inwards Mum (age 70), me, (age secret) D (age 15), J (age 13), Unknown Male (uknown age but approx 30), Unknown Male's Wife (also age unknown). Half way through the first half I notice J is sitting wearing his hood up, and has his face covered beneath the jackets zip. He resembles a hooligan. I am perturbed, but having already been told to 'hush' by the guy in front of me when I opened a sweet...DURING A BLOODY SCENE CHANGE...(I noted he was on his own, billy-no-mates, and I can't say I'm surprised) I didn't dare say anything to him. The hood stayed up. His face stayed hidden. And both boys laughed alot. Partly I was pleased as this could mean they were understanding the jokes, but mostly I was getting a bit stressy because most of the time they were giggling there were n't any jokes being made.

The interval. Unknown Male is out of his seat, and so is J to share with me and mum what D already knows very well. It turns out the Unknown Male has been farting through out the first half, sometimes audibly (and was HE told to 'hush'? He was not!), but ALWAYS very, very smelly, hence J burying his face in his jacket. And how subtle was J in conveying this news? As you may imagine, every one remaining in their seats during the interval knew, including I'm sorry to say, Unknown Male's Wife, who looked mortified, doubly so when he returned within minutes bearing ice creams. She suggested they went for a walk, and I imagine pointed him firmly in the direction of the gents. J refused to sit in the same seat for the second half. My poor mother had that pleasure, but either her sense of smell isn't what it was, or he had done what was required as there were no further reports of anti-social behaviour.

And of course, when any one asks J how he found his first Shakespeare play he tells them that he didn't have a clue what the play was about but.....

The boys done good

Good enough anyway.

Younger son passed all four on higher grades than his brother did this time last year, and older son got an A and a C at A Level and a B at AS Level and has got a place on the course he wanted for September next year (coming up to your neck of the woods Yorkshire Pudding.)

One of the reasons I was so genuinely worried was that my eldest’s GSCE’s were so decidedly average that he ended up taking two subjects at A Level which he should never have been doing – French and Maths. French was dropped within his first six weeks in the 6th Form, and Maths whilst lasting the entire year came to an inglorious end with an Unclassified at AS Level. To get the points tally he needed to get into university he really had to perform in his exams this time round and from where I was sitting it didn’t look like that was happening. The Parents Evening in March this year was just horrible with dire warnings from all his teachers. So I guess when my back was turned he MUST have worked since then – but I’m still not entirely sure precisely when.

My eldest told me afterwards that getting those results was the greatest moment of his life – and he had previously thought nothing would ever beat the feeling he got when he passed his driving test. Can’t tell you how lovely it was to hear him say that. Or what a relief those results really were.

Tomorrow

promises to be a day of contrasts.

In the afternoon Reidski and I are going to Sadler's Wells to see West Side Story (see this for far more articulate praise than I could ever manage on just what makes West Side story so wonderful.) The reviews have been nothing less than gushing and as it is probably my favourite film of all time to say I am looking forward to it is way past an understatement.

In the morning however..........





both my sons get their exam results.


Now it is not that I think either or both of them are incapable of passing exams. GSCE results in the past have indeed shown that they CAN pass exams - albeit it not with flying colours. I had hoped that given how averagely they did achieve at GSCE Level that they would be spurred on to work somewhat harder during their sixth form studies. This has proved to be a false hope.

I was a right little swot at school. For my A Levels I got what my careers teacher told me were "the best results in the school by far." (False modesty apart they WERE the best results in the school by far - but the competition wasn't exactly red hot.) Anyway, what I am trying to say here is that I got my results by working - by working hard - and call me old fashioned but I still tend to think that in order to pass exams you really do need to actually revise for the things. There was no visible sign whatsoever that either of my boys were revising for their exams last June. Even with my most optimistic head on I cannot realistically hope for anything more than them having 'just about done enough' when the results arrive tomorrow.

So to say I am not exactly looking forward to hearing their results is also way past an understatement. And it can be guaranteed that when the media is banging on tomorrow about how A Level results are up again that my cats will be staying well out of kicking range.


(As I was writing this my friend Anne sent me a text asking me to wish them both luck for tomorrow. If only that was all that was needed!)

(Arrghh! You won't believe this and I hardly expect you to but I just got another text before I could press 'publish' from my friend Fiona saying the exact same thing. Do all my friends have psychic powers or are they just trying to cause me additional stress?)

From 'Not the End of the World' by Christopher Brookmyre

Story is set in 1999....

The boat moved off with a loud horn-blast and then the excruciatingly over-familiar opening chords of Prince's '1999'. Steff hadn't heard a song played so fucking much since every restaurant, supermarket, joinery, plumbing firm, tyre-fitter's, DIY store and travel agent boasted to the world that they were 'Simply The Best'. The Huns used it to, over the PA when the team took the field, further proof if it could ever be needed that individuality and original thought were largely incompatible with supporting Glasgow Rangers Football Club.


I would have found it even funnier had not the Cobblers also resorted to 'that song' on occasion - though I always kind of hoped we were only using it give the opposition a good laugh.

Here we go, here we go, here we go

First day of the football season was upon us once again. No sense of expectations for today as we have failed to win our opening home match of the season for the past 13 years. But records like that are of course there to be broken and tonight I am a Happy Cobbler as we won 4-2 today against The Mighty Cheltenham. Don't believe they are that Mighty huh? Well let me tell you that to the best of my knowledge Cheltenham Town have, at various points in their history, spent literally hundreds of pounds on players good enough to wear their shirt. ;-)

And if only the table looked like this come the last day of the season we wouldn't complain too much.

(Millwall lost 4-3 having been 3-1 up with 79 minutes left to play.)

What's been going on?

It's Friday and the past week or so has gone past in a flash.

I have been neglectful of blogging Quick Catch Up time.

TNR and Mrs TNR were down in London staying at Reidksi's place last week and it was great to catch up with them.

Before meeting up with them I put my daughter on the train to deepest Devon where she was going to be staying with friends for a few days. I was so paranoid about this Journey Alone..though she was totally unfazed. I ensured she was sat near women and families - ie no weird men - although I found out later that a very weird old woman got on and harassed her for her forward facing sear later, and a 15 year old boy 'helped her with her case', so so much for my planning.

TNR and Mrs TNR are great cooks - see the link above to TNR's food blog called 'Chicken omelette, nae peas' which if I remember correctly is what a friend is his and Reidski's always ordered at their local Chinese. Saturday night they cooked a group of us some wonderful Spanish food.I am still drooling as I remember it now.

I was back in London again on Monday night which was their last evening in London and yet more wonderful food was had, this time at Wahaca which is a truly brilliant - and cheap - Mexican place in Covent Garden owned, as I learnt then, by a former winner of BBC's Masterchef Thomasina Miers. (The chillies she uses come from Devon. I took this as evidence my daughter would be basking in exotic sunshine during her stay at the Devon coast- yeah right.)

Plans for getting my daughter back from Devon had been carefully laid and involved her being picked up yesterday. Enough to say that those carefully laid plans spectacularly collapsed in the past few days and led to me having to take a 400 mile drive yesterday to fetch her home. I took my 16 year old son with me for company and map reading...although the second of his allotted tasks was scrubbed when he told me as we passed Oxford that he couldn't read maps. I was outraged. "What the bloody hell do they teach you in geography if not how to read maps? I asked. "Coastal erosion" was the answer. I didn't get much conversation either although I did get to listen to a lot of The Libertines, Dirty Pretty Things and Babyshambles. There is a link there somewhere I think ;-) It would have been OK but I got the lyrics 'Bang, bang, you're dead' stuck on relentless replay in my head which was a bit disconcerting.

