Biting the dust

Well then, that's another one to strike off the list. It had some highlights: Killers at the NEC or whatever it's called now; Auschwitz in six feet of snow; Waiting for Godot in Bath (and waiting for Sir Patrick Stewart to touch my hand at the stage door); being on the radio for a whole hour in the local version of Desert Island Discs; Jordan and the birth of this blog; Burning Horses in Falmouth; burning skin and old friends in Provence; and probably the best Christmas ever at Holton Lee. Shame about the job.

It's New Year's Eve in the Twilight Zone and I am quite alone. Jack has gone to Swanage dressed in a pink babygrow and I have made an early getaway from the curry and scrabble-fest at my daughter's house. This time last year I was with Bev down in St Remy but I'm not in the mood for bonhomie tonight. Sometimes it gets you like that.

Happy New Year

Almost there

We have a strip of spotlights in the kitchen and another in the sitting room. As it's Christmas, I thought we'd replace the bulbs which had died some months ago; an easy enough job you would've thought. Well, once we'd been out and picked up some new ones. Leonie put the new spots in: the kitchen lights worked; the sitting room ones didn't. We then played a game whereby all the bulbs get swapped around between the two fittings and Jack comes downstairs (from where he has been secreted away revising) and does the man bit i.e. shouts a lot. All the bulbs now work and we sit down quietly for twenty minutes until the whole fitting in the sitting room fizzles out and we spend an evening unable to see anything. The festive candles look pretty though. The next day we go to B & Q to buy 8 lower wattage bulbs to replace all of those in the sitting room. But the light still doesn't work. Jack comes down and shouts a bit more and everything's brewing up nicely for Christmas. Another evening by candlelight accompanied by the whirr of a fan heater which has had to be brought in to accompany the blanket that's now pinned over the dining room door in an effort to keep the arctic winds at bay. The fan heater makes me sleepy; Leonie says it's because the noise it makes sounds like cicadas. Pardon? I don't care about the light which, along with the broken dishwasher and the freezer door that won't shut, adds up to the three things that might go wrong at one time.

You know how it is though. The next morning, whilst waiting for Caroline, who's coming over for a walk, Leonie and I are sitting looking at the defunct light thinking 'it's bound to be something simple'. Like a fuse. 'Maybe if you unscrew that bit where the bar goes across, there will be a fuse we can replace' I say. Leonie misunderstands and unscrews the whole fitting which, amazingly easily, falls out of the ceiling and is swaying dangerously on an electric lead. Leonie is too short to replace it on various hooks and screws and I'm not touching it so we have to get Jack. Jack comes downstairs and shouts very loudly. He manages to get the light back in the ceiling whilst Leonie shouts at him. I make the mistake of mentioning to Leonie that I can't believe she did that and Caroline arrives for our walk to be entertained by the first of the seasonal full scale rows.

When we return forty minutes later with sodden feet the row is still ongoing and Caroline takes Jack's side. Leonie has called an electrician who wants seventy quid to come and look at the dead light and I decide to phone Nigel who is the saviour of the universe. Anyway, the long and the short of it is that I have to go and purchase a new light fitting which I don't really mind because I never liked those spots anyway. And what else do I possibly have better to do on 22nd December? Nigel arrives faster than the speed of sound and tells me a long story about how he's astro-turfed two Hyundai cars. He got the job via the bloke whose caravans he wall-papers. I don't understand any of this conversation although I learn that the same company that does the upholstering for the caravans has made green seats for the Hyundais and matching grass effect curtains.

It is too surreal so I try to steer Nigel in the direction of the freezer door which, apparently, is not aligned to the rest of the world. I don't understand this either but because he is a super-hero on a par with Susan Boyle, Nigel manages to fix it for the festive period before asking whether I'd like to see some pictures of the astro-turfed cars. 'I'll get Jack' I say; 'he'll be interested'. There is some grumbling but no shouting on the part of the would-be reviser as he descends again into the now blinding light of the sitting room . Unfortunately, Nigel's phone has broken and as Nigel doesn't 'do' phones or boilers (or, sadly, dishwashers) we never get to see the photos. I give Nigel his money and send him on his way with the season's greetings that I also send to you dear reader.

Why I never write poetry

Out of the box

He sent out a text from his hospital bed
Can you bring in my lap-top? Was meant to be read
And please send some biscuits in with Ted
As I’m now nil by mouth and I need to be fed.
And please let the pigeons out of the shed
Ignore all the mess, just mind where you tread
When I see that trolley it fills me with dread
They’re treating me like I’m damn nearly dead
I’m so bloody cross I can only see red
It’s doing my brain in…it feels just like lead
And in fact he had really done in his head
As he keeled over backwards right off the bed
The alarms were flashing in blue and in red
And the patterns on screen were no longer a zed
But seemed to be straight lines pictured instead
While his mobile vibrated just under his head
With an incoming message that never got read
Saying run out of credit and signal’s gone dead
And we’ll pass on the news to Joan and to Fred
But the nurse had to text the reply instead
He’s taken a turn for the worse she said
I advise that the pigeons stay in the shed
And cancel the biscuits, he’s already dead.

Yet another day in paradise

So that was winter was it? Just as we were looking forward to the possibility of a white Christmas the cold snap snapped and guess what? It's raining again. I had a bad feeling about this day. It started last night: I'd just made a large cheese and onion sandwich to enjoy whilst watching the X Factor final when I suddenly remembered that I was having my bloods done this morning and was supposed to be fasting. Sod it. Couldn't even have a paltry glass of water.

Duly arrived at the surgery to be met by the happiest nurse in the world. 'Have you got a form?' No. 'Haven't you seen the doctor?' No...they told me it wasn't necessary. 'What do you want your bloods done for?' Because they haven't been done for six months. 'Have you fasted?' Who uses that language in 2009? Begrudgingly, she took a sample. Merry Christmas to you too. Onwards to work which is about as far as it's possible to be in any direction given that it and the surgery are separated by the second largest natural harbour in the world. And on to the first meeting with the new boss which was as appalling as it could've been.

Eventually homewards via the train station to collect Jack who appears to have taken nine hours to get here from the land of the sheep. Well it would if you come by the scenic route i.e. car to Reading, train to Southampton and another train to Dorset. No wonder he was complaining of travel sickness. Then had to break the news that I was going out on his first night home: terrible mother guilt syndrome.

A cup of tea, a quick bath and back out into the wet night for the Speakeasy Christmas readings. We were supposed to take food to contribute to a mixed buffet. Being as organised as ever, I stole a packet of crisps from the Christmas supplies thinking they would at least make a change from the three zillion mince pies that were likely to be on offer. Wrong again: everyone must have thought that everyone else would bring mince pies so we were hard pressed to locate one. Plenty of Scotch eggs though. And plenty of wonderful readings. It was one of those events that one approaches with some resignation, then really enjoys. Barely anyone had written their own pieces, choosing instead to bring out all the old favourites: Elliot's Journey of the Magi, which I had thought about taking was performed much better than I could have managed by the delightful Enid. I read from my other essential seasonal text, Dylan Thomas' Memories of Christmas. Judith gave us Betjeman's Christmas and Sue chose The Night Before Christmas. We had Hardy's Oxen....we are big Hardy fans: it's compulsory if you're a Dorset based literary group. And Corsley's Innocents. And Harding's Christmas 1914. And many more. It was splendid. My faith is restored. I took home a goodie bag for Jack: 2 pieces of Stollen and some white chocolate fingers. That'll make up for it. He'd gone out!

It's beginning to look a bit like Christmas

‘Ready for Christmas?’ It’s a mantra that the English love because it temporarily extends conversational possibilities beyond that of currently prevailing climatic conditions; which is why they start asking you round about the middle of October. After a month without a precipitation-free day, I was bored with them continually saying they’re sick of the rain. Now they’ve moved on to the past tense: ‘I was sick of all that rain…cold isn’t it’.

Of course I’m not ready for Christmas! How does that work when you’re in the day job full time? I’ve made a few lists: if in doubt, make a list. In a state of panic last weekend, I visited a butcher and ordered a turkey, a ham (cooked), some sausages, streaky bacon, two lots of stuffing and a partridge in a pear tree. I got the butcher’s boy to write down the date that the said order should be collected along with the opening hours of the meat emporium and made a list of what has to be done and in which order on the 23rd. I’ve made another list of vegetables that need purchasing on the same day, probably around 7am or earlier. Once, when I really wasn’t sleeping at all well, I went to Tesco at 4 o clock one morning. Apart from the staff, I was the only person in the joint so you might have thought that I had free rein. Actually, all the aisles were blocked by huge metal trolleys being unloaded by unfriendly looking somnambulists who were stacking shelves and who were clearly not expecting to meet any punters. Talk about night of the living dead. As I was transferring my goods into the boot of the car which sat in lonely isolation in the car park, I remember that a fox wandered over to watch me with some indifference. ‘Bloody cold isn’t it’ he said.

