Letter From America Part 1

Letter From America

Part 1 – The Journey

I recently returned from Atlanta, Georgia in the US of A. My new employer had decided to throw me in at the deep end by flying me out to the corporate head office on my very first day. For two weeks. It was my first day; my first time in America, and, my first time flying economy for a long-haul flight.

The flight out was not too bad at all. We flew with Delta Airlines who are a partner of KLM. My Frequent Flyer Card was, therefore, valid for the flight. I had not flown since last February, so on the way out I was welcomed like a returning prodigal son.

My bag received a “Priority” sticker. I don’t know why they bother. As far as I can tell, most of the world’s baggage handlers are illiterate and assume that the bright yellow labels attached to certain bags means “sit on me”.

I was given an aisle seat. As readers of my earlier post – Planes, Trains and Automobiles Part 2 (Belgium) – will know, there are certain strategic advantages to having an aisle seat. Unfortunately the air stewardesses resembled the great grandmothers of Desperate Housewives. They were stick thin. Artificially blonde. And, caked in garish makeup which held their grins in place. They looked like Peter Stringellow on acid.

I was even given a sticker on board to identify me as a Frequent Flyer. This meant that I got extra cheese with my smile and free booze. Not to be sniffed at.

The flight out was nine hours long, but as we had taken off at noon and were landing at four in the afternoon, sleep was not an issue. And, I had great fun playing with my new PC which I had just collected from my new boss. Yes, I lied when asked if “anyone has given you anything to take on board”. I just had to take it on trust that my new boss wasn’t an international terrorist. In truth, the jury is still out on that one……

The flight back was a very different story. We were flying out at eight at night to arrive at nine in the morning. So, sleep was very much an issue. This time, however, it seemed that all of my Frequent Flyer privileges had been revoked (except lounge access which, with three hours to kill at the airport, was as welcome as the free Makers Mark bourbon). I did not get an aisle seat. I was sat in the middle of three. The lady who sat on my right. And I mean on my right (not to the right of me) was like a female version of the James Bond baddy, Whisper. She was as wide as she was tall. And, she was really quite tall. And she squeeked in a ridiculous whisper which was impossible to understand.

After the first five minutes she gave up apologizing for knocking me. And then she decided to sleep. She donned her iPOD headset, her blindfold, and rolled, with all the grace of a hippopotamus in quick sand, onto her right side and began to snore…..very squeakily. I spent nine hours with her huge arse in my face and spilling over my chair arm, making it impossible for me to adjust the controls for the muti-media console. She slept like a babe. A really huge, fat baby. And, I slept not at all. I must have managed just 30 minutes or so shuteye in the whole flight. How does anyone get THAT fat?

Not only was I awake but also I was incredibly bored. There was no video on demand. The plane was so old it may even have been a bi-plane. There was just one movie at a time being displayed on a single big screen. I was a good twelve rows back from the screen and, being in the center seat, my view was obscured by the heads of everyone sat in front of me. It was like watching a bad pirate copy. But, as the “entertainment” consisted of the latest Mr Bean movie, I wasn’t missing much.

I was very glad to get home. I was very tired.

It Doesn't Taste Like Chicken

It doesn’t taste like chicken

What is it about the Service Industry in the UK? To be sure, it does very little “servicing”. Nor is it “industrious” if my recent experience is anything to go by.

As readers of recent posts will know, it was with some dismay that I discovered that it takes more than 14 weeks to buy a new Audi TT, being a cunning plot by those fiendish Germans to mess with the old supply and demand dynamic in order to sustain the retail price of their vehicles at ridiculously high levels – presumably in retaliation for our bombing of Dresden back in WW2 or something. As a consequence, I did not in fact purchase a new TT, electing to buy a nearly-new, ex-demonstrator model with lots of unnecessary bells and whistles that I will probably never use (such as cruise control).

Yesterday lunchtime I was driven out of my home by the combined presence of Mike, the painter and decorator, who is in the middle of putting right a collection of DIY disasters (not all of them mine) that have taken place in the property over the years, and, the arrival of Cheryl, our cleaner.
Cheryl is lovely but she does like to chat. Mike is lovely but he does like a fig role with his coffee, and a chat. I don’t do “chatting” so, consequently, I had stored up my chores for the day and promptly took myself off and left them to it. Maslow, our furball baby, does likes neither disruption nor the vacuum cleaner and similarly made himself scarce too.

For some strange reason I was hit by an attack of the munchies and so took myself off to Kentucky Fried Chicken at the Grand Junction Retail Park in the mighty metropolitan Mecca which is Crewe. I know, I know. But sometimes only the deep-fried Colonel’s secret recipe will do.

I entered KFC at 1.30 pm. There were just five customers in the queue ahead of me – a couple of likely-lad builders who were ordering a big bucket of spicy processed stuff with onion rings, fake ice-cream and a coke or something; an elderly couple with a purse full of small change with which to purchase their mini-fillets and fries; and a very easy-on-the-eye petite blonde girl. Unfortunately, behind me there was a very uneasy-on-the-eye lard-arse fast-food regular who was having a very loud conversation on her mobile phone. They should be banned! Both! Uneasy-on-the-eye lard-arses and mobile phones should be banned from all public places.

Tony Soprano once famously stated that all Blockbuster outlets are managed by rhesus monkeys (when arguing with AJ who had been sacked from one). The same is true of KFC it would seem. There was the usual array of inane teenagers sporting body piercings, tattoos, black eyes, baggy jeans and bum cracks, and not a GCSE between them. They all looked either stoned or asleep and in need of a good wash. They were certainly more interested in chatting to each other, cracking jokes, and ogling the petite blonde girl just ahead of me in the queue, than in serving the customers. After taking the elderly couple’s order, the greasy oik at the till actually disappeared for ten minutes. None of the other staff, including the beanpole, hippy Manager that looked like he had been brought up on a Greenham Common peace camp and was best friends with Swampy seemed to know, or care, where she had gone. I think she was a she, but the beard was a little confusing…..meow!

The petite blonde took her Zinger Tower and I stepped up to the counter just twenty five minutes after entering the establishment. Fast food?! The bearded lady had been replaced by jovial fat kid. Jovial fat kid prioritized helping his mate who had just come in to get an application form ahead of serving yours truly. And, without so much as an apology or by your leave, another five minutes later, he asked me what I would like. “A three piece Colonel’s meal to go, please.” said I. “Hold on” said he and disappeared around the back only to return with the magical words: “Sorry but we are out of chicken!”

I was furious. “You what! You’re out of chicken!? What’s the name of this bloody place? It is lunchtime on a Thursday and I’ve queued for thirty minutes to be told that KFC has no bloody chicken!”. The response? An inane grin. I stormed out for fear that I was about to commit a physical assault. I took refuge in the nearby MacDonalds, pursued by lardy-arse and her bloody annoying mobile phone.

Does anyone have the complaints department email address for KFC? Or, the telephone number of the petite blonde……?

Mid-Life Crisis

Mid-Life Crisis

I have bought a new car. I have bought a new Audi TT. Shiny and black with beige leather. SatNav, iPOd connection, parking assist. 3.2 litres. V6. Tiptronic. Quattro four-wheel drive. 0 to 62 mph in 5.7 seconds. Top speed of 155 mph. She purrs. At least she will purr when I take delivery at the end of November. It is like waiting for Christmas as a kid.

I was quite disciplined in my selection. I researched all of my options on the web. I received glossy, shiny brochures from various motor manufacturers. I consulted What Car and Jeremy Clarkson (virtually of course, not in person). I ruled out a Mercedes or a BMW for being, well, indistinctive. Samey. Boring. I know that they are good cars but they just look like a better styled Vauxhall or Ford. Same for the Lexus. I ruled out an S2000 or an MX5 as being impractical. I dismissed the Chrysler Crossfire as being a hairdresser’s car and for being noisy with poor visibility.

So, it came down to a choice between the TT, a Nissan 350Z, or a Mazda RX8. I had previously driven the old style TT; the old 1.8 engine. So, I thought it might be nice to try something else for a change. All of the reviews told me that there was little to choose between them.

The RX8 was slightly slower than the other two but looked great, I thought. Design-wise and engineering-wise it was quite different, with innovative door design giving access to practical back seats which would actually seat two adults without the need for an osteopath or a shoehorn. The engine has only three moving parts. It had been voted best coupe for four years on the trot and I found several online reviews which claimed that it was a better drive and more “fun” than its two rivals. It was more economical and significantly cheaper; by at least eight grand. I test drove one and I loved it. And, what is more, they could deliver one by my 1st December deadline - I have to hand back my current company car on 30th November.

For me it was a done deal. But then I made two mistakes. Firstly, I took C to have a look. And, secondly, I told my neighbour, J (who is a bit of a car fanatic), that I was thinking of buying the RX8.

C didn’t like it. She moaned about pointy “Star Trek seats” and back seats that looked like they needed a “spermicide”. J mostly complained that it was a Mazda. She is a bit of a brand snob when it comes to cars. She also claimed that the RX8 had a boy-racer image - she was concerned of the impression that I would be giving when I start my new job. She went on at length about how I needed a good, solid, reliable car for the amount of motorway driving that I would be doing. For a while I thought she was going to suggest a Volvo.

And so, despite my weeks of painstaking scientific research and consideration of performance, economy, driveability, etc. I was bullied out of it by two women because they didn’t like the styling of the car seats.

Not that I am complaining really. The TT is truly gorgeous. Roll on December.

Illigitimi Non Carborundum

Illigitimi Non Carborundum

Wednesday this week was cathartic. No, I do not mean that I spent a lot of time on the loo purging my bowels. No, I meant rather in the sense of being emotionally purging. For, this was the day that I left my employer of 20 years, having been put on gardening leave for the sin of finding employment with a competitor company.

The day started much as any other work day. The alarm went off. I came downstairs and made a fuss of Maslow, the furball baby, and fed him. I showered. I donned suit. I grabbed my laptop bag, mobile and wallet, said goodbye to C, and headed for the door.

It being October, and, therefore, the “grey period” weather-wise for the North West of England (it lasts from about September through May!) and it was minus 2 degrees, with a thick layer of ice (or rather frozen dirt - the car needs a wash) on the windscreen. Having de-iced, I wound my way through the gloom and not-so-leafy (it’s Autumn) lanes of Cheshire, to the office in Shameless (see earlier posting) where I have been based for the last fourteen years.