We stopped for lunch in a little Somerset town called Ilminster where as J pointed out, he was the youngest person in the entire place - and I was second youngest. Lovely meal at a pub called The George - The Good Pub Guide coming up trumps again.

We got an hour on the beach before setting off back again. We drove past Stonehenge and I made a comment about how amazing it was to see those ancient stones there. Sometime later my daughter said "You know how you said those stones were so old?" "Yes?" said I. "Well, I thought all stones were old," she said which at least told me that they do learn something in geography at their school, but did make me wonder what they teach them about this country's heritage.

So that is about the week that was, or at least it is as I am going to spare you the gory details of a story concerning my 11 year old niece, her tonsil, a one and a half inch long salmon bone and three hours in casualty. (She is fine now thank you.)

Off now to see one of my nuttier clients which, believe me, makes this one very nutty indeed. Groan.

Nothing new under the sun

We trained hard ... but it seemed that every time we were beginning to form up into teams we would be reorganized. I was to learn later in life that we tend to meet any new situation by reorganizing; and a wonderful method it can be for creating the illusion of progress while producing confusion, inefficiency, and demoralization

Arbiter, Gauis Petronius on Opportunity

Quote from Quotations Book



Petronius (ca. 27–66) was a Roman writer of the Neronian age; he was a noted satirist.

The Big Read Survey

I saw this at Darren's place and thought I would have a go. It is a survey* that originated because “The Big Read reckons that the average adult has only read 6 of the top 100 books they’ve printed."

So you have to see how many you have read in order to identify those amongst us who conform to their version of the average adult. But what a strange list it is. I suppose though that is what you get when you allow us plebs to vote on books. At least Lord of the Rings has been knocked off the top spot on the most recent poll of BBC viewers by a book worthy of the title Number One Best Book of All Time. (Although I know at least one person who may see this hates Jane Austen.)


1) Look at the list and bold those you have read.
2) Italicize those you intend to read.
3) Underline the books you love.
4) Strike out the books you have no intention of ever reading, or were forced to read at school and hated.
5) Reprint this list in your own blog so we can try and track down these people who’ve only read 6 and force books upon them
I would add that 'read' means read, not flicked through or given up half way to the end. It's cover to cover or nothing.

Editor's note.I don't know how to underline so the one's I love are in capital letters. Suggest anyone else trying this copies and pastes from Darren.

Here goes:

1 PRIDE AND PREJUDICE - Jane Austen
2 The Lord of the Rings - JRR Tolkien.
3 JANE EYRE - Charlotte Bronte
4 THE HARRY POTTER SERIES - JK Rowling
5 TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD - Harper Lee
6 The Bible (Grade A R.E. O Level I will have you know!
7 WUTHERING HEIGHTS - Emily Bronte
8 Nineteen Eighty Four - George Orwell
9 His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
10 Great Expectations - Charles Dickens
11 Little Women - Louisa M Alcott
12 Tess of the D’Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy
13 Catch 22 - Joseph Heller
14 Complete Works of Shakespeare
15 Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier
16 The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien
17 Birdsong - Sebastian Faulks
18 CATCHER IN THE RYE - JD Salinger
19 THE TIME TRAVELLER'S WIFE - Audrey Niffenegger
20 Middlemarch - George Eliot
21 Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell
22 The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald
23 Bleak House - Charles Dickens
24 War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
25 The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
26 Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh
27 Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
28 Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck
29 Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll
30 The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame
31 Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy
32 David Copperfield - Charles Dickens
33 Chronicles of Narnia - CS Lewis
34 EMMA - Jane Austen
35 PERSUASION - Jane Austen
36 The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe - CS Lewis
37 The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
38 Captain Corelli’s Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres
39 Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden
40 Winnie the Pooh - AA Milne
41 Animal Farm - George Orwell
42 The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown (to my shame - what a load of crap!)
43 One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
44 A Prayer for Owen Meaney - John Irving
45 The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins
46 Anne of Green Gables - LM Montgomery
47 Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy
48 The Handmaid’s Tale - Margaret Atwood
49 Lord of the Flies - William Golding
50 ATONEMENT - Ian McEwan
51 Life of Pi - Yann Martel
52 Dune - Frank Herbert
53 Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons
54 Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen
55 A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth
56 The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon
57 A TALE OF TWO CITIES - Charles Dickens
58 Brave New World - Aldous Huxley
59 THE CURIOUS INCIDENT OF THE DOG IN THE NIGHT-TIME- Mark Haddon
60 Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
61 Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck
62 Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
63 The Secret History - Donna Tartt
64 The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold
65 Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas
66 On The Road - Jack Kerouac
67 Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy
68 Bridget Jones’s Diary - Helen Fielding
69 Midnight’s Children - Salman Rushdie
70 Moby Dick - Herman Melville
71 Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens
72 Dracula - Bram Stoker
73 The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
74 Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson
75 Ulysses - James Joyce (Who the fuck voted for this??? Life is too short!)
76 The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath
77 Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome (probably did when at school but have no memory of it.)
78 Germinal - Emile Zola
79 Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray
80 Possession - AS Byatt
81 A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens
82 Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
83 The Color Purple - Alice Walker
84 The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro
85 Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert
86 A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry
87 Charlotte’s Web - EB White
88 The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom
89 Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
90 The Faraway Tree Collection - Enid Blyton
91 Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad
92 The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery
93 The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks
94 Watership Down - Richard Adams
95 A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole
96 A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute
97 The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
98 HAMLET - William Shakespeare
99 Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl
100 Les Miserables - Victor Hugo


So I have read, if I have counted correctly 52 of them, though I take no pleasure in admitting to The Da Vinci Code. And I haven't actually read all the Bible, though was red hot on the Synoptic Gospels in my day.

I think they should add another category of how many have you have never even heard of let alone read? Five in my case ....Number's 56, 78, 86, 88 and 92.

Darren didn't pass it on exactly but left it as an open invitation so I will happily follow his example except for naming Reidski because the genius that is TNR has only gone and fixed Reidski's computer so he can get back to blogging at last. But for what it's worth - I enjoyed doing it.


* Note use of word 'Survey' rather than 'meme'. Still not over what that arse who commented on the Fatalist's blog said about me when he did a 'meme' I sent him.

Death has them parted

Warning. This post contains dialogue spoken by my family members. To put it another way it contains lots of swearing.

Yesterday my family came together to say goodbye to my Auntie Mary, wife to my Uncle Bill and mother to my cousins Bill junior and Linda who died last week aged 77. She had been very poorly for a long time and when she died they say she looked thirty years younger. This is a comfort.

I struggle to describe my Uncle Bill. He is my only blood uncle and I love him dearly, but the words obnoxious, cantankerous, offensive and others in like vein spring instantly to mind when trying to provide a pen portrait of him. Johnny Speight must have encountered him some time in the early 60’s. I well remember various horrific moments in my past when I have had to introduce assorted boyfriends to my Uncle Bill - always accompanied by whispered pleas from me not to take any notice of a single word he said.

Uncle Bill was firmly of the opinion a woman’s place was in the home, except in the case of the only other woman he ever loved – Margaret Thatcher. He was always the archetypal Working Class Tory although I suspect he only became a Tory to annoy his dad (my granddad) – a life long Socialist. He never allowed Mary out of his sight. Not once since they married has she ever had a night out without him. We discovered at the funeral yesterday to our collective horror that Mary had met Bill when she was 14. SIXTY THREE YEARS WITH MY UNCLE BILL. Never have the words ‘After much suffering’ been so appropriate in an obituary.