I had a few words with Samuel whose behaviour of late has been disturbing to say the least. Eleven of us are spending three festive days together and we don’t want any rows before Christmas lunch so, minus a bunch of lucky heather, I was charged with giving him the gypsy’s warning. Subsequently, he told his mum he was going to his dad’s for Christmas instead. So, another task handled well then. Meanwhile, everyone else appears to have independently reached a consensus to buy his six-year old sister a gift that can be used outdoors; like a road map. So far, she’ll be wearing her new fairy Wellingtons whilst tied to a tree with her very expensive French skipping rope.

Talking of wellies, there seems to be a national shortage unless you’re adult sized nine or over; in which case, you’d have been born with flippers. ‘It’s due to the weather’ said the woman in Tesco. Oh, not that old excuse again. Why else would you buy a pair of wellies unless you lived in a wet god-forsaken country. I mean, they’re not exactly a fashion statement are they. And while we’re at it, what’s with the pudding shortage? As I said to a twelve year old manger in Tesco… and why do I continue to shop there?......‘do you know there’s not a nutless Christmas pudding in this shop?’ When did they start putting nuts in puddings? ‘No idea’ says he; ‘can’t stand Christmas pudding myself’. Well that’s ok then. That’s the stock response from the rulers of the universe is it? Peace on earth and good will to you too.

I went for a walk. I’ve been shut indoors for weeks, due to the rain, so it had to be done. In a large pocket I’d secreted a plastic bag and a pair of secateurs. Look: this is council property and I pay my council tax; ergo if I want some holly I’ll have some. I’ve already replaced the three quid Asda plastic tree with a real life B & Q version…albeit, the smallest one in the shop. AND purchased sparkly twigs which are festooned with baubles. Now I’m on a mission. Except that I nearly forgot why. On a bitingly cold Dorset morning, under an exquisite blue sky, I walked along a beautifully barren edge of the harbour stopping to speak with every passing stranger and stroke their even stranger dogs. And because it wasn’t raining everyone smiled and spoke back. And as we’re going to be globally warmed, or because it’s going to be a fierce winter, the holly bushes are laden with berries, branches of which are now in my sitting room. I was going to be terribly artistic and have a few marsh ferns too but I knew they wouldn’t look as good indoors as they did at the water’s edge with the sun highlighting their colours.

Saturday night, we went over to a candle-lit Christchurch Priory for the Messiah. I sat enraptured in the stone-clad darkness thinking of all the Christmases that had become wrapped into one as they roll down the hills of our lives. Fleetingly, I wondered what we should eat for Christmas Eve lunch. During the interval, we went outside to marvel at the clear, star-packed December night. We marvelled even more at those in the porch with the foresight to bring flasks and sandwiches. Then we returned for the second part and you all know what that’s about. Somewhere in the midst’s of time, King George woke from a little nap and inadvertently stood up. And now we all rise joyfully as one for the Allejulha Chorus. And, as I wipe away that tear of emotion, I’m beginning to feel a tiny bit Christmassy. Cold though, isn’t it.

And so it begins

I've been summoned by my boss. That would be my new boss who, contrary to expectations, is not the same as the old boss. I forgot to mention....owing to the loss of will to live....that the consultation process is over, the final paper has been published and the new boss, who was many people's old boss, was slotted neatly in without so much as a nod in the direction of an interview. So much for the democratic process then. I've been waiting for the call for three days: I'm surprised it took that long what with marked cards and payback time. I bet she's rubbing her hands with glee although, in doing so, she will have dropped the poisoned chalice she's just taken possession of. Enough already.

For a past-time, I'm wrapping presents. I watched my daughter doing this the other evening. Talk about multi-tasking: she had the whole lot done in an hour max whilst simultaneously eating a curry, downing a bottle of plonk....we each had our own due to colour preference - red for me, pink for her...answering a few texts and slotting in X Factor in between the Alan Bennett evening. Me, I've been wrapping mine for about six weeks. I average two a night. This evening, I had extra owing to having been allotted the task of dealing with the old boss's leaving presents which have been deposited in green crepe paper within a handy box file. I told them I wasn't much good at that sort of thing but they're all too busy counting their happy pills to be bothered.

My son was due home from uni on Sunday except that now he's not coming because he's going to a boot camp for young entrepreneurs somewhere in the land of the sheep. His best offer was a lift on Monday to any given point on the M4. Reading it is then. From here, he'll get a train to Poole. Somewhat stupidly, I suggested that we didn't really need a Christmas tree this year and had been out and bought a few sparkly branches to hang the odd bauble off. Mind you, I did make a bit of an effort: was stunned to discover you can buy a tree for three quid from Asda. So I did. Got it home and opened it...it looked like a three quid tree from Asda and now it's back in its box. I could hear the disappointment in the silence on the other end of the phone and will now, of course, buy a proper tree some time between now and next Monday.

I asked the new boss if she wanted me to bring anything to the meeting. 'No, it's just a little chat' came the response. 'Well, I would like to see your appraisal objectives and your work plan' came the afterthought which was really a primary thought. I do actually have the former. Didn't know there was plan for work though: thought you just turned up, sold your soul, stayed there until you couldn't physically stand any longer, then spent a pleasant forty minutes in assorted traffic jams trying to get home again.

Something very scary.....or not

Being keen to experience all areas of culture, I have just returned from the cinema having seen...as advertised.. the scariest film of the year/decade/century/ever: Paranormal Activity. Or maybe it isn't. Perhaps it's just the most hyped film since the totally boring Blair Witch fiasco. I like scary films (as opposed to horror)but, like humour, what works for one person doesn't for the next.

These days, there are two problems associated with going to see a scary film: firstly, you have to find someone else who also likes to be frightened; secondly, you have to come home to an empty house. Sally and I went straight after work as it's Orange Wednesday. What a brilliant idea that is...2 for the price of 1. The timing meant that I was back indoors for 7.30 so now have all night to occupy my mind with something else. Like why is that light flashing on my turned off TV?

The best bit of the film was the audience. The place was full of screaming people followed by raucous, nervous, bordering on hysterical laughter. What a hoot! It's filmed over three weeks in someone's bedroom and as they didn't change the sheets once, they deserved everything they got. Better than Blair Witch and the last scene made even us hardened old folk gasp. Don't use this review as your bench-mark though: I can think of quite a few people who would be terrified.

A spot of entertainment

To say it's been a busy and wet week would both be understatements. Fortunately, when it was possible to actually get out the front door without wearing goggles, some of the reasons were at least of a cultural nature in which diversity ruled ok!

Sunday night...shock, horror at venturing out on the sabbath when I could've stayed in my warm little home to watch the demise of Jedward...we ventured into Bournemouth to watch a couple of plays. The venue was a proper pub, albeit once a bank, but none of your pseudo-retro picture lined walls and fake Tiffany lampshades and not a menu in sight. A small stage, a few leather settees and a gloomy loo so far away that it warranted a return train fare to Weymouth. So, because it was charming and because it's trying to be a centre for the arts, let's give it a bit of promo: it's the Winchester and jolly good it is too. Mind you, it was a squash. With four of us squeezed onto the sofa in the front row, it was difficult not to make friends (or go home with a crick in the neck that served as a souvenir for the following three days). We were sat with a world famous writer who I'd never heard of but who has sixteen published books ... sufficient to impress. The plays were excellent and the acting superb but I wouldn't exactly class it as light relief: the first was about the last surviving orchestra in war torn Baghdad and the second concerned the incarceration in an asylum of the pilot who flew Enola Gay over Hiroshima. So, a laugh a minute then.

Talking of a lot of laughs, Monday night found me back in town once more to see Eddie Izzard. Is that guy off the wall or what? He's certainly a bit of a technophile: while we waited for his arrival, three large screens reflected members of the audience, over which ran all his incoming tweets. Eddie's a big fan of Twitter and used it constantly during his recent marathons. He has a million followers and to prove it there were messages arriving from all points on the compass; including one from him saying he'd be along soon. Hurry up Eddie, we're waiting to see whether you've turned into a stick insect after all that exercise. Actually, when he appeared, he looked quite normal. No, I take that back: 'normal' is not a word to be used in the same sentence as Izzard.

Wednesday was Writers' Circle at which each meeting seems to comprise a different membership. A fellow scribe told me that he'd heard a programme on Radio 4 about these clubs in which they said if you turn up and find a bunch of strange folk who don't seem able to write a shopping list, you know you're in the right place. That pretty much sums us up.

