It's two and a half hours with Aaron, during which he shows a few chinks in his armour. Nothing he shouldn't sort out though. Then A who is in much better form than when I last saw her. Have unfortunately double booked her test though so she'll have to rearrange.
Come home and go to kip. Dan has gone to his mate Nick's place, S is at work and H and Emsy have disappeared. It's boring, and I wonder about doing something tomorrow. Have been toying with the idea of a day trip to France. If I take my bike over it'll only cost £6.
England get walloped by NZ. The Kiwis are a funny bunch. Well short of staying power at test level, they have murdered England in the one dayers, 3-1 and with any justice it would have been four.
Consider heading into town but just not up to it. Sod it! I'll go to France tomorrow.
Monday, June 30, 2008
June 27th (Fri)
L is getting too good a driver to still be a learner, but he can't pass his theory test. accordingly he is getting quicker and quicker, and is having to be tugged back, but it is quite tricky. I finally take S away from Princes Risborough, and there are some definite signs of progress now! S gets better and better. She's doubling up her lessons ahead of her test but there's really no need to do so.
The house is drying out following the invasion of the plasterers and they have done a terrific job. The lights have stopped shorting out now too!
Bombay Nights produce a superb vindaloo, and those Bombay Duck are bloody irresistible.!
The house is drying out following the invasion of the plasterers and they have done a terrific job. The lights have stopped shorting out now too!
Bombay Nights produce a superb vindaloo, and those Bombay Duck are bloody irresistible.!
Thursday, June 26, 2008
June 26th(Thurs)
Thrash about for hours trying to formulate a plan. I stood N down last night as my test check guinea pig. There is a vague plan that I might get the examiner to role play the student, but would have done no real preparation for that.
After 15 minutes of queueing I get through to Worleys. it's good news, the clutch can be adjusted, it need not be replaced. It'll take about an hour. I ring the examiner. Yesterday, N was supposed to have his check test at 9. He thought it was today, so the examiner just got an hour long fag break. I got the chance to chat to him, and he sounded a nice guy.
So now I have to pick up the phone and tell him that for the 2nd day running his 9 am had let him down. He is extremely chipper about it and adopts a "these things happen" attitude.
So luckily,Worleys do their stuff and I am over to Aylesbury for S's test mark2
He does really well. 4 minors and 2 serious, one of which I inadvertently committed when retracing the test route.Poor S!
I take my working car round to Shirley, and here comes the revelation of the day. She is driving on big roads, confidently changing up and down in the busy traffic. She does really well. I get a big kick from this following all the suffering of the past couple of weeks!
A drives like a dream. It's a long lesson,making up for yesterday's abortive effort, but enjoyable, and he scarcely makes a mistake. I am sure if he concentrated he could get a perfect pass.
Buy fish and chips for all, it's delicious, but my belly still in trouble post BHS brekkie yesterday.
H returns surprisingly early. We go for a drink. She's not unpleasant but the exchange could scarcely be described as warm.
After 15 minutes of queueing I get through to Worleys. it's good news, the clutch can be adjusted, it need not be replaced. It'll take about an hour. I ring the examiner. Yesterday, N was supposed to have his check test at 9. He thought it was today, so the examiner just got an hour long fag break. I got the chance to chat to him, and he sounded a nice guy.
So now I have to pick up the phone and tell him that for the 2nd day running his 9 am had let him down. He is extremely chipper about it and adopts a "these things happen" attitude.
So luckily,Worleys do their stuff and I am over to Aylesbury for S's test mark2
He does really well. 4 minors and 2 serious, one of which I inadvertently committed when retracing the test route.Poor S!
I take my working car round to Shirley, and here comes the revelation of the day. She is driving on big roads, confidently changing up and down in the busy traffic. She does really well. I get a big kick from this following all the suffering of the past couple of weeks!
A drives like a dream. It's a long lesson,making up for yesterday's abortive effort, but enjoyable, and he scarcely makes a mistake. I am sure if he concentrated he could get a perfect pass.
Buy fish and chips for all, it's delicious, but my belly still in trouble post BHS brekkie yesterday.
H returns surprisingly early. We go for a drink. She's not unpleasant but the exchange could scarcely be described as warm.
June 25th (Weds)
6 months to Christmas day. and did I mention high summer, if Wimbledon be it's witness, is here at last. And herself is to visit tomorrow, in the company of Mr H. The one she dined alone with, then made a point of telling me there had been a whole group of them, and the one who, when she missed her train at Marylebone, she took the tube to Potters Bar, whereupon he picked her up and brought her back to Wycombe. One Malcolm would be quite proud of.
Having hardly spoken since Sunday, I am not of a mind to bring up any of this at this stage. In the absence of the telly (now happily restored) I missed a controversial ODI twixt England and New Zealand. A lot of bad feeling after a shoulder barge followed by a run out. Wished I'd seen it.
So, check test due tomorrow. Take out T who is alert for half the lesson, then drives like a halfwit for the rest. The clutch has been slipping for a while, and I notice it getting worse. Try it myself on the way to A. Definitely a problem, and A notices it straight away. Soon the car won't go uphill properly. Big prob . What to do? Check test in morning followed by S's test.
Problems not helped as am feeling shite after succumbing to an urge to demolish a full english for the first time in a long time, having been exiled by the plasterers. Immediately the (tasty) meal was demolished, I start to feel ill. It gets no better. So I have no car for either test potentially. Emsy wants to go to the rec and play tennis. I run her and sophie there, and S manfully volunteers to play and coach her. It's a delight to see the two of them enjoying such fun, and each others' company/
I am too ill to worry. I get to bed.
Having hardly spoken since Sunday, I am not of a mind to bring up any of this at this stage. In the absence of the telly (now happily restored) I missed a controversial ODI twixt England and New Zealand. A lot of bad feeling after a shoulder barge followed by a run out. Wished I'd seen it.
So, check test due tomorrow. Take out T who is alert for half the lesson, then drives like a halfwit for the rest. The clutch has been slipping for a while, and I notice it getting worse. Try it myself on the way to A. Definitely a problem, and A notices it straight away. Soon the car won't go uphill properly. Big prob . What to do? Check test in morning followed by S's test.
Problems not helped as am feeling shite after succumbing to an urge to demolish a full english for the first time in a long time, having been exiled by the plasterers. Immediately the (tasty) meal was demolished, I start to feel ill. It gets no better. So I have no car for either test potentially. Emsy wants to go to the rec and play tennis. I run her and sophie there, and S manfully volunteers to play and coach her. It's a delight to see the two of them enjoying such fun, and each others' company/
I am too ill to worry. I get to bed.
June 24th (Tues)
At 8 am the house is invaded. The plasterers are here! I escape rapidly to take the kids to school before retuning to the house. They are working at an incredible rate, but I can't find anything. 15 years accumulation of rubbish has been spread to all corners of the house. Making a cup of tea is a major logistical sourcing exercise.
I am pleased to decamp to Aylesbury to witness S's latest pre test effort. he's not too bad. he could squeak it, though if I had to bet it'd be agin.
an hour's break and then over to Heathrow to pick up J. She is planning her summer liver damage in Aya Nappa, and is currently roasting herself to a crisp under the sunbed whenever a moment is available. she still hasn't quite worked out that it's easier to control a one ton lump of metal in a confined space if you are not driving it at fifty miles an hour at the time.
I survive the experience, but really doubt she has the required maturity to pass a driving test.
A rings. She has booked her test. Another one who I'd be surprised should she pass, but here it is a question of belief and concentration.
At home the effect of the plaster is to saturate the walls and cause the electricity to trip out ever three minutes, so there is no telly and I am too fucked to think of much else to do. Accordingly it's kip onthe sofa till the two o'clock awakening
I am pleased to decamp to Aylesbury to witness S's latest pre test effort. he's not too bad. he could squeak it, though if I had to bet it'd be agin.
an hour's break and then over to Heathrow to pick up J. She is planning her summer liver damage in Aya Nappa, and is currently roasting herself to a crisp under the sunbed whenever a moment is available. she still hasn't quite worked out that it's easier to control a one ton lump of metal in a confined space if you are not driving it at fifty miles an hour at the time.
I survive the experience, but really doubt she has the required maturity to pass a driving test.
A rings. She has booked her test. Another one who I'd be surprised should she pass, but here it is a question of belief and concentration.
At home the effect of the plaster is to saturate the walls and cause the electricity to trip out ever three minutes, so there is no telly and I am too fucked to think of much else to do. Accordingly it's kip onthe sofa till the two o'clock awakening
Monday, June 23, 2008
June 23rd (Mon)
Completely forget I have a 9 am appointment and text to postpone half an hour. N is very grudging. It turns out that he has to go to Aylesbury afterwards and as I am going there too I offer him a lift. "Can I drive?" he asks ,unashamedly. I suppose it makes little difference, and he has agreed to be my check test volunteer. There's something about his attitude though.
Another 3 hours of S. The last 3 hour session thank the Lord above!! Again there is minimal progress, though at least nothing too scary happened today.
Back to Toytown and the vast farmhouse. I have not driven the car more than 100 yards when R bursts into tears! Not again! Apparently it's boyfriend troubles though. She cheers up and is very good. A little wild, but good fun and has a can do approach. she'll do well!
Back home. A yellow mini pulls up. Bloody cheek parking right outside. A bloke jumps out. I vaguely recognize him. It's the guy who was trying to buy my Berlingo. He still is offering only £900, but frankly since he last pitched up I have been wishing I had taken it, as the poor thing will never move and is just going to waste. I am very suspicious of the guy. he has a pikey air about him. I suspect he miust be connected with the mob I had rung about the car and who had driven me mad for days after until H told them where to go.
He pulls out a wedge of cash and it's goodbye Berlingo. Sad 128,000 miles we spent together. Two skiing hols, several trips to France besides, several trips to Scotland and then on to Ireland. Hope he gives her a good home. I suspect he'll make a pretty packet once he's turned the clock back.
