Shoot the messenger

So It's Been a While..

2011-08-26T20:51:00.002+01:00

I'm reading my previous posts, and wondering whether they refer to the same person.

We've moved house to points South, and are living in a rented shoe box while our wonderful Birmingham house sits completely empty as it plods through the sale process. Our estate agent and solicitors appear to be competing in an "I can be more useless than you" contest; unfortunately our buyers, should they cling on through this withering display of ineptitude, will forever regard us as the numpties. Sigh.

So now we live somewhere else, work somewhere else, and I have searched in vain for somewhere nearby to paddle that doesn't have waves that would do Japanese scroll paintings a run for their money.

SO what does life hold for me now? Goodness knows. Luckily wifey and toddler are keeping me sane, and the little one has now entered a particularly interesting phase. It's like entering a bizarre alternative world where fantastic things always have a possibility of happening. The stream of consciousness chat is relentlessly entertaining, although I hope the sniggers we greet some of the utterances with don't give her a complex. The other day she came in clutching some horse chestnuts, demanding I teach her "bonkers."

In that particular field I think we're learning from her.

Over Here, Over Here, Yoo Hoo!

2011-01-15T10:34:00.003Z

Much to my surprise, I'm still on the planet. We got through our recent trials and tribulations, even managing to get through Christmas and New Year mostly unscathed, despite snow, illness and, scariest of all, a visit to my father - with whom I have a relationship best described as "fraught."

Even more to my surprise I'm doing work for which I'm being paid. Having the two things together is a bit of a novelty. Admittedly it isn't exactly local, and life has required some juggling. Not to mention a rethink on the car front; the 0-60 time and top speed of the current model may be nice, but suddenly mpg has become the over-riding concern. I feel so grown up. With wifey moving to a mega job in London village in Spring a move is in the offing, and we've had to consort with estate agents. It's been a bit of a shock realising that there's now a 3rd person, well 1/2 person, to consider. Childcare arranging is also underway. All told 2011 looks to be a busy year.

The munchkin is now babbling away happily, even if we understand only a fraction of what she says. She's looked in puzzlement as we show assorted strangers around the house, tailing after us and getting a little concerned if they go in her playroom (formerly known as the dining room) or the nursery (formerly known as daddy's playstation room - now that was a long time ago.) The phrases are even intruding on our personal life. "Shall we go down to our spacious kitchen, and eat in the light and airy breakfast area?"

Luckily Christmas time did afford some escape, and vegging time in front of Cbeebies was achieved, allowing daddy the luxury of being taught cooking skills by the delightful Katy Ashworth on "I Can Cook." She can cook, sing, play the guitar and, apparently, is accomplished at face paining. Is there no end to this lady's talents. I wonder whether she's ever considered being a nanny? Is it wrong for a grown man to want a nanny? Oh, wait, for our toddler? That might work too.

Gosh, it's been quiet here

2010-09-30T11:11:00.002+01:00

Well, it's been all go chez engineer.

Beloved wifey has had yet more run ins with the medical profession, and at one stage I was looking after both her and the munchkin. Actually not too demanding when she was properly poorly; I could tell when she was getting better when the requests became more urgent and louder.

On the income front I've been down to the last 3 candidates for five company roles since my last blog posting; all a "no" so far, save one which I'm overdue to hear about - but which is looking increasingly remote. The reasons cited are all so reasonable, and patently not my fault, that I'm beginning to wonder whether it's really something that no-one feels they can tell me. Body odour? Bad breath? A vague miasma of evil that raises hairs on the back of the neck?

My own business has been a similar story - the latest is that a prospective business partner fell ill the week before the deal, saw visions of his own mortality, and sold all his rights. Sigh. A negotiation I was having about selling services to a supplier to our local RDA suddenly became very one sided. I wonder why?

At least the small shouty one has been keeping spirits high, with her sudden interest in Waybuloo and yogo, a toddler friendly version of yoga that's a central theme of the programme. Although due to a slight misinterpretation her understanding of "yogo" is "lie on your back and waggle your toes in the air." Something to try in busy supermarkets. It has raised some ideas about alternative ways of bringing in an income now that engineering in the West Midlands seems to have nose dived into oblivion. All I need is a cracking idea for a children's TV programme, tied into a "soft" exercise routine. Hmmm. Perhaps I could add in some variant of boxercise into a rip-off of the Clangers? "Tooo, wooo, dooo, 'arry." Or judo into Bagpuss? Or spinning into Noggin the Nog? Is my favourite era in children's television becoming all too clear?

Still, perhaps there's legs still in those old ideas. Hmmm. I wonder whether Teletubbies are poised for a comeback, only this time with an obsessional liking for "karrytea" - a vaguely Eastern style gentle means of whacking seven shades of crap out of each other?

Seduced, then Betrayed by the Dark Side

2010-08-05T14:08:00.002+01:00

Long time readers of this blog (so that will be my wife then) will know that I'm finding it difficult to be an engineer at the moment. I lost my job a year ago, and getting work through my own business is tricky in the current climate. So when one of the engineering job boards advertised posts at the Financial Service Authority (FSA) saying "You may not have considered a career at the FSA. We are actively recruiting numerate candidates from outside the financial services, and have a thorough in-house training programme" I was very tempted. The stated salary was certainly attractive. After some soul searching I gave in and applied.

The online process was lengthy, and involved essays of a broadness of scope I'd not seen since the Cambridge entrance exam general paper nearly thirty years ago. Come to think of it, maybe that was the model. Still, it seemed to do the trick since I was then told to expect a telephone interview. That was a pleasant chat with a very nice lady. I asked the obvious question. "Aren't you going to be shut down?" There was a sigh. I clearly wasn't the first to ask. "We have already been in discussions with the Bank of England, and there has been an agreement that the recruitment of front line staff actually needs to increase, not decrease. Many of them will be transferred to the Bank of England in the near future. There will be savings in the HR and admin functions, but not in the roles we are discussing." So that's all right then. I was then told to do an online financial exam, against the clock. I ploughed through it, ignoring the telephone and personal callers who all seemed to decide that was a good moment to want to speak to me. There must be some sort of "hassle" feature on my computer. Again, it seemed to do the trick as I was asked to check my online account to chose a date for an assessment at Canary Wharf. It turned out that this was a "Hobson's Choice." One date. In two days time. And there was an N.B. "The FSA does not reimburse candidate travel expenses." Gulp. Not for the first time I wished there was such a thing as a normal person's railcard. Still, I girded my loins, broached my wallet, wielded my plastic, and bought the tickets.

Those of you who've ever been to FSA HQ in Canary Wharf will know just how impressive it is. A startlingly huge building, replete with framed pictures which I suspect are not mass produced, and surfaces which sparkle. A small band of candidates were ushered to one of a multitude of meeting rooms. I chatted to one of the two HR helpers assigned to us. "Oh, there was a huge reluctance to consider candidates from outside the financial services. Lot of arguments. In the end the blockers said ' Well, they won't pass the online exam anyway' so gave in. But in fact, we're finding candidates from outside the industry are getting higher marks on the exam than those already in financial services!" I warmed to our guide, but wondered how he felt about being involved in a massive recruitment effort when his function had been identified as a target for reduction. Did he even know?

The process had two parts. The first was the examination of a massive bundle of (invented) data on a (fictitious) financial situation. I had to prepare a presentation of exactly ten minutes on it to two interviewers, who would then quiz me on it for twenty minutes. They were strict on the limit, actually setting a timer off. This is the sort of thing I'm now trying to do for a living, albeit presentations for investment, and investors have shorter attention spans than bankers. I drew my presentation to a close, said "any questions" and the buzzer went. One of my interviewers said "Wow. Good job!" and was quickly silenced by a glance from the more senior member. The questions seemed straightforward and I left the room feeling hopeful.

The next session was a competency based interview. The panel of two was a relatively young woman (late 20s/early 30s) and her boss. The temperature plummeted as I entered the room. Something certainly didn't feel right. "So, why have you applied for the job when you're an engineer?" "Well, I saw the advert, and I'd already come to realise that financial services can't be regarded as separate to engineering. They are important to it. So it seemed to be an opportunity to help fix an industry that needs to work well for engineering in the UK to work." There was a pause. "And what training would you need?" I thought for a moment. "Well, I understand that your training course covers an introduction to financial services. I'd need to understand the culture and legislation." The atmosphere seemed to warm a little, and there followed a ten minute description of how excellent their training course was.

At the end of the session I had the opportunity to ask questions. "Is there anything about the FSA you don't like?" I asked the young woman. "Well," she said, "the pay is quite low compared to the industry norms." I gave a start; the range quoted for what was clearly a fairly junior audit clerk type role was more than I had been making as a director in a £30M turnover manufacturing company. She ignored her boss's warning glance and carried on. Clearly I had ignited her fuse. "It's not uncommon for people to leave to go into the City on multiples of what they earn here." Her boss stepped in. "Well, we are aware of this, and I think I can say that the upcoming reorganisation does give us the opportunity to rescale in line with the industry norms." I could hear banking's siren call, and it sounded remarkably like the ringing of cash registers ...

So a week later I was called up by an HR person. "I'm sorry to say..." It wasn't unexpected; I had wondered whether I'd come across as too willing to take risks or not willing to go back to a junior role. I asked the obvious question. "Why?" The woman on the other end clearly ran down a chart. "Well, erm, let's see. Your case study. Oh, that was one of the best we've had. Hmm. Oh here we are. You didn't reach the required standard in two areas. 'Motivation' - you apparently applied because you saw an advert. 'Knowledge of the financial industry' - apparently you don't know much about the industry."

I was quiet for a few seconds. "Sorry, could you repeat that?" She did. As did her supervisor. As did her supervisor's supervisor, by e-mail, over the period of a month. Apparently I scored one of the best marks they've had on the case study, the test of how well someone could do the job, but because I'd been persuaded to apply for the job by an advert, asking for applicants from outside the industry, and was from outside the industry, I was ineligible. Bizarrely I'd also scored very highly on my understanding of the challenges facing the industry. Despite apparently not understanding the industry. I noted that it was a bit of a waste of public money advertising for candidates who, if they answered the advert, were ineligible to be considered. "Oh, it's not public money" I was told, with no defence of the "waste" part. I pointed out that funds obtained by being the monopoly supplier of a government mandated regulatory service were certainly not gained through private enterprise, and most if not all of the financial industry regarded that payment as a tax. At which point the by now quite senior person I was exchanging e-mails with said, in effect, "look, if we just pay you for your travel will you fuck off?" But with more words, and no swearing.

I accepted, and took it as a valuable lesson. I'm pretty sure from my conversation with the HR person that many of the senior people within what is, for the moment, the FSA are dead set against non-financial service candidates being offered posts. If any with that mindset end up assessing the competency interview then such candidates have no chance at all of being accepted. I'd also say, from my experience and the comments made to me, that anyone expecting the whole edifice to get any cheaper from the reorganisation is deluded. Clearly those working there are viewing it as a fantastic opportunity to get a bigger trough to put their snouts in.

The dark side is seductive, but those on the dark side aren't looking for new recruits! Did I get a lucky escape? Mind you, the money would have been nice!

In My World...

2010-07-16T10:07:00.002+01:00

Vince, a quick word. If graduates, on average, earn more than non-graduates, then we already have a graduate tax. It's called "tax."
Workwise, still scrabbling for bread to put my jam on. The country is awash in jam for tomorrow, in fact, but there does seem to be a bit of a bread shortage. If anyone actually spots some bread, do let me know.
I feel proud that I live in a country where people can say how much they hate the government without being imprisoned (usually). I feel proud that I have managed to scale mountains (previously), explore areas new to mankind (historically), win races (occasionally), get published (rarely) and succeed in different environments (multi-culturally). I feel proud that today my 17 month old daughter successfully did both number one and number two in a potty for the first time (evacuatorally). Fatherhood - it changes you.

This Election Matters

2010-04-14T14:30:00.004+01:00

Some of this is from my "company blog" - but few of you will have seen it there!

I was lucky enough to attend a live debate held by Radio5Live locally as part of their election coverage. Hosted by Victoria Derbyshire (who wore killer heels, and stalked up and down in them for a full 3 hours) it covered the issue of trust; can we trust politicians? I thought the issue got sidelined into the fairly narrow, if emotive and understandable, concern with expenses. Personally, if a cabinet minister needs to know her husband's needs are catered for to do her job better, or a member of the loyal opposition can keep the government under scrutiny better if he's happy his ducks are kept warm at night, that's fine. I'm more worried by the tendency of ministers to fawn over wealth, celebrity and fame, and the suspicion that this may influence policy. Witness the advertising fudge in favour of Bernie Ecclestone, the hobnobbing of both Osborne and Mandelson with Russian oligarchs, and the accepting of holiday accommodation from famous friends by Tony Blair, while Prime Minister. I want policies to be decided on the basis of the needs of the country, not conversations had on yachts off Caribbean islands. Admittedly, not yet up to Italian standards of dubious probity, but enough of a concern to me, and in my view a direct descent from the issues with the Major government we were assured had been fixed, and a spur for the hunt by soon-to-be-former MPs for jobs lobbying for special interests.

It's clear from the passions that were generated that those attending the event are clearly engaged with, and interested in, the political debate.

However, outside this event, where people interested had self selected themselves to attend, a more worrying trend has emerged. A continuation of something that has been growing for several years. A view that it doesn't really matter. They're all the same.

Regardless of political hue, this time I must disagree. For the first time in many, many years, this election matters. For businesses, for individuals, for the future - there are some choices to be made.

In my own work my major concern is to do with babies. Specifically, those sat in bathwater that I can imagine any incoming government - whether new to the job, or presenting itself as reinvigorated - will want to throw out. As a speaker at a recent CBI lunch said "Once a quango starts doing what it was originally established to do, it's usually a sign that it's going to be scrapped." There are issues with the support structures and funding routes available for high growth businesses in the West Midlands, and elsewhere in the UK. There are too many bodies, with overlapping briefs, and different agendas, and the lines between private and public initiatives are sometimes too blurred. However, some of them do some startlingly good work in certain areas. I have a suspicion that the rush will be to scrap the lot, leaving the area with nothing, until some new framework is pieced together and given time to find its feet. Or not.

My wish is for an incoming administration to check what is working, because some of it is, and use that as a model to replace what is not, before rushing to begin again.

To me this is more important than narrow concerns about NI, or even taxes and public spending in a broader sense. The nurturing and growth of the next generation of successful British businesses, based on innovation and imagination, is what has the potential to fix both the public finances and, perhaps more importantly, our recent national slump into poor self esteem.

In any event, this election matters. For the future, vote!

(And no, I haven't decided yet - but I will.)

I could put up a political photo, or even one of Victoria Derbyshire, but instead I'll put one up of the shoes she wore.

Stuff That's Happened...

2010-02-21T19:43:00.002Z

Supposedly bad tempered and boring golf player apologises for being bad tempered and unfaithful in a vain attempt to make golf appear interesting. It fails. Golf is still very, very, very dull.
Vancouver Winter Olympics hit by tropical heat wave and poor publicity. Britain rejoices as the bar for 2012 is implicitly lowered. Basically they just have to avoid killing anyone.
A Premier League and English national team footballer is revealed to not be a very nice person. People are stunned and demand he is stoned to death. Many of the journalists demanding this aren't very nice either.
Wifey's addiction to "Strictly Come Skating" continues unchecked. Despite not knowing who any of the "celebrities" are, now Heather Mills has left.
Munchkin is now a year old and a fully fledged toddler, albeit one who sometimes falls over. She's just practising for college.
I think she's utterly adorable and wonderful, and tell anyone I meet, at every opportunity. I find I'm meeting fewer people as word gets out.
We learnt why parents fear chicken pox. The juggling of schedules required to cope with the children being turned away from childcare - "Unclean, unclean."
I substituted for a poorly person in a crew that has actually done some training, and discovered the difference a year makes in terms of fitness. I just about make it home, and spend two days complaining.
My addiction to "Being Human" rages unabated, for reasons that aren't fully clear to me.
I still download daily newspapers every day to the wonderful e-reader that wifey bought me for Christmas. I no longer find time to read them - but they're there if I want to.
I have discovered some marvellous free books on the Feedbooks site. Go there, now! Check out Peter Watts if Science Fiction is your thing. Even if not, you'll still be spoilt for choice. Use Calibre to put them on your e-reader.
My own company has lots of contingent business, and jam tomorrow. All I need is some bread to put it on....
A previously on board government body has delayed using me, citing cut backs.
With this in mind I'm back on the hunt for permanent employment, as well as work for my own business, and have been spending a lot of time of the road. Anyone need an ex-engineer, slightly used?

Still Looking...

2010-01-27T11:39:00.002Z

Well, it's been a while. The munchkin is now more mobile, and does drunken zombie tottering about the house. This has meant a requirement to have eagle eyes, preferably in the back of our heads, and a strange pattern of bruising as she tumbles here and there which we were worried could look suspicious, but have since been told is pretty normal for her age. "You can't wrap them in cotton wool, after all" we were told. I sheepishly put away the duct tape and cotton wool.

I had the misfortune to be offered a job before Christmas. Yes, misfortune. Verbal offer - the documents were being prepared. Still being prepared. Under discussion. Nothing to worry about. COO in France on business for two weeks, please wait. All fine. Honest. No, nothing at all to worry about it, it's a done deal. Absolutely fine. We promise. Big enterprise, just takes a bit of time, that's all. One of the reasons we want to hire you to help sort it out. Relax.

Can anyone see what's going to happen here?

