The diary is looking worryingly blank. Today has only one appointment, and I am just getting showered to go on that when I get a text saying J can't make it. I'm not that bothered I'd rather do it tomorrow and at least have two appointments then.
So another day of interperving? No,I set my sights on getting something done, and spend the whole day sorting out the mess in the mezzanine above the garage room.
What a pile of junk. Thousands and thousands of books. However did we come to buy them all, and what percentage ever got read.
Hundreds of old videos. We could sell them at a car boot sale? Could we. The technology is now totally obsolete. As someone pointed out on tele recently those of our age have lived through an entire technology. I find all my old cassettes for God's sake. They don't even make cars with cassettes in them anymore, and I think production of the actual tapes ceased a couple of years ago. There are reel to reel tapes too. I'd love to have a listen to those! Imove crap around, trying to tidy it up and generally succeed. I even manage to get some of it thrown away. Another bike ride is continually in the back of my mind. Again it stays there, and it shouldn't because today the scales said 14/0.
H comes home with crusty bloody rolls, and I greedily pile on a great chunk of butter. This doesn't help you know. And of course in the evening it's back to the Curry Centre. Apparently Mushy is working there on a Friday night, but I keep missing him due to my desertion to the Bombay Knights.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Apr 27 (Sun)
After the bike ride I am full of get up and go, though my first port of call, to the scales, restores calm. 13/13. Not good.
I do a few tidying up bits and pieces, and then watch the film I recorded last night. I first chance on Les Visiteurs about 5 years ago. I switched the tele on and saw a film in French, and soon was laughing my arse off. I started to record it then, and decided to run it by H, was also loves it. I checked with P, who was very aware of it too.
A couple of weeks later I saw an English language version advertised whilst working in Manchester. I went along in keen anticipation. It was dismal. The thing had been so sanitised and injected with Hollywood schmalz it was unrecognisable from the riotous gallic farce which had so amused us. I was the only person in the cinema. Halfway through someone came in and gazed around. I think it was the projectionist seeing if there was anyone left to put another reel on for.
Anyway, on second showing the real film lived up to all expectations, with the added benefit that I got to see the beginning this time. Not that the absurd plot was essential to the fun, but it helped explain how on earth the bizarre story had come to unfold.
Not much more occurred during the day, which was sunny, though far less pleasant than yesterday. I keep urging myself back onto the bike to capitalise on last night's triumph, but I can find far too many reasons not to. So I don't.
Soon it's time to start buying (in view of H's absence) and cooking, the Sunday dinner. H & S ring to say they won't be home for it. Malcolm has said he is coming, but as usual he disappears without trace, before re emerging with some bizarre tale to explain his non appearance.
The two girls return home late in the evening. I fancy watching Les Vis once more with Heath, but it's been a hard weekend for them, and soon she is snoring contentedly, the rafters rattling in sympathy.
I do a few tidying up bits and pieces, and then watch the film I recorded last night. I first chance on Les Visiteurs about 5 years ago. I switched the tele on and saw a film in French, and soon was laughing my arse off. I started to record it then, and decided to run it by H, was also loves it. I checked with P, who was very aware of it too.
A couple of weeks later I saw an English language version advertised whilst working in Manchester. I went along in keen anticipation. It was dismal. The thing had been so sanitised and injected with Hollywood schmalz it was unrecognisable from the riotous gallic farce which had so amused us. I was the only person in the cinema. Halfway through someone came in and gazed around. I think it was the projectionist seeing if there was anyone left to put another reel on for.
Anyway, on second showing the real film lived up to all expectations, with the added benefit that I got to see the beginning this time. Not that the absurd plot was essential to the fun, but it helped explain how on earth the bizarre story had come to unfold.
Not much more occurred during the day, which was sunny, though far less pleasant than yesterday. I keep urging myself back onto the bike to capitalise on last night's triumph, but I can find far too many reasons not to. So I don't.
Soon it's time to start buying (in view of H's absence) and cooking, the Sunday dinner. H & S ring to say they won't be home for it. Malcolm has said he is coming, but as usual he disappears without trace, before re emerging with some bizarre tale to explain his non appearance.
The two girls return home late in the evening. I fancy watching Les Vis once more with Heath, but it's been a hard weekend for them, and soon she is snoring contentedly, the rafters rattling in sympathy.
Apr 26 (Sat)
Znooker's on the tele. The world championship.When it first arrived on TV I was a big fan. In those days of course we tended to watch anything on Beeb 2 simply because it was the only colour channel, and so snooker took root in my psyche. Later on it was the kind of thing that would go on late into the night when the other three channels had closed down (yes they really did close down for the night! Then I grew tired of the game and in fact became quite anti. I've settled down into a kind of take it or leave it attitude, but I am sufficiently aware of it to acknowledge this tournament as one of my mileposts of the year. It means we are well into spring and heading for early summer. The cricket is happening already, and soon we'll hear that the French Open tennis is about to happen in Paris. This, of course means Wimbledon is on it's way, and summer should be a reality.
All this reflection is prompted by that rarity this spring, a bright warm balmy day.
For all the wonderful weather, the day starts badly. As I head out to pick up A for her lesson, J & K are outside contemplating the shattered remains of her quaterlight. The car has been emptied of all it's contents. Again I start to wonder if this isn't the time to get out of here.
A's lesson goes really well, and then it's home to see Chelsea v Man U. If Chelsea don't win, it virtually hands the scum the title, so unusually I sit down to a premiership match. It's a thriller. Chelsea dominate (honest!) and take the lead, only for a breakaway goal by Spudhead which seems to have saved the scum from their deserved drubbing. Close to the end though, a ball comes in from the right, hits Carrick on the hand,and FOR THE FIRST TIME THIS SEASON, Utd have a penalty awarded against them. Ballack hammers the nail into their coffin.
They take their destruction in their usual style, kicking and swearing. One of them attacks a steward, Ferdinand kicks a lady steward. Ferguson whines about the penalty and all the dreadful decisions which always go against them. General guffawing all around.
They are still ahead on goal difference, and need to drop more points to let Chelsea in. The hope must be that this defeat (hopefully followed by another to Barcelona) will hit them and get the collywobbles going. Fingers crossed.
After this a lazy day. Very little done apart from the updating of this blog following the return of this laptop from PC World (no arrests to date!)
H & S have gone off to Bath for the weekend to officiate in a volley ball tournament. Dan spends the whole day on WoW, Ems arranges to go to K's for a sleepover.
I ride the bike into town, taking advantage of the fair weather. After three pints I am regretting the decision, but I gamely remount and head for the hills. I haven't ridden up the hill non stop for years, and have no serious hope doing so. Half way up and puffing, and a pleasant, walking drunk offers encouragement. the last thing I want to do is talk, but once I have passed him I realise I can cycle from a seated position, and all of a sudden I realise that I can get to the bloody top. I was chuffed to be sure. Is this the key to getting down to 13st again?
Recorded the french film "Les Visiteurs" look forward to watching it tomorrow.
All this reflection is prompted by that rarity this spring, a bright warm balmy day.
For all the wonderful weather, the day starts badly. As I head out to pick up A for her lesson, J & K are outside contemplating the shattered remains of her quaterlight. The car has been emptied of all it's contents. Again I start to wonder if this isn't the time to get out of here.
A's lesson goes really well, and then it's home to see Chelsea v Man U. If Chelsea don't win, it virtually hands the scum the title, so unusually I sit down to a premiership match. It's a thriller. Chelsea dominate (honest!) and take the lead, only for a breakaway goal by Spudhead which seems to have saved the scum from their deserved drubbing. Close to the end though, a ball comes in from the right, hits Carrick on the hand,and FOR THE FIRST TIME THIS SEASON, Utd have a penalty awarded against them. Ballack hammers the nail into their coffin.
They take their destruction in their usual style, kicking and swearing. One of them attacks a steward, Ferdinand kicks a lady steward. Ferguson whines about the penalty and all the dreadful decisions which always go against them. General guffawing all around.
They are still ahead on goal difference, and need to drop more points to let Chelsea in. The hope must be that this defeat (hopefully followed by another to Barcelona) will hit them and get the collywobbles going. Fingers crossed.
After this a lazy day. Very little done apart from the updating of this blog following the return of this laptop from PC World (no arrests to date!)
H & S have gone off to Bath for the weekend to officiate in a volley ball tournament. Dan spends the whole day on WoW, Ems arranges to go to K's for a sleepover.
I ride the bike into town, taking advantage of the fair weather. After three pints I am regretting the decision, but I gamely remount and head for the hills. I haven't ridden up the hill non stop for years, and have no serious hope doing so. Half way up and puffing, and a pleasant, walking drunk offers encouragement. the last thing I want to do is talk, but once I have passed him I realise I can cycle from a seated position, and all of a sudden I realise that I can get to the bloody top. I was chuffed to be sure. Is this the key to getting down to 13st again?
Recorded the french film "Les Visiteurs" look forward to watching it tomorrow.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Apr 25 (Fri)
Dan has been on work experience this week. In view of Sohpie's experience (when she just filed papers for a week) I viewed this with a good deal of trepidation. I had visions of his notoriously short attention span being exhausted by about 9:30 on Tuseday (he didn't work Monday) and by Thursday he would be resolute in his opinion that work wasn't foor him and was something he didn't too much care to get involved in in the 50 years ahead.
But he's been full of it, and is thoroughly enjoying himself. Apparently his boss says he has "much more savvy than the guy they had last year", prompting his sister to comment "What must he have been like then?"
I drop off Emsy at school, then when I should be doing more towards marketing thebusiness, I sink into an entire day of Interperving. It's a horrible addiction ( I am am pretty sure that word is not misused here) and I feel wretched by the end of the day when I realise what I could have achieved with the time. Where does one turn for help??
Sophie and H have gone to Bath for the weekend. Sophie has somehow got involved with the National volleyball championships, and even more curiously H has too.
They are staying in a youth hostel, and H worries that she may snore. I fear for the others in that dorm.
Dan rides his bike home from P's, and we all watch HIGNFY, which still stays fresh for yet another series. The term "national institution" cannot be far away.
Usually Friday routine, but splendidly I walk into the Bpombay Nights, and it is packed full. How good to see after the struggle they have had to bring in the punters. they are a nice nunch in there, and so crucially are the only outlet in town for the precious Bombay Duck!!
But he's been full of it, and is thoroughly enjoying himself. Apparently his boss says he has "much more savvy than the guy they had last year", prompting his sister to comment "What must he have been like then?"
I drop off Emsy at school, then when I should be doing more towards marketing thebusiness, I sink into an entire day of Interperving. It's a horrible addiction ( I am am pretty sure that word is not misused here) and I feel wretched by the end of the day when I realise what I could have achieved with the time. Where does one turn for help??
Sophie and H have gone to Bath for the weekend. Sophie has somehow got involved with the National volleyball championships, and even more curiously H has too.
They are staying in a youth hostel, and H worries that she may snore. I fear for the others in that dorm.
Dan rides his bike home from P's, and we all watch HIGNFY, which still stays fresh for yet another series. The term "national institution" cannot be far away.
Usually Friday routine, but splendidly I walk into the Bpombay Nights, and it is packed full. How good to see after the struggle they have had to bring in the punters. they are a nice nunch in there, and so crucially are the only outlet in town for the precious Bombay Duck!!
Apr 24th (Thurs)
Only one pupil booked in today, and that dies when he texts feigning illness. I spend a couple of hours interperving,before finally getting some work done.
I spend forever trying to prepare a lesson plan for my check test on wordperfect. It is ok, but bloody hard work. Eventually I decide to try and get used to my DTP programme. It turns out to be so user friendly that I wonder why the hell I haven't been using it for months.
I redo the lesson plan on it and it's five times as good.
I then download the accompanying web authoring programme with a view to finally getting my website up and running to try and attract some business.
Question Time is fun Commissar Ken doing battle with Bumbling Boris. There is something very sinister about Ken, but in fairness he hasn't done a bad job in the capital. It defies belief that anyone could seriously cast a vote for Boris. Ok on a TV reality show, but this about running one of the world's premier cities. An utter prat. How thick would he be without the benefit of an Eton education? Paddick was out of his depth, which in this company, is saying quite something.
I spend forever trying to prepare a lesson plan for my check test on wordperfect. It is ok, but bloody hard work. Eventually I decide to try and get used to my DTP programme. It turns out to be so user friendly that I wonder why the hell I haven't been using it for months.
I redo the lesson plan on it and it's five times as good.
I then download the accompanying web authoring programme with a view to finally getting my website up and running to try and attract some business.
Question Time is fun Commissar Ken doing battle with Bumbling Boris. There is something very sinister about Ken, but in fairness he hasn't done a bad job in the capital. It defies belief that anyone could seriously cast a vote for Boris. Ok on a TV reality show, but this about running one of the world's premier cities. An utter prat. How thick would he be without the benefit of an Eton education? Paddick was out of his depth, which in this company, is saying quite something.