Thursday evening was supposed to be a quiet night in but, in the event, I got home from work at 9pm having been invited to a talent competition at work. I couldn't think of anywhere I'd like to go less after a monstrous day and, of course, it was wonderful. There were ten acts including, amongst others, singers, a band, a magician and a comedian. The less said about the latter, the better: he was out to shock and he succeeded. The rest were a joy. This little venture was organised by first term, first year students tasked with an assessed assignment to organise a venture to make money for charity. Hooray for them! Ten out of ten for sheer effort.

Friday, another friend round for a weekly moan and Saturday I cooked for that crowd of nicotine addicts I met outside Amman airport. Here's a little culinary tip: if you're going to make moussaka don't try to be clever and make half of it the day before. Aubergines that were first cooked twenty-four hours previously are unpleasant little beings. The way to compensate for this is to drink as much red wine as you can but possibly not quite that much. Sunday, I did something that I can't ever remember doing before: got up at 11am, had a bath, came downstairs and looked out at the WEATHER and....changed into a clean pair of pyjamas.

Cake with Caitlin

This was the weekend when ALL plans fell apart. Firstly, pig flu, which we had all thought was a nasty rumour, has kicked in over in the land of the land of the sheep resulting in Jack’s lift home being null and void. Disappointing to say the least but, as Dorset has largely been cut off from the wider world for the last twenty-four hours, probably just as well. There’s no way I’d have been contemplating that bridge if the weather up there was anything like the hurricane that we experienced yesterday! We even made item number two on the national news: a bunch of numpties failing to stand upright in Bournemouth. So no change there then.

Saturday, we were all due to go to Glastonbury carnival; I could barely get out of the front door to reach Tesco. On arrival at our local branch of Rulers of the World I found myself temporarily trapped in the car as stair-rods rained down and Dorothy flew past on her way to the Emerald City. Everyone…and I mean everyone…was there. Not a trolley to be had. Strangely, on emerging, the micro-climate had undergone transformation and the sun was shining brightly whilst chuckling to itself. Perhaps we could venture into Somerset after all? No chance. By the time I’d driven the mile home tornadoes were being recorded over in Kimmeridge so we made a new plan: a spot of Christmas shopping in town followed by a trip to the cinema. Wrong.

Something happened to Poole when I wasn’t looking. The High Street, which used to be full of interesting shops, now looks, I imagine, like a lot of other towns in this green and unpleasant land: ok if you like charity shops. Actually, I do but not that many. The upside of recession-hit Britain is that you can have an eat-all-you-want buffet at The Real China for £3.95. This has got to be the bargain of the year even if your six year old grand-daughter presumes it to mean eat all the prawn crackers you want. Have you ever tried, or even seen, someone eating prawn crackers with strawberry ice-cream? As for the cinema? Well, call me mean but £28 for two adults and two children to see the new cartoon version of A Christmas Carol wasn’t viable so that didn’t happen either.

All of a sudden it was Sunday. The sun was shining so a whole new day loomed. However, due to yet more illness, I was unexpectedly landed with the prawn cracker queen. We decided to go to the beach except, on arrival, the beach wasn’t there due to a ridiculously high tide. It didn’t matter; we had a splendid walk and talked to a considerable number of dogs before visiting the water-logged park where I was attacked by the biggest and most angry bee in the world. Then we went home and made a Christmas cake. Have you ever made a Christmas cake with a six-year old? It takes years; especially if you have those old fashioned scales with weights, and an even more old fashioned china mixing bowl and make the mistake of doing it on the dining room table where there’s more room. There’s no compromise: 'you have to get the balance exactly right Grandma'. ( I had just explained the concept of balance and that, in French, scales translates as 'balance'. 'So what's the word for balance in French Grandma?' ) And this bowl’s too hard Grandma. And why is all that brown sugar on the table and all those raisins on the floor Caitlin? And why did I buy you a sherbet dip? And why are you asleep on my settee when there’s all this cleaning and washing-up to be done?

A small and slowly unfolding tale

If you get to work before 8am you're in seasonal trouble because they don't put the heating on until then which means you've got to wait a good half an hour for the joint to warm up. Naturally, I've submitted a suggestion (euphemism for complaint).It was so cold today that I only ventured out to the bench once. Carole was there of course sporting a short-sleeved tee-shirt. 'Aren't you cold?' 'Getting there'. But not, apparently, as cold as the tortoises who are now re-housed in their own brand new fridge.

It's a long time since I watched Blue Peter; I think Petra might have passed on by now. However, I definitely remember them packing the tortoises away in boxes of straw for the winter so what's all this fridge business? It's a new theory...they have to be kept at a specific temperature. You can wrap them in towels and pop them in with the cheese and salad but you mustn't use the hemp that Ron had inadvertantly purchased. Take a look at this link to see everyone's at it!

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-518454/Close-door-trying-sleep-The-woman-keeps-75-hibernating-tortoises-fridges.html

You wouldn't want to be trying to retrieve that bottle of wine if you'd finished one already; particularly if you had a sudden craving for a frozen pastie. Still, you could always use the hemp to insulate your office.

By the way, Liam has dumped me claiming I need an independent technician; so, basically, it's all my fault. Even Bob lasted longer than this one although sadly not long enough to fix the dishwasher!

Lewes is lovely

For some reason, Beverley didn’t think it necessary to inform me before I left for the hinterlands of East Sussex that fireworks would be involved. When I was a child, firework night…….oh for God’s sake, you know what I’m going to say and anyway it doesn’t matter. I still ended up standing in the middle of a school playing-field somewhere in Brighton in a force nine gale inappropriately dressed. It could’ve been worse I suppose: I had intended to wear the little black dress and the fish-net tights for the evening thinking that we might be heading for the sophisticated night-spots. At one point it started to rain. Fortunately, Bev’s sister had lent us some samples from her collection of Edwardian umbrellas. The bad news was that we weren’t allowed to get them wet or use them as shelter from the hurricane in case they blew inside out. I accidentally dropped mine on the damp grass but I think I got away with it; everyone else being occupied with providing a chair for the recording photographer to stand on prior to his camera running out of battery two minutes into the display.

I’ve never been to Lewes before and it really is quite lovely. Rather too many hills perhaps for my liking and populated by folk who all have competing ideas on the location of my B & B in South Street and how to get there, but it has a castle and, having declared unilateral independence some years ago, its own currency. More importantly, about 80% of the shops are independent so quite delightful, especially at this time of year when there are gifts to buy. There is also a plethora of antique/junk emporia where one can purchase almost anything. For example, in the one where I left with a brass cupid bearing a three-pronged candlestick holder for just a negotiated tenner, it was possible to purchase a piece of attractive blue pottery dating back to the time and place of Jesus for only £63! Well, that’s what the label said. To be fair, you can (literally) pick up a bargain’s worth of Nabotean coins in Petra but……….

After the fireworks, we trundled off to the local pub to defrost. I didn’t think there were that many of us to begin with but ranks had swelled and we took over a whole corner and straddled a path to the bar. I didn’t know who many of these people were and was quite surprised when a woman from the other side of the room brought over a large selection of grand-children of assorted sizes who she lined up in front of us. From the looks on the faces of my companions, I was not alone in being unsure of procedure. Should we give them marks out of ten perhaps? We smiled inanely and the crowd dispersed.

Later in the evening, there was a very bizarre conversation about the protocol involved in using other people’s bathroom facilities. I didn’t understand this at all…maybe it’s another ritual peculiar to East Sussex? I went outside to have a fag in the pouring rain as you do when feeling surplus to requirements. I made a new friend out there who spent a good ten minutes regaling me with his views on the apparent turnaround of Saturday night values: i.e. the pub’s full of kids running wild, dominoes has been replaced by Pass the Baby and the smokers are consigned to lurking in doorways in the cold. He’s got a point.

A particularly surreal experience on Sunday morning in the B & B: it was, of course, Remembrance Day so all the Radio 4 programmes had been hijacked thereby causing more confusion than the morning after the night when the clocks go back. I began my breakfast not to the accompaniment of Clive James, but to what sounded ominously like a Brian May version of Abide With Me. Very odd.

A technophobe at large

The man from Virgin Media Customer Services.....a contradiction in terms.....made the mistake of telephoning me. I was poorly last Thursday and had to come home from work in the morning. You know how it is: feeling run down, full of aches, in and out of the loo and generally miserable. For someone who rarely watches the box, all I wanted to do was snuggle down on the settee and watch rubbish on the TV. Good job I live in England then. The bad news being that I'm with Virgin. There was no TV. Or internet and owing to the fact that readers know I live in the Twilight Zone, no phone. I was explaining all of this to my new friend, Liam, at Virgin who I could tell had lost the will to live. I had already reported it to his colleagues in Mumbai but, as my upset stomach and general flu-like symptoms did not appear on their feed-back list of responses, they were unable to help. As I told Liam, this is not me being racist; I don't care who they are...I care where they are and what script they have. Liam said a lot of folk say this. Well, there's a surprise then.