Coming now to Bill junior (aged 50). At some point in the past fifteen years he went mad. He returned to live with his parents (evidence of madness if any was needed) and that was when battle really commenced. To all outward appearances, he and his dad loath each other and always have done. They were, and indeed still are, unable to agree on a single thing. Either would swear black was white if the other took the opposite view. Poor, poor Mary, a door mat if ever there was one, put up with this state of affairs till the day she died. Her daughter Linda – so incensed by the way her brother made her mother’s life even more of a misery - stopped speaking to him over ten years ago. Bill junior in his madness then became a recluse. He was last spotted in public at our previous family funeral five years ago.

Speculation was quite fevered in the family following Mary’s merciful release from this misery. Would Bill junior be at the funeral? (Answer: Yes) Would Bill and Linda be reconciled? (Answer: No) And would Bill senior behave with any decorum at the funeral? (Answer: No, no and no again.)

The service itself, conducted by a priest who did his best considering that he had never met Mary in his life, passed by without incident; or at least they did once the seating arrangements in the front row were sorted out to allow sufficient space between Bill junior and Linda. (Although that did cause some noticeable delay.)

Little digression here but I was reminded of the book I have just read; ‘Behind the Scenes at the Museum’ by Kate Atkinson which makes one think of the many things we do not know about the lives and emotions of our older relations. Yesterday I discovered Mary loved opera. One would never have imagined that Mary loved opera but she did. Quite poignant somehow.

The wake was held at the home of a friend of Linda’s who none of us knew. Linda’s house was too small, Bill’s was out of the question, and the friend very kindly offered before either my mum or her two sisters had a chance to volunteer. Uncle Bill and his warring offspring left the crematorium in the car to return to the funeral parlour where their cars were parked. We were all in the garden of this total stranger for a good while before they arrived, drinking PG Tips and nibbling at dry roasted peanuts. I seemed to have acquired the task of chaperoning an elderly (very) distant relation. (Widower of my mum’s Auntie Win if I got that bit right.) Anyway, I had never met him before but he was quite charming, and even managed not to be boring when telling me about his new hearing aid. (Reidski would say I should have listened very close attention to what he had to say on that subject.)

The genteel chattering was disrupted by the words “For fuck’s sake father!” which heralded the arrival of The Bills senior and junior. My uncle came across to the table where I was standing and started emptying the contents of a plastic carrier bag on to the grass by my feet. The contents included an entire change of clothes including socks and brown underpants. The pants sat on top of the pile and much as I was aware they were making the place look untidy I didn’t quite like to pick them up so they stayed where they were until some time later a horrified Linda scooped them up and away. Uncle Bill was looking for his fags. He declared “I am not fucking staying here if I can’t find my bleeding fags.” One of my aunties attempted to calm him down with the words “I’m sure there will be someone else who smokes here. (One only had to look around to see we were indeed surrounded by other smokers) I am sure they will let you have a smoke.” “They’re not bleeding smokers!” Bill senior declared “They just play at fucking smoking!” Uncle Bill you see is the last man still alive who chain smokes Players non tipped cigarettes and obviously considers all other smokers to be pussies.







Now of course one needs to show a certain amount of sympathy to the recently bereaved, except his temper tantrum was not caused by grief alone, but more as we subsequently learnt because back at the funeral directors he had reversed his car into their wall and demolished it. The car is probably a write off. We suspect Mary may be getting her own back from beyond the grave.

Bill junior asked in a caring manner “Are you sure they’re not in your bleeding jacket pocket you stupid bastard?” “Course they’re not in my fucking jacket pocket!” replies Bill senior. Course they were in his fucking jacket pocket and peace was restored. Bill senior then undid all his shirt buttons, rolled up his trouser legs and kicked off his shoes. He cut a charming picture.

Faced with the prospect of another few hours of this we looked around for the alcohol. There wasn’t any. On reflection, and given the volatile nature of family relationships, this was probably very wise, but at the moment we realised we were trapped at a teetotal affair it seemed like the world had just ended. It was therefore a relief when Bill junior announce “I’m off for a fucking pint”, and me and some of my other cousins rapidly agreed it wouldn’t be fair to let him drink on his own and we went too, at speed with my dad bringing up the rear – although dad makes out he can not hear a thing, he very clearly caught the word ‘Pub’. And so the majority of the older generation were left behind to ask (according to my mum) “Is Young Bill on drugs?” (Answer: No – but he should be.)

A close encounter with one from The Upper Classes

I know I have talked about the man who cuts my hair before. I have known Nick now for well over half my life. He works in his back bedroom in a street of terraced houses once built for the workers in the shoe factories which once upon a time were at the end of every street in Northampton. He is a very talented hair dresser (in my opinion anyway ) and in spite of the distinctly unglamorous setting in which he chooses to work, he has a huge range of clients, not all of them related to me – although at least fourteen of them are.

His dad is ill at the moment. Every time I ask after his dad he replies “He’s still alive – unfortunately.” The story reproduced below from August 2005 one part of that family history but remaining focused on the more recent past I was at Nick’s on Saturday afternoon. Waiting for her turn was a posh type of woman. Example of conversation from this woman: When Nick asked her if her kids had broken up yet she replied “Oh, they broke up weeks ago (which means they are at private schools). That was why we could go on holiday before the riff raff (ie – the likes of me with my kids at state school).” And she really did use the term ‘riff-raff’ without any hint that she was trying to be funny.

So it transpired that she was having her hair done as she was going to a polo match the following day. I had never met anyone before who goes to polo matches. Nick asked her what she was going to wear. She explained the dress code was ‘smart casual’ which she had translated as meaning she would be turning out in a Betty Jackson dress and Miu Miu shoes. I have just done some price checks and discovered that a Betty Jackson dress would cost in the region of £350 and the shoes something like £250. Smart casual indeed. I have no way of knowing what her vintage handbag with real ostrich feathers which she described to us in great detail would have cost.

As I sat listening to this I thought about what I was wearing ( shorts M&S - £15, vest top Gap - £3.99) and wondered at the fact that I share the same hairdresser as this creature from another dimension. This morning I am gaining some satisfaction from realising that no matter how expensively dressed she was, or indeed how good her hair looked , it is highly unlikely anyone looked twice at her when the competition included Kelly Brook (complete with legs), and the incredibly beautiful Emma Watson. Does that make me a really horrible mean minded person I wonder?



The old Nick and his dad story….

This morning I went to have my hair cut. Nick cuts my hair. He is the most brilliant wonderful person. He works in the back bedroom of his house. Occasionally – but only if Nick is ill - I go to posh salons to have my hair cut. It is never the same. For one thing it is always much more expensive, for another, Nick never asks me where I am going for my holidays, whereas other hairdressers always pretend to be interested in that subject, and for another, you never get your hairdresser's dad bursting in to the house, with his dog called Kylie in tow, and starting to sob because his 'lodger' had left him.



Nick's dad was married to Nick's mum, but sadly Nick's mum died a few years ago. Nick looked after his dad when this happened. Nick did wonder if his dad just might be gay when he called his dog Kylie, but at the time put that down to mental illness. Then Nick's dad took in the male 'lodger', AGED 19! He met this 'lodger' in a shop where the 'lodger' was working, and the shop was called (oh Thank You God for this bit!) 'It's A Gift'. And he was so besotted he only went and changed his will in favour of this 'lodger', and against poor Nick! So the good news is that it looks like the will will be altered again, but the bad news is that Nick's dad was very upset, and the worse news is, I had to pretend I could wait another week for a hair cut, because one can only intrude to a certain degree on private grief, and I felt the need to get the hell out of there!