Apr 23rd (Weds)
Hilary Clinton has won the Pennsylvania primary comfortably. She can't catch up with Obama on delegates, but her rationale will now be that of the two,, only she can win the key swing states in the final, presidential run off. And so it goes on, and on and on.
Another lesson with S today. It's been almost a year. I tell hinm tobook his test. I have absolutely no confidence in his ability to pass it, but can think of nothing else to do. Poor lad, he just doesn't get it. It just doesn't all co ordinate with him.
A, who has had about a tenth of the lessons, could with a fair winf pass tomorrow.
Man U v Barcelona in the evening. The Spaniards run rings round the scumbags all evening but scarcely look like scoring. It bodes well for the second leg.
Another lesson with S today. It's been almost a year. I tell hinm tobook his test. I have absolutely no confidence in his ability to pass it, but can think of nothing else to do. Poor lad, he just doesn't get it. It just doesn't all co ordinate with him.
A, who has had about a tenth of the lessons, could with a fair winf pass tomorrow.
Man U v Barcelona in the evening. The Spaniards run rings round the scumbags all evening but scarcely look like scoring. It bodes well for the second leg.
Apr 22 (Tues)
Pink balls at Lords!
Apparently the ECB in their wisdom are trying them out. It's because the one day white ball goes green too quickly and has to be replaced.
S's test goes fine, only 3 minors, and one of those was on his show me tell me questions! Prat! He shows what a good lad he is though by giving me a £12 tip at the end as a thank you. That is genuinely touching!
More flat hunting in the evening. This place is opposite the last one,has one less bedroom (but enough), and costs 60k less. It is compact and well appointed. The girls through a fit when they find out the next door neighbour is the writer and star of the prog "Gavin & Stacey", which recently won two BAFTAs. They are determined they want it,and H says it ticks all the boxes, providing she can drive a bargain in these times of tumbling property prices.
i decide that in view of the £12 tip I should offer hospitality and we go to dine in the Spanish restaurant, housed in the dismal new Eden Centre.
It's fun. Emsy is very little girlish, playing with ice cubes messing about with her straws.The more childish she is the more I love her. Please don't grow up! Stay just as you are. I still want my children, lovely young adults as Sophie and Daniel are turning out to be.
On the way home she turns somersaults on the railings and I am prepared to let her for as long as she likes to.
Vive l'enfance!
Apparently the ECB in their wisdom are trying them out. It's because the one day white ball goes green too quickly and has to be replaced.
S's test goes fine, only 3 minors, and one of those was on his show me tell me questions! Prat! He shows what a good lad he is though by giving me a £12 tip at the end as a thank you. That is genuinely touching!
More flat hunting in the evening. This place is opposite the last one,has one less bedroom (but enough), and costs 60k less. It is compact and well appointed. The girls through a fit when they find out the next door neighbour is the writer and star of the prog "Gavin & Stacey", which recently won two BAFTAs. They are determined they want it,and H says it ticks all the boxes, providing she can drive a bargain in these times of tumbling property prices.
i decide that in view of the £12 tip I should offer hospitality and we go to dine in the Spanish restaurant, housed in the dismal new Eden Centre.
It's fun. Emsy is very little girlish, playing with ice cubes messing about with her straws.The more childish she is the more I love her. Please don't grow up! Stay just as you are. I still want my children, lovely young adults as Sophie and Daniel are turning out to be.
On the way home she turns somersaults on the railings and I am prepared to let her for as long as she likes to.
Vive l'enfance!
Apr 21(Mon)
It's cold and it's horrible. In facts it's horribly cold as the week begins anew. I remember the old post holiday depression,and am very glad to say that the new business fills me with none of it.In fact the opposite,my only problem is that the diary for the next few weeks is looking decidedly bare.
Not much happens today I am out with J, who after this has only 6 hours prior to her test. I am going to have to talk to her and tell her she needs more lessons. Not so easy that will be as she has just revealed she has quit her job.
S wants a couple of hours before round 3 of his test tomorrow. He does everything ok,but there is nothing refined about his driving. He should pass this time though.
Then it's back to the Monday routine. Too much time leching at Collarme and the likes, telly, curry and bed. Is life inconsequential or what?
Not much happens today I am out with J, who after this has only 6 hours prior to her test. I am going to have to talk to her and tell her she needs more lessons. Not so easy that will be as she has just revealed she has quit her job.
S wants a couple of hours before round 3 of his test tomorrow. He does everything ok,but there is nothing refined about his driving. He should pass this time though.
Then it's back to the Monday routine. Too much time leching at Collarme and the likes, telly, curry and bed. Is life inconsequential or what?
Apr 20 (Sun)
A day of little action, like so many Sundays. Eventually I force myself to empty and wash the car, and Dan helps out by washing H's. We do trivial things such as lugging the bottles down to Asda, and I do actually get my legover for the first time in a long time.Sadly I am discussing the first bike ride of the spring.
The cricket season is upon us, and the World Snooker is starting up.another sign of the spring (doesn't that usually end on a bank holiday Monday?)
In the news, after (I think) about seven weeks, they still haven't been able to release the results of the Zimbabwe elections. No doubt had it been a Mugabe landslide they'd still have had thesame problems. Mugabe seems to be adopting a do nothing for long enough and everyone will forget about it policy. He's done it before, so why not. The SA president, Mbeke, seems ominously complicit in this subterfuge, and whilst he'sonside, it seems no one else in Africa is likely to lift a finger, or even a microphone against him. Desperate, the only sad consolation being that if he was deposed we'd probably be going through a re run in ten years time with whoever eventually replaced him.
Prince William has apparently taken to using his RAF chinook as his personally taxi. Having used it to get to a stag do the other noght, apparenlty he has now landed it on his bird's front lawn prior to hovering off to another piss up on theIsle of Wight. What a life. Hope he takes his bottle sto Asda.
The cricket season is upon us, and the World Snooker is starting up.another sign of the spring (doesn't that usually end on a bank holiday Monday?)
In the news, after (I think) about seven weeks, they still haven't been able to release the results of the Zimbabwe elections. No doubt had it been a Mugabe landslide they'd still have had thesame problems. Mugabe seems to be adopting a do nothing for long enough and everyone will forget about it policy. He's done it before, so why not. The SA president, Mbeke, seems ominously complicit in this subterfuge, and whilst he'sonside, it seems no one else in Africa is likely to lift a finger, or even a microphone against him. Desperate, the only sad consolation being that if he was deposed we'd probably be going through a re run in ten years time with whoever eventually replaced him.
Prince William has apparently taken to using his RAF chinook as his personally taxi. Having used it to get to a stag do the other noght, apparenlty he has now landed it on his bird's front lawn prior to hovering off to another piss up on theIsle of Wight. What a life. Hope he takes his bottle sto Asda.
Apr 19 (Sat)
And the scales have a sorry tale to tell! We have breached the 14 stone mark for the first time in a long time.Something must be done! The bike must be oiled! the butter must be eschewed once more.
Lie in late and then we head off to look at a flat in Beaconsfield. The plan is, buy flat, get Emsy into catchment for Becky Secky, H and Emsy live there for six months or a year, then when she is safely installed we rent it out.
Largeish flat just off the high street. Not a fantastic location, it has a small balcony giving onto a public car park. and nearly £300k please!!!!
I suggest looking at another place, a three bedroomed house which I reckon we could all move into (having sold up in Wycombe). the house is nice, welll extended and large enough for all. I am keen and try to press the idea, but my plan generally falls on stoney ground. Maybe they are looking forward to living apaart form us!.
Sophie has some free tickets for WWFC, but has too much work to do so Dan and I take them. The match is monstrously boring, but the Wanderers scrape a 1-0 which as it turns out, is enough to secure them a play off place. Good to spend an afternoon alone with Dan. He doesn't say much, but whenhe does it is usually good value. He's very funny!
Lie in late and then we head off to look at a flat in Beaconsfield. The plan is, buy flat, get Emsy into catchment for Becky Secky, H and Emsy live there for six months or a year, then when she is safely installed we rent it out.
Largeish flat just off the high street. Not a fantastic location, it has a small balcony giving onto a public car park. and nearly £300k please!!!!
I suggest looking at another place, a three bedroomed house which I reckon we could all move into (having sold up in Wycombe). the house is nice, welll extended and large enough for all. I am keen and try to press the idea, but my plan generally falls on stoney ground. Maybe they are looking forward to living apaart form us!.
Sophie has some free tickets for WWFC, but has too much work to do so Dan and I take them. The match is monstrously boring, but the Wanderers scrape a 1-0 which as it turns out, is enough to secure them a play off place. Good to spend an afternoon alone with Dan. He doesn't say much, but whenhe does it is usually good value. He's very funny!
Apri 18 (Fri)
We are up in good time, and start to make sense of the mess we have made of the caravan. We are supposed to be out by 10, but suspect this is not rigorously enforced. Fortunately, as it turns out, we are correct.
The girls disappear to try and repeat their tigger grabbing triumph,but everyone helps get the place reasonably ship shape, and we are off around 11.
We are going to stop in Liverpool on the way back. There is no definite plan,but the general agreement is that we will do something Beatles related.
I make the executive decision that we won't head down the motorway, but will explore the glories of the countryside and take the little roads through Preston. Turns out to be a big mistake. The scenery is almost entirley nodescript. All we see of Preston is a ring road, and the traffic the entire route is abysmal. We don't arrive in the centre of Liverpool for three hours.
Bus trips to Penny Lane, a ferry cross the Mersey.... so much to choose from but now so little time. We take the easiset option, the Beatles tour. It's ok, the girls all love it. An "interactive" tour, the buzzword of the museum world of today. It actually means we are handed out an MP3 player to guide us on our way. The replica of the cavern club is probably the best feature. It did mange to convey something of a feeling of what the place must have been like. Would have been more atmospheric if they had filled the whole place with the smoke of a million Woodbines, but hey guys, this is clean air 2008!!
we are there for a good few hours, and we are about to hit scouse rush hour. The image comes to mind of close on half a million moustachio'd permed head hooting at each other in traffic jams and screaming "Our rate Our rate Kaam down Kaam down" before the inevitable fight breaks out, is hard to resist.
I say goodbye to Flo, as H will be taking her straight home . It has been fun having another family member, albeit temporary. She is a lovely girl, quiet, but by no means timid, and always happy to join in with any teasing that is going around.
Actually there isn't much of a queue to speak of, and we ar soon on the motorway heading out of town.
Not for the first time this week, I manage to get myelf lost. I am with Dan, and we (we? I mean I!) manage to miss the M6 and as a result we end up in Manchester. To compound the error I then miss the exit from the inner ring road, and we go the whole way round. Humiliating as we get a call from H suggesting meeting in a services, and have to confess to our cock ups!
We do get ourselves home safely eventually, and in fact do so before the others, they having dropped Flo home.
Big hugs from Sophie, no sign of Kip.
Well, we're back It's Friday night. What else is there to do? Vindalooooo. I am dreading the scales tomorrow!
The girls disappear to try and repeat their tigger grabbing triumph,but everyone helps get the place reasonably ship shape, and we are off around 11.
We are going to stop in Liverpool on the way back. There is no definite plan,but the general agreement is that we will do something Beatles related.
I make the executive decision that we won't head down the motorway, but will explore the glories of the countryside and take the little roads through Preston. Turns out to be a big mistake. The scenery is almost entirley nodescript. All we see of Preston is a ring road, and the traffic the entire route is abysmal. We don't arrive in the centre of Liverpool for three hours.
Bus trips to Penny Lane, a ferry cross the Mersey.... so much to choose from but now so little time. We take the easiset option, the Beatles tour. It's ok, the girls all love it. An "interactive" tour, the buzzword of the museum world of today. It actually means we are handed out an MP3 player to guide us on our way. The replica of the cavern club is probably the best feature. It did mange to convey something of a feeling of what the place must have been like. Would have been more atmospheric if they had filled the whole place with the smoke of a million Woodbines, but hey guys, this is clean air 2008!!
we are there for a good few hours, and we are about to hit scouse rush hour. The image comes to mind of close on half a million moustachio'd permed head hooting at each other in traffic jams and screaming "Our rate Our rate Kaam down Kaam down" before the inevitable fight breaks out, is hard to resist.
I say goodbye to Flo, as H will be taking her straight home . It has been fun having another family member, albeit temporary. She is a lovely girl, quiet, but by no means timid, and always happy to join in with any teasing that is going around.
Actually there isn't much of a queue to speak of, and we ar soon on the motorway heading out of town.
Not for the first time this week, I manage to get myelf lost. I am with Dan, and we (we? I mean I!) manage to miss the M6 and as a result we end up in Manchester. To compound the error I then miss the exit from the inner ring road, and we go the whole way round. Humiliating as we get a call from H suggesting meeting in a services, and have to confess to our cock ups!
We do get ourselves home safely eventually, and in fact do so before the others, they having dropped Flo home.
Big hugs from Sophie, no sign of Kip.
Well, we're back It's Friday night. What else is there to do? Vindalooooo. I am dreading the scales tomorrow!