On Saturday, a technician arrived to tell me that the reason I had no communication facility was because a neighbour had made the mistake of signing up with Virgin. As they wanted to create a positive first impression, and as there was 'no more room in the box', they had disconnected me. I've often been told I function outside the box but this is the first tangible evidence. Anyway, I shared this with Liam too. And the fact that I'm being 'cut back'. I don't know this lingo any more than I know Italian but I know I'm not getting the broadband speed I pay for. 'Do you mean you're affected by traffic management?' asked Liam. Possibly. He then donned his Spanish Inquisition party outfit to enquire what I was trying to download/upload/transfer etc etc. Pictures of Robert de Niro? The odd photo attachment to my parents? The Waitrose Instant Christmas Dinner portfolio?

'Liam, it must be clearly obvious that I have no idea what I'm talking about and all I want to do is let my parents and other bored people know what's occurring'. That's when Liam became my friend. We have now exchanged phone numbers...ones that only put you through to the UK...and email addresses. The man's on a mission. I have refunds and am on an official no-pay policy until they can resolve local problems.

'Well, Liam, let me tell you about my son, a poor starved student in Swansea who is also having terrible problems with Virgin.' I swear I could hear him sharpening the razor blades.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xokHofcS3ik&feature=related

Robert de Niro's waiting

The institution where I work is VERY multicultural. As far as I’m concerned this can only be a good thing: I get to meet loads of interesting people and learn much that I didn’t previously know. Naturally, there has to be a common language in order that everyone can communicate effectively and it is, of course…….Italian. I realized this earlier this morning: today being one of those special occasions when I’d saved up enough money to purchase a coffee from our in-house Costa Packet concession.

The guy at the head of the queue requested a small coffee from the ladies behind the counter who, incidentally, originate from the stories of Scheherazade:
‘What size would that be?’
‘Small’.
‘You mean Primo?’
‘OK, Primo’.
‘What sort?’
‘Just ordinary please’.
‘You mean an Americano?’

The next guy was following this closely. Well, we all were actually given that we were all supposed to be somewhere else five minutes ago.
‘Primo expresso solo’

Got it in one, clever sod. I’d been early morning swimming and was hoping for a bacon bap with ketchup to compensate my body for the healthy shock it had received but decided I didn’t have the necessary linguistic skills. Just another Primo Americano then. The clever sod and I moved over to the milk and sugar table which is situated about three hundred feet away from the coffee shop because the Tales of the Arabian Nights crew know exactly what dangers lurk there. The last time I attempted to release the contents of the organic semi-skimmed from the avante-garde container, the lid flew off and I drowned everyone within a half-mile radius. That morning I exhibited language skills generally only used in private or when conversing with employees of Virgin Media. Today, the Solo Expresso bod kindly helped me with the jug whereupon it became obvious that he was, in fact, Italian. Well, I call that cheating.

PS. was just proof reading this which means having another look at the photo. Is he good-looking or what?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8SoWaUsfDEY&feature=related

Up in smoke

Here’s a thing now. I always thought parents who hated their children took them to Asda to give them a bad time. Or any supermarket actually. Doesn’t matter: you can hear them shrieking and screaming down the aisles….Tesco’s Finest child abuse. But there’s another seasonal treat (or trick) lurking in the forest.

Once I’d learned how to spell it, I’d always had a bit of a thing about Beaulieu. It has the potential to suit everyone really: stately home that’s not too large, loads of shiny cars, a James Bond exhibition which means Daniel Craig, gardens, a ruined abbey….is there an abbey in England that’s not in ruins? Good old Henry. Tonight, according to the irritating compere of the fancy dress competition, folk had come as far as Salisbury and Saudi Arabia to be with us. And there were thousands of the living dead milling around to enjoy a celebratory combination of Halloween and Guy Fawkes. Tall pointed hats are definitely the ‘must have’ this season; although there was also an assembly of brides, pumpkins, ghouls and ghost-busters.

Beaulieu managed to let itself down somewhat though through sheer avarice and lack of toilets. Generally, once you’ve taken out the mortgage to gain access, everything else is free. And, to be fair, the entry fee is not comparable to that charged at other stately joints such as Longleat which has gone from a venue of regular outings to a once in a blue moon treat. Folk of my longevity can remember sneaking into Lord Bath’s pile via the rear entrance at Shearwater where, incidentally, rhododendron bush jumping used to be all the rage for those used to the quiet life in Wiltshire. To quote Alan Bennett, it’s gone out a bit now, like stamp collecting.

Making the most of the hordes, the powers that be in the forest had decided to charge extra for the mini fun-fair, for the mono-rail, for the Wheels exhibition, well….for everything really. Still, we were not to be deterred and the Michael Jackson tribute act was free; which was just as well as it was probably the worst I’d ever seen. The weather held out for the fireworks and they were superb. I’m not a big fan of fireworks….I have to fight to stop thinking of all that money going literally up in smoke. I liked it though. But herein lies the rub. Everywhere I looked, including our own immediate party, were parents insistent on pleasure. And they were all sheltering small children whose ears were covered in protection from loud frightening noises in the dark. Seems a funny sort of place to take a scared kid for pleasure. It was a bit like the Bambi deer who were cowering on the roadside on the way home as motorists thundered past faster than the speed of light as they made up for the hour long queue to get out of the forest.

Conversations on the naughty seat

Carol has spent the weekend tidying up her garden: moving the plants around, cutting the grass and re-hanging the door on the shed whilst the old man relaxes in bed with the paper. A third greenhouse must be erected for the tortoises who were found dispersed indoors having made the great escape. There are a lot of tortoises; so many in fact that they had to count them to determine how many were missing. I had no idea tortoises could move so quickly. 'Oh yes, put them down here and they'd be by that wall in twenty seconds'. The foot of the wall in question can't be seen through a trough of fag ends; all the ash-trays having long since disappeared. We are on the smoking bench looking at the sign which says 'this is a non-smoking area'. There is a nasty rumour prevailing which suggests that a member of the fag police has been taking photos of the occupants of the bench. Why? 'They' know who we are. And anyway, we are the only ones who religiously put our dog-ends in the bin. Which reminds me: I haven't seen the man with the long-handled fag removing implement lately. That's what comes of being conscientious....you put people out of work.

We have exhausted all conversation about the restructuring. No-one cares any more and we are sick to the back teeth of our smug companion further down the bench. He's retiring soon so sports a constant snigger. The other bloke's had all his shifts changed to accommodate the fact that two of them are now doing five people's jobs. He's in a dark place and seems to be physically shrinking. I think there's every possibility that he will murder Mr.Smug before the week's out. Still, the weather's nice. Oh well, tea-break over. Back on your heads lads.

Eat your heart out Danyl

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ekta6EKhb2g&feature=related

To the woods

In a huge rush to digitally capture the colours of autumn before all the leaves are blown away in the wind and rain, we rush off to Stourhead for some peace and tranquility. It’s an inauspicious start as I manage to become embroiled in some pointless altercation at the Tesco petrol station in Blandford whilst motorists desperate to take advantage of 5p off a litre of fuel wait impatiently in an ill-tempered queue stretching back towards Poole. Initially, things don’t seem a lot better on arrival in Wiltshire as the world, his wife, dogs and numerous children appear to have also taken the decision to look at a few trees.

We stand in a long line waiting for access to the ‘ladies’; naturally, there is no matching queue for the ‘gents’. ‘Are you local?’ demands a fierce woman with bright red hair and thick-rimmed spectacles. Wondering whether the loos are also ethnically demarcated, we concede that we are not from round here. ‘Well I am’ the scary native responds; ‘and I’ve never queued for a toilet before’. There doesn’t seem to be an answer readily available and as this is National Trust, so no sneaking into the men’s facilities, we slip surreptitiously behind the disabled door.

There is another long queue to gain entry to the grounds which is fielded by an elderly man under the impression he has all the time in the world. He probably didn’t have that beard when he started work earlier. We join the soft-shoe shuffle and watch all the National Trust members passing smugly by. And then we are out and here is a tree. Camera, action. Here’s another and another. There are thousands of the things and we are just in time. The gales have already wreaked a certain amount of havoc but there is still plenty to see.

We wander up to the one hundred feet high obelisk, the base of which seems to be the unofficial stopping point for large people to eat their sandwiches. There’s nowhere to sit so they lean against the edifice grazing happily and thereby precluding any photographic opportunity. It’s not important in the grander scheme of things and it is very grand. Up here, for example, there is a broad expanse of land stretching from the minor, but still stately, house across to what might have once been the lodge; or the game-keeper’s abode. The weather can’t make its mind up what to do so the sky is half light and half dark which, with that tree in front, will make a superb artistic composition. Only it doesn’t because I’m not very good with cameras.

