1 September 2010 (Wednesday) - Ashford Ink
With the laundry basket seriously overflowing, it was time to do something about it. It always amazes me how much laundry anyone can generate, and I was out in the garden at 7.30am pegging out two washloads. It was a beautiful morning; I was quite comfortable in my jim-jams. Quite a contrast to a few days ago when at the same time in the morning I was shivering: fully clothed with several layers of T-shirts and jumpers. Being on a late start I had some time to kill, so I then spent much of the morning alternating between washing, drying and NeverWinter. I knew when to stop washing when the washing line snapped. A bit of a nuisance – I’ll fix it in the morning.
Realising how full of grass the car was after several weekends in fields over the summer, I took it to be valeted. It came out gleaming, but in spite of this whilst parking in Tescos I was harangued by the itinerant car washers. I asked them if my sparkling car looked like it needed to be cleaned, and they just stared at me and asked if I wanted it cleaned or not.
Work was the same as ever, and then home to “Ashford Ink”: - “My Boy TM ” has wanted to be a tattoo artist for some years, and over the last few weeks he’s bought all the stuff and has been practising on artificial skin and various citrus fruits. Bearing in mind how dull some of my tattoos have become I offered him the chance to gain some experience by colouring them in. Today’s picture really doesn’t do justice to what he’s done; he’s done an excellent job. I shall get him to do the rest. It’s a shame how much tattoos hurt otherwise I’d bee keeping him very busy.
And then the phone rang - “Daddies Little Angel TM ” was distraught. Her cat had been hit by a car. So I abandoned my plans for tea and SpongeBob and set off to see what I could do. When I arrived it seemed that the cat had (probably) bounced off the car, and the sensible money (the vet) thought that in cases like this cats hide until they are over the shock, at which point they come home when they are ready. We searched the nearby streets for said moggy, but he wasn’t to be found. So I came home – I might as well await developments here as anywhere. But I expect I shall lay awake worrying…
2 September 2010 (Thursday) - Boilers
I was woken by a text message at 6am this morning. “Daddies Little Angel TM ”’ had spent the night sitting by an open front door waiting for the cat to come back after his ordeal yesterday. She must have dozed off at one point as she woke to find the cat had returned, seemingly none the worse for his mishap. I’m glad the cat is unharmed; I can now wring its neck for all the upset and heartache the thing has caused.
Seeing a parking space outside my house, I moved my car there (from miles away) and put the seats back into it. I now have a car again, as opposed to a closed-back pick-up truck. Having said that, I’m still not convinced I wouldn’t be better off with a pick-up truck.
The nice man arrived to service my boiler( Oo-er!) He opened it up, and he didn’t need to say anything. It had clearly corroded, and it was leaking. I’ve had the thing for twenty years, and realistically it’s had it. He’s going to give me a quote for a new one, but in many ways the quote is academic. It needs to be replaced, and whilst he’s at it, there’s a whatjamacallit in the central heating circuit that’s on the way out too. From experience I know there are no other plumbers in Ashford who will get off their backsides, let alone trouble themselves to give me a competitive quote. My new boiler will feature in a blog entry in the near future.
And so to work.
3 September 2010 (Friday) - Cards
For once I was not wide awake most of the night struck with insomnia. And so it would be tonight that work phoned at 4am asking my advice..
After work I loaded the car for the weekend, and then round to Matt’s house for a game of cards. It must be over a year since I last played a game of poker, and it’s no secret that in the intervening time I’ve not got any better at the game. Starting with the same amount of chips as everyone else, within an hour I was reduced to using beer bottle tops to stay in the game. I need to practice.
Reading the news I see that professor Stephen Hawking has announced that God did not create the universe. Apparently science can explain creation without the need for God. Whilst I can hardly claim to be the most devout believer in the world, I can’t help but feel that science is being very brave in dismissing the Almighty so flippantly. *He*might not have created the universe, but I’m not going to take the risk of telling *Him*that. After all, the French mathematician Blaise Pascal had words to say on the matter – look up Pascal’s wager on-line.
4 September 2010 (Saturday) - Sumner's Ponds
Up with the lark, and once the Folkestone
contingent had arrived we set off to deepestWest
Normally when we camp we take along a lot of stuff with us. It takes forever to set up. This time we thought we’d try “minimalist” camping; only taking the bare necessities. We arrived at Sumner’s Ponds shortly before 11am, and soon set up our tents and our kitchen table. We met a load of old friends, and one or two new ones, and we sat chatting for a while before six of us set off on a walk to find some lunch.
Lunch was lurking a couple of miles away at
We got back to camp at 4pm, and whilst the girls had a doze I got out the Air-Yo and played “Kite Sabres” with the children. As is so often the way at kiting events there was precious little wind, but still we made the most of what we had. I even managed to blag the use of one of the lifter kites to fly my new windsock. And then, with the evening fast moving on, we adjourned to the communal barbecue where everyone cooked their own tea, and a gentleman from north of Ipswich taught me to speak fluent “Faaaaaaakin Laaaaandaaaaan”, a dialect spoken by the denizens of our capital city (or so I am reliably informed). The beer flowed, as did the port, and after a firework display and an impromptu star-spotting session we sat chatting by the camp fire with friends old and new until midnight. We were in no hurry to go to bed – the wedding we’d found earlier in the day was still in full flow, and even at 12.30am was rather deafening from over a mile away….
5 September 2010 (Sunday) - It Rained
I awoke at 2am to the sound of Tom Jones bellowing out his classic chart-topper “Delilah”. I was awake, I had a tiddle whilst I wondered how much longer the wedding celebration down the road could possible go on for. I eventually dozed off (despite the noise). Music was quieter, but still clearly audible at 3.30am, and when I wandered down to the toilet block at 8am I could hear someone on a loudspeaker wishing the best to the happy couple.
I washed up, and as the rest of our party awoke, we prepared breakfast. And we had bacon, sausage and egg sandwiches in the rain. The rain started about 8.30, and lasted for an hour or so. Long enough to soak us and our kitchen table. As the rain slackened off we packed away that which we could, and the sun came out and (mostly) dried our tents, so we got them packed before the next shower. The original plan for today was to get packed away as quickly as possible, and then we could play kites as long as we wanted, and then (having already packed away) make a quick getaway sometime in the mid afternoon. However with no wind at all, and being soaked from the intermittent heavy showers, we decided to go home early. We said our goodbyes, which took some time and then set off home, where we looked on line for some sort of lightweight awning.
I’d been looking forward to camping at Sumner’s Ponds for ages; it was a shame that the weather was against us. But I’d certainly go again. Reflecting on the camping trips I’ve done this year, I find myself leaning away from the whole concept of “Kite Festival”. The Kite Festivals are organised with “the normal people” in mind, but at two of my year’s three “camping” kite festivals you can’t actually fly a kite because the normal people are in the way playing football and having picnics. And if you don’t try to fly a kite in the middle of them, you feel you shouldn’t be at the kite festival. This weekend was in many ways very similar to last week’s Bat-Camp – a private camp of like minded friends.
However, next time I’m not going to go quite so minimalist. Minimalist camping is all very well provided it doesn’t rain. This year I’ve done five camping trips, and four of them have been very wet at one stage or another. This weekend’s camping was in many ways as an experiment, and one of the things we found is that we need a communal shelter. Usually we have one, and not having one this weekend, we really missed it. Pretty much everyone else on site had a caravan or camper, and most of those had awnings. Whilst we had several offers of the use of awnings, firstly in order to use said awning you need to be camped nearby, and secondly I don’t like to impose.
Normally we take a huge frame tent. We hadn’t this time. For future Sumner’s Ponds weekends we will look to investing in a lightweight cooking shelter, or we will bring “Brown and Smelly” with us...
6 September 2010 (Monday) - To the Wicked City
I finally got around to editing my Facebook friends list this morning. I’ve cut out over twenty people with whom I would seem to have only the most tenuous of connections (i.e. none at all). Whilst there’s no denying that I do use Facebook a lot, I’m finding it annoying enough to be told that people I do know have found lost cows in Farmville, and that they have beaten my score in some lame game or other. I really don’t care if someone I’ve never met nor communicated with in any way is creating a new mob in Mafia Wars.