Apr17 (Thurs)
I am the first one up, and I kindly make tea for anyone else who wants it (H and Emsy) Heather is next out of the bed and decides to go off swimming.. The kids are reluctant to rise, and even more reluctant to get on board with the itinerary, which will consist of a further visit to the lakes, but this time with the walking boots pulled on.
We decide to let them stay and enjoy the swimmiing and tennis facilities, and we depart for the hills.
Before we leave though, there is excitement aplenty as Emsy and Flo return from the arcade with a giant "Tigger"!!! She's grabbed it. Having seen the success rates on those things this is truly beyond belief!
We drive, and seek out the smaller routes which have "pass"names rather than road numbers on the map. the roads, many of which I must have travelled before on Simon White led walking expiditions, are truly tiny and as we head higher and deeper into the hills they become more and more tortuous. They are truly a challenging drive, and must be really frightening if the roads start to get icy, as they must with some regularity.
Fresh snow has fallen on the higher peaks. It's not lush, alpine, cake icing thick stuff, but a good sprinkling of sugar nonetheless. The hills are wild and beautiful, the roads we share with indifferent sheep.
Suddenly the peace of the wilderness is shattered as two RAF jets hurtle overhead , their bellies almost scraping the tops of the mountains. What a buzz that must be. To do that just once in a lifetime must be something else. Just imagine having to play with a toy like that every day.
we head down from the hills and decide to pop down and have a look at Sellafield.
It looks fairly ominous as we approach but the sheep in the surrounding fields all seem to have the requisite number of heads and legs. But then! Cars are flying away from the place in their swarms. It must mean meltdown! But no, more prosaiicly it's four a clock and time to go home.We've missed the visitor centre so we'llnever know how safe we can sleep in our beds.
The drive home is stunning. A real drive, and I am glad to have H's car with a bit of grunt to enjoy it. It'd certainly have been a challenge to my little thing.
We stop on the way home for tea. I am tired and I make the mistake of kipping in the car and leaving the radio on. The battery is flat! Fortunately it's had no time to get cold, and a push down a little slope gets it going.
I hear on the news that Surrey are playing Lancashire. Another sign of spring time, and very welcome. Back in Lancashire itself, the weather could pass for November at it's best. No shortage of sunshine but a perishing wind and bitter cold.
Flo cooks the evening meal, and full credit too her. A pasta, cheese and bacon bake. It is delicious. The kids head off to the arcade and H goes too. I finish off my book. A good read. It's always worrying reading about someone you admire and instinctively like. You might found out a bit too much that you didn't want to hear. Not the case with Stan though. Yes, it was written by a sympathiser, but no one seems to have had a bead word to say about the brilliant buffoon.
We decide to let them stay and enjoy the swimmiing and tennis facilities, and we depart for the hills.
Before we leave though, there is excitement aplenty as Emsy and Flo return from the arcade with a giant "Tigger"!!! She's grabbed it. Having seen the success rates on those things this is truly beyond belief!
We drive, and seek out the smaller routes which have "pass"names rather than road numbers on the map. the roads, many of which I must have travelled before on Simon White led walking expiditions, are truly tiny and as we head higher and deeper into the hills they become more and more tortuous. They are truly a challenging drive, and must be really frightening if the roads start to get icy, as they must with some regularity.
Fresh snow has fallen on the higher peaks. It's not lush, alpine, cake icing thick stuff, but a good sprinkling of sugar nonetheless. The hills are wild and beautiful, the roads we share with indifferent sheep.
Suddenly the peace of the wilderness is shattered as two RAF jets hurtle overhead , their bellies almost scraping the tops of the mountains. What a buzz that must be. To do that just once in a lifetime must be something else. Just imagine having to play with a toy like that every day.
we head down from the hills and decide to pop down and have a look at Sellafield.
It looks fairly ominous as we approach but the sheep in the surrounding fields all seem to have the requisite number of heads and legs. But then! Cars are flying away from the place in their swarms. It must mean meltdown! But no, more prosaiicly it's four a clock and time to go home.We've missed the visitor centre so we'llnever know how safe we can sleep in our beds.
The drive home is stunning. A real drive, and I am glad to have H's car with a bit of grunt to enjoy it. It'd certainly have been a challenge to my little thing.
We stop on the way home for tea. I am tired and I make the mistake of kipping in the car and leaving the radio on. The battery is flat! Fortunately it's had no time to get cold, and a push down a little slope gets it going.
I hear on the news that Surrey are playing Lancashire. Another sign of spring time, and very welcome. Back in Lancashire itself, the weather could pass for November at it's best. No shortage of sunshine but a perishing wind and bitter cold.
Flo cooks the evening meal, and full credit too her. A pasta, cheese and bacon bake. It is delicious. The kids head off to the arcade and H goes too. I finish off my book. A good read. It's always worrying reading about someone you admire and instinctively like. You might found out a bit too much that you didn't want to hear. Not the case with Stan though. Yes, it was written by a sympathiser, but no one seems to have had a bead word to say about the brilliant buffoon.
Apr 16 (Wed)
We are up early,though not as early as yesterday. When in Cornwall we are almost always out by 9. I wonder if it's Sophie's sense of hectoring urgency we miss. We are heading for the lake district today. No real plan in mind,though I have a specific objective for the first visit of the day.
We drive for much further than we thought we'd have to, heading for the town of Ulverston. On the way into town I spot the "Stan Laurel Arms", for this is the birth place of the comic genius.
I am not much given to hero worship, but Stan gets as close as anyone in my book.
The "Laurel and Hardy Museum" is an absolute treat. It is so ramshackle it could have been built by the lads themselves, and that on a bad day.
There is scarcely anything of value there, but it is all engaging to a fan. there are letters and posters stuck to every inch of available space, including the ceiling. Piles of magazines and books are left lying around with no order or logic. The curator could have stepped straight from an L&H flick, wearing a woolly flap down cap and tottering about talking forever to anyone who'll listen in the broadest of agricultural Lancashire brogues. He corners H and starts to relate some never ending story about Stan's toilet seat (which now holds pride of place on the museum bog).
Meanwhile in an adjoining room (there are three living room sized areas) is an antiquated cinema, complete with torn velvet seats, arranged on a slope, maybe a dozen in all.
A group of pensioners are watching "The Music Box" and shrieks of laughter are coming from them. We all sit down and soon our laughter unites with theirs. How wonderful and durable their comedy is. seemingly so simple, but actually incredibly sophisticated. Just so, so funny, and so enduring.
We stay for another hour or so, watching a collection of calamities until we can take no more. Great stuff. We stop at the SL Inn for a drink. that too is great, full of Stan (and Ollie) memorabilia.
We head off into the lakes. The scenery is fine, but not breathtaking, and I fell we are skirting the region rather than really discovering it. We take a car ferry to Windermere, and then head for the Beatrix Potter museum.
I find it a bit twee, though it's certainly tad better organised than Stan and Ollie's affair.
Back to the caravan, a bowl of spag bol is prepared, and once eaten everyone disappears. I tuck into my book, bought from the museum; a bio of Stan.
After a few chapters I venture to the "entertainment" complex. It is truly hideous. A brash bright hall full of every money grabbing machine known to man. The kids love it of course, and Emsy and Flo have set their hearts on winning a giant Winnie the Pooh toy with one of those mechanical grabbers.
The entertainment itself consists of a pretty if near anorexic singer who wears very little and sings very loud. The audience for the most part consist of deeply unglamorous families sipping on their cokes whilst Dad has a last pint of lager and mum a bacardi and coke. The singers more intimate fans consist of the two dozen young kids, aged between 12 and 15 who are finding this the height of sophistication, the older ones trying (and failing woefully) to look cool, the younger ones just sure that they must look cool in such a happening environment. A few older kids are their too, clearly not the full ticket, maybe with Downs syndrome or a similar affliction, but happy with their trip away from the humdrum of everyday life. It's hard to be dismissive when people are having harmless fun. Or at least it should be.
A few more chapters of Stan and then off to the land of Nod.
We drive for much further than we thought we'd have to, heading for the town of Ulverston. On the way into town I spot the "Stan Laurel Arms", for this is the birth place of the comic genius.
I am not much given to hero worship, but Stan gets as close as anyone in my book.
The "Laurel and Hardy Museum" is an absolute treat. It is so ramshackle it could have been built by the lads themselves, and that on a bad day.
There is scarcely anything of value there, but it is all engaging to a fan. there are letters and posters stuck to every inch of available space, including the ceiling. Piles of magazines and books are left lying around with no order or logic. The curator could have stepped straight from an L&H flick, wearing a woolly flap down cap and tottering about talking forever to anyone who'll listen in the broadest of agricultural Lancashire brogues. He corners H and starts to relate some never ending story about Stan's toilet seat (which now holds pride of place on the museum bog).
Meanwhile in an adjoining room (there are three living room sized areas) is an antiquated cinema, complete with torn velvet seats, arranged on a slope, maybe a dozen in all.
A group of pensioners are watching "The Music Box" and shrieks of laughter are coming from them. We all sit down and soon our laughter unites with theirs. How wonderful and durable their comedy is. seemingly so simple, but actually incredibly sophisticated. Just so, so funny, and so enduring.
We stay for another hour or so, watching a collection of calamities until we can take no more. Great stuff. We stop at the SL Inn for a drink. that too is great, full of Stan (and Ollie) memorabilia.
We head off into the lakes. The scenery is fine, but not breathtaking, and I fell we are skirting the region rather than really discovering it. We take a car ferry to Windermere, and then head for the Beatrix Potter museum.
I find it a bit twee, though it's certainly tad better organised than Stan and Ollie's affair.
Back to the caravan, a bowl of spag bol is prepared, and once eaten everyone disappears. I tuck into my book, bought from the museum; a bio of Stan.
After a few chapters I venture to the "entertainment" complex. It is truly hideous. A brash bright hall full of every money grabbing machine known to man. The kids love it of course, and Emsy and Flo have set their hearts on winning a giant Winnie the Pooh toy with one of those mechanical grabbers.
The entertainment itself consists of a pretty if near anorexic singer who wears very little and sings very loud. The audience for the most part consist of deeply unglamorous families sipping on their cokes whilst Dad has a last pint of lager and mum a bacardi and coke. The singers more intimate fans consist of the two dozen young kids, aged between 12 and 15 who are finding this the height of sophistication, the older ones trying (and failing woefully) to look cool, the younger ones just sure that they must look cool in such a happening environment. A few older kids are their too, clearly not the full ticket, maybe with Downs syndrome or a similar affliction, but happy with their trip away from the humdrum of everyday life. It's hard to be dismissive when people are having harmless fun. Or at least it should be.
A few more chapters of Stan and then off to the land of Nod.
Apr 14 (Mon)
As we vowed we would, we are up with the lark. The girls are keen to get out to the pool, and they duly disappear for a while. There are housekeeping tasks to accomplish, and after plenty of to ing and fro ing it is midday before we set off for Blackpool.
We are there and at the Pleasure beach by half past. It costs an arm and a leg to get in, and we rue the fact that we were not there earlier to take full advantage.
We head for the "Grand National", an old wood and iron roller coaster that has decidedly seen better days. It is timeworn and very rickety, and seems amazingly low tech compared with today's tubular steel affairs,but it is great fun for all that. The kids want to go their own way, so we agree to meet at 6.
We get shot up in the air a la Florida on the next ride, then head for a succession of haunted houses, halls of mirrors, Alice in wonderland rides,many of which I remember from my last visit here over forty years ago. Good to know not everything has been sacrificed for progress. Whilst the place has moved with the times and installed some fantastic state of the art rides, it are the old fashioned ones which are coming up trumps, and which certainly give the place a British seasidey charm.
The "Big One" is a modern machine of superlatives, chief of which is a 200foot drop at speeds of up to 87mph. It's fun, but after so much rollercoastering these things start to lose their thrill. Maybe I need to take a break.
On of the best rides is another of the old rickety things, the "Steeplechase" Carousel type horses liberated from their roundabout and running round and round and up and an old iron course. It really is a hang on tight affair, and for the life of me I cannot see how no one falls off despite the seat belt.
We dine royally chez Burger King, and begin to worry that we have not seen the kids since arriving. After a few more rides I suggest the monorail from where we can scout for them. There's no sign of the girls,but at the end of the ride H spots Dan. He isn't happy. He lost the girls right at the beginning, and has been all alone for most of the day. I feel very sorry for him, though it transpires that he has still done more than his fair share of the rides.
We ride a few more tubular monstrosities. The panorama of metalwork, ancient and modern is quite spectacular. It looks like a wild chef has thrown a saucepan of metallic spaghetti over the site.
Eventually the rides start to close, and we head towards the exit. After a while we spot the girls who have had a great time, and we all swap stories. Emsy claims she was robbed of a giant shark, and implores us to return to the stall to plead with the manager. He is very pleasant, but it's to no avail.
The other four play a racehorse game. Your horse advances every time you through a ball through a hole, whilst the stallholder provides a frenetic commentary. Fun!
