Notes From A Strange Blue Ghost

Joke on a Monday

2006-10-30T21:59:00.000Z

I've decided that, partly due to my inability to post anything interesting on the site, partly due to the fact that I've been doing some proper writing, and partly because, well, I'm just a bit crap, I am going to introduce Joke On A Monday. I can think of it beforehand, write it quickly, and you will all laugh your t*ts off, because I am so funny. Well, that's the idea, anyway...

Queen Victoria was visiting a hospital in the East End, which had been set up by a Victorian philanthropist. Only back then they wouldn't have used the phrase "Victorian philanthropist", just like they wouldn't call Bob Geldof an "Elizabethan philanthropist". Partly because you don't refer to eras by the name of the monarch until they're dead, and partly because it would conjure up images of Sir Bob dancing madrigals, shagging royalty and wearing tights. All of which he might well do in private, but he's got enough money to sue, so he obviously has absolutely no connection with such behaviour.

Anyway, where were we? OK, Queen Vic (as she was known to her friends); hospital; and patients. The Queen was going around the wards, and stopped by the bed of one man to engage him in conversation.
"And what is wrong with you, my good man?"
"I have piles, Your Highness." The Queen looked embarrassed, but quickly recovered herself,
"What treatment are they giving you?"
"Every morning they put some ointment on a scrubbing brush, and they brush my piles hard for ten minutes." Queen Victoria looked unsettled, but quickly recovered her composure.
"And what is your dearest wish?"
"An end to poverty, and peace for the world" said the patient, just as he had been coached by the hospital authorities.

The Queen moved on to the next bed, and asked the same question.
"I have syphilis, Your Highness."
"And what treatment are they giving you?"
"Every morning they put some ointment on a scrubbing brush, and they brush me hard for 10 minutes." Victoria looked uncomfortable, but she soon recovered.
"An end to poverty, and peace for the world"

Finally, Victoria was shown to the bed of a third man. She asked what he was suffering from.
"I have severe gum disease, Your Highness," and The Queen looked relieved. Once again, she asked what the treatment was.
"Every morning they put some ointment on a scrubbing brush, and they brush me hard for 10 minutes.", and she tried not to look bored as she asked
"And what is your dearest wish?"
"To get that scrubbing brush first, instead of after the other two have used it."

Strange news on Thursday

2006-10-26T21:34:00.000+01:00

Now, it's maybe not as weird as this slot usually gets, but I was struck by this article in The Times. Now, it may not be particularly strange at first glance, but it mentions the awful fact that Reading Students' Union support this move! Now, some things have doubtless changed since I was a student, but as far as I'm aware, the SU is elected by students to represent students' interests. And there are annual elections.

Well, Reading students, these individuals seeking re-election think that having a bus outside the university dispensing free lager is a bad thing. Yep, that's right. Ditto for publicans trying to sell students (gasp!) cheap booze. I don't know about the current political climate in student unions, but in my day at Royal Holloway (London University),when there was less commercial wooing of students by the drinks companies, and you jolly well had to make do with crap lager like Fosters on special offer at 60p a pint, and you had to mix it with cider to make it remotely potent and/or pleasant, we'd have crawled over our chip papers in the middle of the road on our hands and knees for that sort of attention. And if any SU representative had suggested that free booze should be vetoed, they would have been tarred and feathered. Now, it may be that the SU representatives of Reading have been misrepresented, and actually fought valiantly against this killjoy measure, or they may have been forced to nod meekly at the zealous Taliban ideology of senior staff against their will. Or maybe they're just sad control freaks who don't understand the joy of getting wasted. In which case, Reading students, use your votes, sort them out!

Let's face it, trying to persuade students not to binge on alcohol is like persuading lemmings not to run over a cliff.

Er...actually, it's not. I might be upsetting a few people here, especially those of about my age, who remember watching a famous Disney wildlife film where said creatures ran over a cliff. Lemmings don't run over cliffs. This explanation from the well-respected Snopes site is pretty horrible for a lot of people in my age group. in fact, I think I need a drink to get over it (preferrably subsidised and from a bus). But if the sad individuals at Reading get their way, that means a nice cup of coacoa.

I don't believe it!

2006-10-24T19:31:00.000+01:00

This was going to be a post for Strange News on Thursday. However, as you may have noticed, I have been rather a tardy blogger of late. This is not because I have been sitting on my lazy arse watching Coronation Street-Fred's dead, I say, I say, Fred's dead-but because I've been working towards The Heather Vineham Night at Richmond Writers' Circle. This is our annual horror short story or poem competition. I now have a 2,200 word short story which just needs a final revision. But it means I have let down my extensive readership. Sorry, Trevor.

Anyway, I was struck by this story. Now, I'm not looking to poke fun at the person who got this score; it was the second round of the competition, so he did better than most of the contestants. It was just the choice of his specialist subject: The films of Jim Carrey.

Now, when I was growing up, I always wanted to win Mastermind. It meant that you were really intelligent. OK, you were normally male, wore an ill-fitting suit, and the people who would eventually create Mister Bean were watching to useful effect, but the specialist subjects were fiercely academic. Anglo-Saxon weaponry; the writings of John Knox; English stamps between 1840-1940. Now, I think that the range of subjects was a little narrow. But, for the love of God, the films of Jim Carrey as a specialist subject on Mastermind!!

I don't want you to get the impression that I'm a film snob. I don't spend my days seeking out subtitled Russian works about existential nihilism. Nor have I ever watched any celebrated examples of Iranian cinema. I enjoy a good, well-made Hollywood comedy. I love Planes, Trains and Automobiles-"they're not pillows"-and I like Jim Carrey. He was excellent in "The Mask", and his energy adds something to all of his films. But, specialist subject on Matermind??!

The contestant in question said that his mistake was "not to watch the films a second time". Now, I would suggest that Jim Carrey's films are, in many cases, not all that rewarding to watch a second time, on an intellectual level; on a three glasses of wine and wanting a giggle level, maybe. With a literary work, or an intellectually demanding film , yes, study is required. You can examine the social nuances of the work, and...oh...all sorts of stuff I remember from student days, which I would suggest is a bit difficult for most of these extremely funny films. The only exception I would make is The Truman Show.

This film does have something to say about reality television, celebrity, and the nature of what we perceive to be reality.

Subject on Mastermind...still not sure.

HP sauce shocker!

2006-10-16T19:40:00.000+01:00

Some interesting news from The Telegraph today about HP sauce. For those of you reading this outside the UK, I should explain that HP sauce is a brown, tangy condiment with a spicy taste, used on things like chips, cold meat, and sausages. Mind you, if you're reading this outside the UK you're probably American, so when I say chips, you think I mean what we call crisps, when what we actually mean by chips are what you call French fries. And I'm not sure you understand the concept of the sausage, either, I think you call them hot dogs, even if they're not in a bread roll. It's used a bit like ketchup, and a bit like mustard.

Anyway, the sauce is a fixture of English life, so English that it has a picture of The Houses of Parliament on the label, and it's served in the canteen there. For US readers, this is the building where Tony Blair rubber stamps everything Bush tells him to.

Sorry, that was a cheap shot, I know several Americans and they're all nice, well-educated, charming, and not, for the most part, very keen on Bush.

Anyway, you can read the fascinating history of this yummy relish in this Wikipedia entry. The point is, some MPs are now demanding that the restaurants and canteens in The Houses of Parliament boycott the sauce, and there are even calls for HP to remove the famous picture from its label, as they are making all 125 workers at their English factory redundant and moving production to Holland.

Culinary tip: add a tablespoon to chilli, beef stew, or even a beef curry for a nice colour and enhanced flavour.

Strange news on Thursday

2006-10-12T18:41:00.000+01:00

As regular readers of this blog might know, I grew up in Cornwall. When I was about 10 I was part of a children's choir, and we toured the church halls of our county singing songs. It says something about the entertainment on offer in early 80s Cornwall that people would bother to come out to a draughty church hall to hear a bunch of kids sing, but we're talking about a place which wouldn't allow The Life of Brian to be shown in any cinema in the county.

Anyway, some of the songs we sang were in Cornish. Cornish is a little known language, and the last proper native speaker died in 1777. At one point, in about 1880, I think, they were down to just six people who could speak it at all. Since then, a small band of people have kept it up as a hobby, if that isn't a slightly demeaning word; there are about 400 fluent Cornish speakers, and about 5000 who can speak it to some extent. I never had much interest in it, or progressed more than singing a few songs in the choir, but it was a good experience. For anybody interested, it's a bit like Welsh, and very like Breton, which is spoken in Brittany. It's also related to Irish and Scots Gaelic.

Anyway, I was surprised to see this story today about a band who perform Beatles hits translated into the language. Go for it, Skwardya!

New blog on the block

2006-10-05T19:55:00.000+01:00

There is a new blog in town. My friend, the novelist Joanna Stephen Ward, has launched Outback Writer. It promises to be a good read.

Not posted for a bit because I've been doing some proper writing. Must try harder!

Strange news on Thursday

2006-09-21T22:33:00.000+01:00

You know what it's like. You've had a few drinks, the pub has closed, and you feel you need to do something interesting before you get a kebab. Why not go hug a panda? It's a shame the guy's memory is so hazy.

Office Niggles Three

2006-09-19T22:41:00.000+01:00

And what is it today? Vending machines? Office parties? Nope. Dress Down Friday.

Now, I have to confess, I'm generally in favour of DDF. You get to wear what you like. Not a bad thing. I just want to point out a few anomalies which become glaringly obvious on this particular occasion, a few character traits which become more obvious. In fact, I quite enjoy this aspect of the whole phenomenon. Yes, yes, I know it's supposed to be about things in the office I don't like, but do you want a post or not??!

Case One: The Uneasy Convert.
A rather formal guy, normally dapper in pinstripe suit and striped shirt. Nobody can quite imagine Ralph off-duty without summoning up Jerry from the Good Life. A nice Pringle sweater maybe...

You turn up in Chinos and a shirt with a button-down collar, ironed to within an inch of its life. Strangely, you seem oddly liberated by the fact that you're not actually wearing a tie. In fact, if we entice you for a Friday night drink in the pub, you might even tap your toe if a Simply Red song is played. There is help available, Ralph...

Case Two: Mr Inappropriate Image.
The shorts are colourful, the T-shirt is just as bright, with a message displayed across his ample chest.

Colin, you are seventeen stone, you work as a senior administrator in the accounts department, your main passion is your PlayStation, and you live in Hounslow. No matter what yout T-shirt says, you are not, and will never be, a "Surf Dude". Sorry. Unless a considerable number of whales start getting washed up in Cornwall.

Case Three: It doesn't make any difference.
You work in IT, or something creative. You get to wear what you want anyway. It's a strange feature of office life that people who work in sales; or accounts; or marketing; or management; or any other bloody dull category of work with which you can't impress people at dinner parties, get to wear boring stuff. That's because they need to impress clients.

Of course, once the contract is in the bag, your colleagues invite the clients in, your colleagues will dress formally, but when they introduce them to you, the person who will make sure that their data is secure, that their website will be hosted efficiently, that their data will be exported daily over a secure connection, because you're "IT" and wacky and nerdy, they will happily deal with somebody in a Homer Simpson T-Shirt and Jeans with more holes than David Icke's philosophy. It's allowed, you see. Everybody seems really happy to be participating in DDF, but it's a bit meaningless to you...

Case Four: The Confused Woman.
A woman who has perfected a wardrobe of light floaty clothes for Summer.

You see, it's a very hot day. What you really want to wear is that lovely, light, pink linen skirt, and a black silk T-shirt. The thing is, though, because women are allowed more options during the Summer months, you've worn a version of this throughout the week. You now need to acknowledge DDF by wearing something more casual, otherwise it means that you are not participating in DDF. That makes you look a) thick or b)sad. Nothing involving a skirt then. You wear all your floaty skirts on normal work days. Shorts are just wrong. That leaves a T-shirt with jeans. So less freedom than during the week then...

Site referrals

2006-09-16T20:23:00.000+01:00

To the person who came here looking for "strange dogs getting run over", is this an investigation into actual events, or did you just fancy seeing a picture of this?

Sorry, proper blogging will resume tomorrow. Real life intrudes, etc...

Strange news on Thursday

2006-09-07T19:55:00.000+01:00

There was really only one contender this week: Fun Run Voyeur Nabbed By Banana. Now that is one seriously strange guy. However, I'm a bit confused about the legal aspects of this case. I don't for one second think that this person was acting in an ethical manner, and I wouldn't particularly want to sit next to him on public transport, even, but I think the decision to prosecute is a bit harsh.

The guy filmed women peeing in public. Now, I know that allowances need to be made for people competing in something as challenging as a half marathon. Your body does strange things to you. But isn't it illegal to pee in a public place? And if you decide to pee in a place where a chap with a carrier bag concealing a camera might wander up to you without you being terribly surprised, do you really have the right to expect privacy in that situation?

These women went for a pee in a public place, during a major sporting event with significant crowds. It's a bit pointless getting all offended about it, and wasting the time of the police and courts. When Paula Radcliffe did it on camera, I don't remember her trying to block people from reporting on it.

If somebody sneaks a webcam into a changing room without people knowing, or drills a hole in a wall to watch people naked, then charge them with voyeurism. But don't pull your knickers down in public and then moan when somebody gets turned on. Er...I meant moan as in complain...

RIP Steve Irwin

2006-09-04T20:08:00.000+01:00

I know a lot of bloggers have already said their piece on this, but I was very sad to hear the news of his death while filming stingrays. He was a great character and a committed conservationist. I love wildlife documentaries; OK, so his approach wasn't exactly David Attenborough, and I prefer a more Attenborough-esque, academic approach ("and if we look carefully at the leg markings on the lesser-spotted Suffolk wood ant, we can see what Darwin meant by...") but then I have a natural interest in the natural world, and I am quite happy poring over a detailed discussion of ecology in my RSPB magazine.

