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.