Plasterers arrive tomorrow so cupboards must be dismantled, radiators removed, and holes drilled in walls for the satellite.
June 22nd (Sun)
Too much beer. I am not used to it and the head is stinging a little. I lie in bed and try and work out my new Ipod. It was a freebie from Barclaycard which you got if you took out their gadget insurance, Took out the insurance, got the freebie and cancelled the insurance. Doesn't everyone do that? Does anyone want to pay £100 a year to insure goods that are scarcely worth that?
When I get up a plan is hatched to go out for lunch. Feeling as I do, I am quite happy to escape cooking duties. We go to a farm shop. Have been there before, but the roast lunch is very good and terrific value at £52 for 4.
I am wrecked thereafter and repair for a kip, before heading for home. I am a bit worried about Mum and her foot. Was nice to see them.
I cut across country for the drive home. Emsy is hungry so we stop for coke and crisps in the Cock and Rabbit in the Lee. Being Italian owned they are glued to the telly to watch a typically dull Italian display against Spain.
The match grinds to a close just as we get home. The Spaniards win on penalties.
H, with some assistance from Dan, has completely gutted the sitting room and stripped it of wallpaper. I compliment her and she smiles, but it is not long before the acid is back. It's depressing.
When I get up a plan is hatched to go out for lunch. Feeling as I do, I am quite happy to escape cooking duties. We go to a farm shop. Have been there before, but the roast lunch is very good and terrific value at £52 for 4.
I am wrecked thereafter and repair for a kip, before heading for home. I am a bit worried about Mum and her foot. Was nice to see them.
I cut across country for the drive home. Emsy is hungry so we stop for coke and crisps in the Cock and Rabbit in the Lee. Being Italian owned they are glued to the telly to watch a typically dull Italian display against Spain.
The match grinds to a close just as we get home. The Spaniards win on penalties.
H, with some assistance from Dan, has completely gutted the sitting room and stripped it of wallpaper. I compliment her and she smiles, but it is not long before the acid is back. It's depressing.
June 21st (Sat)
Not up very early and amble around the neatness and tidiness of Ladbroke Close. Parents are away in France (envy) but due back later.
Paul calls at about 1 and we head out to put me straight hopeful on a few things. He is very very good, and it's not hard to see how he's a grade six instructor. It's a bit daunting all the same!
We get back and I suggest to Emsy we go to the station to pick up Ma & Pa. Again she happily agrees. I ring Dad to warn him and he leaves it as a surprise for Mum.
A great beast of a train is on their platform. It roars into life and departs, and then their monster heaves into the station. Mum actually spots me before alighting so the surprise ends there. We take them home. Good to see them, but Mum has yet another problem. She had a blister on her toe which has turned septic and the whole digit has now turned black. She has had no luck with her health in the last five years.
In the evening I take out Paul for a curry. We go to the Agora which apparently is the best in town. Dad had been up to have a look and said it looked a bit like a working men's club. I have to say it's hard to disagree with him. The place is vast, but just like a huge function room. It's highly impersonal. Waiters rush to the table and dump their food on you, before rushing off to their next task. There is a hen party going on and the music is booming. I don't like it. Food is good though.
Back to the Nags in the village then with P. We have three or four pints, and watch the Russians dispense with the fancied Dutch in the Euros, before watching a boxing match. It's a young English Asian who hits with awesome power. Interesting how easily he is accepted as on of us by the locals, who should they see his cousin on the street would presumably regard him as a "fookin pakki". Turns out Paul did a bit of boxing once.
The barmaid in the pub in eye candy and more appealing than any boxer though, and it's her I am thinking of as we wander unsteadily home.
Paul calls at about 1 and we head out to put me straight hopeful on a few things. He is very very good, and it's not hard to see how he's a grade six instructor. It's a bit daunting all the same!
We get back and I suggest to Emsy we go to the station to pick up Ma & Pa. Again she happily agrees. I ring Dad to warn him and he leaves it as a surprise for Mum.
A great beast of a train is on their platform. It roars into life and departs, and then their monster heaves into the station. Mum actually spots me before alighting so the surprise ends there. We take them home. Good to see them, but Mum has yet another problem. She had a blister on her toe which has turned septic and the whole digit has now turned black. She has had no luck with her health in the last five years.
In the evening I take out Paul for a curry. We go to the Agora which apparently is the best in town. Dad had been up to have a look and said it looked a bit like a working men's club. I have to say it's hard to disagree with him. The place is vast, but just like a huge function room. It's highly impersonal. Waiters rush to the table and dump their food on you, before rushing off to their next task. There is a hen party going on and the music is booming. I don't like it. Food is good though.
Back to the Nags in the village then with P. We have three or four pints, and watch the Russians dispense with the fancied Dutch in the Euros, before watching a boxing match. It's a young English Asian who hits with awesome power. Interesting how easily he is accepted as on of us by the locals, who should they see his cousin on the street would presumably regard him as a "fookin pakki". Turns out Paul did a bit of boxing once.
The barmaid in the pub in eye candy and more appealing than any boxer though, and it's her I am thinking of as we wander unsteadily home.
June 20th (Fri)
More S. Slight progress, but oh so bloody slow. Now getting to the point where I need to take her onto roads where she can bloody well slaughter us both. It's over, and there's a hiatus before S, who is driving like an angel now. She never plumbed the depths that poor S can descend too, but I am rather proud of where I have got her to.
Back home and pick up Emsy. We are off to Helpringham. I am after some help from Paul with next Thursday's day of judgement, and she has happily said she'd come with me. Lovely to have her in the car. Nattering, moaning and messing about. She is just beautiful. And just about a month left of little school. I could cry.
Tomorrow is the solstice. I won't be dancing about naked anywhere (shame, might be fun) but it takes me aback how rapidly half the year has galloped away. There's talk of holidays. Turkey is mentioned. I want to go to France of course, but people power has taken over now and sadly we now go where she wants not I. What little power i once had in the family is slipping from the grasp Fuck it. Turkey it is then. Probably won't be the worst. "What do we do in the evening?" I wonder out loud. "What do we ever do in France?" she snarls back. Fuck you fat girl.
It's a beautiful evening as we head north up the A1, and the sky turns orange then pink. The dark silhouettes of trees and the rosy glows on the hedgerows are a wonderful free motorway show.
We get into Sleaford about ten and sit down for a ruby. Straight form the car. Mistake. Too many poppadoms. Mistake. Keema Nan. Mistake. I can't finish more than half of my main course. Very silly. On the way home the sky is still light on the horizon at eleven clock. The Maltings buildings provide a stunning ghostly outline. Emsy wishes she had a camera. I'd love to know how to replicate that sight in photo. Not much is stunning in Lincs, but it's skylines certainly can be at times.
We open up the parents' HQ. They have some flooring that is half way between laminate and real wood. It has a soft spongy feel to it. I am not sure if I like it or not.
Exhausted and rapidly to kip.
Back home and pick up Emsy. We are off to Helpringham. I am after some help from Paul with next Thursday's day of judgement, and she has happily said she'd come with me. Lovely to have her in the car. Nattering, moaning and messing about. She is just beautiful. And just about a month left of little school. I could cry.
Tomorrow is the solstice. I won't be dancing about naked anywhere (shame, might be fun) but it takes me aback how rapidly half the year has galloped away. There's talk of holidays. Turkey is mentioned. I want to go to France of course, but people power has taken over now and sadly we now go where she wants not I. What little power i once had in the family is slipping from the grasp Fuck it. Turkey it is then. Probably won't be the worst. "What do we do in the evening?" I wonder out loud. "What do we ever do in France?" she snarls back. Fuck you fat girl.
It's a beautiful evening as we head north up the A1, and the sky turns orange then pink. The dark silhouettes of trees and the rosy glows on the hedgerows are a wonderful free motorway show.
We get into Sleaford about ten and sit down for a ruby. Straight form the car. Mistake. Too many poppadoms. Mistake. Keema Nan. Mistake. I can't finish more than half of my main course. Very silly. On the way home the sky is still light on the horizon at eleven clock. The Maltings buildings provide a stunning ghostly outline. Emsy wishes she had a camera. I'd love to know how to replicate that sight in photo. Not much is stunning in Lincs, but it's skylines certainly can be at times.
We open up the parents' HQ. They have some flooring that is half way between laminate and real wood. It has a soft spongy feel to it. I am not sure if I like it or not.
Exhausted and rapidly to kip.
June 19th (Thurs)
Memory's an odd thing, and it gets odder as age creeps remorselessly up on me. From the perspective of 4 days hence I cannot remember a single bloody thing that I can say with certainty that I have done on this day. Nothing. Not who I went out with, if anyone, or what struck me as odd or funny. No idea who I spoke to on the phone, what I watched on telly. The mind simply won't stretch that fa back anymore. Yet I can remember being n my pushchair and stretching out for an ice cream. Or can I? Was it later in life that I thought I remembered that and my memory is simply a recollection of what I though I'd recalled then?
So what did I eat on this day? This thought triggers something. H had bought thin steaks from Asda, but I never got round to cooking mine. Does this help with the rest of the day? Not a bit.
So I go for my diary. This may explain what my brain is doing for me. Sparing me the anguish of the recollection of a combined 4 and a half hours of the 2 S's. S2 has his test again a week today and seems intent on trebling the fault score from last time!
Appear to have had most of the afternoon off. As to what I did with the time available I have no clue. Probably this day that I collected Emsy from M's. Otherwise a blur a blur a blur.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
June 18th (Weds)
More round and round in circles in Risborough. Twice S's mind just totally blanks out, and the second time I just can think of no way forward. At this rate I can seriously see the thirty hours being up and us not reaching a real road. I scrap the last hour and suggest relaxing the intensity and taking things into next week. S agrees. I will be regretting this next week, that's for sure.
