What is it with Wives and heating? I can’t speak for Wives everywhere but mine is a nightmare.
We get about four weeks a year where the heating is not mentioned. I can have the heating off without having to justify it. But after that four weeks it becomes a daily ritual of explaining the fact that I’m sat wearing a T shirt and so don’t need the heating on.
Jo is always cold. I’m sat in my T shirt next to her in a jumper and she is still moaning. The thing is though, she never just gets up and puts the heating on. What is all that about?
There seems to be an unwritten rule that the heating is the man’s job. I don’t know why this is, we both work to pay the bills. After a year of living in this house and a lifetime of living in houses with heating, Jo still asks EVERY TIME if the heating is on, can it be on, how do you put it on?
The other night in the middle of this current September heat wave, Jo sat huddled up complaining that she needed a blanket. Yet again I was asked about the heating. Why? Jo is perfectly capable of putting it on if she really needs it. I informed her of this and received a harsh Paddington stare for my efforts. I had crossed a line somewhere again. Telling a Wife to put the heating on for herself is a bit of a marital faux pas it seems. Once again I had to explain to her that you just had to turn the thermostat right up because it wasn’t cold enough for it to trigger itself ( a clue surely?). Yet again I had to tell her where the thermostat was (in the hall not hidden at all). It just did not need to be on so no, I wasn’t going to do it.
Jo got up and moaned all the way out the room and then all the way back again, and then sat down in a huff. The heating was on but she had somehow lost. Later on she took her jumper off and sad sat contented whilst I baked. I don’t think I’m ever really going to understand women.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Technology beats me again!
I’ve just spent the last 15 minutes fighting with technology. I’ve been trying to do something that a few years ago you would not have even imagined could be possible.
This morning on the train in to work I was reading the Metro and realised The Gadget Show is on tonight. Being mildly geeky I quite like the program and also the write up made tonight’s episode seem interesting. I decided to do something amazing. I would spend 2 minutes of my working day on the Sky website and set my SKY+ to record it remotely. In itself this ability to record a program on your home TV just by popping on the internet at work is outstanding.
I’ve said before that I love gadgets so my delight at being able to perform this magic trick should come as no surprise.
I’ve said that on the whole I’m fairly useless and I’m inept at using or picking gadgets and so my inability to achieve this simple task should also come as no surprise.
I completely forgot to bother and so here I am on the train home – knowing that I won’t get home until half way through the program slowly getting to the point of this post.
I remembered the 2nd amazing fact about SKY+ remote recording. You can set it to record by text. Amazing, you are out and about in the middle of nowhere but you can still set your TV to record! I have the number in my phonebook so I got to work.
There is, of course, a specific format for the texts. It’s important that you speak Bill Gates in order to understand the format and so I almost immediately faltered. I tried sending a text. Seconds later it returned letting me know how to send it again in a style that it believes an averagely intelligent member of society should understand. I re wrote the text and tried again.
When the reply came back having failed again, the message was slightly different. I’m sure it was in a slightly bigger font size. The letters slightly more spaced apart. The message was written in a maner designed to let somebody slightly dyslexic understand it. This time they explained a little more carefully what to do.
My third try was sent confidently knowing that I would be home soon able to sit back and enjoy the show.
The 3rd failed message was written in capitol letters and in a style that suggests it’s designed for people to have it read for them. I was not expected to be ale to read it myself. This time the word date was explained for me in case I didn’t know what it meant. I could see that time meant the time of day the show was expected to start. I could see that channel referred to the channel that the show might be on.
I was in despair – I was considered by SKY to be a 5 year old. The message went on to suggest that I should ask permission of whoever pays the bill before trying again. It also said that Postman Pat was on CBEEBIES if I was interested.
Most importantly of all the last line simply said “Or you could just simply type the name of the show and we will have a look in the paper for you ourselves and work it out!” Sorted – I replied “The Gadget Show” immediately.
It’s now been 30 minutes since I sent that and it’s now 10 minutes since my program started and SKY have not yet replied. I assume they have had to send someone out to the newsagents to get a TV Quick. I suppose I could have gone to plan B and phoned home, asking for it to be set for me but there are a couple of things wrong with that.
Firstly, it would have admitted defeat in the face of technology.
Secondly, My Mother in Law is babysitting at the moment and so I would have had to try and explain to her how to set the SKY+ to record which would take even longer and could easily result in any of my unwatched recordings being deleted.
Therefore I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I’m going to miss some of the program.
UPDATE:- It is half past 9 and the program finished ages ago. It did not record but I saw some of it. My phone has just received a message. SKY has noted that I want to record next weeks Gadget Show and has set it to do so. SKY has charged me 25p. I’ve just been charged 25p to record next week’s show 20 minutes after I was sat on my sofa setting the series link! I’m just so rubbish at gadgets.
This morning on the train in to work I was reading the Metro and realised The Gadget Show is on tonight. Being mildly geeky I quite like the program and also the write up made tonight’s episode seem interesting. I decided to do something amazing. I would spend 2 minutes of my working day on the Sky website and set my SKY+ to record it remotely. In itself this ability to record a program on your home TV just by popping on the internet at work is outstanding.
I’ve said before that I love gadgets so my delight at being able to perform this magic trick should come as no surprise.
I’ve said that on the whole I’m fairly useless and I’m inept at using or picking gadgets and so my inability to achieve this simple task should also come as no surprise.
I completely forgot to bother and so here I am on the train home – knowing that I won’t get home until half way through the program slowly getting to the point of this post.
I remembered the 2nd amazing fact about SKY+ remote recording. You can set it to record by text. Amazing, you are out and about in the middle of nowhere but you can still set your TV to record! I have the number in my phonebook so I got to work.
There is, of course, a specific format for the texts. It’s important that you speak Bill Gates in order to understand the format and so I almost immediately faltered. I tried sending a text. Seconds later it returned letting me know how to send it again in a style that it believes an averagely intelligent member of society should understand. I re wrote the text and tried again.
When the reply came back having failed again, the message was slightly different. I’m sure it was in a slightly bigger font size. The letters slightly more spaced apart. The message was written in a maner designed to let somebody slightly dyslexic understand it. This time they explained a little more carefully what to do.
My third try was sent confidently knowing that I would be home soon able to sit back and enjoy the show.
The 3rd failed message was written in capitol letters and in a style that suggests it’s designed for people to have it read for them. I was not expected to be ale to read it myself. This time the word date was explained for me in case I didn’t know what it meant. I could see that time meant the time of day the show was expected to start. I could see that channel referred to the channel that the show might be on.
I was in despair – I was considered by SKY to be a 5 year old. The message went on to suggest that I should ask permission of whoever pays the bill before trying again. It also said that Postman Pat was on CBEEBIES if I was interested.
Most importantly of all the last line simply said “Or you could just simply type the name of the show and we will have a look in the paper for you ourselves and work it out!” Sorted – I replied “The Gadget Show” immediately.
It’s now been 30 minutes since I sent that and it’s now 10 minutes since my program started and SKY have not yet replied. I assume they have had to send someone out to the newsagents to get a TV Quick. I suppose I could have gone to plan B and phoned home, asking for it to be set for me but there are a couple of things wrong with that.
Firstly, it would have admitted defeat in the face of technology.
Secondly, My Mother in Law is babysitting at the moment and so I would have had to try and explain to her how to set the SKY+ to record which would take even longer and could easily result in any of my unwatched recordings being deleted.
Therefore I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I’m going to miss some of the program.
UPDATE:- It is half past 9 and the program finished ages ago. It did not record but I saw some of it. My phone has just received a message. SKY has noted that I want to record next weeks Gadget Show and has set it to do so. SKY has charged me 25p. I’ve just been charged 25p to record next week’s show 20 minutes after I was sat on my sofa setting the series link! I’m just so rubbish at gadgets.
Monday, September 28, 2009
When Dads try the Scrumpy
Everyone can remember the first time they saw their Dad drunk. At least you can remember the first time you realised that your Dad was drunk.
I know that for some people this can be all too regular and horrible an experience and I do not wish to cause any offence. I’m blessed that I have no experience of alcohol related problems at home either from my youth or currently. I’m lucky.
For most people then the first time your Dad gets drunk is a bewildering bizarre moment in your life. This man is unrecognisable and fun, this is the Dad that you want – briefly.
We were on holiday in Burnham-on-Sea at the Holimarine caravan park. I think this might be a Haven park nowadays. I’m sure there had been occasions before this when my Dad had had a couple of scoops but this was the big one.
Dad had discovered the local Scrumpy. They served it in the club on site and he had picked up quite a taste for it. I don’t think he had realised how strong it was. The next thing we knew we were en-route back to the caravan with a man that I did not recognise.
Dad was whooping and cheering and laughing. I think my older brother must have been in the Sea Cadets by then or something because Dad got quite excited about marching. Out went his arms, swinging them straight back and forth like some deranged Russian soldier. “LEFT RIGHT LEFT” he chanted “LOOK AT ME IM A SAILOR” his voice echoed round the camp. My Brother was in hysterics; my Sister was mortified and had run off ahead in shame. My Mother who had clearly picked up a couple of glasses of Blue Nun herself was giggling too.
From my Mum and Brother’s clues I decided that all was OK. My initial concern and fear turning into delight as I joined in on the joke. By this point my Dad was singing quite loudly about being a Cider drinker. We got to the Caravan and bundled him inside where I think he went to sleep immediately on the settee or in his room.
The fun moment and noise were done and I was sorted out and in bed, heading off to sleep with fun images of my father marching and singing spinning in my head.
Suddenly the whole camp was awoken. It was maybe an hour later. The whole camp was to be treated to the sounds of Scrumpy coming back out again in a hurry. I was scared again, this was not good – why was Dad so ill? Again the look of sheer indifference on my Mum’s face helped ease my concern. The only thing she cared about was the noise rather than the illness, my Brother laughed – so I did.
The next day, both of my parents seemed to have picked up bad cases of ‘Wine Flu’ as I know it to be called now. Again I had to learn something new about how the fun activities of the night before had lead to some sore heads the next day.
I’ll never forget that experience; it’s a classic family moment.
I know that for some people this can be all too regular and horrible an experience and I do not wish to cause any offence. I’m blessed that I have no experience of alcohol related problems at home either from my youth or currently. I’m lucky.
For most people then the first time your Dad gets drunk is a bewildering bizarre moment in your life. This man is unrecognisable and fun, this is the Dad that you want – briefly.
We were on holiday in Burnham-on-Sea at the Holimarine caravan park. I think this might be a Haven park nowadays. I’m sure there had been occasions before this when my Dad had had a couple of scoops but this was the big one.
Dad had discovered the local Scrumpy. They served it in the club on site and he had picked up quite a taste for it. I don’t think he had realised how strong it was. The next thing we knew we were en-route back to the caravan with a man that I did not recognise.
Dad was whooping and cheering and laughing. I think my older brother must have been in the Sea Cadets by then or something because Dad got quite excited about marching. Out went his arms, swinging them straight back and forth like some deranged Russian soldier. “LEFT RIGHT LEFT” he chanted “LOOK AT ME IM A SAILOR” his voice echoed round the camp. My Brother was in hysterics; my Sister was mortified and had run off ahead in shame. My Mother who had clearly picked up a couple of glasses of Blue Nun herself was giggling too.
From my Mum and Brother’s clues I decided that all was OK. My initial concern and fear turning into delight as I joined in on the joke. By this point my Dad was singing quite loudly about being a Cider drinker. We got to the Caravan and bundled him inside where I think he went to sleep immediately on the settee or in his room.
The fun moment and noise were done and I was sorted out and in bed, heading off to sleep with fun images of my father marching and singing spinning in my head.