I suppose I’m very fortunate to be able to
have friends to throw away. I was amazed by today’s news – one of the
founding members of a favourite band of mine has been found dead.
Or that is, someone who might possibly be a member of that band has been
found dead. It would seem that there was a road traffic accident in
And then work – today was a day out. I had a day in the wicked city. Periodically I have cause to visit the University for various reasons. Today I was there to meet two students whose work I am to inspect over the next couple of years. The idea is that in order to achieve State Registration their work will be assessed by someone at the University and by someone in their workplace. And then I go along occasionally (as an impartial assessor) just to check that all is above board and that there is no shenanigans. So often students are both dull and dreary, or they so clearly feel the need to suck up to me as an assessor. It came as a breath of fresh air to meet my two students who are a lively pair. Once they told me that they were dreading being assigned to “someone normal” we got on like a house on fire.
I came home via Maplins (the electronics shop) where I had hoped to get a new astronomical laser. However the chap in the shop seemed to be something of a dumbo; he told me that none of his lasers were quite strong enough to actually reach the stars, but he could get one in for me, if I was prepared to come back in a few days time. I queried this, and the chap assured me that he could obtain a laser powerful enough to reach a star. I was under the impression that creating a laser beam with enough power not to be dissipated by the dust in several light years of interstellar space would require the industrial output of most of humanity, but what do I know?
As it was on the way to St Pancreas (!), I stopped off for a pint of lunch in the Bree Louise. I’ve mentioned this pub before. With a dozen ales straight from the barrel, it’s become one of my favourites. I’ve taken to calling in when I’m on my way home from the university, and during the late afternoon, it’s a really peaceful place to be. I sat with a pint of Gruntfuttock’s “Awld Arsewobbler” and a bag of crisps whilst quietly reading my book. There were about a dozen other people in the place, all doing the same. It’s a shame I only visit the university twice a year (on average).
And on the train home I remembered a
conversation with one of my loyal readers about meeting up the next time I
had cause to be in
7 September 2010 (Tuesday) - More Skiving
I left home at 8.30am, and reminded myself
why (when I’m not on an 11.30am start) I get to work so early. The
traffic round Ashford is diabolical in the morning. In my first job at
Another good day at work – another day I didn’t actually go in to the place. Yesterday I was assessing students at the University; today I got to assess a student in his workplace. I quite like this part of my job as I get to go and be nosey where other people work. Being the inspector, people call me “sir” (!) and give me coffee and biscuits, and I remind myself that much as I might grumble about my job, it’s really not as black as I (sometimes) paint it, and that everyone else is in the same boat as me (to coin a phrase).
The assessment I had to conduct took a couple of hours. I found myself repeatedly looking out of the window at the torrential rain; I don’t think I’ve ever seen rain like I saw today. As I drove home although the rain had stopped, in places the road was actually one big puddle – the entire width of the road was under water in several places. The rain had been so heavy and so fat that the drains had been unable to cope. But five miles away were clear blue skies and bone-dry roads. Had the rain really been that localised?
I made my way home for a spot of lunch and spent the afternoon making my official report. I could have gone in to work for the last hour, but instead I was cheeky and spent some time on a project of mine. It is my contention that the formal advice that students in my line of work get for the completion of their professional pre-registration portfolios is somewhat vague. So I have taken it onto myself to try to offer some guidance
. To keep myself on the State Register I have to update and maintain my professional knowledge and skills, and so I’m hoping that by producing and keeping this website I’m keeping myself in good standing with those who might otherwise strike me off. Perhaps I should have gone into work for the last hour today. I shall find out tomorrow.
And as the afternoon wore on, the “Rear Admiral” phoned. Did I fancy an evening’s fishing? So we got our tackle out and spent a couple of hours in the evening sunshine drowning maggots. This new lake certainly isn’t what it was a couple of months ago…
The boiler man called last night to say he’d do us today (oo-er!). And so I lay awake most of the night worrying about all sorts of “what-ifs”, and having visions of it all going horribly wrong, and us being without water for six months. The chap arrived promptly this morning and I left him installing our new boiler and I set off to work perhaps somewhat earlier that I needed to. I spent most of the day with visions of unforeseen problems and catastrophes in my mind. I suppose I was worrying because I don’t know the first thing about plumbing.
I came home to find the new boiler in place and it seems to be quite happily doing whatever it is that boilers do. (Boil, presumably?) I suspect it will take me a while until I am confident that it has settled in and that it won’t go berserk. Admittedly there must be a limit as to how far amuck a new boiler can run, but I do worry.
Paranoia is something I might manage to ignore. A more tangible concern is paying for the thing. In retrospect I suppose I could have taken out boiler insurance. I could also have taken out insurance on the drains, the household electricals, the fish pond filter, the double glazing… There is only so much insurance one can take out, and after all is said and done, if the insurance policy isn’t (eventually) more expensive than a new boiler anyway, then they wouldn’t be offering it.
I’m hoping I’ve managed to scare up the cash to pay the boiler man. He hasn’t actually asked for payment yet, but he will do soon. I did have money earmarked for car services and road tax, TV licences and gas bills. Not any more. I’ve also grovelled at the bank to see about overdrafts. But what bothers me most is the economies I’m going to have to make over the next few months. The Brick Lane curry festival, the Eastbourne ice-cream extravaganza and at least one of the fireworks parades are likely candidates for savings I probably should make. And although it’s still three months away, I’m already thinking of dropping out of a couple of planned Xmas parties. I suppose that one of the advantages of excessive ale consumption as a hobby is that it can double up as a (relatively) easy economy to make when economies are needed. And wasting whole days in NeverWinter or at the fishing pond are cheap enough things to do instead.
But I can’t complain really. ‘er indoors TM assures me that we have had the old boiler serviced at least once. I can’t remember that. The thing was installed nearly twenty years ago, and has done its job flawlessly during that time. I *could* have run it to destruction; it might have had another year in it. It might have exploded tomorrow. I just need to remember to get the new one serviced regularly. And if I bung ten quid aside each month, when its time comes the cost of replacement shouldn’t be anywhere near the shock I had this time…
A rather restless night. Last night as I got out of my car I nearly fell over – my leg had gone to sleep. And it remained snoozing all night. This morning it was functioning as a leg, but still not feeling right. And I’ve been hobbling about on it all day. I wonder what’s up with it? If there’s no improvement by the morning I might just go visit the doctor.
This evening we drove down to Hastings – today was a day of birthdays and seeing how we are double booked for the birthday party in a few days time we thought we’d go down for the actual birthday (today). The plan was to make a flying visit: in the event we stayed for nearly three hours…. (hic!)
And meanwhile in America I see a bunch of crackpots are going out of their way to offend and upset a minority. Whilst it’s no secret that the vast majority of Muslims the world over are peace loving people, it’s also no secret that some of the world’s most wanted terrorists subscribe to that religion as well. All that burning sacred texts will do is to upset the innocent and give the crackpots more ammunition for their war of hate.
I had an idea that I would be going to see the doctor this morning as my leg wasn’t getting any better yesterday. But when I got up this morning it was better. Not perfect; I still have all my aches and pains, but the sensation of pins and needles certainly seems to have gone. Which is probably the best I can hope for.
Being on a late start gave me some time to muck about. So instead of mucking about I did some work. Dull, I know. The trouble is that in order for me to carry on in my job I have to stay on the State Register. In order for me to stay on the State Register I have to keep up to date with scientific and technical and educational developments, with a view to improving both myself and the service I offer my “service users” (for want of a better term). And document that I have done so. This is a legal requirement. Unfortunately there is no legal requirement for my employer to support me in this, so I just have to suck it up and do it myself.