For kids, or people who might not naturally settle down to watch wildlife documentaries, his whole approach of "Wahey, look at the size of that f*cking huge, dangerous snake/croc/shark/spider, why don't I go up really close and see what happens if I poke it?" must have got a lot of people enthusiastic about the subject. They started watching to see what the crazy Australian guy would get up to next, and came away learning things. And besides, his programmes were brilliant fun.

We'll miss Steve.

Strange news on Thursday

2006-08-31T20:00:00.000+01:00

This week it just had to be this story about strange Chinese funeral practices. Well, I suppose it beats a couple of hymns and inviting everyone back for sherry and sandwiches...

Office niggles part two

2006-08-29T20:53:00.000+01:00

And the subject this time is...fire drills. These feature the tedium of evacuating the building without that tiny hope that there might be a fire. Not a big dangerous fire, just a bit of an overloaded circuit in the server room and a bit of smoke and melting, which would put the computers out of action for the rest of the day, so everybody would get to go to the pub, or get home in non rush hour traffic to curl up with a mug of tea and one of those black and white midweek afternoon films on BBC2. Even without the systems being out of action, you might at least get to see some hunky firemen.

Of course, it occurs to me that I might be alienating a fair few bloggers here, as quite a few seem to work in IT support, in which case you wouldn't be doing anything nice if there was a problem in the server room, you'd have to go back in once the fire was out and work like dogs to sort it out, possibly overnight. And as there are more blokes in IT support than women, most of you won't even get much consolation from the hunky firemen (although I could be wrong).

It also occurs to me that a lot of regular readers work in Central London, or for high profile companies, and that fire alarms might be a bit more disturbing in the context of the last year. Sorry if this seems flippant. However, a lot of you are probably like me, working for fairly uncontroversial suburban or regional companies where terrorism isn't a concern, and you might well be the only ones still with me here. Given the readership of this blog, this probably leaves one sales rep who works for an office supplies company in Barnsley. Come with me, Trevor, as we explore the world of the fire drill...

In most cases, a fire drill is announced a few days beforehand. There will be at least one office junior or work experience person who is mildly excited by this. These will be very young, however, as anybody who has lived in a university hall of residence will be wearily familiar with the setting off of fire alarms, and the inquest which followed if you didn't show up for roll call (or it did in my day at Royal Holloway). No matter if you explained that the last thing you heard in the corridor at 3am was a shout of
"Ooh Sean, you've just put your elbow through that fire alarm! Who would have thought we would end up doing that after re-enacting the Monty Python fish slapping dance in a confined space peppered with loads of alarms with easily breakable glass, after we had 7 pints of snakebite in the Students' Union bar?". No, it would be solemnly explained that you should have pulled on some clothes and stood around in the cold anyway. Let's not even go into the times when you had to mumble something about not being in your room that night. You would then, and this is no word of a lie, be asked where you were! Talk about invasion of privacy. I mean, we're not talking about a convent here!

Anyway, we were talking about fire drills (come back, Trevor). In a big organisation, this involves designated fire marshalls, who get to wear a florescent yellow vest with FIRE MARSHALL on the back. Or, more likely, F RE MARS A L. Attractive and hard wearing, then. They always look for volunteers to be fire marshalls. Your best bet is to suddenly look very busy. Either that or to nudge the office junior or work experience person, and tell them that it's a good way to show initiative. Suckers. The idea is that you all follow the fire marshalls out of the office, rather than following the person in front of you who might get a sudden urge to visit the roof. This is a bit silly, as you all know how to go down the stairs and out of the doors anyway. And if it suddenly got really hot and smokey, and you panicked, and couldn't see, and you needed a leader, the mug who got landed with the job of fire marshall would not suddenly mutate into one of the cast of London's Burning. It would still be Marjorie from accounts, and her glasses have just fallen off..

The first rule of a fire drill is that you leave your coats and bags, and make straight for the exits. B*ll*cks. You're going to be out there in January; you know how long it takes to find everybody present and correct. And of course, this idea will always be sabotaged by that small, wayward, maverick group...yes, smokers. They can recognise an opportunity when they see one. Linford Christie has nothing on the smoker who finds themselves marooned on the top floor on some obscure photocopying quest, with his cancer sticks in his jacket swinging forlornly on the back of a chair on the first floor, when the alarm goes.

So, once out of the building, you line up for the register. This will often, unless your company is very enlightened, be in the car park of the building in question. You are now safely outside the dangerous building. It might be on the verge of a gas explosion, or a bomb explosion, but that's OK, you're a full 10 feet away from its plate glass windows. Sorted. This register can sometimes become interesting in a small organisation, as there might only be the one individual out of, say twenty, who is late. Sheepishly, they apologise, saying they were in the toilet. Given that they were at least two or three minutes late, this gives the other staff members the smug satisfaction of knowing he was doing a "number two".

Wet and cold, you amble back in. You realise that, in your haste to get away, you left your email in mid-sentence, you know, the one thanking that new contact for their interest in your asset evaluation service. You'd been quite good, leaving your desk midway through writing an email, like you were supposed to (but only because you needed to find your fags). You'd only got as far as:
"Thankyou for your interest in our ass"

Unfortunately, all the smokers had brushed past your desk on their way to get their ciggies, and, through the magic of random mouse movement and keyboard thumping, the email had been sent in that form. Even more worryingly, there is a reply nestling in your inbox. Nervously, you open it. It seems surprisingly positive. Oh dear, Trevor, that latest stationery contract might involve some rather unusual terms and conditions...

Booker excitement.

2006-08-22T21:04:00.000+01:00

As a sort of literary person...well, OK, I'm somebody who likes books, and who writes a bit, and who once did a degree in English at London University, or who enjoys a lot of crime fiction which a lot of Booker judges wouldn't contemplate, but which might merit serious discussion. However I sometimes like to keep up with The Booker Prize.

Anyway, very excited to discover that Jon McGregor's new novel is on The Booker Longlist.

I'm a great fan of his wonderful debut novel If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things, and I'm looking forward to the next book...

Wish I'd heard the answer...

2006-08-21T20:09:00.000+01:00

On Saturday, I got off a tube train. Well, that wasn't all I did on Saturday; I had to get on a tube train too, and do other things besides, but you get the idea. Just as I was getting off, I heard a little boy, about three or four, ask a his Dad a question:
"Which is stronger, a Mr Man or an antelope?"

I'll never know the answer, because I had to get off. But I shall be watching lots of documentaries on The Discovery Channel, just in case I spot an antelope, or gazelle, or, well, any other creature, encountering the infamous Mr Chuckle.

Strange news on Thursday

2006-08-17T20:04:00.000+01:00

Yes, it's back due to popular demand. Well, I'm sure that if I had an email facility which allowed my many fans to get in touch there would have been popular demand. Or a couple of people mildly interested in its reinstatement. Or, well, if I specifically asked on my blog if anybody wanted it to be reinstated, a couple of you might have said they wouldn't mind either way, really. Anyway.

Yes, it's that popular(ish) look at one of the weird and quirky news stories that have taken place in the past seven days.

Now, supposing you're a Tory MP (yes, it might take quite a vivid imagination for most of us). You're in your constituency, at a country show with lots of Women's Institute types and hunting shooting fishing type people. Your core supporters, in other words. You're having a pleasant mooch about, confirming your presence at local events. You might buy some jam later. What could go wrong?

Well, this, for a start.

Office niggles

2006-08-16T21:33:00.000+01:00

Trying to think what I could blog about, and I thought I might do a series of posts on office niggles; you know, the things that annoy you in the workplace, things that are really minor but which somehow work you up to such a pitch of resentment that by the end of the week you would willingly have the perpetrators hung upside down from their ankles, smeared with gravy, and left to the ministrations of several hundred ravenous polecats with a particular taste for gravy-smeared nostrils.

Obviously, when I say things that annoy you in the workplace, I'm talking about office-type jobs. If you're a fire fighter, or paramedic, or policeman, you might not understand my take on this. You might find that people who have severed an artery are more of a strain than malfunctioning coffee machines, or that people trying to thump you are a bit more trying than the photocopier running out of toner, but each to their own.

Anyway. Part One.

Water coolers, the refilling of.

Now, almost all of us have water coolers in our office. They are part of our corporate culture, one of the very few American practices that we have imported that is a good idea. People talk about things around the water coolers; TV schedulers talk about "water cooler TV"; programmes that you all talk about around the cooler while you are briefly together, before you get back to work. This presumes, of course, that you work in some mythical corporate nirvana where the work is so fulfilling that you only ever talk about this at the water cooler. Instead of the sort of office where you spend every spare moment at your desk distracting each other with this sort of stuff, until one of your colleagues spoils things by wanting to do some work, so you have to log on to the Big Brother website.

Anyway, water coolers are, by and large, a good thing. The problem is, they run out. And when they run out somebody needs to remove the container, and replace it with a full container.

Now, the containers are bulky and heavy. But they are not quite heavy and bulky enough for it to be a job for a big strong man. Women can manage it easily enough, but only if they adopt the stance and expression of a Sumo wrestler with a bad case of piles. And making sure that the little spiked thing penetrates the new container is a bit like jets refuelling in mid-flight. There are three ways of dealing with this dilemma:

The Avoider

You aren't that thirsty, in fact you're only going up there because you're on some sort of health kick, and you've read that you need two litres of fluid a day and lager, sadly, doesn't count. You see the empty container, you know that there is probably a bit in the reservoir within the dispenser, but no, best to come back later when somebody else has refilled it. You pretend you are going somewhere else.

The Brazen Hussy

You just don't care. You will empty the cooler, see the flow cease, and pretend that that volume was exactly what you wanted, by utter coincidence, and waltz off. This will make your co-workers seethe. Then again, you might work in an office where seething is the main source of enjoyment, so who cares?

The Big Heave

Yes, you have drained the water, and there are several containers beside the dispenser. You bend your knees, hug a container and lift. You groan as you do so. We are not talking the slight, musical groan of sexual ecstasy as captured on various films, as you thrust your pert young breasts (well, OK, your breasts) upwards towards...er...anyway. No, we're talking about the groan of a typical darts player picking up his arrows from the floor whilst farting loudly.

You wobble a bit, like a championship weightlifter, but without the steroids and tattoos. Then finally, after a few false starts, you guide the base of the container onto the plastic spike, a bit like the mating of a particularly obscure shellfish, but without the breathless commentary by David Attenborough. It's done. You look round at the rest of the office for some sort of recognition. They are looking down at their desks. They hadn't remotely imagined it needed refilling, you see...

Well, I tried...

2006-08-14T19:48:00.000+01:00

An incident in the street in Richmond a few days ago. I was walking a few yards behind a women with a small boy in a buggy. I was vaguely aware that said small boy was clutching a balloon. I was looking in a shop window, when said balloon floated past me. I scampered after it, knowing how disappointed the little chap would be to lose his treat, and after nearly falling over and scattering a few pedestrians, I proudly presented the yellow balloon to the little boy. He looked rather underwhelmed, and his Mum was looking a bit doubtful.

"Actually, he was letting it go to see how far up it would fly."

Oh. I approached the little chap, and suggested we let go of it again. He looked even more underwhelmed. I let it go and it sailed up about eight feet and got caught on a building. The boy looked less whelmed than it is possible to be, and his Mum tried to look vaguely thankful for my efforts. I mumbled an apology and walked off sheepishly.

Strange Blue Ghost, spoiling magic moments for children everywhere.

Thinking about Christmas

2006-08-11T21:31:00.000+01:00

Yes, I know it's a bit early, but I was thinking about what I should buy for crimbo this year. Perhaps some Frosty The Snowman cards. Or Perhaps some crackers containing a whistle, some music and a conductor's baton. Or a nice Romance of Steam calendar for 2007. Or I might be a bit tempted by the Santa and Snowman lanterns. Place a tealight inside and they'll give a charming seasonal glow, apparently.

Why am I thinking about crimbo? Because all these items are contained within the Cancer Research UK Autumn/Winter card and gift catalogue.

Which came through my letterbox today. For f*ck's sake, is Summer not short enough?!!

I'm back!

2006-08-08T21:57:00.000+01:00

You may have noticed a bit of a gap in blogging. That's because my pooter had a problem and crashed every time I logged into Blogger.com. I nearly got a pooter doctor, but it seems to have miraculously cured itself.

Anyway, I'm back, I'm loud, and I'm angry. Actually, I'm back, I'm quite quiet, and I'm a bit irritated, but it's good enough for this blog.

Look forward to my experiences as I tread the mean streets of Richmond!

Great night out

2006-06-20T20:47:00.000+01:00

On Sunday night we went out for a drink. We like to go to various places that are local, and we settled on New Malden.

New Malden has a huge Korean population, and we thought that the pubs there would have some atmosphere.

what we envisaged was a few Koreans having it large, as one says.

However, as we approached The Fountain, we realised that something bigger was happening. In the (very large) beer garden were several hundred Koreans, in front of five TV screens. Loads of kids too, who entertained us all night by playing their own little football game. There was whooping and cheering not seen since a Socialist Workers' Party conference heard the news about Lady Diana nine years ago.

They were all waving flags, wearing red, and singing along to a few popular chants. There was a guy with a drum, just in case they forgot. There was a barbecue, and everybody was buying the very reasonable alcoholic beverages (£6 for a bottle of house red, and it wasn't bad).

The Koreans are very vocal, and screamed their enthusiasm when their team got the ball, never mind scored. When they did finally score, I'm sure the earth tremor could be detected several hundred miles away.