Suddenly the whole camp was awoken. It was maybe an hour later. The whole camp was to be treated to the sounds of Scrumpy coming back out again in a hurry. I was scared again, this was not good – why was Dad so ill? Again the look of sheer indifference on my Mum’s face helped ease my concern. The only thing she cared about was the noise rather than the illness, my Brother laughed – so I did.
The next day, both of my parents seemed to have picked up bad cases of ‘Wine Flu’ as I know it to be called now. Again I had to learn something new about how the fun activities of the night before had lead to some sore heads the next day.
I’ll never forget that experience; it’s a classic family moment.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Olga T'Impaler
Olga looked about her little wooden shack and wondered. She had been doing a lot of thinking lately, Olga was confused. Vlad, her Viking husband, was away killing something at the moment and had left her alone with the little ones to make some tea for a special occasion.
Mrs. Olga T’Impaler had travelled over to England the summer before after her Husband’s men had successfully taken Jorvik. She joined her husband now that he was settled. All had gone well and Olga had been quite happy cooking slabs of meat and washing the blood and mess from Vlad’s furs. Olga didn’t even mind the occasional scent of British perfume on his shirts – after all a bit of rape and pillage was a standard perk of his job.
Months later and still all was well, she had taken the boys ( Vlad Jnr and Olaf) to see all the good stuff in Jorvik, this had not taken long so then they had spent days exploring the countryside. The boys were getting good with their axes, however Olaf had started to worry her.
Kids acclimatise much quicker than adults do. Once they had come over to England Olaf had vey quickly begun adapting. Already he was refusing to eat her special Apple bake unless she made something called custard with it. When Olga had tried to encourage the boys to practice sword fighting Olaf had said that she hadn’t done a proper risk assessment and he had swapped the swords for foam ones and then made Vlad Jnr wear a helmet that covered his face. Olga was quite concerned about Olaf.
Then one day it happened; the event that would set Olga on a whole new journey. Something so shattering that her life would never be the same again. Whilst Olga and the boys were out and about on one of their treks, she found a book. Not just any book; the book. This was like nothing she had seen before. The book was bright and amazing, the pictures shone out at her. This book would revolutionise everything.
Olga was never meant to see it. The book was out of its time. A freak future accident in a laboratory in the basement of mad scientist Julie Oliver had resulted in the book being transported hundreds of years into the past. Now it was hidden under Olga T’Impala’s bed.
Olga opened the page and looked once more into the eyes of Nigella Lawson. Ever since she had first set eyes on this dark haired beauty that so clearly had control of a mighty empire to stand in such a kitchen, Olga had known that things must change.
Vlad had not said anything that first time he came home and looked at his plate; his slab of meat had something odd on it. A sprig of parsley sat on top of his meat for no good reason. There wasn’t enough parsley to actually make it a side dish so what was the point? Vlad tossed it aside and thought about it no further. The next night he noticed his soup had an odd flavour that reminded ho of France – he couldn’t put his finger on it.
Recently Olga had been getting brave. Herring with a coca-cola baste and skin on wedges had gone down a storm with everyone at the table asking for more. Her puddings were the talk of Jorvik and Vlad was forever bringing friends home on Sticky Toffee Pudding night.
It had come as no surprise when Vlad had suggested that the whole of the Jorvik Viking council team come to their shack for canapés and finger food at the next meeting. Even so Olga was worried. Prawn voulevonts are not easy to cook on an open fire and as for Mini Chicken Kievs? The chocolate fountain was looking good but the fire had simply not been hot enough for the soufflé and the gooey mess that had emerged would simply have to be written off. Olga wondered if she had covered everything. She knew that the council would have been happy with meat, Herring and ale but somehow this had not seemed right. Tonight was the night, this was going to change her life forever.
Olga changed into her hastily made silk dressing gown (it was actually hessian but she had drawn a Chinese Dragon on it to make it look silk) and stood looking as sultry as possible as the guests arrived.
The meeting was a triumph. Her voulevonts were acclaimed by all and Vlad went so far as to say that her Kievs were sent by the Gods. Olga became the talk of Jorvik and never looked back Vlad died of a heart attack at 36 after having just one too many spoons of Death by Chocolate. Olga’s dressing gown is still on display at the Jorvik Viking Centre tourist attraction in York.
Mrs. Olga T’Impaler had travelled over to England the summer before after her Husband’s men had successfully taken Jorvik. She joined her husband now that he was settled. All had gone well and Olga had been quite happy cooking slabs of meat and washing the blood and mess from Vlad’s furs. Olga didn’t even mind the occasional scent of British perfume on his shirts – after all a bit of rape and pillage was a standard perk of his job.
Months later and still all was well, she had taken the boys ( Vlad Jnr and Olaf) to see all the good stuff in Jorvik, this had not taken long so then they had spent days exploring the countryside. The boys were getting good with their axes, however Olaf had started to worry her.
Kids acclimatise much quicker than adults do. Once they had come over to England Olaf had vey quickly begun adapting. Already he was refusing to eat her special Apple bake unless she made something called custard with it. When Olga had tried to encourage the boys to practice sword fighting Olaf had said that she hadn’t done a proper risk assessment and he had swapped the swords for foam ones and then made Vlad Jnr wear a helmet that covered his face. Olga was quite concerned about Olaf.
Then one day it happened; the event that would set Olga on a whole new journey. Something so shattering that her life would never be the same again. Whilst Olga and the boys were out and about on one of their treks, she found a book. Not just any book; the book. This was like nothing she had seen before. The book was bright and amazing, the pictures shone out at her. This book would revolutionise everything.
Olga was never meant to see it. The book was out of its time. A freak future accident in a laboratory in the basement of mad scientist Julie Oliver had resulted in the book being transported hundreds of years into the past. Now it was hidden under Olga T’Impala’s bed.
Olga opened the page and looked once more into the eyes of Nigella Lawson. Ever since she had first set eyes on this dark haired beauty that so clearly had control of a mighty empire to stand in such a kitchen, Olga had known that things must change.
Vlad had not said anything that first time he came home and looked at his plate; his slab of meat had something odd on it. A sprig of parsley sat on top of his meat for no good reason. There wasn’t enough parsley to actually make it a side dish so what was the point? Vlad tossed it aside and thought about it no further. The next night he noticed his soup had an odd flavour that reminded ho of France – he couldn’t put his finger on it.
Recently Olga had been getting brave. Herring with a coca-cola baste and skin on wedges had gone down a storm with everyone at the table asking for more. Her puddings were the talk of Jorvik and Vlad was forever bringing friends home on Sticky Toffee Pudding night.
It had come as no surprise when Vlad had suggested that the whole of the Jorvik Viking council team come to their shack for canapés and finger food at the next meeting. Even so Olga was worried. Prawn voulevonts are not easy to cook on an open fire and as for Mini Chicken Kievs? The chocolate fountain was looking good but the fire had simply not been hot enough for the soufflé and the gooey mess that had emerged would simply have to be written off. Olga wondered if she had covered everything. She knew that the council would have been happy with meat, Herring and ale but somehow this had not seemed right. Tonight was the night, this was going to change her life forever.
Olga changed into her hastily made silk dressing gown (it was actually hessian but she had drawn a Chinese Dragon on it to make it look silk) and stood looking as sultry as possible as the guests arrived.
The meeting was a triumph. Her voulevonts were acclaimed by all and Vlad went so far as to say that her Kievs were sent by the Gods. Olga became the talk of Jorvik and never looked back Vlad died of a heart attack at 36 after having just one too many spoons of Death by Chocolate. Olga’s dressing gown is still on display at the Jorvik Viking Centre tourist attraction in York.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
working in the night
“Its ok it’s just the alarm I’ve snoozed it!” Were the first words I said this morning after being rudely awaken and then asked what the noise was by Jo? “It’s a different one, it plays a tune now” I continued, but my confidence was waning.
Something was wrong, I was absolutely sure I’d reprogrammed the alarm to play a tune but niggling doubts were starting to set in and Jo’s grunts of disbelief were shaking me. “It can’t be?” Jo moaned, “It’s no way morning – no way!” My head slowly started to work its way through the clouds of doubt. How could my alarm have played a tune? I don’t know how to reprogram an alarm to play tunes, do I?
Eventually I worked it out and a slow look at the alarm, repeated three times just in case I was wrong the first two times confirmed it. It was one o’clock in the morning and the tune had been from my mobile. I climbed out of my bed and made my way downstairs. A search of the lounge failed to locate the phone. The kitchen was no good. My coat pockets were empty. Back upstairs the bathroom shelf had no phones on it and the study was equally phone-less. Just then my phone rang again and so I rushed back into the bedroom to find it sat next to my alarm by the bed.
It was work wanting to know if I was ready; ready for what? The planned works that had been organised is what but now I was really confused. The works had been planned for one o’clock Tuesday night – Tuesday 22nd September. At last the penny dropped – one o’clock AM on Tuesday is actually Monday night – AGGHH!
I woke up immediately and started getting my laptop prepped; I knew we were not ready for the works because I’d foolishly expected it to be the following night. I had to wake someone else up who really did not find the alarm story amusing and get them to help.
The works went ahead only about an hour and a half late and were successful so all was well. But I owe Matt big style now and have had take much abuse from colleagues. It seems I am still rubbish – after all these years. Never mind I have resolved to get over it by learning to reprogram an ordinary beeping alarm to play tunes as I think I quite liked it!
Something was wrong, I was absolutely sure I’d reprogrammed the alarm to play a tune but niggling doubts were starting to set in and Jo’s grunts of disbelief were shaking me. “It can’t be?” Jo moaned, “It’s no way morning – no way!” My head slowly started to work its way through the clouds of doubt. How could my alarm have played a tune? I don’t know how to reprogram an alarm to play tunes, do I?
Eventually I worked it out and a slow look at the alarm, repeated three times just in case I was wrong the first two times confirmed it. It was one o’clock in the morning and the tune had been from my mobile. I climbed out of my bed and made my way downstairs. A search of the lounge failed to locate the phone. The kitchen was no good. My coat pockets were empty. Back upstairs the bathroom shelf had no phones on it and the study was equally phone-less. Just then my phone rang again and so I rushed back into the bedroom to find it sat next to my alarm by the bed.
It was work wanting to know if I was ready; ready for what? The planned works that had been organised is what but now I was really confused. The works had been planned for one o’clock Tuesday night – Tuesday 22nd September. At last the penny dropped – one o’clock AM on Tuesday is actually Monday night – AGGHH!
I woke up immediately and started getting my laptop prepped; I knew we were not ready for the works because I’d foolishly expected it to be the following night. I had to wake someone else up who really did not find the alarm story amusing and get them to help.
The works went ahead only about an hour and a half late and were successful so all was well. But I owe Matt big style now and have had take much abuse from colleagues. It seems I am still rubbish – after all these years. Never mind I have resolved to get over it by learning to reprogram an ordinary beeping alarm to play tunes as I think I quite liked it!
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Kids play games
Kids crack me up. I love it though at times the very spirit in them that I love absolutely drives me to despair as well.
My two boys are relatively standard kids. Both of them are capable of being absolutely fantastically good and lovely. Both of them are capable of being really very naughty. Everything is a game to my lads, and I think that’s one of the bits that I love. The innocent outlook on life that means every single thing that they do is a game, I can vaguely remember being like that and I miss it.
Often the game is ‘making Dad loose his temper’, or ‘getting my brother into trouble, or ‘who can make Mum shout the loudest’ but still they are games! Sibling rivalry is a game that takes up quite a shocking amount of their time. If they put as much effort into their careers when they start work as they do in trying to get the other one into trouble then I shall wind up a very proud Father!