We walk to the sea front. It's high tide and the Irish sea is battering the sea wall. Whilst the weather has remained blissfully sunny, there is a chill in the air, and the sea gives hints of it's menace.
We stroll up a pretty disappointing pier, and then decide it's time to head for home. We stop at Asda for a few vital bits, then cook some lovely fresh tuna, before settling down in front of the telly whilst the kids go and raid the amusement arcade.
We are there and at the Pleasure beach by half past. It costs an arm and a leg to get in, and we rue the fact that we were not there earlier to take full advantage.
We head for the "Grand National", an old wood and iron roller coaster that has decidedly seen better days. It is timeworn and very rickety, and seems amazingly low tech compared with today's tubular steel affairs,but it is great fun for all that. The kids want to go their own way, so we agree to meet at 6.
We get shot up in the air a la Florida on the next ride, then head for a succession of haunted houses, halls of mirrors, Alice in wonderland rides,many of which I remember from my last visit here over forty years ago. Good to know not everything has been sacrificed for progress. Whilst the place has moved with the times and installed some fantastic state of the art rides, it are the old fashioned ones which are coming up trumps, and which certainly give the place a British seasidey charm.
The "Big One" is a modern machine of superlatives, chief of which is a 200foot drop at speeds of up to 87mph. It's fun, but after so much rollercoastering these things start to lose their thrill. Maybe I need to take a break.
On of the best rides is another of the old rickety things, the "Steeplechase" Carousel type horses liberated from their roundabout and running round and round and up and an old iron course. It really is a hang on tight affair, and for the life of me I cannot see how no one falls off despite the seat belt.
We dine royally chez Burger King, and begin to worry that we have not seen the kids since arriving. After a few more rides I suggest the monorail from where we can scout for them. There's no sign of the girls,but at the end of the ride H spots Dan. He isn't happy. He lost the girls right at the beginning, and has been all alone for most of the day. I feel very sorry for him, though it transpires that he has still done more than his fair share of the rides.
We ride a few more tubular monstrosities. The panorama of metalwork, ancient and modern is quite spectacular. It looks like a wild chef has thrown a saucepan of metallic spaghetti over the site.
Eventually the rides start to close, and we head towards the exit. After a while we spot the girls who have had a great time, and we all swap stories. Emsy claims she was robbed of a giant shark, and implores us to return to the stall to plead with the manager. He is very pleasant, but it's to no avail.
The other four play a racehorse game. Your horse advances every time you through a ball through a hole, whilst the stallholder provides a frenetic commentary. Fun!
We walk to the sea front. It's high tide and the Irish sea is battering the sea wall. Whilst the weather has remained blissfully sunny, there is a chill in the air, and the sea gives hints of it's menace.
We stroll up a pretty disappointing pier, and then decide it's time to head for home. We stop at Asda for a few vital bits, then cook some lovely fresh tuna, before settling down in front of the telly whilst the kids go and raid the amusement arcade.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
April 14th (Mon)
I'm up bright and early as we are now officially on our hols. The kids are up before nine and we set off around ten. Nice to see the folks again. It is a shame they are so far away I'd like to see them more.
Emsy is navigating, but it's not her fault that we take the wrong road coming out of Newark. The problem is compounded as we try to get back on track and meet a police roadblock which sends us on a tour of some reasonably attractive Lincolnshire countryside. Not a lot of that to be found! Thinking about it, we are probably in Notts by this stage.
The scenery gets progressively more northern as we venture towards Sheffield, with the occasional pit wheel commemorating now defunct collieries, and still rarer, a working mine.
We get to the steel capital well behind schedule and things get no better as we try to pick our way through the city to find Snake Pass.
The A57 runs out in the middle of the city and it takes us half an hour to find it by a process of elimination.
I think of the city of Sheffield as I visited it with Dad in the mid sixties. Along with Liverpool, Manchester and Leeds, this was a filthy, grimy place, where thick soot inches thick clung to almost every wall and roof. Industrial chimneys belched more smoke into the foul smelling atmosphere. So what does Sheffield resemble today? Penzance, Brighton, Norwich, Lincoln, Chester,Dundee or Belfast. The same crappy 70's leisure centres, the same square boxes hiding away the grandeur of the Victorian town centre, and the identical collection of high street chains stores.
We find our way through eventually, despite an almost total lack of signposts for our route, and head out onto the moors which are a lift to the most addled of spirits. The sun, though never warm, blazes over the rugged and barren scenery.
Needing the bog, we stop at a pub about halfway from Sheffield to Manchester and look out over a splendid reservoir. The arches of a road bridge peek out but a few yards above the water level. In the pub is a picture of the same bridge prior to the flooding of the valley. The arches are huge, at least a hundred feet high.
We get lost again in Glossop, but eventually find our way back out onto the Moors and towards Padfield, where the Peel Arms is soon located. We used to know this pub, and it's convivial Irish landlord Dennis and his wife Viv, very well. We spent a few footy weekends here, and would walk on the Moors on the following Sunday, with very sore heads.
I'd shown Emsy the video I took here nearly fifteen years ago, when H was pregnant with Daniel. The pub is stone built and has hole in the stonework which is just large enough for an adult to squeeze through. In the video Alan Sharps had made it through easily. A few years earlier I had also passed through and decided to repeat the feat. A big mistake! I was wedged solid for about seven minutes, unable to move forward or back. I can still recall the controlled panic, and it was reinforced watching the DVD. Needless to say Emsy is dead keen to try.
Dennis is there no longer. The new patron gives as a civil, though hardly effusive welcome. Dennis died a few years back, it transpires. Yes, you can still go through the hole. I tell Emsy she must first eat her lunch.
H is apparently about 20 minutes away, and it is last orders for lunch. I order lunch for 5. Dan and Emsy are puzzled. What they don't know is that H is arriving with Emsy's mate Florence as a surprise.
When they do enter the pub Emsy's face is a picture. They hug like long parted lovers. A lovely scene. Emsy slips easily through the hole in the wall but can't persuade Flo to join her. Don't even bother wondering if myself, H or Daniel tried it!
We get into our respective cars and head for Fleetwood. The journey is marked by an astonishing hail storm on the motorway. I am seriously worried that the windscreen might break at one stage so fierce is the bombardment.
We arrive at the camp to a cheery welcome, but a fairly dismal landscape. The land must be reclaimed from the sea as the ground is sandy soft. Consequently concrete has been allowed unhindered access. The caravans are much closer together than on our last such adventure, at Mullion. Around the concrete blocks on which they are sited had been spread concrete aggregate. Lovely.
We settle into the caravan. It's perfectly adequate, though not as nice as it's cornish counterpart. The two girls are wildly excited though. Dan just bemoans the enforced separation from World of Warcraft.
We decide to go into Blackpool to eat. We think the buzz of a seaside resort coming into season will be the fillip we need to get things buzzing. It'd be hard to be more wrong.
The drive takes about half an hour, and it is like a bloody ghost town, only most of the ghosts have taken the night off. Every pub is empty, row after row of B&Bs stand, clearly empty, and with a kind of pathetic triumph of hope over expectation, a light is placed on a table top in each front window in a desperate attempt to entice the weary traveller. They ain't here though. It transpires that the early Easter has seriously messed up the start of the season, and the place is almost deserted. We worry that the Pleasure Beach may not be open, but when we stumble across an empty Pizza Hut we are reassured that it is open during the day time. The girls munch on pizza and chicken wings in the back of the car, whilst the rest of us hunt down an open curry house spotted earlier. Hols are hols, but Mondays are Mondays are curry night is curry night!
It is a nice, friendly establishment. Empty of course, but the prices are more than reasonable, they are cheap! emboldened by this we order, and rather than go to the pub next door for a drink, we have a Cobra apiece and order two more to take away.
Big mistake. The food prices may be northern, but the beer is very much south east, and the bill escalates t0 £35. Hmmm.
The meal isn't great when we get it home, and salt is the predominant taste. Still, I'll be home by Friday!
Emsy is navigating, but it's not her fault that we take the wrong road coming out of Newark. The problem is compounded as we try to get back on track and meet a police roadblock which sends us on a tour of some reasonably attractive Lincolnshire countryside. Not a lot of that to be found! Thinking about it, we are probably in Notts by this stage.
The scenery gets progressively more northern as we venture towards Sheffield, with the occasional pit wheel commemorating now defunct collieries, and still rarer, a working mine.
We get to the steel capital well behind schedule and things get no better as we try to pick our way through the city to find Snake Pass.
The A57 runs out in the middle of the city and it takes us half an hour to find it by a process of elimination.
I think of the city of Sheffield as I visited it with Dad in the mid sixties. Along with Liverpool, Manchester and Leeds, this was a filthy, grimy place, where thick soot inches thick clung to almost every wall and roof. Industrial chimneys belched more smoke into the foul smelling atmosphere. So what does Sheffield resemble today? Penzance, Brighton, Norwich, Lincoln, Chester,Dundee or Belfast. The same crappy 70's leisure centres, the same square boxes hiding away the grandeur of the Victorian town centre, and the identical collection of high street chains stores.
We find our way through eventually, despite an almost total lack of signposts for our route, and head out onto the moors which are a lift to the most addled of spirits. The sun, though never warm, blazes over the rugged and barren scenery.
Needing the bog, we stop at a pub about halfway from Sheffield to Manchester and look out over a splendid reservoir. The arches of a road bridge peek out but a few yards above the water level. In the pub is a picture of the same bridge prior to the flooding of the valley. The arches are huge, at least a hundred feet high.
We get lost again in Glossop, but eventually find our way back out onto the Moors and towards Padfield, where the Peel Arms is soon located. We used to know this pub, and it's convivial Irish landlord Dennis and his wife Viv, very well. We spent a few footy weekends here, and would walk on the Moors on the following Sunday, with very sore heads.
I'd shown Emsy the video I took here nearly fifteen years ago, when H was pregnant with Daniel. The pub is stone built and has hole in the stonework which is just large enough for an adult to squeeze through. In the video Alan Sharps had made it through easily. A few years earlier I had also passed through and decided to repeat the feat. A big mistake! I was wedged solid for about seven minutes, unable to move forward or back. I can still recall the controlled panic, and it was reinforced watching the DVD. Needless to say Emsy is dead keen to try.
Dennis is there no longer. The new patron gives as a civil, though hardly effusive welcome. Dennis died a few years back, it transpires. Yes, you can still go through the hole. I tell Emsy she must first eat her lunch.
H is apparently about 20 minutes away, and it is last orders for lunch. I order lunch for 5. Dan and Emsy are puzzled. What they don't know is that H is arriving with Emsy's mate Florence as a surprise.
When they do enter the pub Emsy's face is a picture. They hug like long parted lovers. A lovely scene. Emsy slips easily through the hole in the wall but can't persuade Flo to join her. Don't even bother wondering if myself, H or Daniel tried it!
We get into our respective cars and head for Fleetwood. The journey is marked by an astonishing hail storm on the motorway. I am seriously worried that the windscreen might break at one stage so fierce is the bombardment.
We arrive at the camp to a cheery welcome, but a fairly dismal landscape. The land must be reclaimed from the sea as the ground is sandy soft. Consequently concrete has been allowed unhindered access. The caravans are much closer together than on our last such adventure, at Mullion. Around the concrete blocks on which they are sited had been spread concrete aggregate. Lovely.
We settle into the caravan. It's perfectly adequate, though not as nice as it's cornish counterpart. The two girls are wildly excited though. Dan just bemoans the enforced separation from World of Warcraft.
We decide to go into Blackpool to eat. We think the buzz of a seaside resort coming into season will be the fillip we need to get things buzzing. It'd be hard to be more wrong.
The drive takes about half an hour, and it is like a bloody ghost town, only most of the ghosts have taken the night off. Every pub is empty, row after row of B&Bs stand, clearly empty, and with a kind of pathetic triumph of hope over expectation, a light is placed on a table top in each front window in a desperate attempt to entice the weary traveller. They ain't here though. It transpires that the early Easter has seriously messed up the start of the season, and the place is almost deserted. We worry that the Pleasure Beach may not be open, but when we stumble across an empty Pizza Hut we are reassured that it is open during the day time. The girls munch on pizza and chicken wings in the back of the car, whilst the rest of us hunt down an open curry house spotted earlier. Hols are hols, but Mondays are Mondays are curry night is curry night!
It is a nice, friendly establishment. Empty of course, but the prices are more than reasonable, they are cheap! emboldened by this we order, and rather than go to the pub next door for a drink, we have a Cobra apiece and order two more to take away.
Big mistake. The food prices may be northern, but the beer is very much south east, and the bill escalates t0 £35. Hmmm.
The meal isn't great when we get it home, and salt is the predominant taste. Still, I'll be home by Friday!
April 13th (Sun)
After too much Sanbucca, wine and beer on a Saturday night, I wake feeling surprisingly human, though in no mood to bounce up and down too early. What remains of the morning is spent watching the home DVDs with Mum, Emsy ocassionally popping in for a viewing.