M is next up and he seems to be on speed, tearing far too fast wherever he goes. Unusual.
A has rung up to cancel, he's ill so I have a lazy afternoon watching the cricket. But the weather has turned and it's an on off affair, which terminates an over before the game can be deemed to have concluded. It's cloudy, so we miss one of the year's longest nights. Wimbledon's around the corner, and the horizon is bright until nearly ten.How depressing then, that the nights start to recede in less than a week.
M is next up and he seems to be on speed, tearing far too fast wherever he goes. Unusual.
A has rung up to cancel, he's ill so I have a lazy afternoon watching the cricket. But the weather has turned and it's an on off affair, which terminates an over before the game can be deemed to have concluded. It's cloudy, so we miss one of the year's longest nights. Wimbledon's around the corner, and the horizon is bright until nearly ten.How depressing then, that the nights start to recede in less than a week.
June 17th (Tues)
It's over to Aylesbury again for another two hour dose of S. We drive endlessly round and round the sleepy estate in Princes Risborough. Progress is minimal and the poor girl shows an almost total lack of empathy with the car, the road, the gearbox,anything. It's an incredible performance.
Over to Hyde Heath next and A, who's test it is.She's a totally competent driver, yet she refuses to believe in her ability. The poor girl wobbles like a blancmange at the thought. I try to make her laugh, and she drives over with the radio on and up loud. She is gasping for breath and looking as though death awaits around the corner. I am worried,but she is still driving well enough.
F the examiner sees her and immediately sees the problem. He is lovely with her, doing all he can to calm her nerves. I sit in the back. She gets a bay park to do. She grinds the gears. A first for her. I fear the worst,but then, she parks perfectly. "Perfect" enthuses F, an unusual but so helpful comment. After that she seems right as ninepence and drives like a dream. 4 minors and she's where she should be, on the road with full licence.
It's a pleasant day, as predicted by the weather girl on "Breakfast" It's the first day of Royal Ascot, and for some reason it is deemed necessary to tart up the met office bird in hat and heels and ship her off to Ascot to read her autocue from there. Apparently these days to be a weather bod it's compulsosry to be Scottish,female,and unreasonably cheerful at any hour of the day or night.
Malc turns up. His boss has fucked off to Ascot in a horse drawn carriage, whilst back at base they have no fuel. Vive la Revolution.
Over to Hyde Heath next and A, who's test it is.She's a totally competent driver, yet she refuses to believe in her ability. The poor girl wobbles like a blancmange at the thought. I try to make her laugh, and she drives over with the radio on and up loud. She is gasping for breath and looking as though death awaits around the corner. I am worried,but she is still driving well enough.
F the examiner sees her and immediately sees the problem. He is lovely with her, doing all he can to calm her nerves. I sit in the back. She gets a bay park to do. She grinds the gears. A first for her. I fear the worst,but then, she parks perfectly. "Perfect" enthuses F, an unusual but so helpful comment. After that she seems right as ninepence and drives like a dream. 4 minors and she's where she should be, on the road with full licence.
It's a pleasant day, as predicted by the weather girl on "Breakfast" It's the first day of Royal Ascot, and for some reason it is deemed necessary to tart up the met office bird in hat and heels and ship her off to Ascot to read her autocue from there. Apparently these days to be a weather bod it's compulsosry to be Scottish,female,and unreasonably cheerful at any hour of the day or night.
Malc turns up. His boss has fucked off to Ascot in a horse drawn carriage, whilst back at base they have no fuel. Vive la Revolution.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
June 16th (Mon)
N is on sprightly form and I can't for the life of me work out how he managed to rack up 19 minors and three serious on his last test. His driving seems pretty damn good to me. At the other end of the scale, a further two hours of S brings progress, but at a pace that would embarrass a snail with a zimmer frame. Oh Lord it is hard,but she is the loveliest girl. Truly beautiful, her sister is a catwalk model. She has stunning classical African looks, which are at odds with a perfect, utterly classy English accent. She talks little while struggling, but always opens up on the drive home. She seems very sanguine about her lack of progress, and I tell her I will cancel her test without any histrionics resulting.
Then to R. It's her 17th birthday. I search for her house on Faifrord Leas, the modern day village development, which I actually think is rather well done. It transpires that they live in the original farmhouse, which once stood in open fields but is now surrounded by the development the locals refer to as Toytown. It's a massive house, and R has been given a very upmarket C1 for her seventeenth birthday, today.
I wonder where their cash comes from and dig a bit with no cogent answer appearing. She is a bright and lively girl, but nothing suggests a background to explain all the property. Her Dad works in prison with sex offenders,her Mum in prison admin. Her sister was actually a screw, a thought I find tantalising, especially if she is as pretty as R. More digging to be done. Well, she has booked 10 hours!
Was meant to be going to London in the evening to meet R and see Vince Cable speaking.Sadly R texts and says he can 't. I am tempted by dinner in La Genova, but reckon this'd be mean on H's birthday, so ask her out for a ruby instead.
We go to the Coco Tamarind in Askett. Very well run, nicely appointed, nice crocks and cut. H loves it but the food tries to do without the oils and greases that are the staple of "Indian" cuisine. Been here before.Think Tiger Garden in Marlow and Chutney in the erstwhile home of the Shaheen. This sets us back £50. Not sure how quickly I'd rush back.
Then to R. It's her 17th birthday. I search for her house on Faifrord Leas, the modern day village development, which I actually think is rather well done. It transpires that they live in the original farmhouse, which once stood in open fields but is now surrounded by the development the locals refer to as Toytown. It's a massive house, and R has been given a very upmarket C1 for her seventeenth birthday, today.
I wonder where their cash comes from and dig a bit with no cogent answer appearing. She is a bright and lively girl, but nothing suggests a background to explain all the property. Her Dad works in prison with sex offenders,her Mum in prison admin. Her sister was actually a screw, a thought I find tantalising, especially if she is as pretty as R. More digging to be done. Well, she has booked 10 hours!
Was meant to be going to London in the evening to meet R and see Vince Cable speaking.Sadly R texts and says he can 't. I am tempted by dinner in La Genova, but reckon this'd be mean on H's birthday, so ask her out for a ruby instead.
We go to the Coco Tamarind in Askett. Very well run, nicely appointed, nice crocks and cut. H loves it but the food tries to do without the oils and greases that are the staple of "Indian" cuisine. Been here before.Think Tiger Garden in Marlow and Chutney in the erstwhile home of the Shaheen. This sets us back £50. Not sure how quickly I'd rush back.
June 15th (Sun)
Am woken up by Sophie who wants to know if I want to come to her cricket coaching session. After the rigours of yesterday my body is wracked in the most horrible pain. Every movement brings more agony and I start to become aware that you can't turn an ageing body onto full blast like a switch.
I slide myself gracelessly out of bed and slump in front of the telly. There's cricket on and it's a whole lot easier to watch than to play.
S returns and eventually we depart to search out a birthday present for H. we get to B&Q and choose a mosaic table for out on the garage balcony, which hasn't quite fallen down yet. Job done we then by a few books and a Neil Diamond cd. It'll be nice if Mary Shuttleworth ever visits.
Whilst shopping S reveals that she has been appointed (or elected, I forget which) deputy head girl. What a fantastic achievement, the first time an outsider (that's to say someone who joined at 6th form stage) has achieved such a distinction. What a clever, brilliant girl she is.
I cook the dinner, grunting in pain every time movement is called for,and dish it up to my trio of ladyfolk, Dan being absent at a music festival in Donnington.
After this, as is often the case on a Sunday, I am fit for little but comatose rolling around on the couch. I then drag myself upstairs and lie in the bath for hours. Dan returns. Apparently it is gone one.
The warm water has helped but certainly not cured me, and now I realise that I have to assemble the bloody table and chairs. It's gone three before this is finished. Oh God!
I slide myself gracelessly out of bed and slump in front of the telly. There's cricket on and it's a whole lot easier to watch than to play.
S returns and eventually we depart to search out a birthday present for H. we get to B&Q and choose a mosaic table for out on the garage balcony, which hasn't quite fallen down yet. Job done we then by a few books and a Neil Diamond cd. It'll be nice if Mary Shuttleworth ever visits.
Whilst shopping S reveals that she has been appointed (or elected, I forget which) deputy head girl. What a fantastic achievement, the first time an outsider (that's to say someone who joined at 6th form stage) has achieved such a distinction. What a clever, brilliant girl she is.
I cook the dinner, grunting in pain every time movement is called for,and dish it up to my trio of ladyfolk, Dan being absent at a music festival in Donnington.
After this, as is often the case on a Sunday, I am fit for little but comatose rolling around on the couch. I then drag myself upstairs and lie in the bath for hours. Dan returns. Apparently it is gone one.
The warm water has helped but certainly not cured me, and now I realise that I have to assemble the bloody table and chairs. It's gone three before this is finished. Oh God!
Sunday, June 15, 2008
June 14th (Sat)
The great day of my long awaited cricketing comeback has arrived.But first to more mundane matters. There is A to deal with. Not had a lesson for a few weeks and she seems strangely manic today. We stop for pain aux chocs as is now our habit, then head out onto the road. We nearly hit a van at a roundabout. Partly my fault. I shouldn't have let her approach it so quickly. More mistakes follow. Then we hit the kerb at 50 mph. Things get scruffier. We emerge from a junction. The windscreen wipers go on. I explain how to get them off. she puts them on express speed. I try again, and the back wipers join in the game. And then it's tears. OMG the second time in two days!! I start my own self doubt as A is bawling "I fail at everything I do. I'm a failure" We can't stop. We are on a busy road. I steer the car until we can pull in to one side. She stops for a fag, gets out of the car and relaxes. She seems better. We drive back very calmly to Wycombe as I try to reassure her. She has her theory test again next week. I do hope she passes. I suspect she will give up if not.