The other day I could hear quite a lot of noise coming from their room. Jamie ( my youngest ) was making a din clearly very upset and then shouting in pain. I’ve learnt not to rush up straight away on these occasions because you get hit by UFO’s zooming across the room. Suddenly Daniel appeared looking upset. “Jamie has been hitting me!” He surprised me with his almost believable account. “ No reason he was just punching me!” I’m not the fastest thinker in the world but even I could see that this story wasn’t working too well. Not a lot of investigation later and I discovered that Daniel had been deliberately taunting and provoking Jamie until he had cracked and tried to attack his older Brother; Daniel could then ‘justifiably’ defend himself for a while before coming down and trying to score double points for getting Jamie in trouble as well. This style of Brotherly love is not new it has been going on for generations.
Everything is a game though. Ask them to tidy up and they will become robots that can only move sideways and pick things up to the sounds of hydraulics. They don’t just go on the swing for a bit – the swing is a rocket and has to have a full pre-launch checklist performed on it first before they will ’take off’ and swing. You can’t not love somebody that when you ask them to clear up the pile of Lego they had been playing with at bath time, takes 5 minutes to build a special Lego scoop so that he can pretend to be a crane putting the Lego into the box.
I do wish they would stop the making Dad lose his temper game because I always seem to lose. Even with that in mind though you can’t help but love them, even when they are at their worst and you are at your maddest. They are kids and that is what kids do – childhood is a game and they only get about 12 years to play it before things start getting real.
My two boys are relatively standard kids. Both of them are capable of being absolutely fantastically good and lovely. Both of them are capable of being really very naughty. Everything is a game to my lads, and I think that’s one of the bits that I love. The innocent outlook on life that means every single thing that they do is a game, I can vaguely remember being like that and I miss it.
Often the game is ‘making Dad loose his temper’, or ‘getting my brother into trouble, or ‘who can make Mum shout the loudest’ but still they are games! Sibling rivalry is a game that takes up quite a shocking amount of their time. If they put as much effort into their careers when they start work as they do in trying to get the other one into trouble then I shall wind up a very proud Father!
The other day I could hear quite a lot of noise coming from their room. Jamie ( my youngest ) was making a din clearly very upset and then shouting in pain. I’ve learnt not to rush up straight away on these occasions because you get hit by UFO’s zooming across the room. Suddenly Daniel appeared looking upset. “Jamie has been hitting me!” He surprised me with his almost believable account. “ No reason he was just punching me!” I’m not the fastest thinker in the world but even I could see that this story wasn’t working too well. Not a lot of investigation later and I discovered that Daniel had been deliberately taunting and provoking Jamie until he had cracked and tried to attack his older Brother; Daniel could then ‘justifiably’ defend himself for a while before coming down and trying to score double points for getting Jamie in trouble as well. This style of Brotherly love is not new it has been going on for generations.
Everything is a game though. Ask them to tidy up and they will become robots that can only move sideways and pick things up to the sounds of hydraulics. They don’t just go on the swing for a bit – the swing is a rocket and has to have a full pre-launch checklist performed on it first before they will ’take off’ and swing. You can’t not love somebody that when you ask them to clear up the pile of Lego they had been playing with at bath time, takes 5 minutes to build a special Lego scoop so that he can pretend to be a crane putting the Lego into the box.
I do wish they would stop the making Dad lose his temper game because I always seem to lose. Even with that in mind though you can’t help but love them, even when they are at their worst and you are at your maddest. They are kids and that is what kids do – childhood is a game and they only get about 12 years to play it before things start getting real.
Monday, September 21, 2009
The World's best milkshake
The perfect milkshake is extremely easy to make but you will need a blender of some description.
First get a large mixing jug
Next get pour in some milk, preferably whole but whatever you have.
Now put in three large table spoons of good quality Vanilla ice cream, if you want to be daring go for a white chocolate flavour or a banana flavour but I think Vanilla softens the flavour of the finished product nicely.
The next bit is by far the most important. Many chefs and nutritionists will now have you spending the next three days pulping the finest organic fair trade bananas you can buy at Waitrose – but no my friend I will not do that. Simply pour in about 4 spoons of Nesquik Milkshake powder. I may never be a celebrity chef but still I say that this is the dog’s bits and pieces in the milkshake world.
Blend it up pour in a glass and serve – preferably to yourself when they are at School.
The only possible alternative I can think of at the moment is a McDonalds Banana shake or for those of you that think that only Pikeys go to McDonalds then a Starbucks Strawberries and Cream Frappuccino should cover it though I’m not certain about the EU position on whether a Frappuccino is really a milkshake so maybe not.
Surely I’ve got that right though that Nesquik and McDonalds make the best milkshakes? Does any one know of a possible milkshake improvement? Let me know if there is anything finer from the shaken milk drink world!
First get a large mixing jug
Next get pour in some milk, preferably whole but whatever you have.
Now put in three large table spoons of good quality Vanilla ice cream, if you want to be daring go for a white chocolate flavour or a banana flavour but I think Vanilla softens the flavour of the finished product nicely.
The next bit is by far the most important. Many chefs and nutritionists will now have you spending the next three days pulping the finest organic fair trade bananas you can buy at Waitrose – but no my friend I will not do that. Simply pour in about 4 spoons of Nesquik Milkshake powder. I may never be a celebrity chef but still I say that this is the dog’s bits and pieces in the milkshake world.
Blend it up pour in a glass and serve – preferably to yourself when they are at School.
The only possible alternative I can think of at the moment is a McDonalds Banana shake or for those of you that think that only Pikeys go to McDonalds then a Starbucks Strawberries and Cream Frappuccino should cover it though I’m not certain about the EU position on whether a Frappuccino is really a milkshake so maybe not.
Surely I’ve got that right though that Nesquik and McDonalds make the best milkshakes? Does any one know of a possible milkshake improvement? Let me know if there is anything finer from the shaken milk drink world!
Saturday, September 19, 2009
buzz word English
Why would anyone want to drink Shampoo? I’m no expert on these matters but Shampoo is not a drink it is, well shampoo.
I’ve just been treated to one end of a telephone call. The brown suited & yellow tied man a few seats back, thinning but still well styled and blond hair has still not got used to the idea that the phone does the work of getting the call heard so he doesn’t have to shout. He has the look of someone that is not unused to the ‘power lunch’ or the occasional trip down Stringfellow’s with his clients. It was one of those calls, one of those conversations, one of those people!
“Yah, absolutely – a no brainer. We need to get it in the box and then we can run it by the SMT in the morning, No its absolutely brilliant – absolute blue sky! What? Yah we’ll get it past the SMT and hit them square in the eyes with it tomorrow. Totally in the bag, show it to them in the morning and open the Shampoo in the afternoon hya hya! Absolutely don’t rush it let’s get this one in the box, talk tomorrow and we’ll get that Shampoo open yah?”
I mean really – they come over here and take our jobs but don’t even bother to learn English!
I’ve just been treated to one end of a telephone call. The brown suited & yellow tied man a few seats back, thinning but still well styled and blond hair has still not got used to the idea that the phone does the work of getting the call heard so he doesn’t have to shout. He has the look of someone that is not unused to the ‘power lunch’ or the occasional trip down Stringfellow’s with his clients. It was one of those calls, one of those conversations, one of those people!
“Yah, absolutely – a no brainer. We need to get it in the box and then we can run it by the SMT in the morning, No its absolutely brilliant – absolute blue sky! What? Yah we’ll get it past the SMT and hit them square in the eyes with it tomorrow. Totally in the bag, show it to them in the morning and open the Shampoo in the afternoon hya hya! Absolutely don’t rush it let’s get this one in the box, talk tomorrow and we’ll get that Shampoo open yah?”
I mean really – they come over here and take our jobs but don’t even bother to learn English!
Friday, September 18, 2009
gadget envy
I have gadget envy. It’s not fair; I just don’t think its right. How can my wife have a better phone than me?
Let’s look at the facts.
I’m a man and therefore should have better gadgets than a woman.
I’m the one who likes gadgets – My Wife struggles to set the SKY+ to record and when she does manage it she still says that she has “Taped” something.
I’m a Bond fan – Jo is not.
I’m a Sci-Fi fan – Jo is not.
I work in the Telecoms industry.
I ‘m an engineer in the Telecoms industry.
I’m a Data type geeky engineer in the Telecoms industry!
How on Earth has Jo wound up with a better phone than me?
I’ve got a Nokia 6100 which makes calls and texts, oh and you can go on t’internet as long as you can wait and don’t want to actually see anything. Jo’s Samsung Jet is from a different world. It’s like I’m sat in a 1957 Chevy and she is in a Delorian, even though I’m the Back to the Future fan and she like Dirty Dancing – it’s not right!
“Oh” she casually says, “I’ve just seen that I can write directly on the screen with my finger!” “Ooh look I can just press this button and suddenly I’m on Facebook at 3G speed!” Jo has absolutely no idea what 3G is!
In fact the more I think about it the more I realise that I’m being really short changed on the gadget front in our house, I think I’ve just worked out how unbalanced the ratio is of gadgets that are mine.
Lets see…
Mine – SAT-NAV, Drill, Laser spirit level (very nice), digital tyre pressure gauge.
Joint ownership – TV (though 80% TV choice seems to be Jo), SKY+, WII (not really ours), DVD, PC .
Jo – flash phone, car, laminator? Oven, microwave, dishwasher, washing machine, dryer, electric whisk, fancy basting brush.
It definitely looks a little one sided to me!
Let’s look at the facts.
I’m a man and therefore should have better gadgets than a woman.
I’m the one who likes gadgets – My Wife struggles to set the SKY+ to record and when she does manage it she still says that she has “Taped” something.
I’m a Bond fan – Jo is not.
I’m a Sci-Fi fan – Jo is not.
I work in the Telecoms industry.
I ‘m an engineer in the Telecoms industry.
I’m a Data type geeky engineer in the Telecoms industry!
How on Earth has Jo wound up with a better phone than me?
I’ve got a Nokia 6100 which makes calls and texts, oh and you can go on t’internet as long as you can wait and don’t want to actually see anything. Jo’s Samsung Jet is from a different world. It’s like I’m sat in a 1957 Chevy and she is in a Delorian, even though I’m the Back to the Future fan and she like Dirty Dancing – it’s not right!
“Oh” she casually says, “I’ve just seen that I can write directly on the screen with my finger!” “Ooh look I can just press this button and suddenly I’m on Facebook at 3G speed!” Jo has absolutely no idea what 3G is!
In fact the more I think about it the more I realise that I’m being really short changed on the gadget front in our house, I think I’ve just worked out how unbalanced the ratio is of gadgets that are mine.
Lets see…
Mine – SAT-NAV, Drill, Laser spirit level (very nice), digital tyre pressure gauge.
Joint ownership – TV (though 80% TV choice seems to be Jo), SKY+, WII (not really ours), DVD, PC .
Jo – flash phone, car, laminator? Oven, microwave, dishwasher, washing machine, dryer, electric whisk, fancy basting brush.
It definitely looks a little one sided to me!
Thursday, September 17, 2009
flavours from the past
Fresh from remembering about the Corona man I’ve started thinking about other things that I haven’t tried since being a kid. I have memories of flavours that are tingling my taste buds and I’m starting to wonder how many I can try?
1. Saturday cold meat salad. Well this is an easy one as nothing has gone here it’s just some of the things on the plate have changed. We always had salad on a Saturday tea. Hot potatoes fresh from Dad’s garden, nice Ham from the local Butchers and then the rest; Pickled onions, Beetroot, lettuce and onions from Dad’s garden again, possibly pork pie, hard boiled eggs and loads of salad cream. Eat your tea and then into the lounge to watch Noel Edmunds – sorted. Well we have been re instating Saturday salad in our house recently but gone is the pork pie, fresh potatoes and salad cream; replaced it seems by couscous, humus and Balsamic – it’s not the same.