Walking down towards the lake offers greater opportunities for the amateur photographer as the sun finally takes control of meteorological decision making and allows us to see the seasonal colours in all their glory. There are ducks and swans on the rippling water, cottages, chapels, bridges and grottoes, waterfalls and leaves shimmering on islands. I sit on a bench outside the Temple of Diana and pick all the tomato pips out of my Tesco’s chicken salad sandwich.

We walk for miles eventually arriving wearily at the last watering hole before the uphill trek to the car-park. As a reward for all this outdoor activity, we discover our second and totally unexpected craft fair of the weekend. I am entranced by the knitted mouse stall. I liked the trees too.

Listen to autumnal music here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CO9Qx7Kp_I8&feature=related

Last of the summer wine

We three are boldly travelling to a place where no man has been before. Largely, that’s because our destination is the arts and crafts exhibition in the room over the café at Lulworth Cove. This is not akin to the huge pre-Christmas affairs that will shortly take place in enormous venues all over the country and most likely throughout the whole universe. This one, unsuspectingly located above those who have been blown indoors from passing coastal hurricanes for comforting hot chocolate and slabs of Dorset Apple Cake, only houses six or seven tables. So, just the two hours then.

The downside of sharing things in common is that at least two of us are drawn to the same pictures, wood carvings, glass work…..well, everything really. And being grown-ups, we must avoid squabbling which means that we are sickeningly polite: ‘no, really, you choose.’ So Sally gets what I wanted and I get something that she was keen on and all three of us unknowingly purchase similar bags; and henceforth must make further polite enquiries to ensure we do not bring them on outings together and look like members of some club. That would be the old biddies association I fear.

It doesn’t end there either. After a gusty trek, past the bucket tree, we reach the beach. Except there is no beach. Only a couple of weeks ago I was down here taking in the calming pleasures of the cove and making a momentous decision not to buy a painted shell. Today, the sea has eliminated all traces of a shore-line and we have to virtually strap ourselves to the railing in order to watch huge waves breaking across the rocks at the entrance to the tiny bay. Enough already. Back up the hill to purchase some goods from the largest stockists of country wines in the world. Allegedly.

Actually, it’s only Sally that wants anything and we go inside just to humour her. To pass the time, we enquire whether it would be possible to sample the Christmas Mead. And the Sloe Gin. And the Elderflower and Lemon Liqueur. And the Birch Wine. The woman in charge of tasting asks whether I would find it easier to put my purchases in a large box and we all stagger back to the car. Stopping at the pub for a spot of lunch, I return from the bar to find my compatriots on their hands and knees under the table. It’s one of those olde worlde joints with even older games our grandparents might’ve played. These two hadn’t even worked out the instructions for the contents of the wooden box they’d chosen before they managed to flip the apparently essential ball bearing away into the beer soaked ether. You can’t take them anywhere.

Free advertising

A journey in winter

(Saturday 21st November, 10 – 4.30, Studio 1, Holton Lee)

I am pleased to offer a one day creative writing workshop on the theme of ‘travel’. In these short, dark days of winter you are invited to reflect on past journeys or those yet to come. Once again, we will work in the delightful environment of Holton Lee where we can draw inspiration from the fields, woods and spectacular harbour views or hide from the world in our studio.

As usual, the workshop will comprise activities designed to help you explore a range of possibilities under a general banner of Travel Writing. These will include: sub-genres, purpose & audience, description and character. The activities are framed within ‘suggestion’ rather than ‘instruction’ and the emphasis is on providing time for you to write in your preferred format be this prose, poetry, song or something other. Those who have attended one of my previous workshops will know that I aim to create a safe forum in which participants feel comfortable in sharing their work and ideas.

In view of current economic constraints I have decided to offer this workshop at the same price as those earlier in the year. The cost will be £25 per person to include tea, coffee and biscuits. Please be advised that there are no facilities to purchase refreshments at Holton Lee and a packed lunch is suggested. If you would like to attend, please email me for an application form.

www.holtonlee.co.uk

New boss IS the old boss!

I know I said I was going to record all this redundancy/restructuring business but less than a week in and I have lost all interest. There are so many meetings to churn over the same old things with fewer and fewer attendees. The latest one I went to only served to confirm latent suspicions that those who have lost their jobs are already making plans for reinstatement under a new title. Now I understand why most of the lower ranks are reticent to speak out. It's all a sham. If I have to pay for a TV license in order to fund the appearance of a neo-nazi on Question Time, I know democracy is so dead at a macro level that there's no hope for the comments of small people to be considered in their place of work. I greatly disapprove of Jonathon Ross but his exploits seem trivial compared with those of Griffin. What standards must we uphold?

On a happier note, I have decided to run another of my one day writing workshops: this time, on the theme of travel. I shall advertise it here in the near future as, although I only have six official followers, there are many more out there who email me to say they are reading the blog regularly.

Cynicism and rain are relentless.

And so it begins

The four week consultation period started today. Unlike the annual Royal Mail fracas, this has greater implications than not sending or receiving any Christmas cards and thereby saving us all a lot of money. Some of the people affected by our re-structuring probably won’t feel like sending any cards this year anyway, being out of a job by yuletide; whilst others will have been redistributed into new managerial posts, albeit at a lower grade. I am cynically minded of Roger Daltry: ‘meet the new boss; same as the old boss’.

We had the first of what I suspect will be many meetings. Turnout was poor, most folk being, unbelievably, even more pessimistic than me; others being too busy to read their email and thereby remaining in the usual uninformed void. Those in attendance had left their altruistic tendencies on their desks, wanting only to know how they would be immediately and individually affected; and, more importantly, when ‘Phase Three’ would commence. Phase Three is when the plebs cop it. This stymied any attempt at a collective response so a list was made. If in doubt, make a list and suggest another meeting. We are encouraged to do the latter in teams so, as I hold a rather singular position, I felt obliged to remind colleagues that I would have to arrange a meeting with myself. Fortuitously (or not), I’ve been invited to join another team who I currently have nothing to do with but may well do in the foreseeable future.

Although there is a facility for individual response and comment to the consultation document by email, most people are afraid to use it fearing that they will be identified as trouble-makers. That speaks volumes. As I have long held this label, I have already fielded four questions so the powers that be have something to read and feel truly part of a democratic process. I shall continue to record developments here for posterity so be warned, it may become very tiresome.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zydAs5bRW1U

Precious weekends

One of the problems with working full time is a constant search for ways to stop looking permanently exhausted. I only need to observe the faces of retired friends or those who have cut down their hours of paid employment to know this to be a truism: lines (which are not interesting) have fallen by the wayside. It’s no way to live your brief life even if it has currently been made all the more exciting by a major cull of management types in the recent re-structuring. Another dilemma is what to do with the weekends. They must, by all means, be accounted for; but, does this mean doing absolutely nothing in order that one can relax? Or, does it infer that every precious second must be filled…in order that one can relax?

I have a number of jobs that need to be completed. First, I must de-frost the freezer. Somebody failed to shut the door properly so now it offers excellent evidence for those that adhere to the view that global warming is a conspiracy theory: packs of bacon cling lovingly to the walls whilst other food is so completely disguised by glaciers that it’s impossible to guess what it might have originally been. I’m anticipating seeing the northern lights the next time I want a packet of minced lamb. I don’t know who’s responsible for this frozen Armageddon. Currently, I’m the only person living here so I’ll blame it on Nigel the handyman (every woman needs a Nigel) who came to mend the fridge door when I was out. Anyway, it seems like first job on the agenda unless I want to crouch on the kitchen floor, dangerously, hair dryer in hand.

The grass needs cutting: quite a simple procedure as my lawn is about the size of a gnat’s handkerchief. However, the lawn mower is in the shed which means that those persons who kindly lent my beloved son a large bike to get to his job at the pub have to come and remove it before I can retrieve the machine. This done, someone (that unknown person who’s put the spanner in everything) has worked out how to apply their Origami techniques to a piece of metal and have managed to fold the mower into something akin to an A4 sized piece of paper with no instructions as to how it might be unraveled into something functional. In the middle of this, one of the local aliens who hasn’t spoken to me for at least six months, arrives at the front door to ask whether I have anyone in the house fit enough to lift her suitcase downstairs as it’s too heavy. She apologises for it being Sunday. I just apologise and send her on her way. Why not pack it downstairs?

And then there’s the dishwasher that doesn’t wash dishes. I’ve had the thing in pieces. I’ve washed every washable part. I’ve done the salt thing and the rinse-aid thing. I’ve tried as many different varieties of tablets as exist. And now I’ve hand-washed everything that we used last night…..which was quite a lot! You can’t get a plumber for love nor money (and if you’re reading this Bob, it’s not aimed at you).