And so to Penn Street. I don Dan's whites and meet up with my new team mates. R arrives just behind me. We field. I suddenly realise how much I have forgotten. Walking in as the bowler approaches, changing positions for the left and right handers. Throwing the ball from fielder to fielder. How bloody hard is the cricket ball! Am I going to want to get in the way of that bloody thing when it's smacked towards me by that fat bloke who swings with gay abandon?
The ball is thrown to me. I fumble it. Damn! But next time I remember. Keep your eyes on it. Cup your hands! Yes!!
The ball isn't exactly following me around, but I get my hands on it a couple of times. I remember now I can't throw, and hope I don't get dispatched to the boundary.
Penn Street don't fare well. Wickets tumble with regularity. They are short of players and a procession of kids appear at the wicket.
Then the fat man swings. The ball hurtles towards me. I dive to the right and get my hands to the ball. Applause ripples around the village green. "Well done Simon" "Great stop Simon" I hear from all the team mates. I am really chuffed.
"Can you bowl?" asks the captain. "Slowly" I reply.
Towards the end of the innings I am told. You bowl the next over from that end. Now I am nervous. I could make a serious fool of myself here. I haven't bowled a ball in anger for god knows how many years. Fortunately my adversary is about nine years old! Just get it on the stumps. First ball is fine. Well pitched up, on middle . Forward defensive. Next ball. Oh no! I feel it go wrong straight from the hand. It's going to pitch four feet short of a good length, and three feet outside off. The nipper sees his chance. He slashes, and top edges. The keeper hangs on to the catch!!
He's their last man so I finish with an analysis of 0.2 0 1-0.
A nice tea in the pub, and then we set off to chase 90 to win. Apparently I am to bat at 5. Excitedly I pull on my pads, at a kind of jaunty, Alan Knott angle. I try to fix my box, but realise my mistake. I am wearing my boxers, which are the wrong things to hold a box in place. But these boxers have a fly, and the button is missing, So the box just falls through the hole. Hmm. R gives me a thigh pad. I use the velcro strip from that to hold the thing in place. It sort of works, but I keep having to adjust it.
The third wicket falls. I stride to the middle. A couple of elegant forward defensives. A few nasty swishes at the air outside off. A few worrying biffs on the pads. A couple of neat offside nudges for singles. The an edge. The slipper fumbles and floors the chance. Is it to be my day?
There is a grey haired slow bowler operating from one end, who occasionally sends down a nippy quicker one, and one of the kids, a very good player, from the other. He is quite quick but cannot control his length, bowling a lot of straight full tosses. It hurts every time I hit these,, jarring my arm. Talking later it seems I need a better bat.
Eventually the slow bowler tempts me. The ball is just short of a length outside off stump. I step down the pitch and drive over his head. For a moment I think I have connect properly and it is flying to the boundary for four. But no, it's up in the air and the bowler is greedily clutching it to his chest. Oh well. I was actually quite pleased. When I wanted to defend I did OK. It was just getting the ball off the square that was my problem.
The Old Gits triumph, and I am asked to play for them again if they are short. I would do gladly. A guy from Penn Street also invites me to play. I will consider my options!
Dinner at Loch Fyne in the evening with S & P, and from the cricket, R and his french girlfriend D. She seems lovely, but none of us can quite work out the exact nature of the relationship. Both being Jewish there is a suspicion of an arranged marriage about it. R is quite engaging company, but can be annoyingly finneckity. I hope that at the end of the meal we are not to be in a "Well we had this and you had that" type of situation. Luckily we don't and we all part on good terms.
A very enjoyable evening to round off a splendid day. I hope A is ok now.
And so to Penn Street. I don Dan's whites and meet up with my new team mates. R arrives just behind me. We field. I suddenly realise how much I have forgotten. Walking in as the bowler approaches, changing positions for the left and right handers. Throwing the ball from fielder to fielder. How bloody hard is the cricket ball! Am I going to want to get in the way of that bloody thing when it's smacked towards me by that fat bloke who swings with gay abandon?
The ball is thrown to me. I fumble it. Damn! But next time I remember. Keep your eyes on it. Cup your hands! Yes!!
The ball isn't exactly following me around, but I get my hands on it a couple of times. I remember now I can't throw, and hope I don't get dispatched to the boundary.
Penn Street don't fare well. Wickets tumble with regularity. They are short of players and a procession of kids appear at the wicket.
Then the fat man swings. The ball hurtles towards me. I dive to the right and get my hands to the ball. Applause ripples around the village green. "Well done Simon" "Great stop Simon" I hear from all the team mates. I am really chuffed.
"Can you bowl?" asks the captain. "Slowly" I reply.
Towards the end of the innings I am told. You bowl the next over from that end. Now I am nervous. I could make a serious fool of myself here. I haven't bowled a ball in anger for god knows how many years. Fortunately my adversary is about nine years old! Just get it on the stumps. First ball is fine. Well pitched up, on middle . Forward defensive. Next ball. Oh no! I feel it go wrong straight from the hand. It's going to pitch four feet short of a good length, and three feet outside off. The nipper sees his chance. He slashes, and top edges. The keeper hangs on to the catch!!
He's their last man so I finish with an analysis of 0.2 0 1-0.
A nice tea in the pub, and then we set off to chase 90 to win. Apparently I am to bat at 5. Excitedly I pull on my pads, at a kind of jaunty, Alan Knott angle. I try to fix my box, but realise my mistake. I am wearing my boxers, which are the wrong things to hold a box in place. But these boxers have a fly, and the button is missing, So the box just falls through the hole. Hmm. R gives me a thigh pad. I use the velcro strip from that to hold the thing in place. It sort of works, but I keep having to adjust it.
The third wicket falls. I stride to the middle. A couple of elegant forward defensives. A few nasty swishes at the air outside off. A few worrying biffs on the pads. A couple of neat offside nudges for singles. The an edge. The slipper fumbles and floors the chance. Is it to be my day?
There is a grey haired slow bowler operating from one end, who occasionally sends down a nippy quicker one, and one of the kids, a very good player, from the other. He is quite quick but cannot control his length, bowling a lot of straight full tosses. It hurts every time I hit these,, jarring my arm. Talking later it seems I need a better bat.
Eventually the slow bowler tempts me. The ball is just short of a length outside off stump. I step down the pitch and drive over his head. For a moment I think I have connect properly and it is flying to the boundary for four. But no, it's up in the air and the bowler is greedily clutching it to his chest. Oh well. I was actually quite pleased. When I wanted to defend I did OK. It was just getting the ball off the square that was my problem.
The Old Gits triumph, and I am asked to play for them again if they are short. I would do gladly. A guy from Penn Street also invites me to play. I will consider my options!
Dinner at Loch Fyne in the evening with S & P, and from the cricket, R and his french girlfriend D. She seems lovely, but none of us can quite work out the exact nature of the relationship. Both being Jewish there is a suspicion of an arranged marriage about it. R is quite engaging company, but can be annoyingly finneckity. I hope that at the end of the meal we are not to be in a "Well we had this and you had that" type of situation. Luckily we don't and we all part on good terms.
A very enjoyable evening to round off a splendid day. I hope A is ok now.
Friday, June 13, 2008
June 13th (Fri)
Friday 13th!!
I take S to a car park and we drive round and round in circles for two hours, with me controlling the foot pedals. Progress is painfully slow, and she seems incapable of mastering two basic skills simultaneously. Eventually we drive over to Risborough and try to get her to turn corners on the road. She can just manoeuvre around a corner, but cannot keep the car on the correct side of the road. Each time we have to stop at a junction she cannot keep the car from rolling back to get started again. Then suddenly it's tears. It's not my fault she assures me. I take pity on her and drive back to Aylesbury. she's spent £750 on me without a murmur and had hoped to pass her test.I now only have decide the best moment to tell her she won't be taking one. Right now she couldn't get out of the test centre car park.
I drive back from Aylesbury to Terriers, pick up A and drive him to his test. In Aylesbury. He drives beautifully over there and I am sure he should be ok. He's just a bit worried about his reversing. Ominously the test starts with a bay park. I watch as he just creeps onto the line. I follow him out to get a coffee at the garage. Ouch. His back wheels are in a box junction just outside of the centre. A nervous wait then. He returns and it's bad news. Wasn't watching as he did his bay park, and nearly pulled out in front of someone at a roundabout. He takes it well. Let's get back to Wycombe and do a test where we know the ground.
Afterwards, having taken him back to Wycombe, I return to Aston Clinton, and thence to Aylesbury again. This time it is P. a 43 year old who has never learned to drive. He's lived in London for most of his life, which gives him some kind of excuse. He's a nice guy and can drive pretty well, but says he needs a 30 hour course to get him ready. Should be a reasonably easy week for pretty good cash.
I take S to a car park and we drive round and round in circles for two hours, with me controlling the foot pedals. Progress is painfully slow, and she seems incapable of mastering two basic skills simultaneously. Eventually we drive over to Risborough and try to get her to turn corners on the road. She can just manoeuvre around a corner, but cannot keep the car on the correct side of the road. Each time we have to stop at a junction she cannot keep the car from rolling back to get started again. Then suddenly it's tears. It's not my fault she assures me. I take pity on her and drive back to Aylesbury. she's spent £750 on me without a murmur and had hoped to pass her test.I now only have decide the best moment to tell her she won't be taking one. Right now she couldn't get out of the test centre car park.
I drive back from Aylesbury to Terriers, pick up A and drive him to his test. In Aylesbury. He drives beautifully over there and I am sure he should be ok. He's just a bit worried about his reversing. Ominously the test starts with a bay park. I watch as he just creeps onto the line. I follow him out to get a coffee at the garage. Ouch. His back wheels are in a box junction just outside of the centre. A nervous wait then. He returns and it's bad news. Wasn't watching as he did his bay park, and nearly pulled out in front of someone at a roundabout. He takes it well. Let's get back to Wycombe and do a test where we know the ground.
