Dear Camelot,
I have been a loyal customer of yours since you first started operating in 1994. I’ve never felt the need to write to you before but I feel that I have reached the very end of my tether.
How long can I be expected to put up with the ridiculous manner in which you treat your customers with such disdain? Why is that week after week you seem to think you can pocket my hard earned cash without ever thinking you should provide anything like an acceptable level of service in return?
Every week, for 14 years, I have ticked my 6 numbers, paid you my money and walked away clutching your so called Lottery ticket, with an ever diminishing feeling of excitement. Slowly but surely I have lost all hope, now I just feel dirty.
“Ah but” you say, “a small percentage of your pound goes to good causes”, and so I have to think that I’d be robbing some homeless drug addicts of their right to see a Lottery funded play, staged on a floating ice rink on the Thames, involving a group of naked librarians singing Frank Sinatra hits to prove a point about Banker’s greed.
As much as I do feel sorry at depriving the already deprived of the simple pleasure of seeing ‘My Way – on Ice’ I still think that my investment with you is not realising the full return that I’d hoped for.
Just the other week I saw your advert promising a jackpot of £4,000,000, only to see the young lady at the Newsagents actually laugh at me. I pre ordered my copy of Millionaires Monthly at the same time as purchasing my ticket, and for some reason she thought this was amusing. Sure enough a week later her mockery was proven to be correct as my pound disappeared up your ever expanding backside. How she loved the moment when she pointed out that I wouldn’t get my deposit back on the magazine subscription. I shall no longer be buying my tickets at ‘Mags and Fags’ by the station, I can assure you.
My calculator tells me that I have spent approximately £1000 pounds on your little pink tickets (I have also been fooled into buying the Wednesday tickets for quite a few years now as well). And yet the calculator has also reported that in return for this investment I have received a total of £103.20p so far.
What part of £4,000,000 does £103.20p look like to you exactly?
How can you not be in violation of trades descriptions laws?
Therefore I am now giving you formal notice of my intention to leave your service, and I will send my business to your competitor Gala Bingo.
So if you will return what you still owe me (£3,999,896.80p) we can close this matter on good terms. If you do not return the money you owe me in short order, I will have no choice but to consult my lawyer, who is also a barman at the Prince of Wales pub. I am willing to enter discussions on the compensation sum, but can go no less than my absolute minimum of £896.80p, which is the remainder of the money I have invested with you.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Yours faithfully
Glen.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Ski Cross
I need to tell you something about a new sport I’ve discovered.
Well I say “I’ve discovered”, I suppose the UK has just discovered it, the rest of you probably know about it already.
I have deliberated a bit about writing about an Olympic sport so soon after KB’s Luge article, but decided in the end that a link is better than a wink to a blind bat, so I might as well get on with it!
Britain has discovered Ski Cross, or as it's sometimes called, Skier X (though the X is cross really anyway, so I don’t know why they bother – kids!).
This is truly a sport that makes the Winter Olympics worthwhile, what a thrill! I’m absolutely taken with the sheer stupidity of this sport. The madness and heroic bravery of the athletes involved is monumental.
For anyone who has just come back from trekking along the Amazon dressed as a Tiger, raising cash for the WWF, and is wondering what on Earth I’m talking about I’ll fill you in now.
Ski Cross has formed as a way of bringing the cool back into Skiing, sadly lost since the advent of the board. Snow boards hit the slopes like an avalanche; anyone who is serious about being trendy threw their skis away, chopped the wheels off their skateboard and threw themselves down the mountain. In no time at all snow boarding turned up at the Olympics and the buzz grew. Snowboard Cross added a level of thrill to the timetable that skiing could not, because suddenly the athletes could race each other instead of a clock.
Snowboard Cross is basically 4 Snowboarders racing down the mountain at the same time; they have to negotiate tricky turns and big jumps to amaze the crowds with their mighty skills. Indeed the skill involved is immense, and the crowds lap it up. I’d seen this sport before and was impressed, but I’m not cool and I’ve never really got my head around boarding.
Suddenly the skiers have bitten back, perhaps now we can once again hold a pair of ski poles with pride?
Ski Cross is Snowboard Cross on Speed. They used exactly the same course on Cypress Mountain in both disciplines, for the Vancouver games. The effect was awesome – dare I say ‘rad’? No probably not.
Anyway, what happens is that 4 skiers come down the course at ridiculous breakneck speeds, slipstreaming and overtaking each other on the way. The action happens so fast and furious that your eyes water from refusing to blink, fearing that if you do you will miss something good. Only the first two people across the line go through to the next round and so anyone in the third or fourth positions are the ones to watch. They have nothing to lose (well you and I would say that their lives could be lost, but this does not seem to occur to them) and so the trailing two are generally prepared to do anything to get past. If it means they crash and burn, taking out their fellow athletes then so be it, because they have lost nothing.
What you get is more fast and crazy overtaking action than in Formula 1, and I do love F1. Skis are just not designed to be used like this, taking 3 meter high jumps after a 90 degree bend whilst sitting on top of a completely different person’s pair of skis is just not what they are for. Snowboarders can do that but surely skiers can’t? Well I’m wrong, because they can and they can do it much, much faster.
Schmid, the Swiss athlete who won Gold was super fast, he never made a single mistake and no one could catch him. His win was well deserved, but I have to say that all the action was going on behind him. In every race the excitement lay in seeing who was going to come second. Names such as Flisar, Delbosco & Gavaggio made me lose breath with excitement as they darted about defying physics with their antics.
The whole spectacle was aided by the BBC; I have to praise them for the coverage. I realise there are people all over the world who saw this event who probably think their own coverage was the best, and for all I know they could be right, but still the BBC got it bang on. Our two presenters just kept making me laugh as they contradicted and corrected each other. Ed Lee & Graham Bell were great fun; I’d ask how they could maintain the level of excitement they were showing for so long without dying, if it hadn’t been that I was doing the same.
The best quote I can give you from these guys came at the end of the Men’s final, it goes like this (from memory so not 100% accurate)…
“Oh yes, Ski Cross is so hard it truly is a MAN’s sport”
“Yes, except for the ladies final in two days time”
And that brings me to the Ladies finals. It came as no surprise to me, though it did to my trusty BBC presenters, that the ladies were even wilder and more fun to watch than the men had been. Surely anyone who’s ever had a relationship with a woman knows how barking mad they are, don’t they? The women’s race was made even more interesting because the WuTangs (listen to me talking like I’ve been a fan for years – these are sharp up hill obstacles placed at the start which completely kill speed if taken wrong) proved to be so very much of a challenge.
Time for a reality check, the women are every bit as motivated and skilled as the men, but generally the men are a bit stronger. The WuTangs need strength, and so the women struggled just little that bit more, which opened up the field a bit at the start. It meant that the fastest skier did no always make the first turn first. This made the action so much more competitive, the overtaking so much more frequent. In one race an athlete came from right at the back to go past all three of her competitors, and win.
Ashleigh McIvor was amazing throughout and naturally the fact the she is Canadian sent the crowds in frenzy as she claimed gold. Meanwhile I failed not to laugh every time the commentators mentioned Fanny Smith. Yes I know I’m immature, but come on, who can’t raise a smile hearing about Fanny coming over the WuTangs? It’s even funny in America.
So there you are, I’m converted. Hopefully the BBC will pick up on the huge stir that has been created in my country for this sport; hopefully they will find a way to get it into the schedules. Who knows, maybe even at the next games we could even get a Brit into the finals. This year we had one competitor involved in the Ski Cross but she failed to make the cut for the finals. Come on Britain, we have some nice Mountains in Scotland; surely we can get some courses built and some athletes trained up?
Check out the BBC's site - though I don't think it you can play the videos outside of the UK.
1st two images care of the lovely Google and the last from the BBC.
Well I say “I’ve discovered”, I suppose the UK has just discovered it, the rest of you probably know about it already.
I have deliberated a bit about writing about an Olympic sport so soon after KB’s Luge article, but decided in the end that a link is better than a wink to a blind bat, so I might as well get on with it!
Britain has discovered Ski Cross, or as it's sometimes called, Skier X (though the X is cross really anyway, so I don’t know why they bother – kids!).
This is truly a sport that makes the Winter Olympics worthwhile, what a thrill! I’m absolutely taken with the sheer stupidity of this sport. The madness and heroic bravery of the athletes involved is monumental.
For anyone who has just come back from trekking along the Amazon dressed as a Tiger, raising cash for the WWF, and is wondering what on Earth I’m talking about I’ll fill you in now.
Ski Cross has formed as a way of bringing the cool back into Skiing, sadly lost since the advent of the board. Snow boards hit the slopes like an avalanche; anyone who is serious about being trendy threw their skis away, chopped the wheels off their skateboard and threw themselves down the mountain. In no time at all snow boarding turned up at the Olympics and the buzz grew. Snowboard Cross added a level of thrill to the timetable that skiing could not, because suddenly the athletes could race each other instead of a clock.
Snowboard Cross is basically 4 Snowboarders racing down the mountain at the same time; they have to negotiate tricky turns and big jumps to amaze the crowds with their mighty skills. Indeed the skill involved is immense, and the crowds lap it up. I’d seen this sport before and was impressed, but I’m not cool and I’ve never really got my head around boarding.
Suddenly the skiers have bitten back, perhaps now we can once again hold a pair of ski poles with pride?
Ski Cross is Snowboard Cross on Speed. They used exactly the same course on Cypress Mountain in both disciplines, for the Vancouver games. The effect was awesome – dare I say ‘rad’? No probably not.
Anyway, what happens is that 4 skiers come down the course at ridiculous breakneck speeds, slipstreaming and overtaking each other on the way. The action happens so fast and furious that your eyes water from refusing to blink, fearing that if you do you will miss something good. Only the first two people across the line go through to the next round and so anyone in the third or fourth positions are the ones to watch. They have nothing to lose (well you and I would say that their lives could be lost, but this does not seem to occur to them) and so the trailing two are generally prepared to do anything to get past. If it means they crash and burn, taking out their fellow athletes then so be it, because they have lost nothing.
What you get is more fast and crazy overtaking action than in Formula 1, and I do love F1. Skis are just not designed to be used like this, taking 3 meter high jumps after a 90 degree bend whilst sitting on top of a completely different person’s pair of skis is just not what they are for. Snowboarders can do that but surely skiers can’t? Well I’m wrong, because they can and they can do it much, much faster.
Schmid, the Swiss athlete who won Gold was super fast, he never made a single mistake and no one could catch him. His win was well deserved, but I have to say that all the action was going on behind him. In every race the excitement lay in seeing who was going to come second. Names such as Flisar, Delbosco & Gavaggio made me lose breath with excitement as they darted about defying physics with their antics.