So, I missed the literary tour of Bournemouth this afternoon. But, because I had a sense of impending doom, I did take the shore-line walk this morning and took great pleasure in saying ‘good morning’ to all those who deliberately avert their eyes. And, amongst other things, stopped to watch a heron. That was nice. A twitcher in the making I feel.

What's occurring?

I am floundering. Last night I joined Twitter. It seemed to be a necessary pre-cursor of finding out about Yamaan. Now, I don't understand what I'm supposed to do next. Any suggestions?

I am also following someone else's blog but am unable to advertise this fact. I'm about to give you the link but beware: this is the journal of someone who is living with a close relative in advanced stages of Alzheimers and trying to keep them at home. There is a great deal of reference to bodily functions.

http://reluctantalzheimerscarer.blogspot.com/

Talking of which, it seems no longer possible to link into Youtube. Anyone know why this should be?

Hunky, chunky does good

Followers will know that 'a bite in the neck' begins with an account of my holiday in Jordan. Primarily, I wanted to share my fantastic experience, although I later came to realise that what I'd written seemed largely in hommage to the guide. Last night at the Wanderlust Awards, Yamaan Safady won the silver medal and is now officially the second best tour guide in the world. Of course, I'm biased and would claim him as number one: ladies, look at the picture and weep. Yamaan recently wrote that when he read my story his heart was smiling which is quite the nicest thing anyone's ever said about my writing. The man can do no wrong.

Ode to Bob

Whilst desperately trying to work out how to unlock the window of my oven-like B & B bedroom, I spot a Red Kite floating between the almost turning trees that tower above the immense garden below. Red Kites have, thankfully, been re-introduced to this part of Oxfordshire and a jolly good thing too: they are stunning. Readers who have followed this blog since those long past Jordanian days will know that, despite continuous suggestions, I am not a twitcher. I know about Red Kites because I met a man who wears binoculars around his neck and can imitate a cuckoo. Pretty good credentials, all things told; and all things are told on this, my journey back into childhood.

I stand propped against a wall waiting for Bob. I have, of course, forgotten all good intentions of meeting this person who I haven’t seen for half a century in a public place and duly get into the first car that comes round the corner. And it’s the start of my perfect day. First stop…the town’s museum located opposite the building my dad used to work in. The language barrier I’d feared is non-existent. To an extent, this is initially helped by the elderly lady on reception who has travelled all the way from Brightwell to relieve me of my handbag ( in case I’m a terrorist from the southern counties). It’s the icebreaker we would’ve needed if my guide was not so personable. There seems to be no logic in the distribution of the exhibits but it doesn’t matter: I like the tapestries that the ladies of the town have made to celebrate some centenary or bi-centenary and both of us like the randomly spread photographs.

One of the things that distinguishes me from the crowd is that I genuinely like looking at other people’s photos; a stroke of luck as I will subsequently be asked to view Bob’s album, scrap book, assorted cards and internet pictures. All of this I do willingly but before that comes the empirical. Here is my next door neighbour who is a rather portly fifty something. The last time I saw him he was a tiny five year old on the other side of the fence when I played ‘two-ball’ against the kitchen wall with his sister. And now we are down by the river, having traversed the lane which was inhabited by folk who stayed in the adjacent psychiatric hospital. I remember this place replete with Water Irises, Marsh Marigolds and Lords and Ladies. Today, it’s a nature reserve which means it’s overgrown and a little disappointing.

We stroll around the playing fields behind our old school where Mr. Campbell used to take us on treasured nature walks. When this liaison began, I could remember barely anything: sadly, I couldn’t remember Bob. Now, every turn brings back something. We collect unwanted conkers in order that I can try out the latest theory and relieve myself of some of the many spiders that currently inhabit my house. After a trip up the hill to the church, we go to visit Bob’s mum who has just returned from holiday. I am not so green to believe I am being shown off: I know that Bob is showing off his mum to me as would I were it the other way round. Bob’s dad has an intriguingly large collection of bird feeders. I would like to talk to him about this but now is not the right time.

And on it goes. Everything resonates with careful thought and planning and is interspersed with this delightful man frequently breaking into song. He writes songs for everyone and, dear readers, because I don’t, I make no apologies for writing this for my friend.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kXgbN81zNG8&feature=related

Spiders and hairbrushes in the blogosphere

Oranges are not the only fruit and this is not the only blog: there is another! I am charged with maintaining a blog at work and I am very proud of this. Not because it's comprised of the spontaneous, avante garde content of which (I like to think) readers of abiteintheneck expect; but because it's a second chance blog. This time last year I'd only made three entries on the work blog before I was called into the Star Chamber and severely reprimanded for insubordinate use of the said communication forum. Not only was the content deleted, the whole blog tool was taken from me. They thought it was a punishment. I was greatly relieved: there's only so much a person can say under watchful eyes.

This year, they reinstated the blog tool and told me to get writing. With caution. Dear God readers; whatever happened to enlightenment? I've soldiered on with the fortitude you'd expect but yesterday I made a happy discovery. Unlike this blog, the one at work allows anyone to make an entry. Imagine my surprise (as I assumed that no-one except me and the Obercommandants read the thing) to find a whole set of reflections posted by nervous first year students. Democracy rules OK! Hooray & pip pip! There's life in first year students after all! Here they were in full unadulterated flow engaging with the academic world.

Sadly, democracy is a sham. For a start, when Cameron gets in, I'll have to work until I'm too old to enjoy any retirement that might be left; and when Cameron gets in, Tony Blair will be Emperor of Europe so it won't make any diference who is in government. Which, incidentally, is exactly the type of comment that got me into trouble last year. Further, the students who were baring their souls on my work blog were doing so erroneously. As ever, they'd failed to read the briefing instructions and were supposed to be reflecting on someone else's blog! Poor things. Charged with recounting their impressions to the course tutor, they'd inadvertently shared their apprehensions with the whole institution. Doubtless, they're all in counselling now; which will keep a few others in employment. So, dear readers, please feel free to add your comments to this blog without impunity.

On another note, it's been a very bad hair day, literally and metaphorically. I went for my early morning swim only to find my hairbrush had disappeared. This meant I spent the day wearing an enviable impression of an eighties perm. And I still can't find the thing. I have large hair so it's a large hairbrush to misplace but it has gone. Looking on the bright side (which is not accomplished with the aid of a mirror), I have found, during the search, a missing hair clip,thirty euroes and my spare set of car keys. On the downside, things are not looking good on the hair front tomorrow.

Another thing I've located is a spider or two. I recently read that a plague of spiders was looming and just last week I managed to destroy a Black Widow that had the audacity to run across my living room floor. Then my daughter arrived and told me she'd seen its mate running under the settee. I've been waiting to see the fiend for four days and tonight, thinking I was busily involved with the lap-top, it made the mistake of scuttling off towards the television. Deft of hand, I obliterated it and went gaily off to the loo only to sit down and find myself sharing the small room with yet another bird eater. When did this menage a trois of spiders start? It took five pieces of loo roll to get the monster down the pan. Is there no rest for the aged?

Three successes: more of an excuse for a great link

1) The Rex at Wareham is showing Morris: a life with bells on. Nothing to do with me....they've just got a copy which they're showing this Friday & Saturday

2) Managed to move offices despite one fire alarm and several tea-breaks on the part of the care-takers

3) After months of searching, have finally manged to track down Gary Nalbandyan (see youtube link below). Best listened to whilst doing something else; like sitting in a deserted French chapel on the summer solstice

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oSu3LSDgYd0&feature=related

That old memory thing

It's definitely going. Bob....you remember Bob......keeps asking me do I remember this one and that one. I think he has me confused with someone else; sadly, I don't even remember Bob but I'm going to meet him soon. Again. Last time we met we were seven or eight. Now you can add half a century and a lot of optimism. When I go to where he lives I must meet him in a public place and leave addresses and phone numbers with virtually everyone I know as they all think I will be abducted. I should be so lucky.

I am constantly amazed by details of the quotidian long past that other folk remember. And constantly worried about my lack of short or long term memory. Last night I had friends round to dinner. Actually, they're quite classy types and probably referred to it as 'supper'. The one thing I can remember is when 'dinner' used to be at 'dinner-time' which was the middle of the day and 'supper', if it ever appeared, was two Ritz biscuits, a small lump of cheese and a cup of hot milk. Last night, it was stuffed aubergines, sea bass (fresh from the quay) and some pears poached in alcohol with Amarreti biscutis and cherries. Never let it be said that I don't move with the times.