Too much inactivity leads us to plan a mission, and an exciting hour or two is spent venturing into Sleaford for a white knuckle tour around Lidl, Homebase and Aldi.
We get home and I cook roast beef. So nice to cook in an uncluttered, clean and well ordered kitchen, it really is a pleasure. The meal goes well. I drink too much wine and cherry and as usually happens on a Sunday evening I go to sleep in front of the telly.
Vague plans of venturing to the Nag's Head float into my consciousness, but the grim reality of a pub with three inhabitants keeps me horizontal.
Too much inactivity leads us to plan a mission, and an exciting hour or two is spent venturing into Sleaford for a white knuckle tour around Lidl, Homebase and Aldi.
We get home and I cook roast beef. So nice to cook in an uncluttered, clean and well ordered kitchen, it really is a pleasure. The meal goes well. I drink too much wine and cherry and as usually happens on a Sunday evening I go to sleep in front of the telly.
Vague plans of venturing to the Nag's Head float into my consciousness, but the grim reality of a pub with three inhabitants keeps me horizontal.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
April 12th(Sat)
Time to make the long trawl north. And, no that's not to Blackpool. I have recruited two volunteers, that is to say Dan and Emsy, to spend the weekend in helpringham with me. They actually don't take a great deal of persuading, which is nice to see. Their grandparents love them a lot, and it's nice to see this reciprocated, even if, at this stage of their lives theyare less keen to articulate such feelings than they once were.
The A1/ A1(M) has to be one of the dreariest roads in Europe. It plows a furrow through a swathe of uniquely uninteresting Eastern England. There's scarcely a hill to speak of, hardly a wood to break the monotony, simply a sad collection of nondescript house and roadside facilities. Highlights: a carpark full of motor caravans, a garden centre, and oddly,the "Adult Pitstop", a sex shop in the middle of nowhere set back from the side of the road, presumably for those who can't mke it from London to Newcastle without a wank at the half way point.
The collection of "Little Chefs" which once punctuated the boredom are now sadly defunct and have either been bulldozed or left to wither in keeping with the scrub like vegetation from which they once borrowed their plot.
It's not possible to make decent progress either. The speed limit goes up and down like awhore's drawers twixt 50, 60 and 70, with a ready supply of cameras to back them up, and every time some momentum is achieved there is a roundabout to undo any good work done.
Needless tosay we have to have one scheduled stop for the kids to ram poisonous pizzas and foul fried chicken into their gullets.
H has blown the intended surprise, so we arrive expected, though early enough to shock the parents/ grandparents. There is very little to do here, so we mooch around the house, watch a few home vids of the kids. In the evening we head out to eat in the Italian restaurant in Sleaford. We've been before and I am not expecting great things. In this respect no one is dissapointed.
It's sadly lacking in atmosphere. I mean it's not hard to create a trattoria feel to a place. Even a token effort of a few plastic vines antd a couple of raffia swathed bottles of chianti would help, but here there is nothing. It is sparse, and two little round tables shoved together do not make for a great conversational opportunities. Noise blasting from the sound system (mainly chart stuff but with the ocassional ethnic nod in the form of a few isolated O Sole Mio type numbers chucked in at random) is the attempt to create ambience.
There's a wonderfully Fawltyesque beginning as Dad tries to order a Bacardi and Ginger from a waiter who's command of English would make Mannuel sound like Churchill beside him. "Bacardi, Yesssir
"And Dry Ginger please"
"What is?"
"Ginger Ale?"
"Yes Baccardi"
"With Ginger Ale"
He looks forlorn. There's onlyoneway out. He smiles sadly
"No"
"A Bristol cream then please"
The hapless waiter shakes his head. After five more minutes of this routine they give up and decide to go drinkless. I simplify matters by ordering a beer. His face brightens markedly.
A couple of tatty laminated yellow menus are dished out, and then the piece de resistance!
Today's "specials" are announced, scribbled on the back of two old bills, one of which is so faint it can'tbe read at all. There's nothing special to talk of, and I plump for a veal Marsalla. The kids order garlic bread to start with, which actually turn out to be medium sized pizzas. Shame for Emsy, who has ordered pizza for main course!
My anitpasta looks as though it was bought from Tesco this morning. The main is swimming in source which is sickly sweet, but vast in proportion. The folks order steak Diane and are presented with half a cow apiece. Truly intimidating portions, and they can only eat half of them.
After the meal the waiters become more friendly and start offering around free digestifs, which go down well, especially the Sanbucca. It's not a disastrous evening, but it's generally agreed the curry house next door is a better option. There is a lamentable lack of good eating houses in Sleaford.
I go round to the Nags after handing over 30 bloody quid for a 7 mile each way taxi trip, and chat driving instruction with Paul. It is good to dio, and I feel less in awe of him theses days, though with six years at it and a grade six under his belt, he's still worth listening to.
Have three pints there, and on top of all the Sanbucca it's too many, and I am out like a light as soon as home.
The A1/ A1(M) has to be one of the dreariest roads in Europe. It plows a furrow through a swathe of uniquely uninteresting Eastern England. There's scarcely a hill to speak of, hardly a wood to break the monotony, simply a sad collection of nondescript house and roadside facilities. Highlights: a carpark full of motor caravans, a garden centre, and oddly,the "Adult Pitstop", a sex shop in the middle of nowhere set back from the side of the road, presumably for those who can't mke it from London to Newcastle without a wank at the half way point.
The collection of "Little Chefs" which once punctuated the boredom are now sadly defunct and have either been bulldozed or left to wither in keeping with the scrub like vegetation from which they once borrowed their plot.
It's not possible to make decent progress either. The speed limit goes up and down like awhore's drawers twixt 50, 60 and 70, with a ready supply of cameras to back them up, and every time some momentum is achieved there is a roundabout to undo any good work done.
Needless tosay we have to have one scheduled stop for the kids to ram poisonous pizzas and foul fried chicken into their gullets.
H has blown the intended surprise, so we arrive expected, though early enough to shock the parents/ grandparents. There is very little to do here, so we mooch around the house, watch a few home vids of the kids. In the evening we head out to eat in the Italian restaurant in Sleaford. We've been before and I am not expecting great things. In this respect no one is dissapointed.
It's sadly lacking in atmosphere. I mean it's not hard to create a trattoria feel to a place. Even a token effort of a few plastic vines antd a couple of raffia swathed bottles of chianti would help, but here there is nothing. It is sparse, and two little round tables shoved together do not make for a great conversational opportunities. Noise blasting from the sound system (mainly chart stuff but with the ocassional ethnic nod in the form of a few isolated O Sole Mio type numbers chucked in at random) is the attempt to create ambience.
There's a wonderfully Fawltyesque beginning as Dad tries to order a Bacardi and Ginger from a waiter who's command of English would make Mannuel sound like Churchill beside him. "Bacardi, Yesssir
"And Dry Ginger please"
"What is?"
"Ginger Ale?"
"Yes Baccardi"
"With Ginger Ale"
He looks forlorn. There's onlyoneway out. He smiles sadly
"No"
"A Bristol cream then please"
The hapless waiter shakes his head. After five more minutes of this routine they give up and decide to go drinkless. I simplify matters by ordering a beer. His face brightens markedly.
A couple of tatty laminated yellow menus are dished out, and then the piece de resistance!
Today's "specials" are announced, scribbled on the back of two old bills, one of which is so faint it can'tbe read at all. There's nothing special to talk of, and I plump for a veal Marsalla. The kids order garlic bread to start with, which actually turn out to be medium sized pizzas. Shame for Emsy, who has ordered pizza for main course!
My anitpasta looks as though it was bought from Tesco this morning. The main is swimming in source which is sickly sweet, but vast in proportion. The folks order steak Diane and are presented with half a cow apiece. Truly intimidating portions, and they can only eat half of them.
After the meal the waiters become more friendly and start offering around free digestifs, which go down well, especially the Sanbucca. It's not a disastrous evening, but it's generally agreed the curry house next door is a better option. There is a lamentable lack of good eating houses in Sleaford.
I go round to the Nags after handing over 30 bloody quid for a 7 mile each way taxi trip, and chat driving instruction with Paul. It is good to dio, and I feel less in awe of him theses days, though with six years at it and a grade six under his belt, he's still worth listening to.
Have three pints there, and on top of all the Sanbucca it's too many, and I am out like a light as soon as home.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Apr 11(Fri)
A day off. I am roused from horny slumber by my elder daughter, demanding to be transported across Wycombe as she is off to London with her mate. The fact that she is late (she got up at 9:10 for a 9:20 rendezvous) is apparently entirely to be laid at my door.
I drop her, and pop into the bike shop in Wycombe. I am considering buying a scooter to zip around on. God knows why, but the idea of being able to get on a ferry to France for about £8 return appeals immensely. The salesman there pounces on me and is already talking about leaving a deposit for a bike neither of us has even seen before all the porridge has come unstuck from between my teeth.
When I get home there is a letter from the DSA on the mat. Curiously I have been expecting this. It is the dreaded invitation to my "check test", basically at this stage of the game, an appraisal to decide if I am considered competent to continue in my chosen line of work. I am not too phased, it's not until late June, and really I'd quite like someone to cast a critical eye over what I am doing.
On a whim I suggest to Emsy we visit the zoo. To my surprise she responds positively. Needless to say Dan's reaction is at the other end of the scale. We are out and on the road in quick time, but as we drive to wards Amersham the skies darken ominously, and there are huge, booming claps of thunder seemingly following us as we travel. Arriving at the station the hail stones start to cascade from the heavens like discarded golf balls, and we start to wonder if the zoo is such a good idea.
The rain hammers on the train roof the journey's length, and another colossal crash on the celestial timpani greets our arrival in Marylebone.
We decide the aquarium might be a compromise. This involves a 20 minute queue in the mean, raw Thameside wind, with the rain threatening all the time to fall in a deluge to soak us. We just escape this fate.
The aquarium has long attracted me, and I am very glad we went. Emma was fascinated, not showing the least sign of boredom at any time, and unusually we went round at an even pace, neither of us hurrying the other along.
On the tube she was thrilled to find that she could now reach the overhead handrails, albeit on tiptoe. A triumph for her, but for me another sign of her precious childhood ebbing away. Today she was still the baby daughter, hugging, kissing and holding hands. I do so wish it could last a little longer, and I really regret that there have been so few of these wonderful days in their growing up. It was always tomorrow or next week or next month, and now we are running out of tomorrows.
In fact, the actual tomorrow we head off for a week in a caravan at Blackpool, and for the first time Sophie won't be coming with us, citing need to revise and work. So sad.
My laptop has gone back to meet it's maker. Very irritating this, as all that is wrong is the electrical supply unit, and all that needs doing is for this to be replaced. I do have some qualms about the PC world morality squad and some of the stuff that's on there. I'm no Gary Glitter, but some of the femdom stuff, meat and drink to the perves of my acquaintance, might well be viewed differently by others.
So I am stuck to continue this blog for the next few days. I'll probably buy a notepad and jot down anything that needs reporting, and bring it all up to date when the lappy is hopefully returned to me without the door being kicked in by the vice squad!!
I drop her, and pop into the bike shop in Wycombe. I am considering buying a scooter to zip around on. God knows why, but the idea of being able to get on a ferry to France for about £8 return appeals immensely. The salesman there pounces on me and is already talking about leaving a deposit for a bike neither of us has even seen before all the porridge has come unstuck from between my teeth.
When I get home there is a letter from the DSA on the mat. Curiously I have been expecting this. It is the dreaded invitation to my "check test", basically at this stage of the game, an appraisal to decide if I am considered competent to continue in my chosen line of work. I am not too phased, it's not until late June, and really I'd quite like someone to cast a critical eye over what I am doing.
On a whim I suggest to Emsy we visit the zoo. To my surprise she responds positively. Needless to say Dan's reaction is at the other end of the scale. We are out and on the road in quick time, but as we drive to wards Amersham the skies darken ominously, and there are huge, booming claps of thunder seemingly following us as we travel. Arriving at the station the hail stones start to cascade from the heavens like discarded golf balls, and we start to wonder if the zoo is such a good idea.
The rain hammers on the train roof the journey's length, and another colossal crash on the celestial timpani greets our arrival in Marylebone.
We decide the aquarium might be a compromise. This involves a 20 minute queue in the mean, raw Thameside wind, with the rain threatening all the time to fall in a deluge to soak us. We just escape this fate.
The aquarium has long attracted me, and I am very glad we went. Emma was fascinated, not showing the least sign of boredom at any time, and unusually we went round at an even pace, neither of us hurrying the other along.
On the tube she was thrilled to find that she could now reach the overhead handrails, albeit on tiptoe. A triumph for her, but for me another sign of her precious childhood ebbing away. Today she was still the baby daughter, hugging, kissing and holding hands. I do so wish it could last a little longer, and I really regret that there have been so few of these wonderful days in their growing up. It was always tomorrow or next week or next month, and now we are running out of tomorrows.
In fact, the actual tomorrow we head off for a week in a caravan at Blackpool, and for the first time Sophie won't be coming with us, citing need to revise and work. So sad.