The whole spectacle was aided by the BBC; I have to praise them for the coverage. I realise there are people all over the world who saw this event who probably think their own coverage was the best, and for all I know they could be right, but still the BBC got it bang on. Our two presenters just kept making me laugh as they contradicted and corrected each other. Ed Lee & Graham Bell were great fun; I’d ask how they could maintain the level of excitement they were showing for so long without dying, if it hadn’t been that I was doing the same.
The best quote I can give you from these guys came at the end of the Men’s final, it goes like this (from memory so not 100% accurate)…
“Oh yes, Ski Cross is so hard it truly is a MAN’s sport”
“Yes, except for the ladies final in two days time”
And that brings me to the Ladies finals. It came as no surprise to me, though it did to my trusty BBC presenters, that the ladies were even wilder and more fun to watch than the men had been. Surely anyone who’s ever had a relationship with a woman knows how barking mad they are, don’t they? The women’s race was made even more interesting because the WuTangs (listen to me talking like I’ve been a fan for years – these are sharp up hill obstacles placed at the start which completely kill speed if taken wrong) proved to be so very much of a challenge.
Time for a reality check, the women are every bit as motivated and skilled as the men, but generally the men are a bit stronger. The WuTangs need strength, and so the women struggled just little that bit more, which opened up the field a bit at the start. It meant that the fastest skier did no always make the first turn first. This made the action so much more competitive, the overtaking so much more frequent. In one race an athlete came from right at the back to go past all three of her competitors, and win.
Ashleigh McIvor was amazing throughout and naturally the fact the she is Canadian sent the crowds in frenzy as she claimed gold. Meanwhile I failed not to laugh every time the commentators mentioned Fanny Smith. Yes I know I’m immature, but come on, who can’t raise a smile hearing about Fanny coming over the WuTangs? It’s even funny in America.
So there you are, I’m converted. Hopefully the BBC will pick up on the huge stir that has been created in my country for this sport; hopefully they will find a way to get it into the schedules. Who knows, maybe even at the next games we could even get a Brit into the finals. This year we had one competitor involved in the Ski Cross but she failed to make the cut for the finals. Come on Britain, we have some nice Mountains in Scotland; surely we can get some courses built and some athletes trained up?
Check out the BBC's site - though I don't think it you can play the videos outside of the UK.
1st two images care of the lovely Google and the last from the BBC.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Coughs and colds
At three O’clock the other morning I woke with a start. I was facing one of those surreal parenting moments that leave you trying to work out whether you love your children more than ever, or if frankly you wouldn’t mind a week off!
It was Monday night and whilst skipping and hopping his way home from school my five year old was also coughing occasionally. His cough got a little worse as the evening wore on but nothing specific. Of course as 5 year olds still have very little skill at blowing their nose (well mine doesn’t) by the time he had been laid out in bed for a while the coughing had intensified into nearly a full blown case of Man Flu.
Not long after Jo and I had gone to bed he awoke and so dragged myself out of bed and administered some paracetamol and Vicks and made an attempt to extract some phlegm using the tightly coiled tissue up the nostril method, as first demonstrated on Sir Isaac Newton’s blog “Gravity Matters” I believe. Whilst holding Jamie down in a Half Nelson and trying to force a pointed bit of toilet roll up his nose, I reminded him over and over that this was for his own good! Eventually I managed to fill up the bath with snot and decided to put that fact into my blind spot, hoping that Jo would unblock the plug in the morning when she had her shower.
Thus, emptied and dosed up with medicine, I sent Jamie back off to bed, patting myself on the back for my Fathering prowess.
Later I completely slept through and missed the following, but here is what happened.
Sometime around 2 O’clock, Jo awoke to the sounds of her baby crying. When she went into him he was really upset and said that he was really sad. Jo’s maternal instincts kicked in and mixed with her many years training and experience as a teacher, so she pressed him for more information.
Jamie was sad because no one likes him, and this made him feel lonely. Jo instantly recognised the signs of a disturbed child disclosing a problem and so she knew exactly how to go forward with this. Worrying that all was not as well as we thought at his school, Jo asked him to say why he thought no one liked him. “No one is talking to me, I feel really lonely!” Jamie sobbed as he spoke and broke his Mother’s heart. Jo started working out how to get this problem sorted, what conversations she would need to have with his teacher and what plans could be put in place to resolve the problem.
Eventually Jo asked, “Has this just started happening today, or is it everyday at school that no one talks to you?”
Jamie stopped sobbing for a moment and looked at Jo as if she had just asked him if Barak Obama was coming for tea, “Not at School! – Here, now! Nobody was talking to me!”
Jo stalled for a moment before recovering with, “of course no one was talking to you, it’s the middle of the night and we were all asleep!”
It still took a while to console Jamie, he had to get his head around the fact that the reason no one was answering his questions was because they weren’t awake. Slowly he drifted back off to sleep and Jo returned to bed giggling.
This brings me back to the start, because at 3 O’clock I awoke, suddenly aware that I was not alone. There was a little face planted right up to my own, little hands cuddling my shoulders. This gave me a lovely few seconds as I remembered how lucky I am to have this, and revel in the feeling of utter love and trust.
As the seconds ticked by though, my brain started to catch up and overtake my heart. My eyes were jumping up and down trying to get attention because they could see the clock. Three parps on a fog horn later, my brain woke up and read the message from the eyes about the time, and the bubble was burst. I was just about to mention the time to Jamie and point out that I had to get up for work in 4 hours time, when he did what only a child can do.
He coughed.
In my face.
Right up close into my face, the little git.
Jamie didn’t bother with hands covering or turning away, just blatantly breeched all coughing etiquette protocols. I was silenced of course, it’s horrible when your kids are ill, you just want to cuddle them and make it all better. When a five year old is snuggled right up to your face coughing at you, there is just not much you can do but wait it out.
So we laid there, both of us dropping in and out of sleep every few minutes for the rest of the night. I acted as a human shield to keep the coughing away from Jo (this wasn’t me being noble, I had no choice. It would have been more appropriate to say Jo used me as a shield).
In the morning Jamie seemed fine but was still coughing. I could see that though he was awake enough at that time, there would be no way he would last a full day at school. Luckily I was able to work at home and so I did so, and Jamie stayed home with me, sleeping after lunch.
By the time it was bed time Jamie was much better and, after topping him up with Calpol, Vicks and Olbas Oil, we tucked him into bed. Happily, Jamie slept all night and was absolutely fine in the morning.
Mind you, I’m feeling a little rough…
It was Monday night and whilst skipping and hopping his way home from school my five year old was also coughing occasionally. His cough got a little worse as the evening wore on but nothing specific. Of course as 5 year olds still have very little skill at blowing their nose (well mine doesn’t) by the time he had been laid out in bed for a while the coughing had intensified into nearly a full blown case of Man Flu.
Not long after Jo and I had gone to bed he awoke and so dragged myself out of bed and administered some paracetamol and Vicks and made an attempt to extract some phlegm using the tightly coiled tissue up the nostril method, as first demonstrated on Sir Isaac Newton’s blog “Gravity Matters” I believe. Whilst holding Jamie down in a Half Nelson and trying to force a pointed bit of toilet roll up his nose, I reminded him over and over that this was for his own good! Eventually I managed to fill up the bath with snot and decided to put that fact into my blind spot, hoping that Jo would unblock the plug in the morning when she had her shower.
Thus, emptied and dosed up with medicine, I sent Jamie back off to bed, patting myself on the back for my Fathering prowess.
Later I completely slept through and missed the following, but here is what happened.
Sometime around 2 O’clock, Jo awoke to the sounds of her baby crying. When she went into him he was really upset and said that he was really sad. Jo’s maternal instincts kicked in and mixed with her many years training and experience as a teacher, so she pressed him for more information.
Jamie was sad because no one likes him, and this made him feel lonely. Jo instantly recognised the signs of a disturbed child disclosing a problem and so she knew exactly how to go forward with this. Worrying that all was not as well as we thought at his school, Jo asked him to say why he thought no one liked him. “No one is talking to me, I feel really lonely!” Jamie sobbed as he spoke and broke his Mother’s heart. Jo started working out how to get this problem sorted, what conversations she would need to have with his teacher and what plans could be put in place to resolve the problem.
Eventually Jo asked, “Has this just started happening today, or is it everyday at school that no one talks to you?”
Jamie stopped sobbing for a moment and looked at Jo as if she had just asked him if Barak Obama was coming for tea, “Not at School! – Here, now! Nobody was talking to me!”
Jo stalled for a moment before recovering with, “of course no one was talking to you, it’s the middle of the night and we were all asleep!”
It still took a while to console Jamie, he had to get his head around the fact that the reason no one was answering his questions was because they weren’t awake. Slowly he drifted back off to sleep and Jo returned to bed giggling.
This brings me back to the start, because at 3 O’clock I awoke, suddenly aware that I was not alone. There was a little face planted right up to my own, little hands cuddling my shoulders. This gave me a lovely few seconds as I remembered how lucky I am to have this, and revel in the feeling of utter love and trust.
As the seconds ticked by though, my brain started to catch up and overtake my heart. My eyes were jumping up and down trying to get attention because they could see the clock. Three parps on a fog horn later, my brain woke up and read the message from the eyes about the time, and the bubble was burst. I was just about to mention the time to Jamie and point out that I had to get up for work in 4 hours time, when he did what only a child can do.
He coughed.
In my face.
Right up close into my face, the little git.
Jamie didn’t bother with hands covering or turning away, just blatantly breeched all coughing etiquette protocols. I was silenced of course, it’s horrible when your kids are ill, you just want to cuddle them and make it all better. When a five year old is snuggled right up to your face coughing at you, there is just not much you can do but wait it out.
So we laid there, both of us dropping in and out of sleep every few minutes for the rest of the night. I acted as a human shield to keep the coughing away from Jo (this wasn’t me being noble, I had no choice. It would have been more appropriate to say Jo used me as a shield).
In the morning Jamie seemed fine but was still coughing. I could see that though he was awake enough at that time, there would be no way he would last a full day at school. Luckily I was able to work at home and so I did so, and Jamie stayed home with me, sleeping after lunch.
By the time it was bed time Jamie was much better and, after topping him up with Calpol, Vicks and Olbas Oil, we tucked him into bed. Happily, Jamie slept all night and was absolutely fine in the morning.
Mind you, I’m feeling a little rough…
Monday, February 22, 2010
kids never walk
I’ve just picked my boys up from school and they have reminded me, yet again, how much I miss being a kid.
The three years that separate them is a massive gap when it comes to how different they are, but still they capture everything that is great about not being an adult.