Yesterday one of the girls at work was trying to sell software to help with that documentation. She wanted twenty quid (from each person at work) for some corporate-produced rubbish that was no better than Microsoft Word. In half an hour with the use of the free blogger software and Google calendar I came up with something I feel is much better. Regular readers are welcome to peruse my ramblings on that site, but I feel it only fair to give the warning that seeing how it’s (probably) going to be formally inspected at some point, knob jokes will be few and far between.
And so to work via Tescos for celebratory doughnuts. Today marks the twenty sixth anniversary of my starting at the place. Twenty six years, eh? That’s a lifetime. Whilst at work I overheard an interesting conversation. Two ladies with rather exaggerated ideas of their own social standing were discussing a chap of their acquaintance. The chap was obviously of the lower orders, as they described him as being “the sort of man who drinks beer in a pub”. Obviously a kindred spirit…
Meanwhile the bill for my new boiler has arrived. A few days ago I speculated on the economies I might have to make to pay for it. I wonder how much I might get for one of my kidneys on eBay? It’s a shame that I only have one child currently at home that I could sell….
I went to bed far too late last night. Having set up another blog elsewhere, I’ve been playing with the settings. This blog is set up pretty much how I want to it be. But the other blog isn’t a blog as such, it’s (going to be) more of a searchable archive. With that in mind, things like being able to search the blog for text and for specific post labels are going to be the priority. And I’ve gained a whole new respect for the Blogger software. I already follow several Blogger blogs (see the list), all of which are very different in appearance, and now I’ve created another. So far, so good… But having got that blog just right, I then spent too long fiddling about on another work-related project. It’s amazing what silly little bits of htm can stuff up alignment of a web page, and even more amazing how long it can take to put such problems right. And despite the late night I was (again) up and ironing before 7am.
To work. I’m not usually that keen on working Saturday mornings, but since management made the announcement that we don’t have to take time off in lieu of time worked on Saturdays but we can be paid (at time and a half!) I’ve been somewhat keener to work Saturday mornings. Normally I take in doughnuts at the weekend, but I did that yesterday.
I did my bit, and came home. After a quick sandwich and an episode or two of SpongeBob we set off and met the Folkestone contingent in Chris’s garden. I say “garden” – I can clearly remember a day in May 2002 when a gaggle of us gave that garden what can only be described as a tidying it would never forget. Or so we thought. Despite the fact that the shock of our combat gardening actually killed several trees, the garden itself survived, and over the intervening eight years did learn to forget. So today we went back to tidy that jungle. I got out my electric hedge shears and didn’t take any nonsense from the undergrowth. ‘er indoors TM and “Daddies Little Angel TM ”collected blackberries, and the “Rear Admiral” chucked the carnage over a fence in a manner very reminiscent of how he did exactly the same some eight years ago. Pausing only briefly to rip a tree out of the ground (with my bare hands!), we made good progress, and in two hours we made the difference that you can see in today’s blog photo. The garden fence is somewhat dishevelled in places, but that will be a job for another day.
And then home. Just as I was about to walk in the door the phone rang. It was work with a minor catastrophe. Was I free to help out as things had gotten a tad busy in the three hours since I’d come home. So ten minutes later I was back in harness. I thought there might be an hour’s work. I stayed for three hours; the place was that busy this afternoon. I eventually left sometime after seven o’clock. I don’t mind helping out – I’d rather someone phoned to say they needed help rather than finding out some time later that they’d been struggling. And more overtime is always good. Boilers don’t pay for themselves, you know.
Amazing! I went to bed at a sensible hour last night and was woken by ‘er indoors TM at 9.30am. I don’t think I’ve slept so well for ages. ‘er indoors TM was off to an arky-ologee club dig. I was toying with the idea of going along, but to be honest, I’m not a fan of practical arky-ologee. Firstly the scrubbling around in the dirt leaves me aching for days afterwards. And secondly I can’t work up much enthusiasm for unearthing dull bits of broken pots. Were they worth having, some dead Roman wouldn’t have thrown them away in the first place.
I could have gone to Challock Goose Fair today. The astro club were putting on a stall there. But if I’d gone along and helped, then I’d have to talk knowledgably to the normal people. I can blag my way at astro club meetings; noisily selling the raffle makes me obviously “a character” in the eyes of the general public there, and I can cover up my ignorance with blather and get away with it. But out on show (like at the Goose Fair) is somewhat different. And I can’t help that it wouldn’t look good on the club when it’s painfully apparent I don’t know the first thing about telescopes. And being at the Goose Fair would tempt me to spend money when I’m trying to be frugal (i.e. downright mean!).
Another possible activity for today was a day in a beer garden. I had told one of my students I might call in at her engagement party. But the Fountain in Hythe isn’t the most accessible of pubs when one is using public transport, and I can’t afford an afternoon at the pub. I’ve done it before (occasionally!) and I know what I’m like.
The original plan for the day was actually for me to be in France; at Dieppe Kite Festival. I went a couple of years ago and had a really good time. I had intended to go back this year, but I got my dates mixed up and thought next weekend’s birthday was this weekend. So having had so many other plans for the day, what did I actually do…
I read on Facebook that a fellow Blogger had possibly snapped an ankle bone following a visit to an osteopath. How appropriate (!) So I made a quick diversion up to the hospital to deliver the casualty. Rather than having her hobble across the car park, I went in to ask if they had a spare wheel chair. They did, so I took it, loudly announcing to all the punters in the casualty waiting room that I was going to sell it on eBay. Not one cracked a smile. Miserable bunch. Mind you, I suppose that each and every one of them probably had better things to be doing with their time rather than sitting around a hospital on a Sunday morning.
Having deposited Heather to the tender mercies of the Accident and Emergency department I set for to the Bat-Farm to help with ducks. Following a swift (leisurely) cup of coffee we rounded up the ducks, caged them, and took them on a car ride across several fields to their new pond. We had fun making the pond fox-proof by putting up an electric fence, and even more fun using the electric fence to electrocute each other. Then, having trimmed a landing stage where the ducks can get in and out of the pond easily, we released the ducks into their new home. Well, I say “released” – we opened the cage door and stood back to see their reaction to their new environment. There was no reaction; they wouldn’t come out of the cage. We waited for ten minutes before forcibly chivvying them out, and then we again sat back to see what they would make of the pond. And again they didn’t make much of it, merely milling round making quiet quacking noises. There was a moment’s excitement when one of the ducks fell in the pond by mistake, but he quickly scrabbled back out of the pond with a very indignant quack. We gave the ducks another fifteen minutes before we got bored with them, and then we attempted to chase them into the pond. I wonder if any of my loyal readers have ever attempted to chase a duck. They are relatively easy things to chase. But chasing them with a specific destination in mind takes some doing. They were going absolutely everywhere except into the pond. So we gave up and left the ducks to it. And as we got to the Land Rover to drive back to the farm, we heard some splashing; they’d finally found the pond.
We were by now a tad peckish, and so we adjourned to the Mundy Bois, one of the better local pubs. Clive had offered to treat us all to a light salad, as the “Rear Admiral” wasn’t very hungry. The first course of the light salad was pate. Very nice pate. For my main salad course I was hoping for pork (!), but they’d had a rush on, and had run out of pork. I could sympathise with that and so I settled for beef. It was a cracking bit of dinner, and we all struggled to get it down. I would have stopped at that point, but I was reliably informed that not eating the pudding course of a light salad is rude, so I had a cheesecake. There were those greedy ones amongst us who had a fruit crumble; the ingredients of which were shrouded in mystery. The “Rear Admiral” said it was a very nice apricot crumble. The waitress and chef said it didn’t have apricot in it. What did he actually eat? Other than the fact that it was smothered in custard, we shall probably never know.
Back to the farm where we thought we’d take a stroll up to see how the ducks were doing; we felt we could do with walking off the light salad. It transpired that the ducks were doing very well, so we fed them (some more) and we then took a stroll round the other ponds, before trying to find a shortcut home. “Trying” being the operative phrase. I have this theory about short cuts. If they really were shorter, then they wouldn’t be called a short cut. They would be called “The Way”.