Afterwards, having taken him back to Wycombe, I return to Aston Clinton, and thence to Aylesbury again. This time it is P. a 43 year old who has never learned to drive. He's lived in London for most of his life, which gives him some kind of excuse. He's a nice guy and can drive pretty well, but says he needs a 30 hour course to get him ready. Should be a reasonably easy week for pretty good cash.
Watch Holland France on telly in the evening. It's a cracking game, both teams going at it hammer and tong, the Dutch devastating on the break as they were against Italy and ending up 4-1 winners.
A text arrives confirming my selection for the Penn St fixture. Good idea therefor to skip my Friday curry. I don't.
June 12th (Thurs)
New pupil today. Shirley. She opens the door, and to my surprise is a tall willowly, strikingly beautiful African, which I had certainly not deduced from her voice on the phone. She seems very confident and keen to learn. I start to have my doubts, when sitting with the engine off she cannot even move the gearstick from one position to the other. She does get the car going, but there seems to be no connection at all between her eyes, which surely telll her that if we continue on our current course we will collide with kerb, cars, old biddy on shopmobility buggy or lamp post, and hr arms, which with a simple movement on the wheel, might prevent such calamity. For a full three hours we meander back and forth across the road, in fifty yard segments. I am reflecting that after today there is another 27 hours to follow, with the expectation of her taking a driving test at the end of it.
It is a relief to get back to A, who can drive as well as anyone, yet could still blow her test simply because she refuses to believe she can pass it.
It is a relief to get back to A, who can drive as well as anyone, yet could still blow her test simply because she refuses to believe she can pass it.
As I am picking her up I here that David Davies has resigned as an mp. Apparently he intends to fight a bi election on the single issue of the 42 day detention,though later unreels a few more hobby horses (cctv all over the place, DNA testing, identity cards) Apparently he did this without troubling to mention it to his boss, the other Dave, bit did take Nick Clegg into his confidence, securing an agreement from the LDs not to oppose him, they being the natural opposition in his neck of the woods. Not surewhat he is up to here.There seem to be three views. a) He's a nutter. b) A principled hero or c) He's planning already for the day the knife goes into squeaky clean Dave's back.
A text arrives. We are planning to watch Richard's cricket team at Penn Street on Saturday. Now they are a man short and could I don my whites? For the first time for at least 25 years!! Could I? Just try and stop me!!
Thursday, June 12, 2008
June 11th (Weds)
So today is the final of the Apprentice. Ever since some enterprising young commissioning editor realised that it was both easier and cheaper to make telly with people dragged in off the streets than to actually pay highly strung "artistes" to strut around on set getting precious every five minutes, the floodgates opened, and at times it seems that there's little else to be found on the box. It permeates the whole spectrum of 9 milion available channels, and as the share of dosh available has to be divided amongst more and more participants, the more attractive the option has become, and the more desperate have become the premises on which this dross is rolled out.
There is one shining exception, and one I have toyed and dallied with in the past, but have now thrown in my lot with. It is of course, the Apprentice, and it reaches it's current culmination ce soir.
Which is fine, and I'll be watching, and of course noting that if you want the production that sets the standards for the rather grubby genre, then naturally you look to the Beeb. Sadly the old showbiz adage "leave em hungry for more" has not filtered through. The show in istself is fine, but today this is not enough.
Immediately it ends every week, it is followed by another, studio based discussion with the evictee of the week. Not only do people waste their time tuning into this, which generally consists of a match of the day style dissection of the episode everyone has just just seen (in case the complexities of the event went over their head), but unbelievably a studio full of people are persuaded out of the pubs, bingo halls and domination parlours to assist in person.
Then throughout the week come literally dozens of other programmes in a similar vein
It is felt necessary to holistic understanding of the event to interview the relatives of the candidates (one of them suffered badly from athletes foot in his youth was one priceless gem gleaned in such a transit), their work colleagues. Then interviewers are sent onto the streets to weedle out the opinions of the man on the Clapham omnibus. I have no idea how many times such programmes appear, but it seems to me that every time I try to record something on Sky Plus, it's a wasted button push as the hard drive is full of programmes about the bloody Apprentice. Not content with this, every time you switch on live TV of any description their is Sugars gnarled and ugly mug glowering out at us teasing us with possible outcomes.
The presenters then have their five pennorth "Oooh I thing Lee has really got something" . The fucking weatherwoman is even persuaded to forget her occluded fronts to dwell on the vital matter of the day. Enough? Are you joking? Let's drag in last week's loser to see what he thinks. It's been six days since we saw him after all. And why stop the retro at last week? Yes, we've last year's runner up, the year before's first semi final casualty, and then in a final, classic twist, the Beeb drag out big Dunc. Yes it's Duncan Bannatyne, the would be Sugar from the Beeb's other scare the would be captains of industry to death reality fest, the Dragon's Den. Presumably we can conclude that this series will shortly be hoving into view into the vacant berth left empty by Sugar and his entourage of oddbods. And of course this process is not confined to TV, but fills hours and hours and fucking hours on every talk radio station in the country, and no doubt acres of red top newsprint, the point of submission for me arriving when Sugar pops up on the fucking Today programme.
On a more trivial note, Brown's fixation with banging people up for 42 days before reading them their rights squeaks through the Commons thanks to nine votes purchased from the Paisleyites. Odd one this. A measure very popular with Joe Soap (lock up the fuckin Pakki bastards) and very unpopular with MPs, including strangely the Tories, who as I recall in the time of the likes of Waddington were pretty keen on this sort of thing. Had Brown lost it could well have hastened the end for him, the beginning of the end now far behind us. Sadly for Gordon the affair will not add a percentage point to his popularity ratings, with the Labour party now struggling to keep ahead of Cleggie's boys in the polls, the Cameroons having long ago advanced away from them towards the horizon. And for God's sake, should you really need to pay the Orangemen of all people to deliver stringent anti terror legislation. Can anyone really conceive of the crazed Dr P, even dressed in is new orange sheep's clothing, solemnly explaining to us all why he delivered his Shankhill irregulars into the opposition lobby given his once or twice repeated views on the matter of terrorism and how to deal with it?
There is one shining exception, and one I have toyed and dallied with in the past, but have now thrown in my lot with. It is of course, the Apprentice, and it reaches it's current culmination ce soir.
Which is fine, and I'll be watching, and of course noting that if you want the production that sets the standards for the rather grubby genre, then naturally you look to the Beeb. Sadly the old showbiz adage "leave em hungry for more" has not filtered through. The show in istself is fine, but today this is not enough.
Immediately it ends every week, it is followed by another, studio based discussion with the evictee of the week. Not only do people waste their time tuning into this, which generally consists of a match of the day style dissection of the episode everyone has just just seen (in case the complexities of the event went over their head), but unbelievably a studio full of people are persuaded out of the pubs, bingo halls and domination parlours to assist in person.
Then throughout the week come literally dozens of other programmes in a similar vein
It is felt necessary to holistic understanding of the event to interview the relatives of the candidates (one of them suffered badly from athletes foot in his youth was one priceless gem gleaned in such a transit), their work colleagues. Then interviewers are sent onto the streets to weedle out the opinions of the man on the Clapham omnibus. I have no idea how many times such programmes appear, but it seems to me that every time I try to record something on Sky Plus, it's a wasted button push as the hard drive is full of programmes about the bloody Apprentice. Not content with this, every time you switch on live TV of any description their is Sugars gnarled and ugly mug glowering out at us teasing us with possible outcomes.
The presenters then have their five pennorth "Oooh I thing Lee has really got something" . The fucking weatherwoman is even persuaded to forget her occluded fronts to dwell on the vital matter of the day. Enough? Are you joking? Let's drag in last week's loser to see what he thinks. It's been six days since we saw him after all. And why stop the retro at last week? Yes, we've last year's runner up, the year before's first semi final casualty, and then in a final, classic twist, the Beeb drag out big Dunc. Yes it's Duncan Bannatyne, the would be Sugar from the Beeb's other scare the would be captains of industry to death reality fest, the Dragon's Den. Presumably we can conclude that this series will shortly be hoving into view into the vacant berth left empty by Sugar and his entourage of oddbods. And of course this process is not confined to TV, but fills hours and hours and fucking hours on every talk radio station in the country, and no doubt acres of red top newsprint, the point of submission for me arriving when Sugar pops up on the fucking Today programme.
On a more trivial note, Brown's fixation with banging people up for 42 days before reading them their rights squeaks through the Commons thanks to nine votes purchased from the Paisleyites. Odd one this. A measure very popular with Joe Soap (lock up the fuckin Pakki bastards) and very unpopular with MPs, including strangely the Tories, who as I recall in the time of the likes of Waddington were pretty keen on this sort of thing. Had Brown lost it could well have hastened the end for him, the beginning of the end now far behind us. Sadly for Gordon the affair will not add a percentage point to his popularity ratings, with the Labour party now struggling to keep ahead of Cleggie's boys in the polls, the Cameroons having long ago advanced away from them towards the horizon. And for God's sake, should you really need to pay the Orangemen of all people to deliver stringent anti terror legislation. Can anyone really conceive of the crazed Dr P, even dressed in is new orange sheep's clothing, solemnly explaining to us all why he delivered his Shankhill irregulars into the opposition lobby given his once or twice repeated views on the matter of terrorism and how to deal with it?
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
June 10th (Tues)
The morning is blissful. That is, the sun is burning in the morning sky and the blue sky has a sense of well being rushing through the veins.
Drop the kids off at school, then, despite the best of intentions spend the rest of the morning interperving. A retrograde step indeed. Need to keep busy.
