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.
Wednesday, 31 October 2007
Friday, 26 October 2007
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!
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!
Thursday, 11 October 2007
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.
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.
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