And so home to find that my fellow Blogger had torn some ligaments (ouch!), and that‘er indoors TM had had a wonderful time at the arky-ologee club dig. As well as unearthing several manky bits of broken crockery, they’d found a subterranean wall, and Mossop (the arky-ologee club’s resident Riddler) had found a new friend. Which was nice for Mossop. I think the next time the arky-ologee bunch do a dig I shall again see how the ducks are doing….
To Tescos to get some lunch. When I was a lad you got your food shopping from Tescos, and that was it. But over the years they have increased their range of products. So much so that you don’t need to go round a range of shops any more. They’ve done DVDs, music and clothes for some time. Over the summer they were doing camping gear. Today I saw they sold windscreen wipers and gloss paint. Is there anything they don’t do?
And so to work where I heard an interesting article on the radio. It has been said that money can’t buy you happiness. Research has shown that this isn’t entirely true. Apparently one achieves maximum happiness with an annual salary of about fifty thousand quid. One is miserable with an income less than that, but (apparently) earning more than fifty thousand quid doesn’t bring extra happiness. I’d be prepared to try it out, if any potential employers would like to participate in the experiment. After all, wasn’t it Groucho Marx who commented that in his life he’d been very rich and very poor, and preferred being very rich.
On the subject of earnings, Radio Four’s website has an interesting toy at the moment. You get to choose various professions and guess their wages. Some are paid far more than others. The others are (on the whole) worth far more than some. And still the lifeboat men do it for free...
I had a wonderful day at work, in a room on my own. I had the radio on (via the Internet). I love Radio Four. There was an interview with girl who had been held captive by a madman for eight years. There was a feature on the problem of increasing promiscuity in the older generation - they catch manky knob-rot and other such diseases, but because of their age and sensibilities they are loathe to get antibiotics for it.
We were warned to check our compost bins for grass snakes. In many parts of the country these unfortunate reptiles are in decline, but by setting up a compost bin we can give them somewhere to live and breed.
There was an amazing program about the problems that authors face when they feel they want to kill off their own fictional creations. Apparently Conan Doyle had terrible problems getting his publisher to allow him to do for Sherlock Holmes. It transpired that Christie wanted to put the kibosh on Poirot for years before finally doing so. And more recently the author Colin Dexter got rather a lot of abuse for killing off his character of Inspector Morse.
And following the media furore about a schoolchild being expected to walk twenty yards to a bus stop, there was an article about how children get to school. In 1971 80% of seven to nine year olds got themselves to school. By 1990 that figure was down to 9%. The fruits of my loin both walked to school. As did I. Kids of today…!
Mind you, the radio wasn’t all good. There was some frankly dire drivel about “Ma Vlast” (some classical music dirge) which was composed by someone going by the moniker of Bedrich Smetana. Apparently this racket has become an integral part of Czech culture. All I can say is that I hope it don’t catch on over here (!) And having that dull article being followed by “The Archers” was just adding insult to injury.
And then the news made me think. For some time I’ve been a roving reporter for a couple of pub reviewing websites – “Beer in the Evening” and “Pubs Galore”. It’s something I’ve enjoyed doing and in my (nearly) two hundred reviews I’ve attempted to be honest. If a pub is good, I’ll say so. Similarly if a pub is awful, I’ll say so. Over the years I’ve read other peoples reviews which are clearly not so impartial. Many are singing the praises of a pub which can only be described as “mediocre” at best. It doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to spot a landlord who is bigging up his own pub. There are also reviews which are utterly slating pubs which frankly don’t deserve the criticism. When you also consider the rate at which pubs change hands these days, reviews of pubs aren’t always the most reliable things you’ll find on line anyway.
Pubs aren’t the only things reviewed on the Internet. Hotels and restaurants also get reviews: impartial and biased. One of the leading hotel review websites is facing legal action following allegations of it’s running defamatory reviews. I’ve been expecting this for some time. I wonder how much longer “Beer in the Evening” and “Pubs Galore” have got left?
And then on with the tattooing. It’s only two weeks since “My Boy TM ” started his new hobby. He’s the first to admit he’s still got a lot to learn, but I’m pleased with his efforts so far. Even if doing me is like “tattooing a womble” (!) I quite like what he’s done to my arm, and the angel he did on “Daddies Little Angel TM ” is quite impressive…
Perhaps this has bothered me more than it should: being a naturally gregarious kind of guy I worry about the lonely. I can remember feeling very awkward at a funeral some years ago. The chap who had been the secretary of the snake club had died. When several hundred of us turned up for his funeral we had to wait for a funeral already in progress to finish. There were only four people at that funeral. I’ll never forget their faces as they watched us come into the chapel. What had been deserted for their beloved’s funeral was standing room only for ours.
When my mother in law used to run a bed and breakfast, she would occasionally have guests drop dead. I remember her telling me that a couple of times she attended funerals of croaked customers. At those funerals she would be accompanied by one or two other residents of her B&B, but that would be all. These people would be way past retirement age, but still utterly alone.
As a child there was the tale of a beloved grandmother going missing from the Sussexvillage of Winchelsea. When the local river was dragged they didn’t find her body, but they found the bodies of two men who still remain unidentified.
And so to NeverWinter where I generated quite a few more ungrieved dead, and then to work where I generated quite a lot more stuff for my other blog. This other blog’s not doing bad for all that it’s less than two weeks old. And then home. Eventually.
I forgot that yesterday (with help from the Rear Admiral) I took the top box off of my car, and so this evening I spent a panicked few minutes looking for a silver top box in a car par devoid of any top boxes whatsoever.
I was just settling down for a bit of a snooze last night when “My Boy TM ” started complaining about the smell in the garden. On lifting the manhole cover we found that the drains had backed up and so we had a literal case of “getting our own back”. I phoned the water people who told me that they’d send for a nice man with some rods, and that he’d be with me soon. They phoned back at 10.30pm and apologized for phoning so late. Why apologize – surely they realised I’d be sitting up waiting? They told me that the nice man with the rods was in Deal and would be with me as soon as possible. He arrived half an hour later which was rather impressive, as anyone who knows the roads round south Kent would agree.
The nice man lifted up the manhole cover, saw some dreadnoughts and concurred with my diagnosis that there was a blockage. So the nice man got some rods and had a good old heave and strain, but to no avail. Next door must have heard the commotion and came out to assure us that his drains were fine. He lifted his manhole cover to prove it, and then changed his tune somewhat. On seeing his drains were also backed up he did a complete about-face and announced that his drains haven’t been right for the last three weeks.
By now the nice man’s sidekick (Baz) had arrived. Without wishing to appear in any way racist, I couldn’t imagine anyone less likely to be called Baz. Perhaps there are lots of people of Ghurkha extraction called “Baz”; it’s just that I’ve never met them. Baz was left rodding whilst the nice man went off on a mission to wake up all our other neighbours. He then noisily set about a manhole cover with a hammer and chisel, which went down well with all concerned seeing as it was now past 11pm. Having hammered to his satisfaction he then announced he had the wrong manhole cover. He went back to our back garden, collected Baz, and the two of them went around banging on people’s front doors again. Half an hour later they came back and announced that they had failed, but that it would be a P1 job for Paul in the morning. Before they went they made the observation that the water level in the drain had subsided enough for us to use the toilet a couple of times. Thank the lord for small mercies. So I went to bed at 1am with one weight off my mind, wondering how Paul would fare in the morning.