I am easily influenced

When I read reviews of a film like this review of 'Mamma Mia' by Peter Bradshaw in the Guardian that starts thus:

I've been cheated by films since I don't know whe-e-n,
Ta-da-da-da-da; ta-da-da-da-da.
This one's got one good point: it must come to an end.
Ta-da-da-da-da; ta-da-da-da-da.
Look at me now! Will I ever learn?
I don't know who ... thought Pierce Brosnan should sing in it.
How on earth could it not... be... shit?
One more smirk, and then I knew it would bomb,
One more scene and I'd a great need to vom',
Oh-woah...

it rather puts me off seeing such a film.

So when my friend asked me about going to see it I was somewhat less than enthusiastic, but I went anyway and my daughter came too.

Now, never let it be said that Pierce Brosnan can sing, and yes, there were some cringe making moments in the film, but having said that - what a brilliant feel good film it is. I loved every minute. As did the women (the cinema was packed - and 98% of the audience were women) who cheered and clapped when the film ended (bizarre behaviour but it takes all sorts). And I want to go to a Greek Island NOW THIS MINUTE having seen the film setting. Skegness it ain't. You would have to be amongst the most miserable, pretentious people in the entire hemisphere not to enjoy it...Peter Bradshaw and John*, I am talking about people such as you.

But I have form here as on 9th September 2005 I wrote on my previous blog the following:

And oh god, I'm so depressed! On Saturday night I am committed to taking my mum and her sister Renee to see the flaming stageshow Mamma Mia as a belated birthday present, arranged by my sister, only conveniently for her, she can't actually go!
.....
A whole evening of Abba music.

What did I ever do to deserve it?

And I was then forced to admit the following two days later:

Humm, how to put this?

Weeelllll, 'Mamma Mia' was not quite what I was expecting.I'm not sure exactly what I was expecting, but, uummmm....


"Jane, you loved every minute of it didn't you"

"Mumble, mumble"

"I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that?"

"Mumble, mumble (slightly louder)"

"Again, so they can hear at the back."

OK, OK.

It was absolutely bloody BRILLIANT. I did in fact love every minute of it, and Yes, I was up and dancing and singing away by the end. I shall tell everyone I know to go and see it if they have not already seen it, and I really want to go again and take H. Humble pie is delicious isn't it?

You would have to be the most miserable, pretentious person in the entire hemisphere not to enjoy it.......

John* really would have hated it!

* An ex who happens to be the most miserable and pretentious person in the entire hemisphere.

Definitely NOT lovely John of Counago and Spaves fame.

A message

from Reidski.

Some of you may have noticed his long term absence from this here blogging scene.

This is because of on going aggro from his computer which for months now has been playing up, and which would now appear to have something terminal in the computer disease (virus?) department.

So anyway, he does still exist and he is not a figment of my imagination, and he does hope to be back bothering you / making witty and pertinent comments (delete as appropriate) soon.

Crossword clue

Cat - carpet. 7 letters.


I still maintain that my suggestion - 'Fluffie' - was quite reasonable if just a little bit 'girlie'.


Reidski is however still taking the piss out of me 24 hours later.

Over the past few months

I have had to get used to a new and unwelcome response when anyone asks after my mum and dad. For many years my stock reply has been "They are very well thank you." Recently though I have found myself explaining that my mum was waiting to have her gall bladder removed and we were worried my dad had prostate cancer.

My mum finally had her operation about a month ago and she is just about back to her old self.

My dad had obviously been worrying that 'something' wasn't quite right as on a visit to our G.P on an unrelated matter he happened to say to her that he had been looking for a leaflet on prostate cancer in the waiting room but hadn't seen one. She announced she would take a blood test there and then as a sensible precaution with a man of his age. A few days later and he got a call to tell him the test had proved positive. Since then, and we are talking about from March onwards, he has been backwards and forwards to the hospital for one test after another designed to find out the stage the cancer was at, and if it had spread elsewhere.

He didn't want me to know, but mum did tell me. He is a typical product of his generation and much prefers to keep such worries private, and it was difficult knowing what, if anything, to say to him. Usually what I know a friend or relation has a health problem I have been consult articles and the internet to know what it is that they are up against, but in dad's case I just couldn't bring myself to google the words 'prostate cancer' because I knew there would be information contained in the articles that I didn't want to have to acknowledge. Whilst dad continued not to talk about it he has since confessed that every ache and pain he has experienced since March had left him convinced cancer was spreading through his body.

He got the verdict when I was in Bruges. Mum went with him but he saw the consultant on his own. When he emerged his face gave nothing away and he just whispered to my mum he didn't want to talk about it in there (the hospital). Mum obviously feared the worst but as soon as they were through the door he practically whooped with delight and annouced he was fine.

He does have prostate cancer but it is in the earliest stage, it has not spread, and it is treatable with hormones.

I have finally been able to look up prostate cancer on the internet. Thankfully my dad is one of those relatively rare men who would not ignore a worry relating to his health, and did get the early diagnosis that is so vital with this condition. That's why I am writing this now -

Men -

My sentiments exactly

Things started to look up

when we arrived at our hotel in Bruges which was formally a 15th century mansion overlooking one of the canals and is now a stunningly beautiful place to stay. When we saw the room rates we had an anxious moment along the lines of "Are you sure when you paid the room was included?" What was immediately clear was that the Guardian travel offer I had picked up was very very good value indeed.

And it included breakfast.


Breakfast included champagne. As much champagne as one could drink.

The first morning we spent a long time looking at the champagne and wondering if we had the nerve to go and help ourselves - watching other guests like hawks to see if any of them had champagne, and if so, how much, and were we SURE the champagne was included? Then when I finally grasped the bullet and went to get some I came back - with drinks - to tell Reidski it wasn't real champagne, it was that pommery stuff...which only goes to show how little I know about champagne. It was real all right. And it was amazing how quickly we got used to - indeed positively expected - champagne for breakfast. Clearly no day should start without at least three glasses of the stuff. Oh yes - and the food was very nice too :-)

Belgium is a small country about which I knew next to nothing before we arrived, but what I do now know is that from the end of the Middle Ages until the 17th century, it was a prosperous centre of commerce and culture, and present day Bruges still has a centre with buildings that have survived since those days. And very lovely it is too.











We were there for three nights and did loads of walking, had a canal trip - although not, I am happy to say, in the same conditions as the poor sods in the last photo did......



and caught some culture too including Hieronymus Bosch's The Last Judgement which reflects on the nature of Purgatory and was described in the film In Bruges as 'It's when you're not really bad and not really good - like Tottenham.'

We nearly had to kill a couple in the art gallery which could have put a bit of a dampener on our break though. They stood right in front of every painting they looked at, blissfully oblivious to the other people wanting to catch so much as a glimpse of the same painting rather than their backsides.

Rather than go on all day (I am very busy - it is amazing how much one finds to do when one is on strike)I will cut this short now.

People were really friendly; it was easy to get to by train; the bars sold up to 440 Belgian beers; and the chips were every bit as good as I remembered. What with that and the scenery, and being there with someone special, what more could one ask for from a city break?

That water crisis

previously mentioned here is thankfully now resolved. Rumours flew around that it was a dead body that had contaminated the water. It seems that those rumours were
not entirely with out foundation.

Poor bunny.

How much stress

is it possible to experience before 8.05 in the morning?

Quite a lot in the case of our journey from New Cross to St Pancras.

This is a journey that from Reidski's door takes in the region of 40 minutes on a slow day. As we had a train to Brussels to catch which departed at the aforementioned 8.05 we were up and out the house by 6.40 and even drove my car to near the station rather than walk to save a bit of time. That decision in now officially known as Mistake No 1. I noticed as we drove that my right side indicator light was showing on the dashboard as being on - permanently. 'Strange' I think. We park up and I realise the lights are flashing merrily away. I attempt to retrieve the situation - that is to say, I attempted to switch them off, but they declined to be switched off. 'Sod it!'Looking at the time - and we were supposed to check in half an hour before departure - there was no option but to leave the car as it was in the sure and certain knowledge we would be returning to a flat battery (which we did).