Easy lesson with A in the afternoon. She can drive, we both know that. Can she keep her nerve for a test though? To quote her favourite phrase "We'll see"
A is next up. Can drive forwards but not back!
The news on the financial front gets worse and worse.Negative equity is back, housebuilding industry in chaos, knock ons in removal trade, diy. I paid £1.20 for a litre of fucking petrol today, and still the price surges upwards on the world market. Food prices soar the world over, rice supplies are running out for the world's poor. Pictures of skeltal African kids, their eyes home to two dozen flies are back on our screens."Uncharted waters" mumble the experts who are paid 7 figure salaries to make sure we never enter such. Pensioners are getting poorer. The poor are getting poorer. Viva new Labour! Brown has lost the plot totally. He has, amazingly been in power for a year now and is lurching from crisis to crisis. the latest is entirely of his own making. He wants 42 days detention without trial against the advice of almost everybody. It's going to be a tight vote tomorrow,and quite frankly it's hard to see where he can go if he loses.
I get home and crash out for a full hour. I don't feel good afterwards, and decide I must get on the bike and do some exercise. I cycle down the hill and back again, halted only by a shoelace tangled around me pedals. Why do they make them fourteen feet long for fuck's sake?
Had thought I might take H out to dinner, but she doesn't arrive home till gone nine. Things are not too icy but I really can't generate the enthusiasm to be either desperately apologetic or even contrite.
Drop the kids off at school, then, despite the best of intentions spend the rest of the morning interperving. A retrograde step indeed. Need to keep busy.
Easy lesson with A in the afternoon. She can drive, we both know that. Can she keep her nerve for a test though? To quote her favourite phrase "We'll see"
A is next up. Can drive forwards but not back!
The news on the financial front gets worse and worse.Negative equity is back, housebuilding industry in chaos, knock ons in removal trade, diy. I paid £1.20 for a litre of fucking petrol today, and still the price surges upwards on the world market. Food prices soar the world over, rice supplies are running out for the world's poor. Pictures of skeltal African kids, their eyes home to two dozen flies are back on our screens."Uncharted waters" mumble the experts who are paid 7 figure salaries to make sure we never enter such. Pensioners are getting poorer. The poor are getting poorer. Viva new Labour! Brown has lost the plot totally. He has, amazingly been in power for a year now and is lurching from crisis to crisis. the latest is entirely of his own making. He wants 42 days detention without trial against the advice of almost everybody. It's going to be a tight vote tomorrow,and quite frankly it's hard to see where he can go if he loses.
I get home and crash out for a full hour. I don't feel good afterwards, and decide I must get on the bike and do some exercise. I cycle down the hill and back again, halted only by a shoelace tangled around me pedals. Why do they make them fourteen feet long for fuck's sake?
Had thought I might take H out to dinner, but she doesn't arrive home till gone nine. Things are not too icy but I really can't generate the enthusiasm to be either desperately apologetic or even contrite.
June 9th (Mon)
A quiet start to the week, and then it's lift off. I have already received T's text saying his 8:30 appt is off. This arrives at 10:30pm. Enough of this. Time to read the riot act.
S had booked her theory test for today. As she had been so busy/ill etc she tried to cancel it. She never checked that the cancellation had gone through though, and hey presto! it hadn't. She decided she may as well give it a go, and remarkably fails by just one point. Brilliant effort.
Then it's over to Aylesbury for S's date with destiny.
For over 13 months we have pounded the roads of Aylesbury. There can't be a piece of tarmac in the town centre we have trundled over a hundred times. He has shown improvement, and even put in one really god mock test. So why do I have a feeling of dread?
He is actually in good form. None of the huffing and puffing which often betray nerves with him. He confesses to nerves though, and I can never be confident about him. Even if he passes my message will be "drive miles and miles and miles under the eye of your girlfriend"
We wait in the waiting room.Three cheerful instructors come bounding in, all smiles and bonhomie. And then comes a forth. He gives the air of a retired prison screw with a chip on his shoulder. He calls out the name "Simon"
"We're both Simon" I pipe up, "Can I do the test?" This goes down like a lump of cold sick.
As a sideshow a young Sikh guy fails the eyesight test and his examiner starts measuring the distance in the road. He gets there in the end.
The waiting room is tiny, but gives it an air of intimacy, and the other instructors are a really nice bunch. I confess my fears for Simon. The time flies by and all of a sudden they are back, Simon second. My little red car thuds to a halt, the examiner nearly going through the windscreen. It's all I need to know. Mr Mackay looks round for me and I am summoned to the debrief. 14 bloody minors and at least 2 serious. He hasn't checked his mirrors the whole way round, he's nearly run over a pedestrian on a yellow light. It goes on and on.
I do feel sorry for him, but also kind of desperate. I really think the only option for him is to keep taking the tests until he strikes lucky one day. Not good for my pass rate.
Next to A, the grandson of J & P. He has struck me as arrogant and unlikeable on the phone, but as is sometimes the case, it is his phone manner which lets him down. He is actually a nice lad. His last test was a catastrophe which make S's look a decent effort. 19 & 3!! To my amazement he turns out to be a pretty decent driver, and he shouldn't have too much to do to pass. I am confused!
Get home exhausted. This work is amazingly tiring and the sun has a wearing effect. Today is a summer's day without any contradiction. It's searing. 27 degrees (Fahrenheit seems more and more a busted flush these days.)
In colder climes, Phoenix is having trouble digging up it's martian arctic samples and delivering them to the oven for cooking. No one seems to be panicking too much, but anxious times for all concerned.
There is an atmosphere in the house which I assume is an overspill of yesterday's hostilities. In truth there is little warmth between me and H for more than a moment at a time. On my return from the curry house I enquire sarcastically whether the plasterer will be starting work on Monday (knowing full well that absolutely zilch has been arranged). The riposte of verbal venom which is spat back at me is impressive, even by H's high standards.
She has taken to sleeping downstairs. Rather than crash on the sofa and awake at 3 am I am now using the sofa bed.
I get a text
"For what it's worth. Happy anniversary xxxx!
Whoops
S had booked her theory test for today. As she had been so busy/ill etc she tried to cancel it. She never checked that the cancellation had gone through though, and hey presto! it hadn't. She decided she may as well give it a go, and remarkably fails by just one point. Brilliant effort.
Then it's over to Aylesbury for S's date with destiny.
For over 13 months we have pounded the roads of Aylesbury. There can't be a piece of tarmac in the town centre we have trundled over a hundred times. He has shown improvement, and even put in one really god mock test. So why do I have a feeling of dread?
He is actually in good form. None of the huffing and puffing which often betray nerves with him. He confesses to nerves though, and I can never be confident about him. Even if he passes my message will be "drive miles and miles and miles under the eye of your girlfriend"
We wait in the waiting room.Three cheerful instructors come bounding in, all smiles and bonhomie. And then comes a forth. He gives the air of a retired prison screw with a chip on his shoulder. He calls out the name "Simon"
"We're both Simon" I pipe up, "Can I do the test?" This goes down like a lump of cold sick.
As a sideshow a young Sikh guy fails the eyesight test and his examiner starts measuring the distance in the road. He gets there in the end.
The waiting room is tiny, but gives it an air of intimacy, and the other instructors are a really nice bunch. I confess my fears for Simon. The time flies by and all of a sudden they are back, Simon second. My little red car thuds to a halt, the examiner nearly going through the windscreen. It's all I need to know. Mr Mackay looks round for me and I am summoned to the debrief. 14 bloody minors and at least 2 serious. He hasn't checked his mirrors the whole way round, he's nearly run over a pedestrian on a yellow light. It goes on and on.
I do feel sorry for him, but also kind of desperate. I really think the only option for him is to keep taking the tests until he strikes lucky one day. Not good for my pass rate.
Next to A, the grandson of J & P. He has struck me as arrogant and unlikeable on the phone, but as is sometimes the case, it is his phone manner which lets him down. He is actually a nice lad. His last test was a catastrophe which make S's look a decent effort. 19 & 3!! To my amazement he turns out to be a pretty decent driver, and he shouldn't have too much to do to pass. I am confused!
Get home exhausted. This work is amazingly tiring and the sun has a wearing effect. Today is a summer's day without any contradiction. It's searing. 27 degrees (Fahrenheit seems more and more a busted flush these days.)
In colder climes, Phoenix is having trouble digging up it's martian arctic samples and delivering them to the oven for cooking. No one seems to be panicking too much, but anxious times for all concerned.
There is an atmosphere in the house which I assume is an overspill of yesterday's hostilities. In truth there is little warmth between me and H for more than a moment at a time. On my return from the curry house I enquire sarcastically whether the plasterer will be starting work on Monday (knowing full well that absolutely zilch has been arranged). The riposte of verbal venom which is spat back at me is impressive, even by H's high standards.
She has taken to sleeping downstairs. Rather than crash on the sofa and awake at 3 am I am now using the sofa bed.
I get a text
"For what it's worth. Happy anniversary xxxx!
Whoops
June 8th (Sun)
A text has arrived. It's A's 5oth birthday, and G is preparing a surprise party. I groan. A little later P rings up. G has been on the phone and asked us to bring some beers. She wants us there for 6:45, prior to A's return from Lords. She says to Pascale, "Tell the Parkers 5:30" I find that rather witty, as evidently does P.
Later I recount the story to H,, who flies of into a fit of pique. Talk about umbrage and indignation. She snarls around for the next hour like a demented Rottweiler. I am reminded of the great Basil. "Spitting venom like some Benzedrine puff adder" was his searing and devastatingly precise thrust at dear Sybil.
I leave her to her pre eruption rumblings and head out to collect Sophie and Ems from cricket. The common at Kingshill is a joyous sight. A hundred young boys and girls decked out in white gleefully enjoying their games of kwik cricket with their little blue bats and stumps.
I arrive in time to see Emsy bat and hit a huge six.