So for nigh on 8 weeks they strung me along, until I heard one of their directors on the "Today" programme talking about their financial problems and job cuts, when they finally came clean to me. I know I shouldn't have stopped looking until the deal was done, and I guess I didn't completely stop, but I did take my foot off the gas.

So back to the marketing of me and my nascent business. Actually, it's been fun, and there's some prospect of "Stef the Engineer Ltd." getting a bit of a reputation. First step the mortgage, next step the world.

Still, the telly's been good, with the wonderful "Being Human" back on, and a valid excuse to veg in front of Waybuloo with darling daughter of an (early) evening. I may not be doing Yoga any more, but at least I can get a giggle (and usually a bucketful of snot) by trying a little yogo.

Buloooo!

Birmingham: it's not...

2009-11-25T14:22:00.000Z

Really, it isn't.

On babies and body fluids....

2009-11-03T11:19:00.003Z

So the munchkin has been a bit poorly. A rattling chesty cough that sounds as though she sneaks out of nursery every so often for a quick fag. That's a little disturbing, especially as it gets worse when she lies down, so it develops into full "wake up mummy and daddy" mode by about 2am. Oh Lordy! Then a new wrinkle; the cough induced vomit. How can such a small little girl hold so much vomit? Cough, cough, cough, blurgh, blurgh, blurgh, that must be it, blurgh, blurgh....

I wouldn't mind, but that's even when we've been responsible for what exactly she's been eating. Unless she's been calling out for pizza behind our back. "Double pepperoni and cheese please. Put it on the account, and post it through the letter box. Doesn't need to be hot; I'm just using it for decoration later." whoever wrote the vomit scene in "The Exorcist" had children, that's for sure.

Wifey is back at work; there was a little separation anxiety when the munchkin spent her first full day at nursery, but wifey's OK now. I've rented a little office. Well, I say "rented" but there's a special "six month's free" deal for new businesses. It gets me out of the house, and forces me to sit down and work. And update my blog. Well, it doesn't force me to update my blog. But it does give me the opportunity. And for the first time in my months I'm now able to identify another object of inappropriate lust: Mrs. Wottinger. Sadly, no photos available. Just take my word for it...

On Porridge and its use as a Cosmetic

2009-10-18T10:59:00.002+01:00

So my business is now up and running. Sort of. Well, I have an office, and have been networking successfully. That is, I haven't got into any fights, or spilled too much food over myself. I've even been enjoying myself, despite being an engineer forced to talk to people. I do have a tendency to concentrate on the interesting people, rather than the useful ones. I'm sure I spent far too long talking to the sign language interpreter, and not enough to the business consultant.
I have now learnt that the sign of a good networking breakfast is you leave still hungry. This was a hard lesson, and one I'm still not happy with. I am sorely tempted to "minesweep" bacon at the end of the events.
I have not put all my eggs (scrambled, poached or fried) into the entrepreneurial basket, and am still applying for the odd job. Well, not literally "odd jobbing." Anyone who has seen my attempts at DIY would know how wrong that would be.
Mind you, I have now put up the stairgates. Which caused many, many comments from me based on a witty interpretation of them as "Stargates." Ho, ho. How I laughed. Until wifey requested, through gritted teeth, that I desist as apparently what had been mildly amusing the first few times was now, some three hundred times later, starting to grate. ("Stairgrate" I thought. But kept my mouth closed.)
After a week she then made a comment about "going through the stairgate" complete with "whooshing" noise. I kept quiet.
The munchkin has decided that at eight months she is old enough to feed herself. or at least, pick up food and smoosh it into her face and hair, flinging the rest of it around the room. I think some goes in her mouth. At least, it shows up later in her nappy, although this may be through osmosis. Whatever the cause, it's clear that mummy or daddy attempting to spoon feed her is certainly not what she wants. Now we're both at work (in my case I guess that could be qualified with "sort of") she's at nursery. We do miss her sticky little face - a photo just doesn't have the tacky, slimy, viscous feel of a real toothing, weaning baby somehow.

It's Been Quiet

2009-09-19T10:13:00.003+01:00

Things I've Done Over the Past Few Weeks:

Spent a lot of time with munchkin, who is now using pureed food as baby cosmetic, clambering up furniture, and practicing her tumbling.
Helped out at Birmingham ArtsFest; the UK's largest (and most under-reported) free arts festival. Absolutely fantastic.
Sent out lots of job applications.
Had a few interviews, including getting down to the last four on one occassion. Being told by the head-hunter that in her view I'd been turned down by the person to whom the post reported because he felt insecure was a little dispiriting. What am I supposed to do at an interview - try and be good, but not too good?
Started to set up my own business. Lots of interest, and some quotes out. Now just need someone to sign on the dotted line and be my first customer!

It's a Funny Old World

2009-07-14T11:34:00.002+01:00

So life settles into a new routine. Mornings are my "job-hunting" time - looking for a job should be regarded as a job in itself. One that you can do in your underwear, admittedly, but a job nonetheless. So as wifey takes munchkin out on various mums and baby activities (rythm time, baby yoga, opera for rug rats), daddy scours the internet for opportunities (avoiding the time suck of facebook, cartoons and, ahem, blogging) or, more usefully, calls up former colleagues and sets up "networking opportunities." The flood of rejections has been tempered by a few more positive responses, although that in itself has led to some searching questions from recruiters. Chiefly along the lines of "Would you really be willing to move to Snodgrass-on-Swamp?" After a pause, my honest response of "it depends" generally hasn't led to whoops of joy from the other end. Part of the problem is that beloved wifey is a brainy bird (could I ever fall for any woman who wasn't?) and, after her maternity leave ends, she has a high flying job to go back to. Upping sticks and heading off for the sake of hubby's job (yet again) is possible, but needs to be made financially worthwhile. Even in the 21st century the notion of wifey actually being a significant wage earner (actually at the moment the only wage earner) seems bizarrely foreign to some recruiters, who appear to have themselves been recruited from the 19th century, and are willing to tout the opportunities in Snodgrass-on-Swamp for those gentlewomen willing to help furnish the shelves at the local comestible emporium of Messers Sainsbury. Catching a cold hasn't helped my mood. Probably due to spending too much time in just my underwear.

I have had one interview, for which I did actually put on clothes over the underwear. I think both sides of the table had some serious questions. Theirs along the lines of "Will I catch anything from his coughing"; mine along the lines of "Would we really move to 'Mittenham-in-Minefield'?"

Still, the afternoons allow me to put those frustrations behind me, and to rejoice in the company of munchkin and wifey - a chance that I could have missed out on. As the smaller one of the pair seems to be changing daily, I have to admit that in many ways I'm very lucky. I could have missed out on seeing an awful lot of her emergence from a sort of eating/sleeping/weeing/pooping machine into a fully fledged personality. It's been fun showing her off as well; we made the trek down to my old college for a reunion. Feeding my baby daughter in the sunshine sat on its lawn, twenty-two years after I left, was a very strange, but oddly satisfying experience. Changing her poopy nappy in front of the library perhaps less so.

In the interim I've been volunteering for things. I may yet be seen at "Imagineering", but all the plum posts at Birmingham Arts Fest seem to have already gone to the arts crowd; no room for engineers in anything other than crowd control!

If anyone has any ideas for an ex-engineer, slightly soiled, do let me know!

Over the past week I have....

2009-06-30T11:02:00.003+01:00

Been swimming with the munchkin
Attended "mum and baby" groups
Done "RythmTime" and sung to her - much to her surprise
Got up at 7 am rather than 5.40 am.
Put her to bed at 7 pm rather than 8 pm.
Had lots of baby smiles.

Basically, currently the lifestyle is great, but the income is a bit of a problem...

Good Thing, Bad Thing

2009-06-25T15:06:00.003+01:00

Good Thing: I've been able to spend lots of time with the munchkin and dear wifey.

Bad Thing: That's because I'm now jobless.

Bugger!

Harry Potter and the Curse of Windows

2009-05-21T13:33:00.002+01:00

News just in: Microsoft Patents 'Magic Wand'

"... The corners of Voldemort's mouth curled upwards in a cruel approximation of a smile, and the snake-like eyes opened wide in satisfaction.
"So, Potter," he hissed, "at last. It ends here."
He raised his wand. "Crucio!"
A low metallic note echoed in the empty hall, and ended in a low chunk.
"I said CRUCIO!"
A small grey box hovered over the Dark Lord's outstretched wand. He bent down and, squinting, read the poorly typeset thin black text.
"Microsoft Wand is running low on virtual memory. You may experience some problems implementing hideous curses. Please consider shutting down earlier curses before starting new ones."

Changing Times

2009-05-17T12:25:00.002+01:00

So yesterday we loaded up the munchkin and headed out to the Baby Show. Thousands of mums and mums-to-be, a smattering of dragged along partners (mostly, but not exclusively, male), and a few grannies, decending on the NEC to look at babyphenalia, carefully targetted services and, quite frankly, some desperate selling. (Hands up the purveyors of real sausages, bean bags and don't look quite so smug, Volvo. At those prices, in this economy, you're no longer the archtypal family car.) We tried our little elf in the outward facing carrier for the first time, which she loved, except for the unwanted side effect of her brain exploding. Not literally, but she still appears to be on an overload induced high now, 24 hours later. We're hoping it wears off at some stage.
Of course wifey met friends all over, from Tiny Talk, Rythm Time, Net Mums, NCT, Water Babies, Mums take over the world dot com... Remarkably I saw someone I knew; a girl who worked for me around seven years ago. We couldn't remember each other's name, and she was only there because her partner had a free ticket as it was work related somehow, so was completely babyless, but hey, at least it wasn't twelve nil to wifey.
So now a day spent calming down the tiny one, while waiting for Alice Roberts. Wifey suggested a way out of our DVR quandry last week, so I got to see the divine Dr. Roberts looking pensive as she gazed into African sunsets. She'd trod much the same road as Bruce Parry; you could tell as the tribesmen were wondering whether this white European would also be asking what drugs they took, and getting their kit off at any opportunity. In this they (and I) were disappointed.

I've Been Quiet

2009-05-10T15:06:00.003+01:00

This has been entirely due to the 12 week old munchkin around whom we now arrange our life.

Other stuff has happened - I spent a couple of days with the great and the good of my company at a conference at Sandown Park, I've managed to go sculling three times since munchkin made her appearance, and we popped down to Long Itchington Beer Festival to, well, drink beer. And watch morris dancing. Yay! (I wonder whether there are any morris dancers actually called "Morris"?) And I'm officially a year older.

I note the wonderful Dr. Alice Roberts is back on the telly; unfortunately it's on way past my now truncated bed time, and clashes with wifey's dibs on the DVR for "Damages." Alice is already the recipient of my sizeable middle age man crush, and the prospect of a new series which entails her in swimwear, apparently, is quite exciting. So it is with some reluctance I must "boo" Glenn Close for getting in the way of my fantasy. :-(

Oh, she's asleep. A window of opportunity to go and spray liquid death over the garden...

Meanwhile, here's a picture of her feet. The munchkin, not those of Dr. Alice Roberts. (If you do have a picture of Alice Roberts' feet, do send it on.) For her size I think they're ridiculously huge. I hope this doesn't mean she's going to be a swimmer. The only thing a girl can get rich enough to buy her parents a house doing is playing tennis. Well, possibly acting or modelling, but I have to acknowledge she got half her genes from me so that's not going to happen.

The t-shirt she's wearing says "half pint." It's one half of a birthday present to me; the other half way a t-shirt for me that said "pint." We wore them to the beer festival. Apparently it was a present from tiny, but I suspect wifey had something to do with it.

Fatherhood

2009-04-11T17:11:00.002+01:00

So it's Easter. Hoorah!

Life has settled into a routine; I arrive home, and accept a fractious baby from her frazzled mum. Our beloved munchkin does not handle evenings at all well, so daddy takes the 6pm to 11pm shift, while wifey tells the tales of what has happened that day. Her social life seems to have expanded, taking in music groups, mums and baby groups, swimming groups, taking over the world groups. All seem to involve hot beverage, cake and chat at some stage in the proceedings. After a bite to eat, wifey departs for an early night, while daddy spends bonding time with tiny. At this stage she exists in a binary state; yelling or asleep, and the trick is to flip her from the first to the second with minimum stress. In the old days alcohol was apparently allowed. Nowadays it is only for application to the adult. Finally daddy hands over responsibility, and tries to get enough sleep to prevent him drifting into the central reservation the following day. At the weekend, and on holidays, daddy gets to do the nighttime feed as well, to givewifey a bit of a break. At least then daddy does find out that Tiny does now have other expressions; curious interest and even slightly smiley have started to appear, which already gives her more facial range than Steven Seagal. A couple of kicks during changing delivered to my nether regions have shown other ways she is ahead of the game there.
As a break, during one of her naps, I've planted out peas and beans in the garden, ready for mashing in 6 months time. I'm hoping the accumulation of good will means I'll be allowed out in my boat again tomorrow morning, after many months off. Hope I don't fall asleep in it.
A belated comment; wasn't "Being Human" great?
Oops - I hear the call of our mini mistress, and must leap to obey...

Squeezed in...

2009-03-22T17:09:00.002Z

So crammed into a brief moment when the Tiny Tyrant snoozes...

I watched TV on Comic Relief night. Hilarious, absolutely rib splitting. Yes, "30 Rock" was on top form. Unlike the Comic Relief programmes which were the usual dismal unfunny dross. With the honourable exception of the "Outnumbered", which maintained its high standard, helped by having the yummy mummy idol, Claire Skinner, in the cast.
I found out what "T-Ball" is. My life is now a little richer.
Our bathroom is being transformed into a pepper growing factory. I wonder whether one can make a living from it? Install hydroponics, remodel a few rooms. What do you mean people might not believe it's for peppers? I'm especially looking forward to the Orange Habanero.
Whoever designed baby clothing has never been near an infant, let alone had to dress one.

Things I Now Know

2009-03-01T13:56:00.002Z

There is a pink pigment factory which exists solely to cater for pink gifts which are given to families which have a baby girl. Our baby girl will be wearing pink for many years. Many, many years.
You can live somewhere for years, and never give a thought for the shocking state of the pavements, until you try to wheel a baby carriage along it.
Parking on aforementioned shocking pavements, rendering them impassable to baby wheeling contraptions is a heinous act.
There is a secret association of mums with babies which has a deep reaching network through every corner of life. If they ever decide to take power, the rest of us don't stand a chance.
Sleep deprivation can make any plan for a blog post vanish in a haze of mistooping and grammartorial misappropriationism.

The girls are back in town...

2009-02-24T12:08:00.002Z

So after an extra three night stay in hospital, hippy chick doctor (a post in itself) finally discharges beloved wifey, and we can try "being a family" take two.
Thanks for the kind words! Much appreciated.

Missing the girls...

2009-02-21T08:27:00.001Z

I think childbirth must involve a set level of misery. Since ours didn't have the required amount, there was obviously some catching up to be done. So on Friday beloved wifey collapsed in a bloody heap on our bathroom floor, and I had to call an ambulance. She is stable, but poorly and upset, in hospital. Our baby daughter is with her. Sadly I have had to stop at home with the cats who, cute though they are, are no substitute.

Hairy Monkey

2009-02-17T07:02:00.004Z

Well, wifey decided to stay an extra day in the hospital, giving me a list of cleaning to do before her and the new permanent house guest showed up. The nights were a bit weird - an overdose of anticipation. I now have the seat all strapped in the car. I'm not too sure I can manage to get it out, load small, wriggly infant, then reattach to car without tipping contents on the floor. I guess I get to find out soon!

As requested, one photo of hairy monkey, asleep in a pose remarkably similar to our lap cat (whose life, like ours, is about to change for ever).

Sorry about the sizing, and your wait if on a slow line. I'm away from the facilities to strip the photo down - but will do it soon.

Peanut

2009-02-16T09:51:00.003Z

It was an odd Valentine's day awaking - wifey prodded me at just before 5am. "I think my waters have broken."
So we went back again to Birmingham Women's, and had our "induction date" set. Turns out it wasn't needed. After a Saturday of irregular mild contractions, with Wifey rating pain levels of 4 on a scale of 1 to 10, she was woken at 2.30 the next day with an altogether different beast. "Out of 10?" I asked. "I need a new scale" she answered, through gritted teeth.
So we did the usual things, hanging on at home, but we still went to the hospital too early, and ended up roaming the corridors around the antenatal ward, up and down the stairs, until the midwife made the necessary announcement. "You're at 5 cm!"
"Hooray! Gas and air!" said wifey.
Now I've made a few criticisms of our NHS service over the past few years. We've had some midwives who have been poor, or positively loopy. The facilities at Birmingham Women's range from crummy to poor, at times, especially if, because of your age, (wifey is 97), you aren't allowed to use the new flagship Birth Centre. Three hearty cheers then for our midwife, "Tina", (not her real name, but she looks like Tina Fey, in my opinion) who was wonderful and most importantly, due to a rare quiet day, there! Even better, once it got to 1.30 and the end of her shift she said "Oh, it's far too close to leave now" so until it all happened we ended up with the equally lovely "Henry" (Henrietta - straight out of the Famous Five - again not her real name) as well to fuss over her. I think the fact it was Henry was part of Tina's decision; they obviously get on well, and it was a bit of a double act at times. So a bit of a lesson -the experience is down to people.
We did the "middle class, middle age" thing and had a doula as well - someone to help us out who knew more than we did about birth. Admittedly not difficult. I guess one reason for it was our past history of losses made us concious that there were risks we could be bullied by the medical establishment into doing things we didn't want to do or, more importantly, react so strongly against what was offered to us that it could put wifey and child at risk. So we felt there was a need for a neutral, informed third voice. In the end it was a wise decision and a sensible way to spend the money, as she was a great help, and a fantastic "paid friend". It also helped that she got on well with the midwives, and from what Tina said to me later I'm pretty sure that she sees it as a future career option. (Great, another excellent midwife leaves the NHS...)
So at 2.37 pm on Saturday February 15th 2009, Peanut was the centre of attention as she made her way into the world, a healthy 7lbs 11oz. I watched her come into the world, surprising myself. (Although I didn't see the placenta coming out a little later.) The only time I felt wobbly with more than emotion was when they took wifey's blood sample.
Wifey used a Tens machine, and some gas and air over transition, but nothing from then on. "I just forgot it was there" was the explanation.
Having said that wifey did have to have a bit of bladework (ouch). They sent for a doctor to do the stitching afterwards, but wifey asked if Henry could do, with the doctor just supervising. "Why should I want some stranger messing with my bits when you've been down there the past hour doing such a great job?" I am, as ever, stunned by wifey's good sense. From the size of Henry's smile I'm pretty sure wifey made her day.
So I'm back home at the moment, as they kept the girls in overnight, wondering if I'm ready to be a dad. Any idiot can, and does, father a child. I guess the hard bit, being a father to the child, comes next.
Does anyone want photos inflicted?

p.s. I've anonymized the names of the midwives, on a second reading.