My laptop has gone back to meet it's maker. Very irritating this, as all that is wrong is the electrical supply unit, and all that needs doing is for this to be replaced. I do have some qualms about the PC world morality squad and some of the stuff that's on there. I'm no Gary Glitter, but some of the femdom stuff, meat and drink to the perves of my acquaintance, might well be viewed differently by others.
So I am stuck to continue this blog for the next few days. I'll probably buy a notepad and jot down anything that needs reporting, and bring it all up to date when the lappy is hopefully returned to me without the door being kicked in by the vice squad!!
Apr 10 (Thurs)
Pass plus today with Morgan. Incredibly it's almost two months since he became my start pupil of all time with just 2 minor faults. It's nice to see him again and we trek out on the A40 towards London. He is ok on the road, but has forgotten all about his mirrors and nearly pays the price for it when someone cuts in from lane three as he is moving into lane two. I take him round Hyde Park corner, but he is a nervous wreck. The more stressed he gets the more he gets tunnel vision and he ends up with a manic look staring rigidly ahead.
We stop, and head onto the motorway which he deals with ok, and then some nice bendy twisty roads out to Tunbridge Wells. We stop for lunch at the Beau Nash, which is where Bruce, the guy that taught me to drive over 30 years back, and I would drink when in his home town.
Back to Amersham round the M25. I am not sure how much good came from the lesson. Morgan was always prone to strange fits of terror, and he had far more than he should have today.
In the evening we head down to the bloody Falcon. God knows what inspired me to suggest it, or anyone to respond positively. We sit down at a filthy table, the only one available, next to a shrieking woman who I feel sure would fit into the Matthes family of Dewsbury quite happily. We hardly get the chance to talk. The food is at best mediocre, the beer likewise (they are holding real ale week and the reliable standbys are not available). The best of it was seeing Emsy go walkabout in the pub and encountering the astonished manager who clearly hadn't anticipated findind an 11 year old wandering about at
We stop, and head onto the motorway which he deals with ok, and then some nice bendy twisty roads out to Tunbridge Wells. We stop for lunch at the Beau Nash, which is where Bruce, the guy that taught me to drive over 30 years back, and I would drink when in his home town.
Back to Amersham round the M25. I am not sure how much good came from the lesson. Morgan was always prone to strange fits of terror, and he had far more than he should have today.
In the evening we head down to the bloody Falcon. God knows what inspired me to suggest it, or anyone to respond positively. We sit down at a filthy table, the only one available, next to a shrieking woman who I feel sure would fit into the Matthes family of Dewsbury quite happily. We hardly get the chance to talk. The food is at best mediocre, the beer likewise (they are holding real ale week and the reliable standbys are not available). The best of it was seeing Emsy go walkabout in the pub and encountering the astonished manager who clearly hadn't anticipated findind an 11 year old wandering about at
close on 10:30.
Blackadder fills the gap between this and a return to the land of Nod. Best line. "Baldrick, if we don't meet again for 20 billion years it'll be too soon."
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Apr 09 (Weds)
Heather confiscates Dan's computer. He lies in but when he wakes up he is his usual cheery self. I give himself and Emma a list of tasks. I am really encouraged to see that Emma has taken a red pen and divided the work between the two of them.
It is a good day. I manage to get the Berlingo's battery changed and it is good to see it immediately spark into life. I also fill out the form to transfer my balances onto yet another new credit card. I have a few questions. I ring up an Indian call centre and realise the grief I will have if anything goes wrong. As luck would have it, as I leave Natwest I am accosted by another Indian, this time offering a Natwest credit card, but at a 2.5% interest rate ionstead of 3%. Result! I had just been about to post the form.
Back home, and to my amazement and immense joy, Dan and Emsy have set busily about their tasks. I get myself ready for Jolly J's test. Having seen T fly through yesterday, I am almost reluctant for Jon to pass. The two of them are lessons I always look forward to , and although it seems cheesy, I shall miss them!
J is unchanged to the end, constantly worrying and imagining a million things which could go wrong, but if he is nervous it doesn't show in his driving. F is his examiner (again there are only two on duty). They dissapear and I chat to another instructor, H from Amersham. A nice chap with a wry sense of humour. We wander up to the cafe and by the time we've drunk our tea, our charges are back with us. Another good result, J passes with just 4 minors. H's pupil passes too. Happy days.
When I get home Dan has taken Emsy to her trampolining lesson. They have both cycled up. The house looks like a new pin (well as close as it'll ever get) Have a feeling of a day well spent.
Cook sea bass for supper, nice as always, and then slumber and to bed.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Apr 08 (Tues)
Test are a bit like London buses. Long time since I had one now they are coming round thick and fast. Jolly J has his tomorrow. Needless to say he worries about it incessantly, but he drives much better today than last week.
Then to T. Again I am confident, he really is a good driver, and this time he does not let anyone down. A bit over cautious after what happened last time, but hes passes with 4 minors, and F tells him it was an excellent drive. I shall miss him. a good lad all round. He says keep in touch, but it's the nature of the game that this seldom happens.
The evening is spoiled by a row with Dan. He has spent two days of his holidays hardly moving from the computer. Apparently he was supposed to return the Dof E kit to a friend, and he has not lifted a finger. He got a real shouting at from myself and H, mainly through exasperation. It's horrible to do because he is the loveliest, sweetest and kindest lad, and all his faults are those I see in myself. It's just so hard to get him to realise the consequences of allowing such inactivity to become the pattern of his life.
The Matthews woman has now been charged, and the flame now heads for more protests in Chicago. The IOC are now wondering if the cake is worth the candle (or is that the other way around?) and are talking of abandoning the parade. Let's hope...could the games go too??!!
Paxo interviews the three mayoral candidates for London. Livingstone is snide and cocky, Boris bonkers as usual, and Paddick dull but worthy. PAxo makes mincemeat of the fop haired one. It is wonderful viewing.
Then to T. Again I am confident, he really is a good driver, and this time he does not let anyone down. A bit over cautious after what happened last time, but hes passes with 4 minors, and F tells him it was an excellent drive. I shall miss him. a good lad all round. He says keep in touch, but it's the nature of the game that this seldom happens.
The evening is spoiled by a row with Dan. He has spent two days of his holidays hardly moving from the computer. Apparently he was supposed to return the Dof E kit to a friend, and he has not lifted a finger. He got a real shouting at from myself and H, mainly through exasperation. It's horrible to do because he is the loveliest, sweetest and kindest lad, and all his faults are those I see in myself. It's just so hard to get him to realise the consequences of allowing such inactivity to become the pattern of his life.
The Matthews woman has now been charged, and the flame now heads for more protests in Chicago. The IOC are now wondering if the cake is worth the candle (or is that the other way around?) and are talking of abandoning the parade. Let's hope...could the games go too??!!
Paxo interviews the three mayoral candidates for London. Livingstone is snide and cocky, Boris bonkers as usual, and Paddick dull but worthy. PAxo makes mincemeat of the fop haired one. It is wonderful viewing.
Apr 07 (Mon)
Another flurry of snow in the night gives the morning a Christmassy look, not that I have ever seen snow on the ground at Christmas in half a century on the planet. The day's lessons are uneventful. Jn makes progress as does S, whilst T is happily less manic than before and is able to drive to his work in Amersham.
In the wider world Mugabe has come up with a pretty clever idea in order to stave off defeat at the polls. The election took place almost a fortnight ago and yet the results are yet to be announced! Presumably if this endure for long enough people will simply forget it ever took place.
A while ago a young girl went missing in Dewsbury. She was gone three weeks and turned up hidden in a drawer in the house of some kind of step relative. She was one of her mother's 7 children by 5 different inadequates who still seem to drift in and out of her life. Various members of a bizzare extended family have been implicated, her mother's current live in now lives out at HM's pleasure having been found with a stash of kiddie porn on his Lidl PC. Today's development is that Mum (Karen) has been arrested on suspicion of conspiracy to pervert the course of justice. Even amongst the sink estate underclass this lot have a special place in the pantheon.
Yesterday the Olympic torch was paraded through London by a rag tag of sportsmen and celebs. Unfortunately for the Olympians, a lot of people are pissed off by the Chinese government's boot being applied to the head of the people of Tibet. The procession turned into a total farce with all and sundry trying to grab or extinguish the flame. Half the old bill of the capital seemed to be on hand to protect the sacred flame, which was also surrounded by a track suited mob of Chineses heavies, whose exact terms of reference were never quite made clear.
Today it was the turn of the Parisiens to repeat the mess. They quickly realised the futility of the exercise, and the flame boarded a number 17 autobus, presumably to the chagrin of les celebs francais waiting to do their bit. Classic mayhem.
Coming to the end of it's run today was another fiasco, to wit the inquest into the death of Diana. It's taken God alone knows how many months, how many nutcase theories, how many feuding and contradictory witnesses, not to mention £8 million of our money, to tell us what was perfectly obvious to all but the likes of Shannon's Mum Karen, ie that if you get into a high powered Merc driven by a heavily pissed frenchman on a Saturday night, and then instruct him to deck his pied, your chances of enjoying the following Sunday morning are considerably diminished. Al Fayed, bonkers to the end insists that she and her rumpy pumpy partner of the time were murdered by a conspiracy involving almost everyone in the world bar him. A hard man to feel sorry for, but he's almost there with me.
Yes the rest...... desolate pub and a takeaway from the Curry Centre. Plus ca change.
In the wider world Mugabe has come up with a pretty clever idea in order to stave off defeat at the polls. The election took place almost a fortnight ago and yet the results are yet to be announced! Presumably if this endure for long enough people will simply forget it ever took place.
A while ago a young girl went missing in Dewsbury. She was gone three weeks and turned up hidden in a drawer in the house of some kind of step relative. She was one of her mother's 7 children by 5 different inadequates who still seem to drift in and out of her life. Various members of a bizzare extended family have been implicated, her mother's current live in now lives out at HM's pleasure having been found with a stash of kiddie porn on his Lidl PC. Today's development is that Mum (Karen) has been arrested on suspicion of conspiracy to pervert the course of justice. Even amongst the sink estate underclass this lot have a special place in the pantheon.
Yesterday the Olympic torch was paraded through London by a rag tag of sportsmen and celebs. Unfortunately for the Olympians, a lot of people are pissed off by the Chinese government's boot being applied to the head of the people of Tibet. The procession turned into a total farce with all and sundry trying to grab or extinguish the flame. Half the old bill of the capital seemed to be on hand to protect the sacred flame, which was also surrounded by a track suited mob of Chineses heavies, whose exact terms of reference were never quite made clear.
Today it was the turn of the Parisiens to repeat the mess. They quickly realised the futility of the exercise, and the flame boarded a number 17 autobus, presumably to the chagrin of les celebs francais waiting to do their bit. Classic mayhem.
Coming to the end of it's run today was another fiasco, to wit the inquest into the death of Diana. It's taken God alone knows how many months, how many nutcase theories, how many feuding and contradictory witnesses, not to mention £8 million of our money, to tell us what was perfectly obvious to all but the likes of Shannon's Mum Karen, ie that if you get into a high powered Merc driven by a heavily pissed frenchman on a Saturday night, and then instruct him to deck his pied, your chances of enjoying the following Sunday morning are considerably diminished. Al Fayed, bonkers to the end insists that she and her rumpy pumpy partner of the time were murdered by a conspiracy involving almost everyone in the world bar him. A hard man to feel sorry for, but he's almost there with me.
Yes the rest...... desolate pub and a takeaway from the Curry Centre. Plus ca change.
Apr 06 (Sun)
So the Grand National was the harbinger of spring was it? H wakes today and goes to the window, and suddenly exclaims in delight. There is a carpet of snow on the ground. Usually I would leap from my bed to share the glory of the view. Perhaps it is a sign of age that I just grab my mobile, text T saying "lesson cancelled due to snow" and snuggle back under the duvet. Soon Dan is on the phone, his D of E hike through the Chilterns having been curtailed due global cooling.
Emsy has K & T staying overnight, and there is much excitement and talk of sledging.
In the muckhole it takes well over an hour to procure the requisite number of gloves, scarves and hats, and it escapes our attention that in the wake of the blizzard has come blinding, albeit chilly, spring sunshine.
So when we arrive sur la piste, it is a strange sight. The odd patch of snow, sturdy snowmen dotting the fields, and the ocassional shaded tree pregnant with the white stuff. Emsy is downacast. The snow doesn't come often, and when it arrives in April then you have to be up early in the morning to enjoy it.
We have a nice walk in the woods, though, and everyone is in good spirits. Then it's home to cook the Sunday dinner. Far too much sherry (I am up to about 5 glasses each go: this must be curtailed!)
Sunday dinner is great. We sit around the table as a family, and it is nice to know that we really are all very close, and all love each other. Then of course we argue about whose washing up. It's comforting that work avoidance can so motivate all of us. We try to encourage D to arrange an agenda for the forthcoming week's holiday. It is abundantly clear that his entire planning revolves around yet another World of Warcraft marathon.