You can find out more about support for Korea here".

It was a brilliant night out, and I'd normally recommend James as an authority on New Malden, but, after featuring as a famous blog in the local newspaper a couple of weeks ago, I get back from holiday, and, after several years of faithful coverage, I find that he's gone password protected. I suppose he has his reasons, but I'd like to know whether he was the mad ginger bloke doing the podium dancing on Sunday, because he looked a bit familiar.

Oh no

2006-06-15T20:34:00.000+01:00

Looks like England are through to the second round. B*gger. I so look forward to the sound of chavs crying.

It was colder in Kefalonia!

2006-06-12T19:45:00.000+01:00

We came back at about 1am today and fell into bed. Er...no, don't get excited, we were tired. Well, it was the equivalent of 3am in Greece. Kefalonia is a wonderful island, full of dramatic history and a beautiful, mountainous interior. The food is scrummy, too, as I found this morning when my trousers, slightly loose when I left, seemed to have shrunk just a little. The temperature was between about 22 and 27 degrees, so it was actually warmer in England, but that's no bad thing, if you're trying to explore.

So, we had a great time, but we were very tired after the journey back from Gatwick, and not looking forward to getting up for work at the normal time after about six hours sleep.

The house was extremely hot, because it had not had any windows opened for a week, so we threw our bedroom windows open as wide as we could.

At about 5am we were disturbed by loud birdsong. This isn't unusual, as we have sparrows nesting in the eaves near our bedroom, and they get up bloody early. This time, though, it didn't sound like sparrows.

There was a sudden crash, as an ornament was knocked from our window shelf, and we sat bolt upright, looking at a struggling shape between the glass and the curtain. A magpie had got itself caught inside the window, and was struggling to find its way out again.

Now, a little bird, you can cup your hands around it and put it out. It's quite sweet. A magpie at close quarters, however, is quite a big bird, and if you see its beak and claws flailing a few inches away, you don't want to get too close to it; you'd probably need stitches.

Eventually, by sort of patting it and shooing it over to the part of the window that was open, we released it. It had, in its panic, left bird poo all over the window shelf, which we had to wipe up.

There is an old saying about magpies: one for sorrow, two for joy. So if you see one, you should look out for a second for luck. Believe me, one caused us sorrow, but we certainly weren't hoping to see another in our room!

Off for a while

2006-06-03T22:01:00.000+01:00

Well, we're off to Kefalonia for a week. Sun, sea, and more retsina than you can shake a stick at!

World cup song

2006-06-02T15:54:00.000+01:00

As I am going into work tomorrow, I have today off. This means a day of writing, fresh air, and cultural viewing. So I switched the television on, to increase my understanding of political events, to see if I could discover a channel showing classical music, to find some wonderful black and white gem on the film channel...

Unfortunately, my finger slipped, and I was forced to watch This Morning with Eamon Holmes. No, it's true, I tell you! Anyway, whilst my finger was, for some reason, unable to move, I managed to watch an article about the various world cup songs that have been released.

I was most impressed with a song produced by a group of builders in Bromley, called Young Stanley, after the son of one of the participants. A surprise hit. Well done to them!

The official entry, by Embrace, sounds like something that failed Eurovision.

Go! Go! Bromley builders. And in the years to come, Stanley will be so proud!

Great book

2006-05-26T21:21:00.000+01:00

I went into Waterstones in Richmond a couple of days ago, and was surprised to see a selection of novels (mostly crime) for sale at 99p. It seems to be a way of getting people to read little known, but possibly underrated authors who are about to become the next Val McDermid. One of the books was Patrick Redmond's cleverly plotted The Wishing Game, which I bought in a charity shop a couple of years ago.

It combines the atmosphere and sensitivity of LP Hartley's The Go Between (an underrated classic, if ever there was, one of the best novels written in the last century), with the pace and plotting of a modern crime novel.

I chose a novel called Shrouded by Scottish author Carol Anne Davis. I'm about two thirds of the way through, and this is sooo much the sort of stuff that I want to be writing! It's about a mortuary worker who becomes rather attached to his "clients".

It suddenly occurs to me that I like novels, and write fiction, where the main protagonist is an outsider. Not necessarily a bad thing.

Interrupted blogging.

2006-05-25T21:59:00.000+01:00

Apologies for the last post, I meant to save it as a draft, as I was interrupted. I mentioned two unusual news stories. The second, of course, was the revelation that there is a religious cult in Darlington based on a series of 1960s fantasy novels, which keeps female members as S and M type slaves (they're adults who voluntarily choose the lifestyle). They have been banned from the local butcher because the leader took one of his slaves out on a leash on a bacon buying errand. Well, I suppose if you're working a bacon slicer, and you still want all ten fingers, it might be a bit of a dangerous distraction.

There's a Wikipedia entry on The Goreans, and an article in The Guardian. Strange stuff indeed.

Weird weekend.

2006-05-22T20:30:00.000+01:00

Well, there's a dearth of strange news stories for ages, and then we get two at once!

We watched The Eurovision Song Contest on Saturday. It's not the sort of programme we'd normally watch, but we were in, having had a few glasses of wine with some friends who left to take their children home, and I specifically wanted to watch the Finnish entry.

The Finnish entry was Lordi, a heavy metal band who appear in monster suits. Yes, all play to the Finns, who had used their votes wisely. I assumed this was a sort of joke perpetrated on the horribly naff Eurovision culture by a country who had never won. People who wear monster masks, talk about Satanism, and who look like Ozzy Osbourne after serious facial burns, will never win. Except that Lordi did. Wahey!!

I don't believe it.

2006-05-19T10:45:00.000+01:00

It's not often that I write a serious post here. I know that there are several bloggers who see themselves as campaigners, who comment on the political establishment, but it's not really what I'm about.

There comes a time, however, when even I become outraged, when threats to our national traditions have to be exposed, and that time, for me, came at about 1pm yesterday, in a newsagents. I was buying a paper, and as I got to the counter, I noticed a box full of a certain type of chocolate bar.

They were, to all intents and purposes, Mars Bars. But they had been renamed "Believe". I was quite nonplussed. Was this a replay of the time when Marathon (an ancient word, commemorating a battle, and a sporting event, although, admittedly, with little relevance to a tasy peanut snack), was renamed Snickers (a silly word, a cross between knickers and sniggers, and with no more relevance to a tasty peanut snack)?

Had the manufacturers been given loads of cash by a shadowy American evangelist type organisation, in order to effect some sort of subliminal advertising, as a first step on the road to brainwashing, mind control, and world domination?

Had they wanted to market the snack to a more international market, and found that Mars meant "hair from a pig's bum" in Chinese?

Or is there some sort of anti-classical agenda here? Mars is, in classical mythology, the ancient god of war. Marathon was a famous classical battle. Yes, yes, I know, but I've got cleaning to be getting on with, and I can't be flicking around the internet trying to find out whether they're Greek or Roman. Is somebody in power wanting to erase such notions from the population, and deliberately dumb down our chocolate?

At home, I put my crusading journalist cap on and decided to investigate. I found the answer here. It's been renamed in honour of The World Cup.

I'm already bored and it's not even started yet. Please can we get this tedious business over with, can everybody take those silly flags off their cars, and can we have junk food with the correct labels again, please?

15 minutes of fame

2006-05-16T19:08:00.000+01:00

Couldn't help laughing over this little incident at the BBC. Poor chap.

Mind you, collecting people from reception in the various BBC buildings is an arduous business. I worked for The BBC years ago (deputy classified ad manager on Homes and Antiques and Gardeners' World Magazines, if you please), in The Woodlands Building a bit further up Wood Lane. It wasn't as labyrinthine as Television Centre, but it was complex enough for me to get a call to collect an interviewee, due to be grilled by my boss and me, and for me to finally reach her after numerous stairs and corridors, to be told that during that time she'd received a call on her mobile offering another position with a prominent magazine publisher, she had carried out a skilled negotiation, and she was very sorry, but didn't want the interview.

Strange free gift

2006-05-15T19:49:00.000+01:00

I was browsing in the newsagent today, and I saw that The Guardian had a free gift. Nothing unusual about that, you may say. But the free gift was a poster showing breeds of shark.

Can you imagine the brainstorming session when that was conceived?

"OK, every paper these days is giving away something free. DVDs, money off vouchers for restaurants, books. The Times is always giving away books. The Daily Mail is giving away free cruises, but you have to collect about 90 tokens from individual papers. Yes, you get a free cruise, but you have to constantly buy The Daily Mail, so you have to go out to your local newsagent after dark in a balaclava. Yes, you might get arrested a few times, but it's better than being identified as a Daily Mail reader, surely. What can we do?"

"Money off vouchers for the cinema?"

"Been done"

"Strike a deal with Threshers? Vouchers for a quid off a bottle of cab sauv?"

"Yes, a bit dull though. We need something...different"

"What about a glossy poster showing different varieties of shark?"

"Wahey!! Just what people want! It totally captures the zeitgeist! Who could resist? Champers and Charlie all round!"

It's quite a nice poster, though...

Who's for icecream?

2006-05-09T21:17:00.000+01:00

I found this disturbing story in the news this week. Awful. They're taking away part of our childhood Summers.

Who can forget the smell of new-mown grass, the call of the cuckoo, and the tone-deaf jingle jangle of the icecream van, followed by childish yells and giggles, the running of little feet towards that shrine of Mr Whippy, and the squealing of brakes, followed by that dull thud, and sinister squish...

Sorry.

Anyway, it got me remembering all those lovely lollies that I haven't tasted for years. Fab, with its chocolate sprinkled with hundreds and thousands. Zoom, in the shape of a rocket. And my favoured choice: a Cider Barrel. At the age of 7 or 8, I thought this made me look sophisticated. I thought I was drinking something close to cider. In fact, I was not imbibing a lovingly matured, historically famous alcoholic drink. I was eating a blend of sugar, water, fruit juice and chemicals very far removed from anything that you'd want to order in a pub. Unless any of my readers are under the age of about 23, and grew up in the age of alcopops, Breezers and the like, in which case that's exactly what you would order in a pub. Boy, are you missing out! Red wine, whisky...

What about a campaign to save the icecream van?Instead of Greenpeace Greensleeves (one of the two most popular van chimes). Instead of Scope, Scoop!

Smoking

2006-05-08T09:31:00.000+01:00

Well, I've not blogged for a bit because I've been doing all sorts of things, like going to Barcelona, watching The Scotsman run The London Marathon in 4 hours 20 minutes, and celebrating my birthday.

I'm now 37. I still can't quite think of myself as 37, though. A lot of the jobs that I have had have been in industries where the staff are quite young (20s, I mean, I don't manage a branch of Claire's Accessories or anything), and people estimate my age as up to five years younger than it actually is.

I suppose it helps that I've never smoked, or used sunbeds. And, although only slightly overweight, I'm not thin, which can emphasise wrinkles. I was thinking about this, and it occurred to me that I've never really understood smoking.

I have had the odd cigarette, because it's a rite of passage as a teenager. It's part of the adult world, and I remember the frisson of daringly taking my first drag. Well, when you're a thirteen year old in 1980s Cornwall, it doesn't take much to get a frisson from anything. But I couldn't understand the attraction.

There's an obvious reason for taking alcohol and drugs; they alter your mood. Gambling is exciting, chocolate gives you a sugar rush. Nicotine doesn't. It doesn't even taste nice. So I left it at that. I tried a few times over the next six or seven years, because the sort of girls who smoked looked cooler and more self assured somehow, and the sort of girls who never smoked and would give people a lecture on their health were rather naff and prissy. The classier smokers had great paraphernalia too, like 1920s style holders and silver cigarette cases, but I never really took to it.

Occasionally I would smoke dope, but not very often, and there was more of an obvious benefit.

Today it's raining, and I know, when I get to work, that there will be huddle of people shivering outside, getting dripped on, because they want a cigarette break. Or rather they need a cigarette break, because nicotine is so addictive that the majority of people who smoke need to top up at regular intervals, starting in the morning.

It's strange, when you think about it. People take substances like alcohol and drugs, which can be addictive, but to be taking them in the morning, or at breakfast, or every couple of hours, you have to be in a small minority of hardcore addicts and alcoholics, heading for the liver unit, and very unlikely to be in a job. But there is an every day, legal substance, that is so addictive that you need regular top ups, and nobody is surprised.

I'm not against smoking, by the way. I'm glad I never really started, but I don't have a problem with being around smokers and I don't think the state should interfere with what people choose to do to their bodies. Free will and all that. In fact, I'd legalise most drugs. It's just something I've never really understood.

Must be off, haven't had a coffee yet this morning and I'm dying for one.

Easter excitement

2006-04-17T19:39:00.000+01:00

One of the great joys of Easter is going to see friends with sprogs, so that you can indoctrinate them into the great British tradition of becoming chocolate-filled lard-arses to celebrate Spring. Or Easter..

Or, rather, you can indoctrinate them into thinking, just because a rather intelligent and thoughtful philososopher brought about an uprising against The Romans about 2000 years ago, that this actually means that he was the Son of God, and that he achieved eternal life, and walked on water, whatever...

Anyway, we celebrated Easter by spending it with a couple of our best friends and their children; Evie is nearly three, and Maisie is about six months.

We went to a lovely pub called The Watermill close to Box Hill, and had a good lunch. Then we went up Box Hill and had an egg rolling competition. We had spent some time boiling and decorating eggs, and I can tell you, our eggs were rather more robust than Graham and Julie's. Although their's were rather better decorated. Even though they were decorated by a three year old.