Does an Airliner have "Ctrl-Alt_Del"?

2009-02-03T20:38:00.002Z

So we're sat on the tarmac stupidly early waiting for the plane to take us to Edinburgh, when an announcement comes over the speakers:
"Ladies and gentlemen, there is a problem with the aircraft's computers. We've been advised to turn all the systems off, and reboot." So they did. Twice. It didn't work, so we had to troop off, get on to a bus, and be driven to a spare, but...
If it had worked, would I have felt safe staying on the same plane?

Other than that, life carries on regardless, weather permitting. Wifey's midwives are continuing their important task of pregnant woman scaring, as laid down in NHS guidelines. I think there's some sort of quota system. As a result, we've spent an awful lot of time waiting in triage waiting to be told "You're fine; just go home."

Still, the bags are all packed. I just need to make sure the low-loader is on standby to take it all to the delivery suite. I hadn't realised just how much stuff you're expected to lug along when you're set to give birth in hospital. I thought they were supposed to be equipped.

Icy I See

2009-01-01T15:25:00.002Z

So it's been a quiet Christmas this year. To wifey's folks for Christmas Day, and a meal where for once the sprouts were still recognisable as such. Over-cooked, but still solid. We had my father over for a couple of days, and for once things didn't degenerate into a blazing row. Even after we'd had a few drinks. So all looked to be going well.

We started to complete the metamorphosis of my PlayStation room into the nursery. Paint is over the walls, skirting, door frame and ceiling, in approximately the right shade in the right location, It's also over my fingers as well. The worst is the radiator paint, which seems to be impossible to get rid of, and never dries.

Then, on 30th December our boiler died. Just stopped. No-one could come and look at until the next day. As expected we were told it required a new part, and that wouldn't be available until Friday. This, of course, has coincided with a dip in the temperature. This has meant we've been living in two rooms; the nursery, painting, or the sitting room, hunkered by the fire. And New Year's Eve was spent going to bed early, curled up under our heaviest futon. Still, worse places to be, and worse ways to spend it. Luckily pregnant women are really hot - in a literal, temperature sense.

Merry Christmas!

2008-12-25T07:31:00.000Z

Merry Christmas!

The Nesting Instinct Kicks In

2008-12-22T17:50:00.004Z

Finally on holiday. It's been a long time coming.
Not that work had been unpleasant. There aren't many jobs when you get to hear a presentation on using trained bees to detect drugs and explosives. They stick their tongues out, apparently. Sadly we weren't given a demonstration of the bees doing it; the lady giving the talk seemed unwilling to demonstrate as well.
Ante-natal classes have run their course. We saw the delivery suite; not quite as unpleasant as I'd been fearing. The medical stuff is discretely hidden behind a curtain, unless needed. Can't say it's inviting, mind you. We are still waiting to hear back from the local midwife led centre as to whether our great age can be overlooked and we can use it. We were shown how to change a nappy, on a limp plastic doll. So any plastic dolls can be kept properly changed.
Wifey had bought us tickets for Jasper Carrott's Christmas Cracker; an odd affair, and not one I'd necessarily have picked to go to. In the end I have to admit it was actually pretty good; Elkie Brooks belting out classic rock (weird; I'd always though of her as one of the MOR acts in something like the two Ronnies - an impression not changed when she came out looking like a glamorous grannie - then she belted out some incredible songs at huge volume, sounding how I'd imagine an angry but tuneful hooker to sound - a great thing for a singer to sound like, in my view), Rick Wakeman (who did a Bill Bailey type act), Toyah Wilcox, UB40, Escala (who I'd never heard of, but posh, ethereally pretty totty playing electronic fiddles are fine by me), Bev Bevan, Roy Wood, Tony Iommi, Lee Mack, and others I can't remember. The comedy was rude, the music was loud and, sadly, pretty much of my era. In fact, some of them I even remember wanting to go and see. (Toyah and UB40 especially.) All told I enjoyed it more than wifey and, bearing in mind the wriggles the peanut gave, much more than her passenger. One of the women behind us, a good deal older even than us, said she felt short changed as Chris de Burgh wasn't there...
The last few days have been spent trying to clear some space in our home for babyphenalia. We (and by that I mean 'I') have been assembling and moving drawer units, putting up shelves, reputting up shelves to try and hide damaged bits of wall from when I first tried to put them up, and heading to and from the local tip/recycling centre, which was festively busy. One lady was busy hurling golf clubs into the "metal recycling skip." "Here love," cried one of the yellow jacketed workers there, "doesn't your husband want them any more." She stopped and fixed him with a look. "My ex-husband doesn't know I'm here." She went back to throwing in the clubs.
And with both "Lead Balloon" and "Outnumbered" back on television I'm torn as to who to have a middle class, middle age crush on - Raquel Cassidy or Claire Skinner. I've mentioned Raquel Cassidy before, and had dark mutterings posted as comments about her real life personality failings. Anyone have any dirt on Claire Skinner? And should real life intrude into fantasy anyway? in my mind they're both perfect women.

Oh My God

2008-12-06T14:48:00.002Z

Apparently my taste is now fashionable. And she has a thing about scary clowns! Yay!
Trying others on the list, it seems like the eighties are back. I thought VV Brown seems quite catchy though.

Our First AnteNatal Class

2008-12-03T19:54:00.001Z

Comment from fellow dad to be on being shown actual size woman's pelvis and actual size newborn doll: "That's got to seriously hurt."

Current favourite chanteuse:

Burp

2008-11-26T17:38:00.002Z

Back from the Good Food Show, after a day off from work trolling up and down the aisles. Wifey's bump is certainly feeling the strain. Interestingly we both thought there were a few stalls definitely missing this year; not as many posh vinegars and couscous. Fewer major giveaways as well. Still, one more marker to Christmas over. I managed a fair bit of grazing and imbibing, but wifey's condition limited her somewhat. I think I managed enough for two. Well, two and a half.

The Banks Find a Solution

2008-11-23T15:13:00.002Z

A spokesman for CitiBank today explained how the company managed to rescue its credit rating and improve its shareprice.
"It was simple really" explained the spokesman. "We sold our customer details to the Russian mafia, who are going to use them to commit identity fraud to defraud other banks. This way we both increase our working capital, and deal a body blow to our competitors."
When asked about the customers, the spokesman looked confused.
"Well," he mused, "we've never bothered about them before. I don't really think there's any reason to start now."

On a personal level I did my bit to pull the economy out of recession. I headed into Birmingham after work to act as driver for wifey who was at a "do" at the town hall. A swift half at the Wellington, the best pub in Birmingham, and then a browse at the German Market, feeding on deep fried salamis, butterbread, and gyouza. Not sure what part of Germany the last one comes from, exactly, but hey... I'm also not sure whether spending at the Frankfurt market in Birmingham counts as boosting the UK or German economy. Both could do with the help.

Playing the Waiting Game

2008-11-12T17:23:00.002Z

So wifey is now at 27 weeks. Much of that time seems to have been spent in hospital waiting areas. Today we spent from 9am to 1pm at Birmingham Womens', having started out with a 9am glucose tolerance test. Since this involved starving a pregnant woman, it was never going to be a bundle of fun. I felt very uneasy acting as chauffeur as plaintive whiney bleats of "I'm hungry" interspersed with shifty glances at me which I'm sure had an echo of "The Gold Rush" in them. Still, all appears well, and my rapidly swelling spouse is able to carry on eating cake, which is a big relief.
We now actually have baby things in the house, after a scary trip to an NCT "nearly new" sale. Imagine a scrum for bargains, with the added attraction of half the participants being the size of small whales. We came away with a Moses basket and baby bath - so at least it'll have somewhere to sleep and we can keep it clean.
In national news; Jeremy Clarkson is in trouble for a comedy reference to lorry (truck) drivers having a life that consists entirely of "change gear, murder a prostitute, change gear, murder." This is a foul slur. Anyone who does a lot of motorway driving knows that lorry drivers will avoid changing gears at all costs, hence the ridiculous "pull out and start overtaking going up a hill because I'm going 1 mph more" move that regularly jams up vast stretches of the M40. Not to mention the refusal to brake at all costs that has been responsible for much of the morning carnage.
Bang goes my job as a vastly overpaid television host.

Waiting for the Tradesmen...

2008-11-07T09:45:00.003Z

So we need something servicing. "We can do it on Friday" they say. "Morning or afternoon" I ask. "Yes, that's right" comes the accurate, but not tremendously helpful response. So having taken a day off, at some cost of professional credibility, I'm sat waiting for the doorbell to ring, chained to the house as though the impending visit was some form of security tag. I just know a trip into the garden will be the precise moment the van pulls up, and there'll be a card on the mat saying "we tried to call but..." For that reason I'm even delaying toilet trips as long as feasible. There must be a better way. I hope they come soon, or I may have to resort to empty plastic bottles.

So Anyway...

2008-10-26T22:15:00.004Z

Apparently we own Iceland. The country, not the shop. Some of it, anyway. Not as much as the Russians. I guess they get the hot springs, and we get Bjork. Perhaps a puffin or two. It depends how far £100Million goes nowadays. Perhaps we could swap Kerry Katona for a little more. Maybe an old buried fish. Or Sigur Ros. Alternatively we could just get them to rewrite history and admit we won the Cod War. Actually, perhaps we could swap our Kerry for Birna Einarsdóttir, the new head of Glitnir retail, one of Iceland's troubled banks. Now admittedly one of them is an "attractive celebrity" and one of them is merely a businesswoman... Can you guess which is which? (Oh, I know it's a mean and easy cheap shot. )
British pregnancy seems to involve a long list of food and drink that somehow become toxic. Feeding wifey has become a difficult task. I can't help thinking things would be different were she French. Blue cheese? Pate? Wine? All banned? I have a vision of a Gallic eyebrow vanishing into a furrowed brow. Does the UK impose these restrictions to make up for our lamentable food hygiene? Is it our addiction to the principle of government nannying? Or is it simply to counteract some sort of tendency of pregnant woment to overindulge - one taste of blue cheese, next moment the cravings kick in and my rotund mrs is squatting on the floor trying to fit in a round of Stilton into her mouth in one go.

But Where Were the Daleks?

2008-10-22T18:16:00.002+01:00

So we head off to Stratford to catch David Tennant in "Love's Labours Lost." The theatre is remarkable for the tininess of the seats, the altitude of where we were sitting, and how astoundingly uncomfortable it was. Still, the play itself is fine, although DT does play the role as a winsome cheeky chappie, and the "leading lady" was picked, I suspect, because she'd appeared with him on "Casanova." Wifey is desperately disappointed because he used his Scottish accent; he'd be her free pass as long as he could keep his Dr. Who accent. I'm not a huge fan of LLL - the lead characters aren't those I'd put at the centre of things, and the playright seems to lose interest towards the end. "Oh, I'm fed up with it being a comedy - let's have the princess's father die." Not that I'm a huge culture buff, of course.
Wifey has an even worse time than me with the seats, now being about 24 weeks in, and getting over a kidney infection. We ponder leaving at the interval, but grit our teeth and hang on in there. We should get an award of some sort. All I can say is anyone who saw "Hamlet" for its entire bum-numbing length should get a medal. Or chiropracty.
Outside of our leisure time, with my business head on, I note we have now successfully talked ourselves into recession. We are getting quotes for remortgaging, which should be an interesting experience. I also have a possible date for root canal treatment. The run up to Christmas is so far not filling me with unmitigated joy.

I Am Not Always a Nice Person

2008-10-18T17:32:00.002+01:00

So I end up in Germany, at the new Berlin airport, which is huge, but rubbish. All you can do is go through to the gates and fly; fine unless you end up there very early and want to sit somewhere quiet and either do work, or read "God Emperor of Didcot"(a real book) in peace and quiet. Still, makes a very impressive backdrop when a head hunter calls for an inconsequential chat. Luckily I bought wifey the present from Stansted; getting her the Nintendo DS was a brilliant idea, as I can always get yet another game.
Finally I arrive home, and have a less than enjoyable day, as I make a very ill man redundant. Matters aren't made better when I'm told he invested their life savings in HBOS shares. There are tears. I get home desperate for a quiet night, and a gentle hour or two spent sipping a whisky. Sadly wifey has a few worrying symptoms, and we end up in Birmingham Women's. They didn't let me take my whisky in with me. Wifey is checked out, and we leave.
It's been that kind of week.

Looking for the Good...

2008-10-04T20:09:00.003+01:00

So I shall draw a veil over much of our 20 week scan. The 2 hours waiting for our appointment. The "being told off" for asking what the doctor at the A&E had told us to ask. The general sense of being made to feel very, very small and insignificant compared to the magnificence of the medical professionals. We asked why the wait had been so long. "Because there are too many people" we were told. This puzzled me. Were they all walk-ins? One moment the ultrasound queue was empty, next moment all the pregnant people in the area had decided "I know; let's go for a scan!" Blimey, thought the staff, where did they all come from? I've noticed a similar startled reaction to the perfectly predictable aspects of day to day operations at Heathrow, where staff seem regularly dumbfounded by the sudden appearances of large aluminium cylinders full of inconvenient people wanting them to do things, like handle baggage.
I said I'd draw a veil over that. I'll concentrate on the good aspects. It's definitely a baby. Not kittens or puppies, despite wifey's recurrent weird pregnancy dreams. Not even a panda, for which there was an outside chance. We counted arms and legs, and they're all there.
Other news; wifey is now officially older. The present came in several parts. One was a special pregnancy pillow. I can't remember what it's called, but it should be "The Monopoliser" because it enables her to obtain even more of the marital bed than she normally does. Another was a nintendo DS, supposedly aimed at staving off "pregnancy brain." However, she eschewed the brain training game I got it for, and buried herself in "Spore Creatures." For hours. And hours.
Finally, having pried her away, we headed down to deepest Tetbury, and a bit of a pamper. I now seem to have won myself the role of "bump massager" using an outstandingly expensive "must have" cream. I know if stretch marks appear, it will somehow be my fault. Which I guess it is. To round things off we detoured via a spot of fly-fishing (not our usual hobby) and wifey caught a 6 pound trout, now filletted in our freezer.
So a bit of a result all round for everyone. Except for the trout.

Our Wonderful National Health Service...

2008-09-27T20:51:00.002+01:00

So it's Friday night, and I've cooked a meal. Not too unusual nowadays, as wifey has taken her station on the sofa, and communicates mostly by hand waving. Such is the privilege of the pregnant. However, she has been moaning of being a bit poorly, and two mouthfuls of "leftover surprise" and she's doubled over in pain. "Oooh, my tummy hurts..." I try not to be offended.
Now we've had a bit of a chequered history in this area before, so I wasn't slow to take action, especially as wifey started to get incoherent. NHS Direct was the first port of call. For those who don't know, this is the modern UK telephone replacement for an effective 24 hour primary health care service.
"We are very busy tonight" said the recorded telephone message. "Please fuck off" said the rest of the message, although I'm paraphrasing the last part. I hung on the line for five minutes. "Oooh" went wifey.
So I called the out of hours GP service. "Well, my wife is 20 weeks pregnant" I began, "and she's just collapsed with a pain in her tummy." "Hang up NOW and call the ambulance" said the woman at the other end. Luckily I waited until the "call the ambulance" bit before doing the hanging up, otherwise I'd have been a bit stuck. Hmm, OK, that's me hung up. Now what?
So there I was, waiting for the ambulance. I saw it zoom by, and had to trot outside to guide it in. The paramedics were quite chatty. "Where's her pregnancy registered?" they asked. We told them. They called them up. "Nope, they don't want you" they said. "They figure that at 20 weeks and with those symptoms you'd be best off going to an emergency department." So we went to our nearest Accident & Emergency Department in the ambulance, a place with awful memories for us.
"I'm really sorry" I apologised to the crew as they drove surprisingly slowly to the hospital. I was grateful for the slow speed; the swinging round was making me feel sick, and I was the healthy one. Wifey went from white to grey - a colour I hadn't seen since she finished the first trimester.
"Don't be" said the non-driving part of the two women crew. "It's a Friday night; it's great to be on a call without needing a police escort." We arrived at an A&E that was clearly having problems. Two police cars were parked outside, nervous looking medics stepped quickly into, and even quicker out of, rooms where incoherent shouting could be heard and a harrassed looking nurse made a quick call to get us transferred to maternity. As the paramedics wheeled us to the lift, one of them explained.
"There are two drug addicts raising hell down there; they didn't think it was a good place for you to be. They're doing you a real favour. And it gives us a bit longer before we have to face the crazies again."
A midwife quickly appeared, and ushered wifey to the loo, where she staggered off, pale and, literally, shaking. Then came the poking, prodding and, finally, it was with relief we heard the baby's heartbeat again. "Glad I found it" said the midwife. "I don't usually deal with bumps that small." Wifey was so relieved she didn't complain about the slur on her bump size. "Stomach bug" came the midwife's opinion. "A lot of it going around at the morning." Able to breathe again I chatted a little, then the registrar came in, and broke our mood.
"What are you doing here? You should be at the hospital that was dealing with you!"
"Well, I tried" I began, "but the ambulance brought us here."
"You should have called the hospital that was dealing with you!" the registrar insisted. I became aware of how posh she sounded. "It shouldn't be up to an ambulance crew to decide."
"But they didn't want us!" I insisted, wondering why it wasn't down to trained health care staff, but the untrained general public, to decide where treatment should take place.
"You shouldn't be here" she repeated. "In cases like this you must go to the hospital that's dealing with you. In future that's where you must go." Her tone brooked no further argument.
Another cursory poke and prod, and prescriptions for pregnancy safe tummy treatments, as well as admonitions to drink lots - of water, I imagine, as wifey is avoiding the G&T, and we were bundled out into the night. We met the paramedics on our way out, as they were back delivering drunken crazies to be patched up and sent out back into the war zone. "Oh, I'm so pleased the baby's OK" said the non-driver. Our dubious looking taxi rolled up, and we headed home, being flung around so much I almost felt nostalgic for the back of the ambulance. The bill at the end added insult to injury; funny how much you have to pay nowadays for a National Health Service free at the point of use.
Funny how Michael Moore didn't put any of that in his film.