By the time we get home England have wrapped up the Test, and I am very glad I didn't decide on a trip up north as it takes less than an hour to do so.
The world of cricket is changing at break neck speed. Three words sum up the change: Twenty, 20 & cash. Vast sums are flooding the cricket world, and already they are reaching down to county level. Two things here. How to protect test cricket as the pinnacle of the game. Properly presented T20 is fun, sometimes brilliant fun. Stamford says it can become the number one world game. Ambitious perhaps, but unless spreading the game worldwide is the ambition, it will quickly become stale. This is a version of the great game that can be taught, understood, and enjoyed by those not schooled in cricket from infancy. It fits into comprehensible time frames, and it has the ability to provide the drama that to now is the preserve of football.
Quite where test cricket would fit into such a diaspora must be open to doubt.
Following the self righteous indignation, we are duly 20 minutes late to the bbq, though it makes little difference as A has yet to arrive.
SW is there with some awful news, received earlier in the afternoon. His mate Mystic Malc had gone over to Spain to watch the motorcycle GP, and at some stage had been involved in an accident and sustained fatal injuries. S had been sharing a pint with him the previous Tuesday.
I didn't know him terribly well, and in truth had found him slightly daunting, but he did actually play a large part in shaping my course in life.
It was he who befriended a french guy who had written a "Day you were born" type programme. Initally he made a lot of money, thanks mainly to a young girl who really pushed the product in the shopping centres. Things gradually dwindled to nothing, but from there I got the inspiration to mimic the programme, and form there to keyrings and photos from which I eked a precarious existence for ten years or more.
The evening is very pleasant. S, R, and P are there as usual, bit so is K and W with their daughter M. She is now 17 and learning to drive, and looks good in sexy specks and granny shoes. G's daughter A has squeezed herself into a tiny top and tight trousers and totters atop enormous heels. This is the girl to whom I erroneously sent a text destined for Mistress Anna of Manchester when she was 17. Today she looks as though she might fit into the role!
Later I recount the story to H,, who flies of into a fit of pique. Talk about umbrage and indignation. She snarls around for the next hour like a demented Rottweiler. I am reminded of the great Basil. "Spitting venom like some Benzedrine puff adder" was his searing and devastatingly precise thrust at dear Sybil.
I leave her to her pre eruption rumblings and head out to collect Sophie and Ems from cricket. The common at Kingshill is a joyous sight. A hundred young boys and girls decked out in white gleefully enjoying their games of kwik cricket with their little blue bats and stumps.
I arrive in time to see Emsy bat and hit a huge six.
By the time we get home England have wrapped up the Test, and I am very glad I didn't decide on a trip up north as it takes less than an hour to do so.
The world of cricket is changing at break neck speed. Three words sum up the change: Twenty, 20 & cash. Vast sums are flooding the cricket world, and already they are reaching down to county level. Two things here. How to protect test cricket as the pinnacle of the game. Properly presented T20 is fun, sometimes brilliant fun. Stamford says it can become the number one world game. Ambitious perhaps, but unless spreading the game worldwide is the ambition, it will quickly become stale. This is a version of the great game that can be taught, understood, and enjoyed by those not schooled in cricket from infancy. It fits into comprehensible time frames, and it has the ability to provide the drama that to now is the preserve of football.
Quite where test cricket would fit into such a diaspora must be open to doubt.
Following the self righteous indignation, we are duly 20 minutes late to the bbq, though it makes little difference as A has yet to arrive.
SW is there with some awful news, received earlier in the afternoon. His mate Mystic Malc had gone over to Spain to watch the motorcycle GP, and at some stage had been involved in an accident and sustained fatal injuries. S had been sharing a pint with him the previous Tuesday.
I didn't know him terribly well, and in truth had found him slightly daunting, but he did actually play a large part in shaping my course in life.
It was he who befriended a french guy who had written a "Day you were born" type programme. Initally he made a lot of money, thanks mainly to a young girl who really pushed the product in the shopping centres. Things gradually dwindled to nothing, but from there I got the inspiration to mimic the programme, and form there to keyrings and photos from which I eked a precarious existence for ten years or more.
The evening is very pleasant. S, R, and P are there as usual, bit so is K and W with their daughter M. She is now 17 and learning to drive, and looks good in sexy specks and granny shoes. G's daughter A has squeezed herself into a tiny top and tight trousers and totters atop enormous heels. This is the girl to whom I erroneously sent a text destined for Mistress Anna of Manchester when she was 17. Today she looks as though she might fit into the role!
June 7th (Sat)
The sun keeps shining down and there is a general agreement that something ought to be done about the rubbish heap behind our house where others keep a garden. The shed is emptied of rubbish, and a part of this is the hob given to us a few years back by T&M. Unlike the one we have had for the last 18 moths, this has nobs to control the heat rather than having to attack them with a pair of pliers. It is not as pretty as the old one,but in this case functionality will out. I nearly kill myself disconnecting the old one; there is a loud bang and a puff of smoke, so I decide it might be best to undertake the project with the power switched off!
New pupil at midday, s, the sister of M. Chalk and cheese. M is a lovely lad, and has passed on my name to several others, but he would scarcely be number one on anyone's dinner party list. S on the other hand is a real livewire, lively, intelligent and engaging. She can also drive a car, so I suspect this will be a brief relationship!
H toils in the sun all afternoon and does a fantastic job in the garden. She doesn't like my idea of storing all the crap under the decking so I sulk and withdraw my labour. Emsy builds a bid wigwam out of the wood in preparation for a fire.
At Trent Bridge in the sunshine, NZ stumble towards an inevitable defeat. The ground has sprouted another new stand and looks magnificent. I toy with the idea of travelling to Nottingham on the morrow.
Dan is off to his mates for the day, and Sophes is not feeling so good, so myself, H and Emsy go out to the Harrow for the evening. It i a bit of a sad affair. A pleasant and original acoustic band sing their own songs which aren't bad, but sufficiently forgettable to consign them to the empty pub circuit for the foreseeable. The engaging lead singer runs his well oiled routine with the crowd, which at it's zenith consists of 10 people, at least three of which arrived with them, and three of whom, namely ourselves, will be departing once dinner is done.
The pub is run by a lady whose intentions seem good,but her face suggests a welcome through gritted teeth. She is actually very attentive to us, but there's just something about her which says "beware." I learn later that the pub is haemorrhaging it's locals, and that they point the finger at her.
The fare is perfectly edible,but there is nothing I could not reproduce exactly with the aid of a tin opener and my new hob with knobs. It's thoroughly unimaginative and I can think of many better ways of parting with 30 quid.
We wave the band goodnight. I am glad we have Emsy with us, I feel less guilty if they realise we have a young un to get home to bed.
New pupil at midday, s, the sister of M. Chalk and cheese. M is a lovely lad, and has passed on my name to several others, but he would scarcely be number one on anyone's dinner party list. S on the other hand is a real livewire, lively, intelligent and engaging. She can also drive a car, so I suspect this will be a brief relationship!
H toils in the sun all afternoon and does a fantastic job in the garden. She doesn't like my idea of storing all the crap under the decking so I sulk and withdraw my labour. Emsy builds a bid wigwam out of the wood in preparation for a fire.
At Trent Bridge in the sunshine, NZ stumble towards an inevitable defeat. The ground has sprouted another new stand and looks magnificent. I toy with the idea of travelling to Nottingham on the morrow.
Dan is off to his mates for the day, and Sophes is not feeling so good, so myself, H and Emsy go out to the Harrow for the evening. It i a bit of a sad affair. A pleasant and original acoustic band sing their own songs which aren't bad, but sufficiently forgettable to consign them to the empty pub circuit for the foreseeable. The engaging lead singer runs his well oiled routine with the crowd, which at it's zenith consists of 10 people, at least three of which arrived with them, and three of whom, namely ourselves, will be departing once dinner is done.
The pub is run by a lady whose intentions seem good,but her face suggests a welcome through gritted teeth. She is actually very attentive to us, but there's just something about her which says "beware." I learn later that the pub is haemorrhaging it's locals, and that they point the finger at her.
The fare is perfectly edible,but there is nothing I could not reproduce exactly with the aid of a tin opener and my new hob with knobs. It's thoroughly unimaginative and I can think of many better ways of parting with 30 quid.
We wave the band goodnight. I am glad we have Emsy with us, I feel less guilty if they realise we have a young un to get home to bed.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Jun 6th (Fri)
an easy day. T is not on the best of form. I arrive early and he is still wandering around in a towel. His dog gets horny and tried to shag me. First sexual conquest in many a day. Eventually we get going. He's slipping back into bad ways. He doesn't really believe it's a good idea to drive carefully, and I am not convinced I am ever going to convince him.
I pick up Sophie from work.She has more abscesses on in her cheek and doesn't look well at all. I am worried for her. We loll around and watch the cricket for an hour or so, then we get back to her driving lessons. She does well. I am trying to teach her to move the car around slowly, something I have never really tried with a paying pupil as I have always reckoned it'd take too long. Let's see how this works.
After the lesson we head off to Risborough. amongst all the other things she does, she is coaching a young girls cricket team, and they have a tournament in Cublington to play in. She is really nervous for them. It dawns on me how dedicated she is and how she throws herself into so much in such a whole hearted fashion.
We drive out through Aylesbury, thoughts of S's date with destiny there flashing through my mind, and head out towards the village. The chilterns are getting more beautiful day by day. the foliage is weighing down the branches now, and they almost groan under the weight of the lush growth. Little white flowers are sprinkled all over the greenery. I must find out what they are called.
The village itself is magical. Nestled in a fold in the hills, the magical countryside rolls away to a smoky grey horizon gently silhouetted against a now soft grey sky.
The ground itself is surrounded by lush trees and neat green hedgerows. The turf is soft and spongy, and the wicket hard as concrete.