We had a great competition rolling the eggs down the hill until the eggs smashed to pieces. Apologies to the little boy who was in the way when one egg escaped, and bounded down the hill faster than we could catch it. We will never forget that look of six year old outrage, as that egg bounced off you.

Anyway, a great day.

An unlikely hero

2006-04-14T19:39:00.000+01:00

Now, most of us have vaguely useful, but relatively dull jobs. It's difficult to reach out to our dreams of an exciting future, but one man has managed it. He's come in for a lot of stick in the press, but I think that he's oddly magnificent.

Step forward Sir Alan McIlwraith, KBE, DSO. A veteran of Kosovo and Afghanistan, knighted by Prince Charles, and who is invited to charity events because of his record. Who sits at his desk in a call centre with a name badge saying Sir Alan McIlwraith, dignified and proud.

Or step forward Alan McIlwraith, who works in a call centre, sorting out computer problems, and who sometimes turned up in his army uniform, complete with medals. The uniform and medals that he got in a charity shop, that is. Because this individual has never seen any action whatsoever.

But I think he's cool.

He has a dull job which probably involves him constantly asking people whether they have tried rebooting. It's not terribly exciting or fulfilling. He has several ways of dealing with this.

He can put up with it, never wanting something better.

Or he can seek refuge in drugs, or alcohol, or gambling.

Or he can take to religion.

Or he can build another life where he is respected, thought of as brave, is even pictured in a society magazine, all for the price of a few charity shop buys.

Come on, you have to admire a guy who writes his own Wikipedia entry (now sadly deleted), which includes the wonderful observation

“A hero that the UK and Nato can look to in times of trouble”.

As for the people who were taken in, it wasn't for financial gain, and how superficial must they be, to be giving out invitations to charity events, and taking pictures, because they think somebody has a title and a few medals?

Go for it, Alan, is what I say!

Overheard on a bus

2006-04-09T19:54:00.000+01:00

Now, this is a question of bus etiquette. A few days ago, I was on a bus, and a couple of teenage girls got on, about 14 or 15, and sat in the seats behind me. For your information, they were rather pretty.

One of them received a call on her mobile. She quickly became emotional, and it became clear thst her boyfriend was ditching her. Not in person, you understand. He got his brother to do it. Yes, you heard right. His brother. Saddo. Now, the brothers were in the same room; it was clear from the conversation, that the brother who was doing the ditching was shouting instructions to his sibling, who refused to come to the phone.

After an emotional exchange with this hapless sibling, the girl dissolved into tears.

My question is...

Should I have done what I was very tempted to do, which was swivel round, tell her that she was a very attractive girl, and that a chap who would break up with somebody by getting his brother to do it, was an utter and complete saddo...?

Or should I just have done nothing but listen for my own entertainment?

Room 101

2006-03-31T20:36:00.000+01:00

Back by popular request. Oh, OK, I can't think of anything else to blog, so it's back. And this time the contender is:

Da da da da da da doooo...

Yes, Eastenders. Honestly, some people have no ear for music!

It's not the unrelenting misery that I particularly object to (I would have no problem with the BBC showing performances of Hedda Gabler, or Waiting For Godot, for example). Well, as long as it didn't displace something really good like Celebrity Fit Club.

It's the total failure of the programme to reflect anything like London life. Walford tube is, according to the Wikipedia entry, at the precise point of the tubemap as Bromley by Bow. A mere 5 minutes on public transport from Brick Lane, and about 20 minutes from Oxford Street. And yet, there are Norfolk villages with a more cosmopolitan population.

Firstly, there is no social mix. With house prices in London being so high, and people like teachers and nurses finding it difficult to get on the property ladder, even relatively poor areas have their share of singletons or couples who are first time buyers, who would be a little less, well, chav. Perhaps there is an unseen population of normal people in Albert Square, who work and socialise away from the area, maybe have jobs in nearby Canary Wharf, and avoid The Queen Vic. Who wouldn't? OK, there is the occasional doctor or vicar, but they never seem to fit in very easily.

And Albert Square looks like a decent enough place; no East End 1960s tower blocks and sink estates here. Nice Edwardian type houses around a green space, within commuting distance to Canary Wharf and Zone 1. I'm amazed that so many people can live in relatively nice houses while working occasional shifts at a chip shop; a pub; and on market stalls. Do they ever get a job in that strange world just 20 tube minutes away, if that, called Central London, where they could at least work a till in Dorothy Perkins in Oxford Street? Oh no. Very occasionally, when there is a particular celebration, the characters will talk about going "Up West" in the manner that a Victorian explorer might suggest a trip up the Orinoco.

There are no students; no "arty" types who can't quite afford Hoxton; nobody with pink hair; no goths. Well, students would probably get beaten up, 'cos they do that strange book learning thing, so they must be gay, right? Yes, they do have gay characters, but maybe not quite as many as you'd expect for London. And the racial mix never seems convincing. You never hear any extras in The Queen Vic, for example, speaking in a foreign language. Although there are non white characters, they never get to the critical mass necessary to distinguish Walford from, say, suburbs like Staines or Woking (and they never seem to be the ones who stay for a long time, or turn the actors into major celebrities). Not a true depiction of the East End, where a bus ride reveals a wonderful mix of saris; people chatting animatedly in Russian and Polish; African women in butterfly bright dresses and turbans; people with so many facial piercings they probably take 3 hours and a strip search to get through the scanners at airports; and just about anybody else.

Eastenders is The East End as seen by somebody who lives in rural England, who uses a biography of The Krays as their sole point of reference. It's a shame, because there is a really exciting serial to be made about the real East End, if somebody were to try.

Disclaimer: will the lawyers working for Dorothy Perkins please note that I'm not really suggesting that the store would employ some of the female characters depicted; let's face it, most of the stock would disappear overnight.

A Meme from Diamond Geezer

2006-03-25T19:49:00.000Z

Many thanks to Diamond Geezer for this meme:

Seven things in your fridge:
Milk; cabbage; a bottle of white wine; the left overs from a meal which wasn't nice enough to eat the first time; a nasty stain; a human head which I will be delivering to one of my business associates soon, as a warning. And I can't mention the last thing as it's too nasty to speak about.

The first time you went abroad:
A trip to Brittany with the Bodmin Children's Choir. I was 11. We sang songs in Cornish, Breton and English. I don't know where Mr Johnson, the primary school teacher who set up the choir, is now. There were rumours that he joined a religious order. But, having totally rejected the Christian religion, I have total respect for all the time and effort he put in to giving us a wide cultural experience.

The last 5 people to send you a spam message:
I don't know, as I delete all of these messages as soon as I get them. I believe one of them was a Nigerian prince, though.

If you were a chocolate biscuit, which type of chocolate biscuit would you be?
One that was accidentally left on the chair of a certain ex-boss of mine, and which melted onto her very expensive trousers, so that she looked incontinent when she got up.

Describe your best friend using Madonna titles:
Like a Prayer. Available every time you have a problem, and very well meaning. But not much more effective than you in solving it.

Describe the funniest thing you've ever seen a kitten do:

www.bonsaikitten.com
(Yes, I love them too, it's only Photoshop!)

Sad News

2006-03-18T14:30:00.000Z

I've written here before about the badgers I see sometimes at the end of our street. It's always fun when you come back late at night and see one trotting along the pavement. They always squeezed through a gap in the hedge to the grounds of a nearby hospital where they had their sett.

So I was rather upset to pick up the local free paper this morning and see that a contractor working on the site is being prosecuted for destroying the setts, and possibly killing many of the badgers, who would have been buried and crushed.

There is an earlier version of the story here which was published last Friday; it has now been established that the badgers did die, and the police have brought charges. This is truly awful, especially as the remaining badgers have been driven away and may not return. It will be a bit of local character that we have lost.

Site referrals again.

2006-03-09T20:13:00.000Z

Somebody came by here looking for "toddler+scared+hoover+help". Well, in spite of having no parenting skills whatsoever, I do happen to know somebody who had this problem with their little boy and overcame it, by telling him this story. It honestly worked, and I hope it works for you.

Once upon a time there was a little boy called Luke. He liked helping his Mummy around the house. He helped her dust. He sang to her while she washed the dishes. But the one thing he didn't like was the nasty noisy hoover monster which lived in the cupboard. When it came out, Luke would hide his face in his hands and shudder at the big, loud noise, and would start to cry.

One day, Luke's Mummy cuddled him and told him a special story about the hoover monster. The hoover monster wasn't a monster, he was really a nice little hoover and his name was Marmaduke. He liked playing with his toy cars, and when Teletubbies came on TV, Marmaduke liked to sing along. He would like to be Luke's friend, but he knew that Luke didn't like him because he made such a loud noise. The nasty loud noise was actually Marmaduke laughing, but a hoover laugh is a lot louder than a human laugh. He didn't mean to frighten Luke.

The reason that the hoover monster made such a lovely laughing noise was because he was happy to be out of the dark cupboard. Because there was an even bigger monster in there which could roar and growl even louder than Marmaduke, with big yellow teeth and lots of smelly black hair, and this monster liked to bite people's faces off.

And if Luke ever made such a fuss again when Mummy hoovered, and delayed her getting to her nice afternoon gin and tonic, Luke's Mummy would let the big monster out, and Luke would find it very difficult to cry with his face all bitten off.

Luke never cried at the hoover again...

Hope this helps.

Oh, come on, I'm only joking!

Badger alert.

2006-03-07T22:00:00.000Z

Because we live near Richmond Park, we occasionally see badgers around the locality. It's always a treat to see then galumphing over the road in the dark. So I was horrified to see this article in The Guardian.

There is a charity, The Badger Trust, which aims to stop this planned cull. I shall certainly be celebrating National Badger Day on June 17th.

Teenage kicks.

2006-03-04T20:43:00.000Z

Just trying to do some "proper" writing tonight, revising a short story, but, as always, I'm getting distracted. I'm listening to Suggs on Virgin Radio (a great show, by the way), and getting all nostalgic. I remember Madness from when I was about twelve, although I was more an Adam And The Ants fan. This drew me to trying to remember the first song that I actually remember hearing.

When I was tiny, I remember hearing Cat Stevens singing Morning Has Broken on the radio in the kitchen when my Mum was cooking. I was convinced it was really my Dad singing to me through the radio; I've no idea why, my Dad's singing voice bears absolutely no resemblance to Cat Stevens. Or any other individual who might find themselves within a hundred miles of a recording contract (sorry Dad).I now realise that this song was released in May 1972, and was a hit at around my third birthday.

Another favourite that I remember was from November that year, the quaintly titled Mouldy Old Dough. This was a track recorded by Lieutenant Pigeon, who included older pianist Hilda.

It's wierd that when you think of your first musical memories, it's clear that you obviously become aware of music at a certain age, as those tracks were hits within about 4 months.

Who'd be a snail?

2006-02-27T19:27:00.000Z

Further to my owl related posts, I decided to look at the symbolism of the owl, and I found a site on heraldry. The owl represents "one who is vigilant and of acute wit". Some of the other creatures available for inclusion for a coat of arms were a little more surprising...

The pelican, for example, represents devoted and self-sacrificing charity.

The gannet, which modern day simile represents as greedy, is a creature which subsists by the wings of his virtue and merit, having little land to rest upon. I'll never steroetype gannets again.

The raven is one who,having derived little from his ancestors, has through providence become the architect of his own fortunes or one of an enduring constancy of nature.

The Dolphin represents charity and a kind affection towards children, and is still seen as a benign force today, I think.

Mermaids represent eloquence. Though, personally, I've never heard a memorable quote attributed to a mermaid. Please correct me if I'm wrong.

The scallop shell represents one who has made long journeys or voyages to far countries, who had borne considerable naval command, or who had gained great victories.

Finally, we have the snail, which stands for deliberation and perseverance. Now, I have no doubt that these are admirable qualities, but it's not going to make for a very impressive coat of arms, is it? I mean, we have Richard The Lionheart, with his impressive symbolism, but I doubt he'd have a lot of people rallying to join The Crusades if he was Dickie The Snail. Actually, that may not have been a bad thing...

With many thanks to this site which references W. Cecil Wade's "The Symbolisms of Heraldry or A Treatise on the Meanings and Derivations of Armorial Bearings". Published in London in 1898.

A famous owl

2006-02-21T22:31:00.000Z

Yes, it's useless blogger at your disposal here, because I've started a new job, and I'm taking so much information in that I can't be arsed to blog regularly. But I did want to recommend this lovely owl site just so that any Harry Potter fans could learn a bit about Hedwig.

Karma blogging

2006-02-20T20:44:00.000Z

Something really good happened to me today in the form of a new work opportunity, so in a sort of Karma Wiccan Leprechaun be nice to people thingy, I thought I would respond with a post advertising a charity in aid of one of my favourite creatures.

Waiting for the bus.

2006-02-17T20:41:00.000Z

A couple of strange experiences I've had this week, both of them about waiting for a bus. You go weeks without any, and then two come at once, I know, I know, but this is true!

On Wednesday night, I was waiting for a bus not far from my home, when I was joined by a burly man, shaven-headed, skinhead gear, several teeth missing. I was a bit nervous. He struck up a conversation. Apparently, he had just been discharged from a clinic where he had weaned himself off heroin. He was staying with his father for a couple of days. He was very honest in admitting that he had cost his father enormous amounts of money, and that he had been in prison, used to have a £200 a day habit, but was on his way to a resort on the South coast where he could stop drinking. He was going down into town on his last ever drinking binge. I wished him well; he was a nice guy, and I warmed to him.

Tonight, I was at a bus stop in Richmond (outside the station at 6.30) when somebody poked me in the back. I turned round to see a man with long black hair and wild eyes.