We got the train to London Bridge where we went down to the tube station for the Northern Line train to St Pancras. That was when we heard the announcement that no trains were stopping at St Pancras apart from Metropolitan and Circle Line trains and that therefore we needed to change at Moorgate. This change turned out to involve something like a ten minute sprint - Moorgate Station is massive and the lines were miles apart from each other. Blood pressure was rising and time was getting shorter.

It was a relief to get to St Pancras and the Eurostar automatic ticket machines. I followed the instructions on screen to get my tickets and entered the reference number I had on my confirmation letter. I received the following message - 'Number not recognised. Please try again.' So I did.... And then I tried again.... And then I tried another machine.... And then I asked an assistant. 'Are there are letters in your reference number?' she asked me. 'No' I replied. 'Oh, there have to be letters in your reference number' she told me. She suggested we go - post haste as it is now gone 7.30 - to the ticket office, and so we went there to find a queue that is practically out the door. 'Holy Shit.'

We joined the queue and I decided that as I had an emergency phone number for out of hours emergencies - this did qualify as an emergency and I was going to ring it. The guy I rang was clearly delighted to be woken up. He said he would have to log into his computer and said he would call me back in five minutes and fifteen minutes later when he still had not returned my call I rang him back to be told he couldn't log on to his computer and was therefore unable to give me my correct booking reference number (with letters).

Thanks be to whoever at Eurostar was responsible for putting sufficient ticket office staff on that early morning shift we reached the front of the queue and obtained our tickets with precisely seven minutes to spare. Imagine then our joy when the woman in front of us at the ticket barrier somehow managed to break the thing, and further imagine our good humour when Mr Jobsworth wouldn't let us through an open barrier because 'Your tickets have to go through the ticket barrier.'

For the first time in my life (I am British through and through) we queue jumped security, legged it through passport control, and somehow, even with me dropping half the contents of my bag in my panic to find the ticket to show the attendant, although said ticket was in my hand all the time, we made the train with 90 whole seconds to spare.

Here is a picture of what awaited us when we finally made it to Bruges, just to remind myself that all that stress was worthwhile.

So much to tell

but so pushed for time. In the meantime though this is a short post in praise of the Loo's of Bruges.

EVERY SINGLE ONE I used was immaculately clean. Oh that the same thing could be said of public facilities in this country. The video however captures the moment I thought my drinks had been spiked....

Offski

Me and Reidski that is for a few days next week to Bruges.

I have been before but was only ten at the time and have happy memories of canal trips, and tasty chocolate and chips. (This time next week I will probably be considering 9 stone 13.5 pounds as a thoroughly acceptable weight!)

We got what appears to be a brilliant deal through one of those newspaper offers and without wanting to make anyone jealous (she lies) the hotel looks absolutely stunning. So next week I shall mostly be laying in the lap of luxury - unless Reidski has any better ideas ;-)

Before that though a heavy weekend of partying awaits me. It is a tough life isn't it?

Hope you all have as good a week as I intend to.

It is a pity it looks like I am going to miss the blood soaked revolution though.

I am NOT happy

Apologies for talking about my weight. I know that it is hardly the most pressing subject in the world (although 'Since when have I talked about pressing subjects?' Good point, but anyway...)

I am tall and I am slim. This I know. However, what I also know is that after prolonged periods of over indulgence (it isn't food that I over do - it is wine) my clothes don't fit so well and I develop a condition known as Weighing Scales Avoidance on account of should I step on any of those nasty inventions, I wouldn't like what I would see. I then develop the Something Will Be Done Mentality and I do it. I drop the wine and I up the exercise and after a period of indeterminate length I will finally get on the scales and know that some weight (although I never know how much) has been lost and my clothes fit well again.

So the Something Will Be Done Mentality set in for me at New Year and Something Was Done. The weight came off and the clothes fitted better but what has been different this time is that the exercise has stayed 'upped'. I have really been enjoying my trips to the gym and have gone there most days.

I do not weigh myself much and the previous time I got on the scales at the gym ( the only scales I use) I was 9 stone 4, and was perfectly happy that being my ideal weight. That must have been about six weeks ago. Since then though the scales have been removed on what is starting to look like a permanent basis. In the meantime I have continued working very hard indeed at the gym. In June I think there was a total of four days when I did NOT go to the gym. I feel fitter than I have done in years - and that in spite of the fact that I have exercised regularly for at least 16 years.

So why then I am not happy?

I am not happy because this morning, having stayed overnight with a relative, I spied some posh and expensive looking scales in her bathroom and got on them. thinking they were likely to be accurate.......

All that sodding hard work and sweat only to see the numbers 9 stone 13.5 pounds.

According to those scales I have put on so much weight I can't even do the sums!!!!

OK - I know they can't be telling me the whole story. At least one set of the scales I have used can not be entirely truthful. But to say it was discouraging is an understatement.

NOT happy.

Lettuce leaf anyone?

Praise where praise is due.

"It would be wicked to give it a zero because it does show some very basic skills we are looking for - like conveying some meaning and some spelling."


From the BBC web site:

An exam board is to review its marking guidance after one of its top examiners gave marks for a script which contained only a two-word sexual expletive.

The Times reported that Assessment and Qualifications Alliance chief examiner Peter Buckroyd gave a pupil two marks out of 27 for an English GCSE paper.

He is quoted as saying the candidate had demonstrated more skills than one "who doesn't write anything at all".

AQA said this was not in line with its guidelines, which would be clarified.

The pupil is reported to have written "fuck off", and would have had another mark for adding an exclamation point.
Mr Buckroyd is quoted by the Times as saying: "It would be wicked to give it a zero because it does show some very basic skills we are looking for - like conveying some meaning and some spelling."

An AQA spokeswoman said examiners were instructed to contact the board's offices where they would be advised in accordance with the guidelines of the Joint Council for Qualifications, which represents exam boards.

She said: "As a result, an obscenity should either be disregarded, or action will be taken against the candidate, depending on the seriousness of the case.

"The example cited was unique in the experience of the senior examiner concerned and was used in a pre-training session to emphasise the importance of adhering to the mark scheme: i.e. if a candidate makes any sort of response to a question then it must be at least given consideration to be awarded a mark.

"We do not condone the use of obscenities in scripts: in the light of this incident we will be reviewing our instructions to examiners which will include reiterating the procedure to be followed when encountering obscenities in scripts."

I would blog more regularly

if I wasn’t so knackered half the time.

I don’t suffer with insomnia it is just that sometimes the entire universe conspires against me and I do not get a good night’s sleep.

Last Friday night to pick an evening entirely at random, I had been out till about midnight and as soon as I got in I went up to bed and was pretty rapidly asleep – for about an hour. I was awoken by one of my cats leaping on top of me and then bounding off the other side of the bed at top speed. “Fuck’s sake” says I. The cat continues to annoy by being very noisy and active. “You are going out right now!” says I in grumpy manner directed at cat. I put the light on and am mildly surprised to see a young fledgling of some description (think it was a baby grouse but not sure) sitting in the middle of the rug, looking amazingly alive and in one piece. So part one of the middle of the night operation involved removing the cat from the scene and part two involved capturing the bird (mercifully easily) and taking it outside where I attempted to find a safe place to deposit it back into the wild.

Then back to bed and sleep…though not for long. The phone rings. It is 2.30 according to my clock. It is middle son slurring a message along the lines of “Not coming home tonight mum. Couldn’t remember if I had told you.” “You had. Thank you and good night.”