A Decision is Made

2008-09-15T19:15:00.001+01:00

After spending Sunday afternoon at Arts Fest in Birmingham, I have decided that I will convey the state of my department to our CEO tomorrow, as he makes his annual visit, through the medium of interpretive dance. I think it will go well.

UK Citizens for a Free Alaska

2008-09-06T09:44:00.002+01:00

So the US presidential race has now entered its final stages. Sort of. Only another 23 years to go. Apparently. I must admit I'm not entirely clear on the rules. I think that the candidates have to pick a team, similar to when you're a school child, and you have to stand by the wall while everyone else is chosen, until finally someone says "Well, I guess I'll have to have Stef then, as he's the only one left." Judging by the quality of the vice presidential candidates, a large number of potential runners took a huge step backwards when asked to come forwards.
So the Democrat Presidential candidate picked someone whose main claim to fame on this side of the pond is having stolen a speech from Neil Kinnock. Let's just think on that. He stole a speech from the "Welsh windbag." The most ridiculed, least charismatic British politician of the past 30 years. Hmmm.
The Republican candidate has chosen a "write-in" Vice-President, the winner of a competition where she had to describe why she wanted to be vice-president in 20 words or less. A firm believer in the literal truth of the bible who, if elected, would ban abortion from the statute books and, presumably, the word "allegory" from the dictionary. Married to an Alaskan separatist, yet running for the second highest US office. That's sort of like Martin McGuiness's wife becoming British PM, isn't it? "Oh, it's fine. I don't talk to my husband about the cruel oppression of the Irish population by my government when we're at home." I won't comment on her offsprings' antics, as you don't chose your children. However, you do chose their names. She has apparently decided they would enjoy the names Mopsy, Topsy, Popsy, Cottontail and Gin. I think. It was a long item on the news, and I was fast losing the will to live by that stage.
How proud I was of the contrast with UK politicians of all political hues. There was Boris's masterly performance at Beijing, that made me glad to be, well, very far away from Beijing actually. I did try and hide under the sofa when the bus came into the Olympics closing ceremony, surrounded by a motley assortment of young folk who appeared to have a fitting disease of some description. When the caterwauling began, accompanied by a confused looking elderly gentleman on an electric guitar, I made my plans for taking alternative nationality over the period of the London Olympics. It certainly won't be Australian, as they lived up to their well deserved worldwide reputation for whinging. "Wah! The Poms beat us in the medal table! Wah!" I heard one interview on the radio. "Well, it made news here too, mate." No, what made news was the Australian reaction to it.
In case the Olympic performance engendered any national pride, our beloved Chancellor was quick to step in. "Our economy is shit," he enthused. "We're in the crap. Lie in bed and prepare for your doom." No wonder the rain has been constant; it's following the mood of national depression.
However, on the plus side, our peas and beans have escaped the attention of the slugs (unlike everything else we're growing) to the extent we're giving them away, as we no longer like them. Wifey's tummy is now at the stage where people are unsure whether she is pregnant or has merely let herself go a bit. She has perused the plethora of stylish maternity wear available on the web, perused the prices, and headed for e-bay. I have been informed that keeping the PlayStation in what is planned to be the nursery is not an option. A spell of decluttering, and "doing things" looms large in my nightmares, and I realise now that perhaps "having a baby" isn't something that is nine months long...

Bombay Mix, and the Elephant in the Womb

2008-08-16T15:38:00.004+01:00

So back in the UK after a hectic five days on business in Mumbai, braving potholes and auto-rickshaws on behalf of the company. A big thumbs up to Jet Airways, who provided reasonable leg room in economy, and even decent food, in the economy section.
I ploughed my way through blockbusters and children's' movies on the the flights there and back, but the only one that really moved me was a Spanish film (yes, the flights were that long) - "The Education of Fairies." Recommended even if you're not stuck in a tin tube for hours at a time. A quick review of some of the other films I saw: "Definitely, Maybe" - definitely not, "Drillbit Taylor" - oh God, "10,000 BC" - nothing Raquel Welch in a fur bikini couldn't have saved, "Fool's Gold" - idiot's film, "The Spiderwick Chronicles" - yay for fairies and goblins, "Horton Hears a Hoo" - part of an evil plot to render our children simpletons.

Now in March we went to New York for a long weekend, staying in a hotel on Broadway. Song apart, I can tell you that New York does sleep quite soundly between 1 and 4 in the morning. Mumbai, on the other hand, is just completely mental 24 hours out of every day. The big thing this trip was taking the auto-rickshaws, which cut down the taxi bill, but pushed up the blood pressure. Matters weren't helped by the relentless monsoon rains, and the resulting poor state of the roads, which made the traffic, normally bad, absolutely atrocious. Mumbai fits 7 lanes of traffic into 4 lanes of road, and still gets people on motorcycles weaving through all of them. Having been advised that the UK government health bodies now regard Mumbai as malaria free, it was a little worrying to be over there and read about their malaria and leptospirosis epidemics, in-between articles about a wealthy young gentleman who'd won India's first ever individual gold medal, in 10m air-rifle, entirely though buying his own coach and staying at home on his own shooting range every day.

The days weren't helped by the lady in the hotel room next to mine coming down with some bug or other, and spending the hours between 1 and 3 in the morning being quite loudly sick. Still, it did give me a chance to verify the New York comparison.

It's funny; I really do have a problem with "liking" India, largely because of the very visible wealth gap between those in the slums, and those in the gated apartment blocks literally a few feet from them. However, perhaps I'm becoming blinder to this, as I certainly relaxed more this time. The food, as ever, was excellent, and all those I dealt with helped make the trip worthwhile.

On arrival home wifey informed me I was hairy and smelt bad. She hadn't seen me for a few days, so maybe she'd forgotten how hairy and smelly I normally was.

She also gave me some of her ideas for London 2012, which should be billed as the "Health and Safety Games."

The Hammer in the Hammer throwing to be replaced by one of those plastic squeaky hammers.
Discus throwing to be smartie throwing. Not only safer, but biodegradeable.
Steps and a ramp to be provided for high jump.
Weight lifting in teams of four, with spotters at appropriate points.
Corks to be kept on javelin tips at all times.

There were others, which I've forgotten.

Perhaps the most significant item was that she is now officially in the part of being pregnant technically called "you can now officially tell people as long as you say 'of course there's still a long way to go, but at least we're in the second trimester now' straight after telling them."
As some people may know we've had a few problems in the past. We're hobbling around with everything crossed at the moment. Well, at the moment wifey is mostly lying on the sofa watching the Olympics, and demanding I wait on her hand and foot. I'm told this is what a good proportion of the next 26 weeks are going to be like. And after that comes the difficult bit.

Nature's Bounty

2008-08-01T16:21:00.004+01:00

Over the past few years we have tried hard to make the unforgiving Midland clay of our garden go some way to providing us with food. We have tortured small plants of various flavours, and the return has been, in general, disappointing; the mange tout peas provided a small garnish, and we had two strawberries.
This year things seem to have changed. We have had buckets of strawberries, and the prospect of eating yet more is now starting to pall. We have an uneaten bucket of mange tout in the fridge, and the plants are needing to picked again this weekend. The potatoes, parsnips, carrots, garlic and beetroots all seem to be doing well. I keep thinking that there's going to be some sort of revelation by Mother Nature that she's cocked up, and somehow all our hard won gains will revert back to the usual disappointing bedraggled mess.
It's a sort of gardening version of the usual human inferiority complex. "Somehow it will be spotted that I am doing better in love/work/life than I deserve, and the balance will be restored." I wonder whether Simon Cowell or Alan Sugar ever get those feelings?
I am home early today, having gone to the surgery for travel vaccinations in preparation for a business trip to India. I learnt that, in contrast to two years ago, Mumbai is no longer considered a malaria risk. I remember the monsoon of 2006, plus the reports that were everywhere that year of the city's malaria epidemic and am a little unconvinced. The nurse waves the printout from the NHS website at me. Sure enough, the coloured map of India has Mumbai clearly in the "low risk" band. So that's all right then. I am jabbed for hepatitis. A list of possible side effects gives me something to look forward to over the weeked.
I set up the notebook, finish writing my monthly report, then totally fail to connect to the e-mail server to send it. Sigh. The computer is new, and I specifically asked IT to check it was configured to send e-mail over VPN. The VPN diagnostics give me three unpleasant looking red crosses and one solitary green tick. I don't know what they mean, but it doesn't look reassuring. I am beginning to realise that technology scares me, and suddenly feel very old.

The Plague of Rat-Nags

2008-07-18T17:54:00.005+01:00

Just back from the jolly old holidays, spent in the New Forest; a charming patch of the past nestling in the hills, moors and scrubs to the North of Southampton and Bournemouth. Famous for being the site of William "Rufus" II's untimely demise, being rather old (despite the name) and for being infested with ponies, let out to pasture in the wild by their owners, who have some ancient right or other.

To which one can only say "why"?

Make no mistake; these are no thoroughbred racing mounts. They are mangy, moth-eaten, bad tempered rat-nags, with a penchant for attacking picnics, standing aimlessly in the middle of roads, and generally cluttering up the place.

As a service, wifey and I came up with a few potential uses for the ancient right of pasture that the New Foresters feel so keen to preserve.

Horse milk. A New Forest specialty, and source of the New Forest rat-nag cheese.

Eat the buggers. Don't be squeamish; remember, these ponies aren't related to Black Beauty by anything other than the most tenuous of links. Either that, or sell them to the French to eat.

Every morning lead them off to the New Forest treadmills for a spot of power generation, and giving something back to society. Come to that, a bit of tubing, and a little equine discomfort, and you have a ready source of methane.

Swap out the ponies on a one for one basis with rare zebras, and you have a new gene pool for repopulating sparse areas of Africa, not to mention more visible and interesting mobile tourist attractions for the New Forest.

A "park and ride" pony scheme. Leap on a nag, go to where you want to go, leap off. Admittedly you'd either have to carry your own saddle, or risk bare-back, but at least it makes them good for something. And I imagine local hospital accident and emergency facilities may experience a bit of an uptick in business. But hey, you can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs, legs and collarbones.

So we're now back safe in the bosom of our home, after a long drive back, including the Air Balloon roundabout. A legendary location where HGVs lie down to die. Which will mean nothing to you unless, as I used to, you regularly drive that route. In the course of a year I saw at least 10 lorries which had clearly got so tired they decided to take a sleep in the middle of the road. A bit like a New Forest pony, really.

Highlights of the holiday; a kip in the sun on the beach at Lepe, the view over the Forest, the otter and raptor centre, and a one night stay here. Definitely the Stef seal of approval.

Another Post Skirting Around the Only thing of Any Interest...

2008-07-12T15:22:00.003+01:00

So I'm driving home in heavy rain, and pull out past a Dutch HGV.I glance back in the rear view mirror. Clinging on to the inside of the lorry's windscreen, stark naked but clutching a spliff, spread-eagled like some bizarre sticky toy, is the front seat passenger, waving his todger at passing motorists. Score one for national stereotypes. [To be said in a fake Dutch accent]: "Ho, those crazy Dutch guys."

It's been that sort of month really. I've cooked lots as wifey has come down with "lying on the sofa waving an imperious hand" syndrome. We'll be heading off to the New Forest on holiday fairly soon - we may have to canoe from sight to sight but I'm looking forward to the break. Anyone got a good idea for what to do while we're there?

I'm off to Bombay soon as well. I've packed my trunk.... (call me Nellie.)

The men they couldn't what...?

2008-06-21T17:44:00.001+01:00

Blimey - showing my age. These people:

It's Been a Bit Like That...

2008-06-21T17:03:00.003+01:00

You know sometimes nothing seems to happen for absolutely ages, so there's nothing to put up on the blog. Well, that's not what's been happening to me. Or that's not what's not been happening to me. Or what I mean is...
Let's start again. basically lots of things have been happening, much of which this wouldn't be the right place to write about. I guess there are a few things I can talk about. One of which, and perhaps the most important, is the appearance of the wonderful Alex Kingston in Doctor Who. Too old for ER? The Americans must have been mad. Wonderful in woad in Boadicea, but pretty yummy in a space suit (is it geeky to find that attractive) - why have a girl as a sidekick when you could have a woman?
Another is getting a song in my head which just won't leave. It's the Young Knives "Turn Tail and Run." In my opinion it seems to have echoes of the Levellers in there, and even a touch of "Men they couldn't hang." However the video is achingly hip, and there isn't a dog on a string anywhere. I looked. If I've done this right you should be able to see it below.

A Little Older and a Bit More Wise

2008-05-17T09:14:00.003+01:00

Time has marched on, and I am now officially older. Wifey took me out to Opus in Birmingham, and fed me. (It would have been a little cruel to take me there and just show me the food. That wouldn't have been a treat at all.) It was lovely, and enabled me to briefly forget that the inevitability of my demise is now a little closer.
My birthday weekend also involved two beer festivals, which has to be good. One of them here. Of course, being now of more advanced age, I limited my intake to sensible levels. However, it must have had some effect, as I was able to watch Morris Dancing without too many adverse effects, and was able to resist the urge to slap them. And we had to stop on the way back for me to admire the scenery and empty my bladder.
Of course, all good things come to an end, and work beckoned me back. The highlight of recent days has been presenting at a conference on innovation. A senior government quangocrat gave an excellent opening presentation on how important the government believes it all is for UK plc, and how strongly they support the event. Then left to do something properly important. The venue was attractive, the weather was lovely, and the food and coffee were pretty good. This sort of thing matters.
My now older body has been twinging more than usual. High Performance Coach seems not to have heard of the rules of Veteran rowing, and has introduced gym sessions after, rather than instead of, rowing, as well as a spot of weight lifting while waiting for the crew to turn up, rather than sitting on the bank watching boats go by. All of which has brought back memories of the dim and distant past when I used to aim for the serious stuff. I don't remember it hurting quite so much. We're balding, our remaining tufts of hair are turning white, and we have clicking joints and pot bellies; the clues are there, but he seems to be missing them.
Is it wrong to have a secret soft spot for a Sun journalist? (Not so secret any more, I guess?)

Mayor of Birmingham - a Proposal

2008-05-04T17:45:00.004+01:00

As I cast my envious eyes at the wonderful spectacle of the London Mayoral election, I wonder why Britain's second city, Birmingham, has missed out on this innovation. I propose we pester, badger and bully whoever we need to in order to:

Get Birmingham a mayoral election.
Get one of the following candidates elected as our mayor.

In third place, Ruth Badger. Losing candidate in The Apprentice, passed over by S'rallen, the poisonous little pillock who runs an empire of electronic tat and appears to treat his employees like shit. I think she got out in time, and seems to have done pretty well out of it. The major reason for appointing her mayor would be the endless opportunity for comedians to comment on people being "Badgered." Not to be confused with Charlotte Badger, who was someone different and, being dead, is sadly not eligible for the post. Although I would have liked to have a female buccaneer as mayor. As then comedians could comment on the body count of her enemies who she'd run through with a suitable sharp implement.

In second place, Ozzy Osborne. Admittedly you'd have to tempt him back from his Hollywood lifestyle, but with all Birmingham has to offer, that shouldn't be hard. How can Rodeo Drive begin to compare with the Bull Ring, or the Mailbox? It would be worth it for the sight of him giving public announcements.

But the star candidate for Mayor of Birmingham has to be Jasper Carrot: comedian, businessman (both failed and successful), and father of the wonderful Lucy Davis. As well as author of one of the funniest lines I've ever heard a comedian say: "Laughter is the best medicine. Unless you're a diabetic then insulin comes pretty high up the list." (Interestingly his daughter is diabetic. So he gets to say it.)

What do you mean the mayor has to be a serious politician? Is this a new restriction? It didn't seem to apply in London. I discounted Digby Jones on the grounds of actually being too political.

The paving slabs are down, we're putting up the signs with the parking regulations now...