At the weekend I had signed a new contract of employment with a new company, to start in December. This was a huge, huge, huge, huge (it was huge!) relief as I am being made redundant and due to leave my present company at the end of November. I informed my boss on Monday and on Tuesday got the call to say I was being sent home on paid leave. This was not as dramatic as it may have been. I was not under any immediate suspicion of having stolen the company’s crown jewels, commercial secrets, customer database and intellectual property. At least I don’t think that I was. At least my boss said that I wasn’t. In any case, I was not frog-marched from the building carrying my wife’s photo and a potted plant, flanked by burly security guards. No, it was a lot more civilised than that. Thankfully.

On Wednesday morning I cleared my desk. It has never been so tidy. I cleared my half of the cupboard which I shared with a colleague. I cleared my pedestal drawers. I threw away all of the absolutely essential files and folders that I had been hoarding over the years, filling one of the huge blue, plastic, recycling bins.

I was left with very little to show for my twenty years of dedicated service - an Oxford Gem dictionary, a calculator, a photograph of my wife, a couple of books on management style and “The Business Skills of Adolph Hitler and Gerald Ratner” and the like. Just one small bag and a single trip to the car was enough to see me moved out. Moved on. Expunged.

I cleaned out my email and set my final “Out of Office“ message. I undiverted my desk phone, and took my final supper, my very last meal with the Ladies Who Lunch (see previous posting). It was quite emotional. Not because of the food, but the finality and suddenness of the act of farewell. The girls were on good form and trying to buoy me along with the odd joke, the occasional reminiscence, and the latest from the X-Factor. But, there was a sincere affection, both ways, in the hug and peck on cheek as we parted outside of Shameless’ bingo hall. I will miss those girls.

And so, I sent a final farewell-email to my closest colleagues and work friends, before packing up my PC and handing over my laptop. I had a lovely kiss and a cuddle with the girls in the office (thus discovering how Vanessa got her stripper name on Facebook.com), and handed my security badge in at reception.

And there I was gone. I drove home through the gloom with a tear in my eye and a feeling of……..deflation, anti-climax, and, wondering what I will do with myself for the next five weeks.

I would like to thank all of those former-colleagues that have sent me emails and kind thoughts. Please do stay in touch. I will miss you all. And, for those of you who haven’t sent emails or kind thoughts…….shame on you! I wish you all good luck, success, health and happiness. And, to all, but especially my Ladies Who Lunch, remember the motto: illigitimi non carborundum!

Don't Look Under The Bed

Don’t Look Under The Bed

What is it with hotels in this country (the UK)? My company has just shelled out the princely sum of one hundred and eighty of your British pounds to enable me to stay one night, yes, one night, in a central London hotel. This was not the Ritz. This was not the Savoy. This was not the Dorchester. This was a run-of-the-mill business/tourist hotel belonging to a well-known chain above Charing Cross station.

In return for this money I got an “executive room” just big enough to swing a cat, a small TV with just five TV channels and four pay-for-view adult movie channels (anonymity guaranteed!), a Bible, a mini bar stocked with the ubiquitous mini-Toblerone and spirit miniatures, and an ironing board combined with a trouser press. The ironing board and trouser press were only big enough to cater for the clothes of a newly born baby and the bottom of the iron looked as if it had been dipped in bitumen.

This was the epitome of British business hotels. There was a newly painted patch on the ceiling, clearly attempting to hide the point at which the bath in the room above had overflowed. There was one wall lamp missing from the dressing table area. There was the remains of someone else’s piece of toast on the armchair. And, the carpet was a tad sticky in places.

I ate the complimentary shortbread biscuits and threw the cushions which adorned the “double bed” (two single beds pushed together with a double sheet which was too slackly fitted to prevent you falling into the crack) to the floor. I checked the ceilings, wall pictures and mirrors for hidden cameras, just in case. I checked that the mini bar was fully stocked and that the seals on the miniatures had not been broken – it is quite common to replace the white spirits with water. Some people!

At least the air-conditioning worked. It rattled and hummed and cooled the room to Eskimo-like temperatures. But, the rattling and humming was at least better than the stifling heat that would otherwise have ensued. And, the humming and rattling acted a little like white noise and helped a little to drown out the middle-of-the-night corridor conversations. Hotel room doors are akin to amplifiers. The slightest drunken whisper in the corridor is amplified to a shout in your shell-like. And the drunks in these hotels are many and not prone to whispering. If it wasn’t amorous partygoers or drunken executives that I was attempting to block out with my air-conditioning and my iPOD, it was the constant click-clack of the fire-doors just outside my room and the rather noisy lift.

Has anyone ever been in a hotel where that little dial in the bathroom, which is supposed to relay the sound of the television, actually worked? I haven’t. I think it is a real shame. I would love to be able to listen to the BBC News while having a constitutional. As ever there was a chip out of the bath enamel and a shower that looked as if it had seen better days, presumably during the reign of Queen Victoria, and now did little more than remind me of the dangers of Legionnaire’s Disease. And, I am always just a little bit suspicious about the contents of those little bottles claiming to contain shampoo or shower gel. I fought my way manfully into the cellophane-wrapped brick which claimed to be a tablet of soap.

As ever, the hairdryer was bolted inside one of the drawers and sported a wholly deficient length of flex, which required me to kneel on the floor in order to dry my hair.

And, is it just my imagination or do you think that the sheets always feel a little damp when you climb into he bed? That familiar rustle of starched sheets over plastic mattress cover. And believe me, no combination of the five pillows will produce a comfortable sleeping position.

And, some bastard stole my copy of the Times from outside my door!

Worth every penny. I think not.

Sleeping With Julia Roberts.

Sleeping with Julia Roberts

As well as my sexual encounter with Sarah Lancashire on a Virgin train ;), I have slept with Julia Roberts. Well, actually I have slept next to Julia Roberts. Well, next door to her to be precise. I was staying at the Sheraton Hotel at Paris Airport on a tedious work thing which lasted three or four days. Julia was making a film in the hotel. She was co-starring with Antonio Banderas. I am not sure that it ever made it to the movies or even to DVD because I have not been able to find any reference to it in either of their filmographies or on the shelves at Blockbuster. Nevertheless, I slept in the room next to Julia.

She was beautiful and surprisingly petite. I got within six feet of her at one point (!) when they were filming on the landing outside of our rooms. She smiled at me. Only me. She was waiting to be filmed while we were watching them filming one of the other female stars being thrown over the balcony.

There was quite some disruption in the hotel during the filming. It was really quite exciting. For example, most of the time, the guest lift was not working and we had to use the service lift and walk through the kitchens and other “secret” areas of the hotel to get to reception. Walking through the kitchen made me feel a little bit like a US president en route to being assassinated – well, in the movies it always seems to happen that way doesn’t it? They go through the kitchen and they get shot by the mafia guy along with some small Mexican waiter that is living the American dream.

Lifts (elevators for our American cousins) seemed to figure heavily in the film as well. For about an hour I watched them try to film some “famous” French actor, that I have never heard of and never seen in any film, enter the hotel The idea seems to have been that he would walk into the hotel, walk to the lifts, enter the lifts, and presumably go upstairs and throw a woman off the balcony. Simple. Except that, in the world of Hollywood, it seems actors are not allowed to press the button to call a lift or to wait for it to arrive. For a whole hour they were trying to time it so that someone would push the lift call button off camera, so that the actor would arrive in front of the lift just as the doors would slide open. They hadn’t managed it after an hour and I got bored and went and did some work. In any case Julia was not there to distract me. My little American Tinkerbell.

Julia sent a bottle of champagne to my room to apologise for the noise and disruption. I thought that that was very nice of her. I waited in my room hoping that she would knock my door and share a glass or two with me. Unfortunately she didn’t. I didn’t hear her in her room that night. And, believe me, I listened. I listened hard. And, it came as a huge disappointment when I found out the following morning that Julia (or at least her staff) had sent a bottle of champagne to everyone on the landing. And, I thought that I had been special. Sigh.

This is the closest that I have come so far to a real “A-list” celebrity. To a real star. There have been many minor celebrities along the way (see earlier posting). And, on one occasion I got a little closer than was comfortable. Julian Cope checked me out in the urinals of the village hall in Portree on the Isle of Skye. C and I went to Skye on our first ever holiday together. We got engaged while we were there. But, imagine our surprise when we discovered that Julian Cope was performing at the local village hall. He was doing a tour of the Inner Hebrides. Clearly the residents of Skye had never heard of him. Well, it was 1992 and the Teardrop Explodes was more of an ‘80s thing. We were joined in the village hall by maybe six or seven other people. Julian was stoned. I am not sure that he had a clue where he was. He was off his head. But he belted them out and the world shut its mouth. I went to the loo at a half-time break. Julian followed. He chose the urinal next to me. I am sure he checked me out. Now, if only Julia Roberts had got so close……

Anarchy In The UK

Anarchy In The UK

So, would you have a go? Would you intervene if you saw a bunch of youths vandalising your property? Would you intervene if you saw someone being attacked in the street? Up until recently, my answer would always have been “yes”. But now, I am not so sure.

Indeed, it is not all that long ago since I did tell two yobs off for causing damage. They were aged about fifteen and they were climbing on an ornamental hedge in the ornamental gardens of Tatton Park. They were standing on top of the hedge and beating it with a big stick. I told them to “Get the f**k down!” They did. It was a bit of a relief because it was a very big stick. And, imagine my surprise when I realised that the woman who was sitting on the bench in front of the very same hedge was their mom. She, their mom, batted not an eyelid, neither at their unruly behaviour nor at my aggressive admonishment.

I also, regularly have been known to have “a quiet word” in the ear of groups of teenagers who are making noise in cinemas. But, maybe I am foolish to do so. Even if the gang of kids don’t take you on themselves, you run the risk that they will have phoned their big brothers who will be waiting for you outside the movie theatre, with pit-bulls and baseball bats at the ready.

But recently, there have been too many murders of have-a-go heroes, or even, of innocents just trying to protect their own homes. And, it seems that every hoody in the ‘hood is walking around “tooled up” and prepared to use their weapons. On anybody. On everybody. Young male testosterone, bad attitudes, knives, drugs and alcohol are not a nice mix.