2. Sherbet – namely Rainbow Crystals. I’m pretty sure you can still buy Rainbow Crystals but so far I have not been able to bring myself to buy them. Absolutely clear in my head is the joy of cycling up to Holland’s shop in Collingham with about 15p pocket money and coming home with a quart of sherbet and a Swizzle double lolly! I’d sit at home dipping the lolly in the sherbet in ecstasy. It would probably be during the school holidays so Why Don’t You would be on telling me to switch off my TV set and go do something less boring instead. I’d quite happily sit and watch it eating sweets though, completely missing the point. I couldn’t bring myself to eat it now though and spoil the memory. I couldn’t even let my boys eat it – it would be utter carnage!
3. Chips. No not chip shop chips, clearly they still exist. Home cooked chips. My Mum always had a chip pan in use. Two or perhaps three times a week it would come out and we’d get chips. Mum would stand there and peel Dad’s potatoes and make chips. They would come piping hot and lovely. Admittedly there was the occasional fire but nothing good in life comes easy. All my kids get are oven chips bless them. I wouldn’t dare suggest to Jo about getting a chip pan but on those occasions when chips are on the menu nowadays it’s just not that good.
4. Candy Floss. I loved Candy Floss, I could eat it by the bucket load. I loved the way it almost melted but left this lump in the roof of your mouth. I can smell it now, that nearly but not quite strawberry smell. With it comes a memory of fairs and the seaside. You can hear the music of the dodgems or the rush of waves on the beach. I can’t do it though. Whenever I see it on sale at funfairs or wherever I just can’t bring myself to buy it. Firstly because I would have to share it with the boys and chances are they would become Candy Floss Demons. Secondly because I fear it will be horrible. That lump in the roof of my mouth would just annoy me now. The tingling on your teeth would be nasty and the stickyness of the hands – no I just can’t kill the memory. It’s much better to remember loving it than to discover that it is horrible!
1. Saturday cold meat salad. Well this is an easy one as nothing has gone here it’s just some of the things on the plate have changed. We always had salad on a Saturday tea. Hot potatoes fresh from Dad’s garden, nice Ham from the local Butchers and then the rest; Pickled onions, Beetroot, lettuce and onions from Dad’s garden again, possibly pork pie, hard boiled eggs and loads of salad cream. Eat your tea and then into the lounge to watch Noel Edmunds – sorted. Well we have been re instating Saturday salad in our house recently but gone is the pork pie, fresh potatoes and salad cream; replaced it seems by couscous, humus and Balsamic – it’s not the same.
2. Sherbet – namely Rainbow Crystals. I’m pretty sure you can still buy Rainbow Crystals but so far I have not been able to bring myself to buy them. Absolutely clear in my head is the joy of cycling up to Holland’s shop in Collingham with about 15p pocket money and coming home with a quart of sherbet and a Swizzle double lolly! I’d sit at home dipping the lolly in the sherbet in ecstasy. It would probably be during the school holidays so Why Don’t You would be on telling me to switch off my TV set and go do something less boring instead. I’d quite happily sit and watch it eating sweets though, completely missing the point. I couldn’t bring myself to eat it now though and spoil the memory. I couldn’t even let my boys eat it – it would be utter carnage!
3. Chips. No not chip shop chips, clearly they still exist. Home cooked chips. My Mum always had a chip pan in use. Two or perhaps three times a week it would come out and we’d get chips. Mum would stand there and peel Dad’s potatoes and make chips. They would come piping hot and lovely. Admittedly there was the occasional fire but nothing good in life comes easy. All my kids get are oven chips bless them. I wouldn’t dare suggest to Jo about getting a chip pan but on those occasions when chips are on the menu nowadays it’s just not that good.
4. Candy Floss. I loved Candy Floss, I could eat it by the bucket load. I loved the way it almost melted but left this lump in the roof of your mouth. I can smell it now, that nearly but not quite strawberry smell. With it comes a memory of fairs and the seaside. You can hear the music of the dodgems or the rush of waves on the beach. I can’t do it though. Whenever I see it on sale at funfairs or wherever I just can’t bring myself to buy it. Firstly because I would have to share it with the boys and chances are they would become Candy Floss Demons. Secondly because I fear it will be horrible. That lump in the roof of my mouth would just annoy me now. The tingling on your teeth would be nasty and the stickyness of the hands – no I just can’t kill the memory. It’s much better to remember loving it than to discover that it is horrible!
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Poem number 2
Sitting on the Underground,
I close my eyes to hear the sound,
The sound of wheels squealing round
The cough that barks just like a hound,
The I-pod playing just too loud,
The muted shuffling of the crowd,
The crackling of the Akka-Pound.
So if you sit on the Underground,
Be sure to listen to the sound,
Of the loud, round hound barking in the crowd,
At the Akka-Pound!
No – it’s no good I’m going to have to stop reading Dr. Seuss to the boys at bedtime!
I close my eyes to hear the sound,
The sound of wheels squealing round
The cough that barks just like a hound,
The I-pod playing just too loud,
The muted shuffling of the crowd,
The crackling of the Akka-Pound.
So if you sit on the Underground,
Be sure to listen to the sound,
Of the loud, round hound barking in the crowd,
At the Akka-Pound!
No – it’s no good I’m going to have to stop reading Dr. Seuss to the boys at bedtime!
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
The Corona Man
I tried something this weekend. Something I haven’t tried for years. I tried something and as soon as I did I was instantly taken back to a long hot summer in 1976. The power of taste to transport you back so many years is amazing.
It started with a discussion with the boys. It was one of those “You don’t know how lucky you are” conversations. I can’t remember exactly how we got to it but I started reminiscing about the Corona Man.
When we were kids this was almost as exciting as the ice-cream van! I don’t know how often he came round but suddenly the Corona man would be parked up on our street. The kids were all sent out – I think that’s why it was so great – and we could go choose the pop! The system was simple; in this van he had fizzy pop – loads of it. Glass bottles of every flavour from the Corona range. All you had to do was return your bottles from last time for 5 or 10p back (I can’t remember for sure) then you bought some fresh ones, simple.
Getting the responsibility and the change was exciting enough but on those hot days getting the first drink was best of all.
It was so hot back then – I don’t know why the memory came to me as 1976, I was only 5 so probably didn’t actually wind up going to the Corona van for a few years afterwards but the mind is odd like that. That Summer was really hot though and so I think that playing in a water bath outside in our garden, ice-pops and Corona will always take me back there.
The specific flavour that took me back there though, and the flavour that I tried this weekend, was Dandelion & Burdock! No one really knows what Dandelion & Burdock is, but it’s distinctive flavour stays in your memory – once tried – forever.
I was trying to describe the whole Corona Man experience to my boys as well as what on Earth Dandelion & Burdock might taste like. The boys looked at me as if I was insane. “Pop vans pulling up outside your house? 10p back on a bottle? Drinks made out of weeds – Dad, are you sure you haven’t been on the lager again?”
I resolved to find out if you can even buy Dandelion & Burdock any more. As it happens it didn’t take very long to complete my quest. Sainsbury’s confirmed that indeed Dandelion & Burdock is alive and kicking. I swiftly bought some and legged it home giggling.
As soon as I got home I threw some ice in a glass and poured some out. It was madness – the taste was exactly the same and instantly I could see us larking about in the garden, a baby bath full of cold water, no sun cream and a glass of pop My Dad in trousers socks and sandals but no shirt. The empty bottles stacked up ready to take back next time the Corona Man calls, the old layout of my folks house with the outside toilet and coal shed, before the extension was done – everything. All from that strange flavour with it’s distinctive burps, that you can never – ever decide truly if you even like it; fantastic!
I have now introduced the boys to it and am hoping to bring it back into our lives on a more regular basis by hopefully getting it added to the regular shop. I love things that make me feel like a kid again – why not?
It started with a discussion with the boys. It was one of those “You don’t know how lucky you are” conversations. I can’t remember exactly how we got to it but I started reminiscing about the Corona Man.
When we were kids this was almost as exciting as the ice-cream van! I don’t know how often he came round but suddenly the Corona man would be parked up on our street. The kids were all sent out – I think that’s why it was so great – and we could go choose the pop! The system was simple; in this van he had fizzy pop – loads of it. Glass bottles of every flavour from the Corona range. All you had to do was return your bottles from last time for 5 or 10p back (I can’t remember for sure) then you bought some fresh ones, simple.
Getting the responsibility and the change was exciting enough but on those hot days getting the first drink was best of all.
It was so hot back then – I don’t know why the memory came to me as 1976, I was only 5 so probably didn’t actually wind up going to the Corona van for a few years afterwards but the mind is odd like that. That Summer was really hot though and so I think that playing in a water bath outside in our garden, ice-pops and Corona will always take me back there.
The specific flavour that took me back there though, and the flavour that I tried this weekend, was Dandelion & Burdock! No one really knows what Dandelion & Burdock is, but it’s distinctive flavour stays in your memory – once tried – forever.
I was trying to describe the whole Corona Man experience to my boys as well as what on Earth Dandelion & Burdock might taste like. The boys looked at me as if I was insane. “Pop vans pulling up outside your house? 10p back on a bottle? Drinks made out of weeds – Dad, are you sure you haven’t been on the lager again?”
I resolved to find out if you can even buy Dandelion & Burdock any more. As it happens it didn’t take very long to complete my quest. Sainsbury’s confirmed that indeed Dandelion & Burdock is alive and kicking. I swiftly bought some and legged it home giggling.
As soon as I got home I threw some ice in a glass and poured some out. It was madness – the taste was exactly the same and instantly I could see us larking about in the garden, a baby bath full of cold water, no sun cream and a glass of pop My Dad in trousers socks and sandals but no shirt. The empty bottles stacked up ready to take back next time the Corona Man calls, the old layout of my folks house with the outside toilet and coal shed, before the extension was done – everything. All from that strange flavour with it’s distinctive burps, that you can never – ever decide truly if you even like it; fantastic!
I have now introduced the boys to it and am hoping to bring it back into our lives on a more regular basis by hopefully getting it added to the regular shop. I love things that make me feel like a kid again – why not?
Monday, September 14, 2009
Bloomberg Square Mile Relay
Last Thursday I did something I thought that I would never do; I ran in a race. The Bloomberg Square Mile Relay is an annual event in London where teams of runners from various ‘City’ firms compete to win the chance to be seen donating to Charity. The prize is a cheque for £5000 which must be donated to a chosen charity.
Each company enters at least one team of 10 runners. We entered two, and somewhere along the way I wound up on the team. I’ve already said how earlier in the year I started off all healthy and joined the gym. Late February when I was feeling really good and healthy we were asked if we wanted to enter a similar race round London in March. Full of confidence and less in weight I volunteered – I’ve never volunteered for anything like this before but thought it would be good for my keep fit campaign.
The race was cancelled but swiftly an email came round saying that there was another one in September – did we want to do that instead? I quickly answered yes! I knew that by September I would be really fit, running a mile in September would be a doddle and I would be able to impress everyone easily with a fast time. Then I promptly stopped going to the gym. I remained not going to the gym for quite a bit longer than expected. Toward the back of August I started going to the gym again. The first week I went once, the second week I made it twice. All three visits were not exactly very active, I spent more time by the water fountain than on any equipment.