Needless to say I didn’t sleep well; finally dropping off a few minutes before “My Boy TM”quietly got up for work. I tried to get back off to sleep, but failed. I got up and checked the drains – still blocked. The nice man who came last night said that Paul would be here at 8.30am. He wasn’t here by 9.30am, so I phoned the water people to confirm that they were still sending Paul. They said he was on the way. I asked if they could perhaps chivvy Paul along a little. They said they’d try, and they assured me all would be done in time for me to leave for work. Paul rolled up at 9.45am, and seemed somewhat fed up. I got the distinct impression that they sent him out to clear up the messes made by everyone else. He got out his map of the drains which showed two manhole covers in next door’s garden. A shame that his map didn’t coincide with reality – there’s only one. So he went next door to have a look, and then announced the manhole he wanted was fifty yards away. And he went on to say that it would be a two man job and he’d need to send for backup. I left him to it, and after a few minutes I realised that things were quiet. Too quiet. He’d gone. He came back at 10.40am and said that he’d sent for his sidekick. However his sidekick wasn’t as speedy as Baz, and wouldn’t be here for an hour or so. In the meantime he planned to do another job inCanterbury Road. I again explained I had to go to work, and (not knowing what else to do) left him a spare key to sort himself out.
One of the fruits of my loin phoned me a few hours later to ask if the man bad been and gone yet. Totally leaving aside the question of which man (said fruit had the choice of the nice man with the rods, Baz, Paul or the unnamed sidekick) I said I didn’t know, and said the way to find out was to look inside the manhole cover. I heard a clattering through the phone, an exclamation about the smell of it all, and then an admonishment that I had been negligent in my parental duties in that I had never taught my offspring what a blocked drain looked like. I asked for a description of what could be seen under the manhole cover, and on hearing the description lacked any mention of floating turds I have made the assumption that the thing is now fixed. Thank heavens for small mercies.
In between all of this I played around with the blog settings; specifically the “Dates for the Diary” settings. Rather than having a written list which I would update as and when I remembered I’ve replaced it with a Google Calendar. If any of my loyal readers don’t like the look of the thing and prefer it how it was, clicking the “Agenda” tab at the top right gives that view. Clicking on any event gives as many details about the event as I’ve got, and it also gives you the option to add it to your own Google Calendar. If you’ve not got a Google Calendar of your own, I’d recommend getting one. They are free, and once you’ve got an event on there, you can customise the thing to email you reminders so that you don’t forget it. Or if you want, you can send me an email address and I’ll have the software remind you. Since I had a few minutes whilst I was waiting for Paul, I’ve added as many bonfire parades as I can, and also put in some beer festivals and kite festivals for next year. Have a look, loyal reader, and let me know what dates and events I've missed off...
I overheard a conversation today in which a particularly thick looking young lady was asking what all the fuss was in the news. Who was this “pope bloke”? What does he do? When informed that the Holy Father is the leader of the worldwide Catholic Church, the dumbo thought for a few minutes before dismissing Catholicism out of hand. She didn’t agree with it because she was a Christian (!)
People who find they have fertility problems can get treatment from the National Health Service, or from licensed clinics. Sperm donors at such centres are health screened, and their samples are deep frozen for six months after donation to ensure that the donors don’t go down with various transmissible viruses in the meantime. On the other hand you can buy a random bottle of jizz off of the Internet and hope for the best.
Equally ridiculous was a war story. During the Suez crisis a squadron of bombers took off to bomb somewhere or other. (Suez, I would imagine). Or that is most of the squadron took off. One of them didn’t because the pilot, Flying Officer Derek Kenyon made a mistake and rather than pressing the “take off” button, he pressed the “retract undercarriage” button. Air crew staff found Derek crying and cheerfully asked him if he’d pressed the wrong button. After all, it’s not supposed to be possible to retract the undercarriage until the plane is in the air. Having twatted the bomber beyond economical repair, Derek was court martial-ed and went to prison, suspected of cowardice in the face of the enemy.
I was just thinking about going to kip last night when the phone rang. ‘er indoors TM had been out at a mucky undercrackers party and on the way home her trusty vehicle gave up the ghost. Eventually (at 1am!) she was towed home, with the alternator belt missing. Which was a nuisance. To be honest the thing hasn’t sounded right for a while. Regular readers will realise that up until a week ago I had cash in reserve for such disasters. Oh well. Having a new alternator belt will just have to be her Xmas pressie this year. I just hope she didn’t spend too much last night on mucky undercrackers.
In the week (with help from the Rear Admiral) I took the top box off of my car. It would have been easier all round to have left it on, I suppose. I’ve heard that taking the box off improves fuel consumption. But a colleague regularly drives from her house fifty yards down the road to Dublin. She’s done exactly the same journey with and without her top box, and she says it takes exactly the same amount of fuel. But with the box off, I can now get under the barrier at the council tip. Much as the place can be “R-tard central” at times, my dustbin of garden waste was full. So full that I had to empty it before I could generate any more garden waste at all. The tip opened at 8am, so I was there for opening time, only to find that I was about thirtieth in line to get in to the place. And who should I meet at the tip but a fellow Blogger. I had one bin of garden waste to shift: he had a car full. I spent five minutes helping him shift his rubbish. Well, his car was blocking me in. It was either help him or beep my hooter at him. Either option suited me…
I then went to work for a dull morning. Which was probably for the best. Saturday mornings are either non-stop dead busy, or are just plain dull. I know which I prefer. Home via the garage to collect ‘er indoors TM who had arranged to have the fragments of her car delivered there for fixing. Once home with an empty compost bin I mowed the lawn. It was a tad long – I’d not mowed it for at least a month. Following a quick jaunt to the fishing tackle shop for some bait I put the telly on and fell asleep whilst watching “Tron”. A waste of the afternoon, really.
And then the clans gathered and we set off to the Queen’s Head in Kingsnorth where we’d planned a surprise 40th birthday party. All surprise parties are somewhat dependent of the guest of honour actually turning up, and during the week things had looked somewhat dodgy on that score. But eventually he was tricked into going to the pub, and a good time was had by all. There’s no denying that as the evening wore on things did get decidedly vague. Did we really play “musical chairs” to Sparks…?
Last week the Rear Admiral suggested an early morning fishing session at some point. It seemed sensible to me that he stayed over after Martin’s birthday party and we’d go fishing the next morning. When the alarm went at 5.30am I did feel a bit rough, and it was somewhat discouraging to see it was still dark outside, but going back to bed would be defeatist. By the time I’d got up and had a bit of brekky, I was warming to the idea. I had a minor shock whilst getting the fishing gear out of the shed – there was quite an epic splashing coming from the garden pond. But because it was still dark, I had no idea what was going on. By the time I’d found a torch and gone to investigate, whatever the commotion was had died down, and the fish all seemed rather peaceful, if not asleep. I can’t help but wonder what all the fuss was about.
I went into the house to find our house guest had woken and we loaded the car and set off to the pond. We were fishing by 6.45am, and as the morning wore on and the sun came out so the day got colder. And colder. With no fish biting and temperatures falling we very soon lost enthusiasm for the idea, and were in the Gorge having breakfast by nine o’clock.
Home, and after a spate of staring at Man vs Food and Fairly Odd Parents on the telly we set off to Lidl. I love Lidl – pikey central, but with one or two bargains on the groceries to be had. And then we went for a walk. First of all I took ‘er indoors TM to see the fishing pond. I’m not sure how she managed it, but she’d not seen the pond so far. Whilst walking across the field I saw something that made my heart sink. Not one but two herons were flying low across the water. I shouted at the things and scared them away temporarily, but they continued circling the pond. I’ve been saying to anyone who will listen that the fishing there isn’t what it once was, and has noticeably tailed off over the last few months. This could well be the reason – herons can empty a pond of small fish. And then start killing the big ones. I’ve since spoken with pond management and we’re looking into plastic herons.
Back to the car, and we drove on to Orlestone woods for a walk. A really pleasant place to be, and on a dead log we saw six lizards. Six! I counted them. The lizards let us get to within a yard of them before the larger ones ran away. The little ones stayed put so we could photograph them, and as it became clear we weren’t going to hurt them, the bigger ones came back. Once home and having put the photo on the computer and zoomed in, we saw that where I thought there were six lizards there were actually nine. I didn’t see three of the smaller ones!! And then home, listening to strange noises emerging from the car. I’m fairly sure I’ve detected a new strange sound which happens when accelerating. Having said that’ it’s a rather quiet sound, and normally I have a CD or the radio on, so it’s possibly a “standard car noise”. Let’s hope so. What with boilers and other cars going west, I really can’t afford any more expense.