Daniel walks along chirpily telling me everything about his day. His excitement at his current Greek Mythology topic, bubbles out of him like an overfilled glass of lemonade. I hear all about a picture he has drawn of Medusa, as well as a step by step account of lunch (tomato pasta). He is clearly tired but happy because his picture came out well; all he is worrying about now is if he will be able to watch T.V. when he gets home. How nice is life when the only worry you have is whether or not you will be able to watch CBBC when you get home, rather than CBEEBIES when it’s Jamie’s turn to choose, or worse – NOTHING!
Jamie, meanwhile, really made me laugh. He is such a 5 year old sometimes! All the way home Jamie did anything, anything at all except walk; he ran, he hopped, he skipped, he bounced, he flew (like an aeroplane with his arms as wings), but he absolutely never walked.
Occasionally Jamie would bend down and pick up some snow. Holding snow in his hand would just make him laugh. The coldness and the wetness of the snow proved to be hysterical, especially when he then threw it at me. As suddenly as he had stopped to pick up the snow, Jamie would start skipping again, with absolutely not a single care in the world. How nice is that?
Maybe I can’t go back in time and be a child again, and perhaps it’s not a bad thing, mainly because there are some perks to being an adult that I’m not sure I want to give up (I get to choose what breakfast cereals we have – sometimes)! Luckily I don’t need a time machine – I’ve got my two boys instead!
The three years that separate them is a massive gap when it comes to how different they are, but still they capture everything that is great about not being an adult.
Daniel walks along chirpily telling me everything about his day. His excitement at his current Greek Mythology topic, bubbles out of him like an overfilled glass of lemonade. I hear all about a picture he has drawn of Medusa, as well as a step by step account of lunch (tomato pasta). He is clearly tired but happy because his picture came out well; all he is worrying about now is if he will be able to watch T.V. when he gets home. How nice is life when the only worry you have is whether or not you will be able to watch CBBC when you get home, rather than CBEEBIES when it’s Jamie’s turn to choose, or worse – NOTHING!
Jamie, meanwhile, really made me laugh. He is such a 5 year old sometimes! All the way home Jamie did anything, anything at all except walk; he ran, he hopped, he skipped, he bounced, he flew (like an aeroplane with his arms as wings), but he absolutely never walked.
Occasionally Jamie would bend down and pick up some snow. Holding snow in his hand would just make him laugh. The coldness and the wetness of the snow proved to be hysterical, especially when he then threw it at me. As suddenly as he had stopped to pick up the snow, Jamie would start skipping again, with absolutely not a single care in the world. How nice is that?
Maybe I can’t go back in time and be a child again, and perhaps it’s not a bad thing, mainly because there are some perks to being an adult that I’m not sure I want to give up (I get to choose what breakfast cereals we have – sometimes)! Luckily I don’t need a time machine – I’ve got my two boys instead!
Friday, February 19, 2010
My week off
Hello again, only me! A whole week off writing – well deserved I think.
The reasons for the break are varied but, at the end of the day, are only excuses. People with much busier lives than me manage to spare time to write something.
For me though I’ve enjoyed spending a bit of time focussing on some slightly more important matters – namely my family and my home.
It’s half term holidays here in Oxfordshire and so my boys and my wife have been milling about the house with nothing to do. Feeling sorry for their plight, I decided to take charge of the situation. As a result I took three days off work and set to work having some quality time instead! On top of that I decided to have a break from doing my blog related chores too. I realise this has left almost millions of people in the lurch with nothing to read, half of the population of the planet flapping about the internet with nothing to do. Perhaps I should have set an ‘Out Of Office’ message directing people to KB’s Wanderlust while I was away.
The first job of the break was the apple tree. This was planned well in advance and my p
arents were booked in to come and visit, my Dad buying a chainsaw via my blog specifically for the job – thanks Dad!
And so it was that with absolutely no tree surgeon’s knowledge or experience whatsoever, I shimmied my way up an entirely overgrown apple tree and set to work. I call it Extreme Pruning, and this is very much the way it went as branch after branch fell. My mighty chainsaw prowess impressed literally no one. Somehow I survived without needing to ring ‘dodgy accident lawyers for you’. It would have been a shame to sue my own Father for the irresponsible way he failed to supply the correct ladder, but where there is blame…
In fact I did manage to fall off the ladder at one point, luckily before I was passed the chainsaw. My wrist is still in pain, undoubtedly sprained but I guess it’s too late to claim now. Apart from that I had one branch swing into my face and countless others bounce off my head, but all in all I survived, which is possibly more than the tree can say!
Certainly the small apple tree at the bottom of the garden failed to make it. It’s rotten, dead branches were producing rotten fruit and so Jo read it the Last Rites and I put my black mask on and carried out my grizzly duty. It’s odd; I don’t think I’ve ever deliberately killed anything before (except ants, and mosquitoes) and it really did make me feel a little sad once the excitement of manfully fulfilling Michael Palin’s dream had worn off.
We toiled for three days, the whole family joining in but especially my Dad who absolutely revelled in having something to do and put hours of back breaking, blistering work into cutting up the branches into small enough pieces to transport. By Monday lunch we were finished and the garden was clear of mess. My parents went home and we regrouped to start having a bit of family fun.
‘Family Fun’ involved going to Portsmouth for the day, via Portchester Castle. I lived in Portsmouth on bases and on ships for the better part of 4 years plus another couple not too far away in Fareham so it came as a real shock for me to discover Portchester Castle. I assume it’s a new attraction that has been built since I was last there in 1998! I suppose your interests change as you get older and more responsible; funnily enough I was too busy in the Ship & Castle to bother going to see a real one.
Should you be into castles, or at least into family days out, then I can recommend this one. It’s in great condition and in the Keep you are able to get right up onto the roof giving amazing views of the harbour. You really can close your eyes and imagine the Romans looking out here feeling very well defended (if a little cold). Inside you find out that the Keep was used a prison as recently as the 1860’s and again you can really picture the conditions they were kept in. I truly had a bit of a moment! Then I stopped having it as the boys were trying to draw on the mural the owners had painstakingly restored.
The reasons for the break are varied but, at the end of the day, are only excuses. People with much busier lives than me manage to spare time to write something.
For me though I’ve enjoyed spending a bit of time focussing on some slightly more important matters – namely my family and my home.
It’s half term holidays here in Oxfordshire and so my boys and my wife have been milling about the house with nothing to do. Feeling sorry for their plight, I decided to take charge of the situation. As a result I took three days off work and set to work having some quality time instead! On top of that I decided to have a break from doing my blog related chores too. I realise this has left almost millions of people in the lurch with nothing to read, half of the population of the planet flapping about the internet with nothing to do. Perhaps I should have set an ‘Out Of Office’ message directing people to KB’s Wanderlust while I was away.
The first job of the break was the apple tree. This was planned well in advance and my p
arents were booked in to come and visit, my Dad buying a chainsaw via my blog specifically for the job – thanks Dad!And so it was that with absolutely no tree surgeon’s knowledge or experience whatsoever, I shimmied my way up an entirely overgrown apple tree and set to work. I call it Extreme Pruning, and this is very much the way it went as branch after branch fell. My mighty chainsaw prowess impressed literally no one. Somehow I survived without needing to ring ‘dodgy accident lawyers for you’. It would have been a shame to sue my own Father for the irresponsible way he failed to supply the correct ladder, but where there is blame…
In fact I did manage to fall off the ladder at one point, luckily before I was passed the chainsaw. My wrist is still in pain, undoubtedly sprained but I guess it’s too late to claim now. Apart from that I had one branch swing into my face and countless others bounce off my head, but all in all I survived, which is possibly more than the tree can say!
Certainly the small apple tree at the bottom of the garden failed to make it. It’s rotten, dead branches were producing rotten fruit and so Jo read it the Last Rites and I put my black mask on and carried out my grizzly duty. It’s odd; I don’t think I’ve ever deliberately killed anything before (except ants, and mosquitoes) and it really did make me feel a little sad once the excitement of manfully fulfilling Michael Palin’s dream had worn off.
We toiled for three days, the whole family joining in but especially my Dad who absolutely revelled in having something to do and put hours of back breaking, blistering work into cutting up the branches into small enough pieces to transport. By Monday lunch we were finished and the garden was clear of mess. My parents went home and we regrouped to start having a bit of family fun.
‘Family Fun’ involved going to Portsmouth for the day, via Portchester Castle. I lived in Portsmouth on bases and on ships for the better part of 4 years plus another couple not too far away in Fareham so it came as a real shock for me to discover Portchester Castle. I assume it’s a new attraction that has been built since I was last there in 1998! I suppose your interests change as you get older and more responsible; funnily enough I was too busy in the Ship & Castle to bother going to see a real one.
Should you be into castles, or at least into family days out, then I can recommend this one. It’s in great condition and in the Keep you are able to get right up onto the roof giving amazing views of the harbour. You really can close your eyes and imagine the Romans looking out here feeling very well defended (if a little cold). Inside you find out that the Keep was used a prison as recently as the 1860’s and again you can really picture the conditions they were kept in. I truly had a bit of a moment! Then I stopped having it as the boys were trying to draw on the mural the owners had painstakingly restored.
We went into Portsmouth to carry out the cunning part of the plan. Last March we visited Portsmouth and were talked into buying an annual pass. This allowed the whole family into all the attractions in the Historic Dockyard (Mary Rose, Warrior, Museums, Harbour tour etc.). Some of the attractions were one visit only but most were unlimited visits. Needless to say we never went back to re use the ticket. I realised this recently and so I declared that we would get some value out of our ticket before it expires.
It was with some feeling of despair that I heard Jo ask, as I confidently marched into the Dockyard, “Did you bring the ticket?”
Ah
The ticket was still pinned to the notice board at home, where it had sat for the last year. I was about to get the first clue of the week as to how cunning and sly my wife can be. Sometimes I wonder if Jo is really British. There is something not right about the way she will never put up with the rubbish that she is dealt with. Quick as a flash, Jo marched up to the counter, out of my earshot, with a look of fierce determination on her face. There was no way she was coming all this way and not be able to use the missing ticket.
Seconds later Jo returned waving a ticket in the air, her smile brightening the room like a thousand candles. It turns out that because we said “yes” to giving the tax to them as Gift Aid, they had all our details on record. It only took a moment for them to confirm that we were genuine ticket holders. We were away and soon aboard H.M.S. Warrior, a beautifully restored Naval Warship of the 1800’s.