Suddenly there was an email in my inbox. The September run was a week away! What? One week? I tried backing out but was easily pressured into doing it because of feeling like a complete idiot for not having kept up the gym in the first place. It’s only a mile – surely I can still run a mile? Back at the gym I discovered that I can indeed run a mile – but only just and very, very slowly. The 10 minutes I’d set on the treadmill came and went and I found myself finishing the distance during the ‘cool-down’ period. I Crawled off the back of the machine and a passing Fitness First Personal Trainer threw me over his shoulder and carried me back to the water fountain. “Have you considered taking up darts?” he politely asked.
A couple of days later and I set off for a run near home. The course was measured out and this was going to lift my confidence by proving that I was OK. I’d measured a mile and a half route so that when I got back I would know that running just a mile would be a doddle. I set off and immediately regretted it. My pace was slow but I persisted. By the time I’d run ½ a mile I was settled into it but really not moving fast. A young Mum with one of those three wheel pushchairs flew past me, desperately trying to get home in time for Jeremy Kyle. By the mile mark I was a mess and when a couple of grannies tapped me on the shoulder to ask if I could let them past I knew it was time to stop. I’d made the mile but not an inch more and I could barely walk back.
The big day came and I have to say it was fun. We were running with the World Wildlife Fund so they turned up with some runners and some costumes. I didn’t have to wear a Panda costume so that was fine and the mood was fine. The Guild Hall square was packed with runners and staff and it was quite exciting.
The race started, our Pandas went first, both impressively running in less than 8 minutes. On we went, each running their mile then passing on the baton. In no time at all it was my turn. I grabbed the baton and ran. That I think was my first mistake, I could have just jogged, but no – I ran. By the time I’d gone the first 100 yards I was shattered. Very quickly I re thought things and pulled in the reigns. The pace dropped and I tried to settle into a pace that I could maintain, but the pain of the first rush of speed was hammering in my chest. At every turn and bend there were some Virgin Active people with their ridiculous energy and love of sport shouting you on. “Swing your arms … Pick your feet up … Put some effort in … Come on fatty pretend KFC is just about to close!” their encouragement not quite hitting the mark with me as they found them selves surprised at how long it took me to go past them.
Approaching the half way point were the first steps; a long spiral staircase taking you up above London Wall. I took the first two steps at pace then promptly realised that it was never going to happen so I slowed to a walk up them. To my credit at the top I resumed the run and heaved in a big gulp of air to carry on. I think I may have been struggling a little in the thin air at this altitude because by this point I was really beginning to slow. It definitely must have been altitude sickness, I was out of breath, sweating, and running two steps back for every one step forward by this time. I came to the steps to go back down and swiftly dodged to my left to let some speedy runners by. At the bottom I continued on – I knew that there was not much further to go.
My surprise and displeasure to discover a second set of stairs to climb was vented loudly in a manner that will not be repeated here but slowly I made my way up them cursing life in general. From here though I was nearly back so I made an effort and went for it. Suddenly I was on the last bend and in the corner of my eye I noted someone limping along very slowly – clearly in pain. At this point I could have stopped to help him, I could have cheered him on and been a great sportsman helping my fellow man. In stead I put an extra spurt on and delighted in the fact that I’d managed to overtake someone!
My brain told my legs to sprint the last 50 yards to the line but my legs had the answer machine on and didn’t pick up. As far as I was concerned I should have been sprinting, but looking about nothing seemed blurred, I was still going at exactly the same pace. Slowly but surely I made it! The baton was passed on and I dived out of the way in a panting mess to slowly recover. My time turned out to be 9 minutes 16. Much slower than the pandas and indeed 750th in the individual time rankings (out of 759!). Most people reading this will snort with disgust at such a slow time – but I am well happy. I am gutted that I stopped going to the gym earlier in the year because if I had not then my time would have been loads better, but I didn’t so I can only accept that I was going to be slow. I made the mile and did it in a much better time than I thought I was going to do – I did it!
The post run pie and beer helped nicely with the recovery!
Each company enters at least one team of 10 runners. We entered two, and somewhere along the way I wound up on the team. I’ve already said how earlier in the year I started off all healthy and joined the gym. Late February when I was feeling really good and healthy we were asked if we wanted to enter a similar race round London in March. Full of confidence and less in weight I volunteered – I’ve never volunteered for anything like this before but thought it would be good for my keep fit campaign.
The race was cancelled but swiftly an email came round saying that there was another one in September – did we want to do that instead? I quickly answered yes! I knew that by September I would be really fit, running a mile in September would be a doddle and I would be able to impress everyone easily with a fast time. Then I promptly stopped going to the gym. I remained not going to the gym for quite a bit longer than expected. Toward the back of August I started going to the gym again. The first week I went once, the second week I made it twice. All three visits were not exactly very active, I spent more time by the water fountain than on any equipment.
Suddenly there was an email in my inbox. The September run was a week away! What? One week? I tried backing out but was easily pressured into doing it because of feeling like a complete idiot for not having kept up the gym in the first place. It’s only a mile – surely I can still run a mile? Back at the gym I discovered that I can indeed run a mile – but only just and very, very slowly. The 10 minutes I’d set on the treadmill came and went and I found myself finishing the distance during the ‘cool-down’ period. I Crawled off the back of the machine and a passing Fitness First Personal Trainer threw me over his shoulder and carried me back to the water fountain. “Have you considered taking up darts?” he politely asked.
A couple of days later and I set off for a run near home. The course was measured out and this was going to lift my confidence by proving that I was OK. I’d measured a mile and a half route so that when I got back I would know that running just a mile would be a doddle. I set off and immediately regretted it. My pace was slow but I persisted. By the time I’d run ½ a mile I was settled into it but really not moving fast. A young Mum with one of those three wheel pushchairs flew past me, desperately trying to get home in time for Jeremy Kyle. By the mile mark I was a mess and when a couple of grannies tapped me on the shoulder to ask if I could let them past I knew it was time to stop. I’d made the mile but not an inch more and I could barely walk back.
The big day came and I have to say it was fun. We were running with the World Wildlife Fund so they turned up with some runners and some costumes. I didn’t have to wear a Panda costume so that was fine and the mood was fine. The Guild Hall square was packed with runners and staff and it was quite exciting.
The race started, our Pandas went first, both impressively running in less than 8 minutes. On we went, each running their mile then passing on the baton. In no time at all it was my turn. I grabbed the baton and ran. That I think was my first mistake, I could have just jogged, but no – I ran. By the time I’d gone the first 100 yards I was shattered. Very quickly I re thought things and pulled in the reigns. The pace dropped and I tried to settle into a pace that I could maintain, but the pain of the first rush of speed was hammering in my chest. At every turn and bend there were some Virgin Active people with their ridiculous energy and love of sport shouting you on. “Swing your arms … Pick your feet up … Put some effort in … Come on fatty pretend KFC is just about to close!” their encouragement not quite hitting the mark with me as they found them selves surprised at how long it took me to go past them.
Approaching the half way point were the first steps; a long spiral staircase taking you up above London Wall. I took the first two steps at pace then promptly realised that it was never going to happen so I slowed to a walk up them. To my credit at the top I resumed the run and heaved in a big gulp of air to carry on. I think I may have been struggling a little in the thin air at this altitude because by this point I was really beginning to slow. It definitely must have been altitude sickness, I was out of breath, sweating, and running two steps back for every one step forward by this time. I came to the steps to go back down and swiftly dodged to my left to let some speedy runners by. At the bottom I continued on – I knew that there was not much further to go.
My surprise and displeasure to discover a second set of stairs to climb was vented loudly in a manner that will not be repeated here but slowly I made my way up them cursing life in general. From here though I was nearly back so I made an effort and went for it. Suddenly I was on the last bend and in the corner of my eye I noted someone limping along very slowly – clearly in pain. At this point I could have stopped to help him, I could have cheered him on and been a great sportsman helping my fellow man. In stead I put an extra spurt on and delighted in the fact that I’d managed to overtake someone!
My brain told my legs to sprint the last 50 yards to the line but my legs had the answer machine on and didn’t pick up. As far as I was concerned I should have been sprinting, but looking about nothing seemed blurred, I was still going at exactly the same pace. Slowly but surely I made it! The baton was passed on and I dived out of the way in a panting mess to slowly recover. My time turned out to be 9 minutes 16. Much slower than the pandas and indeed 750th in the individual time rankings (out of 759!). Most people reading this will snort with disgust at such a slow time – but I am well happy. I am gutted that I stopped going to the gym earlier in the year because if I had not then my time would have been loads better, but I didn’t so I can only accept that I was going to be slow. I made the mile and did it in a much better time than I thought I was going to do – I did it!
The post run pie and beer helped nicely with the recovery!
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Liberating Kuwait
About 12 years ago I was in Kuwait. We were there as we had been the deployed in the Gulf for a while doing what the Navy does out in the Gulf; drive up and down the Persian Gulf a lot and check incoming cargo ships for banned items, then go ashore in Dubai an get fairly well lubricated and stocked up on Thompson Originals.
I think the whole Thompson Original thing is stopped now though? Thompson’s were at the time legal Pirate copies. They were fairly poor quality videos and cassettes usually (shows you how long ago it was!), and were copies of all the latest releases. I think I heard that the laws changed and they are no longer allowed out there, but at the time they were big business. Bright mainstream shops just like HMV back home had shelf upon shelf of cassettes and videos, you’d get 10 cassettes of the latest releases for £10 plus a free cassette case! Admittedly the quality (compared against other genuine cassettes) was poor and anything remotely sexy on the cover sleeves was censored but never mind.
Anyway one of our duties took us to Kuwait. We were there January 26th which is their Liberation day so the mood around the city was pretty good. I’d been to Kuwait before in 1993 and was happy to see how things had been improved. The mood in 1993 was one of jubilation but you could see the strain that had been caused so recently. There were still cars, tanks & Lorries riddled with bullet holes and burnt out on the sides of roads, still some burnt out shells of buildings – previously homes. Still though, locals would toot their horn as they drove by and cheer at the sight of us walking about, shopkeepers eager to give the best prices once they realised you were British Military.
In 1997 things had improved. The people were still as happy as ever to see us Brits but the city itself had healed. Buildings were no longer dead, the roads were clear, everywhere looked lush and alive. In short I assume it was back to how it had been before Iraq invaded and looking about I thought I could see why Saddam had wanted it!
We were invited to the official flag raising ceremony in honour of the Liberation. We were in uniform and mixed with the Kuwait Police, American Military, Government officials from everywhere as well as Kuwait local kids and people. It was odd, I felt like a celebrity. I’d not been directly involved in the liberation of Kuwait but felt like I had. Children ran about with autograph books which we signed happily, hand after hand was offered to us to shake.
In no time at all it was time for the ceremony. At this point no one knew just how embarrassing things were going to get. We were told that we would be required to get up and sing the National Anthem and we all considered this easy enough. First up were a bunch of Kuwaiti school children who stood up and sung their lengthy, complicated Anthem with tuneful ease.
The Americans were next and easily stood chests out proudly singing their Anthem, song-sheets behind their backs.
Suddenly it was our turn and again we all easily headed for the stage – piece of cake, what could go wrong?
As we approached the stage song-sheets were thrust into our protesting hands – how could we need the words for our Anthem? Just in time someone spotted something. There were three verses; Three? In fact there may even be more than three verses to our Anthem though they weren’t on this sheet. None of us had known his and panic set in. Even after a shock like that it should have been easy shouldn’t it? We had the words in front of us and the tune is the same so how could it be a problem?