Once home I tidied the garden. I mowed the lawn yesterday and left the grass cuttings. Today I raked them up – they did make the place look untidy. And then “My Boy TM ”appeared and started whinging. He’d been playing silly beggars with his mates and had managed to fall from a height onto his shoulder. So I chucked him in the car and drove him up to the hospital for a quick once-over. We arrived to find the place heaving with he Great Unwashed, but we were in and out in less than an hour. He’s just sprained and bruised himself, and the doctor’s given him a list of painkillers he should take for a few days. He took a few and went to bed. I can’t criticize - I slept in front of the telly for most of the remainder of the day. Today had turned out to be surprisingly busy…
Meanwhile it’s National Talk Like A Pirate Day. You landlubbers should be a-talking like them scurvy sea dogs. Arr! And they be a-having fun events up & down the country, they be, and raising loads of doubloons for charidee……
What constitutes a charity? There’s several definitions, but I suppose we all know what it’s about. A “Charitable Institution” is one that does various good deeds and works. But there’s more to it than that. It’s not enough just to generally be a do-gooder. The charity needs money too – donated by the public. And that’s where “International Talk Like a Pirate Day” falls over. In the UK they’ve nominated the Marie Curie nurses as the charity. Now I’m in no way knocking the Marie Curie Cancer Care people, but…. Yes, I am knocking them. What they do, financed by public donation, is what the district nurses used to do years ago, financed by the National Health Service. Until one government or another realised that it was daft spending government tax money on something that charity will provide.
It’s the same with schools. How many “bleeding heart” letters home do parents get about fundraising events? To raise funds for essentials such as books? If you go to the seaside you get beggars pleading with you to finance the lifeboats. If you’re unwell, there are volunteers giving up their time to help run and finance hospitals.
If anyone is feeling public spirited, there are thousands of good causes that need cash. The Cat’s Protection League and the Little Dog Rescue are quite hard up. Guide Dogs receive no public income at all. There’s the John Aspinal foundation, Sight Savers, Action Aid, Oxfam….. In order to be named a “charity”, the cause should be entirely self financing. We do ourselves no favours by subsidising that which we are already paying for in our various taxes. Don’t go to the school’s barn dance or the hospital’s quiz night. You’ve already paid for those in your income tax and community charges. By continuing to give, you merely encourage the local and national governments (of whatever political parties) to carry on wasting money on the unnecessary rubbish that we read about it the papers.
I must admit to a wry smile as I drove to work today. Just as I turned on the windscreen wipers so that I could see through the rain, the weather forecaster apologised that it would be dry in the south again, and that it might be a little while before we again see any rain. It must be wonderful to be a professional weather forecaster; they can just spout any old rubbish they so desire. Nobody ever expects their predictions to bear even the remotest resemblance to reality. I would love that in my line of work. I could greet the deceased patient’s grieving relatives with “Oh, it wasn’t wind, it was cancer. Oh silly me!” and we could all have a good laugh about my incompetence.
Meanwhile north of the border, our kilted cousins are exploiting a loophole in the lawwhich will enable them to continue making their distinctive traditional attire from its original source. Or will enable them to carry on making frankly stupid tourist trap gimmicks from an endangered species; depending on your viewpoint. Apparently whilst it’s illegal for most people to hunt seals, it’s quite permissible for native Eskimos to clout seals over the heads. And then flog the carcasses to the sporran industry. I can’t help but wonder how many people actually do wear the kilt in this day and age.
This morning I read both the electricity and the gas meters. It’s usually about this time every year that I read the meters and then phone up the power company to ask for a refund of a few hundred pounds because their estimated readings are a little ambitious. But this year I wasn’t so sure. From my rough and ready calculations, I got confused. The on-line bill seemed to have far more tariffs than I was actually paying. So I phoned the nice lady at the power company to see if she would give be a refund. I read out the numbers from the meters. She seemed confused, and put me on hold. Then she announced that my electrical day rate reading is exactly the same as it was a year ago. She said she’d phone me back, and hung up. She phoned back – I’m getting fifty quid back off of the gas bill, and I’ve got to arrange with them to have a new leccie meter fitted. It wasn’t that long ago that they replaced the leccie meter because it was broken. I suppose fifty quid from the gas bill is better than a kick up the bum, but there’s no denying that I was hoping for a better result than that. And then to add insult to injury I received an email telling me that my gas meter reading had failed validation, and would I ring them back urgently? I’ll do that in the morning.
And then I checked my other mail. Four months after selling me a new car, Renault were trying to sell me another. And also were keen for me to take out anther loan as well. I suppose that is nice to know. I had a red reminder from the electoral register. That’s cheeky of them – I sent in their first letter and I completed the form on-line too. Nice to know their system’s not working.
A letter from the bank. I’d spoken with them a couple of weeks ago about increasing my overdraft limit. They agreed and were very clear that the only costs I would incur would be interest all the time I was overdrawn. Their letter said they’d charged me twenty five quid for setting up the overdraft. Cheeky beggars. So I phoned them up and spoke with someone who was helpful but didn’t actually speak English very well. He put me through to someone in Edinburgh who said she’d replay the tape recording of the conversation and would phone me back. She phoned back to say that they would waive the overdraft set up fee (this time) as a gesture of goodwill. That was kind of them. She also politely pointed out that I was actually rather more overdrawn than I thought I was going to be, and politely asked if I had plans to deal with this situation.
Being on a late start I had some time to waste. So I got on to the power company. Yesterday I mentioned that they’d emailed me to say that my gas meter reading had failed validation. They sent me more emails overnight to that effect, so I thought I’d better get back to them. I phoned at 8am and asked what was going on. “Failed validation” means that the reading I gave them was less than the previous meter reading. The reason for that was rather obvious. The last few meter readings have all been estimates, and they have been over-estimating for years. As evidenced by the annual refunds I’ve been getting. They grudgingly conceded defeat. Which was just as well, as they admitted they’d already refunded this year’s overpayment. This refund hasn’t shown up on my bank account yet. I’ll keep checking.
I also needed to speak to them to arrange to get a new leccie meter fitted. Yesterday they said that any day next week would be fine for them to fit the thing. Today they say they can’t do it with less than two weeks notice, and the 6th October is the earliest they can manage. I told them that I’ll come up with a date and that whenever it is, they need to be in and finished by 11am. They said they could offer a morning or afternoon appointment. I wasn’t going to argue; if their operative is not here by 11am I shall bill them for my wasted time (and see what happens).
Yesterday was my five hundredth blog entry here on Blogger, and my one thousand five hundredth since I first started blogging back on Yahoo 360 in September 2006. Averaging forty hits every day, my daily musings are read by people all over the world. This morning by 10.30am people from such diverse places as Halifax, Letchworth, Cheshunt, Guildford, Derby and Stony Plain had already tuned in. One thousand five hundred entries. That’s quite a bit – the archive takes up 39Mb of disk space. Back when I started I had no idea that I would actually turn out to be an avid diarist. I wonder how much longer the thing will run for…?
Up with the lark and on with the ironing. And then to Asda to buy some lunch. Whilst I was at it I treated myself to a new ironing board cover. There’s no denying that having one of the highlights of your day being the acquisition of a new ironing board cover is a tad sad.
And so to work where I was faced with a challenge. It’s been suggested that between us we devise a CD or two of our favourite music. Each person suggests four of their favourite tracks aand a compilation will be made. Also (for Xmas) each person has to suggest a favourite Xmas track and a second choice. The Xmas one is easy. Roy Wood and the Wombles – “I Wish It Could Be A Wombling Merry Christmas Every Day” as first choice, and in second place is Kate Bush with “December Will Be Magic”. But a favourite four non-Xmas tracks: that’s not so easy.