Emsy has K & T staying overnight, and there is much excitement and talk of sledging.
In the muckhole it takes well over an hour to procure the requisite number of gloves, scarves and hats, and it escapes our attention that in the wake of the blizzard has come blinding, albeit chilly, spring sunshine.
So when we arrive sur la piste, it is a strange sight. The odd patch of snow, sturdy snowmen dotting the fields, and the ocassional shaded tree pregnant with the white stuff. Emsy is downacast. The snow doesn't come often, and when it arrives in April then you have to be up early in the morning to enjoy it.
We have a nice walk in the woods, though, and everyone is in good spirits. Then it's home to cook the Sunday dinner. Far too much sherry (I am up to about 5 glasses each go: this must be curtailed!)
Sunday dinner is great. We sit around the table as a family, and it is nice to know that we really are all very close, and all love each other. Then of course we argue about whose washing up. It's comforting that work avoidance can so motivate all of us. We try to encourage D to arrange an agenda for the forthcoming week's holiday. It is abundantly clear that his entire planning revolves around yet another World of Warcraft marathon.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
April 05 (Sat)
Does the arrival of the Grand National signify winter coming to a reluctant end, or is it one of the first harbingers of spring? Let me declare an interest. I have not the remotest interest in dobbins, and I share with Sherlock Holmes the problem of failing to be astonished by the simple truth that one horse can run faster than another. You could offer me a day at the Derby in a corporate box,and I'd take advantage of the race itself to slip a couple of bottles of Bollinger down my trousers while the ret were watching the donkeys.
But the GN has always pulled me toward it. Something about the enormity of the spectacle, the real danger,the sheer physical achievement of the beasts leaping those mighty fences. I remembe back to 1967 when I sat enthralled as the whole bloody bunch crashed on the smallest fence of the lot, whereupon the only lame nag too slow to have got involved in the melee romped home to bring a few lucky £1 punters an unexpected windfall.
Thanks to the wonder of Utube's memories on demand, I was able to replay this race to Dan & Emma, and was amazed that they were as excited by it as I had been then.
Like Columbo, the race has waxed and waned in my consciousness through the years, but last year my attention was caught by the participation of a Neddy called Simon, and this year he is back again, prompting Emma to join in my anticipation.
It's a similar scenario to boat race day, but on a larger scale, with he beeb devoting most of the day to it. Again we are taken into an alien world of dung filled stable yards, a surfeit of impossibly small people who still refer to their bossess "Mr Edward" or "Mr Charles", whilst they in turn refer to their paid hands as "Jack" and "Jim"
The owners are all very country, with the exception of the odd business guru or multi millionaire footballer who has barged into the party, wedge in hand. Clearly it is the name of the game that human forelocks are still touched, albeit with more subtlety than in yesteryear.
And talking of forelocks, we are loaned, as with the boat race, a new vocabulary to use for the day, and we are even allowed to keep it for later when we discuss the day's events at the pub, and try to present ourselves,for this day at least, as knowledgeable racing folk. So we through terms such as tack, fetlocks, mucking out, shortening the reign amongst miriad others now forgotten.
We move back and forth form stables to the track, where another vocab, that of bookie and punter is reintroduced to us, again after a year's absence.
The horses are also ascribed faintly absurd human traits. Staright faced owners or trainers tell us that "he absolutely adores Aintree!" or "Criminal Record's small, but so full of guts, he never gives up!" This of course is nothing to do with the fact that the midget on his back has a whip in his hand which he will use with some alacrity if CR shows any sings of wishing to give up, but there we go.
As we get closer to kick off we mingle with the little people, who appear this year to be entirely from across the Irish sea. An english accent is not heard the whole day through. I really have no idea why this should be so, unless there is major unemployment in the leprechaun community of theme park Ireland.
Minor races take place during the afternoon, evoking not a sprig of interest in me, but at about half three the bog build up begins. The little people jump up on their enormous mounts, the wander round in circle, and gradually assemble for the start.
The start itself almost seems to happen by accient (Apparently the starter is quite a big honcho in the racing business), but all of a sudden they are charging towards the first fence. I listen out anxiously for mention of Simon, and see them all clear the first fence. Now let's be honest, this wouldn't be half the fun if lots of the jockeys didn't fall off, and their horses go tumbling with them. In the back of my mind is the thought that maybe once before I shuffle off this mortal coil, I may witness something akin to the carnage of '67. The horses and jockey start to tumble as from fence number two. As I non racing bod, it's always good to see the horses without riders leading the pack, and I note that once there's no one on their back, all their human characteristics go with him. The minute the midget has parted company, they are no longer the plucky little fighter we'd been told about. In fact they loose their identity entirely,and become merely "loose horses".
Round and round they go,the field steadily diminishing. The jockeys fall and curl into balls as they await the oncoming thunder of hooves. In the background those who have survived this stride forlornly yet purposefully between the fences.
Simon, sorry "little Simon" briefly appears in fourth place, but just as quickly dissapears back into the chasing herd. The commentators change hands due to the vastness of the course (still with an obligatory Irish member, but none as manic or strident as Michael O'Hare of 67 and for many years thereafter) The big fences approach. Beechers, The Chair, Valentine's the Canal Turn. I suspect many of these have been sanitised in recent years and hold less fear, but that's the way of the world.
They've been round once, and start all over again, sometimes crashing through the fences now partly dismantled by their first passage. Still the loose horses disfigure the procession, but none lack the organisation to stay up front for long.
Simon meets his doom at fence 25, same as last year, and the rest jump the last and head for the end. It's quite an exciting race, and a gera horse is in with a chance. I transfer my allegiance to him, and enjoy the excitement of the finish.
They follow the horse back to the unsaddling enclosure, grabbing a few words with the jockey on the way. Two things are missing this year. Often there are clouds of steam rising from the nags, but the sunny weather prevents this today. Also absent is the plod in ceremonial uniform. It appears the health and safety commissars have deemed that their horses provide an unacceptable risk in the paddock, and so that tradition has been dumped.
That'll do for me, I've had enough of the gee gees for another year, though wen Emsy comes home we re watch the race as she has missed it. She roots for "Tumbling Dice" who scarcely gets a mention. It transpire he fell, annanounced at the fourth fence.
We go out to the Bell in the evening.Not only is it a nice pub, but they also do Thai food, which it transpires is delicious. One to revisit for sure.
And then to bed!
But the GN has always pulled me toward it. Something about the enormity of the spectacle, the real danger,the sheer physical achievement of the beasts leaping those mighty fences. I remembe back to 1967 when I sat enthralled as the whole bloody bunch crashed on the smallest fence of the lot, whereupon the only lame nag too slow to have got involved in the melee romped home to bring a few lucky £1 punters an unexpected windfall.
Thanks to the wonder of Utube's memories on demand, I was able to replay this race to Dan & Emma, and was amazed that they were as excited by it as I had been then.
Like Columbo, the race has waxed and waned in my consciousness through the years, but last year my attention was caught by the participation of a Neddy called Simon, and this year he is back again, prompting Emma to join in my anticipation.
It's a similar scenario to boat race day, but on a larger scale, with he beeb devoting most of the day to it. Again we are taken into an alien world of dung filled stable yards, a surfeit of impossibly small people who still refer to their bossess "Mr Edward" or "Mr Charles", whilst they in turn refer to their paid hands as "Jack" and "Jim"
The owners are all very country, with the exception of the odd business guru or multi millionaire footballer who has barged into the party, wedge in hand. Clearly it is the name of the game that human forelocks are still touched, albeit with more subtlety than in yesteryear.
And talking of forelocks, we are loaned, as with the boat race, a new vocabulary to use for the day, and we are even allowed to keep it for later when we discuss the day's events at the pub, and try to present ourselves,for this day at least, as knowledgeable racing folk. So we through terms such as tack, fetlocks, mucking out, shortening the reign amongst miriad others now forgotten.
We move back and forth form stables to the track, where another vocab, that of bookie and punter is reintroduced to us, again after a year's absence.
The horses are also ascribed faintly absurd human traits. Staright faced owners or trainers tell us that "he absolutely adores Aintree!" or "Criminal Record's small, but so full of guts, he never gives up!" This of course is nothing to do with the fact that the midget on his back has a whip in his hand which he will use with some alacrity if CR shows any sings of wishing to give up, but there we go.
As we get closer to kick off we mingle with the little people, who appear this year to be entirely from across the Irish sea. An english accent is not heard the whole day through. I really have no idea why this should be so, unless there is major unemployment in the leprechaun community of theme park Ireland.
Minor races take place during the afternoon, evoking not a sprig of interest in me, but at about half three the bog build up begins. The little people jump up on their enormous mounts, the wander round in circle, and gradually assemble for the start.
The start itself almost seems to happen by accient (Apparently the starter is quite a big honcho in the racing business), but all of a sudden they are charging towards the first fence. I listen out anxiously for mention of Simon, and see them all clear the first fence. Now let's be honest, this wouldn't be half the fun if lots of the jockeys didn't fall off, and their horses go tumbling with them. In the back of my mind is the thought that maybe once before I shuffle off this mortal coil, I may witness something akin to the carnage of '67. The horses and jockey start to tumble as from fence number two. As I non racing bod, it's always good to see the horses without riders leading the pack, and I note that once there's no one on their back, all their human characteristics go with him. The minute the midget has parted company, they are no longer the plucky little fighter we'd been told about. In fact they loose their identity entirely,and become merely "loose horses".
Round and round they go,the field steadily diminishing. The jockeys fall and curl into balls as they await the oncoming thunder of hooves. In the background those who have survived this stride forlornly yet purposefully between the fences.
Simon, sorry "little Simon" briefly appears in fourth place, but just as quickly dissapears back into the chasing herd. The commentators change hands due to the vastness of the course (still with an obligatory Irish member, but none as manic or strident as Michael O'Hare of 67 and for many years thereafter) The big fences approach. Beechers, The Chair, Valentine's the Canal Turn. I suspect many of these have been sanitised in recent years and hold less fear, but that's the way of the world.
They've been round once, and start all over again, sometimes crashing through the fences now partly dismantled by their first passage. Still the loose horses disfigure the procession, but none lack the organisation to stay up front for long.
Simon meets his doom at fence 25, same as last year, and the rest jump the last and head for the end. It's quite an exciting race, and a gera horse is in with a chance. I transfer my allegiance to him, and enjoy the excitement of the finish.
They follow the horse back to the unsaddling enclosure, grabbing a few words with the jockey on the way. Two things are missing this year. Often there are clouds of steam rising from the nags, but the sunny weather prevents this today. Also absent is the plod in ceremonial uniform. It appears the health and safety commissars have deemed that their horses provide an unacceptable risk in the paddock, and so that tradition has been dumped.
That'll do for me, I've had enough of the gee gees for another year, though wen Emsy comes home we re watch the race as she has missed it. She roots for "Tumbling Dice" who scarcely gets a mention. It transpire he fell, annanounced at the fourth fence.
We go out to the Bell in the evening.Not only is it a nice pub, but they also do Thai food, which it transpires is delicious. One to revisit for sure.
And then to bed!
Saturday, April 5, 2008
April 04 (Fri)
Only one lesson today. It's no good relyng on LDC to keep me in biz, I shall have to be more proactive, as withou their input things are looking a bit thin. Need to get a website sorted out as well as some simpler things such as business cards and get some cards up in local newsagents.
I finally take to the woods. It's too lovely a morning not to. I am welcomed back by the woodpecker from my last foray, and all is right in the world. For a while. I try to take a slightly different path in Hughenden and get myself lost, and start heading up hill. The lungs are aching and the heart punding. It is not a comfortable feeling. I think of the way I have slid back on to butter with such eas reularity. How my weight has crept back up, and I hear Dr Annapurna's warnings ringing in my ears once more.
It's a truncated walk, cutting off a large chunk, but even so the climb up the back of Cryer's Hill almost crucifies me. Back on the diet. More, regular exercise. Get the bike out.
It's a day for good intentions again. Ring Gavin about the website, try to get World of Names bringing in some supplementary income, I am sure that can be achieved, sort out my credit card balance transfers, and get the bloody Berlingo sold. A Meta shaped skeleton rattles in my cupboard. I must give him £500 from the sale and try to gt him to take his bloody stock back.
I faff around, going in 20 directions at once and predictably achieving nothing.
I pick up S, her lesson overruns by half an hour, and then decide to go house hunting. One of the options with Emma's schooling is an outright move to Beaconsfield. A propsectus has arrived for a hous priced at £375k. It's an immense price for the property in question, but needs must, and this is Beaconsfield. I stop en route for a glass of Leffe, which leaves me with that pleasant all's well with the world buzz that I miss so much with alcohol these days. The house looks largish, extended, three bedrooms, but with another room which coud be turned to this purpse, and plenty of space in the garden.Generally in fact plenty of space. I am quite encouraged. When I find it though I am aghast. Yes the bricks and mortar look fine, but it is on the very edge of the busy, and I do mean very busy, main road to Amersham, and is on the corner of an estate that wouldput Spearing Road to shame. Shit I am sounding like Penelope Keith, but I don't want to live on that road. And for £375k for fuck's sake!!!!! I leave thoroughly depressed.