2008-04-26T17:14:00.004+01:00

Despite living in Britain's second city, rather than trendy London Village, home of the rich and vacuous, I have been asked some questions regarding the London mayoral election. This is a contest in which I have no say, but I may be able to shed some light for those who are confused. It also may offer some insight into how the British run their political campaigns.

The current incumbent was unharmed by recent revelations that he has 536 children by 259 different mothers. "Hey, it's that sort of city" he said.
The major challenger was snared in a similar scandal when it came out that the gentlemen's magazine which he ran enforced a strict policy of dressing as saucy French maids for all staff at all times. When cornered, he replied "Well, gosh, cripes, I suppose it's that kind of city."
Third place in the polls is the ex-policeman from the Village People. His particular skill is forming the letter "Y".

I hope this clarifies things.
Just to add a quick "inappropriate object of unrequited lust: I've never been much of a fan of Ms. Rossellini. Too much the scarey ice maiden. But put her in a bee costume, and wow!

I would mention something about "I'm sorry I haven't a clue" advertising for a new chairman, but don't want to tip off too many potential competitors for the post. Off to do my application.

...and the painted ponies go up and down...

2008-04-12T16:36:00.003+01:00

I note a new initiative to curb litter lout drivers with some pleasure, tempered by the unfortunate fact that the word "execution" appears nowhere in the press release, and there is no mention of ramming offending vehicles now being encouraged. However, I assume this is an oversight on the part of the PR people.
I visit Birmingham to watch wifey bounce around in "Asian Spring 2008." The day starts snowy, but by the time I'm outside the Town Hall, killing time before it starts, the sun is shining, and even Birmingham looks its best. It looks clean - have they given it a facelift recently? I'm in a good mood. A young man on a bicycle is leaning against a litter bin, eating a sandwich. Finishing, he drops his wrapper. On the floor. I glare at him.
"What? You got a problem?" he growls.
Usually I'd bury hands in my pockets, and walk on by, but ... I'd been feeling so good, and this thoughtless act has spoilt it.
"Yes," I shout back, about five feet away from him. He starts. He's a big lad, taller and heavier than I am, and doesn't seem used to this. "You're a few feet from a bin, and you're so lazy you can't even be bothered to put your litter in it. That's a stupid, ignorant thing to do." I stop for breath.
"You put it in!"
"It's your rubbish. Are you so stupid you can't deal with your own mess, like an untrained puppy that shits in its own house?"
This offends him. "You know nothing about me man..."
I hate being called "man." This pillock isn't in LA or NY. "The only thing I know about you is that you can't be bothered to put your rubbish in a bin."
"This is my manor. This is my turf. I own this street man ..."
"What, your house has bits of sandwich wrapper on the floor?"
"I'm from Ladywood, man..."
"So? Don't they have bins in Ladywood? Have you never seen one before? Do you need a lesson?"
At this stage a small crowd has gathered. A young girl giggles. Probably from embarrassment. He starts cycling off, looking over his shoulder, yelling at me. All I can make out is "F-f-f-f-f-f." He gets about 100 metres away and stops. I walk towards him and he cycles off. I look around; I am alone. The litter has blown away. I reflect I should have just picked it up and put it in the bin.
The bouncing around of wifey is fabulous, although I am prevented from taking photos by the Town Hall attendants, who say they are worried that all the spectators are potential kiddie fiddlers. Other audience members form makeshift screens, and film the proceedings. I am too law abiding to do more than snap a few furtive, and disappointing, views with the camera phone.
In a rare moment of double ended candle burning, we race from her performance to see Sean Lock. We laughed, me more than wifey, but Mark Watson was better. Still, all a matter of taste, I suppose. The less tasteful they are, the funnier, perhaps.
I attend an international standards meeting in Prague. I see nothing of the city other than the inside of a meeting room in the Czech National Standards Institute. The Americans and Germans argue from opposite ends of the table, and the rest of us sit in the middle, sending out little prods every time things seem to be flagging. In the coffee breaks the rest of the world makes fun of the Brits, and the fiasco that is Terminal 5 at Heathrow. Returning we prove that we don't need T5 or BA to cock things up, and our flight is delayed by 3 hours. I arrive home at 3 am. What exactly was "easy" about that, Stelios? Wifey has been on a day trip to Belgium, also for business. She has bought me a present. I am shamed, and am a clearly inadequate husband.

Modern Conundrums

2008-03-22T17:51:00.002Z

So an old college friend of mine sends me a plea for help. "Please," she say, "help us stop the Mull of Kintyre wind farm." I follow the link, which contains an artist's view of how the proposed development would ruin this area of natural beauty. I gaze, transfixed, at the image on the screen. It looks majestic, awesome, astounding. I hesitate; should I tell her? I decide that perhaps I shouldn't. I appreciate that there are issues. Noise, interference with migratory flight paths and, on a more basic engineering level, efficiency and availability of the equipment itself due to regular problems with gearboxes. But, oh my word, the sheer soaring majesty of the wind turbines themselves is jaw dropping. Aesthetics are in the eye of the beholder. Soon after I have to drive to Cambridge, and take in the sight of the wind farm development alongside the A14. Perhaps one day I'll saddle up the nag, and ride out to challenge them, but for now, on the basis of looks at least, I'm with the giants.
Another college friend sends a plea for Sports Relief. "We're running for charity! Send us some money!" I have an issue with Live Aid, Comic Relief, Sports Relief ... A mass blackmailing of people at large in order to harvest money given without thought or understanding to causes that the rich and famous have decided are more deserving of others. I want to choose where my money goes, and give it because I want to give it, not because I feel shamed into it. Some of the aims that have been touted in recent years I've actively disagreed with. For example, forgiving Third World Debt. In my view a more sensible approach would have been to cancel the interest. If the rich banks have lost their money, why should they help develop their former creditors? If they owe you a steadily decreasing principal, and there's no interest to make up for its erosion by inflation, then it's to your own benefit to help them develop their economy in order to pay you. It's the theory that if you owe the bank a million and can't pay, you're in trouble; if you owe the bank a billion and can't pay, the bank's in trouble. Alter the sums to allow for currency and bank size... The lumped appeals, where I have no say in where our money goes, and which are tied with some ludicrous pretext that is either wildly unfunny, but no-one admits the truth in a mass adherence to "the Emperor's new clothes" principle, or drastically untaxing, but dressed as equivalent to an assault on K2 wearing a swimsuit, are even worse. Again, I hold my tongue. I admit to being parochial in my support of charities; I buy from Big Issue sellers because I've been homeless, we donate to disaster relief because we've been in a disaster, and we give to the Miscarriage Association. Does that make me uncaring?
I'm struck by the introductory tags of the traffic reports. Oxford tells me it has "traffic news you can trust." Radio Berkshire says it has "traffic news I can rely on." So can I not trust it? Is the traffic news from BBC Radio Oxford unreliable? Soon it's all rendered academic, as BBC Radio Leicester traffic news hijacks the airwaves again. despite the fact I am nowhere near Leicester.
Midweek training with a rowing club, which has a new coach on sabbatical from a high performance group. He is somewhat stricter than I'm used to, and for the first time in many years I need a mid session puke break. "There are two kinds of pain," he tells us. "The pain of losing and the pain of training. One lasts a very long time!" Too damn right; I ache for a week afterwards, whereas after losing at a regatta a couple of hours in the beer tent at leasts starts to numb the frustration.

And to the Wake...

2008-03-08T15:30:00.002Z

Into fancy London Village to attend the end of a specialist research body, as funding is withdrawn in order to be handed to one of the quango behemoths which this government so favours. I left from Birmingham International, taking care as I drove into the car park to avoid the doggy throng making their way into Crufts. On my return the station had was packed with the dog show crowd making their way home. Funny; somehow there's a 'look' that show goers seem to have, whether it's dogs, cats, war memorabilia, science fiction & fantasy. Except for the costumes the last lot wear. Perhaps sometimes people go to the wrong ones. I have an image of a Klingon wandering the stands at Crufts, examining the dog food with a critical eye... As a regular attender at the Good Food Show, perhaps I have the same look. Except for the Klingon bit, of course.
All is hectic at work as we hurtle towards the end of the financial year. I wonder whether people realise how much of our life is shaped by these entirely arbitrary divisions in the year, not to mention the pauses and gaps in development and production that are caused by Chinese New Year. Yet it's just a date.

More Details Are Available...

2008-03-01T14:24:00.004Z

Before going further into our profligate splurge in New York, here's a quick message for you if you're one of those people who drops cigarettes, sweet wrappers or assorted bits of rubbish out of your car windows:

Just bloody give it a rest, will you? Britain's enough of a shit heap without you making it worse because you're such a lazy arse.
Some evenings during my drive home I almost feel as though I'm passing through a fireworks display, as ignorant tossers hurl their discarded lit stub ends out of their windows. I'm glad we've such a rainy climate, as the next dry spell we'll end up with blazes alongside every major motorway, started by the glowing fags, and fed on a mixture of dried grass and junk food wrappers.

Deep breaths. Anyway, New York and the US. The first thing that struck us was:

Don't the Americans love queuing? Everywhere involved a queue. Odd, really as we Brits are the ones whom the Americans claim are the master queuers. The same as the Australians call us "whinging Poms" yet spend almost all their time whenever they're abroad whining and moaning about how much better things are back home in Oz. Anyway, back to queuing, which you have to do in order to get or do anything in America. The longest was at the Museum of Modern Art; free on a Friday afternoon, and well worth visiting. Just don't take a bag. All bags have to be checked, and the queue for the cloakroom was spectacular in both length and the convoluted path that the shouty queue tenders (an archetypal American job) made it take. I suspect that it was, in itself, an art exhibit, and the shouty queue tenders vied with each other over the interesting route they could make it take, and the general mix of ethnography of its members. Shouty queue tenders were also in evidence at the Empire State Building, The Rockefeller Center and the theater (sic) for Spamalot. I wonder whether there's a special training course?
On one morning I ended up leaving some of my food uneaten on my plate at breakfast. I deliberately hadn't placed a side order; this was a single, standard menu order, but the sheer quantity left me defeated. Oh, the shame. In three days I put on five pounds. I was taken aback at the tendency to cover savoury dishes in sweet syrup, or honey flavoured barbecue sauce.
Outside of food, the big thing in New York seemed to be paying for "extras." Whether you wanted serving or just a few extra little touches, there was a charge to be added. The little extra touch of something special was never going to come for free! Not a criticism, just a comment.
We saw the "hole." Moving, but... I don't know; there was a list of names of the dead, described as "heroes." I felt that cheapened the rescue service personnel who died. Weren't they victims rather than heroes? It doesn't make their deaths less tragic or wasteful. Not everyone who dies is a hero, but they are always some mother's son or daughter.
It was snowy and cold, which made for fantastic photographs in Central Park, but cold noses and toes. Wonderful!

By the way, about the earthquake.

Get a grip, for goodness sake. It wasn't a proper earthquake. Those have deaths, and buildings falling down, and gas pipes breaking, and are just about the worst thing you could ever have in your life. Stop flipping whining about a little wobble. What are you; Australian?

A Bit More Spontaneous than I Usually Am...

2008-02-25T18:00:00.002Z

Back from a weekend in New York. Still a little shell-shocked by the sheer profligacy of it all. We don't usually do things quite so much on impulse, but sometimes I guess you have to do things that just don't make sense.
So off we went, for our two night trip to a cold and snowy New York, staying in a hotel close to Ties Square. Which wasn't; square, that is. Anywhere that more than two roads met was called a square, regardless of the usual 4 equal sides definition.
I guess if when you step out from Mumbai airport you're struck by the smell of spice (and less pleasant odours), and exiting at Seoul you notice the smell of Kim-Chee, then the main odour at Newark was BBQ sauce. It took a day before I found anything savoury to eat.
We managed to fit in trips to the top of the Empire State building, 30Rock, and a carriage ride in a picturesque Central Park. We also made "Spamalot" - Monty Python is now a part of my cultural heritage, and will probably make it on to future English Literature courses.
For now I'll let the jet lag settle, and leave further blogging until I'm not nodding off in front of the keyboard.

A Week Long Random Walk

2008-02-09T14:07:00.000Z

In fancy London Village on Monday on a secret mission. Taking the train, I noticed that the cars in the Birmingham International station car park were, how can I put this, rather swanky. I make a mental note that if I ever find myself forced to make a living from car theft, this would be a good place to start.
To the Birmingham Hippodrome, to see Stomp. Wonderful, but I note that the Hippodrome, to my disappointment, has a marked lack of large water living African mammals on roller skates playing violent games of hockey. I consider writing to the theatre management to complain about false advertising, and to the show organisers to mention how well they would fit in.
I hear that Mr. Bean has offended some people by saying all Muslims are going to drive around in minis, and stuff their heads in turkey bottoms at Christmas. Or something. Oh, sorry. Rowan Williams. I have no idea who that is, or what he does. He doesn't have a television show, but may end up on "Celebrity Dancing on Thin Ice" at some time in the future.
I am stunned by some of the wonderful programmes on television at the moment. "Primeval" has great effects and the opportunity to watch one of the most attractive women on television (Juliet Aubrey, of course, not the blonde one who prances around in knickers all the time), but we will sweep the plot question conveniently under the carpet for the moment. Torchwood has dire effects this series (more of the money going to Barrowman, perhaps) and plots that are almost abbreviated, but seems to have decided that one of the cast is now going to come out with some cracking one liners. But top of the sci-fi fantasy heap at the moment has to be "Reaper". Somehow it just tickles me. Maybe it's just the idea of a whole bunch of talented Canadians playing slacker Americans working for Satan. Away from the fantasy, to a fantasy of a different sort. Is it wrong to find Tina Fey from 30 Rock amazingly attractive? What, not only is it not wrong, she has her own fan site? And she's done some interesting poses with typewriters? Oh my word, I'm normal! Actually, the last time I mentioned this sort of thing was noting how much I liked the cerebral, sensible characters that Raquel Cassidy played. It was then alleged she was a sly, manipulative lady with a penchant for married men. Bizarrely this did not diminish her in my eyes. I await the dirt, if any, on Ms. Fey...

Disappointingly...

2008-01-29T18:22:00.000Z

Someone tells me I am much less amusing in real life than I am on my blog. Worryingly, that someone is wifey.
Sadly wifey has another inappropriate television addiction. This is to "Celebrities on Ice". It is presented by Philip Schofield and a blow-up sex doll, given the semblance of life through clever camera angles and Philip's ventriloquism. A collection of well-known sports stars, somewhat familiar singers, and completely unknown actors demonstrate why they are not professional ice-skaters. Bizarrely the studio audience, instead of doing what normal people would do, which is laughing like drains every time these pillocks fall over and hurt themselves, applaud their plucky efforts, and boo when the judges point out the obvious. i.e. "You are doing something technically difficult after a short amount of practice time, and you are naturally clumsy anyway, so it was shit." I am sure that they will soon run through every pastime (ice dancing is not a 'sport') known, and give every fame hungry half-wit an opportunity to fail, pluckily, on prime time. "Celebrity chefs octopush" will be next.
Some of the lorries going up and down the M40 appear to have been fitted with ploughs, and one of the streams of cobbles left in their wake has chipped my windscreen. I am watching, mesmerised, as the tiny ding gradually expands, and I fail to do something about it. I will, soon, I promise myself yet again as I get into the car and realise that it isn't a squashed fly after all, and remember the impending catastrophe.
I stay at the sort of hotel I don't normally stay at while on a business trip. My car cowers in the car park, dwarfed by transit vans. The breakfast menu has two entries; "Full English" and "Double Full English". I am the only person at breakfast who voices a consonant. The night before the meeting I head into the town, a dismal outpost of London. I spend the money I saved on the hotel on a pricier than intended spot of comfort eating; spicy Thai food. Digesting it is so tiring that even the floor moving as my neighbours attempt clog dancing in their workboots doesn't keep me awake. Sadly, neither does the meeting the next day I came all this way for. Lulled into catatonia by the drone of the other attendees and a heavy breakfast, I snooze with my eyes, well, one eye, open. Oh, the glamour.
This is not disappointing, but is a chink of light in the overall January gloom. We have booked a long weekend as a holiday in New York. Yay! I am sure the pound will now fall through the floor, and the dollar reach new heights. I will attempt not to engage any locals in political discussions, especially not about the various freakish figures (elves, giants, dwarves and gnomes all seem to be represented by someone) running for the Republican Party nomination (now known as the "party for Middle Earth") or the terrible strain felt by both the relatively new 'caring' California Democrats ("A vote against sexism or a vote against racism. Oh the anguish! Who do I choose? Who do I oppress?") and the more traditional Southern Democrats, harking back to the glory days pre-yankee hegemony, for completely different reasons ("The WOMAN or the n...

What's the Dutch for "eternal student"?

2008-01-26T09:39:00.000Z

To the Hague to visit the European Patent Office ("EPO") and see our tax euros at work. Officially it was a conference on China, but really who wouldn't take the chance to see the place?
The flight left at stupid o'clock in the morning, and I was assured I needed to be at Heathrow, motto-like Mumbai airport but not as clean, at you've got to be kidding o'clock. I did as I was told, but no-one seemed to have told the airport staff. How rude! There was a time I would have killed for coffee.
Still, the flight was reasonable enough, although it was the sort where you have to buy your own breakfast.
Finally, at the EPO. A plush university for grown-ups. Full of cliquey coffee shops, and bright folks wandering around with brains as big as planets. I was told it has the largest canteen in Holland. Fancy. Sadly the lunches we had were bland bits on dry buns, except for one Dutch delicacy which was a deep fried homage to mechanically recovered meat. On a dry bun. I will give it a special award as one of Europe's premier employers of hot, brainy birds. Although just about everyone there did seem to be more than a little arrogant. Just because they could speak 27 languages each. Even the few British ones.
The conference itself had some interesting bits, but probably not for this blog, as my definition of interesting is undoubtedly different from yours.
Back after flight delays at Amsterdam, and tucked up in bed, after a hectic two days of brain expanding.