The tune started and we began – less confident in our delivery of God Save the Queen than we should ever have been because we were all so worried about the next verse. Even though we had the words, even though the tune was exactly the same, even though it’s the shortest, easiest song in the world; we messed it up. Half way through the second verse we were so mumbled and quiet with only a couple of us still trying to sing that the person in charge made the decision to kill it. The music stopped at the end of the second verse and we ran off the stage in a mixture of relief and shame. Madness, I look back and cannot believe how rubbish we were. Simon Cowell would have done his nut; even Piers Morgan would have buzzed us! Kids stopped coming for autographs and hands stopped being offered. Slowly we mingled our way out of the door and left the ceremony to those who really deserved it – the Kuwaitis.
I think the whole Thompson Original thing is stopped now though? Thompson’s were at the time legal Pirate copies. They were fairly poor quality videos and cassettes usually (shows you how long ago it was!), and were copies of all the latest releases. I think I heard that the laws changed and they are no longer allowed out there, but at the time they were big business. Bright mainstream shops just like HMV back home had shelf upon shelf of cassettes and videos, you’d get 10 cassettes of the latest releases for £10 plus a free cassette case! Admittedly the quality (compared against other genuine cassettes) was poor and anything remotely sexy on the cover sleeves was censored but never mind.
Anyway one of our duties took us to Kuwait. We were there January 26th which is their Liberation day so the mood around the city was pretty good. I’d been to Kuwait before in 1993 and was happy to see how things had been improved. The mood in 1993 was one of jubilation but you could see the strain that had been caused so recently. There were still cars, tanks & Lorries riddled with bullet holes and burnt out on the sides of roads, still some burnt out shells of buildings – previously homes. Still though, locals would toot their horn as they drove by and cheer at the sight of us walking about, shopkeepers eager to give the best prices once they realised you were British Military.
In 1997 things had improved. The people were still as happy as ever to see us Brits but the city itself had healed. Buildings were no longer dead, the roads were clear, everywhere looked lush and alive. In short I assume it was back to how it had been before Iraq invaded and looking about I thought I could see why Saddam had wanted it!
We were invited to the official flag raising ceremony in honour of the Liberation. We were in uniform and mixed with the Kuwait Police, American Military, Government officials from everywhere as well as Kuwait local kids and people. It was odd, I felt like a celebrity. I’d not been directly involved in the liberation of Kuwait but felt like I had. Children ran about with autograph books which we signed happily, hand after hand was offered to us to shake.
In no time at all it was time for the ceremony. At this point no one knew just how embarrassing things were going to get. We were told that we would be required to get up and sing the National Anthem and we all considered this easy enough. First up were a bunch of Kuwaiti school children who stood up and sung their lengthy, complicated Anthem with tuneful ease.
The Americans were next and easily stood chests out proudly singing their Anthem, song-sheets behind their backs.
Suddenly it was our turn and again we all easily headed for the stage – piece of cake, what could go wrong?
As we approached the stage song-sheets were thrust into our protesting hands – how could we need the words for our Anthem? Just in time someone spotted something. There were three verses; Three? In fact there may even be more than three verses to our Anthem though they weren’t on this sheet. None of us had known his and panic set in. Even after a shock like that it should have been easy shouldn’t it? We had the words in front of us and the tune is the same so how could it be a problem?
The tune started and we began – less confident in our delivery of God Save the Queen than we should ever have been because we were all so worried about the next verse. Even though we had the words, even though the tune was exactly the same, even though it’s the shortest, easiest song in the world; we messed it up. Half way through the second verse we were so mumbled and quiet with only a couple of us still trying to sing that the person in charge made the decision to kill it. The music stopped at the end of the second verse and we ran off the stage in a mixture of relief and shame. Madness, I look back and cannot believe how rubbish we were. Simon Cowell would have done his nut; even Piers Morgan would have buzzed us! Kids stopped coming for autographs and hands stopped being offered. Slowly we mingled our way out of the door and left the ceremony to those who really deserved it – the Kuwaitis.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Rugby
The boys started back at Rugby this weekend. Daniel returned for his third season, Jamie started his first. Daniel went straight at it knowing exactly what he was doing whereas Jamie was just hilarious.
I remember when Daniel started and indeed for most of the first season it was similar to Jamie now. The difference was nearly a year in age – Daniel was almost 6 whereas Jamie is just 5. Although Daniel did not know whet to do he had a bit more maturity about him to get stuck in and try. It was still funny watching him try and understand British Bulldog never mind the actual game but at least he was enjoying himself. In season 2 he really started to find himself and improve, his own enjoyment of the game growing with each success. At the start of this season he is really looking good and is enjoying it more than ever – which is great.
With Jamie he just looked lost. We were unsure as to weather to start him this year but he was really looking forward to it so we thought we would give him a try. He stood looking bewildered as instructions were given and then ran long slowly far behind everyone else. In Bulldog he just ran, no real direction, no idea whatsoever of what was going on around him. He never really tried to get to the other side because he really didn’t know he had to do that, he just ran.
In the game he absolutely had no idea and would occasionally just run up and down a bit in spurts of speed, his face was focussed and determined as he ran his absolute fastest. It was great to watch. The patience of the coach was amazing, I don’t know how these people do it every week, but I’m so glad they do, I’ve always been really impressed with the coaching team at the club.
The funniest bit was when he got quite excited because he realised that his tags (plastic strips that get stuck on a Velcro belt and then can be removed as a substitute for tackling at this young age) had the English Rose Emblem on them. “Look I’ve got a lovely flower on my tags!” He loudly and proudly exclaimed. I shook my head in despair; perhaps he really isn’t ready for Rugby after all.
I remember when Daniel started and indeed for most of the first season it was similar to Jamie now. The difference was nearly a year in age – Daniel was almost 6 whereas Jamie is just 5. Although Daniel did not know whet to do he had a bit more maturity about him to get stuck in and try. It was still funny watching him try and understand British Bulldog never mind the actual game but at least he was enjoying himself. In season 2 he really started to find himself and improve, his own enjoyment of the game growing with each success. At the start of this season he is really looking good and is enjoying it more than ever – which is great.
With Jamie he just looked lost. We were unsure as to weather to start him this year but he was really looking forward to it so we thought we would give him a try. He stood looking bewildered as instructions were given and then ran long slowly far behind everyone else. In Bulldog he just ran, no real direction, no idea whatsoever of what was going on around him. He never really tried to get to the other side because he really didn’t know he had to do that, he just ran.
In the game he absolutely had no idea and would occasionally just run up and down a bit in spurts of speed, his face was focussed and determined as he ran his absolute fastest. It was great to watch. The patience of the coach was amazing, I don’t know how these people do it every week, but I’m so glad they do, I’ve always been really impressed with the coaching team at the club.
The funniest bit was when he got quite excited because he realised that his tags (plastic strips that get stuck on a Velcro belt and then can be removed as a substitute for tackling at this young age) had the English Rose Emblem on them. “Look I’ve got a lovely flower on my tags!” He loudly and proudly exclaimed. I shook my head in despair; perhaps he really isn’t ready for Rugby after all.
Friday, September 4, 2009
kids in the car
A few days ago Jo was driving along with the boys in the back when my 5 year old suddenly asked “Mum, is Chernow a country?”, “Pardon?” Jo asked perplexed. “Chernow – is it a country in the real world?” Jo had a think.
“No I don’t think so..”
“Is it a city then?”
“No.”
“Where is it then?”
Jo had a real good think about what on Earth Jamie was talking about and then an idea struck her. “ Do you mean China? China is a country.”
“No I mean Chernow – is Chernow a country?”
Jo scratched her head desperately trying to work out what he was referring too. “Sorry Love I don’t know Chernow,” She eventually answered, “Where have you heard about it?”
“On the radio – listen..”
Jo listened to the Sugarbabes singing – “Can’t we bring yesterday back around, because I know how I feel about CHERNOW!” much laughter ensued within the car.
It reminded me of another car / child misunderstanding from years ago. When Daniel was a similar age to Jamie is now we were playing I-spy and had spent ages desperately trying to guess Daniel’s turn. Unlike Jamie, Daniel used to say things that he could actually see even if they weren’t in the car so he was quite good at it; Jamie usually goes for C = Crocodile or D = Dinosaur but never mind.
For nearly 10 minutes we tried to guess what he’d seen that started CH and had exhausted everything. Things were desperate, we were about to be beaten at I-spy by a four year old – can you imagine the embarrassment. Eventually we were thrown, Jo and I were barely speaking by this point, both blaming each others incompetency as the reason for failure. Smugly smiling and un English in victory Daniel proudly announced that he had seen a tree! In the world of kids learning to speak apparently these sounds are quite similar so we decided (after looking that up on the internet and asking several other teachers and learning professionals) that it had been a genuine mistake rather than cheating. At this point we were relieved as we were able to award Daniel the win without losing any credibility as adults; a win-win situation.
Listening to kids learn to speak (once you get past the single word stage and enter into grammar) is one of the best parts of being a parent. It’s truly amazing to hear them develop language. The times when they get it slightly off, either in speech or their understanding of other peoples words, are numerous and always funny. The speed at which kids learn and adapt breath-taking.
I just love them!
“No I don’t think so..”
“Is it a city then?”
“No.”
“Where is it then?”
Jo had a real good think about what on Earth Jamie was talking about and then an idea struck her. “ Do you mean China? China is a country.”
“No I mean Chernow – is Chernow a country?”
Jo scratched her head desperately trying to work out what he was referring too. “Sorry Love I don’t know Chernow,” She eventually answered, “Where have you heard about it?”
“On the radio – listen..”
Jo listened to the Sugarbabes singing – “Can’t we bring yesterday back around, because I know how I feel about CHERNOW!” much laughter ensued within the car.
It reminded me of another car / child misunderstanding from years ago. When Daniel was a similar age to Jamie is now we were playing I-spy and had spent ages desperately trying to guess Daniel’s turn. Unlike Jamie, Daniel used to say things that he could actually see even if they weren’t in the car so he was quite good at it; Jamie usually goes for C = Crocodile or D = Dinosaur but never mind.
For nearly 10 minutes we tried to guess what he’d seen that started CH and had exhausted everything. Things were desperate, we were about to be beaten at I-spy by a four year old – can you imagine the embarrassment. Eventually we were thrown, Jo and I were barely speaking by this point, both blaming each others incompetency as the reason for failure. Smugly smiling and un English in victory Daniel proudly announced that he had seen a tree! In the world of kids learning to speak apparently these sounds are quite similar so we decided (after looking that up on the internet and asking several other teachers and learning professionals) that it had been a genuine mistake rather than cheating. At this point we were relieved as we were able to award Daniel the win without losing any credibility as adults; a win-win situation.
Listening to kids learn to speak (once you get past the single word stage and enter into grammar) is one of the best parts of being a parent. It’s truly amazing to hear them develop language. The times when they get it slightly off, either in speech or their understanding of other peoples words, are numerous and always funny. The speed at which kids learn and adapt breath-taking.
I just love them!
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Cirencester
The fun in the Cotswolds did not stop with the Soap Opera entertainment during our meal – oh dear me no. We also managed to squeeze in a visit to Cirencester, the town where Men go when they are bored of life, the town’s motto is “If you are tired of Cirencester then you can try Swindon”, and I think that says it all!
Cirencester is actually quite nice, it has a pleasant feel and seems well run to be fair but it’s not a man’s town – let’s face it. Some years ago we went to a place in the New Forest called Burley. The main thing I remember about Burley is how awful it was, a beautiful picturesque little place that had been turned into tourist hell. Every building had been turned into a gift / café / tat shop. We’d never seen so many shops selling absolutely nothing of worth in our lives, Back then we were young and kid free so we found it hilarious, Jo and I joked about the tat in the shops and thoroughly enjoyed the experience of a quick visit to a ruined bit of England.