I should point out that a day later Jo defied all odds by managing to replace her handbag in the most unlikely scenario ever. Just after Christmas, Jo had decided to treat herself to a new handbag; several weeks of hinting had been completely missed by her devoted husband! Jo had lost the receipt, but less than a month after purchase the handle had snapped. Jo was gutted, this was quite an expensive bag, much more so than she would normally consider. A few more weeks passed without an opportunity to get to the store that the bag came from, and I for one had written it off. My wife, however, is a formidable opponent for any chain store. The day after Portsmouth Jo got her chance and headed off to Debenhams. Very quickly she convinced them that she had bought the bag too recently for the snap and wanted to replace it. They accepted her story (after all it was true) and said she could replace it with a bag up to the same value of the original bag. Jo looked but could not find the same bag as before and eventually found one she liked £10 less than the original. The upshot of all this is that Jo now has a new bag and a £10 gift voucher out of a scenario that I would never have dreamed could possibly work. If that isn’t amazing enough, Jo got home and then ‘remembered’ that she had forgotten to mention that she originally bought the bag during a sale!
Any way, the rest of the week has gone, the fun continued when I wound up having to sleep on the sofa downstairs because the boys remembered a promise from ages ago about letting them sleep on the sofa bed in the lounge. However they were too scared to sleep downstairs on their own! The things we Dads wind up having to do!
So I’m back at work, and now I’m settling back into my other life. The Internet can relax.
It was with some feeling of despair that I heard Jo ask, as I confidently marched into the Dockyard, “Did you bring the ticket?”
Ah
The ticket was still pinned to the notice board at home, where it had sat for the last year. I was about to get the first clue of the week as to how cunning and sly my wife can be. Sometimes I wonder if Jo is really British. There is something not right about the way she will never put up with the rubbish that she is dealt with. Quick as a flash, Jo marched up to the counter, out of my earshot, with a look of fierce determination on her face. There was no way she was coming all this way and not be able to use the missing ticket.
Seconds later Jo returned waving a ticket in the air, her smile brightening the room like a thousand candles. It turns out that because we said “yes” to giving the tax to them as Gift Aid, they had all our details on record. It only took a moment for them to confirm that we were genuine ticket holders. We were away and soon aboard H.M.S. Warrior, a beautifully restored Naval Warship of the 1800’s.
I should point out that a day later Jo defied all odds by managing to replace her handbag in the most unlikely scenario ever. Just after Christmas, Jo had decided to treat herself to a new handbag; several weeks of hinting had been completely missed by her devoted husband! Jo had lost the receipt, but less than a month after purchase the handle had snapped. Jo was gutted, this was quite an expensive bag, much more so than she would normally consider. A few more weeks passed without an opportunity to get to the store that the bag came from, and I for one had written it off. My wife, however, is a formidable opponent for any chain store. The day after Portsmouth Jo got her chance and headed off to Debenhams. Very quickly she convinced them that she had bought the bag too recently for the snap and wanted to replace it. They accepted her story (after all it was true) and said she could replace it with a bag up to the same value of the original bag. Jo looked but could not find the same bag as before and eventually found one she liked £10 less than the original. The upshot of all this is that Jo now has a new bag and a £10 gift voucher out of a scenario that I would never have dreamed could possibly work. If that isn’t amazing enough, Jo got home and then ‘remembered’ that she had forgotten to mention that she originally bought the bag during a sale!
Any way, the rest of the week has gone, the fun continued when I wound up having to sleep on the sofa downstairs because the boys remembered a promise from ages ago about letting them sleep on the sofa bed in the lounge. However they were too scared to sleep downstairs on their own! The things we Dads wind up having to do!
So I’m back at work, and now I’m settling back into my other life. The Internet can relax.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Friday fun
Quick bit of fun for Friday.
Check out my mate Craig's You Tube video of his lads’ night in.
I think all Dads will appreciate the moment when you are finally trusted to be left alone with your child.
Mums will appreciate the feeling of going out with your friends for the first time after becoming a Mum, safe in the knowledge that your child is being looked after!
Have a great weekend.
Check out my mate Craig's You Tube video of his lads’ night in.
I think all Dads will appreciate the moment when you are finally trusted to be left alone with your child.
Mums will appreciate the feeling of going out with your friends for the first time after becoming a Mum, safe in the knowledge that your child is being looked after!
Have a great weekend.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
The Britannia Hotel - Canary Wharf
Tonight I’m going to be doing some late work through the night, and so I’ve got myself settled into a nice hotel room near Canary Wharf in London’s Docklands.
I won’t get the job finished until after my last train has left, and though I can – and will – be doing the work remotely, I need to be within a very short distance of where the equipment is in case there are any problems.
Hence I’m in the Britannia Hotel. This is a very nice hotel, but kind of odd. The hotel was only built and opened in 1992, but once you walk in through the modern, sky scraping façade, you would think that the place had not been decorated since 1892!
There is a real feeling of a lack of maintenance here. Wallpaper is peeling; wooden panelling is battered and chipped. In a genuinely old, historic hotel, these things are quite nice and authentic but here they just seem wrong. It is a real shame too because so far the service has been first rate.
The girl on reception was brilliant and the whole of the reception desk sprung to life when they realised that there was suddenly a queue. In no time at all I was checked in with an unrequested free upgrade to a nice big double room. It is a very big room too, and I was very pleased to find a small pack of biscuits by the coffee, these things are important to me. WI-FI is free and fast, which I love, and I am all set up ready to work in my room, within walking distance of the office.
On arrival, the first thing I did was to go to the spa. Well I say spa, I think if I’d booked this place with the intention of having a luxury spa weekend, I would be absolutely gutted right now. The spiral iron staircase that you have to climb, to access the pool, is yet another hint towards the 1800’s that this hotel wishes it had been built in. The slippery wet steps led to quite a nice pool next to a roped off, dysfunctional Jacuzzi. I wandered past these to go to the steam room, which appeared to be through a room that looked like it should be the steam room itself. I’d spent 2 minutes sitting in this ante room wondering where the steam was when a very helpful employee came along, he politely suggested I go through the next door.
The oddest thing about the actual steam room, the thing that really caught my attention, was how they had managed to create the only cold steam room in the world. I’ve never seen this before and hopefully won’t come across it again. I sat and chuckled, not really knowing what to do. There was no doubt about the validity of the steam, the place was soaking wet and I couldn’t see the opposite side of the room for the steam, well I suppose really it was fog. Perhaps in fact I’d misread the sign, and this is actually a fog room. I stood shivering, surrounded by fog for five minutes before walking out and trying the sauna instead.
The sauna was fine, or it would have been if it hadn’t been for Dolph Lundgren’s attempt to set the world record for sitting in the hottest sauna. Dolph was massive, easily 7 feet tall and 6 feet wide at the shoulders. This guy works out, I had to admit that his body was marginally in better shape than mine, and I was about to tell him so when I stopped myself. I was about to tell Ivan Drago that his body, that I’d been staring at in a sauna was great! I swiftly had a re think and stared at the ceiling instead. Meanwhile Ivan kept jumping up and pouring ladle after ladle of water on the coals. Why it is that pouring cold water on hot coals makes the room hotter? I don’t know but I was starting to suffer. Yet again he stood up and poured another four ladles on, and my head started to spin. I was sure I could smell roasting chicken coming from my shorts, so I admitted defeat and crawled out shouting for Adrian.
After all this exercise I needed some food. I needed Pizza! The Pizzeria in the hotel beckoned and warmly welcomed me in. Yet again the décor wasn’t quite working; they had tried for a traditional Italian bistro but only managed a cheap Pizza Express. The waiter, however, was superbly attentive and in no time at all my food was ready. Palma Ham, Mozzarella and caramelised onions really complementing each other. I don’t think Raymond Blanc will be losing any sleep, and any self respecting Italian would have been appalled, as it was more of an American pizza than the Italian one that the restaurant’s theme suggested, but none the less it was tasty.
This place may be kind of odd, but I still like it. In fact I think I like its quirkiness. I’m certainly happy with my room, and after some cunning Tom-Foolery on the Internet, I got the room for only £5 more than the budget hotel on the other side of the Docklands, so it’s an absolute bonus frankly.
I won’t get the job finished until after my last train has left, and though I can – and will – be doing the work remotely, I need to be within a very short distance of where the equipment is in case there are any problems.
Hence I’m in the Britannia Hotel. This is a very nice hotel, but kind of odd. The hotel was only built and opened in 1992, but once you walk in through the modern, sky scraping façade, you would think that the place had not been decorated since 1892!
There is a real feeling of a lack of maintenance here. Wallpaper is peeling; wooden panelling is battered and chipped. In a genuinely old, historic hotel, these things are quite nice and authentic but here they just seem wrong. It is a real shame too because so far the service has been first rate.
The girl on reception was brilliant and the whole of the reception desk sprung to life when they realised that there was suddenly a queue. In no time at all I was checked in with an unrequested free upgrade to a nice big double room. It is a very big room too, and I was very pleased to find a small pack of biscuits by the coffee, these things are important to me. WI-FI is free and fast, which I love, and I am all set up ready to work in my room, within walking distance of the office.
On arrival, the first thing I did was to go to the spa. Well I say spa, I think if I’d booked this place with the intention of having a luxury spa weekend, I would be absolutely gutted right now. The spiral iron staircase that you have to climb, to access the pool, is yet another hint towards the 1800’s that this hotel wishes it had been built in. The slippery wet steps led to quite a nice pool next to a roped off, dysfunctional Jacuzzi. I wandered past these to go to the steam room, which appeared to be through a room that looked like it should be the steam room itself. I’d spent 2 minutes sitting in this ante room wondering where the steam was when a very helpful employee came along, he politely suggested I go through the next door.
The oddest thing about the actual steam room, the thing that really caught my attention, was how they had managed to create the only cold steam room in the world. I’ve never seen this before and hopefully won’t come across it again. I sat and chuckled, not really knowing what to do. There was no doubt about the validity of the steam, the place was soaking wet and I couldn’t see the opposite side of the room for the steam, well I suppose really it was fog. Perhaps in fact I’d misread the sign, and this is actually a fog room. I stood shivering, surrounded by fog for five minutes before walking out and trying the sauna instead.
The sauna was fine, or it would have been if it hadn’t been for Dolph Lundgren’s attempt to set the world record for sitting in the hottest sauna. Dolph was massive, easily 7 feet tall and 6 feet wide at the shoulders. This guy works out, I had to admit that his body was marginally in better shape than mine, and I was about to tell him so when I stopped myself. I was about to tell Ivan Drago that his body, that I’d been staring at in a sauna was great! I swiftly had a re think and stared at the ceiling instead. Meanwhile Ivan kept jumping up and pouring ladle after ladle of water on the coals. Why it is that pouring cold water on hot coals makes the room hotter? I don’t know but I was starting to suffer. Yet again he stood up and poured another four ladles on, and my head started to spin. I was sure I could smell roasting chicken coming from my shorts, so I admitted defeat and crawled out shouting for Adrian.