He asked whether he could ask me a question. I said yes, a bit worried by his aggressive stance; I hadn't meant to push in, or offend anybody, but he looked a bit emotional. He was also missing a front tooth.

"If you had worked for MI5 for 6 years, and you'd saved this country from the IRA seven times, would you be angry if they refused to pay you your wages?!" he was visibly trembling, staring at me, and raising his fist, pressing his face closer and closer. I gabbled that I, too, would be distressed by this. He burst into tears, apologised for being emotional and was still trembling with anger. He actually apologised if he was scaring me, but I instinctively said goodbye and scarpered to the next bus stop.

Like I said, you go months without a nutter coming along, and then two come along at once. I wish them both well, though.

How romantic...

2006-02-13T19:51:00.000Z

As it's nearly Valentine's day I thought I would flag up this lovely story about a special meal on a golden weding anniversary. By the way, if The Scotsman is reading this, you are NOT getting away with offering this as an anniversary present ever, OK?

Another pub record breaker

2006-02-08T19:11:00.000Z

And this time it's the highest pub in Britain. Looks pretty good, I must say.

Britain's smallest pub.

2006-02-07T19:38:00.000Z

So what is Britain's smallest pub? Well, the prime suspect seems to be The Nutshell Inn in Bury St Edmunds.

Or some people suggest The Smith's Arms in Godmanston, which looks extremely lovely, I must say. And it's near the mysterious Cerne Abbas Giant which is a very striking site, I can tell you!

Or you might go for The Lakeside Inn.

Wayland's Smithy

2006-02-03T20:38:00.000Z

Tonight, folks, I'm blogging about a place to which I've always wanted to go, but to which I've never been. It's a burial chamber called Wayland's Smithy, and it's also at here. It's in Oxfordshire

Now, the area has lots of burial chambers and ancient chalk carvings, but this seems to be an exceptionally beautiful site, and it's also interesting because it's the one English place dedicated to the ancient god called Wayland The Smith. This is the ancient Norse god of blacksmithing, which seems a rather strange idea. I mean, it's not very spiritual, is it? It's like having Wayne, the Essex god of plumbing, or Kevin, the god of sorting out your dodgy gearbox, and he'll knock a bit off for cash. But people used to leave their horses at Wayland's Smithy with a piece of silver, and find their horses shod when they returned. It's perfectly possible, of course, that a local blacksmith was making a tidy profit by nipping up to the burial chamber every so often. But who knows...

Anyway, I've found a comprehensive site which outlines the legends surrounding Wayland, and very fascinating they are too.

You might like to check out where it is.

Abandon hope all ye who enter here...

2006-01-31T19:39:00.000Z

Found an interesting site, www.entrancestohell.com. There's a European section as well, with a few British entries.

Stonehenge

2006-01-27T20:29:00.000Z

An interesting article in The Guardian today about Stonehenge. I must say, I went there a few years ago and I was quite insulted to have to go to a tacky visitor centre (you can't get to the stones without going through it)and pay to enter the field where the stones are. I can understand paying for a museum or stately home, because there is upkeep involved. Stonehenge is made of stone, it's been there for centuries, it can be left to its own devices like any other piece of rock, surely. I hate the way that it has been touristified. But as Simon Jenkins points out, Avebury is more impressive, anyway. It has gift shops and a museum, but they aren't compulsory, and they don't intrude on the atmosphere of the place.

The legend of Jan Tregeagle

2006-01-26T19:56:00.000Z

As regular readers of this blog may know, I spent the first 18 years of my life in a town called Bodmin, in Cornwall. Now, Cornwall has many legends, and one I remember very clearly, which fascinated me from a young age, was the legend of Jan Tregeagle.

Jan Tregeagle probably existed in real life, perhaps as a magistrate in Bodmin. He seems to have been a rather evil and corrupt figure, who was rumoured to have swindled an orphan out of his estate. He wasn't a bit like Bystander! After his death, there was a court case which needed his evidence; the court was surprised to hear the ghost of Mr Tregeagle summoned as a witness. The ghost manifested itself, but there was a problem with sending the spirit back to hell. The local priests got together and decided that he could stay, as long as he completed certain tasks. If he didn't complete them or stopped to rest, he would be pursued by the hounds of hell. Basically, they wee keeping him out of trouble.

The first task was to empty Dozmary Pool with a leaking limpet shell. Now, Dozmary Pool is a beautiful, desolate place on Bodmin Moor, which is reputed to be bottomless. They thought that it would keep our friend busy for a bit. There are various other legends about what he got up to, but I think that the links that I provide will suffice. One day, the demons tried to chase him, but he leapt across the water of Dozmary Pool and was saved. You can read some more authoritative versions here and here.

As for the bottomless Dozmary Pool, it's the site of many other legends, and is supposedly where Excalibut was lost. After all, it's a bottomless lake. Apart from when it dried up in 1869 and 1976...

No, this is the strangest sport ever!

2006-01-25T18:48:00.000Z

How about the ancient sport of worm charming? Well, not exactly ancient, but the first championships were held twenty years ago when I was a twinkle in my parents' eyes. OK, a large sixteen year old twinkle. Apparently you have to vibrate the ground in a way attractive to worms. Or maybe in a way which might intimidate worms into thinking that something really really bad will happen if they stay underground...

Is this the strangest sport ever?

2006-01-24T20:27:00.000Z

And first on the list of 20 strange things is that fine old sport of bog snorkelling. This is an event that takes place in August, in a small town in Wales called Llanwyrtyd Wells, and it involves snorkelling a 60 metre stretch of murky, muddy water twice. You can't see anything, but there's no coming up to look about, and no obvious swimming strokes either. Oh come on, you know you've always wanted to do it! If you want to get involved in this year's event, here you go!.

For those of a more athletic nature, you can try the bog snorkelling triathlon. This means that you undertake a run of 8-10 miles, then the famous 120 yard snorkel, then a cycle ride of 16-18 miles. Although, if your self image as a cyclist is important, or you want to pull blokes/birds in Wales, bear in mind that you might not look your best once you've completed the bog snorkelling!

Shall I blog further?

2006-01-23T19:58:00.000Z

This blog is nearly a year old now, and I feel it has lost it's original purpose, which was to feature articles of interest about forteana, strangeness and eccentricity. I'm not sure how well the blog works in other ways, as I don't give away a lot about my personal life, or have a great interest in politics, like a lot of the more successful bloggers. I can't really write about any funny Scary Duck type teeenage escapades, as my teenage years tended to involve amateur sexual fumbling, and reading the novels of Thomas Hardy, rather than doing dodgy things with fireworks. No, not at the same time, although, given the quality of some of the sexual fumbling, Thomas Hardy might have relieved the boredom. Mind you, I've warmed to The Liberal Democrats in the last week or so. Imagine what their Christmas party must have been like, what with Charles Kennedy getting the rounds in, and that Oaten chap doing the actions to YMCA.

Anyway, I've decided to return the blog to it's original purpose for a bit, and I'm going to discipline myself to blog 20 instances of strange customs, events, or stories, in 20 days, starting from tomorrow. And I'm not even going to cheat by mentioning The London Whale, as strange a story as we've seen for a long time. And we all so longed for it to live, didn't we?

More strangeness

2006-01-14T12:35:00.000Z

And this time it's from New Zealand. It's amazing the stuff you can find on a beach.

Weirdest headline

2006-01-13T20:13:00.000Z

Flying Prawn Killed Fur Magnate, Says Widow. Actually, the story isn't as dramatic as it sounds and the claim is a little tenuous. Still, it's a headline to savour.

I've seen it all now....

2006-01-04T18:43:00.000Z

Now, I've seen some weird stuff on the interwebby thing, but this is just as strange as they come. Which font suits you?

Happy New Year!!

2006-01-03T13:19:00.000Z

Well, I've munched the last piece of tinsel, taken down the last choccie from the ceiling, and quaffed the last drink. So, what are my resolutions?

1. To do more writing, maybe even finish my novel.
2. To blog more regularly.
3. To laugh more.
4. To get down to see my family in Cornwall more often.
5. To take more exercise, by living more of an active, open air life, not by boring myself stupid at an aerobics class.
6. To take up painting again.

I think that'll do to start with!

Merry Crimbo!!

2005-12-24T20:55:00.000Z

Well, I've spent the day cooking two quiches and a gammon joint, and preparing stuffing balls, pigs in blankets, and a trifle. The duck is now finally stuffed.

It was good fun, as I was listening to the TV, which mainly seems to consist of compilation shows about people's favourite Christmas films, or Christmas moments, or Christmas records, or TV moments that might have been on at Christmas at some point, or favourite Christmas shark attaks which still manage to give a warm seasonal glow. Which leads me to the following questions:

Am I the only person to think that ET was a bit overrated?

If I get to be a C list celebrity, can I go on one of these shows and say that my favourite Crimbo viewing is the moment in Texas Chainsaw Massacre when Leatherface comes onto the porch, wielding his weapon? Oh please....

Have a great Christmas, everybody!!

Oh No!

2005-12-20T21:48:00.000Z

I've just lost a f*cking erudite, witty post, and I can't be bothered to repeat it. B*gger.

Zombie fun

2005-12-17T00:54:00.000Z

I don't usually blog this late, but The Scotsman is on a night out involving Jongleurs in Clapham and more beers than George Best could shake a small clay model of Oliver Reed at, and I'm at home, so I just watched Shaun Of The Dead. Great stuff, and if you were under the impression that the rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody in Wayne's World was the funniest film clip with a Queen track, you've seen nothing yet!!

New blogs

2005-12-14T10:30:00.000Z

I've just updated my sidebar to include a few new blogs, and I've deleted a couple which had come to an end. I'm off to get a couple of Crimbo presents for The Scotsman, which means that I wil hopefully have finished all my Christmas shopping by today! Actually, it's only because I went down to see my family a couple of weeks back, and decided to take my pressies; at least it got it out of the way.

This means that I will be negotiating the commercial chaos that is Kingston for the last time, I've got the tree and fairy lights up, got vases full of holly and ivy around the place, and best of all, Sainsburys delivered our shopping last night, including the duck!!

At least it's an improvement on last year when Tesco delivered 5 days before Christmas and there were some missing items because some were out of stock. And what was out of stock? Most of the wine we ordered and the duck. Not tins of beans, or vegetables, just the things that were pretty much essential for the big day. It took a few phone calls before we managed to ensure that we weren't sitting around the table with flutes of diet coke and Findus crispy pancakes with all the trimmings.

Here's hoping I can relax tonight, knowing I'm finished.

And she posts...

2005-12-12T19:35:00.000Z

Not posted for a bit, but then I've been busy with work related stuff, and going out for lots of scrumptious Crimbo food, not to mention going down to Cornwall for a bit to see the family.

I'm also trying to get some proper writing done; I want to finish a short story a month for the next year, and I've got a great idea for one at the moment. So, some highs and lows from the past two weeks:

Lows:

Not being able to buy brandy butter at any shop in Ham, so having to go to M and S in Kingston on a Saturday afternoon.

The blind driver on the 371 bus route. If there are 7 people at a bus stop, all waving frantically, and your bus is half empty, then, unless you're Keanu Reeves in the film Speed, you stop. And I saw you, mate, and you're not Keanu Reeves. In fact, in terms of attractiveness, you're way behind Vic Reeves. And Jim Reeves, and he's been dead several years.

South West Trains deciding that the second Sunday before Crimbo was a good time to suspend all services between Clapham and Waterloo for the day. Not inconvenient at all then.

The weather deciding to be icy just when I've bought myself a pair of dainty little black ballet pump style shoes.

Highs:

Having to go to M and S in Kingston on a Saturday afternoon to get brandy butter, being in a really bad mood, and then being served by a nice chap who, I think from his appearance and accent, is African in origin, and telling him that he had a really lovely name (they have name badges). He was called Peace.

Eventually getting to our friend's house despite the vagaries of South West Trains, and being served Crimbo dinner with sprouts au gratin. The only time in my life when I've voluntarily had a second helping of sprouts.

The weather might be cold, but hey, I could be Ditch Monkey.

I don't belieeeeve it!

2005-12-01T00:07:00.000Z

Apparently, on November 25th, the buskers on London Underground were paid to play Johnny Cash songs. This information is via a member of a writing group I belong to. Did anybody notice this? I thought that buskers were an anarchic bunch, free to do whatever they wanted, outside the constraints of society, as long as they didn't do anything illegal.

And now I find that they're paid according to the artist. They'll be singing the jingles to the Microsoft and Sega ads next.

Site referrals

2005-11-30T14:54:00.000Z

Yep, the blogging muse has deserted me again, so we're back to an old favourite.

Actually, I never seem to get the really strange site referrals, or the pervy ones. But I was quite intrigued by "rotten potato in Christmas stocking". I mean, we all get stuck when we're thinking of something a bit different to send for Christmas, but you can do better than that, surely?

Update: I think the person in question is looking for this rather disturbing Christmas anecdote from the American writer, Thoreau. They'd call the NSPCC these days.

Crimbo

2005-11-28T19:59:00.000Z

Spent some of my lunch hour trying to organise my Christmas presents. I quite enjoy crimbo shopping, I even like the naff music. Apart from one song.

On December 23rd 1994, The Scotsman and I were travelling from London to Yorkshire, where his parents now live, when we were passing Tibshelf, on the M1. We were suddenly aware of a crash up ahead; The Scotsman stood on the brakes, and it looked as if we were going to avoid any trouble, but a BMW hit us at speed from the side and we were catapulted into the back of a white van. I've never felt so much pressure on my chest. Then there was a silence, punctuated by only one sound. The whole of the front of the car was caved in. The dashboard had been driven into my knees. But the tape was still going; the Christmas tape we'd bought for light relief on the trip up.