Now don’t get me wrong, my teenage years were far from non-violent and I was always more than ready to respond with my fists. Nor is it the case that knives were particularly rare in downtown Handsworth in the early ‘80s. As readers of earlier posts will know I had a boy die in my arms as a result of being stabbed in a schoolyard fracas. And, I have personally had a knife pulled on me three times in my life – once when as a school prefect I was trying to remove a fifth former from school (it was a very small knife and his arm hurt very badly afterwards!); once when someone tried to mug me in London (I only saw the knife after I had smashed his nose and he ran away); and, once when I stepped in to protect my next door neighbour from her enraged boyfriend (see earlier posting).

Knives and sharpened metal combs were omnipresent in my youth. Bouncers on the pub doors in Erdington would regularly confiscate penknives, flick-knives and metal combs. But, they were rarely used. Fights were frequent too. But in my day there were still rules. No kicking. If someone went down in a fight you would never have dreamed of kicking them or stamping on their head. And, the fights were largely self-contained, involving like-minded violent youths only. My teenage friends would never have dreamt of having a go at anyone who tried to stop us from doing something that we shouldn’t have been doing, or of picking on an innocent in the street or on a bus.

People seem to be getting more and more fearful. I read that black army officers are to be drafted in as positive role models to try and deter black youths from joining gangs and getting involved in violence (unless it is on the streets of Basra or Helmund Province that is). But I fear that we will see a growth in gated communities and a polarisation of society. We will find metal detectors and security guards in our schools. I fear that David Cameron’s plan to provide tax incentives to encourage people to get married and to stay together will fail to prevent the decline of our social make-up in which so many young men lack positive male role models. I fear that the Guardian Angels will soon be back on the London underground and groups of vigilantes will be roaming our estates.

So, would I have a go? I really, really don’t know. Would you?

The Good Life

The Good Life

It is a Thursday and I am at home. The sun is shining and I am wearing shorts, inflicting my skinny pale pegs on the unsuspecting world. Maslow, our furball baby cat, is on the sofa next to me snoring and purring and chasing squirrels or rabbits or mice in his dreams. Actually, he is much more comfortable than I am, having commandeered the greater part of the sofa so that he can stretch out while wedging me against the arm. But it is a workday so lounging about at home in my shorts sounds pretty ideal you would have thought. But it isn’t. Not entirely. I’m bored and at a loss what to do.

You see, while the sun may be shining (an unusual occurrence in the great Cheshire summertime, so worthy of a second mention) my mood is a little flat. I got turned down for a job yesterday. Admittedly I did quite well in the interview process, being only one of thirteen who got to first interview out of some two hundred and fifty applicants. And, I got through to the final three. But, I was pipped at the post. On the plus side, it does show that my CV is strong and that I must have interviewed OK. On the downside, I had already planned a future involving a new car, new phone, banking my redundancy pay-off for a rainy day, enjoying an exciting and demanding new job, and living the life of luxury with a £25k pay increase. But, ‘twas not to be. Serves me right for getting my hopes up. It is a real shame though.

So now, I ‘m a bit bored. A bit unsettled. A little uncertain about the future. Increasingly anxious. I am less than usefully employed and have plenty of time on my hands. There are only so many times I can go to the shops, walk or cycle around the block, or watch back-to-back Jeremy Kyle shows without turning one’s brain to soup. But, I am making good progress on my latest video game and, so far at least, I have not succumbed to watching live streams of Big Brother Live. That would be when I know I have totally given in. I do like to eat my lunch with Loose Women on TV though – they remind me of the ladies I have lunched with at work over the years.

The recruitment market is also a tad slow at the moment. People are on holiday I guess. But, without a stream of suitable adverts to respond to I am afraid my mind is drifting somewhat. Straying into dark corners where I entertain my fears of not getting a job at the salary level I would like or need to maintain our standard of living. Of relying on my redundancy insurance to pay the mortgage until even that runs out and I have to start consuming my redundancy monies with far too much gusto. Of being unable to find a job for a couple of years and consequently becoming unemployable.

A life of abject poverty surely beckons. Which is probably why my thoughts have drifted to self-sufficiency. Sustainable living. The Good Life. Felicity, Felicity (Kendal), you fill me with electricity. She was kind of cute in the Good Life and downright filthy in the Camomile Lawn. Sigh.

Now let us be clear. I am not expecting C to don dungarees and grow pigtails in her hair. Nor am I turning into a Guardian reader or a hippy. We actually gave away the chicken coup that once lived in our side garden. I just like the thought of cooking using things that I have grown and nurtured myself.

Now there have been sporadic delusions of growing my own vegetables over the years. My granddad always used to grow his own. Runner beans, potatoes, cabbages, tomatoes, lettuce, and gooseberries. The whole shebang. He could often be found pricking out in his greenhouse, so to speak.

Even mom and dad were inspired by the financial benefits of growing your own and turned our back garden into a vegetable patch in the 1970s, when funds were low and the chest freezer had arrived. The chest freezer would be filled with the carcases of whole pigs, lambs, and the larger part of a cow’s anatomy. Offal. Sheep’s brain is a delicacy which has to be tried to be believed. And, our meat was accompanied by home-grown vegetables suitably blanched and frozen to see us through the non-growing period. I think that my main contribution in this period was to plant a few radish plants down the side of the summerhouse.

When we moved to rural Cheshire I got the gardening bug, briefly. I was probably inspired by the early episodes of Big Brother when they used to look after chickens and tend to their own veggies. These were the early seasons before they started to put vegetables in the house as housemates.

A vegetable patch was dug, composted, and seeds were planted. The planted seeds were occasionally watered. It was a disaster. I was not big into weeding and my tendering was definitely fair weather and intermittent. The slugs and snails soon saw to any actual edible vegetation that appeared. My main crop was bindweed. Indeed, my only crop was bindweed. Nature’s very own barbed wire.

But, the imminent onset of abject poverty coupled with the terrible tedium of having nothing to do has inspired me once more. And now, the front of our home is adorned with five terracotta earthenware pots, filled with the best growing compost. One is filled with mint, one filled with rosemary, one filled with coriander, another with parsley, and the last with thyme. I can sense the snails smacking their lips already. I know it is only a small start but it a start nonetheless. And, we know that from tiny acorns, mighty oaks do grow. Well, in my case it is likely to be bindweed again……..

I just have to get a job……….

The Oxford Experience

C and I have recently spent an excellent weekend with four good friends and one very cute, happy, five month old baby boy in Oxford. My Alma Mata. The place I went to university. I left just twenty years ago. It feels like yesterday. It feels like a hundred years ago. It felt very strange to be back.

We were staying in a Landmark Trust property called the Old Parsonage in Iffley Village, to the south of the city. The house had its own walled garden running down to the river Isis (being what the Thames is known as when it passes through Oxford). Little were we to know that just a week or so later, Oxford would be flooding. I do hope that the flood waters went into the meadow on the opposite side of the bank rather than climbing the steep garden to the ancient building that we had stayed in.

The Old Parsonage was truly beautiful. It dates back to Norman times but most of the present building dates back to 1500. The downstairs rooms are beautifully panelled in dark wood, and the bedrooms and bathrooms on the upper two storeys are tastefully decorated. Comfortable. It is a perfect size for a group of six and a baby. C and I were dreaming of owning and living in such a place.The oven was a bit dodgy though – the back burner on the hob didn’t work, the oven door wouldn’t shut properly, and the grill only lit at the front. Consequently, the oven took about twice as long to cook things, unless you were prepared to stand there all evening with your knee against the oven door, wrapped in a t-towel to protect against the heat. Still, it’s better than camping! And, C’s pork with pears and parsnips was a success. Thank you Jamie Oliver.

We had a great weekend. We ate ourselves stupid with cooked breakfasts/brunches and wonderful dinners. If I never see another sausage again…….We drank ourselves stupid with the fine wine and beers and gin that we had brought, topped up with a couple of trips to local hostelries. Even the flat southern beer hit the spot.

And, we kept ourselves entertained with Radio 4 in the kitchen, an iPOD shuffling away to itself in the lounge, evening games of University Challenge (a game with beginners, intermediary and difficult questions based on the TV programme, complete with electric buzzers but the crappiest scoreboard in the world) and a “guess who” game of our own invention. Apparently, “Irish” is not a good one-word clue to Eddie Murphy. Sorry guys. We even mostly (!) coped with the sleep deprivation that results from a strange bed, a breast-feeding baby, and too much booze (and apparently my snoring and crying out in my sleep).

The weather was not brilliant. It is the height of the British summer after all. Saturday was sunny enough to allow us to walk along the river into the city and to take in the Dreaming Spires and the more typical touristy things such as the Radcliffe Camra, the Bridge of Sighs, the Sheldonian, the Covered Market and the like. The weather allowed us to enjoy a bbq on the Saturday evening cooked by our very own resident Aussie. More sausages. Otherwise it mostly rained, but we were happy enough enjoying the surroundings of the Old Parsonage itself.

Visits to Oxford over the last couple of years (C and I stayed in the other Landmark property in Oxford – The Steward’s House – for my birthday last year) have convinced me that the place was largely wasted upon me as a student.

I was probably too young and immature to get the most out of it. Don’t get me wrong, I was by far from being the youngest. I am sure that there were several infant genii/geniuses there (that will no doubt spark a debate on its own – what is the plural of genius?) who were much younger than myself. Indeed, Ruth Lawrence was in the same year and would often be spotted on the High riding a tandem with her father, including one memorable time when we were blocking the entrance to All Souls in protest against Margaret Thatcher, who was receiving an honorary degree there.

Nevertheless, I was one of the youngest in my year. Most of my intake seemed to have already taken a year off, polishing daddy’s yacht or doing an internship (without that dress I hope) at Accenture (or Anderson Consulting as it was back then), or having done a seventh term crammer, or re-applying, having failed to get in the first time around. And, at that age, the extra year here or there seems to make a big difference. You do a lot of growing up between the ages of 18 and 21. Or, at least, you are supposed to.