They Are Human Too

2008-01-20T12:44:00.000Z

I seem to have done a lot of driving recently. I've noticed that the Leicester traffic news radio is so strong that it hijacks local traffic news from just about anywhere. Perhaps it's a plot by the good people of Leicester to keep the whole of the UK informed about the state of Leicester's roads, since they are clearly more important than the roads anywhere else. Is this because they allow people to drive to, or away from, Leicester?

I had no escape on Saturday either, as I was pulled into work to deal with a major crisis. For once, major crisis meant crisis, as in "things exploding" crisis. Luckily no lives in danger, but next week could be interesting.

On a more tragic note, there are times when bad things happen to famous people, and you realise that they are human too. I must admit I've never shed a tear over a pop tart, sorry, star, before. My best wishes go with her, the poor girl.

Oh Lordy, What a Palaver

2008-01-13T13:32:00.000Z

Well, what a strange start to the year. Firstly we have the kick off to the American presidential marathon, with the couscous and primarilies, or something. I envisage these as collections of guys in rocking chairs on porches, while their wives are inside fixing the vittles, drawling out, between sucks on their corn-cobs, "Well, which is the one who says we can marry our sisters?" But I could be wrong. This is probably the last analysis I shall do on the American election, where I fully expect the victor to be style over substance, as is usual. Anywhere. In anything.
In a wild burst of spontaneity we've got tickets to see Mark Watson. Tonight. At two days notice. Well, I say "we" - I meant wifey. It would have taken me at least a couple of weeks to get my act together. This may be the start of a whole new burst of wild and impetuous behaviour. We've heard him on the radio (four of course, booming out, as we cruise through the 'hood, "Mark Watson makes the world substantially better" shaking the trim on the old skoda) and decided, what the heck. I realise that on the scale of "wild and spontaneous" it's not quite on the same scale of upping sticks and moving to Asia at short notice (been there, done that), but hey, it's early days.
It's something to do in the pissing rain anyway. We've got builders in, working in the back garden. They appear to run on biscuits and coffee; keeping the tray restocked is a major undertaking. Still, the forewoman (who mentally I think of as "builder bird") has driven her band to superhuman efforts, and all seems to be going well. I have a dream of lazy Summer evenings on the new patio, swinging in a hammock, sipping chilled white wine. As opposed to falling through rotting decking and disturbing the rats.
Before we leave tonight I shall ponder my proposals for alternative ways for the US nation to select its next leader. I have a vague idea for a massive knock out "rock, scissors, paper" competition, but it needs a little work...

2008 and all that...

2008-01-01T13:22:00.000Z

Well, 2007 was an utterly, utterly shit year for this particular household. We're glad to see the back of it. We're hoping for better things from 2008. If last year was a poor one for you as well, I hope our renewed good luck can pull you along with us.
If 2007 was a good one for you...
You smug git.
Happy new year.

All Work and No Play...

2007-12-20T13:33:00.001Z

So taking advantage of the last few days of vacation left to shop for more presents for beloved wifey, I fancied popping into a coffee shop to rest my weary legs, and warm my frozen hands. First, I needed something to read, so I ducked into a newsagent for a magazine. Then I realised - I'm not a magazine man. What could I get? Certainly the car magazines held no interest. Especially not the "Make your car look great by attaching a drainpipe to the exhaust, and a tacky bit of plastic to the boot" varieties. The lad mags seemed to concentrate on bimbos, baby oil and ball sports, of all varieties. Regular readers (erm, that would be me then) will know that if I was of a mind to dream over the female form there'd have to be some evidence of a brain behind the beauty. The celebrity magazines would do nothing but reduce me to foaming apoplexy rather than induce the calm, contemplative mood I was after. Plenty of items for computer gaming addicts, fishing fans, compulsive caravanners, followers of fashion, fitness fanatics, rockers, emo maniacs, DIY nuts... Nothing in the slightest interest for me. The Economist could have beckoned, but I have a stealable copy at home that made me loathe to pay for it. Private Eye has paled for me since they actually reported on something I knew about, and I realised just how wrong they can be. Alas, no Fortean Times in the Black Country.
Am I really such a sad socks?

In the end the Big Issue vendor got my money. But have you noticed how even that now seems to think it's a music magazine? I remember when they used to have cutting political comment, buried amongst the vendor poems. I guess it's only a matter of time before they start reporting what Jordan had for breakfast...

Men Behaving Quite Well Actually

2007-12-02T08:57:00.001Z

So the event of the year has rolled around once more. An opportunity for mirth, frivolity, and mingling with the happy throng for self indulgent consumerism.
I'm referring, of course, to the Good Food Show at the NEC; a wonderful occasion for the committed grazer and imbiber. It seemed different somehow this year; fewer "non-food and drink" stands, and somehow a bit more space. Don't get me wrong - this was very much a good thing, and the place was by no means empty on the day we went. As ever, we spent far too much on the fancy beers, pasta and spices, not to mention a bit of wine-related trinketry to use as Christmas presents. The tasting went well too, with plenty of excellent cheese, and my grateful, if hazy thanks, must go to the Scottish gentleman who gave me a "vertical tasting" of far too many varieties of whisky from the same distillery, all completely distinctive, yet with a common family flavour. Unfortunately by the end of it I was far too woozy to remember exactly which distillery it was. We attended a cookery demonstration by Rick Stein. Compared to demonstrations we've been to in previous years given by the Mockney menace, and Mr. Sweary, it's clear Mr. Stein is happier in front of a camera than in front of a live audience. However, when we got home I actually cooked his recipe, and it worked extremely well; something I'd never have attempted with the other two. As wifey said, if I was still single, it would have been another one for the wooing food arsenal. The one blight was the piss poor organisation of the collection of pillocks whose job it was to get people into the cookery theatre for the show. Actually, the other problem was my effort to stay awake during the quieter sections - the show came after my whisky tasting.
So now I'm on my own at home, having decided not to brave storm conditions in my little boat on the the big river, and I'm contemplating shifting my sorry backside into doing a training session on the rowing machine instead. The much neglected Playstation, a collection of movies on the DVR, my dust gathering CDs, tapes and (shock) LPs, not to mention the general time vampire known to mere humans as the Internet are all making alternative siren calls.
Why on my own? Well, wifey is down in fancy London Village doing a yoga course with some wiry American hippy. By the time I collect her at the station I expect she'll be pretty much fit for nothing but pouring into bed. Given such freedom I guess it's quite sad that my excitement is running to such mundane pursuits. And that's without mentioning the washing and ironing I also hope to pack into my hectic Sunday schedule.
Lastly, since I haven't done this for a while, I thought I'd add an inappropriate object of unrequited lust. A moment of quiet contemplation for Girton College Cambridge graduate, and one time PhD student in biological anthropology, fluent in Spanish, French and German, and musically gifted too - Raquel Cassidy. Beautiful, and brainy - just my sort of woman.

If...

2007-11-23T19:21:00.000Z

If we toss them a few million pounds, do you think next year they'll skip all that "Children in Need" bollocks, and just pass on the money to deserving charities? I mean, do we need a whole bunch of wealthy telly tarts waxing lyrical about the poor kiddies, and exhorting us to send our money to them, when they could have had a whip round of their own pocket change and probably raised as much? And that sodding bear emblem. Argh. Sick making. As for the "comedy" - did anyone find one single bit of it in the least amusing? Really? Please, next year, no more.
If one more comedian makes the joke about a CD or DVD they were given, or bought, containing all the names and addresses that the Inland Revenue managed to mislay I will give up all hope. The first time, quite funny. The fourth, fifth, sixth time? No, no, no, no, no. Give it a rest. You missed the moment. Give up and move on.
If only someone would do a television programme about Gordon Ramsey's television programme, in the style of a Gordon Ramsey television programme. "Gordon, you f****r! You're just f*****g re-hashing and reheating your old, stale material. Not only is it shit, it's going to make some f*****g punter ill, you f*****t. Call yourself a telly tart? Make some new f*****g material, not just garnishing your old stuff with a bit of f******g fluff. Get your finger out of your f*****g a**e, and don't be such a lazy c**t."

There Were Fireworks...

2007-11-10T18:33:00.000Z

Lots of them, in fact. Bought by wifey after a rush of blood to the head. Many things have deteriorated since my childhood; fireworks aren't one of them. The ordnance on view would, I'm sure, have been declared illegal in the far off days of my childhood, where bangers as big as my little finger were about all that you could get. So we took them out to the bottom of the garden, and wreathed the street in a pall of gunpowder smoke. The Rockets were spectacular, the Catherine wheel stuck and set fire to the tree we pinned it too, and the "ooohs" and "aahs" we let out alerted the people on a neighbouring patch (*), having a bonfire, who made fun of us(**).
Asides from that, nothing else has happened.It's been that sort of week.

(*) But weren't neighbours; it's a complicated land layout. Officially, according to our deeds, we have to keep that part of the garden hedge cow-proof. I've never seen them keep cows. Perhaps they just need the option. They do have two very noisy boxer dogs. Maybe they are cows in disguise.
(**) But that's fine; they were listening to Enya. I figured they didn't have the moral high ground.

Being Nationally Physical...

2007-11-02T16:46:00.000Z

So an interesting day this week, as I headed off to Britain's foremost employer of hot female boffins. (*) A little bit annoyed by the 5 car pileup on the UK's official London Orbital Dodgem track, which delayed my arrival a little. Having switched, with some reluctance, to the avuncular over-paid Irishman on the radio (**), my sound system resigned in protest after about two hours, taking the CD with it, leaving me in uncomfortable silence for the last hour. The helpful man on the gate directed me to my reserved parking spot, and I was greeted by an obsequious flunky. Who then looked at my invitation and directed me to the right place, at the other end of the site, which appears to cover half the county (***), instructing me to move my car with all haste. Sigh. The meeting itself was reasonably interesting, and I left feeling moderately illuminated. The food was good too, as long as you ate meat and prawns. The vegetarians had to make do with a hummus wrap. Still, they were light enough for them to lift without too much trouble. By the time I headed home the stereo had got over its shock, and now seems fine, although I am sparing it the morning Wogan. Probably no bad thing as it is, what's the Irish word, oh yes, shite. Instead I'm hitting the CD collection, currently resurrecting the Christians (****) and the latest bizarre warbling from the eighties dancing waif, and woman I'm most likely to end up stalking in a vaguely disturbing way, Kate Bush.

(*) Fact. Although they do seem to spend their days locked in glass boxes.
(**) As opposed to the fat overpaid Yorkshire git.
(***) County name omitted to preserve anonymity
(****) Whatever happened to them?

An evening out!

2007-10-28T18:36:00.000Z

Off to the wilds of nowhere on Saturday night to watch a friend perform in "Alice" by this lot. Great fun, except firstly it was held in a little village hall, where we felt we were sometimes stared at as much as the performers. "Who are those lot?" "Outsiders." There was a sports field outside, with the start of a bonfire being built. Or was it a wicker man...
The other slight dampener was being hauled up on stage by aforementioned friend (*), and ritually humiliated. I was asked "Do you think I'm beautiful?" Now admittedly she was behind a mask, but I didn't want to hurt her feelings by saying "no", and if I said "yes" (**) I'd be in such trouble from wifey...
A dash off after the performance to take a quick meal and a pint here. Some evenings are just fab.

(*) Potentially ex-friend
(**) She is quite cute,when out of scary costume. Didn't help my ability to answer promptly.

What to do for Christmas?

2007-10-21T17:22:00.000+01:00

Wifey and I got married on Christmas Eve in the early nineteen-nineties. This meant that we could invite lots of people, secure in the knowledge that the dropout rate would be high. It also means we have an excuse for eating out on Christmas Eve, staying at a hotel and, if we play our cards right, Christmas Day as well, thus avoiding my in-laws turkey torturing antics.
Of late, though, there's been a worrying trend for place to do "Christmas Breaks", where all you can get are two or three night trips. We don't want two or three nights. We just want to stay over on Christmas Eve. Is that so hard?
Apparently, yes.

Eighties Concept Album With Bending

2007-10-13T21:38:00.000+01:00

Out into Brum to the NIA, and a bum numbing evening watching this lot. Sort of like an eighties concept album, with extra bending and gymnastics. In fact, if I had to pick an album, it would be this one; Francis Monkman's "Dweller on the Threshold." If I can find a link to something quite so obscure. Anyway, all bendy bodies, spangly costumes, loud music, and pretty pretentious Canadians! Still, all good fun, and got us out of the house on a Friday night!

Return from Eden...

2007-10-03T20:06:00.000+01:00

Well, back from a few days off. Travel South for an infeasibly long spell of time in an increasing amount of slow moving traffic, then stop before you start getting wet, and you end up in a mystical land of fish, beer and personality cults. We spent a wonderful day at the base of the followers of the Smit, otherwise known as the Eden Project, which was fun, but expensive.
Other items on our whirlwind weekend included the Tamar Otter Sanctuary, St. Austell Brewery, and the delights of the weird and deeply strange collection of assorted junk that is the Shipwreck Museum at Charlestown. And we can heartily recommend the Rashleigh Arms at Charlestown for food. Mention our name, and they'll say "Who?"

Back to Brum, and if you want to see how big wifey's paws are, see her palm prints, and those of many others, on the "contributory art work" for BabyLoss at the Mailbox in Birmingham. One of many. If you're a club member, add your own.

Heathrow Airport - Putting the 'Blight' in 'Blighty'

2007-09-23T16:01:00.000+01:00

Back in the UK, after an eventful trip to Beijing, Shanghai, Beijing again, and back to Shanghai. Having described how I was bounced off a BA flight out, my onward travel was rendered even more entertaining by BA unconfirming all my onward flights, then refusing to admit there was a problem and Idid, in fact, need to reconfirm. Nice one! We had a few issues with storms delaying one of the Shanghai-Beijing-Shanghai hops, but in the end all pain was transitory, and I'm back in the arms of my beloved.
We arrived early in Heathrow, after a 12 hour flight sat in economy. (I'm a very ascetic business traveller. Two colleagues sat up in Business and First - one having been upgraded; I can never justify the extra expense, as it leaves the budget available for me or my team to go to European events that much less.) Then came the announcement that our bags would take a further hour to trundle past us, delayed by a resource shortage. Presumably the airport was taken by surprise as these aluminium tubes kept landing and disgorging all these people wanting something done. Sort of if someone set up a festival in your country estate without telling you. The baggage hall itself had clumps of unclaimed, and delayed, luggage piled in every corner. What a hole.
For comparison, Beijing airport was a building site, and completely unable to cope with non-Chinese speaking passengers. There is still a lot of work to do on the dealing with foreigners front before the Olympics. Mind you, Korea managed it. Could be an interesting 2008!
Heathrow, in contrast, is an equal opportunities airport, and is just unable to cope with anyone.

Night in Shanghai

2007-09-18T01:56:00.000+01:00

One of the problems with coming to China after having lived in Japan for many years is I tend to fall into the trap of somehow believing there are similarities in how one should act. This was brought home to me after having waited more or less patiently for my ticket between Beijing and Shanghai to be accepted, with no action being taken. I realised that the Chinese around me limited their interaction with the counter staff to yelling, screaming and, once or twice, angry banging on the counter. I followed suit, and was quickly checked in; a sort of reward for bad behaviour. The trip has been eventful from start to finish. I took another trip to Beijing and back, the return leg to Shanghai going as "smoothly" as the first time; heavy rains caused all the aircraft to run for cover, and the resulting chaos as the flight schedule tried to get back on track meant a packed airport, and the ground staff under seige. Still, I'm now again in Shanghai, with only four nights to go before I head back to my beloved wifey, assuming that the forecast typhoon passes quickly! It's been very much a work trip, with little opportunity to see any of either Beijing or Shanghai. A real shame, as what I have seen of Shanghai has been impressive. I did have a few hours to shop, passing up the opportunity to buy cheap fakes of things that were Western, instead buying original cheap Eastern things, and enjoying the experience of haggling very badly. Just to show I really am where I say I am, I have tried to post a few photos - no guarantees with the Chinese firewall!

Saving the planet by being shit.

2007-09-12T19:00:00.000+01:00

In heathrow, waiting for a flight to beijing. Not the flight i was booked on, mind you. Far too easy for those useless f*ckwits at Ba. Apparently "confirmed" means "we don't know, and don't really care." they offered me business class on flights arriving too late for meetings i'm flying out for, without seeming to understand the concept of actually having to be somewhere for something. So i'm going china airlines, and will go straight into a meeting from the flight, but i will have preserved the guanxi, albeit at the expense of my personal hygiene!
This experience, coupled with the squalour and grubbiness of terminal 3 have convinced me that Ba and baa have been infiltrated by anti-flight crusties, who are on a mission to dissuade us from flying by making the whole experience as awful as possible. i'll have a beer and a bucket of air rage please.
Oh the glamour and wonder of international travel.
p.s. Miss you wifey - we could have moaned together!

And the bride wore heelies...

2007-09-09T22:25:00.001+01:00

Yes, she really did.

And we were there. Sadly, she didn't trundle down
the aisle on them, which was a shame.

Ho Hum - Life Goes On

2007-08-28T12:25:00.000+01:00

Life isn't all about reproduction, or failure to do so.