It was a track by a certain Mr McCartney. Simply having a Wonderful Christmas Time. There was a pause for all of three seconds, which seemed to last forever, until The Scotsman pressed pause and said

"i think we've had quite enough of that."

Our car was a write-off, the Scotsman had a broken bone in his hand, and I had very dramatic bruising. Bruising which actually lasted for 4 months, which I didn't think possible. Thanks to the AA, we were picked up from the services at Brighouse by a taxi driver, who took us up to Yorkshire. Many thanks by the way to the lorry driver who towed all the vehicles off to the hard shoulder, and the staff at the little cottage hospital that we hobbled to on Christmas Eve. Although we later found out that the lorry driver got a nice little bonus for every hour he worked into Cristmas Eve. Hey, thanks anyway.

Anyway, if there's one thing I can't stand about Christmas, it's that song. I respect Sir Paul, I love the music of the Beatles, I even have a soft spot for The Frog Chorus, but I just can't stand that song.

A question

2005-11-26T12:38:00.000Z

Just thinking about that last post. I distinctly remember driving over Shap summit in a blizzard, on a day when there was a really famous concert involving Nelson Mandela as a spectator, and being really annoyed at losing reception for much of Cumbria, when he got some sort of ovation. But the only mention I can find on the interwebby thing of a concert with Western artists happens in June 1988. It can be cold in The Lake District, but not in June, I think.

Does anybody know what this event could be? Nelson was released in 1990, and I was with this partner until 1992. What huge event was attended by Nelson, at a time when there was significant snowfall?

Let it snow, let it snow...

2005-11-25T20:19:00.000Z

I spent some anxious minutes on the phone tonight, trying to get through to my family in Bodmin. The phone lines were down due to extremely heavy demand for a while, but I finally managed to ascertain that my family are at home, looking at 8 inches of snow in the garden. The town is completely gridlocked. Cornwall has not had this sort of weather for at least 20 years, and there are still cars stranded on Bodmin Moor.

Thank God none of my family were out in it! I'm going down to see them by train next Friday, and I nearly chose today, rather than next week. I'm due to get in on the 13.43 train, and my Mum tells me that there would have been no way she could have got to Bodmin Road Station; I would have had to walk 4 miles in snow. That's if I could even have got through Devon and Cornwall by train anyway; I would probably be facing a dismal evening in Newton Abbot, finding a B and B or a way back to London. I don't mean to insult Newton Abbot, by the way; it may have a vibrant and sophisticated nightlife, and a choice of restaurants often featured in the Sunday papers, for all I know, it's just that, when attempting a trouble free journey between London and Cornwall, it's not exactly an overnight stop that you'd factor in.

Mind you, I had a great weekend in Taunton once. Although we had tickets to an open air classical concert. And it was the middle of Summer. And very hot. And planned sometime in advance.

Anyway, all my thoughts are with the 500 people still stranded on Bodmin Moor. The only experience that I've had to come close to this was driving over Shap Summit in a white out with a previous partner, but it subsided as we descended.

Anyway, if there is anybody out there reading this on a laptop on Bodmin Moor, or a mobile, or something, my thoughts go out to you.

He saw three centuries.

2005-11-23T19:20:00.000Z

There was some sad news this week about Alfred Anderson, the last person to witness the famous WW1 Christmas truce in the trenches, who died aged 109.

I found this interview with him. I was especially struck by the fact that he saw three centuries. It's rare to live past 100, and it must be very rare to be born in a year when you have a realistic chance of seeing three different centuries. It would take me until 131.

We'll soon be in the happy situation, as a society, where few people will remember going to war; obviously there will be people who voluntarily joined the forces and were sent to Iraq, or wherever, but the WW2 generation are at least 78 now. I suppose it's different for US readers (Hi there) who might have relatives who went to Korea or Vietnam, but I suggest that everyone here makes an effort to listen to elderly people, because we'll gradually lose anybody who could give a firsthand account of war.

Although, on the other hand, we'll gradually gain refugees and asylum seekers who know only too well about war; in addition, as more Eastern Europeans make their homes here, there will be people who remember the conflict in places like Bosnia. I kept thinking, when we were in Croatia, that even teenagers there could remember what it was like to be at war.

Sorry, I'll be a bit less heavy next time!

A fairy tale

2005-11-21T20:32:00.000Z

A lovely item from The Times today about locals getting their way over a new housing development. For all believers in fairies, a very strange story indeed!

Overheard tonight...

2005-11-17T19:57:00.000Z

On a bus going from Kingston to Ham. Two girls, about 19 or 20, slightly chav, but not very, in case you were wondering (big hoop earrings, voices quite Sarf London, but dressed quite trendily in outfits I'd like myself, and not your out and out Waynettas). You'll see why I mention this when you read the conversation.

"Mike didn't get my letter. I told him I wrote but he doesn't believe it just went missing. He'll be out on Monday, so it probably won't get to him now."

I pricked up my ears. Well, "out" could mean anything, he might be in hospital, I told myself.

"He doesn't phone me so often now, 'cos he's moved wings."

Now, hospitals don't have wings. Prisons have wings. At this point the boy in the seat next to me needed to get off the bus, so I had to stand up temporarily. I accidentally stood on the convict's girlfriend's foot.

"Sorry, sorry, so sorry" I bleated. Ooh, please don't follow me off the bus and beat me up. Or follow me home and have a word with your charming partner when he gets out on Monday, telling him my address. She didn't seem to notice. Phew!

She then went into a description of her night out with her sister

"And my Dad phoned us. Couldn't understand a word he was saying. He's always pissed."

I suppose my reaction was very snobbish. Not much more than 20, boyfriend in prison (although it might just have been a friend, or maybe a relative, come to think of it, but my instincts told me not), pisshead for a Dad, what a life. But she had a job, which she had mentioned she had just left for the evening (think it might have been in a shop), was not unattractive, and spoke warmly of her friends. Who am I to judge.

As you may have noticed, I've taken to relating conversations on this blog. I got the idea from a website for writers, which says that you should listen to real people speaking in order to sharpen up your dialogue, and I'm the nosiest person ever, so I need no encouraging.

I now realise that the last 3 conversations I've blogged have involved somebody going out with a convict and with an alcoholic father; a guy with hardly any disposable income buying cheap cider; and a small child requesting a chainsaw. I live in a nice part of West London, honestly! I'll try to overhear something a bit more cultured next time!

It's a bit political...

2005-11-15T19:56:00.000Z

I don't often comment on political matters here, but I've been having a few thoughts about the proposed relaxation of the licensing hours. I'm all for it, personally.

The present licensing hours were introduced in WW1, so that munitions workers would be a bit safer in the mornings. There had been a few accidents when people turned up a bit too affected from the night before, probably because munitions work had become compulsory for people who had previously been making safe, non-explosive things like pies or buttons, where it didn't matter if you were a bit careless in the first hour. I don't see why I have to be bound by this, quite frankly. I work in marketing, and no, I wouldn't want to turn up still drunk.

It's especially annoying if you go to the cinema or theatre; I don't often go to the theatre, but most plays seem to stop at a time when you can just about make last orders. I'd quite like to linger over a couple of glasses of wine, especially if I've gone with friends and we only met shortly before the performance. A lot of 9pm cinema showings end at just the wrong time, too. And what if you decide to do your weekly shop at 8am to avoid the rush? It would be nice to get a few bottles of wine.

I'm very aware that Kingston, about 2 miles away, is a bit dodgy at pub closing time, and I often see the odd scuffle. These almost always occur in the queues outside nightclubs. A lot of hyped up people, chucked out of the pubs, waiting bad-temperedly to be ripped off, just because they aren't tired at 11pm. And if your neighbour in the queue is obnoxious, or flirting with your girlfriend, you can't move away because you'll lose your place, so tempers fray. People would be much more chilled out if they could just stay in a pub where they feel comfortable, and they're more likely to drift away gradually.

It suddenly occurred to me, though, that there is a way around the current licensing laws. We shop online at Tesco.com. Now, we can order alcohol as part of our regular shop, and we do. We can order this at any time of day or night. We can also arrange for it to be delivered in any delivery slot, including early morning (9 to 11 at Tesco), earlier than you can legally buy alcohol (10.30). Now, I've only ever ordered shopping at least a day in advance. The delivery slots are normally all gone for the next day, anyway. But I'm now wondering whether, if I go online after I've come back from the pub, and I order online in the early hours of the morning for an order containing alcohol to be delivered between 9am and 11am the same day, if the slot is available, whether, technically, I can circumvent the licensing laws. It would be after midnight, and I would be having booze delivered at 9am, possibly.

I'd never bother, but I like the idea that I can circumvent authority like that!!

It's cold

2005-11-14T19:34:00.000Z

I really, really hate the cold. It's OK if you only get to watch the frost and snow from inside, snuggled over a cup of coffee, but it's much less fun if you have to trudge to work and back.

But the point I wanted to make is that, when I stood in the garden just now thinking that it was a bit nippy, I thought of Ditch Monkey. As you may know, this blogger works in London during the day, working for Sothebys, and sleeps under a tarpaulin in the woods in Oxfordshire at night. Oh, he buses it by the way, he can't cheat by sleeping in his car. He's aiming to see if he can hack it for a year. I hope he's OK, I thought, he'll have to use both his sleeping bags tonight. And then I thought, what a stupid thing to think. There are homeless people in London out in this. They might get a hostel bed, or have enough money to buy a cup of tea, or they might not. They certainly won't have been able to go out and buy decent gear from camping shops. And they won't have a nice heated workplace to sit in, with a hot shower in the morning (I think there was a shower for him at work, there is in some offices, or it might be at his gym). It might even be one of the times when he has a night out in London and stays over with friends. And let's face it, if it really gets unbearable, he can afford the odd night in a B and B, and he has friends and relatives who he mentions, who would presumably put him up.

I'm not having a go at Ditch Monkey, I admire what he's doing, testing himself to see whether you can live a middle class, London lifestyle for part of the day, and sleep under a tarpaulin in the woods for the rest. He is interested in finding out how many possessions we really need, and it's all for charidee, as he's aiming for people to sponsor him in aid of The Woodland Trust.

It's just odd that I thought of him, rather than other people out there with fewer options.

Overheard again

2005-11-09T07:08:00.000Z

Overheard in a local Korean run corner shop (are they still corner shops if they're not actually on a corner?), a conversation between a rather shabby looking older chap looking at the alcohol behind the counter, and the store owner.

"What's that drink there?" as he points to a large, elaborate bottle
"Tequila"
"What's that, then?"
"It's a bit like gin."
"How much is it?"
"£19"
"Oh. I've only got £12, and I need to get food as well. I'll just get my usual cider." and off he sloped to get a bottle of White Lightning.

I suppose I should be depressed by hearing that, but I thought it was actually quite positive that this guy, who probably drinks White Lightning every day, was sufficiently adventurous and open-minded to try to broaden his horizons, maybe educate himself a bit by looking at the more exotic bottles, have a chat with the owner. I'm not quite sure about tequila being much like gin, though!

Overheard

2005-11-03T19:51:00.000Z

Overheard in a DIY shop this week, a conversation between a man and a boy of about four:

"Daddy, I want a saw!"
"You've got a saw."
"No, a REAL saw with a machine on, like the man with the tree in Richmond"
"A chainsaw. When you're a bit older you can have a chainsaw, because they're very sharp and dangerous."
"When I'm five?"
"Well, a bit older than five."
"When I'm six Daddy, when I'm six Daddy, when I'm six Daddy, when I'm..."
"Ok, when you're six."

If you have any children of about four who are due to go to school in Teddington eventually, be afraid, be very afraid...

Back again

2005-11-01T19:56:00.000Z

Well, we had a brilliant trip to Scotland, seeing various relatives. Although I think if I have another fried breakfast I'll burst! We went out in Edinburgh for one night, and visited a famous pub called The Canny Man's. We also visited a couple of graves yesterday, as the Scotsman wanted to revisit his childhood, and see the resting places of his grandparents. I suppose graveyards are pretty appropriate at Halloween. It was a great time, travelling around and visiting people we don't see very often. Must get up again soon.

Off for a bit

2005-10-26T19:00:00.000+01:00

Off to my writers' circle now, and then we are away in Scotland seeing The Scotsman's friends and relatives for a few days. Back late on Monday, so probably blogging on Tuesday. It's an exciting evening as it's The Heather Vineham Night, named after a former member, and there is a prize for the best spooky poem or story. I'm entering something, so I'd better go.

Ditch Monkey

2005-10-24T19:39:00.000+01:00

I found a really fascinating blog today. Ditch Monkey is a guy who decided to dispense with renting four walls, and live outside for six weeks to raise money for charity. He liked it so much he has stuck with the lifestyle; like a lot of people before him, he wants to prove that material things aren't important, that he can live in the open with a camping stove and a tarpaulin.

The difference is that Ditch Monkey packs all his belongings into his back pack everyday, walks to the Oxford Tube (a bus link between London and Oxford), and commutes to his job at Sothebys (very posh antiques auction house in London, overseas readers) where he is working at his career as an art dealer. He is lucky enough to have a shower at his workplace, and he cleans himself up and changes into his suit and tie for the day, before travelling back at night.

This is a really interesting blog, with anecdotes about wildlife interspersed with accounts of how he puts his backpack beside his desk at work, and the dangers of packing a bottle of soy sauce amongst your worldly goods.

He was interviewed by The Observer recently. I'm intrigued to see how he will do in the depths of Winter...

Christmas is coming...

2005-10-23T15:40:00.000+01:00

Not blogged for a bit as I have been busy trying to do some "proper" writing, and also cuddling a three day old baby. No, not my 3 day old baby, I've not been that busy, it belongs to a couple of friends. Amongst other things, I went shopping in Kingston, for a pressie for the new baby and her 2 year old sister (because it's difficult enough having a new sibling getting lots of attention, without her getting all the pressies as well).