And, I admit to having been a little bit intimidated at first. I had always been used to being one of the brightest in my school but now I found myself to be just another bright kid amongst many. Also, I had a bit of a working class chip on my shoulder. Apart from the occasional school football and cricket matches these were the first public school students that I had ever met. And they were, frankly, different.

While I knew that I was there on merit, having gained a scholarship following the entrance exam and interview, and, gaining four grade A “A-Levels” with distinctions, I wasn’t sure about my fellow students. A lot of them seemed to be there because they went to the right schools, or because daddy was an old boy, or mommy went to Cambridge, or because they were top rowers or rugby players, or minor royalty. We had an actual, genuine African prince at college while I was there.

There was I in my Wrangler jeans (never the most fashionable), Dunlop trainers (before they were trendy – dad got a discount in the company shop), and donkey jacket with the rubberised back. I was amongst brogues, chords, striped open-neck shirts, the occasional cravat (I joke not) and jackets with leather patches on the elbows. I felt that I did not fully conform. I remember returning to college once after having attended a job interview. As such I was unusually wearing a suit. I bumped into my History Tutor, Dr Parker, and he exclaimed in surprised amusement: “You are transformed! You are without denim.”

I was also somewhat distracted in the beginning of university life. I had attended an all boys school and now found myself surrounded by beautiful, intelligent, young ladies. I was like a dog on heat. Or at least I was like a dog on heat in the privacy of my own room. I think I was a tad too eager in the beginning. I remember pursuing one young lady in the first week, at the end of which she described me as “ubiquitous”. I had to look the word up. I’ve been called worse. We didn’t hit it off.

So, the beautiful surroundings were a bit of a blur in my formative student years. I was once stopped in the street by an American tourist who asked me where the university was. I only visited the Union once. For a blind date charity event. I ended up spending a most boring evening with some posh bird who had apparently been in the Sunday Observer magazine just the week before. And, it is only in the last couple of years that I have stepped foot in the Bodleian or any of the Oxford museums. I can recommend the Pitt Rivers and the Ashmolean. But, I could always find the Turf pub down its hidden alleyways with my eyes shut.

My Oxford experience was a blur of watered-down beer, the occasional glass of port at formal dinners, Pimms at garden parties, and sherry in a Don’s room on wintry evenings. Football, croquet, darts, frisby, rowing, one game of hockey in which I received a concussion after being hit round the head with a stick after a “disagreement” with a member of the other team, the occasional game of squash, and cricket over a beer barrel in the park. I edited the college magazine for a year. I was Entz Rep for a couple of terms - sweaty bops on a Friday night and the occasional cocktail party on a Saturday.

I was so busy that it was sometimes difficult to find time for the study. But, fortunately, our tutors lacked imagination and would set the same essays year to year. It was always a good tactic to get hold of the essays of previous-year students – it saved a lot of unnecessary reading. I was embarrassed, however, when a tutor asked me once to explain what had caused the Hundred Years War…….

Nevertheless, I left university with a 2:1, a cheating girlfriend (a fact I only discovered after the event) an overdraft, a hangover, a good general knowledge of how to mix cocktails, a white bow tie which I have never since worn, and a thorough understanding of which knife and fork to use at formal dinners. And, some of the best friends in the world……Not such a waste after all.

Man Flu

I think I may be coming down with a sniffle. A cold. I have been sneezing and my nose is a little redder than normal due to the number of times that I have blown my nose. I say a “little redder” because being “reddish” is, unfortunately, my normal state of affairs. My face is often pink. It is probably genetic. But, unlike my total colour-blindness (red-green and blue-violet) which was clearly my grandma’s fault (it is passed down the female genetic line), this seems to be my dad’s fault….

My reddishness is not because I blush easily (but I do) or because I am easily embarrassed (but I often am). Nor is it because I have spent too long under a sunbed (but I do). Nor is it related to any blood pressure problems. As far as I am aware, I don’t have any. No, but I do have Rosacea, which, according to the NHS Direct is “a common inflammatory condition of the skin of the face that causes redness that looks like a flush or blush”. It is made worse when it is hot, at times of stress, and after spicy food, etc. It can be embarrassing. I can’t count the number of times that I get asked if I have been away on holiday and the like. Fortunately, my Rosacea manifests itself as a whole head blush. I think that this is slightly better than it being blotchy or patchy. My poor dad looks as if he has a rash sometimes.

Anyhow, it is not surprising that I have a cold. I have spent the last couple of days outside in the rain a lot. The great British summer. Flooding everywhere. Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink. I have been living in my wellies, desperately trying to stop water flooding into the hallway. It has rained pretty solidly in Cheshire for the last couple of weeks. Fortunately, we are not near a river or a stream and do not have the same flood risk as those poor people in Hull and South Yorkshire, Gloucestershire and Oxfordshire and elsewhere. But, the fields around home are sodden. Water is pouring off the fields onto the roads, and, the poor soak-away drain that we have in the front drive could not cope with the rainfall. It was even worse than in my earlier posting “It Rains Up North”.

Fortunately my rudimentary barricade of bricks, a couple of pieces of wood, and, compost bags were not quite tested. But, it was close. And, so, yesterday, I went and purchased 15 bags of Cheshire Pink gravel (it is a planning requirement!) and piled it outside of the front door in an attempt to divert future inundations away from the house. Fingers crossed. The joys of climate change!

So, I seem to have a cold. And it probably didn’t help that we were without central heating and hot water from Saturday until Tuesday, because we ran out of oil. My fault. I should have ordered earlier. But, this wet weather combined with a cold-water stand up wash in the morning is not the best start to the day. But, I will not succumb. I do not do “man flus”. You know, when men exaggerate their illnesses so that when they have a cold they claim they have the flu, etc.

Fortunately, I have been ill very infrequently in my forty or so years. So far. Touch wood. Fingers crossed. When I was a kid I had the annual bout of tonsillitis. Spookily it would always come during the Christmas holidays so I didn’t even get the benefit of time off school. And, one Christmas I remember a hurried last-minute scramble for Christmas dinner ingredients because I was too ill to travel to our Auntie Jane’s as scheduled.

In the twenty years that I have been working, I have had just two days off work through illness. That was due to a chest infection which required me to take anti-biotics for the first time in my life. Which I hated. I hated it because a) it meant that I had to curtail my alcohol intake for a couple for days and b) because I find it really hard to swallow pills, tablets and capsules. They make me gag. I can’t swallow them. Normally, I end up chewing the damn things, which is not nice because most medicines taste bloody awful.

The only time that I have been really ill was when I was at university. I developed a form of herpes of the mouth. Nice. I caught this from kissing my girlfriend when she had a cold sore on her lip. Nice. I was ill. The whole of the inside of my mouth and tongue were coated in painful ulcers.

I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t drink. I lost about two stone in weight in about a week and a half. This was extreme dieting. I also had blood poisoning which caused hallucinations including a really, really scary dream about being chased by nuns. This was a result of falling asleep in the Junior Common Room while watching the Sound of Music one Bank Holiday Monday. She can be damn scary that Mary Poppins (sic!).

The college doctor shipped me off to the John Radcliffe Teaching Hospital in Oxford, where I became a bit of a spectacle. Apparently, what I had was very rare. Which meant that every doctor and every student-doctor in the place (of which there were many) felt it necessary to come and have a look, and take a swab, and have a poke. It was not nice. It hurt.

It only lasted a couple of weeks or so. Fortunately. Unfortunately, a much longer-term problem, thankfully now cured, was the “eating disorder” it left me with. When I finally made it back into “normal” college life (which must be an oxymoron) I looked bloody awful because of the weight I had lost.

I was put on a “special” diet. Special food. It was like being a baby again. Mostly mushy stuff like scrambled egg, custards and the like. The special diet meant that I was served my meals in formal hall after everyone else had been served the normal meal that was available that night. My food was paraded in by my very own waitress, who I happened to have been on a couple of dates with (which was totally against college rules). It was very embarrassing.

I became very self-conscious. I thought everyone was staring at me. This was because everyone was staring at me. And, it left me with a bit of a phobia about eating in public, which stuck with me until my mid-Thirties. It was worse when I was feeling a bit stressed. I was stressed a lot until my mid-Thirties. Lunches with customers, romantic meals with girlfriends (or girls I wanted to be girlfriends) were an absolute joy. Not. You don’t want to know how many restaurant toilets I have thrown up in.

If you just think how often you actually have to eat in the company of others then you may get a sense for how big a problem it could be. Normally I would just push the food around on my plate to make it look as if I had eaten something. I would hide the meat under my potatoes and I would hide my leftovers under my napkin. And then I would wait until I was back in the comfort of my own home before eating. Mostly mushy stuff like scrambled egg, custards and the like.

To this day, my best friends from university vie for the strategic place next to me at the table so that they can scavenge my leftovers. I am still not a big eater when in the company of others.

So, take my advice. No matter how gorgeous your girlfriend. If she is need of Zovarax, leave her alone. Cold sores are to be avoided!

Fifteen Minutes Of Fame

Andy Warhol once declared that: "The day will come when everybody will be famous for fifteen minutes." Well, I am not sure if we are all supposed to become famous on the SAME day, or, we all have our own day in the glare of paparazzi flashes. And, clearly, there are some people like David Beckham, the Queen, Kylie, and Nicholas Parsons who have had much more than fifteen minutes. So, how does it work? If someone takes half an hour of fame does that mean that someone else has to do without? Is it like carbon emissions? Can I sell my fifteen minutes to some wannabe Big Brother contestant or someone in the auditions queue at the next X-Factor?

Actually, if I think about it, I might have already used my own fifteen minutes up. Except in my case, it is probably more a case of a quarter of an hour of infamy....

It started at an early age. In fact, at birth. I was declared to be a "Miracle Baby". No, nothing to do with a donkey, a carpenter, a manger and three stargazing hippies high on frankincense. No immaculate conception for my momma. No divine inheritance for yours truly. No, apparently, it was a miracle that I survived. I decided to come out upside down, the wrong way round, attempting to snuff myself out before I had even begun by strangling myself with my own umbilical chord. My mom lost a lot of blood.

Fortunately, however, such suicidal tendencies have largely been absent in the years that have followed - if you discount me glugging from a bottle of Domestos bleach while potty training, setting fire to the frayed landing carpet when a toddler, and, whacking Leroy Hunter around the head with a cricket bat at Junior School. He was hard. And, not just in the head.