The years and the Motherly hormones have changed Jo though; she’s not the same as the girl that I knew back then. In Cirencester we found a nice town that is setting off down a similar route to Burley. Gift type shop followed Oddity shop followed unusual items shop. Jo wanted to go in all of them – her eyes wide open, she was actually enjoying it. I tried joking with her – pointing to an awful little silver pot on the shelf with little silver sticks in it. I was ready for Jo to join in laughing at the idea of these ugly Olive forks but she grabbed them and cooed instead – what? She almost bought them as a gift for her Mum, seeing sense just in time. Every time I thought we’d got out of a shop with nothing in it she would walk into another, and another quarter of an hour was spent staring at nothing.
Having been in three of these shops I started to get a bit itchy, Men can only do so much of this kind of shopping before we begin to lose the will to live. We were in a candle shop, bearing in mind that Jo had bought a couple of candles in the first shop we had gone into yet still felt she needed to squeeze in a visit to an actual candle shop; The heady mix of flower and muscle relaxing aromas left me spinning with in a haze so I insisted that the next shop would be my choice so I went outside to recce It took me 5 minutes to come to the conclusion that I wasn’t going to find anything of worth, The best option I had was Argos! No gadget shops were in sight, no Dixons or Sony Centre panic started to set in. Just in time we spotted a Vodaphone shop, so I made Jo come in and spend 10 minutes looking at phones, it was the best I could do.
Recharged from looking at gadgets we went back to work. Fortunately Cirencester hasn’t heard about the 1990’s happening and so at 17:30 on a Saturday everything was closing, so it became clear that I could start relaxing, or so I thought. In the corner of her eye Jo saw House of Fraser was till open and like a squirrel dodging like lightning up a tree she was gone. I followed her in and found her by the perfume testers – no damage done. The next 10 minutes were spent walking around in circles, with me generally trying to pretend I wasn’t there. In shops like this where it’s mainly women’s stuff (there was only one rack of men’s clothes, no gadgets, nothing) It’s hard to know what to do with yourself really.
You can’t just head off and browse in women’s shops, what are you supposed to browse at? Meanwhile you can’t possibly stay alongside the women you are there with because then you are in their way. You are expected to be ready to give an opinion at any time and a proper opinion too, just saying yes in order to get out of there won’t do. You are not allowed to get to close and are supposed to be off doing your own thing but also supposed to be ready to give opinions – it’s Hell! I generally settle for the stalking tactic. I follow her about at about 4 paces. If Jo turns I swiftly grab the nearest thing on the shelf and study it, I’ll offer it up to her as a possibility as this gives the impression that I’m interested, though it usually only gains me a scowled for thinking that she would wear such an awful badly sized item. When Jo moves on I wait a moment then follow. Women have no logic to the routes through shops, back and forth they go from shoes to dresses to shoes to trousers to bags to shoes to underwear (that’s underwear not Lingerie – very different things in my opinion) to shoes to jumpers. It’s very hard to keep up, blink and you lose them.
I blinked! She had gone into the underwear bit and foolishly I blinked. I strayed towards the sexy Lingerie section where no wife ever goes and found myself next to two other forlorn looking men who were desperately trying to find the exit. We shared the knowing glance of the man who is definitely not looking at the sexy Lingerie even though they’ve accidentally found themselves in there without a chaperone. It’s a simple rule that it’s only appropriate to be in a Lingerie section with a female escort. Wives never go in there so it’s clear that escorted men in the Lingerie department are there with Girlfriends or Mistresses and should be revered, however unescorted men are clearly perverts buying it for themselves or hopelessly optimistic married men who have so much still to learn that they still believe that ‘if I buy it she will wear it’; in both of these unescorted cases the men should be mocked and ridiculed. The glance we shared then, was one of mixed emotion, the first was one of mirth noting how sad the other men looked, and this was swiftly followed by understanding and sorrow as we all instantly accepted that it was clearly an accident and we had been looking for the Television section but got lost.
I legged it out and back into the open and instantly knew that Jo had gone. I’d lost her – she could have been anywhere and she had her wallet with her so anything could be happening! I looked around in panic logic and reason escaped me as the seconds passed by with the horrible distant sounds of till doors opening ringing in my ears. A helpful assistant spotted me and understanding the stress that men feel in her hop she walked over and asked if I was Ok? “My Wife’s escaped!” I tearfully gasped. The assistant had seen this all to often and was well experienced in Man Aid. “Just go down there to the left where the shoes and bags are and take one of the special seats we have put out under the lost men sign, eventually she will come back into the area and pick you up.” Her calm manner and understanding instantly reassure me. I followed her directions and found the seats; they were smack bang between the shoes, the bags and the tills – perfect. One of the men from the Lingerie section was already sat there, clearly more experienced than I, he had instantly known what to do and had clearly fallen prey to the same dodge tactic in the underwear section that I had. He patted me on the shoulders, smiled and said nothing; we both knew no words were needed.
Two minutes after my new friend had been collected, Jo turned up smiling, “Everything OK?” she asked and then just kept walking like nothing had happened. Jo knew without looking that I’d just fall in behind and continue following, yet again no more words were needed.
So that was Cirencester, we left with three candles and a bizarre plastic basting brush that cost 4 times more than a normal one but does exactly the same job. Nice place though…
Cirencester is actually quite nice, it has a pleasant feel and seems well run to be fair but it’s not a man’s town – let’s face it. Some years ago we went to a place in the New Forest called Burley. The main thing I remember about Burley is how awful it was, a beautiful picturesque little place that had been turned into tourist hell. Every building had been turned into a gift / café / tat shop. We’d never seen so many shops selling absolutely nothing of worth in our lives, Back then we were young and kid free so we found it hilarious, Jo and I joked about the tat in the shops and thoroughly enjoyed the experience of a quick visit to a ruined bit of England.
The years and the Motherly hormones have changed Jo though; she’s not the same as the girl that I knew back then. In Cirencester we found a nice town that is setting off down a similar route to Burley. Gift type shop followed Oddity shop followed unusual items shop. Jo wanted to go in all of them – her eyes wide open, she was actually enjoying it. I tried joking with her – pointing to an awful little silver pot on the shelf with little silver sticks in it. I was ready for Jo to join in laughing at the idea of these ugly Olive forks but she grabbed them and cooed instead – what? She almost bought them as a gift for her Mum, seeing sense just in time. Every time I thought we’d got out of a shop with nothing in it she would walk into another, and another quarter of an hour was spent staring at nothing.
Having been in three of these shops I started to get a bit itchy, Men can only do so much of this kind of shopping before we begin to lose the will to live. We were in a candle shop, bearing in mind that Jo had bought a couple of candles in the first shop we had gone into yet still felt she needed to squeeze in a visit to an actual candle shop; The heady mix of flower and muscle relaxing aromas left me spinning with in a haze so I insisted that the next shop would be my choice so I went outside to recce It took me 5 minutes to come to the conclusion that I wasn’t going to find anything of worth, The best option I had was Argos! No gadget shops were in sight, no Dixons or Sony Centre panic started to set in. Just in time we spotted a Vodaphone shop, so I made Jo come in and spend 10 minutes looking at phones, it was the best I could do.
Recharged from looking at gadgets we went back to work. Fortunately Cirencester hasn’t heard about the 1990’s happening and so at 17:30 on a Saturday everything was closing, so it became clear that I could start relaxing, or so I thought. In the corner of her eye Jo saw House of Fraser was till open and like a squirrel dodging like lightning up a tree she was gone. I followed her in and found her by the perfume testers – no damage done. The next 10 minutes were spent walking around in circles, with me generally trying to pretend I wasn’t there. In shops like this where it’s mainly women’s stuff (there was only one rack of men’s clothes, no gadgets, nothing) It’s hard to know what to do with yourself really.
You can’t just head off and browse in women’s shops, what are you supposed to browse at? Meanwhile you can’t possibly stay alongside the women you are there with because then you are in their way. You are expected to be ready to give an opinion at any time and a proper opinion too, just saying yes in order to get out of there won’t do. You are not allowed to get to close and are supposed to be off doing your own thing but also supposed to be ready to give opinions – it’s Hell! I generally settle for the stalking tactic. I follow her about at about 4 paces. If Jo turns I swiftly grab the nearest thing on the shelf and study it, I’ll offer it up to her as a possibility as this gives the impression that I’m interested, though it usually only gains me a scowled for thinking that she would wear such an awful badly sized item. When Jo moves on I wait a moment then follow. Women have no logic to the routes through shops, back and forth they go from shoes to dresses to shoes to trousers to bags to shoes to underwear (that’s underwear not Lingerie – very different things in my opinion) to shoes to jumpers. It’s very hard to keep up, blink and you lose them.
I blinked! She had gone into the underwear bit and foolishly I blinked. I strayed towards the sexy Lingerie section where no wife ever goes and found myself next to two other forlorn looking men who were desperately trying to find the exit. We shared the knowing glance of the man who is definitely not looking at the sexy Lingerie even though they’ve accidentally found themselves in there without a chaperone. It’s a simple rule that it’s only appropriate to be in a Lingerie section with a female escort. Wives never go in there so it’s clear that escorted men in the Lingerie department are there with Girlfriends or Mistresses and should be revered, however unescorted men are clearly perverts buying it for themselves or hopelessly optimistic married men who have so much still to learn that they still believe that ‘if I buy it she will wear it’; in both of these unescorted cases the men should be mocked and ridiculed. The glance we shared then, was one of mixed emotion, the first was one of mirth noting how sad the other men looked, and this was swiftly followed by understanding and sorrow as we all instantly accepted that it was clearly an accident and we had been looking for the Television section but got lost.
I legged it out and back into the open and instantly knew that Jo had gone. I’d lost her – she could have been anywhere and she had her wallet with her so anything could be happening! I looked around in panic logic and reason escaped me as the seconds passed by with the horrible distant sounds of till doors opening ringing in my ears. A helpful assistant spotted me and understanding the stress that men feel in her hop she walked over and asked if I was Ok? “My Wife’s escaped!” I tearfully gasped. The assistant had seen this all to often and was well experienced in Man Aid. “Just go down there to the left where the shoes and bags are and take one of the special seats we have put out under the lost men sign, eventually she will come back into the area and pick you up.” Her calm manner and understanding instantly reassure me. I followed her directions and found the seats; they were smack bang between the shoes, the bags and the tills – perfect. One of the men from the Lingerie section was already sat there, clearly more experienced than I, he had instantly known what to do and had clearly fallen prey to the same dodge tactic in the underwear section that I had. He patted me on the shoulders, smiled and said nothing; we both knew no words were needed.
Two minutes after my new friend had been collected, Jo turned up smiling, “Everything OK?” she asked and then just kept walking like nothing had happened. Jo knew without looking that I’d just fall in behind and continue following, yet again no more words were needed.
So that was Cirencester, we left with three candles and a bizarre plastic basting brush that cost 4 times more than a normal one but does exactly the same job. Nice place though…
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
a night in the Cotswolds
We’ve just come back from a nice night away. A romantic trip away in a nice Cotswold Spa Hotel for Jo and I, no kids. The break was to mark our 11th anniversary, we’d originally planned it to mark the 10th but due to a minor mishap with a calendar and a year’s earache from Jo it wound up being the 11th.
It went very nicely, the kids were safely dropped of at Grandma’s with barely a bruise this time. We have developed a good system for deploying the kids at their Grandparents for events like this over the years. Jo climbs in the back of the car, as I slow down to about 10MPH. 5 meters from their drive I put the green light on and release the child locks, Jo opens the door up and throws a bag of Jelly Tots out. The boys dive out after the sweets and the last thing I see in my rear view mirror are my kids locked in fierce unarmed combat on Grandpa’s front lawn over the single bag of sweets, this makes enough noise to ensure that the door is opened quickly; it’s not safe to leave the kids unattended in the street so I fire off a blast of the horn as a double check and floor it as soon as Jo has climbed back in the front and strapped in. With the kids safely in their Grandparents care we were away.