First off something by Sparks. But what. And then something by E.L.O. But what? And something from my mis-spent youth. That would be the Sex Pistols. But they were rubbish. And then I realised that my favourite Sparks and E.L.O. tracks aren’t actually by them, but are cover versions. And that opened up whole new vistas to my indecision. Having spent all day pondering this one, I’ve come up with a shortlist (in no particular order):
One of the benefits of working in a hospital is that when the worst happens, I am (usually) on hand to visit people when they are unwell. Or to gloat at their misfortunes. It has to be said that hospital work can offer unparalleled opportunities for pointing and laughing. And so I popped up to visit Glenn, who’d had an emergency appendectomy overnight. He seemed in good spirits: if it were me in the hospital bed I would have been milking it for all it was worth…
And then on to the astro club. Regular readers may recall a blog entry from last Xmas when I drove down to Brighton to collect presentation boards for the astro club. We got to use the things this evening. I’m impressed with them, but to use them to best effect we need some way of storing the club’s posters which doesn’t involve rolling them up. If any of my loyal readers have a spare jigsaw puzzle case, do let me know.
Astro club went very well – we started off with a round-up of current astronomical news, then young Joshua gave an excellent talk on spacecraft. He illustrated his talk with models he’d made. And then his father gave a talk on the difficulty of identifying life on an unknown planet. I had great fun hawking the raffle (as always), and the evening clouds cleared enough for us to get the telescopes out.
To Hampshire for the in-laws family reunion. Every year the family would get together for great-grandma’s birthday, and since she’s been gone the tradition has continued. This year the venue was in Ringwood; mutually inconvenient for everyone, but then, probably in the best place it could be, bearing in mind the distances people have to travel. And there’s a brewery in Ringwood with which I am not entirely unfamiliar…
Our journey down was rather uneventful, and we were among the first to arrive at the hotel. We settled down in the bar with a pint and a half of Ringwood’s Best and my mobile rang. My brother in law and his entourage were stuck in traffic. I gloated, and told them I’d keep people talking until they arrived. And soon people were arriving. So I got off my bum (easier said than done) and did the “meeting and greeting thing”.
I’m not sure how they have managed it, but the in-laws have somehow found a whole new tribe the existence of which everyone has been hitherto unaware. Once upon a time I had passed “The Test” in which I would have two family members pointed out to me at random. I would know their familial relationship to each other, and the common ancestor of said family members (or their partners). Now however there is an entire new load of collaterals, and no one (least of all themselves) seems to quite know exactly where they fit into the great scheme of things. Mind you, they seem pleasant enough, so I’m not complaining. I expect they will appear on my Facebook list over the next few weeks: that’s how I get to know most of the in-laws these days.
After a couple of pints of Ringwood’s Best all the stragglers had arrived and we went through to the meal. Usually this is the part I dread – being sat next to “normal people” and having to be on my best behaviour. But this time fate had smiled on me – I was sat next to a second cousin in law who I’ve known for years, and we jointly grumbled about how unfair it was that her sister got to sit on the kiddies table. And we tried (and failed) to throw paper aeroplanes at the kiddies table.
Dinner was served. To be fair, the food wasn’t as good as that which I’ve had in a lot of pubs over the year, but it was hot and tasty, which was a distinct improvement on last year’s venue. (The many and varied failings of the Victoria Hotel in Hastings have been ranted about enough in the past). And once diner was scoffed a laptop PC was brought around. It was hooked up to Skype and we all waved at Canadian cousins. And then as most of the family settled down to after dinner coffee and polite conversation, I settled down to a fifth pint of Ringwood’s Best and a game of “Smack Smack Bum”; an obscure party game in which I get as many children as possible to run round as posh an establishment as possible, whilst screaming as loudly as they possibly can. A tough job, but if I didn’t do I, who else would?
I slept most of the way home, and then once home I immediately set off to work. There was a bit of a backlog, and the opportunity for overtime had arisen. And regular readers will realise I’m a tad short of readies at the moment…
Brian had phoned in the week to ask if I’d help him with lifting some furniture about; he had a nice man coming with a van to collect some bits he no longer needed. So after a quick bit of brekkie I wandered round the corner to his house. As always we started with a cuppa, and then we got some wardrobes down the stairs. There was a dodgy couple of seconds when I was trapped under a wardrobe, and another dodgy five minutes when it looked like we might be resorting to our old friend “Mr. Hammer” to encourage a wardrobe to go round the banister, but eventually all was well. And so we had another cuppa before taking a cupboard off of the wall. It didn’t want to come, but it soon changed its mind after a gentle bit of persuasion from our old friend “Mr. Hammer”. With the cupboard down we put the tumble drier where the cupboard had been. Moving tumble driers is thirsty work, and so we stopped for a cuppa.
And then the nice man arrived (with his van) to collect the furniture. He took one look at all of it, and then went mental. His ex-wife had asked him to collect the stuff, and had told him there were only two flat-packed wardrobes. There were actually three wardrobes, two bedside tables and two chests of drawers. None of it was flat packed. Whilst he phoned his ex-wife and had a major domestic, we helped his son load up the van. I did laugh when we couldn’t get it all in. As they drove off the nice man’s son said they’d be back soon to collect the rest of it. And so we drank another cuppa as we waved goodbye to the van. We then spent half an hour moving furniture into the front room into the space vacated by all the wardrobes and stuff, and soon enough the van was back. Minus the nice man. His son was driving and he’d found a friend to help him. I didn’t like to ask what had happened to his dad in the meantime. By now there were no parking spaces outside for the van, so they just pulled up in the middle of the road and blocked the traffic in all directions whilst we wrestled the last of the furniture into place. With the furniture all gone my work was complete, and so after a final cuppa I left Brian hoovering up the mess we’d made and I came home for some lunch.
‘er indoors TM had been mucking about on the Internet and had found that there was a guided tour around the Dungeness sound mirrors this afternoon. As we had nothing else planned we thought we’d give it a go. Dungeness sound mirrors were built some eighty years ago as an early warning system designed to hear the approach of enemy aircraft. Within ten years of the instigation of the project, the invention of radar made the entire concept of sound mirrors redundant. But the afternoon was an interesting look round “what might have been”.
The weather was awful, but it was either the sound mirrors or sitting around at home. The sound mirrors are on an inaccessible island on private land which is fenced off by barbed wire. The locked gates and swing-bridge to the island are only opened to the public three times a year, so it would have been a shame not to have gone along. Something which rather sold me on the idea was that bearing in mind how awful the weather was, not many people would want to brave the elements. We thought that there might be maybe half a dozen other brave souls who wouldn’t mind the rain and would also come along on this walk. The chap leading the walk did a head count as we crossed the bridge onto the island where the sound mirrors were. There were one hundred and ninety one of us. Although we got soaked it was a good day out. At every point along the way we stopped and listened to experts telling us what we were looking at. My only regret (apart from the awful weather) was that we didn’t have enough time to let friends and family know about it, but we only had a couple of hours notice of the event ourselves. Next time will be different….
A sobering thought: not only was it “My Boy TM s” twenty third birthday two days ago, but now that the Labour party have chosen their new leader, I am officially old. I am older than all of the leaders of the country’s three biggest political parties. Perhaps that explains the political disaster that is current UK politics. Perhaps I’m old fashioned as well, but senior politicians are too young these days. They get to the top too early because they don’t seem to ever have “proper jobs” - they go straight into politics.
Compare this to the politicians of yore. Margaret Thatcher (aged 54 when first Prime Minister) was a research chemist and a food scientist. James Callaghan (aged 64 when first Prime Minister) was a tax inspector and a sailor. Edward Heath (aged 54 when first Prime Minister) was variously a banker, a journalist and an army officer. John Major was also a banker, moving to this career from the London Electricity Board.
But look at today’s senior politicians. For example look at the career of the Prime Minister. No experience of any non-political work. The new Leader of the Oppositiononly spent a couple of years in journalism before becoming a professional politician. Of the three party leaders, only the Deputy Prime Minister has any experience of the real world. We have a government of professional governors; qualified to govern, but with no experience of that which they aspire to govern.