I made it into the internal magazine at my dad's work (Fort Dunlop Tyre Factory in Birmingham) when I was about six or seven. This was because I had won an art competition by painting "My dad at work". I think I probably won because my dad's job was a little different to most who worked in the tyre factory. My dad was the company chauffeur. While others were no doubt sketching pictures of men in overalls and tyres, I was able to push out a passing representation of a man in a peaked cap holding open the door of a big posh car.

I made it into the Birmingham Saturday pink Sports Argos newspaper. Twice. Once when it was recorded that I had been sent off in a school cricket match. I know. I can't think of anyone else who was sent off at a cricket match. I was sent off because I punched the wicket keeper. I hit the wicket keeper because he was taking the p*ss. But, at least I was decent enough to drop my bat and remove my gloves before decking him. The second time in the Sports Argos was when our team photo was included when we lost (yes lost) the national schoolboys' cricket final at Edgbaston in 1982. We lost by a whisker. Five minutes in fact (it was a timed game). If only we had dawdled over our sandwiches during the tea interval......

I even made it onto the Nine O'clock News. Well, not THE 9 O'clock News. Not on the BBC. No this was the Irish version. I was filmed, together with my mates from University, coming ashore in Ballinskellig, County Kerry, Ireland. We were on a cycling and camping holiday there during our first summer holidays. It was June 23rd 1985 and we had been on a boat trip to visit the early Christian beehive monastery and the puffins on the Island of Skellig Michael.

On the way back to the mainland we found more than we had been looking for. We found ourselves amongst the floating wreckage of Air India Flight 182, which had been blown up by a terrorist bomb while en route from Canada to Heathrow. 329 people died. It was an eerie scene. Fortunately we did not see any bodies but we did find bits of wreckage floating on the surface. A galley door. A bit of wing. An unused safety vest. The boat's captain radioed ahead. Apparently we were the first people to find the wreckage and the news reporters were waiting on the beach for us when we returned.

But, it has been down hill since then on the fame front, I'm afraid. I made it into my college gossip mag "Queenie" (Queen's College) a couple of times. But, that was hardly surprising as I was the editor and I am not known for being self-effacing. And, I have made it into my company's internal magazine at least twice - once in the basket of big truck-shaped balloon (don't ask) and once when photographed with Eddie the Eagle (really, don't ask). I have even made it into Sweden's leading industry publication on plastic card production. I am not entirely sure why I was in it because I don't speak Swedish, but hopefully it was something to do with combating card fraud, as that was my job at the time.

So, I guess it is time I pulled my finger out and did something else noteworthy. Unfortunately, inspiration forsakes me at the mo..........

A Strange Old Week

It has been a strange old week. A busy one. In no particular order or preference, there has been flooding across much of the country, a new (ish) Prime Minister, terrorist attacks in London and in Glasgow (and arrests on the M6 at Sandbach, VERY near where we live), a couple of funerals, a ban on smoking in public places, a phone call from my mom and dad who are on holiday in Canada, a meeting with a Head Hunter, Birmingham City have signed two new players, Brian has brought Rory back home to Ambridge in the Archers, Charlie has somehow survived another week in the Big Brother House, and, we have run out of oil.

It is Sunday. C is upstairs, trapped in her study, trying to make progress on an assignment that she has to complete by next Friday as part of her psychotherapy course. She is very disciplined. Very dedicated. She will be locked away until either she completes the task, or, the urge of a nicotine fix kicks in. Following the Government ban on the 1st July, our lounge is now one of the few places left in this great nation of ours where C can smoke without risking a fine or public derision. This week I even got a letter from the leasing company reminding me that my company car is designated a workplace and that smoking is, therefore, banned. Fortunately I do not smoke. I never have. And, even if I had, I am sure I would never have smoked in a car. Far too enclosed a space. But, C will be OK with the ban. She only really smokes in the evening, just four or five a night, and is very aware of her smoke and prefers not to smoke when eating or when others would be offended.

Maslow, our furball baby cat, has been a bit fractious today. There have been several episodes of “mad cat”, when he stares with wild, wide eyes at imaginary monsters, drops his tail, and bounces around the room like a lunatic feather-duster on speed. It might be the weather. It is very wet and windy. He doesn’t like the wind. It might be because C is ensconced in her study and he is not getting the attention he seeks. Or, it might be because I released the little “present” that he brought us this morning - a little robin red-breast. I managed to retrieve it from Maslow’s mouth and release it through the dining room window. It was a little shocked and chewed but unpierced and he flew away under his own steam, thankfully.

As for the funerals, I attended one and sent a memorial message to the other. The funeral that I attended was of our neighbour’s father. A lovely man. The one I didn‘t attend was that of a work colleague. He was also a lovely man. His death was maybe even more tragic in that he was so young - maybe only a year or so older than I am. Such a waste. God Bless both.

Anyhow, with C at work upstairs, I am at home with the Sunday Times, listening to Radio 4 and the frequent, heavy showers outside. I am glowing slightly and emitting a faint pink radiation. I have not long returned from five minutes in a stand-up sunbed. Consequently, I am a tad flushed and smell a little singed. Which is unfortunate really as a shower is out of the question. This is because we have run out of heating oil and so have neither hot water nor heating since Friday. I doubt that they will deliver before Wednesday, which means a couple of early mornings having a stand up wash in cold water, and, shaving and washing hair by boiling kettles. Lovely.

I have applied for three jobs this morning. One out of the paper and the other two as a result of the many, many, many email prompts that I receive from all of the recruitment agencies that I am now registered with. Getting a job is a full-time job in itself. I had with a Head Hunter on Thursday (a recruitment specialist rather than a wild man from Borneo).He seemed quite hopeful, and the job that he described would certainly be of interest. He said he will probably be able to tell me tomorrow if I will be called for an interview. So, fingers crossed!

In the meantime, I am desperately trying to conjure up some enthusiasm about Gordon Brown’s arrival at Number 10. I would like to believe that he is genuine in his cabinet approach and a Government of “all talents” but I am guarded in my enthusiasm. I still feel badly let down by Blair and his lies that took us to war in Iraq. And Brown is the least impressive front man that I have ever seen. He is such a dull speaker. So monotone. I find myself drifting off when he is talking, even when it is about something as important as the latest terrorist threats. And, I can’t seem to get beyond that slack-jawed gagging thing that he does with his mouth. So, the jury is still out………as indeed, it is on Brum’s latest signings, Garry O’Connor and Olivier Kapo. So, watch this space.

Incidentally, it is a bit worrying that suspect terrorists were arrested near Sandbach on the M6 - if I stand on tip-toe in my garden I can almost see the spot where the police stopped the traffic and pounced. It is a little too close to home. Especially, since the failed car bomb in London was outside of the Tiger Tiger nightclub, being the last place that I “hit the town” in at a colleague’s leaving do. The food and service was crap, by the way. But, why are they picking on me……

Ladies Who Lunch

Ladies Who Lunch

Since I have worked in Shameless (see earlier entries), in a plane-proof building near Manchester Airport, I have always shared my lunchtime with an ever-evolving group of ladies of a certain age. My ladies who lunch.

As an aside, the fact that the office was supposedly “plane-proof” was quite reassuring when I first moved up from London all those many years ago. For about five minutes. The building is on the flight path. The landing path in fact. And, in the event of a crash it would e on the crash path. And, I was working on the third floor. The top floor. The floor over which all the planes skimmed on their way into land. It was a bit disconcerting and, therefore, somewhat reassuring to hear the office described as “plane-proof”. Until it was explained to me exactly what that phrase meant.

In the old days, before the onset of outsourcing, and off-shoring, the Shameless office used to house the company mainframe systems (they are now in Prague and Bangalore). The systems were in the basement. Underground. In the event of an aircraft crashing onto the roof of the building, it is designed to collapse in on itself to form a protective layer of rubble, debris, and, presumably, dead employees over the mainframes so that they could carry on working without interruption. Even during the recovery of the bodies. So, not so reassuring after all.

Incidentally, and as another aside, the company’s Danish headquarters, in Copenhagen, used to be Nazi headquarters during the Second World War. Not out of choice you understand. In any case, as Nazi headquaters it was an obvious target for Allied bombing raids. Those canny (this being the mildest word that I could have used, believe me) Germans knew this of course and decided to protect themselves by letting it be known that Allied Prisoners of War were housed in the buildings upper storeys. A latter-day human shield. I am glad to report, however, that us even-cannier Brits responded by developing a new type of bombing attack which enabled buildings to be struck from the side in such a way that the upper storeys would collapse down, relatively intact. Hmmnn. Risky, but apparently it did work.

Anyhow, the ladies that I have lunched with over the years (though the will have called it “dinner”, being good northern lasses) have been a frequent source of inspiration, sometimes frustration, often information, and, always, entertainment. Sharing lunch breaks with them is like living through an episode of Loose Women on HRT (Hormone Replacement Therapy). Most are good Manchester stock, living fairly close to Shameless. Fairly close to where they were born, went to school, got married, had kids, and worked. Most have worked for the company for a number of years. Woman and child. Child and mother. A number of years brutally interrupted when they were outsourced for three years before being insourced back following the collapse of the outsource relationship. My advice would be to avoid EDS like the plague.

I have always respected these ladies. They are all doers. They come to work. They do their jobs, diligently. They go home. They take their pay. And, they get on with their lives outside of work. They have a job rather than a career, because they have other things in their lives that are more important to them. Family. Kids. Elderly relatives to care for. Pets. Hobbies. Lives.

Lunchtimes have always been entertaining. Not least because of the food, which is, frankly, appalling. Fridays is always battered fish or breaded fish, chips, mushy peas or garden peas and gravy. Gravy! With battered fish? Is it a northern thing? Spotted dick. Manchester Tart (it is a dessert). Bland salad options. Boiled liver. And “vegetarian chilli con carne” (con carne means with meat!). Chips, chips and more chips. Well at least it is free. But most of the entertainment has come from these amazing characters themselves.