After all this exercise I needed some food. I needed Pizza! The Pizzeria in the hotel beckoned and warmly welcomed me in. Yet again the décor wasn’t quite working; they had tried for a traditional Italian bistro but only managed a cheap Pizza Express. The waiter, however, was superbly attentive and in no time at all my food was ready. Palma Ham, Mozzarella and caramelised onions really complementing each other. I don’t think Raymond Blanc will be losing any sleep, and any self respecting Italian would have been appalled, as it was more of an American pizza than the Italian one that the restaurant’s theme suggested, but none the less it was tasty.
This place may be kind of odd, but I still like it. In fact I think I like its quirkiness. I’m certainly happy with my room, and after some cunning Tom-Foolery on the Internet, I got the room for only £5 more than the budget hotel on the other side of the Docklands, so it’s an absolute bonus frankly.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
"Tips in my G-String, made my living!"
At the weekend, Bobby reminded me of an incident that occurred while we were out in Italy. I’d locked this memory away, deep in the darkest recess of my brain for my own protection. I instantly shook as the memory came back, but then I quickly got over it and laughed. Some things are too funny to get overly stressed about.
The year was 1996 and as a serving military man of 25, I was in the prime of my life. My body was a temple, lean and toned. The Mediterranean sun ensured my skin was permanently tanned, and my head was practically covered in hair. Well, that’s how I remember it anyway; sadly the photographs taken at the time reveal a slightly different story. At least the bit about the tan is true!
We were enjoying the freedom that is available to a bunch of young folk, who live on a very large NATO base so far removed from the usual military life. The looming vista of an active, and frequently devastating, volcano only added to the atmosphere of young people living for the day. I’ve already reported about the day we discovered that Americans do actually have a sense of humour, but on this day I was about to learn that so do we Brits!
“Oh Please? Come on Glen, we are desperate – we have tried everything, asked everyone – you are our last hope!” The pleading had been going on for a full 10 minutes, “No one else will do it, we even asked dodgy Pete the perv, and even he wouldn’t do it!”
“You can’t make Sue’s last day of singledom go without a bang can you?”
Eventually I buckled, for 50,000 Lire and as much Nastro Azzurro as I could quaff, I was going to be a stripper.
Sue (whose name wasn’t really Sue, but I feel I ought to protect her innocence) was getting married to one of the American GI’s on the base (it was a long time ago – I can’t really remember who she was marrying). The girls had organised a Hen party in the pub under our accommodation block, but had completely failed to hire a real stripper for the night. General consensus among the ladies was that no Hen party was taking place on their watch, without a stripper. Eventually the girls had resorted, in sheer desperation, to asking me.
Moreover – I was just flattered enough to do it!
The afternoon was spent preparing my act, this was tricky because, to be honest, I’d not seen many male strippers and didn’t really know what they did. I knew what female strippers did, but correctly guessed that lying back with my legs in a Y shape probably wouldn’t cut it. As it was, I found one of my older uniforms and set to work cutting the trousers along the legs and sewing on some Velcro (what can I say; Sailors know how to sew). Then I popped out to buy some baby oil and hair gel. As I said – I’m no expert on what the Chippendales get up to.
Finally I was ready; I stood back and stared at the creation in the mirror. American Gigolo meets Ron Jeremy. A couple of beers helped me to relax as my mate Nobby, covered me in oil. Soon I was done.
Navy uniform? – Check.
Tan? – Check,
Oil? – Check,
Great body? – ah well, you can’t have everything!
I made my way downstairs and waited in the kitchen of the bar, as the group of 30 wined up, hormone popping, pack of whooping, restless animals were calmed. It was at this point that the enormity of what I was about to do hit home, and the fear hit me with Thor’s hammer. I hadn’t needed the oil after all, I was dripping with sweat (sexy sweat), and the hair gel was failing to stop the hairs on the back of my neck from rising uncontrollably.
My name was called.
The music played.
The door opened.
Sue stood in absolute amazement and horror as I strode slowly out towards her, I could see her jaw was fixed wide open, her eyes were desperately trying to ignore the orders from her brain to close. The crowd cheered so loudly that in an instant I was lost. I was no longer Glen; I was Heath Love-Pole the Third. Tom Jones was telling someone to keep her hat firmly on, as I threw mine to the side of the room and grabbed poor Sue for a bit of a thrust. I turned away and successfully completed the manoeuvre that I’d spent all afternoon preparing and rehearsing; I tore off my trousers in one easy slick movement, to wails of ecstasy and amusement. The shirt was off (I can’t even remember when the shirt came off) and before I knew it, I was down to my skimpy shorts. Sue’s face was filled with terror as she realised that she was about to meet ‘Little Glen’, this snapped me out of my dream, and back in to the real world.
I bottled it; there would be no full Monty for me today.
I jigged a bit and tried to look butch, which really isn’t easy when you are only wearing a set of military boots, a pair of shorts scrunched up to look like a thong and baby oil.
Thankfully the music stopped and I ran out of the room – the crowd was cheering and happy – they had seen enough, in some cases more than they wanted.
Sue got married, and I really do hope she is still happy.
More importantly, I can genuinely say, and may well have to put it on my C.V. that I was once a professional, paid stripper! And that memory is one that I will no longer be locking away, but instead will remember with pride. Even though most of the people who saw it are still in therapy!
The year was 1996 and as a serving military man of 25, I was in the prime of my life. My body was a temple, lean and toned. The Mediterranean sun ensured my skin was permanently tanned, and my head was practically covered in hair. Well, that’s how I remember it anyway; sadly the photographs taken at the time reveal a slightly different story. At least the bit about the tan is true!
We were enjoying the freedom that is available to a bunch of young folk, who live on a very large NATO base so far removed from the usual military life. The looming vista of an active, and frequently devastating, volcano only added to the atmosphere of young people living for the day. I’ve already reported about the day we discovered that Americans do actually have a sense of humour, but on this day I was about to learn that so do we Brits!
“Oh Please? Come on Glen, we are desperate – we have tried everything, asked everyone – you are our last hope!” The pleading had been going on for a full 10 minutes, “No one else will do it, we even asked dodgy Pete the perv, and even he wouldn’t do it!”
“You can’t make Sue’s last day of singledom go without a bang can you?”
Eventually I buckled, for 50,000 Lire and as much Nastro Azzurro as I could quaff, I was going to be a stripper.
Sue (whose name wasn’t really Sue, but I feel I ought to protect her innocence) was getting married to one of the American GI’s on the base (it was a long time ago – I can’t really remember who she was marrying). The girls had organised a Hen party in the pub under our accommodation block, but had completely failed to hire a real stripper for the night. General consensus among the ladies was that no Hen party was taking place on their watch, without a stripper. Eventually the girls had resorted, in sheer desperation, to asking me.
Moreover – I was just flattered enough to do it!
The afternoon was spent preparing my act, this was tricky because, to be honest, I’d not seen many male strippers and didn’t really know what they did. I knew what female strippers did, but correctly guessed that lying back with my legs in a Y shape probably wouldn’t cut it. As it was, I found one of my older uniforms and set to work cutting the trousers along the legs and sewing on some Velcro (what can I say; Sailors know how to sew). Then I popped out to buy some baby oil and hair gel. As I said – I’m no expert on what the Chippendales get up to.
Finally I was ready; I stood back and stared at the creation in the mirror. American Gigolo meets Ron Jeremy. A couple of beers helped me to relax as my mate Nobby, covered me in oil. Soon I was done.
Navy uniform? – Check.
Tan? – Check,
Oil? – Check,
Great body? – ah well, you can’t have everything!
I made my way downstairs and waited in the kitchen of the bar, as the group of 30 wined up, hormone popping, pack of whooping, restless animals were calmed. It was at this point that the enormity of what I was about to do hit home, and the fear hit me with Thor’s hammer. I hadn’t needed the oil after all, I was dripping with sweat (sexy sweat), and the hair gel was failing to stop the hairs on the back of my neck from rising uncontrollably.
My name was called.
The music played.
The door opened.
Sue stood in absolute amazement and horror as I strode slowly out towards her, I could see her jaw was fixed wide open, her eyes were desperately trying to ignore the orders from her brain to close. The crowd cheered so loudly that in an instant I was lost. I was no longer Glen; I was Heath Love-Pole the Third. Tom Jones was telling someone to keep her hat firmly on, as I threw mine to the side of the room and grabbed poor Sue for a bit of a thrust. I turned away and successfully completed the manoeuvre that I’d spent all afternoon preparing and rehearsing; I tore off my trousers in one easy slick movement, to wails of ecstasy and amusement. The shirt was off (I can’t even remember when the shirt came off) and before I knew it, I was down to my skimpy shorts. Sue’s face was filled with terror as she realised that she was about to meet ‘Little Glen’, this snapped me out of my dream, and back in to the real world.
I bottled it; there would be no full Monty for me today.
I jigged a bit and tried to look butch, which really isn’t easy when you are only wearing a set of military boots, a pair of shorts scrunched up to look like a thong and baby oil.
Thankfully the music stopped and I ran out of the room – the crowd was cheering and happy – they had seen enough, in some cases more than they wanted.
Sue got married, and I really do hope she is still happy.
More importantly, I can genuinely say, and may well have to put it on my C.V. that I was once a professional, paid stripper! And that memory is one that I will no longer be locking away, but instead will remember with pride. Even though most of the people who saw it are still in therapy!
Monday, February 8, 2010
The Surprise Party
I’ve just had a great weekend!
At the end of last year I received a message on Facebook from someone I did not know, which I almost deleted without reading. Just in time I read the subject line, and realised I recognised the name in that. I’m so glad I read that!
It turned out Laura (the messenger) was organising a surprise 40th birthday party for a mate, who I have not seen since my wedding 11 years ago. Kerry and I were based in Naples together for a couple of years, and had such a great laugh. I immediately knew that I was going, and I set about talking my wife into coming as well, as I know she remembers him fondly too.
In no time at all it was arranged. The boys were going into care for the night, or staying at their Grandparents depending on how you want to look at it! We jumped in the car and got going.
The party was in Castle Cary within the lovely county of Somerset. This is a lovely little village that has, under the Welcome to Castle Cary sign, “NO TRESPASSERS” written in bold letters. Lovers of ‘The League of Gentleman’ will be able to picture the kind of town where the locals know how beautiful the place is, and aim to keep it that way by keeping everyone else out!
In fact the people were very friendly, and we were soon settled in at The George Hotel, a nice, and very old pub hotel in the centre of town. It had a genuinely ancient feel to it, complimented by the old black and white photos of scenes taken in and around the place from the earliest days of photography. The wonky floors, very low arched access and uneven walls in our room all, gave a clear reminder of the pub’s 15th century beginnings. The only complaint we could come up with (as it’s customary to try and find something) was the lack of biscuits on the tea and coffee tray!