I get all of an hour and a half’s undisturbed slumber until 4 when someone (who turned out to be eldest son who went out and forgot his key) is hammering at the back door.

I was asleep again within minutes and drifted into what was developing into a really very interesting (and erotic) dream involving another blogger (no prizes for guessing which one) only to be awoken YET AGAIN just as the dream reached a critical moment by the sodding smoke alarm, the battery having picked that of all nights to malfunction. I have very high ceilings which was how I came to find myself at the top of a set of step ladders at 4.45 on Saturday morning.

In the light of the following it was maybe not so surprising that when my middle son rang and woke me up at 8.00 to ask if I would come and pick him up he got very short shift in response.

Water, water nowhere!!

As if it is not enough to have to panic over petrol shortages we the good folk of Northampton are now faced with another crisis. Our water has been poisoned! When this news broke this morning the supermarkets were immediately besieged by anxious residents making sure they did not have to go to all the inconvenience of boiling a kettle of water and by 10.30 this was the result.

But we can console ourselves that this little local difficulty has led to our town being recognised by that outstanding blog
The Khmer Rouge Strippergram!


P.S. Actually I was feeling a little smug as my village is thankfully unaffected (although work is) but I just thought of something really serious. What about when I go to the pub and want ice in my gin and tonic???? We are being warned it could be weeks before the water is safe again. Hell's bell's. I am now panicing with the rest of them! Whaddya mean 'Only thinking of herself!' ????



P.P.S. Have just heard that the bacteria that is in our water causes a severe attack of the runs which usually continues for up to three weeks. The only way to deal with this as the man from Anglia Water told us is to drink lots of - erh - water. I can see a slight problem there can't you?

In which I honestly did get lost

Twice.

Reidski was playing in a football match representing the head office for the organisation he works for against another team made up of others in his organisation and as Reidski and his fellow team members had travelled up from London to play, they were rewarded with an over night stop in a very nice Nottingham hotel - and partners were also invited. Reidski's employers are ace. I had said I would see him at the football ground where they were playing, and I honestly did set off in plenty of time armed with my directions. Unfortunately what I completely failed to spot until it was too late was that the directions were from Multi Map* - who have previous in the Getting Jane Hopelessly Lost Department.

It was raining all morning in Northampton and I have to admit the thought of standing by a football pitch in the rain wasn't ever so appealing, but I am a loyal person, and I had said I would be there so off I went northwards. It rained all the way. I got the occasional message assuring me it was not raining in Nottingham. I did not believe any of them.

With half an hour to spare before kick off I was in west Nottingham - it was raining. I was aiming for north east of the city. I followed the instructions which said 'Follow ring road in the direction of Mansfield until you reach junction with A60 and there you turn right.' I did as I was told. Although when I reached the city centre rather than the northern outskirts of the city I turned round. I got out my road map and found the right road without the piss take that was Multi Map, but then getting closer to the ground it was then necessary to refer back to the piece of fiction that was the Multi Map directions. 'At mini roundabout go straight ahead'. Simple. Except that at the mini roundabout concerned one could go left and one could go right but one could not go straight ahead. However as I was headed for the area that was signposted one way that was the route I picked. Wrong, wrong, wrong. I drove round and round going further and further wrong - and all the time it continued to rain. Anyway, no thanks to the entirely and utterly hopeless directions provided by Multi Map, when I eventually arrived at the ground (I am still not sure how I ever found it) I was not exactly surprised, although not too happy either, to find what appeared to be a completely and utterly deserted football ground.



I parked the car and wondered what to do next. I knew that I was very very late by now, but I also knew that I hadn't a clue where the hotel we were staying at was. I turned the radio off as it was getting on my (frayed) nerves. It was then that I distinctly heard some male with a Scottish accent that sounded somewhat familiar yell out the immortal words 'You stupid fucking cunt!' Hidden away behind the main stand was another pitch. I had got to the match as promised. And the rain had stopped. And five minutes after I arrived so had play.

Course, Reidski didn't believe for one minute that I had got lost. I think he thought it was somewhat fortuitous because as a general rule I am very good at NOT getting lost - so long as I never ever take any notice of sodding useless Multi Map. (Has anyone happened to notice that I don't think much of Multi Map?)

You don't want to know about how long it took us to get to the hotel, but suffice to say that there was a car load of five people, all of whom are now very familiar with the Nottingham city centre one way system, having gone round it so many times early on Saturday evening.Lisa - you very nearly received an SOS call then to come and rescue us but we were aware that as it was nearly time for Doctor Who you may not have been most delighted!

It WAS worthwhile. The hotel was one of the best I have ever stayed in. The football was great (I refer obviously to Holland v Russia ). And a group of us had a lovely Turkish meal here where the owner seemed to inexplicably take a shine to us and gave us lots of freebies including various liquors. And Reidksi and I enjoyed each other




's company ;-)



* A web site that specialises in giving crap directions. I do not advise that you go there.

Simply irresistable.

A friend of mine received this and was kind enough to pass it on. As he said of it:

My enjoyment came not from reading the detail on the curriculum vitae, but from savouring the carefully crafted e-mail message this agent had painstakingly put together as encouragement for me to seek further information on the candidate instantly.



All the highlighting is Adam's own work.

From: Adam T%
Sent: 19 June 2008 08:06
To: Paul
Subject: First class graduate accounts assistant



Afternoon Paul, hope all is well

Just to make you aware of an exceptional Accounts assistant whom I am working exclusively at the moment.
She has just graduated with a 1st class degree in accounting but also has a years work experience that had been self arranged for an international entertainment group working with their treasury accounts. In this role she was providing all round financial support with the ledgers and journals and is technically and commercially astute having worked with reconciliations of errors in a large business environment and being put into a position where she can provide meaningful management information to seniors.

This candidate is wonderfully presented, intelligent, articulate, has bags of enthusiasm and is an example of a top tier graduate candidate. I like her for her genuine 'get up and go' to come on to the market this early to find the best possible role. She also displays the qualities as someone who is serious about investing in their career and future having taken a year to do a placement - this type of course is available to only a few universities and from there having to interview against other graduates expressing an interest in the role
Described by her peers as a superstar that will go far she is immediately available and looking for a role where she can add genuine value to the team and assist with as much as possible
Please let me know your thoughts on her details Paul and weather there is provision for someone of this calibre to 'Your company' it would be much appreciated.

Adam T%
C I Consulting

London

0207 123 4567
www.completeidiots.com

OUR VALUES

Accountability *Enjoyment * Knowledge *Innovation * Partnership




I'm not sure which part I enjoyed most but as I don't think I've ever met anyone who has "bags of enthusiasm" I suggested Paul gives her a job and lets me know if she is completely insufferable.

Ronaldo

really is an arrogant little tosser isn't he?

Much as I like Ferguson's threat to leave him sitting on the bench for the season, I think a loan spell to see what life is really like for the vast majority of football professionals would do him no end of good. I suggest a spell at Northampton Town would do the trick.

This is a purely altruistic suggestion of course. Personally I can't stand the boy and would obviously suffer watching him score winning goals for us week in week out against the likes of Scunthorpe, Hereford and Milton Keynes Dons.

I HAVE CHANGED MY MIND:

Having read this he can rot in hell instead.

Do you ever have the feeling you have forgotten something?

I’m not at my best in the mornings. OK – afternoons aren’t so good either, or evenings, and as I crash out earlier and earlier these days you couldn’t call me a night owl either but I am worst in the mornings. Therefore, even though I have in theory always been aware that I could go to the gym before work as opposed to afterwards that had always remained one of those theories that one simply knows will never be put into practice.