Dan is off on a Duke of Edinburgh hike tomorrow. Alll week H has been berating him and tell him to get organised.when Sophie did the same thing a couple of years ago she head a checklist and a week beforehand she'd procured everything she needed. Dan hasn't got a clue!
I go down to the Falcon and force my way through the sea of uncouth yobbery to the bar, behind which more of their number, albeit under pressure, fail to come anywhere near me for ten minutes.
Enough. It's late, too late for the Goblin without paying, so in a moment of inspiraton I head for Frogmoor and enter the Bell for the first time in about 10 years. It is lovely. None of the grime of the Goblin, none of the Falcon's chavery, just a nice cozy,well appointed pub, with a wonderful hubub of Friday night bonhomie. I have a delicious (if hideously expensive) pint of mild, and generally feel a bit better about things. I text Sophie who is in Wycombe for dinner, and am more pleased than I thought I'd be when she accepts my offer of a lift home.
Stop for a takeaway (naturally) on the way home, and am further pleased to see four tables fully occupied, certainly a record in my experience. The staff there are a very friendly bunch, and it is a shame to see such a well thought out restaurant struggling so dismally to attract the punters. On a purely selfish note, it would be a disaster to see the town's only purveyor of the wonderful Bombay Duck go under, having waited so long for the reappearance of this delicacy.
I finally take to the woods. It's too lovely a morning not to. I am welcomed back by the woodpecker from my last foray, and all is right in the world. For a while. I try to take a slightly different path in Hughenden and get myself lost, and start heading up hill. The lungs are aching and the heart punding. It is not a comfortable feeling. I think of the way I have slid back on to butter with such eas reularity. How my weight has crept back up, and I hear Dr Annapurna's warnings ringing in my ears once more.
It's a truncated walk, cutting off a large chunk, but even so the climb up the back of Cryer's Hill almost crucifies me. Back on the diet. More, regular exercise. Get the bike out.
It's a day for good intentions again. Ring Gavin about the website, try to get World of Names bringing in some supplementary income, I am sure that can be achieved, sort out my credit card balance transfers, and get the bloody Berlingo sold. A Meta shaped skeleton rattles in my cupboard. I must give him £500 from the sale and try to gt him to take his bloody stock back.
I faff around, going in 20 directions at once and predictably achieving nothing.
I pick up S, her lesson overruns by half an hour, and then decide to go house hunting. One of the options with Emma's schooling is an outright move to Beaconsfield. A propsectus has arrived for a hous priced at £375k. It's an immense price for the property in question, but needs must, and this is Beaconsfield. I stop en route for a glass of Leffe, which leaves me with that pleasant all's well with the world buzz that I miss so much with alcohol these days. The house looks largish, extended, three bedrooms, but with another room which coud be turned to this purpse, and plenty of space in the garden.Generally in fact plenty of space. I am quite encouraged. When I find it though I am aghast. Yes the bricks and mortar look fine, but it is on the very edge of the busy, and I do mean very busy, main road to Amersham, and is on the corner of an estate that wouldput Spearing Road to shame. Shit I am sounding like Penelope Keith, but I don't want to live on that road. And for £375k for fuck's sake!!!!! I leave thoroughly depressed.
Dan is off on a Duke of Edinburgh hike tomorrow. Alll week H has been berating him and tell him to get organised.when Sophie did the same thing a couple of years ago she head a checklist and a week beforehand she'd procured everything she needed. Dan hasn't got a clue!
I go down to the Falcon and force my way through the sea of uncouth yobbery to the bar, behind which more of their number, albeit under pressure, fail to come anywhere near me for ten minutes.
Enough. It's late, too late for the Goblin without paying, so in a moment of inspiraton I head for Frogmoor and enter the Bell for the first time in about 10 years. It is lovely. None of the grime of the Goblin, none of the Falcon's chavery, just a nice cozy,well appointed pub, with a wonderful hubub of Friday night bonhomie. I have a delicious (if hideously expensive) pint of mild, and generally feel a bit better about things. I text Sophie who is in Wycombe for dinner, and am more pleased than I thought I'd be when she accepts my offer of a lift home.
Stop for a takeaway (naturally) on the way home, and am further pleased to see four tables fully occupied, certainly a record in my experience. The staff there are a very friendly bunch, and it is a shame to see such a well thought out restaurant struggling so dismally to attract the punters. On a purely selfish note, it would be a disaster to see the town's only purveyor of the wonderful Bombay Duck go under, having waited so long for the reappearance of this delicacy.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
April 3rd (Thurs)
Got a text from Richard the other day going on about Nick Cleggover. I didn't know what he was talking about , but on viewing QT tonight, I discover that at some stage he has boasted of having laid around 30 women at uni. Again I am annoyed to be so out of touch.
Straight off to Thame this morning (arrive late quelle surprise) and it's T, who wants lesson before his test next week. He's just back from San Francisco, which I knew about, and Hawaii, which I didn't, and seems to have had a great time. His driving too is less than it can be, but it improves as the lesson continues. nice to chat to him again, he is a good lad. Hope he does ok next Tuesday.
Another big break and another bloody bunny breakout. We have a Houdini in our midst. after yesterday I decide he'll come back in his own time, and worry no more.
Interperving away, I wait till Dan gets home and delegate charge of the tracking down to him.
We go to pick up Emsy from footy. apparently we just miss her scoring a goal. Should girls play footy? Problem is they can't, a situation which endures into adulthood at whatever level. Bless her, she enjoys it, so maybe that answers the question.
A re run of yesterday's trip to Chinnor, this time with Janaide. she's ok, but does some strange things, and much in th estyle of A, is prone to collapsing in laughter when she really fucks up.
I buy some halibut and try to copy a recipe from the Beeb website. it'sa qualified success at best. Get to see the news. The bastard is hangnig on in Zimb, refusing to accept what seems to be the clear cut decision of his people, that is to say that he should get on the first plane to the Hague and find himself a cell in which to sit out his days.
Straight off to Thame this morning (arrive late quelle surprise) and it's T, who wants lesson before his test next week. He's just back from San Francisco, which I knew about, and Hawaii, which I didn't, and seems to have had a great time. His driving too is less than it can be, but it improves as the lesson continues. nice to chat to him again, he is a good lad. Hope he does ok next Tuesday.
Another big break and another bloody bunny breakout. We have a Houdini in our midst. after yesterday I decide he'll come back in his own time, and worry no more.
Interperving away, I wait till Dan gets home and delegate charge of the tracking down to him.
We go to pick up Emsy from footy. apparently we just miss her scoring a goal. Should girls play footy? Problem is they can't, a situation which endures into adulthood at whatever level. Bless her, she enjoys it, so maybe that answers the question.
A re run of yesterday's trip to Chinnor, this time with Janaide. she's ok, but does some strange things, and much in th estyle of A, is prone to collapsing in laughter when she really fucks up.
I buy some halibut and try to copy a recipe from the Beeb website. it'sa qualified success at best. Get to see the news. The bastard is hangnig on in Zimb, refusing to accept what seems to be the clear cut decision of his people, that is to say that he should get on the first plane to the Hague and find himself a cell in which to sit out his days.
April 2nd (Weds)
No appts this morning, so full of good intentions, I take the kids to school with the goal of a yomp through the woods. I drop off Dan & Emsy and then head back to Kingshill. All of a sudden the immensity of the physical exertion occurs to me. I sit lamely and fill in some paperwork, and then spot 3 drops of rain on the windscreen. Salvation, and home with more fine plans which turn to dust as I pick up the laptop. Remember about midday that I was supposed to let the bunny out of the hutch . To my horror the hutch is open and totally vaccant. There is a gap of about 12" in the top of the run and he must have leapt it. Either that or a cat or fox has jumped in and lifted him. Panic ensues.
Pick up Jon amidst traffic chaos and postpone the mock test for an hour. When it comes it's a bit dissapointing. He's a bit scratchy, thought he's do better, and I now realise he is no shoo in. Hmmm.
Another gawp at Collarme and then off to pick up A whilst from time to time repairing to the garden on a bunny hunt. No sign. "Oh my God" what are we going to tell Emsy. Dan gets home, I announce the news. Then ten minutes later, I stare from the window, and there he is, munching on a flowerpot full of greenery without a care in the world. He is rounded up and brought indoors.
Piece of cake,he is very good. drive to Chinnor and deal with the crossroads, then home to crash listlessly.
Wake at 2am and wonder if anyone has put out the rabbit. Go to the hutch. Nothing. Scour the house. Nowhere to be seen. I rouse the whole house, my opinion poll ratings hitting an all time low. H joins the search grumpily. I scour through the piles of rubbish and clothing that are dumped in every corner of the hovel for about twenty minutes. Where is the bloody thing.
Eventuall, as before, it appears as if from a hat. He is locked in his hutch and I shut my eyes.
Pick up Jon amidst traffic chaos and postpone the mock test for an hour. When it comes it's a bit dissapointing. He's a bit scratchy, thought he's do better, and I now realise he is no shoo in. Hmmm.
Another gawp at Collarme and then off to pick up A whilst from time to time repairing to the garden on a bunny hunt. No sign. "Oh my God" what are we going to tell Emsy. Dan gets home, I announce the news. Then ten minutes later, I stare from the window, and there he is, munching on a flowerpot full of greenery without a care in the world. He is rounded up and brought indoors.
Piece of cake,he is very good. drive to Chinnor and deal with the crossroads, then home to crash listlessly.
Wake at 2am and wonder if anyone has put out the rabbit. Go to the hutch. Nothing. Scour the house. Nowhere to be seen. I rouse the whole house, my opinion poll ratings hitting an all time low. H joins the search grumpily. I scour through the piles of rubbish and clothing that are dumped in every corner of the hovel for about twenty minutes. Where is the bloody thing.
Eventuall, as before, it appears as if from a hat. He is locked in his hutch and I shut my eyes.
April 1st (Tuesday)
It's Jolly J to kick off the day. Only a couple of lessons left for him and he does fine. Next lesson he'll do a mock test. Then a blast over to Aylesbury for yet another edition in the seemingly interminable saga of S. Perhaps we inch a few inches closer, perhaps we don't. Now he's off for a weeks holiday, then I am.......where will we be at the end of all that?
It's April Fool's Day. One of the problems of this job is that I am cut off from the radio for most of the day, so I don't get to hear of any jolly japes, the best of wish are quite enjoyable. Never read a paper either. Combine this with the kids monopoly of the TV and my consequent inability to ever see the news, and I worry about how out of touch I am becoming.
Back to Hyde Heath. A has recently failed a test badly (4 serious) and she is a total bag of nerves. I groan inside. This is going to be hard work. She admits to being petrified, and I can hear the fear in her voice. But I get her driving, and to my amazement she drives beautifully, almost faultlessly. i am baffled. her Mum is quite happy to book her in for 20 hours of lessons, and I'd be perfectly happy to take her money, but I can't in all conscience reccommend it.
T is next, attacking the car as if it is an oppsoing team's front line. he is a prop forward, and boy does it show. I end the day thoroughly exhausted, and there's more to come. It's the association meeting. Usually this consists of four or five people banging on and on about the YDE for at least half the meeting. The rest of us, who have nothing to do with the YDE are becoming restless and word of this has got back to the top. And so we spend half of this meeting discussing how we won't be spending half of every meeting talking about the YDE.
It's too much for me and at the end, B & N being too fatigued to retire to the Three Horseshoes, I finally abandon all pretence of a diet (13.11 this am) and head for a pint and a kebab.
Run up the white flag.
It's April Fool's Day. One of the problems of this job is that I am cut off from the radio for most of the day, so I don't get to hear of any jolly japes, the best of wish are quite enjoyable. Never read a paper either. Combine this with the kids monopoly of the TV and my consequent inability to ever see the news, and I worry about how out of touch I am becoming.
Back to Hyde Heath. A has recently failed a test badly (4 serious) and she is a total bag of nerves. I groan inside. This is going to be hard work. She admits to being petrified, and I can hear the fear in her voice. But I get her driving, and to my amazement she drives beautifully, almost faultlessly. i am baffled. her Mum is quite happy to book her in for 20 hours of lessons, and I'd be perfectly happy to take her money, but I can't in all conscience reccommend it.
T is next, attacking the car as if it is an oppsoing team's front line. he is a prop forward, and boy does it show. I end the day thoroughly exhausted, and there's more to come. It's the association meeting. Usually this consists of four or five people banging on and on about the YDE for at least half the meeting. The rest of us, who have nothing to do with the YDE are becoming restless and word of this has got back to the top. And so we spend half of this meeting discussing how we won't be spending half of every meeting talking about the YDE.
It's too much for me and at the end, B & N being too fatigued to retire to the Three Horseshoes, I finally abandon all pretence of a diet (13.11 this am) and head for a pint and a kebab.
Run up the white flag.
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