Our biscuit complaint was resolved by my heading off to the Co-Op down the road. I was in the middle of biscuit selection when I could hear the familiar camp tones of somebody talking, who sounded exactly like Dale Winton. The British ‘star’ of such daytime T.V. gold as Supermarket Sweep and … whatever else he has done, was talking about the latest batch of bread that needed putting out. I turned and nearly burst out laughing as I saw that the feller behind the till actually looked a bit like him too. Not a perfect match, but when you add it to the voice, then surely you have a look a like career in the bag my friend! As I paid for the biscuits I amusingly asked him what to do when you hear the beep? It seems that Castle Cary’s Dale does not have a sense of humour though, and I was escorted off the premises by security.
I should get to talk about the party though shouldn’t I?
Firstly, though, we met up with Bobby. I feel I’m going to be writing about Bobby in more detail later, as she is absolutely barking mad, but quite lovely. Bobby also is one of the few people who have been reading this blog from the start – hello Bobby!
Bobby was also out in Naples with us but had also known Kerry before at an earlier base. A properly lovely lady who you cannot help but like, Jo and I were in tears all night at her various tales of love and life. I may very well be nicking some of that material in the months to come.
Finally Kerry was escorted into the room on the pretence of ‘picking something up’ before supposedly going off for a Thai meal at ‘the posh restaurant down the road’. The lights came on to a big hearty cheer and he just stood and stared in disbelief. Jo pointed out that she would be gutted if she had thought she was in for a posh Thai, and then wound up being given a cold buffet meal in a local pub; friends or no friends – message received!
Eventually Kerry made his way round to us and stopped in genuine shock. Our presence had been a totally unexpected surprise on top of all the rest. It was great seeing him again and stories went back and forth of the madcap days we had shared, such as the skydiving trip we had been on together.
My mind is filled with stories again, and I will be working them out and finding a way to write about them soon. We chatted with Kerry’s class family, and drank his beer quite freely, feeling fully welcomed even if we weren’t locals!
Thanks Laura for the invite, you put so much effort in to the whole event – I hope Kerry remembers and appreciates it!
At the end of last year I received a message on Facebook from someone I did not know, which I almost deleted without reading. Just in time I read the subject line, and realised I recognised the name in that. I’m so glad I read that!
It turned out Laura (the messenger) was organising a surprise 40th birthday party for a mate, who I have not seen since my wedding 11 years ago. Kerry and I were based in Naples together for a couple of years, and had such a great laugh. I immediately knew that I was going, and I set about talking my wife into coming as well, as I know she remembers him fondly too.
In no time at all it was arranged. The boys were going into care for the night, or staying at their Grandparents depending on how you want to look at it! We jumped in the car and got going.
The party was in Castle Cary within the lovely county of Somerset. This is a lovely little village that has, under the Welcome to Castle Cary sign, “NO TRESPASSERS” written in bold letters. Lovers of ‘The League of Gentleman’ will be able to picture the kind of town where the locals know how beautiful the place is, and aim to keep it that way by keeping everyone else out!
In fact the people were very friendly, and we were soon settled in at The George Hotel, a nice, and very old pub hotel in the centre of town. It had a genuinely ancient feel to it, complimented by the old black and white photos of scenes taken in and around the place from the earliest days of photography. The wonky floors, very low arched access and uneven walls in our room all, gave a clear reminder of the pub’s 15th century beginnings. The only complaint we could come up with (as it’s customary to try and find something) was the lack of biscuits on the tea and coffee tray!
Our biscuit complaint was resolved by my heading off to the Co-Op down the road. I was in the middle of biscuit selection when I could hear the familiar camp tones of somebody talking, who sounded exactly like Dale Winton. The British ‘star’ of such daytime T.V. gold as Supermarket Sweep and … whatever else he has done, was talking about the latest batch of bread that needed putting out. I turned and nearly burst out laughing as I saw that the feller behind the till actually looked a bit like him too. Not a perfect match, but when you add it to the voice, then surely you have a look a like career in the bag my friend! As I paid for the biscuits I amusingly asked him what to do when you hear the beep? It seems that Castle Cary’s Dale does not have a sense of humour though, and I was escorted off the premises by security.
I should get to talk about the party though shouldn’t I?
Firstly, though, we met up with Bobby. I feel I’m going to be writing about Bobby in more detail later, as she is absolutely barking mad, but quite lovely. Bobby also is one of the few people who have been reading this blog from the start – hello Bobby!
Bobby was also out in Naples with us but had also known Kerry before at an earlier base. A properly lovely lady who you cannot help but like, Jo and I were in tears all night at her various tales of love and life. I may very well be nicking some of that material in the months to come.
Finally Kerry was escorted into the room on the pretence of ‘picking something up’ before supposedly going off for a Thai meal at ‘the posh restaurant down the road’. The lights came on to a big hearty cheer and he just stood and stared in disbelief. Jo pointed out that she would be gutted if she had thought she was in for a posh Thai, and then wound up being given a cold buffet meal in a local pub; friends or no friends – message received!
Eventually Kerry made his way round to us and stopped in genuine shock. Our presence had been a totally unexpected surprise on top of all the rest. It was great seeing him again and stories went back and forth of the madcap days we had shared, such as the skydiving trip we had been on together.
My mind is filled with stories again, and I will be working them out and finding a way to write about them soon. We chatted with Kerry’s class family, and drank his beer quite freely, feeling fully welcomed even if we weren’t locals!
Thanks Laura for the invite, you put so much effort in to the whole event – I hope Kerry remembers and appreciates it!
Friday, February 5, 2010
F. Flittner a Gentleman's Barber
Today I felt that I’d gone back in time. For an all too short period, I went back to my Dad’s youth, or at least how I imagine it.
Today I went for a haircut!
How exciting is that?
Okay it’s not exciting at all, especially when you are like me and there are far too few hairs still clinging on, so few that I’ve been able to name them! Put it this way when I returned to the office and announced that I’d been to the barbers, Mick shouted,” really, is that all? Why were you gone so long then? Was there a big queue?”
In the past, when I’ve needed a hair cut, I have gone to Supercuts in Liverpool Street Station. This is a perfectly acceptable chain of hairdressers and you simply queue up and get your hair trimmed. This piece is in no way supposed to demean or ridicule the ladies who work there as there is nothing at all wrong with their work.
Today I didn’t have time to head over there and had remembered seeing a barber’s pole sticking up over a small shop near Moorgate. It was a moment of real time travel as I approached the barber’s window. I felt the years fly back as I looked in through the frosted Salon doors. The window was not a huge transparent advert where everyone could be seen in their chairs, but a means to show the various tools of their trade and the history of an independent barbers open since 1904.
The small saloon style doors opened into a world that Marty McFly would describe as ‘heavy’! The smell of disinfectant, hair and hair spray hit me square between the eyes as they struggled to adjust to the early 1900’s. The surprisingly spacious room was filled in every available inch with ancient looking hairdressing equipment. F. Flittner Gent’s hairdressers’ is exactly that, a Gent’s hairdresser. This is no place for a woman; a man can come here and relax as though in some Masonesque gentleman’s parlour.
The yellow ceiling betrayed the years of cigar and pipe smoke that will have been happily created here as the men sat back and relaxed. The ancient and chipped wooden panelling that surrounded every piece of worn out furniture had last been restored in 1949 and the gels and styling products that lined the shelves appeared to have been stacked there at the same time.
It was wonderful, and the genuinely authentic feeling of craftsmanship that this salon radiated left me in no doubt that I was going to get a good haircut today. So complete was the imagery that I found myself asking if I would be able to pay by card. I was so certain that they would only take cash, or possibly potatoes, as payment that I was quite embarrassed when I was shown the small, brand new shelf that had been erected to hold the state of the art card reader.
With a smile on my face, I sat and relaxed as a man who has probably celebrated at least two millennium eve parties wrapped a cloth around me and asked what I was there for. It was just then that I noticed the sign that showed the prices and a very alien sensation came over me. Normally when a buzz cut trim on my head costs anything over £10 I get a sweat on, if it’s over £12 I walk out. Today I looked and had a moment’s hesitation when I saw that this was going to cost a massive £16. but the moment passed as I thought to myself ‘no, why should a skilled barber, with so many years experience in a small independent barbers like this, have to try and compete with the modern bright lights in the chains of today? Why should he have to charge the same as a youngster, barely out of college?’ My brain could come up with no answer and so I relaxed back and let him get on with it.
I was not wrong in my assumptions either. My barber had been working there in Flittner’s for over 30 years as had most of the other barbers around him. These guys may not know what you mean if you go in asking for a ‘Flock of Seagulls’ (to show my own age) or a Hasselhoff, but when it comes to a short back and sides, you can’t touch them.
My man immediately set to work and proved his worth, by completely ignoring my request and just cutting my hair how he knew it would be right. He was right, it looks so much better than it usually does, how a buzz cut can differ so much I do not know, but it does – it looks great. This is the difference, this is what 30 years experience does, it allows you to feel how a head needs to be cut, rather than just cutting it how the book says. My man knew instantly which bits needed extra attention in order to make it right.
The difference was clear and I felt happier after a hair cut than I have for ages. With the shelves so packed full of old hair products, I felt sure I should be offered something for the weekend; maybe I don’t look old enough for those kinds of shenanigans. Perhaps I should have had a shave whilst I was there to further the feeling of time travel.
The only thing out of place was the music. It’s hard to sit back and pretend that you are your own Grandfather when Beyonce is ranting on about wanting a ring on it!
Today I went for a haircut!
How exciting is that?
Okay it’s not exciting at all, especially when you are like me and there are far too few hairs still clinging on, so few that I’ve been able to name them! Put it this way when I returned to the office and announced that I’d been to the barbers, Mick shouted,” really, is that all? Why were you gone so long then? Was there a big queue?”
In the past, when I’ve needed a hair cut, I have gone to Supercuts in Liverpool Street Station. This is a perfectly acceptable chain of hairdressers and you simply queue up and get your hair trimmed. This piece is in no way supposed to demean or ridicule the ladies who work there as there is nothing at all wrong with their work.
Today I didn’t have time to head over there and had remembered seeing a barber’s pole sticking up over a small shop near Moorgate. It was a moment of real time travel as I approached the barber’s window. I felt the years fly back as I looked in through the frosted Salon doors. The window was not a huge transparent advert where everyone could be seen in their chairs, but a means to show the various tools of their trade and the history of an independent barbers open since 1904.