Bizarrely, outside of that, things are still happening. We actually had
a bit of a fab evening at a performance of "Cats" at the Birmingham Hippodrome. For those of you not familiar with the musical in question, created by Andrew Lloyd-Webber (*), this involves a whole heap of boys
and girls dressing up like Chiana from Farscape (**) and singing and
dancing, much like Chiana would, in fact, sing and dance, had that
aspect of her character been fully explored. (***) My main concern was
seeing whether one could buy one's wife a "Cat" suit, for those quiet
recreational evenings at home. (****) A search on the web revealed that,
bizarrely, there is a whole "dress up as Cats dancers" subculture thing.
I shelved that idea, and was left feeling faintly dirty.

We visited a christening on one Saturday. Of the child of a friend, I
hasten to add - we weren't just hanging out round churches or anything.
Listening to the words of the service did cause the hairs on the back of
my neck to stand up; I've never realised just how creepy the Christian
faith can be. Lots of stuff about just who the child belongs to. We were
ready for the emergency stop during the Lord's Prayer, and thus avoided
lots of staring. (*****)

And much against my better judgement we went to Wellesbourne Market.
Largest open air market in Europe, and, in my opinion, an ideal target
for practice bombing runs. Lots of tat, and dodgy items. The key place
to go for your BB guns, hunting crossbows, machetes, meat, perfumes; in
short, if it fell off the back of a lorry, or in some cases, under a
lorry, and can be sold by fat, shouty men - or bought by fat, shouty
women, you can buy it at Wellesbourne market. To rub salt in the wound I
had a pram rammed into my ankles by a heavily pregnant, heavily smoking
girl, out with her current baby, and her own mother - all peroxide and
sour expression, then had a mouthful of invective for not getting out of
her "f**king" way quick enough, despite the crowd on all sides. At that
stage my natural liberal tendencies morphed into an earnest wish for a
more sympathetic reappraisal of eugenics. (******)

I'm off to China again on business in September - a couple of days back
in Beijing, then Shanghai for a week. Wifey is not happy at my omitting
one vital thing from my suitcase. Suit - check. Phrasebook - check.
Laptop - check. Oh, I appear to have forgotten my beloved spouse. Oh
well, never mind, eh.

(*) Most fish-faced impresario in the UK
(**) Links and photos pending
(***) Farscape the musical. With your help, we can make it happen.
(****) Women dressed as cats are hot. Fact. Unless they take things too
far, and start doing that flea scratching thing.
(*****) Sectarian differences. Look it up!
(******) Sadly, life just isn't "fair"

It's Been Quiet

2007-08-18T13:59:00.000+01:00

Sorry it's been quiet. We've been renewing our membership. Bugger.

As the Ark Lies Grounded, and we Try to Lure the Animals Off

2007-08-04T16:56:00.000+01:00

So the flood waters are gradually receding, leaving life to slowly return to something approaching normality, albeit a normality where everything is covered in a fine layer of shit. Luckily Chez Stef escaped the worst of the deluge, and I have no flood stories to relate, other than having a bit of a long trip home one day. Hardly the stuff of legend. The worst effect has been the curtailment of my rowing, as the river has been fit for nothing but white water rafting, and I've spent the extra time doing additional yoga lessons. In vain have I struggled to learn exactly what a berflappy bowassy dassana is; they all sound like orders at the local takeaway to me. The poses have definitely not been designed with your average 42 year old bloke in mind, and the air is heavy with the sound of bones clicking as I try to contort my body into the unnatural and vaguely disturbing positions that the alarmingly cheerful teacher insists we should be doing, all the while hissing like a broken steam engine, and gushing sweat from every pore onto an increasingly fetid and far too thin sports centre yoga mat. What makes matters worse is I am, apparently not allowed to breathe through my mouth. Probably because that's far too easy. Never mind that every sport I've ever done has relied upon maximum intake of oxygen; I have to snort and snuffle through my nasal passages, while my body goes into oxygen debt, and I attempt to challenge myself by touching my toes, while the lithe and wirey, and far, far too young, people surrounding me wrap both their legs around their head, and use one of their toes to casually pick their nose and another to scratch their ear, all the while supported on one hand, like some demented Soviet era gymnast.

So it was with some relief I finally took to the water this week, and ploughed up and down, snorting like a steam engine, gushing sweat from every pore, and leaving my hands a red, raw and bloody mess. It doesn't matter what exercise you do; it's just got to hurt.

I have also found through circuitous route, a few contenders for inappropriate objects of unrequited lust, from that most wonderful of sources; side bar pictures on corporate websites.

Above is the second place, who smiles cheekily out while reinforcing the wonders of the Intellipuff. No, that's not Stephen Fry. It's... no, I'll let you work it out! The next is some young lady who's tremendously excited by the piece of modern engineering she holds in her hand. But what is it? Yes, of course - it's an optical spectrometer! Er, guys - that wasn't my first thought. And the winner, by a short head, I've picked because of the eyes, the books suggesting an intellect, the hint of sporty attire, the cheeky half smile. As if she knows what a bit of bizzarity is going to be printed by her picture. Yes, it's the posture girl. Lovely.

Wait - can we have that a little larger, without the weird phrases?

Why, of course! Lovely.

I Never Quite Realised...

2007-07-28T18:27:00.000+01:00

Just how many potatoes you get from planting a bag or 3 of seed potatoes. Pity they're a bit of a slimy mess at the moment.

On With the Water Wings

2007-07-21T07:51:00.000+01:00

Home to the arms of the beloved wife, and the fussing of the befurred cats, after an interesting week of courses and workshops from people like this. Actually pretty good, if you ever get the chance, and manage to approach things with an open mind. During the five hour drive back I had plenty of time to reflect on what I had learnt about mental toughness! Things got a bit fraught when I tried to be clever and avoid the motorway by going through Evesham, unaware that it was in the process of becoming the Midlands Boating Lake. Still, made it eventually after giving in, making for the motorway, and accepting a bit of a wait. The moral of the story is? Do not live in the UK because the weather is rubbish.

Words You Don't Want Your Dentist to Use Halfway Through Repairing a Split Filling

2007-07-15T09:33:00.000+01:00

"Oh dear. That doesn't look very good at all. Sally {dental nurse}, could you just get that textbook off the shelf please..."

It's All About the Poetry

2007-07-15T08:52:00.000+01:00

The vast majority of visitors to this blog are drawn here by the fact that once, many moons ago, I reproduced a popular wedding poem in its entirety. I'm glad to have done my bit, but feel, somehow, slightly cheated. I'm a substitute for a book of Louis Cuddon poetry.
I suspect the visitor asking the question "Is it wrong to fancy Sue Barker"(*) was somewhat less satisfied, as was the person looking for the apostrophe appreciation group (although I admire the sentiment).
And for the few who've cropped up recently doing searches for "what to tell people about a miscarriage" or similar, may I point you to the Miscarriage Association. Their pdf documents on all sorts of aspect of what to say, and explanations of feelings (physical and mental) are insightful and of as much comfort as anything can be.
It was with some trepidation I headed back to my old university recently for a 20 year reunion. Plus points; I'm not the fattest, baldest or greyest of my contemporaries. Minus points; I seemed to spend a lot of my time talking to people I wasn't expecting to talk to, and didn't spend enough time talking to those I wanted to talk to. Sort of like the first day at college, really. I did get to stay in a college room again, which was weird. Especially with all the new health and safety notices, which glowed in the dark making it look like one of those kid's bedrooms with the stars stuck everywhere. One bizarre thing; my college was always thought to be out of town, but the town, and the university itself, seems to have grown out to meet it. They now get applicants picking it because their lectures will be nearby. The attraction of laziness. My memory for some things isn't as bad as I thought; I recognised most people. I gave an effusive greeting to one lady (I nearly said girl) who seemed almost upset to see me. As I walked away, I remembered the last time we saw each other. Whoops. Memory not quite 100% after all.
Wifey and I headed off to Henley for the Friday, and had a spiffing time. In retrospect the wellies weren't strictly necessary. I'd have loved it to be muddier so we didn't feel quite so inappropriately agricultural. Again, the opportunity to meet up with faces from the past, most of whom gave plausible reasons (usually child shaped) for why they no longer rowed. We watched some excellent racing, as I pretended I was that good once (I wasn't), and I queued for a long time at the real ale tent for a half of bitter (I was driving) as two old duffers in front of me bought twenty pints in individual half pints.
In other news, I had a one day course in Chinese language and culture. This means I can now say hello in standard Mandarin. And introduce myself. And ask how someone is (but only understand the answer if they say "Fine, and you?" - and say it slowly.) And, well, that's about it.
Off to another week long training session today, much to wifey's chagrin. We may slot in a little evening get together, where I can sneak away one evening and remind myself what she looks like. (**)

(*) Inappropriate, but not "wrong."
(**) Like Lisa Rogers, only smarter.

Sometimes I'm Such a Cliche

2007-07-06T07:17:00.001+01:00

The other day I was late back from an ashtanga yoga class because I was showing someone pictures of our cats on my mobile phone...

Any Porto in a Storm

2007-06-30T13:58:00.001+01:00

So as storms raged over dear old Blighty, we headed off for sunnier climes, and the wedding of a cousin of beloved wifey, who got hitched to a gentleman working in the port trade, in our favourite Portugese city. Mind you, the only other city in Portugal we've been to seemed to have a curious ritual of constant combat in order to retain your own valuables. I think by the time I'd battered a pickpocket in order to repossess wifey's wallet we'd pretty much had enough of Lisbon.

Anyway, we had a lovely time, arriving at the festival on San Joao, which seemed to involve me getting bonked on the head by plastic squeaky hammers wielded by drunken young women. Not to mention the locals filling paper balloons with firelighters, and setting them off into the night sky. Tradition dictates the burning down of at least six houses on the eve of the festival, apparently.
As can be imagined, the wedding itself was lavish in terms of both food and drink. Especially drink. Especially drink. One of the highlights for me was the provision of a band, who were from the local university engineering club. Yes, really- engineers. Being musical. And actually, fairly cool. Yes, I know the photo doesn't look it, but even wifey thought so, and she usually discriminates against engineers. The academic dress they wore was stricter, and even more ludicrous, than the one I used to wear, although musical instruments aren't compulsory. I was jealous and in awe. One of them even played tambourines with his feet, in some bizarre kung fu style dance. I'm seized by this mad thought that if I learned to play the mandolin, I would somehow become cool.

We also saw the race of the port boats, following them from start to finish. The Taylors crew, manned entirely by women (womenned?) rammed another soon after the off, and finished last. I can't speak Portugese, but I gather many of the comments from the bank involved the term "women drivers". Warre won, but second place was close.

So all in all, a fab time, and a good break from the soggy swamp that the UK seems to have become. But there was one major problem; wifey committed a major fashion faux pas. I'm so ashamed.

We returned to discover David Tennant being acted, sorry, acted, off the screen by John Simm in the luvvie fest that Doctor Who has become. Fab!

I also now a have a major manners conundrum for the modern age. We recently went to Edinburgh, and did actually consider contacting a fellow blogger about meeting up. In the end we thought it would make us look weird and stalker-ish. Were we wrong? Is this now accepted behaviour? We may get back to Edinburgh some day...

Life is One Long Random Walk

2007-05-27T17:38:00.000+01:00

When losing rowing races against schoolboys, try to slip into the congratulatory conversation that you will never, ever have to do an exam again.
They're discussing removing exams for children younger than 16. No! You can't do that. Removed of stress and fear, these youngsters could end up taking over the world. What do you mean, "that's the point"?
We took a trip to Edinburgh; on a Saturday evening the streets appear to be thronged with hen parties, dressed in fake wings, or decked out with 'L' plates. If only I could have snapped two groups crossing past at traffic lights, colliding, fighting. The winners take BOTH grooms.
Another weekend trip, to the wilds of the Brecon Beacons, nestled in the countryside. I never realised before just how angry sheep can sound. So, so frightening.
I have this vision; a pram bounces down a set of steps. The camera zooms in. An iconic white haired face beams out from within the pram. It's Albert Eisenstein.
Other than this, I have really nothing to say at the moment!

So Much For History...

2007-05-27T17:13:00.000+01:00

Quick, quick; what is Nuremburg in Germany world famous for?

Pre World War II Nazi party rallies? No, no, no - wrong diddly wrong wrong.

Post World War II trials of high ranking Nazi party officials? Nul points.

The correct answer, according to the signs as you leave Nuremberg airport, and head for the enormous exhibition centre that is modern Nuremberg's major feature, is ... the International Toy Fair.

I have a vision, of serried ranks of fresh faced children, clutching their Barbies, Buzz Lightyears and other assorted playthings, staring up wide-eyed at the Chief Toymaker, as the Teletubbies and Fimbles sing "The Future Belongs to Us" in the background.

Fantastic.

The Wrong Way to Play with a Cuddly Toy...

2007-05-19T12:57:00.000+01:00

Somewhere deep in a Russian laboratory, Svetlana prepares the bunny...
I may be paying these people to do some work for me soon. I am that evil criminal mastermind after all!

Yawn...

2007-05-05T14:35:00.000+01:00

She's blonde, easy on the eye, and co-presents a geeky engineering programme. Look, inappropriate objects of unrequited lust don't have to be a surprise. So she's got a degree in drama rather than a proper subject. I'll forgive Lisa Rogers that.

Management Courses

2007-04-22T17:24:00.000+01:00

I usually have mixed feelings about management courses. I tend to make judgements on how much use they are very quickly, and that somewhat colours my opinion and, if I'm honest, probably limits how much I could learn from them.
The company I work for has undergone a sea change in its attitude towards training over the past two years, and in the 15 months since I joined I've had the bejasus trained into (or out of) me. I've just emerged from the latest batch; a one week course down in Henley, with 13 other senior staff members; a mix of theory and practical application, ranging from the immediately applicable (presentation skills) to the somewhat surprising ("From values to value; what is important to you?") What is astonishing is that this is the first of three weeks we'll be spending together, and this is just one of six groups. The third week of each group is held outside of the UK. The group itself had staff from all over the world. The sheer scale of investment is huge. And was it worth it?
At this point I have to pinch myself before answering. Yes, it was. My company is making a whole lot of promises about how it wants to be run in the future. Yes, profit is important, but we don't want it to be what we regard as our purpose, or the only thing that dictates how we run our business. We want to praise staff for doing a good job, and we want you to do this too. We want people to be coached to their full potential. At one point someone pointed out that our reporting sheets don't report this "soft stuff" - just sales and profits. At the end we were told our task as a group would be to come up with an approach for KPIs for values and ethics. I am, frankly, gob-smacked. Are they really serious? I look at how much they're spending, and they must be. I suppose it's up to us to hold them to this promise.
I don't usually gush about employers. My last was, frankly, shocking. But I guess I have to give credit where it's due.

Bizarrely, since they started doing this, what had been a static picture of has changed into one of increasing growth. How did that happen?

Just one flavour of the sort of thing that we were put through. Try it yourself (and don't cheat by skipping the order):

1. Get five little pieces of paper, and draw a picture on each of the five things that are most important to you. It can be animate, inanimate, symbolic or literal, but you should have five things that you can look at and think "that's important to me."
2. Think about them. Check. Are they really the five most important things? If not, swap them for the ones that are. Make sure you have the five most important things.
3. Pick the three most important things from those five, and put them in order of importance.
4. Think about them. Check. Are they really the three most important things, and are they in the right order? If not, switch them over, and re-order them.
5. Pick up your third most important. Look at it. What does it mean to you? Why is it important to you?

6. Screw it up and throw it away. How did that feel?
7. Pick up your second most important. Look at it. What does it mean to you? Why is it important to you? Then, guess what, screw it up and throw it away! How did that feel?
8. Pick up your most important thing. Look at it. What does it mean to you? Why is it important to you? If someone was to ask you to screw it up and throw it away, how would you feel?

Moral? Well, the odds are that "most important" picture wasn't of your office! There's more to life than work, yet employers act as if it is, or should be, people's most important thing. Why?

Getting Over Things - Thanks to a Good Fight!

2007-04-11T21:21:00.000+01:00

Well, Tescos have given in, thanks to wifey's blistering missives, threatening legal action and corporate doom. This has caused some sadness, as wifey was looked forward to the distraction that would be caused by a full on scrap with Britain's biggest supermarket chain.
Luckily we have received a letter telling us that our complaint against the local health authority is now being investigated. So we'll get the added benefit of knowing that, hopefully, women having miscarriages may be slightly better treated by the medical profession in our neck of the woods at least. I think that's the key - trying to make something, in some way, for someone, a little better out of this.

A Miscarriage of Justice

2007-04-08T11:57:00.000+01:00

Well, it's not been an easy few weeks. I guess we'd started to take things for granted, as we coasted toward the 12 week mark, with wifey swelling gently, and coping well with all the little things that nature throws at pregnant women. We'd booked the 12 week scan, and the tour of relatives to break the glad news.
Then nature decided otherwise, and we ended up having to tell our relatives and friends a somewhat different story. It's been rough. Here's what hasn't helped:

Doctors! If it's so frigging common, why are you so bad at dealing with it?
Why couldn't you look us in the eye and tell us what was happening?
Why did you put my wife on a trolley, and leave her there for 4 hours, and then just move her to a general ward, still without any medical attention?
Why did you prioritize "emergencies" in front of us, and tell us you'd done so? Did you think we went to A&E, with her bleeding and in obvious pain, at 3:30 in the morning because we just like the ambience of hospitals? How do you think that made us feel? That we, and our baby, weren't important, perhaps?
When someone finally examined her at 10am, why did you build our hopes up, when it was pretty obvious what had happened?
When she was finally scanned at noon, why did you make us wait in the corridor, sat in a wheelchair, her dressed only in a hospital shift, with walk in scans all around us, my wife sobbing and in pain, as an amusement for the general population?
Why don't you teach sonographers how to deal with telling people bad news?
Why was she put back on a general ward, still sobbing her heart out, amongst broken wrists and twisted ankles? Do you think privacy curtains are soundproof?
Consultants; do you think standing at the end of the bed, with your two spear carriers, helps foster a good atmosphere? (I chucked out the minions, and forced the woman to sit on the bed. She wasn't happy.)