Normally, I quite like seeing all the Christmas stuff on the shelves, but I reached my limit in one of the card shops. There was an advent calendar for sale. But not just any old advent calendar. Oh no. This was an advent calendar for dogs.

Now I'm as soppy as anybody when it comes to animals but, in my opinion, a dog needs an advent calendar like a fish needs a bicycle. I was looking to post a link to a doggy advent calendar when I came across this site, and there's loads of the stuff. There's even a Christmas stocking for hamsters which is also suitable for rats!

Personally, I have no problem with rats. There are some water rats in The Thames near where I live and they are quite cute swimming about. Note to all readers of The Wind in the Willows: there is no such separate species as a water rat. They are just your bog standard brown rat which has decided to live near a river bank, and which therefore sometimes does a bit of swimming. Water voles, however, are different to normal voles. Anyway.

I fail to believe that there is any rat in the whole world currently looking forward to crimbo, wondering what they might get as a present. There'll be blogging pets next!

Strange Blue Outing

2005-10-17T20:03:00.000+01:00

One of our favourite places along The Thames is Putney. You might know it as the start of The Oxford Camridge Boat Race, a chance to see sporting excellence in action. And not a chance to drink overpriced drinks from about 11am, and vaguely look up for about 5 seconds as the boats go past, no, definitely not.

If you're my age, you may remember the cartoon Mr Benn, that bowler-hatted chap who went to a special shop every week in Festive Road to try on a special costume (yes, yes, I know). What you may not know, if you're enjoying yourself in Putney, is that you're a stroll away from Festing Road, where the creator of the cartoon, David McKee, lived. He based the the cartoon street on Festing Road.

It's an attractive terraced street, worth a look if you're in the area. I was interested to learn that he based Mr Benn on the faceless, bowler-hatted individuals in the paintings of Rene Magritte, as just a mile or so away, in Barnes, you can pass the tree where Marc Bolam died, which also has a spooky connection to Magritte in this Rene Magritte painting depicting a tree, entitled September 16th (the date of his death), which he was supposedly obsessed with.

You might also enjoy this article, about the influence of drugs on Mr Benn.

Room 101

2005-10-13T19:57:00.000+01:00

And tonight the topic is...motivational posters at work. You know the ones. Even if you've never worked in an office that has them, you've probably visited a place where you've seen them. Stuff like this.

They normally feature a beautiful landscape, or a mountain, or an iceberg, and have words like Challenge, or Risk, or Teamwork, below the picture. It's meant to inspire you to work harder, have a vision of how the company should operate, be imaginative. There's nothing wrong with any of these things. They are noble things to aspire to. But the people who put them in your your office don't want you to realise your dreams and desires, or follow your own inspired path.

They want you to work harder at selling double glazing over the phone, so that, instead of working for the second best double glazing company in Crawley, you are working for the best. Or, when you have dealt with the fiftieth pissed-off person who has had crap service from your crap company, complaining to your Barnsley call centre, when you know your five year old isn't well, and you've got bad period pains, you can look at a picture of a rock climber and know that Winners Don't Quit, Because Quitters Don't Win, so if it's busy, you can do a bit of unpaid overtime. Rather than just taking a couple of aspirin and going home to read The Hungry Catterpillar. Because that's quitting.

A particular classic is this one. This, you will notice, is a photograph of a challenging desert summit. The caption says: always set the trail, never follow the path. Now, I'm no climber, but I've done a bit of hill walking in my time, and I know this to be rubbish. If you are walking up a hill, or mountain, whether it be a in a Morroccan desert or The Lake District (and I've done both), as any hill walker will tell you, if there is an established path you stick to it. Otherwise you risk falling off the edge of a cliff, or getting lost, which might be fun in Richmond Park, but might get you winched off said hill with several members of a mountain rescue team calling you a pillock in Cumbria, or might result in your eyes being pecked out by vultures in some countries.

I have worked in several companies in the area of sales and marketing in my life, and I would say that the worst companies had a disproportionate tendency to display these posters. I presently work for a pleasant, professional company, and we wouldn't give those posters house room.

And if you are the sort of person that likes these types of slogans, always remember that There Is No I In Team. If you like motivational posters you might find it helpful to imagine the phrase below a picture of something natural, like a horse peeing, or a rotten potato. But always remember, there might be no I, but there's a ME if you look hard enough.

Strangest link ever

2005-10-11T19:48:00.000+01:00

Many thanks to my friend Dave, who I met up with in my writers' group on Saturday, who sent me this great link. It's The Bible... in Lego.

Night out

2005-10-10T22:18:00.000+01:00

On Saturday we we went out for a curry in Brick Lane. I had been at a writers' meeting, and The Scotsman met me at The White Hart. we didn't choose it for any particular reason, just because it was close to Aldgate East tube station. It's a basic, but welcoming and acceptable pub. It wasn't until we sat down that we saw a large notice on the wall, a chalk drawing, talking about a murder victim called Martha who was found at the back of the pub with 39 stab wounds. Unfortunately, we couldn't find out very much about the murder because most of the picture was covered by a big screen showing a World Cup qualifier. I did wonder whether we were in Ripper territory. A quick Google today, however, shows that the pub is very near to the site of one of the Jack The Ripper murders, that of Martha Tabram. They claim the murder site is behind the pub. They sell Hoegaarden as well, so worth a visit, although the fittings in the pub are disappointingly modern. Incidentally, if any readers have come here via search engines looking for Ripper info, or any regular readers are interested (yes, all seven of you), you might like to have a look at Alan's blog.

On to Brick Lane for a curry. The great thing about Brick Lane is that, not only do they have approximately 40 very reasonable curry restaurants, (I don't like to call them Indians as most of them are Bangladeshi), some of them allow you to bring your own wine, which the four or five off licenses will open for you. We chose a restaurant, which I would link to, but I can't remember which one it was. We had an excellent meal, but an even better time people watching.

There was a table of 12 people, obviously students, about five feet away. After a short time, it became clear that they were a university football team, having a meal after their third match of the season. There were several cans of beer on the table, bought from the nearby offie, and they were enjoying themselves.

As students do, they started talking about somebody they knew, who had downed a bottle of wine in 27 seconds. I went to the loo, and when I came back, The Scotsman pointed towards them. One chap had risen to the challenge, and somebody had scampered to the offie a couple of doors away for a bottle of white wine. I'm assuming it wasn't exactly the most wonderful vintage. He poured it into a pint glass, and another, smaller, glass. they counted him down...16 seconds. He did go very red, and look a bit green (good job he didn't go and stand in the middle of the street, there could be carnage), but he settled down to his curry quite happily.

Well, we had a great curry, and by the time we left the captain was beginning his speech, congratulating the team on their performance. He produced a bottle of vodka, and he had arranged for the waiter to bring 12 glasses. Each team member had to down their share of vodka, and then have their breath lit with a cigareete lighter, which was rather dramatic. We left then, but I don't expect that they were feeling particularly perky the next day. And I don't think one of them will fancy white wine again.

Back on the tube, unremarkable but for the fact that near Richmond a well-dressed, well-groomed man in his fifties lit up the most enormous spliff, which smelled tantalisingly good. And everybody beamed at him in a good natured way. Another night in London.

Update: Alan has kindly left a message regarding Martha, which is far more informative.

Tired

2005-10-07T19:47:00.000+01:00

I was going to blog tonight but I'm really tired. In fact, I'm so tired that I tried to look something up on Google and typed in www.google.blogspot.com by mistake. So, I'll just say that I've looked at my referral statistics, and I wish good luck to the person who came here looking for "cartoon rabbits shagging". I'm sure you lead a full and happy life. And if you couldn't find anything, then maybe you've identified a gap in the market! If I ever spot somebody who has "Bright Eyes" as their ring tone when I'm out and about, I'll know who you are...

Books etc.

2005-10-06T20:26:00.000+01:00

In our spare bedroom, we have about 500 books piled up on the floor. We only moved into this house 9 months ago, so we still haven't organised any shelving. I was browsing through them today and I was struck by what a diverse collection it is.

There are books that remind me of places, like the Jennifer Paterson cookbook that I found in a damp, outdoor space in Hay on Wye. Hay on Wye is a wonderful place on the very border between England and Wales, filled with 39 second hand bookshops. Some of them are little more than sheds, barely sheltered from the elements, and with a box into which you are requested to put 50p per book.

Hay on Wye is a lovely town, where you can walk Offa's Dyke (it's a long distance footpath, not some exotic sexual preference), and go into a pub so old fashioned, that when we entered, I was the only woman in that particular part of the bar, and when one of the men playing pool said the word fuck, the middle aged barman gestured towards me and told him to mind his language!! Can you imagine that in London?!

This particular book still smells of the open air, beside the castle, and contains recipes like Scotch Woodcock. I always plan to tell The Scotsman that he's getting that for supper. He'll envisage some sort of roasted bird, maybe with a red wine sauce, and all the trimmings. Imagine his surprise when he gets scrambled eggs on toast with two anchovy fillets crossed on the top!

Conversation in Teddington Pool

2005-10-04T21:29:00.000+01:00

Whenever I hear a particularly priceless piece of dialogue, I always make a note of it. About 18 months ago I was in Teddington Pool, changing in a cubicle. In the next cubicle was a mother with her son. I overheard the following.

"Mum, you've got a vagina!"
"Who told you that word?!!"
"You did."
"No I didn't, who told you that word?"
"Er...Philip"
"Well, we'll talk about that when we get home."
"Can we talk about Thomas The Tank Engine and Mercedes when we get home too?"
"Yes, I think that's more appropriate at your age."

I will never know the punishment visited on Philip (perhaps a mischievous older brother), and nor will I know whether the subject of vaginas was ever subsequently visited over their evening meal. It made me giggle though.

No inspiration

2005-09-30T14:50:00.000+01:00

It's that time of year again, when Autumn draws in and we all want to curl up on hot buttered toast, munching fire and staring at a roaring sofa, and, more importantly, it's the Halloween story competition at my local writers' circle. I always enter something, but I use it as a chance to write something new, rather than take along something from my archives.

This year, though, I'm stumped. I just can't seem to think of anything that would make a basis for a supernatural, or scary, story. So I tried a writing exercise that was once recommended to me, whereby I took a short walk and tried to spot three things or people that could form the basis for a story. And so, this lunchtime, I headed for Teddington High Street to see what I could find...

This normally works for me, seeing an unusual sign, or a face, or something in a shop. I tried the charity shops; always good for quirky little things that look as if they might have some sort of history. There were some remarkably unpleasant jumpers, a plastic owl, and a selection of badly framed rural scenes which looked as if they had come from a particularly scuzzy pub.

On to Tesco. I searched people's faces. Was there anybody who looked as if they might be harbouring a secret, or who could be a reincarnation of a Mongol warlord, or somebody planning a weekend of nefarious deeds? They all looked as if they were harbouring an urge to buy carrots, and were planning a weekend in Ikea.

So I'm still no further foward. Answers on a postcard please...

Room 101

2005-09-27T19:26:00.000+01:00

And the candidate this time is...school sport.

Now, I was an eager little beaver at school. I always came top in most of the academic subjects, and I loved learning to read and write. I did have one blind spot, however, which regularly saw me going to school in tears, and that was sport. I wasn't aware of it being a problem at infants school, possibly because games lessons before the age of seven were quite unstructured and non-competitive, and merged seamlessly into the general skipping around the playground that all little kids indulge in. The problems came when I moved to junior school.

I was quite the worst kid in the class when it came to anything physical. I was by nature a timid, shy child, who liked reading books and writing little stories, and spending time in my own imaginative little world, so running about a field with hordes of screaming brats was not something that I took to naturally. But the truth is that I had no coordination whatsoever, I still can't catch a ball to save my life, and I was probably what is now known as dyspraxic. They didn't call it that then, though, they called it being crap. And being crap at sport is a very public type of crapness.

There was, for a start, the horror of being chosen for teams. I've no idea whether this is standard practice in modern schools, but it involved an agonising ritual where two children were chosen as captains (normally the kids who were the best at sport) and they picked team mates in turn, one by one. Obviously the best got chosen first, then the ones who were OK at sport but popular, until you were down to the kids who were fat, or crap at anything physical, or the ones who smelled and had eight brothers and sisters (there were always a couple of those families in every school, weren't there?), and then it was down to me and the kid who had a squint, kept wetting themselves, and had to have one to one lessons with the "special" teacher. I would stare at my shoes, nearly in tears. The kid with the squint would stare at their shoes, though it was hard to tell. The squint kid, though, was used to having to run away from the other kids when teased, so was faster. I was always, always picked last.

I've got no idea why the teachers persisted in this. Surely it would have been kinder, and quicker, to just split the register down the middle alphabetically. I suppose you could argue that, as a very bright child, who was a bit of a teacher's pet and got gold stars for everything, and sat with all the clever girls, it might have taught a useful lesson in what it was like to fail. If this was a heartwarming made for TV film I would become friends with the other girl, realising that, even though I was the class swot, we had something in common. I could have helped her with the mysteries of Janet and John Book 1 (Run, Janet, Run), and our friendship would blossom over the years, so that even when I was a professor of English, and she was a famous country and western singer, we would meet up over cocktails, and support each other when one of us got a brain tumour. Bollocks. She was thick and smelled of wee. I wanted nothing to do with her. Kids are nice aren't they?

As for sports day, I used to cry and feel sick for days in advance. I got to be crap again, but this time in public. There has been a lot of controversy recently about making sports days non-competitive, with people muttering that kids shouldn't be protected from failing. Why not? We don't have this attitude to other subjects.