The small saloon style doors opened into a world that Marty McFly would describe as ‘heavy’! The smell of disinfectant, hair and hair spray hit me square between the eyes as they struggled to adjust to the early 1900’s. The surprisingly spacious room was filled in every available inch with ancient looking hairdressing equipment. F. Flittner Gent’s hairdressers’ is exactly that, a Gent’s hairdresser. This is no place for a woman; a man can come here and relax as though in some Masonesque gentleman’s parlour.
The yellow ceiling betrayed the years of cigar and pipe smoke that will have been happily created here as the men sat back and relaxed. The ancient and chipped wooden panelling that surrounded every piece of worn out furniture had last been restored in 1949 and the gels and styling products that lined the shelves appeared to have been stacked there at the same time.
It was wonderful, and the genuinely authentic feeling of craftsmanship that this salon radiated left me in no doubt that I was going to get a good haircut today. So complete was the imagery that I found myself asking if I would be able to pay by card. I was so certain that they would only take cash, or possibly potatoes, as payment that I was quite embarrassed when I was shown the small, brand new shelf that had been erected to hold the state of the art card reader.
With a smile on my face, I sat and relaxed as a man who has probably celebrated at least two millennium eve parties wrapped a cloth around me and asked what I was there for. It was just then that I noticed the sign that showed the prices and a very alien sensation came over me. Normally when a buzz cut trim on my head costs anything over £10 I get a sweat on, if it’s over £12 I walk out. Today I looked and had a moment’s hesitation when I saw that this was going to cost a massive £16. but the moment passed as I thought to myself ‘no, why should a skilled barber, with so many years experience in a small independent barbers like this, have to try and compete with the modern bright lights in the chains of today? Why should he have to charge the same as a youngster, barely out of college?’ My brain could come up with no answer and so I relaxed back and let him get on with it.
I was not wrong in my assumptions either. My barber had been working there in Flittner’s for over 30 years as had most of the other barbers around him. These guys may not know what you mean if you go in asking for a ‘Flock of Seagulls’ (to show my own age) or a Hasselhoff, but when it comes to a short back and sides, you can’t touch them.
My man immediately set to work and proved his worth, by completely ignoring my request and just cutting my hair how he knew it would be right. He was right, it looks so much better than it usually does, how a buzz cut can differ so much I do not know, but it does – it looks great. This is the difference, this is what 30 years experience does, it allows you to feel how a head needs to be cut, rather than just cutting it how the book says. My man knew instantly which bits needed extra attention in order to make it right.
The difference was clear and I felt happier after a hair cut than I have for ages. With the shelves so packed full of old hair products, I felt sure I should be offered something for the weekend; maybe I don’t look old enough for those kinds of shenanigans. Perhaps I should have had a shave whilst I was there to further the feeling of time travel.
The only thing out of place was the music. It’s hard to sit back and pretend that you are your own Grandfather when Beyonce is ranting on about wanting a ring on it!
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Training - Day 1
Jo
As I got in from work, Jo jumped up and put her trainers on. “Day one”, she announced, “I need to go for a walk!”
The training sheet that Jo has found doesn’t call for her to do any actual running until week 4, and Jo has absolutely no intention of going against the rules. I asked her if her training schedule is designed for her to be ready for the 5K this June or June 2011.
From the loving look of mirth and merriment that I failed to receive, I’d say that Jo has probably thought it through and that I should probably shut up straight away. I decided to follow my own advice.
The door shut behind her almost as firmly as her resolve as she headed off at speed, arms pumping like a Mustang’s pistons. I calculated that her arms were moving at 10MPH, which was a shame because her legs were only going at 4MPH. I suspect it won’t be long until the baked bean tins come out again and get furiously waved all around the route.
Somewhere, in a deep, dark, forgotten corner of the house are some proper ‘lady weights’. I know they are ‘lady weights’ because they are in a light pastel colour and the box they came in had a picture of a super fit woman using them. You know that these weights alone were the sole reason that this girl could so happily stand there having her photo taken in such a tight Lycra outfit. This girl had no need to wear an over skirt to cover up the tell tale signs, and crinkly sounds of Motherhood I can assure you (I looked quite closely at the picture!). Sorry, I got a bit distracted there.
Any way, these weights were bought for a three week fad that happened in January 2003, and haven’t seen the light since. It is because the weights are hidden that Jo can be seen pumping beans as she overtakes you in a blur.
15 minutes went by and I heard a diesel car pull up outside and a car door slam, just before Jo walked in looking flushed and putting her wallet back in her bag. “How did it go?” I asked as Jo leant against the wall doing stretches, clearly determined that I should actually believe that she had walked the whole of the mile. “Fine; I really went for it! Three more weeks of this and I’ll be able to start running!”
I walked over to give her a kiss so that I could check her breath in case she had actually sneaked off to the pub, but there was nothing, not even the minty tang of emergency chewing gum, meaning that the kiss had in fact been a complete waste of time. It seemed that she had actually done the walk after all.
Glen
I’m already doing over a mile of accumulated walking every day; walking is a part of my commute and so I have elected to skip this part of the training. I’ll maybe make a start when we get to the running in week four.
As I got in from work, Jo jumped up and put her trainers on. “Day one”, she announced, “I need to go for a walk!”
The training sheet that Jo has found doesn’t call for her to do any actual running until week 4, and Jo has absolutely no intention of going against the rules. I asked her if her training schedule is designed for her to be ready for the 5K this June or June 2011.
From the loving look of mirth and merriment that I failed to receive, I’d say that Jo has probably thought it through and that I should probably shut up straight away. I decided to follow my own advice.
The door shut behind her almost as firmly as her resolve as she headed off at speed, arms pumping like a Mustang’s pistons. I calculated that her arms were moving at 10MPH, which was a shame because her legs were only going at 4MPH. I suspect it won’t be long until the baked bean tins come out again and get furiously waved all around the route.
Somewhere, in a deep, dark, forgotten corner of the house are some proper ‘lady weights’. I know they are ‘lady weights’ because they are in a light pastel colour and the box they came in had a picture of a super fit woman using them. You know that these weights alone were the sole reason that this girl could so happily stand there having her photo taken in such a tight Lycra outfit. This girl had no need to wear an over skirt to cover up the tell tale signs, and crinkly sounds of Motherhood I can assure you (I looked quite closely at the picture!). Sorry, I got a bit distracted there.
Any way, these weights were bought for a three week fad that happened in January 2003, and haven’t seen the light since. It is because the weights are hidden that Jo can be seen pumping beans as she overtakes you in a blur.
15 minutes went by and I heard a diesel car pull up outside and a car door slam, just before Jo walked in looking flushed and putting her wallet back in her bag. “How did it go?” I asked as Jo leant against the wall doing stretches, clearly determined that I should actually believe that she had walked the whole of the mile. “Fine; I really went for it! Three more weeks of this and I’ll be able to start running!”
I walked over to give her a kiss so that I could check her breath in case she had actually sneaked off to the pub, but there was nothing, not even the minty tang of emergency chewing gum, meaning that the kiss had in fact been a complete waste of time. It seemed that she had actually done the walk after all.
Glen
I’m already doing over a mile of accumulated walking every day; walking is a part of my commute and so I have elected to skip this part of the training. I’ll maybe make a start when we get to the running in week four.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Race for Life
February is here and I guess that means I have now well and truly run out excuses, I’m going to have to go to the gym.
I have another reason to go now as well, because my wife has signed up to enter the Race for Life 5K run in June. This is a charity race in aid of Cancer research and clearly a very worthwhile event. I suppose I’m going to have to show my support somehow. What I am therefore going to do is attempt to run the 5K as well, albeit on a treadmill.
On the day of the race I’m sure that I will be looking after the boys somewhere along the route cheering Jo on to victory and so I can’t actually compete myself (I’m making no effort to change that you notice!). I’ve decided that I’ll further show my support by also training for my own 5K run on a treadmill. I can’t see what can possibly go wrong with this (except that on my race the St. John’s Ambulance people won’t be in attendance, nor will there be someone stood at the end with a kitchen foil blanket and a mars bar), so it’s full steam ahead to make this challenge happen.
I’ll be keeping you posted here about how each of our separate training is going, hopefully giving an interesting account of the differences in our approach.
For instance we have already diverted somewhat. I started thinking that I really ought to join in somehow and so I have written this and fully intend to go to the gym sometime this week. On arrival at the gym I’ll be prancing about heaving and hacking up phlegm on the cross trainer for about five minutes before collapsing in a blob of shiny fat on the floor. Steve Mcqueen will run up and spray me with CO2 fire extinguishers in order to save the public from being absorbed by me. It will then take me another week before I’ll have a second try.
This could go on for quite some time before I get a little obsessed by the treadmill. The obsession will continue taking over all my thoughts until somebody reminds me about cake. Cake will then take over my life until about a week before the race day when I will panic. I’ll then do my run at the most ridiculous slow walking pace you’ve ever seen. Afterwards I’ll feel really impressed at myself for succeeding and wish that I’d taken it seriously. Surely I’d have got a great time if I’d actually trained?
Jo on the other hand came downstairs out of breath last night, on day one. Half an hour on the internet researching training schedules had tired her out. Jo threw herself on the sofa and demanded a foot rub. The fact that her feet needed rubbing before she even started training is a bad sign for me; this is going to be hard work for my hands.
However Jo was happy that she had a plan. Apparently she doesn’t even have to start running until week three! Personally, I suspect that Jo had accidentally strayed onto the Cadbury’s website again. Often when Jo comes off the computer looking a little flushed and rosy cheeked, I look in her browsing history and find loads of links to images of Dairy Milk. It’s coming up to Easter as well, which is always a tricky time. Jo will be locking herself away in the study ‘working’ for hours. Last year we nearly broke up when I discovered some saucy emails Jo had sent to a Thornton’s Easter egg, she had sent it some photos of herself wrapped in foil and asked to meet it outside Sainsburys the following week.
As you can probably imagine then, neither of us are what you would call natural runners. We have a long way to go, but surely it is not impossible and the cause is more than worth the effort. No doubt I will be sponsoring Jo and will make sure that there is extra cash generated if I succeed too. Wish us luck!
I have another reason to go now as well, because my wife has signed up to enter the Race for Life 5K run in June. This is a charity race in aid of Cancer research and clearly a very worthwhile event. I suppose I’m going to have to show my support somehow. What I am therefore going to do is attempt to run the 5K as well, albeit on a treadmill.
On the day of the race I’m sure that I will be looking after the boys somewhere along the route cheering Jo on to victory and so I can’t actually compete myself (I’m making no effort to change that you notice!). I’ve decided that I’ll further show my support by also training for my own 5K run on a treadmill. I can’t see what can possibly go wrong with this (except that on my race the St. John’s Ambulance people won’t be in attendance, nor will there be someone stood at the end with a kitchen foil blanket and a mars bar), so it’s full steam ahead to make this challenge happen.
