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?