“Riz”, a miniscule, pocket-sized bundle of humour and inner strength. A single-mom. A traditionally attired Muslim, with a broad Glaswegian accent and an even bigger heart. This lady is indomitable. She survived a violent husband, sleeping in a single room with her child, with drug dealers for neighbours. She never missed a day’s work and managed to make a new life for herself back in Glasgow, where I understand she and her son are now thriving. She never stopped smiling. She never stopped helping those around her.

“J”, who started in the mailroom. There is almost a mythology around that clique of people who started in the mailroom. I suspect that there was something quite suspicious about what they put in the mailroom tea. Anyhow, “J” started in the mailroom about 35 years ago and I suspect that is where she developed her wonderful cynicism and particular view of the world. The spectacles that “J” wears are not exactly rose-tinted for sure. Again, “J” is a survivor who over the years has tended to sick parents, neighbours and cared for her siblings. “J” has a story about everything and the ambition to share them all with you. Whatever you have done, “J” knows someone who has done it earlier, bigger, better, and more often. That someone is, more often than not her brother, upon who she dotes. If you have an illness or have been the victim of bad luck, then “J” will know someone who has had it worse and is pleased to tell you how bad things could still get. “J” also has a huge heart and a wonderful sense of humour. She is totally self-effacing and would do anything for you.

“F” is the youngster on the block. She has been with the group for almost as long as I have. She has the art of smoking down to a tee. She can complete her cigarette in the exact time that it takes to walk from the office to the canteen (they would like us to call it a restaurant but that is a bit too grandiose). Again, “F” has a heart of gold and, for many years has brought up her (ex) boyfriend’s young child in very difficult circumstances. She has a certain innocence and I delight in making her blush. So, it maybe was a mistake on her part to let me know that she recently got locked in the bedroom after a night of passion with her new feller. Of course, I was totally discreet and haven’t told a soul….

“K”, cat-hater with her “senior moments”, hot flushes, amazing shopping and party tips. Let me tell you, it isn’t a true party unless “K” is there with her musical cake slice from the Pound Shop; “S” with her filthy sense of humour, “interesting” home life, amazing hobbies, and crap cars; “A” with her belligerence and self-confessed alzheimers; the two “P”s……..there are far too many to detail here. The group has changed over the years as people have moved jobs or left the company or gone to circumnavigate the globe in a yacht. Please do not be offended if I haven’t mentioned you here. And, please don’t be offended if I have. You will all be in the book if it ever gets published, unless you bribe or blackmail me that is.

As I prepare to leave the company myself, and as I am in the office less and less I do not have the same opportunity to share their company, I realise that I will miss them all very much. Thank you ladies. Thank you all. You have been from time to time my informants, my confidantes, my counsellors, and my friends. You have kept me going through the tough times. You have made me laugh. And, you have inspired me. I wish you and yours good luck and every happiness. You deserve it.

Anyone for lunch?

A Bag Is For Life

It seems that a bag, like a puppy, is for life, and not just for Christmas. Every time I visit my local Waitrose (which is often) I am offered a “Bag For Life”. No, this is not some promotional idea of a charity raising funds for poor children in Africa or for a new scanner of some kind at a local hospital. No, these are eco-friendlier bags; stronger so they last longer, and, presumably more bio-degradable than your typical supermarket carrier bag which is destined to clog up some landfill site for a couple of millennia. On the news this morning there were a bunch of eco-warriors of uncertain sexuality and various degrees of cleanliness, intelligence, and sowing ability who had taken the idea one step further. They had made shopping bags out of old clothes. Nice. Would you want to bring your groceries home in someone else’s granddad’s Y-fronts?

Now don’t get me wrong. I am all for saving the planet and avoiding climate change. But, this Bag For Life thing just doesn’t seem to work for me. I think I have about six of the damn things already. Perhaps they are breeding. But for sure, I think I will be stuck with them for a very, very long time simply because I forget to take them with me to the supermarket. I now have to go through that whole routine where they ask me if I would like a Bag For Life; I say, “no thank you because I have several at home already”; and they reluctantly hand me two old-style carrier bags when I clearly need five or six for my many purchases, and they scowl at me in a way which is clearly intended to make me feel as if I am uniquely and personally responsible for imminent climactic chaos on an unprecedented scale.

And in any case, I recycle the carrier bags. We put our rubbish in them. Our non-recyclable rubbish that is. I am a frequent visitor to the paper bank, the bottle bank, and the plastic recycling place. But we use the old-style supermarket carrier bags to put our non-recyclables in. And, incidentally, our non-recyclables consist mostly of unnecessary supermarket packaging! Let he who is without sin…….

And, why do we need plastic bags at all? Why can’t we use paper bags like they do in America? Surely that would be much better for the planet. It would encourage the planting of more forests, and paper is much more easily recyclable than plastic. And, just think how many of us could have met our soulmates in one of those everything-falling-through-the-bottom-of-a-wet-paper-bag movie moments……

And, while I think about it, why can’t we have those nice carton things that Americans eat their Chinese takeaway out of using chopsticks, instead of those silver carton things and the plastic forks that we have over here? They may not have signed up to Kyoto, but they do seem to have a thing or two to tell us about packaging.

No, it seems that I am destined to feel the full weight of my own carbon footprint in the form of the growing number of Bags For Life that are to be crammed into kitchen cupboards and the millions of wire coat hangers that seem to be taking over the wardrobes upstairs. Every shirt that comes back from the laundry returns with its own hanger. If only I was creative and talented enough to recycle the hangers into children’s mobiles or sci-fi statues, or anything that I could make my fortune doing.

And while, I think about it, the real purveyors of global warming and climate change are those little bastards who keep nicking our recycling bins. This happens far too often. We have already had one brown bin for compostable (is that a word?) stuff (weeds, leftover grub, etc.), and one blue box (for paper) stolen. Our neighbours have all been hit as well. We presume it is just kids doing it for fun, as there is not a lot else to do in sleepy Bradwall, rather than eco-terrorists. But it does seem crazy that I have to burn more CO2 by driving to the recycling place myself as a consequence of some childish prank. Perhaps the council can use those tracker things that they are putting into bins these days to find mine and return it to me.

PS.
Incidentally, on the subject of poor children in Africa and elsewhere, I would wholeheartedly recommend World Vision to you. C and I sponsor a little five year old Tanzanian girl called Sesilia. Her mom and dad are only young themselves and are subsistence farmers. We like to think that our contribution will make a real difference to Sesilia’s life. Hopefully, we will be able to pay for her education. And, hopefully, this will enable her to find her own place in the world. We dream one day of visiting her in her village and saying hello properly. In the meantime, we enjoy sending her the occasional photograph and letter and receiving letters from her, translated into English by one of the charity workers.

Grumpy Old Man Part 5

A Grumpy Old Man On Holiday

It is 07.40 in the morning. A Tuesday morning. The day after Spring Bank Holiday and, I am on holiday. Everyone else is at work. But, I am not. So, what the hell am I doing up at twenty minutes to eight in the morning? Waiting for a bloody tradesman. ‘Scuse my French, but I am not good in the morning.

Actually, the tradesman that I am waiting for is the exception that proves the rule. To start with, he is not Polish. Secondly, he is punctual. And, he is trustworthy. He is competent. And, yes, he is very expensive. But, you can’t have everything. And, today, he is doing me a favour. This morning, before he goes to his paid job, he is helping me to refit the wooden worktop in my kitchen. For nothing. He’s a nice bloke.

The kitchen worktop was removed because the boiler broke down and needed repairing. And, because the worktop was fitted over the boiler it needed to be taken off. It needed to be removed just four months after our very expensive kitchen had been fitted, tiled, and decorated. Decorated by the very man who is coming to help me this morning. He is helping me this morning because I have been let down by the kitchen fitter who should have come to refit the very expensive beach wood worktop that he fitted in our very expensive kitchen just four months ago. Can you sense my frustration?

Now I know that the more handy, savvy, do-it-yourself-knowledgeable types out there are saying that you shouldn’t have fitted a solid wood worktop above a boiler. I know. We knew that at the time it was fitted. We didn’t want to. But, we had no choice.

Planning a new kitchen is worse then any global system implementation project I have managed. Worse than planning the invasion of Iraq. Not that I did that. And not that there is much evidence that the invasion was actually planned at all. No, synchronising the arrival of the kitchen fitter, the units, the skip, the electrician, the plumber, at the prescribed “windows of opportunity” is a complicated nightmare.

People of Stoke, Staffordshire and South Cheshire beware of plumbers named Stuart. It was Stuart that let us down. He let us down badly. We had agreed with Stuart to hand over large amounts of dosh in return for which he would move the boiler. He was going to move the boiler literally next to itself. Half a day’s work. Half a day’s work for five hundred quid. This was going to enable us to cut the worktop in a place that wouldn’t be aesthetically unpleasing. So that a small piece of worktop could be easily removed to get at the top of the boiler.

Stuart, the plumber from Stoke, had one whole day in which to move the boiler. He knew this. He knew that if he missed this window then the whole fitting would be delayed by at least two months. Now don’t get me wrong, we knew Stuart. Stuart has been servicing our boiler for about five years. Stuart had fitted at least four radiators in our house. We had recommended him to at least two of our neighbours. You would have thought that we were considered to be good customers. That he may have wanted to keep us sweet. And, if not, you would have at least thought that he would have relished £500 for half a day’s work…….

Stuart turned up late. Two hours late. Stuart was grumpy when he arrived. In retrospect, Stuart was always grumpy. Stuart declared that it was “stupid” to move the boiler. Stuart walked off the job. Never to return. Over my dead body. And he can whistle for the money that I still owe him.

The boiler is still where it was. As a result, we could not cut the worktop. So, our very capable kitchen fitter designed it that, in the “very rare event” that something went wrong with the very modern, ultra-reliable boiler that we had had serviced every year and had absolutely no problem with ever, then the whole top could be removed to give access to the boiler.

The boiler broke about six weeks ago. True enough, the worktop was removed as designed. The brand new sealant was cut and removed. Three bolts, a dozen or so screws. All were removed, and, amazingly, I managed to do it without breaking any of the very expensive, brand new, Fired Earth tiles.

The boiler was fixed. But, I couldn’t get the worktop back. Not so it fitted in such a way that it would not warp. Not in an aesthetically pleasing way. And, the tap had developed a very irritating wobble. But not to worry. The kitchen fitter promised to “pop back” to help us in the event of us ever having to remove the worktop. Yeah right. I have been awaiting the “popping back” for six weeks now.