Meanwhile back in that reality, the word on the street is that there is to be a new Bill and Ted movie. The first two Bill and Ted movies are certainly in my list of favourite films; let’s hope this one is a good ‘un. Mind you, Rufus is now dead, so I’m intrigued to see how they get round that minor hiccup. For those of my loyal readers to whom this means nothing, watch the first two Bill and Ted movies: you have a treat in store. Sixty-nine, dude….
A few months ago I had an email from the boss asking if any of our staff fancied manning a stall at the West Kent Skills Festival. I forwarded the email to my immediate colleagues. No one seemed keen on the idea, so I volunteered myself. A day sitting around talking to students about what I do for a living seemed a somewhat more attractive proposition than a day spent actually doing that living. Funnily enough, as I collected posters and exhibits for our stall during the preceding week, people seemed to be somewhat jealous about my forthcoming day out. All I can say is that maybe this is God’s way of saying read your emails next time (!)
I met up with a colleague from the Margate hospital, and we soon arrived in Tonbridge. Finding the Angel Centre was tricky, but we eventually found our reserved place. The idea of the day was to provide career choice information to local schools and colleges, and we were putting on one of seventy five stalls. We were next to a stall manned by staff from a nursery school on one side. On the other side we had an engineering firm who were offering students the chance to make and float Lego boats. Opposite us was a stall from Charlton Athletic football club (!) and nearby were stalls from LeicesterUniversity’s science department, Kent University’s maths department, Kent Highways,Kent police, the Army, and one featuring some rather foxy sailors (woof!). Also present were several other engineering firms, the Royal Air Force, my leccie provider (who gave me a free key-ring), and pretty much everybody and anybody. I don’t think the day could have been bettered for careers ideas
We set up our stall rather quickly, and we soon found ourselves faced with hoards of schoolchildren. At first I wondered if we would be able to hold our own against the competition, but in retrospect I think we gave a fair accounting of our profession. My colleague spoke very knowledgeably about the intricacies of blood groups and the excitement of urgent emergency blood transfusions. I spoke rather loudly, noisily and grossly about the fascinating subject that is human parasitology. (Students like that!) To illustrate my witterings we had a microscope rigged up to show microfilaria (the small blood-borne worms that cause sleeping sickness) and a foot-long dead round worm in a sealed pot (actually retrieved from a real patient’s bum). Between us we also touched on the automated analysis of blood, haemophilia, clinical (and other) uses of warfarin, antibiotics and bacteriology, cervical cytology, and histological examinations. I think we did ourselves proud – before long the students were telling their mates about us. Newcomers to the exhibition were asking the centre management where they could find the “Extreme Biology” stall. I quite liked being regarded as an “Extreme Biologist”.
We were told that there were over two thousand students who came to the exhibition. I don’t think we saw them all, but those that we did meet left our stall actually knowing what a biomedical scientist does and (I’d like to think) with some respect for the hospital biomedical scientist.
Or perhaps it’s fairer to say that most of them did. There was a small minority who flatly refused to even come near the stall because of the inherent squeamishness provoked by the subject matter. There was one young lady who was rather disparaging about the entire concept of biomedical science. She announced (rather patronisingly) that she intends to study at University to find out why people die.
Regular readers may recall an entry from four years ago when I complained bitterly that the British Kite Flying Association was in serious danger of losing its way. Today’s haul of emails has brought proof that they have lost their way so much as to now actually be on another planet.
BKFA news update #14 runs to twelve sides of A4, and touches on such diverse subjects as the Civil Aviation Authority and the government’s scheme to use schools sports facilities when the schools aren’t using them. There was a lot of hot air about child protection legislation which showed a complete misunderstanding of the whole concept of child protection legislation on the part of the BKFA. There was another apology for the lack of progress; this time on their website. And there was loads about the procedural affairs concerning their forthcoming AGM. On the plus side, after five years they’ve finally sorted out their kite flying insurance policy.
I also see that they have got two more kite flying clubs to affiliate with them. With a total of seven constituent clubs, they have now re-written their constitution. It originally said the BKFA needed to have a minimum of eight member clubs. It’s interesting that the first part of their constitution says that the BKFA is “To be a representative, elected body to unify all aspects of British kiteflying…” With only fourteen per cent of UK kite clubs being represented after some six years of effort by the BKFA, perhaps it’s time the BKFA gave up. It was a good idea that simply hasn’t worked.
Mind you, they did tell me (in October 2006) that “my opinions are irrelevant”, “my questions are not important” and that “I have no status”, so I must be utterly mistaken to feel that BKFA news update #14 might actually have had some news about kite flying in Britain.
Regular readers may also recall an entry on Sunday August 15th when I went underground exploring the fortifications at Lydden Spout. At the time we got to crawl round the gun emplacements left over from the war, often in pitch darkness, and I was as excited as a kiddie playing “Smack Smack Bum”. So excited in fact that I didn’t actually listen to what Stevey was telling me about the history of the places we were crawling into.
This evening Stevey came to the arky-ologee club and gave a lecture on the history of the British coastal defences during the Second World War, with particular reference to where we’d been underground. Absolutely fascinating. And it’s criminal that these historical monuments are being left to rot.
Yesterday I ranted about the British Kite Flying Association. Having very rudely told me to get knotted some four years ago, they keep emailing me personally, and asking for my input. (Even though they told me to get stuffed.) I know I should just let it go, but even after all this time, they still wind me up. Why do I let them get to me? Because I still believe in the idea of the BKFA. In theory it’s a brilliant idea that anyone who likes kites should band together to stop councils (who don’t know any better) from banning kites for mistaken Health and Safety reasons. In practice it’s a load of very well-meaning people who’ve utterly lost their way.
To illustrate my frustration with them, this morning’s flurry of emails brought a message from their secretary. He is now working on a collaborative project with the Central Council for Physical Recreation. He asked if I would I tell the BKFA of any examples of “Sports clubs who have approached schools to use their facilities out of hours and been turned down by the school”, “Schools I know of that have good sporting facilities which are not being utilised to their full potential” or “Examples where sports clubs using out of hours school facilities works well for both the school and the club”.
Whilst this is probably a laudable enough endeavour, it has nothing to do with kite flying. Most schools don’t have premises that lend themselves to kite-flying. Why on Earth are the BKFA getting involved with this? Especially as yesterday’s email apologised for the fact that they’d done nothing with their website as no one has time for it.
Yesterday I also mentioned about going to the arky-ologee club. As the chairlady arrived last night she actually stopped dead in the doorway, amazed by what she saw. We were setting up a laptop and projector to illustrate the evening’s talk. High-tech indeed for a club whose speakers often employ no visual aids whatsoever; and the use of a slide projector is seen as new-fangled. With a membership of mostly retired gentlefolk, most of whom would seem to be quite content with such a low-tech environment, I was amazed by today’s news.
Meanwhile in outer space, science has found another exo-planet. Exo planets are planets which orbit stars other than our own. When I was a lad the entire concept of an exo-planet was firmly in the realms of science fiction. But now they are an established reality. At the last count there were nearly five hundred of the things known. Whilst many are huge, comparable in size with the planet Jupiter, more and more smaller ones are being found. This most recent discovery is only twenty light years away, and is perhaps the most Earth-like so far found.
It’s such a shame that those touting the news don’t take this seriously. Take for example the United Nations decision to start legislating in outer space. At first sight it’s maybe a daft idea. But at the moment, space is anarchy. Who owns the moon? What’s to stop some nation sending up rockets and annexing the entire moon for themselves? What’s to stop anyone and everyone beaming messages into the ether? Who represents humanity should First Contact be made?
The radio today gave this news story thirty seconds. They spent longer laughing about it than listening to it. It’s a shame that the news media choose to ridicule such questions whilst exerting so much effort on bringing us the “news” (for example today was the delegates at the Labour party conference); most of which will be wrapping chips tomorrow and all of which will be totally forgotten in less than a month…