Until a couple of weeks ago that is. My thinking was that I have been really good about using the gym regularly this past six months, but as soon as summer comes I always without fail stop going for weeks at a time, preferring to go and sit outside in the sun with a glass of wine somewhere, than to go and work out in a bloody gym. So my options were either to accept the inevitable and know that when (if) it does get hot this year my gym usage will immediately grind to a total stop, after which it will be really hard getting back into again, or to try and go there in the mornings.

Am I waffling on quite enough here I ask myself? Answer – far too much. Get to the bloody point woman.

OK – so anyway, I have started going to the gym before work. The first time left me completely disorientated for the entire day it being so out of kilter with anything I have ever done before. However, as I got there this morning I was inwardly congratulating myself of having got sufficiently sorted to say that I Can Do This.

It was therefore a shame that post work out as I emerged from the shower I realised I had left my skirt at home.

Yes. I was late for work.


I really and truly am not at my best in the mornings.

How was it for you?

I hope you all enjoyed your weekend more than Reidski did.

I went up to Castle Donnington on Saturday to rescue him from the hell which was the Heavy Metal Festival for the afternoon. I was due to get there at 12, but he chose to stand by the side of a road from before half 11 rather than spend any more time within the festival fences than he absolutely had to. Very forlorn he looked too when I arrived, as the heavens had opened and he hadn’t got a jacket with him.

“Surely” I asked him, “At least Motorhead were kind of fun to see?” he told me he thought they may have been, but as he got cornered by the most boring man in the universe, who had successfully spotted Reidski to be a fellow sad dad, he didn’t even get to listen to the Ace of Spades due to the MBMITU telling him how his birthday was in July 1964. “Is it REALLY?? What a fascinating fact,” as Reidski did not reply.

“Well what about Kiss?” I persisted. Kiss it transpired had been amusing to look at for the first five minutes after which time they were totally boring. Furthermore – the young folks were very noisy at night, AND he was missing loads of football.

I would at this moment go off subject and tell you about the occasion when I won a Kiss L.P. but as it involved me being tricked into doing something that looked rather obscene with a magnum bottle of champagne and the former D.J. Peter Powell who was dressed in a Union Jack jumpsuit at the time, I think I will move swiftly on instead.

Anyway, hopefully his weekend was enhanced by the time we spent at a lovely country pub in a great location with its own brewery and excellent food, so I could hardly have done more to cheer him up – not in broad daylight anyway ;-)

I felt quite guilty when I dropped him back at the festival where he did not wish to be, but not guilty enough to agree to stay there with him. And besides, he really liked one whole band (Biffy Clyro) during the following 36 hours so it can’t have been that bad can it?

Reidski assures me it could indeed have been THAT bad.

At the gym

the other day I was listening in to The Weakest Link.

Anne asked some guy which cartoon rodent was shown when BBC television resumed transmission after the second world war. He thought about this before giving his considered answer..."Roland Rat."

I nearly fell off the treadclimber.

One of my best friends won the Weakest Link once. We are very proud of her.


N.B. On June 7, 1946, the BBC Television Service re-opened with another official ceremony, followed by Margot Fonteyn dancing, David Low drawing, and Leslie Mitchell introducing a variety show. That same Mickey Mouse cartoon, which had so suddenly closed down television on the eve of the war, was shown again. And viewers were taken over for a preview from the cameras already stationed on the Mall in readiness for the next day’s great procession.

Yes I know

that I bring items from the Daily Mail website too frequently for my own good, however I am unable to resist articles where a commentator manages to blame 'NuLabour' because a teacher has a mental episode and strips to his shirt in a classroom!

The unsuspecting city of Brussels

is at this moment blissfully unaware that Reidski and colleagues are headed its way for a cultural day out / mass booze up (delete as appropriate).

Tomorrow therefore it is pretty much guaranteed that Reidski will be suffering with the hang over from hell. So rather poor timing that he will be spending tomorrow listening to the refined sounds of the likes of Motorhead and Judas Priest at this three day festival..

Strange that he seems to have neglected to mention on his blog that he was going to The Monsters Of Rock Festival for three whole days :-)

(At great personal cost, and I am not just talking financial here, he is taking his son and his son's mate. And there was me thinking I made a great sacrifice when I took my lot to Alton Towers for a day.)

Let he who is without sin...

As the Daily Mail notes in this article, the really rather gorgeous Lee, who last night won the Apprentice, lied on his C.V, and also made spelling mistakes on it. The following comes directly from the web article concerned:

Deborah Fernon, an advisor at the Chartered Institute of Personnel and Development (CIPD) said: "There's a whole range of issues here. Number one what are you doing letting spelling mistakes through. It's not sending the write message to me. The CV represents you.

Now then!

As they say up north as an alternative to 'How are you doing?'

So what's been going on? (Marvin Gaye.)

Well I had a great weekend. I met an ex boyfriend on Saturday and he spoilt me rotten which was great. Later we met Reidski. And no, Reidski didn't object to me spending half the day with my ex, knowing as he does that Ian would be far more likely to make a pass at him than at me. It has taken me many years but I think I am finally coming to terms with the fact that my first true love is in fact gay.

The three of us had another few drinks before Reidski and I went to a party where he knew loads of people and I knew him. I was a bit scared in case they all thought I was a complete idiot - which as we know I am, but I tend to try and disguise this fact until people know me well enough to make allowances. Fortunately for me everyone was very friendly and I had a good time, though I am glad that I didn't know one person I was talking to about assorted nonsense, was an economic lecturer at Oxford until after my inane chat as I would have been extremely intimidated had I known what he did at the time.

The next morning Reidski was saying to me how good the party was and how he really likes do's like that where you don't have to spend the time talking to people you don't know. "Like I had to last night?" I asked. But I had a good time anyway.



Nothing much else to report except for the shock of finding out my 14 year old daughter can't do a tacking stitch. This came to light when she threw a major strop last night over her design homework in front of many of my other relations. I refused to believe at first that she genuinely couldn't do a a tacking stitch to hold two pieces of material together, but the evidence as presented in the form of a total dog's dinner of a sewing homework assignment did seem to suggest she wasn't making it up. She made such a fuss whilst at the same time refusing to let me show her I then got annoyed and announced that my mum had taught me to sew when I was only about six,and further that when I was 11 my needlework teacher said I had 'The best chain stitch she had ever seen from a child my age.' (It does say something about my lack of successes in my life that I still so clearly recall a compliment from nearly 40 years ago.) "Well" shouts my beloved daughter, "this is all your fault then cos you never taught me like grandma taught you!" And as she was absolutely right I had to acknowledge this profound failing in my parental duties. I am officially a useless mother :-(

I have however taught her to make a mean gin and tonic and surely that will prove more useful to her in the long term than being able to sew - and when she ever gets round to forgiving me for yesterday I am sure she will make one for me again which will be nice.

What a difference

five days can make.

Andy Murray

has an autobiography.

Erh...why?

Little Venice

in rural Northants.



The first photo is of the bridge that leads from my house to the road.



The second one is of my 'Road'.

Must get off for work now - earlier than usual, but then again - my car is parked a good ten minute walk away.

There are some things

that are just too painful to dwell upon in this blog.

Like exams for example.

So I have tried not to mention that for the third year in succession this is the time in my household where very important exams are taking place, but without any indication whatsoever that any preparation has taken place in advance of said exams...like revision for example???

I don't get their laid back attitude but then again I was a right little swot at their age. As an aside I found out something at the funeral the other week which I never knew at the time. A former school friend pointed an accusing finger at me and said "YOU were the reason we couldn't get our English A Level papers remarked!" It seems that I was the only one who actually passed English A Level that year and some others thought there must have been an error with the marking, but apparently they were told that as I got an A grade that illustrated the marking must have been fair and therefore they did not need to look again at the papers of anyone else. And he at least has borne a grudge these past 30 years...oh dear!