I’ll be keeping you posted here about how each of our separate training is going, hopefully giving an interesting account of the differences in our approach.
For instance we have already diverted somewhat. I started thinking that I really ought to join in somehow and so I have written this and fully intend to go to the gym sometime this week. On arrival at the gym I’ll be prancing about heaving and hacking up phlegm on the cross trainer for about five minutes before collapsing in a blob of shiny fat on the floor. Steve Mcqueen will run up and spray me with CO2 fire extinguishers in order to save the public from being absorbed by me. It will then take me another week before I’ll have a second try.
This could go on for quite some time before I get a little obsessed by the treadmill. The obsession will continue taking over all my thoughts until somebody reminds me about cake. Cake will then take over my life until about a week before the race day when I will panic. I’ll then do my run at the most ridiculous slow walking pace you’ve ever seen. Afterwards I’ll feel really impressed at myself for succeeding and wish that I’d taken it seriously. Surely I’d have got a great time if I’d actually trained?
Jo on the other hand came downstairs out of breath last night, on day one. Half an hour on the internet researching training schedules had tired her out. Jo threw herself on the sofa and demanded a foot rub. The fact that her feet needed rubbing before she even started training is a bad sign for me; this is going to be hard work for my hands.
However Jo was happy that she had a plan. Apparently she doesn’t even have to start running until week three! Personally, I suspect that Jo had accidentally strayed onto the Cadbury’s website again. Often when Jo comes off the computer looking a little flushed and rosy cheeked, I look in her browsing history and find loads of links to images of Dairy Milk. It’s coming up to Easter as well, which is always a tricky time. Jo will be locking herself away in the study ‘working’ for hours. Last year we nearly broke up when I discovered some saucy emails Jo had sent to a Thornton’s Easter egg, she had sent it some photos of herself wrapped in foil and asked to meet it outside Sainsburys the following week.
As you can probably imagine then, neither of us are what you would call natural runners. We have a long way to go, but surely it is not impossible and the cause is more than worth the effort. No doubt I will be sponsoring Jo and will make sure that there is extra cash generated if I succeed too. Wish us luck!
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
The London Aquarium
One thing I didn’t talk about yesterday when talking about last week, was the trip to London.
Sadly Daniel failed to hit his targets last week and so the planned family trip to Bath had to be altered. Daniel loves history and really likes the Romans and so we had planned a trip to Bath to see the Roman baths.
On hearing that he would now not be going, my boy smiled and pointed out that no one would be going so it didn’t matter. This might have worked as an argument if it hadn’t been for Jo and I discussing, about an hour before, this very same flaw in the plan. By this time we had agreed that I would take Jamie to London and do something more tuned towards Jamie’s taste. Daniel’s face dropped. His master plan was thwarted and so he slunk away to sulk.
Saturday arrived and Jamie got his shoes on excitedly and we headed off to the station. The main reason why it was me taking Jamie instead of Jo is because I have a season ticket on the train making it cheaper than Jo having to buy a ticket. I felt this put the pressure on a bit because Jo is very good at day trips. Her many years as an educator have given her a great ability at being able to help kids make the most of days out. Jo will see things and instantly be able to make interesting child level chat about it that really gets them thinking and enjoying themselves. “Look at that bird,” Jo will say, “I wonder why it’s collecting those sticks?” This question will prompt 15 minutes chat all about nesting and why we must all respect nature’s beauty; both my boys would skip along learning new and interesting things whilst boosting their self confidence as Jo gets them to add their own comments and theories to rapturous applause.
I’d just say – “What bird?”
As this is the last weekend of my freebie first class travel on the trains I figured I’d be able to travel in style and was loving it when I discovered that it was only going to cost £3.50 to let Jamie travel with me and including all his tube travel too. Result! Jamie couldn’t believe his luck as he relaxed back in a comfy leather first class chair tucking into free first class biscuits and a bottle of free first class water. I could see that his eyes were filled with wonder. Hopefully this would be the day that Jamie made a crucial decision about his future life; this would be the day that he decided to sit up and take action. No more slouching at school for Jamie, from now on he will be looking out for every freebie he can get; I’ve taught my son to be a scrounger!
Before long we were at the London Aquarium and Jamie loved it. The quiz that he had been given to complete was taking more of his attention than the fish but never mind. I was having a little difficulty because we had got in sync with an extremely middle class family and I was starting to get annoyed. When you go to busy attractions that have a set route it always annoys me when I find myself in sync with ropey people. Every window or sign you step up to in order to look at they are there already, or otherwise they are pushing to get past you.
The Mother in this family was clearly very proud of her educating prowess and was determined for everyone around her to know it. At no point were her two children, Oscar and Chlamydia allowed to just sit back and enjoy looking at the sharks. Each shark had to be discussed and analysed, loudly. Each Starfish required close examination at the way its coloration either matched or differed from its surroundings. When they came up to one of the question posts it became the most important question in the world. The Mum was so determined for us all to hear how little Chlamydia understood why a Sperm Whale can dive to over 2000 feet but would eventually have to come up for air, that I’m sure she had written it out for her. I know at one point she was getting quite annoyed when Oscar failed to work out that an Octopus can be the same size as a dog, she bellowed,”But Oscar I read the data sheet to you with that in not 5 minutes ago – you really are going to get nothing out of this quiz if this is how much attention you are going to pay it!”
Meanwhile Jamie ambled along making no effort to worry about what the question was as long as he was the one who got to scratch off the answer on the sheet. Jamie was determined to get them all right though and so I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I’d missed 2 of the question posts and had simply guessed (wrongly) what the answer might be. I laughed and laughed as Jamie presented the lady at the end with his completed quiz and she gave him a cheap plastic medal. Jamie jumped with pride and consequently spent the rest of the day looking at with pride, not able to wait until he could show it to his mum.
Jamie loved the aquarium and I agree with him as it is very child friendly. Big windows that come almost down to the floor allow great views of some very big fish, rays and sharks. Jamie had a big grin all the way round.
The day went really nicely, even if I did leave his newly acquired Nemo on the bus (this was Karma getting me for not asking the kids in the play park if it had been them who had dropped the £5 I had just seen and nonchalantly picked up). Daniel, bless him, has been really good ever since the incident that had stopped him going on the trip. Even on the Saturday when he was purposefully given a fairly boring day whilst his brother was away he held his head high and kept himself on the right tracks. This is great news and very encouraging, holding his temper on that day cannot have been easy. All in all I’ve had a really nice weekend with my family and I’m loving it!
Sadly Daniel failed to hit his targets last week and so the planned family trip to Bath had to be altered. Daniel loves history and really likes the Romans and so we had planned a trip to Bath to see the Roman baths.
On hearing that he would now not be going, my boy smiled and pointed out that no one would be going so it didn’t matter. This might have worked as an argument if it hadn’t been for Jo and I discussing, about an hour before, this very same flaw in the plan. By this time we had agreed that I would take Jamie to London and do something more tuned towards Jamie’s taste. Daniel’s face dropped. His master plan was thwarted and so he slunk away to sulk.
Saturday arrived and Jamie got his shoes on excitedly and we headed off to the station. The main reason why it was me taking Jamie instead of Jo is because I have a season ticket on the train making it cheaper than Jo having to buy a ticket. I felt this put the pressure on a bit because Jo is very good at day trips. Her many years as an educator have given her a great ability at being able to help kids make the most of days out. Jo will see things and instantly be able to make interesting child level chat about it that really gets them thinking and enjoying themselves. “Look at that bird,” Jo will say, “I wonder why it’s collecting those sticks?” This question will prompt 15 minutes chat all about nesting and why we must all respect nature’s beauty; both my boys would skip along learning new and interesting things whilst boosting their self confidence as Jo gets them to add their own comments and theories to rapturous applause.
I’d just say – “What bird?”
As this is the last weekend of my freebie first class travel on the trains I figured I’d be able to travel in style and was loving it when I discovered that it was only going to cost £3.50 to let Jamie travel with me and including all his tube travel too. Result! Jamie couldn’t believe his luck as he relaxed back in a comfy leather first class chair tucking into free first class biscuits and a bottle of free first class water. I could see that his eyes were filled with wonder. Hopefully this would be the day that Jamie made a crucial decision about his future life; this would be the day that he decided to sit up and take action. No more slouching at school for Jamie, from now on he will be looking out for every freebie he can get; I’ve taught my son to be a scrounger!
Before long we were at the London Aquarium and Jamie loved it. The quiz that he had been given to complete was taking more of his attention than the fish but never mind. I was having a little difficulty because we had got in sync with an extremely middle class family and I was starting to get annoyed. When you go to busy attractions that have a set route it always annoys me when I find myself in sync with ropey people. Every window or sign you step up to in order to look at they are there already, or otherwise they are pushing to get past you.
The Mother in this family was clearly very proud of her educating prowess and was determined for everyone around her to know it. At no point were her two children, Oscar and Chlamydia allowed to just sit back and enjoy looking at the sharks. Each shark had to be discussed and analysed, loudly. Each Starfish required close examination at the way its coloration either matched or differed from its surroundings. When they came up to one of the question posts it became the most important question in the world. The Mum was so determined for us all to hear how little Chlamydia understood why a Sperm Whale can dive to over 2000 feet but would eventually have to come up for air, that I’m sure she had written it out for her. I know at one point she was getting quite annoyed when Oscar failed to work out that an Octopus can be the same size as a dog, she bellowed,”But Oscar I read the data sheet to you with that in not 5 minutes ago – you really are going to get nothing out of this quiz if this is how much attention you are going to pay it!”
Meanwhile Jamie ambled along making no effort to worry about what the question was as long as he was the one who got to scratch off the answer on the sheet. Jamie was determined to get them all right though and so I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I’d missed 2 of the question posts and had simply guessed (wrongly) what the answer might be. I laughed and laughed as Jamie presented the lady at the end with his completed quiz and she gave him a cheap plastic medal. Jamie jumped with pride and consequently spent the rest of the day looking at with pride, not able to wait until he could show it to his mum.
Jamie loved the aquarium and I agree with him as it is very child friendly. Big windows that come almost down to the floor allow great views of some very big fish, rays and sharks. Jamie had a big grin all the way round.
The day went really nicely, even if I did leave his newly acquired Nemo on the bus (this was Karma getting me for not asking the kids in the play park if it had been them who had dropped the £5 I had just seen and nonchalantly picked up). Daniel, bless him, has been really good ever since the incident that had stopped him going on the trip. Even on the Saturday when he was purposefully given a fairly boring day whilst his brother was away he held his head high and kept himself on the right tracks. This is great news and very encouraging, holding his temper on that day cannot have been easy. All in all I’ve had a really nice weekend with my family and I’m loving it!
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