There are so many other problems and complaints we have about how a tragic situation was made into a nightmare. At the urging of the wonderful Miscarriage Association, we've submitted them to the local health authority. The experience itself was bad enough, without medical professionals making it worse. Hopefully we can improve things for others.

Here's what's helped:

The Miscarriage Association. They've been wonderful.
Friends. It's been surprising how many people, who we've known for years, have said "We know exactly how you feel." Yet why should it be such a secret. It's a huge percentage of pregnancies that end in a miscarriage. Why should shame seem to be attached to it? I started out using the general "illness" as a description. Now I tell people. There shouldn't be a need to keep it secret. If it wasn't, perhaps it could be better dealt with.
Each other.

I suppose we weren't quite sure whether we wanted a child until wifey waved the indicator at me and said "There's something you ought to see." Now we know for sure.
Meanwhile we just have to avoid daytime television, and the endless string of nincompoops who seem to have absolutely no problem in falling pregnant and bringing a baby to term, despite difficulties in wiping their nose or voicing a consonant. Sigh. Now that's a miscarriage of justice. Still, no-one ever said life had to be fair.

Join the Club...

2007-03-21T19:45:00.000Z

I'd hoped to write about China. About the adverts for the "Roewe 750", which looked remarkably like the old Rover 75. About the duck I ate, and its certificate. About the Forbidden City, and the people who were there. About the Temple of Heaven. About my job, and what I did afterwards.

Instead, I'm going to write about a club. It's a secret club, that no-one wants to join, and you only find out who else is in it when you become a member. The requirement is misery, pain, a vague sense of guilt, and an enormous sense of loss. It's not the "I've been burgled" club. We've joined that one already. No, this one is far more secretive, as for some reason it almost seems to involves a sense of shame. We joined it last Thursday, and in the process learnt far more about what is left of the UK National Health Service than we ever wanted to know, as well as finding a strength in each other we're glad is there.

It's called the Miscarriage Club.

Look, you're only one day late...

2007-03-07T12:47:00.001Z

At last, Beijing!

Movies watched on the plane: Deja Vu (familiar plot
line), Casino Royale (preferred the David Niven
version)

Temperature: cold, and very, very dry (a bit like
David Niven?)

Work: every time I ask awkward questions they take me
out and feed me. I can feel my waistline expanding.

At last google pull their finger out...

2007-03-05T21:29:00.000Z

And the gnomes at Google (Motto; We're not evil, we just don't think moral concepts in such black and white terms are appropriate any more in a post 9/11 world) finally pull their finger out, allowing me to post while sat in an airport lounge at Dubai, waiting for a flight to Beijing. Here goes...

Greetings from Dubai. Not that I should be in Dubai, of course. I should be in Beijing. After all, I've been practicing the phrases: "Can you please ensure my meal contains no endangered species." As well as trying to recognise the inevitable response: "Is that on ethical grounds, or do you just not enjoy the taste?" (*)So what has happened? Did I take a wrong turn somewhere, or has serious dyslexia afflicted an entire airline. No. I made a simple mistake in my travel plans. I flew Emirates. This was compounded by a second grave error. I flew from Birmingham.

I first realised things were going wrong when I arrived at Birmingham airport my standard "way too early" and discovered a long, restless and non-moving queue at what should have been an almost empty checkin desk. It turns out a flight the previous day to Dubai, where I was due to change, had been the victims of a "Help, an engine has failed, we're all going to die. Wait let's get back to Birmingham instead" incident. Emirates had decided to "merge" this flight with ours; it sounds such a simple word, but when the process was carried out with such lack of common sense, it made life difficult. I will skip over the three hours waiting in the check-in queue, Birmingham airport's own, Emirates unrelated chaos, blithely assigned to the catchall excuse of "building work", the constant re-assurance from any Emirates staff that I would still make my connection, despite the blindingly obvious realisation I didn't have a hope, and fast forward to the long wait at Dubai airport at 3:30 am local time waiting for them to tell me what I already knew; there's one flight a day from Dubai to Beijing, and it had left pretty much as we had arrived.

So, I'm in a hotel run by Emirates close to the airport, where they charge for internet (I'm doing this off-line in protest, to be posted later) and pretty much everything else except a single three minute phone call (used to tell the people I was due to meet on arrival at Beijing that I wouldn't be there until the next day - I felt as though I should be calling a lawyer!). On talking to other guests here it's become apparent that this is pretty common for Emirates. In fact, I'd estimate fully half the guests are "enforced stays." They generally make use of the tour desk, and spend their brief stay taking the opportunity to see a little of Dubai. I'm refusing, as I've realised this is a plot to increase the income of the city; kidnapping travellers and forcing them to become tourists here. I did ask if there was anywhere to walk. "Oh no" said the man on the desk. "There's nothing here. You should take a tour. Trust in me...." At this point his eyes started to spin in spirals and his forked tongue twitched worryingly. I left at speed.

I'm also somewhat hampered by not having a case; I was advised to not collect it so it could be automatically loaded onto the flight. I now wish I hadn't agreed (the eyes, the tongue, "trussst in meee") but too late. So I'm in yesterday's clothes, and thick coat, designed for an evening in Beijing (round about -5 degrees C); not really able to contemplate an afternoon's sightseeing in 30+. I pity whoever sits next to me on tonight's flight, as I am a little ripe.

So, why was I going to Beijing? Work, I'm afraid. All in all, not an ideal time to leave, and for once I actually baulked and attempted to stall. Sadly to no avail. We're buying a Chinese company, and I'm on my way to carry out a technical assessment of their products, intellectual property and technical staff. Four hectic, packed days. Wait; now only THREE even more hectic and packed days. I admit it's causing me some apprehension. It all seems a long way from when I left University some twenty odd (very odd) years ago. Did I really think I'd be doing this. Well, looking back on it now, actually, yes. Except somehow in a much, much more glamorous way.

Yes, it's coming up to the twentieth anniversary of my graduation, and a reunion is looming. For some reason I'm almost desperate to go, and see my contemporaries again. How have they turned out? Perhaps it's partly to use them as a mirror and see how I've turned out.

I've mentioned that 2007 hasn't been a good year so far. I think that's not quite true. 2007 has been a challenging, difficult and frightening year. That doesn't mean that what has happened so far, and what could be happening later in the year, isn't good. It means that things have consequences, which could be good, and demand decisions which may not be easy to take.

On a lighter note, I will grudgingly admit that the Emirates airline food was good, and the in-flight entertainment top notch. I caught up on movies which I don't think wifey would like to see, but which filled in gaps in my "would like to watch" list. So I watched X-men III (trash eye-candy), The Incredibles (whoo-hooo! Loved it. Elastogirl very nearly made it to my "Inappropriate Object of Unrequited Lust" list) and the sadly under-rated, but very arch and knowing "Flushed Away". Best film of my flight, and I very nearly watched it again on fast forward to try and pick out more of the references to other movies. Anyone else pick out the "Trainspotting" hommage, or the nod to "The African Queen"? And the female rat heroine, Rita, will definately be on my "Inappropriate Object of Unrequited Lust" list. Just as soon as I can find an image of her. But so, so English. Not surprising at all it didn't do well in the US, and lost Ardman their movie deal.

None of which should take away from the fact that at the moment I miss wifey very much, for many reasons. Somehow even more than usual.

(*) I hereby acknowledge these as "wifey jokes" and as such, much wittier than mine.

So, how have YOU been?

2007-02-23T12:27:00.000Z

Another day off from work, burning through the holiday as the burglar alarm people create mayhem and destruction as they fix a really big bolt on our now empty stable. Still, it gave me a precious few extra moments in bed. Or at least, it would have, had wifey not demanded I go and make her coffee anyway. So I had zero extra bed time. Boo! Sadly, any argument I have now runs against her new argument ending trump card, and I'm doomed to lose. (*)

It's been a rough couple of weeks, as everything seems to be happening, both at work and in my personal life. What with trying to take Tesco's to the small claims court over their delivery drivers' wall wrecking policy, attempting to arrange a business trip to China soon after Chinese New Year, when those hard-working Chinese apparently all go mental, dissatisfied customers threatening legal action, and generally cope with the unremitting barrage of stuff that 2007 has decided to throw at us, Valentine's Day nearly didn't happen this year. For one reason and another it's always been a very special occasion for me and wifey; this year's was quieter - no meals out, no fine wine, but the present (sort of a grab bag of just about every scented bath product Lush make) seemed to go down well, and hers to me (mixed half case of beers) is definitely going down well.

(*) Some other blog post at a later date. Involves her waving a ball point pen in my face and saying "you ought to take a look at this." Long story.

It had to happen

2007-02-11T15:35:00.000Z

Yesterday I drove back home through a small Midlands town, passing a store advertising its Valentine gift selection with ... a man dressed as a pink elephant. I'm not quite sure what the connection is; I know I've never thought of elephants as particularly romantic, but there you are.

I won't mention the weather, or the gridlock that hit the West Midlands courtesy of a bit of snow, and a transport department that was caught out by people going home and getting in the way of the gritters. (*) All of that is just far too dull. Not to mention that for those of us who were stuck in traffic for so long it raises a bit of a sore point.

Instead I'm going to talk about Dr. Alice Roberts. For those of you who don't know, she's one of the new wave of young academics; college lecturers so achingly hip, trendy and sought after, they even have their own agents. (**) Her current vehicle for this new brand of educated totty is "Don't Die Young", a jaunty trot through earnest exposition and slicing up of various organs. She's brainy, beautiful, and has bright hair. It had to happen. She's my new inappropriate object of unrequited lust. Am I allowed to ask for her showreel for my own use, or do I have to be making a television programme?

(*) Actual excuse. Fact.
(**) And I decided to go into industry rather than academia because I thought I had more chance of being rich and famous. Not to mention I wasn't smart enough. But mostly it was the rich and famous thing.

You Win. You Really Were Ill!

2007-02-02T12:42:00.000Z

So we were sat in the hospital on a Saturday afternoon. Actually, I'm sat. Wifey is on a gurney in a hospital shift covered in drug company logos (*), and has a pipe inlet the diameter of a central heating tube stuck in her arm. And I'm thinking "Bloody Hell! This year just gets better and better."

You see, when wifey complained of a poorly tummy on a Saturday afternoon I thought it would be a really good idea to call her bluff. "Fine," says I, "I'll take you to A&E." Now I'm expecting her to say "A&E? On a Saturday? With all the drunk people? No, no, no. I'll be fine." and top it off with a brave little smile. (**) Instead there's a quietly voiced "OK." and I start to realise that wifey could well be really ill. So we arrive at the local A&E, mercifully unbusy, and I drop her off while searching for somewhere to park. By the time I get in she's been through "triage" and is waiting for the doctor to call her through. Amazingly it all happens pretty quickly, and she gets whisked through. I wait. And wait. And wait. I start talking to the receptionist, who very quickly kicks me out of the reception area, virtually shoving me through the double doors and into the business area. I meander through the chaos, realising A&E behind the scenes wasn't as quiet as I thought. Eventually a harrassed nurse points me into the right cubicle, where I discover wifey looking wan and vulnerable in a light shift, and in undignified pose on an elevated gurney. Every so often a small, blonde Eastern European doctor flits in, fusses and flees. Short periods of intense activity are broken up with long spells of waiting around. We're told lurid tales of what it could be. Blood is taken. She's poked and prodded, then left to fester for another half an hour. Painkillers are promised, are lost in transit, then finally obtained. Water is refused, in case surgery is needed, then finally provided. Eventually we are told further tests are urgently needed. And booked for Monday and Tuesday. If it's urgent, why do we wait two days for the first of them? At last, after another wait for the tube to be taken out of her arm, we're allowed to leave. It's been four hours. The car parking costs £3.50.

In the end the tests show nothing serious, but more are needed. The car park costs mount up; "free at the point of use" omitted that little detail. It all goes to show; when wifey complains, take her seriously - she really could be ill.

Right now I'm sat in our front room, having taken a day off work to supervise two different groups of builders repairing and "upgrading" bits of our house after our unauthorised visitors kicked various shades of brown and smelly out of it. So inconsiderate, these burglar types. All has not gone well, with the guys doing the work not having been told clearly what they were expected to do, and much of what they were told running counter to what we were told. I'm of the opinion that 90% of everything in the world is utter pants. The trick is to pick out the right 10%. They're just complaining that our joists are in the way at the moment. They're not in the way - they're keeping up the roof!

And to top it all, "The Beautiful South" have split up. Bugger.

On the plus side (yes, there is one) I'm arranging to have a small group of 11~16 year olds visit work so we can inspire them with the practical application of science and engineering in the real world. Yay! I do think it's important. With all the emphasis of making money through becoming a "celebrity", one thing I feel pride in is earning my money through producing items that can actually save people's lives. How great is that?

(*) Sponsorship, just like those racing drivers.
(**) She's good at brave little smiles.

Oh Lordy. Can we have a New Year Please? This one is broken.

2007-01-21T10:44:00.000Z

Can I just mention that 2007 isn't working for me so far?

I have a slight confession to make. Anyone paying attention to this blog may know I've been in a new job for just over a year. (*) This has caused me to achieve one of my major ambitions; I'm now in a position of "responsibility." In fact, this means I am now most definitely responsible for a whole heap of things that aren't my fault. Product problems going back to 1997, disappointed customers, a lack of manual translations into Brazilian Portuguese, a general lack of va-va-voom from certain staff. Which are my fault? None of them. Which are my responsibility? Sadly, all of them. I guess that's why I get the big bucks, and have a Mercedes parked on the drive. Oh, wait. It's a Skoda. I guess someone else can deal with them after all.
Actually, there's another confession stemming from this. I really enjoy it all a lot of the time. The sensation of being on a knife edge seems to be generating a lot of fairly addictive stress responses, to the extent where if it's not a crisis in work I have to prod myself to do what I should be doing. Still, I have come across one possible job I might like more: this one. Lovely government sinecure on a six figure salary. Hmmm.

Things I'm not going to mention in this blog entry: Big Brother, the weather, the Home Office. All can join the huge pile of "2007 is sh*t" items that are stacking up so far.

Oh, and Tesco's insurer, AXA Commercial Services, are disputing the "delivery van knocking down our wall" episode. Bunch of c*nts. How do we know it was a Tesco's van? Before it arrived, intact wall. After it left, wall down, covered in blue paint. Argh!

And have you ever been hypnotised by a rubbish TV show, that has one thing about it you really like, then you find out some background detail that just makes you go a little bit "ergh"?

(*) That'll just be wifey then.

Thinking...

2007-01-11T17:51:00.000Z

Oh, what to blog about?
The regular 4:30 insulting telephone conference calls from an irate customer I'm participating in at work? The meeting today at Melton Mowbray, home of pies? Our Christmas spent eating, at places like this? The bendy yoga sessions, where the extra girth has been a bit of a hindrance? How much we enjoyed the Christmas television, especially "Spirited Away" and "Tonari no Totoro"?
No, I think I'll mention Tilda Swinton as the baddie in "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe." Blonde, brainy and bad to the bone. A thoroughly appropriate first inappropriate object of unrequited lust for 2007.

It's All Good

2006-12-20T11:52:00.000Z

Well, Mr. Door-Sticker-On is busy downstairs, and I've officially broken up for the holidays, so things are definitely looking up after our visitation from the Benetton gang. Our front hedge has been shorn back, leaving an exposed approach vista, the man has been round to measure us up for steel security grilles, and the automated machine guns will be arriving on Thursday. (*) So we're feeling a little better. There's nothing like having a sheet of plywood nailed over where a door should be to lower the spirits round Christmas time.
Arriving back yesterday from work I found wifey had been busy, and put up the decorations - that certainly helped as well. I guess we were pretty lucky, as little was taken, and we found out we've got wonderfully nosey neighbours, which is a good thing, since they heard the first kicks on the door, and called the police straight away. We've found out there was a spate of break-ins in the area last week, so we're guessing they were busy.
Wifey called our local crime prevention officer, and asked for a meeting. His first response was that he only met with people who'd had two or more break-ins. Wifey isn't the sort of person to take idiocy lightly, and pointed out the meaning of the word "prevention." He's coming round on Friday to pass on any further tips to turn our house into a fortress. Or as near as we can get it.
Whilst Mr. Door-Sticker-On has been doing his stuff I've been wrapping presents, including those I bought from Hamleys in fancy London village on my recent trip. Not quite as exotic as the Zurich Christmas markets, but a little different. I guess I'll have to get into Brum for their version instead this year.
The other thing we've been doing is dealing with insurers. The holiday insurance wins the award for prime scumbags so far. They told us we needed to provide a letter from the police saying that we were required at the house, and thus couldn't have gone on holiday. The nice lady on the police Public Services Desk was livid. "They shouldn't ask for that. It's against their own code of practice. Just give them the crime reference number, and if they need more details they should contact us. They know that." It turned out she was also part of the fellowship of the recently burgled. We passed this on to the insurers. "OK. That's fine." No apology, you'll notice. Basically, it's a fair cop. You still haven't given up trying to claim. Oh well, worth a try. Insurers - resolutely making dramas, crises and complete and total f*ck ups out of what should be mildly annoying events.

(*) Still strangely unavailable.