Fortunately (?!?), Mike the decorator popped in yesterday to measure up for some decorating that we need doing. The study, the landing, the hallway, the skirting boards in the lounge, a picture rail, a new heated towel rail in the one-year-old bathroom to replace the one which fell off the wall at the bloody weekend! An arm and a leg. A small fortune no doubt. I sometimes wish that I had forsaken an Oxford education in favour of a plumbing or plastering course.

But, Mike is a top bloke. Totally professional. Perfectly punctual and reliable. Trustworthy. And Mike offered to come around this morning before going to a job elsewhere to help me out. So here I am. On my day off……….

Who Am I? Part 2

Who Am I? Part 2

Actually, I am quite pleased to have discovered that I am an ESTP. Extrovert, Sensing, Thinking and Perceiving (see previous entry: Who Am I? Part 1). It was quite a relief. It was quite reassuring. It kind of reminded me who I am. Who I am on the inside. Who I really am. And, who I need to be on the outside too. The rediscovery of myself helped to explain why I have been less than entirely happy at work recently. For, being ESTP also makes me a square peg in a round hole in my current job. And the master of understatement.

The company that I work for has recently asked me to become a project manager, driving global process, product and infrastructure standardisation initiatives. And, to be frank, it just ain’t me. Don’t get me wrong, I can do it. I have done it. But, it does not come naturally. And, I do not really enjoy doing it that much. It pays pretty well though. To do this job you need to be good at planning, at detail, and interested in enforcing the rules. You need to be a political animal who is turned on by templates, blueprints, stagegates, rules, and doing everything the same way, everywhere. And, I am not.

As an ESTP, I am more of an entrepreneur. I am good in a crisis. I like to take risks. I like variety. I like to roll my sleeves up and get involved. I am pragmatic and practical. I also do not take kindly to too much direction and doing as I am told. I like plain speaking. I like to be autonomous and able to set my own agenda.

ESTPs tend to work least well with people who complain all the time; take themselves too seriously; or, who discuss ideas to death without ever taking a decision and actually doing anything. Well, maybe not every multi-national oil giant is the same, but the one that I work with is full of people like that. I am irritated by rules and regulations; routine; corporate bullshit; and, people who do not take responsibility for themselves. I do not fit in anymore. If I ever did. And, if you bear in mind that I have worked for the same company now for nearly twenty years, I guess it is time I considered a change.

I recognise that I am not perfect though. As an ESTP I am prone to look for a crisis where there isn’t one and am often sarcastic. And, when stressed, I can become withdrawn and moody. Abrupt. Snappy. Grrrr. I can also irritate others by being abrupt, and telling them to pull themselves together. If I have done that to any of you, well, sorry. I can recommend a very good counsellor though.

I guess you might be wondering why the sudden urge for self-enlightenment. Well, I am being made redundant. I am being made redundant after twenty years. The wonderful global project that I was asked to lead did not go ahead. It was my own fault really because I was one of the ones who recommended it did not go ahead. I just thought that the company could invest the $40 million better elsewhere. They quite gratefully accepted my recommendation, and, are now making me redundant as a consequence.

Actually, I am quite pleased. Sure I am worried a little bit about getting another job. I am worried about money. But me and the old company have been drifting apart for quite some time now. This is exactly the kind of kick up the arse I needed to get myself motivated to change. So, that is what I intend to do. And, part of the process is to understand the kind of environment that I prefer to work in; the type of people that I prefer working with; the kind of role that best suits my personality. And, that is where the psychometric test came in. It is actually part of the process offered by the outplacement service that the company has kindly given me access to.

So, now I know who I am, I can better focus on the type of job that would suit me. According to the manual that the outplacement consultant has given me, the most attractive occupations for people like me include law enforcement, general management, farming, or, working in a factory. Maybe I could enforce the law in a battery hen farm. Hmmm. Any of you who know me got any ideas or suggestions?

Gizza job!

Who Am I?

Who Am I?

I know who I am. I even have it in writing. I found myself without the usual naval gazing, psychotherapy, time on monastic retreats, travelling the world, or doing voluntary work in the Hindukush that most people who want to “find themselves” seem to have to go through. Well, I guess it is not entirely true that my self-discovery is entirely without psychotherapy. It is rather hard to avoid when you are married to a psychotherapist and a huge fan of the Sopranos. But, I am confident that my extensive repertoire of Hilton Hotels and airport lounges of the world does not count as having “seen the world”, man.

I discovered who I am the easy way. I took a psychometric test. Two in fact. The 16PF (I know) and the Myers-Briggs. The latter is apparently based upon Jung’s observation of personality types. Can you imagine the kind of blog that Jung or Freud would have if they were still alive today?

It was quite a relief, finding myself. I have been a little worried about who I might be for some time now. I’m not sure why I have been anxious about it. I am not sure that I have any special reason for worrying about who I am. Sure there were the usual “Who do you think you are!” bellowings from strict teachers at school. The usual teenage musings as to whether I was adopted or left by a superior alien race. Such musings are normal aren’t they? I mean, at that age we always refuse to see ourselves in our parents, don’t we? Not now. Not any more. Not when you see video clips of you walking, talking and standing just like your dad, but with hair. Not when you hear yourself using the same turn of phrase. Not since the “Top of The Pops Moment” when you declare that they don’t write songs like they used to. Or, perhaps, that is just me getting older.

There was, of course, the “You’ve changed!” jibe from my mom after I came home from Oxford, for Christmas, after my very first term there. I was guilty of the crime of wasting my university grant by contributing to the Striking Miners’ Fund (go Scargill!), protesting against Margaret Thatcher’s honorary degree at All Souls, and, for listening to Billy Bragg tapes. It was to my great dismay that Mrs T, the unturning Iron Lady, had avoided our student protest and blockade of All Souls by sneaking through a side garden of my own college. Mom and dad had always voted Conservative because they were in favour of Grammar Schools. How topical eh? What goes around, comes around. Plus ca change and all that. I wonder if my parents will abandon Mr Cameron in favour of Gordon Brown next time around?

More worryingly, there was the “Graphology Moment” in my mid-twenties. We had organised a handwriting expert to talk to and analyse a bunch of our top customers at work. This was our attempt at corporate entertainment. This was at a time when companies were dabbling in the use of such psychobabble to weed out unsuitable types during their recruitment process. This was back in the days before email. When people used pen and ink and their own fair hand when corresponding. Anyhow, this lady, the expert, showed us comparisons of various famous people’s handwriting: Adolf Hitler, Margaret Thatcher, other known fascists. She got us to write a few words down and draw a cartoon dog (it is quite significant if you draw the dog looking to the left or to the right apparently) and then analysed the audience.

The audience, being our customer base, was predominantly male, white, middle-class, well-educated and of a certain age, as you can imagine. It was no surprise then that the expert declared that the majority of the people who had been in the room were white, middle-class, well-educated, middle-aged men. She was very good.

Nor was it surprising when she added that the vast majority were “left brain” users, meaning that they relied heavily on their logic rather than their feelings or emotions. What was surprising was that there were just two people in the room who had an unusual balance between “left brain” and “right brain”, albeit they had answered the questions and drawn the dog looking in an entirely opposite way. I was one of those people. And C, the then Assistant Advertising Manager and, subsequently my nearest and dearest wife, was the other.

We both felt quite smug to find that we were atypical, similar to each other, and, that we stood out from the rest by having a balance between our ying and yangs, so to speak. The expert went on to declare that such a balance was highly unusual and “was most commonly to be found in people of genius and in psychopaths”. The jury is still out on that one. But as we scored opposite, the likelihood is we have one of each in our marriage. I am not sure whether it is more reassuring that I be the genius married to a psycho or the other way around. But I suspect that my IQ score of 135 at the age of eleven (and recently reconfirmed in a bout of intellectual competitiveness with a colleague, J, who clearly guessed luckily as she beat me by 2) is significant. Beware people who draw right-looking doggies.

Anyhow, the psychometric test, fortunately did not reveal any tendencies towards a desire to commit mass murder or to conquer the planet, although I will still have to get C checked out. This may come as a bit of a surprise to those closest to me. No, I am happy to share with you that I am an ESTP. Middleman has the personality type of Extrovert, Sensing, Thinking, and Perceiving. That is who I am. I am ESTP. So be told.

My Family And Other Animals Part 7

No Luck With The Birds

Indeed it rains quite often in Cheshire. As has often been said – that’s why the Lake District is where it is. And, despite annual clear-outs by a man with an industrial-sized super-cleaner, the soak-away drain at the heart of the car park often does not cope. It is often inundated. As a consequence, from about late September through to March (our grey period) , the car park looks more like a pond. That is when it is mild. When it is cold, it better resembles a skating rink. A veritable death trap to all who would venture upon it.

However, when it is doing its pond impression, it is very convincing. In fact, on one occasion at least, it was so convincing that a passing wild duck decided to make its home at the “side of the pond” in the long grass beside the oil tanks ,alongside the row of garages. There, Mrs Duck (we’ll assume she was married although there was no sign of Mr Duck), built her nest and waited for her eggs to hatch!

She was there a couple of days. In fact, we were quite concerned about her. Although she was quite safe from humans, being almost invisible in her hideaway of herbage, we were worried about foxes, the local polecat that the farmers had been hunting, and, more likely, feline attention from the multitude of pet cats that existed at School Farm at the time (not least Maslow, our very own furball baby cat). We consulted our local farmer, Godfrey, who assured us that she (Mrs Duck) would be alright and that she would up and off as soon as the chicks had hatched. And this is what must have happened as, after a few days, she just disappeared. There was no sign of her chicks and, thankfully, no tell-tale sign of a fight or a killing ground. The pond was still there though.

Mrs Duck was not the only avian visitor to grace our Cheshire home. While we were next door (we moved next door!) we were visited by a “resting” racing pigeon. It collapsed just by our back door. C gave it a name. Something like Tarquin if I remember correctly, after the guy on the Boddingtons’ advert who wears his y-fronts the wrong way round. We know it was a racing pigeon because C phoned the RSPB and gave them the number on the poor little bugger’s ankle bracelet. They assured us it was probably just resting and in need of water and food. We gave it both. We hid him so that he would not fall prey to the local cat (this was the days before Maslow). We left him to rest.