Two of the friends mentioned that they'd been to Glastonbury Festival ...with Springsteen being the highlight...this year and I suggested they should try Glastonbury Carnival which is, alledgedly ( is that the right spelling followers?), the biggest illuminated carnival in Europe. They were a little taken aback as, they informed me, they'd already been....with me! However, it's not just me: not mentioning any names, but James knows who I'm talking about. One of them said they'd queued in the post office to mail a large envelope. Whilst standing in line, he'd observed how much the place had been smartened up: water machine in the corner, pleasing pale blue decor etc. On reaching the next available assistant...cashier number six please....he'd asked how much it would cost to post his letter. Came the reply, 'no idea sir, this is Barclay's Bank'.

so, against my better judgement but in honour of great dinner guests: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yPudiBR15mk

Come to think of it, if you really want to listen to this song in the most meaningful way possible, try to get hold of a film called 'Dear America: letters from Vietnam'

The boys are back in town

After a quick weekend visit, my daughter was packing up her car today when one of the aliens that inhabit the Twilight Zone in which I currently reside appeared to ask whether she was off back to uni. My daughter is an English teacher and finished her formal education some years ago but still gets asked for identification every time she wants to purchase something that necessitates her being over eighteen. We are blessed with youthful looks in our family for much longer than most folk. There is an upsetting period around the late forties when age suddenly clicks in but, as readers of this blog will be aware, we make up for this by acting anything other than what might normally be expected. We are all growing old disgracefully; just wait till I start writing about Aunty Grace! Anyway, the neighbour was too late as I’d already packed my son and his life into the car the day before for the trip back to Swansea University.

The beloved one had the grace to be reasonably emotional about leaving as he looked out across the heath towards the water. Let’s face it, he’d been home for four months. Mind you, he wasn’t as emotional as I was when I went to clean his room! Once my car has established the fact that it isn’t going to work, it pretty well knows its way to South Wales now including the turn-off which avoids Bath and takes us over a little toll-bridge manned by strange folk who exact sixty pence for the pleasure of cutting straight onto the road up to the M4. Once into Wales, we felt the urgent need for coffee and pulled off towards some services. ‘Do you remember that strange place we stopped at before?’ he says. ‘Yes, I think we might be there again’; which, of course, we were. It’s a geographical void inhabited by extremely obese people. Well, that’s Wales; but I’m talking about some weird place west of Cardiff.

This year, my son, along with nine other lads, is renting an ex-guest house on the front. Currently, there’s only one other occupant so it’s looking good. I hate to think what it’s going to be like in about two week’s time. There are two kitchens and four fridges. Ten into four doesn’t go: folk coming in looking for something to eat after a night on the lash head for anything readily available. I am so glad I don’t live there. He arrived home after the first year minus anything I’d sent him off with: not a memory of bed-linen and no cutlery. This time, I’m wiser. No point trying to buy the best…just go to Asda. I thought they’d picked this place for the convenience of the uni and because it’s right on the beach; turns out they hadn’t noticed this but it is five minutes walk from the nearest student friendly pub.

On the way back I had to do the Severn Bridge alone. I don’t like bridges. It’s yet another phobia and one I’ve inherited from my grandma. I am that person who is irritating every other motorist by driving at a steady sixty in the middle lane which, by virtue of traffic passing either side, precludes me having to glimpse the peripheral reaches of the Severn. This time I was ready for it. Last time I did the journey back I was feeling tired and decided I needed a sugar hit. Spotting a sign for services, I turned off in search of chocolate. Many miles later, with all signs leading to Chepstow, I found myself on the old bridge completely alone. Now, I only have to see a bridge looming and my palms start to sweat. If there’s someone else in the car I make them talk incessantly to take my mind off the fact I’m in mid-air. Then, there was no-one. Coupled with that, I was on another attempt to give up the weed. I crossed that bridge dragging frantically on my imitation cigarette; I sucked the thing dry. All alone on that old bridge which is about two feet wide and contains every pot-hole you could dream of, I had a nervous break-down. No-one knew I was up there in the air. When I finally reached the other side and thus located the services I was a wreck. I staggered into the shop which no-one has visited for the last twelve years and bought all the old dried up fags that they still had. I think they were Capstan Full Strength.

Here come the boys! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gaZCZnmdmbA

Unadulterated promotion

What can I say?

Following the last blog, little. Work lurches from one crisis to the next as folk are struck down by porcine flu which, on one hand reveals the voids that those in fear of redundancy have left by creating jobs that only they can do; but, on the other, offers opportunities for those lurking in the background. However, there is excellent news of the highest order: Morris: a life with bells on is, at last, on general release from 27th of this month. When I say 'general release', we're talking limited. However, if you go to http://www.morrismovie.com/ you can watch the trailer and discover where this most wonderful film will be shown. I urge you to read the reviews and make every effort to see it. I hereby announce that I will make it my personal mission to get it shown at the glorious Rex Cinema in Wareham....the last remaining gas lit picture house in Wareham.

In the meantime, here's a little, totally unrelated, blast from the past: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uDvytBCh3xM

The curious incident of the golf club in the night

A visitor asked me why the front window in my porch was broken. When I say broken, I mean that it looks like one of those jagged cartoon windows after a smash and grab: just a few zig zags left round the edges. I suppose I was being a tad optimistic in hoping that no-one would notice. I haven't written about it partly through embarrassment and partly because, at the time, a great deal of distress was caused. However, as I'm quick to recount the exploits of other family members, I suppose it's only fair to come clean.

Last Thursday, I spent a solitary but pleasant evening writing my blog and catching up on correspondence accompanied by two or three glasses of wine. I'd like to explain about the wine. It was purchased from a shop I'd never been in before. It was Californian, low percentage and I didn't have excess quantities due to having to work the next day. I finished what I was doing, closed the patio doors, turned the lights off and went to bed forgetting to remove the key from the front door...which meant that when Jack came home from work, he couldn't get in. For anyone that doesn't know me, I should also point out that I'm an extremely poor sleeper...have been for years. That's what I recall of the evening.

When he couldn't get in, Jack knocked on the door and rang the bell. When that didn't work, he telephoned me. Several times. For an hour. Then he phoned his sister who was away on a course for advice. She telephoned 14 times. I know this to be a truth because that's how many missed calls I had on the land line the following morning not counting those on my mobile. Then they called the police.

The officers of the law arrived and battered on the door. Nothing. Then they all climbed over the back fence and shone torches into the house whereupon they could see me silent as the grave in bed. Being agents of calm, the officers then informed my son that I was probably dead. They went into the garden shed and chose an implement suitable for gaining entry: an iron golf club. (Whatever happened to truncheons?) My son was fraught...'you don't know my mum'! The first I knew about all this was when I was (at last) woken by the sounds of glass smashing. I jumped out of bed...it was hot so no nightie....and rushed into the hall just in time to see the golf club coming through the window again. Terrified, I wondered whether I should call the police as I was unaware they'd already arrived. I shouted out and quickly donned a handy fur (fake) jacket and opened the door. 'What the .......'

Temporarily blinded by flashing blue lights, I recognised my son, his friend, half of Dorset Police and all of the neighbours from within a two mile radius. My son was relieved, distraught and cross. The police cleared off in their landrover without exchanging a word and the neighbours disappeared, clearly upset that I was alive and still shouting.

I cannot explain how this happened. I crept out of my house the next morning like Lazarus risen. As I was clearing up the shreds of glass, a man who I've never seen before called out 'how are you feeling missus?' 'Missus'? He sympathised with my son informing him that they'd already had one woman die in our house, another gone from liver rot over the road, an alcoholic hidden next door but one and folk on the corner plagued by gangsters looking for the drug runners that had lived there before. This is such a quiet little corner of the world. The whole double glazed unit is waiting to be replaced and I must pay for having the first good night's sleep in years. I know what you're thinking but you're wrong. It's a complete mystery.

And now, from the ridiculous to the sublime: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QFLu6bu7LEk

Followers and commentators

Quite a number of people seem to be reading this blog and some have written to say that they have tried to leave a comment but failed dismally. I'm not really the person to ask being a bit of a Luddite but I think you have two options (or three if you count 'can't be bothered'):

a) Become a follower. This is better for me because the more followers I have, the more likely I am to be observed by the unknown in the digital ether which could have some benefits. At the top of the blog on the right hand side is a 'follow' box. Click this and if you've already got a Google account, sign in. If you haven't got an account open one with your email address & a password.

b) Click on the comments tab and a box will open which will ask you who you want to comment as...i.e. profile. I think you then get a choice to comment anonymously OR as a name from your Google account. Alternatively, you can leave the URL box blank. I'm not certain about this and if I'm wrong, you won't be able to tell me because you won't be able to leave a comment!

Planning in advance

Well, it’s that time of year again already: the beginning of September and Christmas looms. Pardon? The first of the month finds my daughter and I, under surprisingly blue skies and in warm sunshine, swimming in the outdoor pool of a south coast hotel that has definitely, like myself, seen better days. (By lunch-time, the weather had remembered who and where it was and switched on the rain). Against my better judgement, we are discussing all things Yuletide; and it appears that I am a late entry, other family members having already undertaken preliminary talks. It’s best to get it sorted though or else folk will worry and last year, we became a geographically divided family.