The drive was easy enough and the mood was still good. The Sat-Nav yet again proving its value in marital relations. No stress in finding places – no one to blame for missed turnings or for not taking “the best route” makes driving so more relaxed. So there were no navigational arguments to spoil the mood this time. Jo proved invaluable again at reminding me when to break or when I was driving too fast, after 11 years of driving with Jo I have completely lost the use of my own opinion. Nowadays I do not drive anywhere alone as I fear I have no way of knowing that a car ½ a mile further up the road is breaking.
Arrival at the hotel was great, straight in to the room even though were there way before the stated check in time and the place looked every bit as nice as the internet had promised. We had a quick tasty lunch at a Gastro Pub which was very nice (what exactly is a Gastro Pub – what makes it different to a restaurant?) and then went to explore. The Cotswold Nature Centre turned out to just be a café with some leaflets near the door so we didn’t learn a lot there and then Jo spotted a shop so she dived in, this was fine as I knew full well that Jo had left here wallet in the room.
“Let’s go for a walk!” Jo declared, I pointed out that we had just walked from the pub to the shop and the hotel was at least a 5 minute walk away now so surely this had been covered, but Jo was having none of it. “No a proper walk, its lovely here - come on let’s go around the lake, we’ll enjoy a nice bit of country and then we can go back up to the room for a lie down if you like?” Now, I’m not the world’s foremost expert on picking up signals from women, but even I got that one. 10 minutes later and we were closing in on the hotel panting and with quite a sweat building up. I’d just set the Cotswold’s rambling record for getting around Lake 6 in the shortest time possible. I’d even managed this after declaring that I could see a shortcut against Jo’s advice, only to have to double back from a dead end shortly afterwards right into her smiling face. None the less we’d made it round the lake so I’d done my side of the bargain!
A very pleasant dip in the spa and it was time for dinner. We had a very nice meal and some good wine whilst getting somewhat distracted by a ‘Hen’. There were a couple of Hen nights going on, the one on our left was full of girls and quite boisterous, the one on our right was somewhat different. A glum looking girl in very normal clothes but with a veil on sat quietly with two friends. I’d wondered to myself if she had originally had more people with her but they had defected to the other more fun looking Hen. Then I noticed that she was crying. Jo quickly looked up as I discretely grabbed her attention by banging my fork on my glass and then pointing. From that point on we were caught up in our first soap opera Hen night.
The Hen’s two friends appeared to barely pay attention, continuing to eat their meals in the same quiet manner that they had been doing before whilst she slowly dried the tears up from her eyes, whilst talking on the phone. I was just beginning to think that it might just be a ‘Women’s thing’, bad timing on her bodies part as far as the Hen night goes but potentially good news for the Wedding night, when it continued down the soap opera route. Two fellas walked in and one went right up to her. A moments chat and she got up and walked round the corner looking quite vexed. Again her friends just sat there eating, they didn’t look like they were new to big meals so I imagined that the only conversation they were having was to discuss if the Hen was likely to eat her sausages and if not should they really be allowed to go to waste? At one point one of the girls looked longingly down the hall at the other Hen party, but soon put her head back down when she realised that her friend had used the moment’s lack of concentration to grab the last bit of bread.
Eventually our girl walked back in, sat down and cried again, one of her friends put her arm around her whilst the other scooped up some mash from her plate and dumped it on her own. What was going on? Jo and I were split on our accounts of the event.
Jo – ever the romantic – guessed that the man that had turned up was her true love, the man that she had wanted all along but who had been unable to commit. At this late hour he’d finally woken up and was there to tell her that he loved her. His Brother, the man who she had been forced to settle with but didn’t really love, was only interested in her as a trophy and would never be right, so why doesn’t she come with him to Paris. His early morning Eurostar was booked and left the station at 6 – all she had to do was turn up and they could be happy forever raising their little enfants! Would she go? Would she follow her heart or go ahead with the wedding that has been booked for so long , and so many people had worked on, would his disabled brother really get over it so easily? We will never know because suddenly there were drums and a picture of the Thames blocked our view!
As I’m much more cynical I decided that the man in question was the fiancé. His controlling manner caused by jealousy and lack of trust. Ever since that episode when he’d come home early to find his brother in the shower he’d found trust hard to come by. He’d eventually accepted the explanation that the Brother had popped round because his own shower was leaking through dodgy bath seal but had never really felt comfortable with it. And so now he won’t let her out of his sight and always turns up to take control whenever she was away. His Sisters always accompanied her as part of the deal and it was they who sat with her now. None of her real friends would come because he had single-handedly managed to remove them from her life one by one with his accusations and nasty manner. He was hear now accusing her of giving the waiter a come on and telling her that if she’s going to eat pudding as well as those sausages then she won’t be able to fit into the Wedding dress he’d chosen for her and will look fat on the photo’s. Then he ran out and had a fight with the bar man because he’d misunderstood completely when our girl had told him that the barman gave her a great Sex on the Beach.
We never found out the truth, which is a shame – if we’d seen her the next morning I may have had to go and ask. I hope it’s nothing too bad though and she sorts it out because if I’m right – and all the soaps I’ve ever seen say I must be – she will never be happy. If Jo’s right – and all the chick flicks she has ever seen tells her she must be – then it’s the poor disabled brother who loses both his family and the last woman he will ever be able to trust who will ever be happy. Either way it’s not good.
Never mind Summer Bay, Erinsborough, Walford or Weatherfield you want real action then go to the Cotswolds!
It went very nicely, the kids were safely dropped of at Grandma’s with barely a bruise this time. We have developed a good system for deploying the kids at their Grandparents for events like this over the years. Jo climbs in the back of the car, as I slow down to about 10MPH. 5 meters from their drive I put the green light on and release the child locks, Jo opens the door up and throws a bag of Jelly Tots out. The boys dive out after the sweets and the last thing I see in my rear view mirror are my kids locked in fierce unarmed combat on Grandpa’s front lawn over the single bag of sweets, this makes enough noise to ensure that the door is opened quickly; it’s not safe to leave the kids unattended in the street so I fire off a blast of the horn as a double check and floor it as soon as Jo has climbed back in the front and strapped in. With the kids safely in their Grandparents care we were away.
The drive was easy enough and the mood was still good. The Sat-Nav yet again proving its value in marital relations. No stress in finding places – no one to blame for missed turnings or for not taking “the best route” makes driving so more relaxed. So there were no navigational arguments to spoil the mood this time. Jo proved invaluable again at reminding me when to break or when I was driving too fast, after 11 years of driving with Jo I have completely lost the use of my own opinion. Nowadays I do not drive anywhere alone as I fear I have no way of knowing that a car ½ a mile further up the road is breaking.
Arrival at the hotel was great, straight in to the room even though were there way before the stated check in time and the place looked every bit as nice as the internet had promised. We had a quick tasty lunch at a Gastro Pub which was very nice (what exactly is a Gastro Pub – what makes it different to a restaurant?) and then went to explore. The Cotswold Nature Centre turned out to just be a café with some leaflets near the door so we didn’t learn a lot there and then Jo spotted a shop so she dived in, this was fine as I knew full well that Jo had left here wallet in the room.
“Let’s go for a walk!” Jo declared, I pointed out that we had just walked from the pub to the shop and the hotel was at least a 5 minute walk away now so surely this had been covered, but Jo was having none of it. “No a proper walk, its lovely here - come on let’s go around the lake, we’ll enjoy a nice bit of country and then we can go back up to the room for a lie down if you like?” Now, I’m not the world’s foremost expert on picking up signals from women, but even I got that one. 10 minutes later and we were closing in on the hotel panting and with quite a sweat building up. I’d just set the Cotswold’s rambling record for getting around Lake 6 in the shortest time possible. I’d even managed this after declaring that I could see a shortcut against Jo’s advice, only to have to double back from a dead end shortly afterwards right into her smiling face. None the less we’d made it round the lake so I’d done my side of the bargain!
A very pleasant dip in the spa and it was time for dinner. We had a very nice meal and some good wine whilst getting somewhat distracted by a ‘Hen’. There were a couple of Hen nights going on, the one on our left was full of girls and quite boisterous, the one on our right was somewhat different. A glum looking girl in very normal clothes but with a veil on sat quietly with two friends. I’d wondered to myself if she had originally had more people with her but they had defected to the other more fun looking Hen. Then I noticed that she was crying. Jo quickly looked up as I discretely grabbed her attention by banging my fork on my glass and then pointing. From that point on we were caught up in our first soap opera Hen night.
The Hen’s two friends appeared to barely pay attention, continuing to eat their meals in the same quiet manner that they had been doing before whilst she slowly dried the tears up from her eyes, whilst talking on the phone. I was just beginning to think that it might just be a ‘Women’s thing’, bad timing on her bodies part as far as the Hen night goes but potentially good news for the Wedding night, when it continued down the soap opera route. Two fellas walked in and one went right up to her. A moments chat and she got up and walked round the corner looking quite vexed. Again her friends just sat there eating, they didn’t look like they were new to big meals so I imagined that the only conversation they were having was to discuss if the Hen was likely to eat her sausages and if not should they really be allowed to go to waste? At one point one of the girls looked longingly down the hall at the other Hen party, but soon put her head back down when she realised that her friend had used the moment’s lack of concentration to grab the last bit of bread.
Eventually our girl walked back in, sat down and cried again, one of her friends put her arm around her whilst the other scooped up some mash from her plate and dumped it on her own. What was going on? Jo and I were split on our accounts of the event.
Jo – ever the romantic – guessed that the man that had turned up was her true love, the man that she had wanted all along but who had been unable to commit. At this late hour he’d finally woken up and was there to tell her that he loved her. His Brother, the man who she had been forced to settle with but didn’t really love, was only interested in her as a trophy and would never be right, so why doesn’t she come with him to Paris. His early morning Eurostar was booked and left the station at 6 – all she had to do was turn up and they could be happy forever raising their little enfants! Would she go? Would she follow her heart or go ahead with the wedding that has been booked for so long , and so many people had worked on, would his disabled brother really get over it so easily? We will never know because suddenly there were drums and a picture of the Thames blocked our view!
As I’m much more cynical I decided that the man in question was the fiancé. His controlling manner caused by jealousy and lack of trust. Ever since that episode when he’d come home early to find his brother in the shower he’d found trust hard to come by. He’d eventually accepted the explanation that the Brother had popped round because his own shower was leaking through dodgy bath seal but had never really felt comfortable with it. And so now he won’t let her out of his sight and always turns up to take control whenever she was away. His Sisters always accompanied her as part of the deal and it was they who sat with her now. None of her real friends would come because he had single-handedly managed to remove them from her life one by one with his accusations and nasty manner. He was hear now accusing her of giving the waiter a come on and telling her that if she’s going to eat pudding as well as those sausages then she won’t be able to fit into the Wedding dress he’d chosen for her and will look fat on the photo’s. Then he ran out and had a fight with the bar man because he’d misunderstood completely when our girl had told him that the barman gave her a great Sex on the Beach.
We never found out the truth, which is a shame – if we’d seen her the next morning I may have had to go and ask. I hope it’s nothing too bad though and she sorts it out because if I’m right – and all the soaps I’ve ever seen say I must be – she will never be happy. If Jo’s right – and all the chick flicks she has ever seen tells her she must be – then it’s the poor disabled brother who loses both his family and the last woman he will ever be able to trust who will ever be happy. Either way it’s not good.
Never mind Summer Bay, Erinsborough, Walford or Weatherfield you want real action then go to the Cotswolds!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)