He was dead within the hour. Deceased. Stiff as a Norwegian Blue Parrot in a Monty Python sketch. C asked me to dispose of Tarquin. I did. I threw him over the hedge into the farmer’s field. For a bird, he was not very aerodynamic when dead. He flew like a stone……

Do You Believe In Ghosts?

Do You Believe In Ghosts?

Do you believe in ghosts? I do. I believe I have seen one, and been in the presence of at least two others.

Once was when I was quite young and at home in Erdington. Dad was not home from work yet and mom and my sister, J, were upstairs doing something girlie. I was watching a report on the local Midlands news programme, which was investigating hauntings in local factories. The interviewer was talking to two “witnesses”. As I watched a shadowy figure of a woman appeared behind the “witnesses”. I thought it was a joke. A special effect. I called upstairs to my mom and sister, but, the article had finished by the time they got downstairs.

My story was, however, corroborated the following day on the same news programme. They had received a number of complaints by other viewers who had reported seeing the “bad taste” special effect of the ghostly woman. But, the programme claimed innocence and replayed the piece, which this time was “spirit” free. Spooky.

Perhaps the best example of things going bump in the night was at the first house which C and I rented together in Alderley Edge. An old Victorian mid-terrace cottage. C woke in the night on more than one occasion claiming to have seen an old bearded man stood at the foot of our bed. Spooky. And no, I was neither bearded nor old at this time.

In the same property, strange things would happen in the kitchen. Drawers and cupboard doors would mysteriously open themselves. This was not the side-effect of poor fitting or cheap appliances. This was a Poltergeist. You could literally walk from the kitchen into the dining room with everything “normal”, and, having forgotten something, immediately turn on your heel and re-enter the kitchen, to find all drawers and doors wide open. Yes it was spooky but there was not any sense of animosity or fear. It was more as if the ghost had a sense of humour and was having a bit of a laugh.

Things did, however, get a bit twitchy one night when we were entertaining friends from London. We were having a meal in the dining room and talking about ghosts and all things spooky. Admittedly, the wine was flowing quite freely. But, all of a sudden the CD which was playing music stopped. The cassette tape switched itself on. The cassette tape switched itself on to “record”. The cassette player was recording us. The cassette player was recording our conversation about ghosts. To be clear, to get the cassette player to tape you would have to first switch from CD to tape, and the hold down the play and record buttons at the same time.

We went very quiet. We looked at each other and laughed nervously. We turned the music back on. And, it happened again. A second time. Even writing about it now I can feel the hairs on the back of my head stand up and a shiver is passing down my spine. Spooky.

We now live in an old Cheshire Reformatory School, a boys’ prison, which is converted into nine properties. The prison was built in 1855 and housed some 76 convicted boys aged between about 6 and 16. Crimes ranged from local boys who had stolen bread, presumably as a way of getting the education that the school also offered, through to convicted murderers. Often these would be boys from as far afield as Manchester, Liverpool, Glasgow or London, presumably working on the premise that there would be less chance of them running away to get home.

Now we have never felt any presence here, C and I. Our next door neighbour did once claim that a ghost was moving things around his home but as this used to be our old house (we moved next door!) and we had had no such experience, we assumed he was joking. We didn’t like him very much. He used to stand in his lounge window wearing just skimpy underpants. Spooky.

More compelling, however, was the story of Holly. When Holly was just 3 years old or so and her family had just moved into the property, Holly asked her mom if she could go and play “with the boys in the courtyard”. Of course there were no boys. And, of course, little Holly knew nothing of the property’s history at that point. Spooky.

One house that does have a feeling about it, an eeriness, is Trivor. Trivor is a house in Monmouthshire which is owned by the father of a good friend of mine from university. My closest friends, and subsequently their wives and partners, and subsequently their children, have visited the house every year for nigh on twenty years or so now. Trivor is mentioned in the Doomsday Book. Most of the current property dates back to the sixteenth century, however. A Catholic Priest was caught practising an illegal Mass there during the reign of Queen Elizabeth 1 and was apparently hanged, drawn and quartered. It must have smarted a bit. I guess something like that can leave a bit of an impression on an old place like that.

So, what about you? Do you have any ghostly tales that you wish to share?

Planes, Trains and Automobiles Part 4

A Grumpy Old Man’s Trip To London

Well, it has not been a good start to the day. I am currently sat on the 07.13 Virgin Pendolino inter-city train from Crewe en route to London Euston. It is 07.35 and we have just left the station. This means that we will be behind all of the still-on-time trains with the likelihood that we will be further delayed. They seem to work on the principle that it is better to have one very delayed train than lots of slightly delayed trains. But, that seems like a very strange principle upon which to run a train company. Whatever happened to punctuality?

As ever, they haven’t thought up a decent enough reason for the delay with which to share with the paying customer. And I have paid. Through the nose. £275 for a First Class return! Extortionate. It is cheaper to fly to London from Manchester but, unfortunately for me, it is still less convenient.

Crewe station is just ten minutes from home, and, after a couple of hours in which you can stretch your legs, read a paper, hopefully complete the Times 2 Crossword (although I am struggling with 5 down at the moment) and the Killer Su Doku, and maybe do some work, you are delivered to Euston station. Then it is just 15 minutes by Tube, unfortunately, before I am delivered straight to the office alongside which is alongside Waterloo station. Door to door in two hours forty five minutes if I am lucky. But, as with today it would seem, I am rarely that. Lucky.

Manchester Airport, however, is a good (or bad) 45 minutes drive away itself. With the heightened security you definitely now need to be there at least one hour before the flight is delayed. And you have all that hassle with your luggage and your clear plastic bag for your toothpaste and eau de cologne (Euphoria for Men by Calvin Klein). And, Heathrow is just not as convenient for central London, although the Heathrow Express is much better than the old crawl in on the Underground.

At least when travelling care of Sir Richard Branson, the food is generally OK, and the tea, coffee and alcoholic beverages (not at breakfast of course, unfortunately) flow much more abundantly than they do in the air these days. I am currently sipping tea, having already partaken of a grapefruit juice and a passable sausage sandwich with brown sauce. The bread was a little dry though.

And, there is generally more to see out of the windows. And, every so often, you get to meet a celebrity. Those of you who have read my earlier postings (Celebrity Spotting) will know that I had a very enjoyable chat with Pete Waterman once and nearly had sex with Sarah Lancashire. The more I think about it the more I realise that she wanted me. And, these new toilets in the Pendolinos are so much more accommodating than in the old days. Another opportunity missed.

I have also seen Patrick Moore, the male chauvinistic stargazer who recently complained about there being too many senior placed women running the BBC, and, the diminutive and foxy news reader Sian Williams recently. Which reminds me, I literally bumped into Suzannah Reed, the other foxy if midget morning newscaster with the BBC, when buying my lunchtime M&S sandwich at Waterloo Station last time I was in the Smoke. She was quite startled and seemed a little spooked when she realised that I had recognised who she was. She was dressed all in white with a very long flowing coat. She had very white face make-up and very red rouged lips and cheeks, which made her seem even more alarmed. It was probably my fault. Living in the countryside and frequenting only small towns such as Sandbach and Holmes Chapel these days I get quite alarmed by the crowds in the big cities. I seem to have lost that knack of walking through a crowd without bumping into people. It can feel quite claustrophobic at times.

Well listen to me extolling the virtues of Virgin Trains. Mr Branson are there any jobs going in your marketing department?

On the downside, things can get a bit tense on board train. Especially in the Quiet Zone. Of course, the Quiet Zone is hardly that. Quiet. You still get the normal train announcements, and that strange beep beep noise as the Pendolino seems to tilt precariously when taking a bend at speed. You still get passengers chatting, passengers snoring and the like. No, things get tense when some jumped up self-opinionated, self-important oik decides that the “No Mobile Phones” sign does not apply to him and proceeds to have a loud if disjointed conversation. Conversations are disjointed because the signal quality is so poor, conversations require a lot of redialling after thirty seconds of “hello, hello, can you hear me?” or, “I’m in a tunnel”). These noise abusers can often be found wandering up and down the carriage to annoy as many people as he (it is invariably a he) possibly can. Or they stand at the end of the carriage, in the vestibule as Mr Virgin calls it, next to the loos. They seem to think that they are less annoying there. They are not, it is even worse listening to the self-important oik on his phone with the carriage doors sliding open and then shut again, and again, and again, as he triggers them with his proximity.

Things can also get tense when the staff forget to reserve pre-booked seats or all reservations are cancelled because of a train cancellation requiring two or three trains to be merged into one. Pandemonium. Even on “normal” days, people ignore the seat reservations and assume that just because they are a party of eight they have the right to sit next to each other. I can feel myself getting tense. I shall move on.

Unusually, the train staff this morning are not Eastern European. They seem to be Scousers. So, they are as good as Eastern Europeans. Homegrown Eastern Europeans if you like. But it is unusual. Have you not noticed how, in the last couple of years or so, the service industries of our great nation have been overwhelmed by Poles, Czechs, Slovaks, Albanians and the like?

I learnt at the weekend of a very successful restauranteur and property developer who only employs Bratislavans. He does this because they are reliable, polite, and punctual and have excellent language skills. So, nothing like Scousers then. He pays them the going rate so they are not cheap.

Every London bar, every hotel reception, every waiter and waitress, every shelf-filler in Waitrose, every bricky, carpenter and electrician. They are all Eastern European. Crewe has shops selling “Polish Food” now, and in parts of the country road signs are now displayed in both English and Polish. The influx of devote Poles has now resulted in the Catholic Church becoming the biggest religion in the country again.. Henry the Eighth must be turning in his grave.

No, it is the Australians I feel sorry for. And the New Zealanders. They used to have the monopoly on the London bars. I can only assume that all the Kiwis and Australians are now serving drinks in Warsaw, Prague, and wherever the capital of Bratislava may be. Although at least a couple of our Antipodean cousins could be found at this weekend’s Home & Garden Design Show in Tatton Park, selling Magic Shammy Leathers. How the Empire has fallen.
The train now seems to be crawling along. I don’t think we’ve even reached Nuneaton yet. Now, where’s that girl with the tea……….