When teachers pick which pieces of work to display on the walls, they don't put the worst spelling test by the most dyslexic child up, so that everybody can laugh. If you go to a school concert, the head mistress doesn't come on stage and say

"Well, after that wonderful performance, why don't we all have a laugh at Joe, with his terrible stammer, as he attempts Yellow Submarine. And he'll be accompanied on the recorder by Emma, who's recently come back to school after that nasty accident which resulted in her losing the fingers on her right hand. Don't snivel Emma, it's character building."

But no, everybody in Bodmin came with their picnics to watch me forced to be the Joey Deacon of Cornwall.

When secondary school brought the horrors of hockey and cold showers, my performance worsened, but my attitude improved. Maybe I was just a bit more philosophical about life. Maybe the peer pressure was removed. Break time activity was no longer based around physical games like tig, or throwing balls, and the kids had stopped calling me words like spastic. Instead we huddled together in same sex groups talking about periods, or Adam Ant, or boasting that we tried our first cigarette last night. From being a lonely, shy child on the edge of the playground, I had a small circle of friends. As I got older, I had more of a sense of perspective; as a young child, you believe that all lessons are equal, and being rubbish at sport is as upsetting as not being able to read. In secondary school I began to formulate plans for the future, like going to university, and I realised that netball was, in fact, a supreme irrelevance in adult life.

I affected an aloof attitude during sports lessons. if anybody ran towards me with a hockey ball, I walked deliberately in the other direction. I knocked the high jump bar over on purpose, so that I could sit out the next rounds when it was raised. I forged sick notes so that I could sit in the library, you know, reading and learning stuff, like I was supposed to be doing at school. My enjoyment wasn't helped by the fact that the games teacher with which I had most contact was a tubthumping Christian of the most miserable and humourless kind, to whom I took a particular dislike. Thankfully, sports day was now optional, although the non-participants had the dubious pleasure of spending an entire day watching adolescents running around in circles.

The result is that I am totally opposed to compulsory sport in school. I realise that some children get a huge amount of pleasure from it, and even a chance of fame and fortune, but people can get that from woodwork, or physics, or dressmaking; we don't insist on hours of it until the age of 16 for those with no aptitude. Who knows, we might get a few more Olympic champions if sport was restricted, like other subjects, to a smaller number of keen participants with definite goals, who wanted to practice their technique, rather than diluting them in classes where people like me shiver, scowling, on the sidelines. And the rest of the kids could do something more constructive than faffing in a sandpit.

Nettle soup

2005-09-24T19:11:00.000+01:00

At the weekends, when we aren't doing anything terribly social, we like to make a pot of soup. This normally involves some of our cheaper vegetables, like carrots and leeks, simmered with a tin of tomatoes, various spices, and some broken spaghetti. Today, however, I decided to be a bit more adventurous; since we came back from holiday, a lot of young nettles have grown in in the garden. Armed with rubber gloves, I harvested the tender nettle tops, and added them to the soup. Apparently, they are very rich in iron. They taste a little like spinach.

I was inspired to do this by Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall, a wonderful English character who writes on harvesting food from the wild. I was given his book as a Christmas present. It's the sort of book from which you take whatever is relevant; I found the section on using plants as vegetables invaluable. The section on gathering fungi is good too. I can already identify a few fungi, like parasol mushrooms; shaggy ink caps; wood blewitts; puffballs (never seen one); and ceps (always maggoty) but only those which are very easily spotted; there are probably loads of edible fungi that are brown or white, without any obvious distinguishing features, which I won't harvest because I'm scared I'll get it wrong and die a horrible death.

The sections on eating squirrels, rooks, and various types of road kill, I think I'll ignore. I appreciate that killing a squirrel is probably more humane than buying factory farmed chicken in a supermarket, but sorry, Hugh, it's just not me. I prefer my meat in packets.

I also appreciate that some of our freshwater fish deserve more attention than they attract, but I am not going to spend any precious hours of my life sitting by a riverbank, drowning a maggot, and looking like an extra from Last Of The Summer Wine.

Well, I'm proud of my nettle soup. At least I don't have to lower myself to this! Can you really not get a Breville Pie Magic any longer? Not that I'd really want one, oh no...

Burglars

2005-09-22T23:22:00.000+01:00

I'm on my own tonight, as The Scotsman is on a business trip to exotic Crawley. I'm fine by myself, but, like anybody, I fall victim to Alone In The House Syndrome.

This involves hearing any tiny creak or breeze, and interpreting it as the footsteps of a mad psychopath. This leads to me adopting my normal defence when there might be somebody in the house. I sit up in bed and shout "Hello"

Now, The Scotsman laughs at this. This is not, apparently, an appropriate word with which to confront a burglar. I disagree.

The average burglar does not relish a confrontation. Yes, there are reconstructions on Crimewatch where burglars have harmed their victims, but these are rare. If most burglars are disturbed, they get the hell out. Unless you are borrowing the Topkapi diamond for the weekend, you're video isn't worth the complication of tangling with you. So they hear you stirring, they go.

What isn't sensible is the male tendency to greet the possibility of a burglar as an opportunity to creep downstairs, as silently as possible, to confront a chap who is probably carrying a weapon. You're sleepy, nervous, and equipped with a torch. He's psyched up, ready for violence, and probably still holding something like a crowbar. And he'll probably leave if you make enough noise stomping around upstairs...

So follow my example by loudly exclaiming that you are about to call the police, and you should be fine.

Teddington Lock

2005-09-20T20:46:00.000+01:00

As I walked over Teddington Lock the other day, I saw three kids preparing to jump off the highest point into the water. This must be about 20 feet high. They had a friend on the riverbank who was preparing to capture the moment on his mobile phone.

There have been many news reports recently about technology turning kids into couch potatoes, but this seemed to be encouraging kids to be active. I'm not sure I'd dive into Teddington Lock myself; I'm sure there are old shopping trolleys and all sorts of hazzards. But it was fun to see. OK, about to snuggle up in bed with The Scotsman to watch a repeat of Wycliffe. I'm such a party animal.

Back again!

2005-09-19T21:09:00.000+01:00

Well, Croatia was brilliant. Loads of history, sun and snorkelling. Alitalia, however, are crap. We were due to arrive at Heathrow at 10.50pm on Saturday, and arrived at Gatwick at 1.00am on Sunday. They condescended to arrange a bus to Heathrow leaving at 2.30am. And the food was utterly disgraceful. Our outward bound flight was late as well.

We were assured by the staff at Gatwick that Alitalia would pay the taxi fare for anybody going home independently, so that's £61 they owe us and boy, will there be trouble if they don't pay out.

A strange hobby

2005-09-01T21:16:00.000+01:00

This week my attention was grabbed by a website devoted to abandoned grocery lists, those pieces of paper that you find in the bottom of shopping trolleys. It's strangely compulsive...

Holiday curry

2005-08-31T19:40:00.000+01:00

No blogging for a bit as we're going on holiday as of Saturday, to Croatia for 2 weeks. So we now enter that culinary period officially known as Using Up The Last Things In The Fridge.

Tonight we will be mostly having curry made with what's left in the fridge. I'm a gourmet, me. Oh, I'm feeling generous, have the recipe!

Take 4 onions. Well, take as many onions as you need to use before you go on holiday. 4 is probably a bit much, but you could just call it a jalfrezi. Chop. Also chop as many cloves of garlic as you need to use up at the same time. Place in a pan and heat, stirring gently.

If you have three tablespoons of slightly dry salsa dip that's been hanging around since the wekend when you had friends round, you may as well bung them in too. Don't worry if you don't have any rather unsavoury-looking condiments, though.

Add liberal dashes of cumin, garam masala and coriander. The dried coriander stuff that's cheap, not the posh herby green stuff. You're not Rick Stein, you're somebody using the crap in their fridge. Your fridge, that is, not Rick Stein's. Otherwise you'd be having oysters and langoustines, or something. Not crap curry. And people like you don't have fresh coriander in their fridge. Add turmeric. You get a bit distracted while you're adding the turmeric, so it actually has quite a lot more than the average recipe would suggest. Meh. You've got cloves and cardamom pods as well, so go for the full monty, four of each. And three small green chillis too. And some salt and a chicken stock cube while you're at it. The more the merrier. Add water. How much water? Well, until it looks about right to you.

Reach deep into the cupboard and find the last of the potatoes you bought a couple of weeks ago. Cut off the sprouting bits. Peel them, cut into pieces an inch across, and add to the pot. Simmer for 10 minutes and then add 3 courgettes, finely sliced.

You may not have three courgettes, in which case any spare vegetables will do, unless they are something completely unexotic like turnips or cabbage. Simmer for a further 10 minutes.

Add the slightly dry remains of your three day old roast chicken. Simmer for a further 10 minutes.

Serve with rice, and look forward to your holiday.

Important virus alert

2005-08-29T20:00:00.000+01:00

I'm indebted to my friend Ros for this email that she sent. Dangerous indeed.

There is a dangerous virus being passed electronically, orally and by
hand.

This virus is called Worm-Overload-Recreational-Killer (WORK). If you
receive WORK from any of your colleagues, your boss or anyone else via
any means DO NOT TOUCH IT. This virus will wipe out your private life
completely.

If you should come into contact with WORK put your jacket on and take 2
good friends to the nearest pub. Purchase the antidote known as
Work-Isolator-Neutralizer-Extractor (WINE).

The quickest acting WINE type is called
Swift-Hitting-Infiltrator-Remover-All-Zones (SHIRAZ) but this is only
available for those who can afford it, the next best equivalent is
Cheapest-Available-System-Killer (CASK). Take the antidote repeatedly
until WORK has been completely eliminated from your system.

Forward this warning to 5 friends. If you do not have 5 friends you have already been infected and WORK is controlling your life. This virus is DEADLY(Destroys-Every-Available-Decent-Living-Youngster).

Update 05-05-05: After extensive testing it has been concluded that
Best-Equivalent-Extractor-Remedy (BEER) may be substituted for WINE but
may require a more generous application.

Be afraid, be very afraid

A meme from Misty

2005-08-25T21:12:00.000+01:00

7 things I plan to do before I die:

1. Celebrate my 100th birthday.
2. Finish my novel and have it published.
3. Visit The Galapagos Islands.
4. Get a cat. Or a dog (The Scotsman favours a dog).
5. Live to see some piece of forteana proved right, like the existence of ghosts, or the Loch Ness monster.
6. Learn to paint.
7. Trace my family tree.

7 things I can do:

1. Write short stories and articles and get them published (OK, not that often).
2. Remember incredibly obscure things and incidents; I have memories from being in a cot and push chair.
3. Sell things (in the sense that I persuade people to accept ideas, or buy things, not in the sense of "do you want fries with that?").
4. Cook a great beef rendang.
5. Identify and pick a number of edible fungi. Well, OK, about 5.
6. Make an origami frog.
7. Identify the majority of British butterflies.

7 things I can't do:

1. Drive a car.
2. Ride a bike.
3. Stand spiders.
4. Be organised
5. Get up early in the morning without resenting it.
6. Do any sport whatsoever to a reasonable level (OK, I swim, but not seriously).
7. Stand thick people.

7 things that attract me to the opposite sex:

1. A sense of humour.
2. Striking eyes (The Scotsman's eyes are an unusual shade of deep blue).
3. The ability to hold an intellectual conversation.
4. A Scottish or Irish accent.
5. Kindness towards animals and children.
6. Taking care with their appearance so that they don't look a slob, but not being obsessed with designer clothes and appearance either.
7. A sense of adventure, particularly with regard to travel.

7 things I say most:

1. Oh, I forgot.
2. Bumsicles.
3. Buggeration.
4. Yes, I am reading the map properly!
5. I have a cunning plan...
6. Where did I put that?
7. It's interesting to think that literary criticism has seen such a metamorphosis since the days of FR Leavis and his cannon of "dead white males", to our present concept of cultural relativism. Yep, I say that a lot. And it wouldn't be anything to do with wondering what was happening in Big Brother instead, honestly.

7 people I want to copy this meme:

Anybody who fancies it.

Strange goings on.

2005-08-22T20:08:00.000+01:00

Yesterday we spent the afternoon in the garden, and were surprised to see a large toad sitting beside our shed. Eventually, it hopped into the middle of the lawn and sat there. We have a pair of magpies who visit our garden, and they started wandering around the lawn; one of them spotted the toad. I was unsure what I should do. It's part of the food chain after all, and magpies need to eat. One magpie stared at it for a bit, then nudged it with it's beak. The toad gave what I can only describe as a yelp, and started hopping around. The magpies were fluttering around him, giving random pecks, and it was clear that it was going to be far from a clean kill, so I shooed them off, and let the toad find shade in the undergrowth. Hopefully it's off to a pond somewhere...

I got a text message on my mobile today. It said:
"From Nannie and Grandad, Congratulations. They're lucky to get you!". Now this was a surprise, partly as I hadn't recently got a new job, or new anything else that could think his/her/itself "lucky". Well, a hanging basket full of ivy, maybe. Although I don't think it required a congratulatory text. But mainly because, sadly, none of my grandparents are in a position to text me. Unless I have a mobile which goes way beyond international roaming...

I did text back to say that they got the wrong number. It was a nice thing for them to do, and I wish my grandparents had been old enough to se me into adulthood. The last one died when I was 22, and I lost the previous three before the age of 17.

Still, a previous boyfriend had a father who had been about 70 at his birth, and who had died a couple of years after, so I suppose I should count my blessings.

strange blog

2005-08-20T19:14:00.000+01:00

People blog about a lot of different things...but this guy takes the biscuit.