And geography is the first of the problems: some live in Dorset, others in Kent and yet others in the Midlands. That’s the blood relatives and not the associates whose families abide in Somerset and Oxfordshire; and who have yet to make the torturous decision of whether to spend the festivities with their parents or us. And it doesn’t include the ex-associates who may demand to see their off-spring. Even if they could all make up their minds, where would we put them all? No-one’s got a big enough home as my son, who has never forgiven me for moving to the smallest house in the world, situated in a twilight zone with sporadic TV reception and no hope of making a call on a mobile, constantly reminds me. On top of all this, two of our party are obliged to work on Boxing Day so that narrows the options down. And noisy children are also involved in this equation.

Well, for better or worse, we’ve made a decision. Off to the woods we go on mass. We have found somewhere beautiful, surrounded by trees and fields in which 300 Sika deer roam, with glorious views across the water. And that’s all I’m saying because this is a well-kept secret location. We will be together, yet separated by a woodland track so all of those who’ve had enough of the others can disappear quietly. There are miles of walks and a pub close at hand. Problem solved. Now, who is doing the cooking? And does it really have to be turkey?

First it's your parents........

Is there no-one in my family that can act their age? enough dealing with the kids; you expect your octogenarian parents to set an example although I don’t know why. Me, I take any opportunity going to spend free time catching up on sleep or laying around with a book. I have to force myself to be active. The only term in today’s language that I’m really drawn to is ‘chilling out’. It makes dossing about seem infinitely more acceptable. I work full-time at an age when I should’ve been rescued from such purgatory….paying the price of being a feminist for all those years. I swim 3 or 4 times a week and seem to spend a lot of time driving from here to there and meeting myself on the way back. I’m entitled to relax so why don’t my mother and father feel the same?

My mum is not too bad but must be thoroughly exhausted by my dad who likes to have ‘a project’. Not that he ever uses this terminology. He’s just always looking for the next big thing and an accompanying excuse. It used to be my son who offered all the opportunities for an active life. Now he’s grown up, they’ve moved on to my eleven year old grandson: kite-flying, tree houses; go-karting. Eighty-three years old and he’s go-karting after a round of golf! Then wondering why he’s tired. Re-furbishing the house which is always immaculate; re-painting walls that are already pristine; painting portraits of the village community; and changing the bolt on the upstairs’ bathroom door.

That last one doesn’t sound too energetic. As long as you don’t manage to lock yourself inside. It’s a wonder my mother heard him; sitting downstairs engrossed in her embroidery, it’s a wonder she chose to. He was definitely trapped but made an escape by clambering out of the bathroom window onto the flat roof. Mother was dispatched to the garage to locate and carry back a ladder which she duly propped against the front of the house in order that he could clamber down. Can I just remind you they’re 80 and 83? ‘Your mother has a lot of trouble these days with her arthritis’ he says in passing. ‘Some days she has a real problem mixing the cement’.

Digital identities: it's too late to stop now

Before joining something such as Match.Com, it’s possible to have a free perusal of the folk available in your region. OK; so you have to extend your immediate area to a radius of about 9000 miles to make it interesting but there are some quite nice looking, reasonably sane sounding potential partners out there. As I suspect I’m possibly a little difficult (which is a euphemism for mouth works prior to brain engagement), but not that strange, I assume that, whilst there’s likely to be some odd folk around, most onliners will be in the similar age bracket where it’s difficult to meet other free spirits. Let’s face it, you know no more about someone you might meet in a bar than those souls out there in the ether. Not that I go to bars. Further, my children, or one in particular, is always telling me that everyone I already know is weird. The trouble is that once you’ve parted with money, all the decent looking people disappear from cyber space and you’re left struggling. I gave it all up as a bad idea; and now find that it’s less expensive and taxing to sit tight and wait for your past to catch up; which, if you have a digital identity, it will.

I was contacted by Bob.

I first knew Bob when I was seven years old. Allegedly. Bob found me quite easily via my digital footprint. About seven years ago, I joined Friends Reunited which involved me leaving a four line biography: past schools; marital status; number of children; current place of employment. Having failed to find anyone I either remembered or wanted to contact, I lost interest after about three weeks. But the information remained extant. So Bob, who was searching for old schoolmates, found me. Then he ‘Googled’ me and at the first attempt up I popped accompanied by a handy photograph that my place of employment had usefully posted.

This is a dilemma. On one hand, there is an issue of vanity: it’s quite nice to think that one is so important that one’s work & achievements can be published world wide. On the other hand, there are all sorts of implications associated with being so readily ‘available’. For a start, when I joined the dating agency, it took a long time to select a photo which I was happy to share with the unknown world. The image on my work website is NOT one I’d have chosen. However, this isn’t really the point. What if I don’t want people to know what I look like? Or where I work?

Bob pointed me in the direction of a class photo of us that someone had posted on Friends Reunited. Here we are: each a literal child of the sixties, there for harmless posterity and for our families. Are people currently posting innocuous photos of today’s children? Who is looking at them? Why? When you or someone else writes on your Facebook wall, what does this say about you? Is this creating an unwanted identity?

Too many questions. I think Bob’s ok. He sounds like someone who doesn’t think about the seedier side of cyber life. Also, fortunately, I’m not really eleven years old. Watch this space that I’m sharing with the world.

And you stop worrying when?

August bank holiday weekend: the weather’s not ideal but good enough for lunch outside an attractive country pub if you don’t mind an avalanche of wasps. You enter the bar, fight your way to the counter which is four deep with other wannabe diners and place your order only to be served by an otherwise smartly dressed young man sporting a black eye, gashes down one side of his face and an unpleasant oozing blob where his chin should be. An obvious scrapper if ever I saw one. There’s hundreds of unemployed folk out there. Is this the best they can do? It’s the parents I blame. Actually, I am the parent.

Every time he goes out I say ‘do be careful son’. I’ve had years of this. He’s an accident waiting to happen; a walking disaster zone. And he never seems to know exactly how things occur. I used to dread collecting him from school if he’d stayed behind to play rugby or football. Other mums just had muddy kit to wash; ours always comprised the blood-soaked remnants of Armageddon. On arriving there one day, the game seemed to have terminated early and a large group of boys, teachers and parents had formed a huddle on the field. I thought it was the post-match discussion and asked a couple of lads on their way back to the changing rooms if they’d seen my beloved. ‘He’s on the ground in the middle of that lot’ one replied. ‘Don’t worry, they think he’ll be coming round soon and there’s a doctor with him’ he said, cheerfully dismissing me.

He was desperate to go to one of these summer activity camps where parents are not allowed to telephone every five minutes. No need to really as they phoned me. Bungee jumping or white water rafting was not involved but blood was: all he was doing was riding a bicycle. He couldn’t just fall off. He had to tumble in such a way that some unremembered part of the machine went through his thigh necessitating a rush to the nearest hospital for stitches and more scars. Should I come and collect him? ‘No thanks mum; we’re doing target shooting this afternoon’.

Then, having undertaken the CBT, he got the first of a succession of ill-fated mopeds. It didn’t take long. The first call at work came from a helpful passer-by who had witnessed the accident, taken details and wanted to let me know that he looked reasonably comfortable in the ambulance. I arrived on the ward to find him prostrate on the bed with his head in an iron brace. The major problem for mothers is trying to behave and look as if everything’s normal. I’m an abject failure at this I’m afraid. Luckily, on this occasion, we were ably distracted by the other calamities around us. In the opposite bed, a woman was being asked by members of the Spanish Inquisition whether she knew who the current prime-minister was and who had won World War Two. Next to us, hidden behind drawn curtains, the questioning was even more sinister: ‘are you really sure you want us to revive you next time?’

Mopeds were subsequently replaced by motor bikes on which he fared no better, coming a cropper on the slip road onto the Upton by-pass in a fit of ill-temper. Although I felt sorry for him, I was secretly pleased when the beast was later stolen. Not that it made much difference as he simply borrowed someone else’s scooter and was horrified to be stopped by the police at a customs road block near the ferry terminal. Not that he was illegally importing anything…just didn’t happen to be insured.

Is there an illness going round? Oh yes, I’ll have some of that please. Naturally, he’s already had Swine Flu; choosing to develop it at a time when everyone else was away leaving him to deal with it lonely and alone. Glandular Fever knocked him for six at an important point in the first year of A-levels and weakened him to the extent that every other passing bug settled happily upon him. The only thing that surprised me was the receipt of a letter from the school saying that he was unlikely to attain his projected grades due to prolonged absence caused though conjunctivitis. So when did you have conjunctivitis son? When I was at work and he was lurking indoors with a bad case of Fantasy Football addiction.