Back to the present and right now Eldest Son is doing A Levels and Second Son is doing AS Levels.

Second Son has been arguing on and off all year with me about why he should drop one of his four subjects, but miraculously at this present time he is still doing four subjects. And as he said to me on Sunday "I'm glad I didn't drop one of my subjects." "Hooray!" thinks I, "My words of wisdom had an effect on him!" "Yes" he continues, "Doing four means I can afford to fail two." "Well that's one way of looking at it I suppose" I said as I mentally prepared myself for the horror to come on results day.

A public service post from Jane

Believe me - I am doing you a favour by writing about this place.

Reidski had been raving about a fantastic Pakistani restaurant he went to recently and he took me there last Friday. It is in Whitechapel. You would not think as you walk down the road where it is hidden away that there could be anything of interest down this particular very ordinary back street. You would be wrong.

There was a hint that this was not your ordinary curry house in the queue that we joined at 7.00pm, and I guess we waited for a table for about half an hour. The woman next to me in the queue was telling me that having been there, she no longer wanted to ever have a curry anywhere else.

Having now eaten there myself I know exactly what she means. The food to be had here at Tayyabs is simply devine, and I can not recommend it enough. Nor can this guy by the look of it.

It is 'bring your own' booze so our bill was for food alone, but £20.20 for poppadums, a shared starter, two curries, one rice and one naan bread.....well, it wasn't surprising with food of this quality and this value that by the time we left they were literally queuing round the block for a table at Tayyabs.

Their wait would have been worthwhile.

Tagged thrice

By Reidski and Prenderghast

and Rob

to:
List seven songs you are into right now. No matter what the genre, whether they have words, or even if they’re not any good, but they must be songs you’re really enjoying now, shaping your spring. Post these instructions in your blog along with your 7 songs. Then tag 7 other people to see what they’re listening to.

Tag 7 others!!!! Do they not know the abuse I was subjected to by some total arse hole for having the audacity to tag the Fatalist recently? I am still in therapy as a direct result of the upset that caused me. I really must tag that same arse wipe now I think about it ;-)

So 7 songs....

1. In the car when left to my own devices I am muchly playing The Auteurs 'After Murder Park', and out of a very fine album indeed it is 'Light Aircraft on Fire' that makes me reach for the repeat button.

2. But in the car with my daughter it is Billy Elliot, The Musical soundtrack. 'Solidarity' probably my number one favourite, but who couldn't love 'Merry Christmas Maggie Thatcher' with its words 'We all celebrate this day with you cos it's one day closer to your death."

3. And strictly only when Reidski is not in the car on goes 'Somewhere Only we Know' by Keane which he says is a complete and utter load of shite. But I love it - and sing it with feeling (although sadly not with any hint of a tune).

4. At home my ultimate feel good record 'Yes' by Butler and McAlmont. Sheer joy.

5. It may be pissing it down with rain for days on end, but I am still listening to the Divine Comedy 'Pop Singer's Fear of the Pollen Count" and pretending the sun is shining when I hear it.

Even when I get hay-fever I find
I may sneeze but I don't really mind
As long as I'm in love with the summertime

6. At the gym I listen to my MP3 player, but it no longer allows me to pick tracks since I dropped it and it is now stuck playing a playlist I put together some time ago in random order. There are something like 40 different tracks on it but it always seems to come up with is 'Clampdown' by the Clash. I'm not complaining though.

7. But I am complaining about the very few times it comes up with 'Enough is Enough' by Chumbawamba. I wish my MP3 player came up with this track more frequently because I always use it as a sign that enough is indeed enough and I can go and sweat in a sauna instead of on a bloody treadmill.

But following my horrible encounter with the Arse Hole who hates tags - and in particular any tag that comes from me - I daren't pick out 7. But will hope that the very sexy, interesting and attractive Kevin might erh - oblige me?

I am being told off

for lack of blogs...by Reidski of all people! Pot. Kettle. Black.

Anyway, I have been too depressed to blog this past week having spent much of it realising I am morphing into an out of touch old git.

Yesterday I took my daughter down to London - she to go to her first ever pop concert with two friends, and me to get pissed with the other parents whilst the younger generation were watching the band. This was the first thing that was making me feel old. My daughter has been counting off the days before this concert. "Only four weeks and three days before I see...." etc. My problem was that I just could not get my head round who it was she was going to see. "What are they called again?" I asked over and over, to the total disgust of my daughter. "Who is it you are taking her to see?" people asked me. "Erhh, I am having real trouble remembering this - funny name for a band - something about girls I'm sure of that bit." And I never did manage to tell anyone who asked who the bloody hell it was. I knew they had had at least one big hit - that I liked - but that didn't seem to help. Middle aged block had got me in its grip.

Then there was my Litter Rage Incident.

I had just dropped Reidski off at the railway station and just about to reverse out when in my mirror I saw a young woman in a car behind me chuck a load of rubbish out of her car window. Red Mist Moment. I jumped out my car, picked the rubbish up - McDonalds debris - and threw it back in her window on her knees with the words "You seem to have dropped something darling. It's called litter!" She was too stunned to respond - or I was back in my car too fast to hear what ever abuse she threw in my direction. Naturally she shot off at speed, but not before throwing her crap back out the window. I was incensed. What kind of a moron thinks that such an anti social action is perfectly OK? Anyway, that also proved to me that I am getting old. The younger me would have avoided confrontation at all costs.

Back to last night. No trouble remembering the name of the restaurant where we adults had a very lovely meal indeed. although I am probably spelling Edera incorrectly. And now I finally know the name of the band the girls went to see - even if i have to sneak a look at H's new tee shirt for a prompt. Scouting for Girls. I knew it had 'Girls' somewhere in the name.

And I do like 'She's So Lovely' - so am trying to convince myself that must mean I am not quite so utterly out of touch after all.


Yeah right Jane.

A morning of contrasting emotions

Fucking brilliant.


Fucking nightmare.

Monday

There is a tiny village, not far from Skegness, that on Monday was simply swamped with people from across the country who came to say goodbye to Peter. I have never seen anything like it. There were literally hundreds of us in the churchyard listening to the service transmitted through speakers.

There were four people who spoke about him. One of them mentioned a sketch Pete and I did in a school concert. We were in the sixth form then. He was Wellington, I was Josephine, and a very short third year was Napoleon. I thought I would have been the only person who still remembered that, though it did manage to be extremely funny - mainly due to Pete.

I am not religious. The service was not especially religious although I am sure it did comfort the faithful, but a prayer said by his mother in law reduced me to tears. She just spoke simply about how we would remember Pete when the blossom comes, and in the heat of a summer day, and when the leaves turn colours in autumn, and on cold and frosty mornings. The thought that he will never again see these simple pleasures was too much for me and many others. As that was immediately followed by his 7 year old daughter reading out a poem about how much she loved her daddy - well you may imagine the effect that had on us.

Pete now lies buried in the beautiful churchyard, dressed apparently in his scuba diving tee shirt and favourite pair of jeans.

I saw many old friends - some of whom I had not seen for 25 years or longer although several of us had also been together for Nigel. As with Nigel's funeral, the comfort gained from these people was significant, and I only hope I gave some of that comfort in my turn. One friend in particular was absolutely beside himself with grief. It was heart breaking to see him like that.

There is still no answer as to why he died. The post mortem was inconclusive. All we are left with is the cold reality that Pete is gone from our lives. But he will always be in our hearts.