The little girls, all about Emsy's age, set to their game.I am surprised by the quality of their play, and they a true enthusiasts. Sophie's team play three games, and I do the scoring. I realise what a great time I am having, and wonder why I have spent so many summer's evenings slouched in front of the cathode ray tube, when I could have been filling my lungs with the country air in such idyllic surroundings.
The team loses all three games, but as they say, it's not the winning.......
Emsy arrives back from her trip and it's lovely to see her again. H leaves her lights on in the car park so we have to beg a push from various coaches and umpires to get going. On the way home we give a lift to a guy who has run out of petrol.
The light is going down as we head away from Aston Clinton. There's no sunset to see, it's now cold grey and spitting cold rain, but the huge expansive view over the Vale of Aylesbury takes Sophie aback. Wonderful.
Emsy has bought presents. I get fudge. It tastes Soapy, though I suspect this will not be a problem for me as Ems has her eyes on scoffing most of it. Lovely to have her home
I pick up Sophie from work.She has more abscesses on in her cheek and doesn't look well at all. I am worried for her. We loll around and watch the cricket for an hour or so, then we get back to her driving lessons. She does well. I am trying to teach her to move the car around slowly, something I have never really tried with a paying pupil as I have always reckoned it'd take too long. Let's see how this works.
After the lesson we head off to Risborough. amongst all the other things she does, she is coaching a young girls cricket team, and they have a tournament in Cublington to play in. She is really nervous for them. It dawns on me how dedicated she is and how she throws herself into so much in such a whole hearted fashion.
We drive out through Aylesbury, thoughts of S's date with destiny there flashing through my mind, and head out towards the village. The chilterns are getting more beautiful day by day. the foliage is weighing down the branches now, and they almost groan under the weight of the lush growth. Little white flowers are sprinkled all over the greenery. I must find out what they are called.
The village itself is magical. Nestled in a fold in the hills, the magical countryside rolls away to a smoky grey horizon gently silhouetted against a now soft grey sky.
The ground itself is surrounded by lush trees and neat green hedgerows. The turf is soft and spongy, and the wicket hard as concrete.
The little girls, all about Emsy's age, set to their game.I am surprised by the quality of their play, and they a true enthusiasts. Sophie's team play three games, and I do the scoring. I realise what a great time I am having, and wonder why I have spent so many summer's evenings slouched in front of the cathode ray tube, when I could have been filling my lungs with the country air in such idyllic surroundings.
The team loses all three games, but as they say, it's not the winning.......
Emsy arrives back from her trip and it's lovely to see her again. H leaves her lights on in the car park so we have to beg a push from various coaches and umpires to get going. On the way home we give a lift to a guy who has run out of petrol.
The light is going down as we head away from Aston Clinton. There's no sunset to see, it's now cold grey and spitting cold rain, but the huge expansive view over the Vale of Aylesbury takes Sophie aback. Wonderful.
Emsy has bought presents. I get fudge. It tastes Soapy, though I suspect this will not be a problem for me as Ems has her eyes on scoffing most of it. Lovely to have her home
Jun 5th (Thurs)
A new pupil this morning, L. She is bright and breezy and talks very loud indeed.This is partially explained when I learn that she is about to become a primary school teacher. She is not the most accomplished driver, but should be able to get through by the end of summer.
Stop for grapes on the way home and pick up some Tuna steaks. Then it's off for a couple of hours with A. She is such a good driver, but as her test gets closer she is already getting nervy. There is nothing to be done with her driving, it's just a case of making sure she doesn't go to pieces.
And then to Aylesbury, and what could conceivably be S's last lesson after over 13 months of trying. He has been doing ok recently, but is so far from being an accomplished driver it defies belief after so much time. I do really feel sorry for him. He tries really hard, and I honestly don't think he has any idea how far short of the mark his driving is. Even now he is capable of doing some astonishing things. Today he races up to a main road from a narrow country lane, gives the merest of glances to his right before launching himself. Needless to say, he has neglected to even wonder about what gear he is in (third) and when he realises his mistake he has no idea how to rescue the situation. So we lurch to a halt in the middle of the major road, as traffic bears down on us from both sides. It takes the customary half an hour to get the car mobile again, and I seriously cringe at the thought of him doing this on a trip to his parents up the A1.
If he passes I am really going to have to convince him that he will have to surrender himself to hos gf's supervision for a good long while after passing. Poor lad, he is very likeable and a clever bloke in many ways. But driving, which he is very keen to do, just ain't ever going to be his thing.
I am wrecked after the day. H kindly cooks the steaks, which I have fancied trying for a good few months now. They are bland as bland. Wish I'd just bought a thick juicy steak and sprinkled it with cajun sauces.
I get horizontal and try to watch QT I'm out cold in no time. I awake to a prog I had missed earlier in the year about a Belfast guy who was a conduit for info between MI6 and the IRA during the troubles. Fascinating, but I only get to 1870 something before I am waking up and it is 6 am. No idea who turned off the telly.
Stop for grapes on the way home and pick up some Tuna steaks. Then it's off for a couple of hours with A. She is such a good driver, but as her test gets closer she is already getting nervy. There is nothing to be done with her driving, it's just a case of making sure she doesn't go to pieces.
And then to Aylesbury, and what could conceivably be S's last lesson after over 13 months of trying. He has been doing ok recently, but is so far from being an accomplished driver it defies belief after so much time. I do really feel sorry for him. He tries really hard, and I honestly don't think he has any idea how far short of the mark his driving is. Even now he is capable of doing some astonishing things. Today he races up to a main road from a narrow country lane, gives the merest of glances to his right before launching himself. Needless to say, he has neglected to even wonder about what gear he is in (third) and when he realises his mistake he has no idea how to rescue the situation. So we lurch to a halt in the middle of the major road, as traffic bears down on us from both sides. It takes the customary half an hour to get the car mobile again, and I seriously cringe at the thought of him doing this on a trip to his parents up the A1.
If he passes I am really going to have to convince him that he will have to surrender himself to hos gf's supervision for a good long while after passing. Poor lad, he is very likeable and a clever bloke in many ways. But driving, which he is very keen to do, just ain't ever going to be his thing.
I am wrecked after the day. H kindly cooks the steaks, which I have fancied trying for a good few months now. They are bland as bland. Wish I'd just bought a thick juicy steak and sprinkled it with cajun sauces.
I get horizontal and try to watch QT I'm out cold in no time. I awake to a prog I had missed earlier in the year about a Belfast guy who was a conduit for info between MI6 and the IRA during the troubles. Fascinating, but I only get to 1870 something before I am waking up and it is 6 am. No idea who turned off the telly.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
June 4th (Weds)
S has done things the sensible way. Two hours a week for 17 weeks and she is now 6 week away from a test which should not present her with a problem. J wanted to do the whole shebang in 20 hours, after which time she was hopelessly unprepared. She took another eight hours after which she insisted she wanted to do the test. I have grave misgivings. i have never taken a candidate to test doubting they'll pass and been pleasantly surprised.
Things don't improve when we get to the test centre and she realises she has left her theory certificate at home! Luckily F checks on the system and gives her the all clear. And low and behold, it's F again to take the test. My 8th Wycombe test on the trot which he has overseen.
They depart shakily and I fear the worst. There is one other car on test. I wander up to the cafe in the glorious sunshine which has returned to dry up the sodden landscape. In a tragedy in Witney this morning a teenage boy is trapped in a storm drain in a flood and dies before the fire service can reach him.
The other car returns first an its a thumbs down from Mr P. J is gone forever, but eventually hoves into view. I expect the summons from Fred, but to my amazement see J reaching for her licence, and F getting out the book of pass certificates.
I get a lovely hug, and then another bonus. Her Mum has come to collect her and I don't even need to drive to Hazlemere to take her home. In the euphoria though I have to come the heavy and tell her she has done no more than pass a test.She is still way off being a fully competent driver.
A is fine, a two and a half hour lesson which is totally stress three. He does a mock test and scores a similar mark to J. He is capable of a clean sheet and tell him to set that as his goal. We drive home in glorious evening sunshine through the magnificent Chiltern countryside, astonishingly lush after the recent deluge, the evening sun playing magical tricks of the light.
Elections elections. It seems finally that Hillary, for all her dogged resistance, has finally run out of steam. Obama has decided not to wait for her to quit and declare himself the candidate. H now faces an undignified scramble to be chosen as running mate,but the general opinion is that she has hung on too long to win even the silver medal.
Things are done differently in Zimbabwe. As far as I can tell, the actual results of the election there have never been released. It must have been a crushing victory for Tsingari though, as Mugabe has conceded a second round run off. The wheels of democracy turn differently hear though. Mugs storm troopers go to work whipping and beating anywhere their boss's support is deemed to be fragile, whilst Morgan finds himself banged up for 8 hours for addressing an "illegal gathering"
Meanwhile, what's happening in the world's two disaster zones, Burma and China? If you want to know don't turn to BBC, ITV, Sky or CNN, cos it's yesterday's news. No doubt to the relief of the Burmese junta, who can get back to serving their own interest exclusively, away from the nosey gaze of the world's media.
Things don't improve when we get to the test centre and she realises she has left her theory certificate at home! Luckily F checks on the system and gives her the all clear. And low and behold, it's F again to take the test. My 8th Wycombe test on the trot which he has overseen.
They depart shakily and I fear the worst. There is one other car on test. I wander up to the cafe in the glorious sunshine which has returned to dry up the sodden landscape. In a tragedy in Witney this morning a teenage boy is trapped in a storm drain in a flood and dies before the fire service can reach him.
The other car returns first an its a thumbs down from Mr P. J is gone forever, but eventually hoves into view. I expect the summons from Fred, but to my amazement see J reaching for her licence, and F getting out the book of pass certificates.
I get a lovely hug, and then another bonus. Her Mum has come to collect her and I don't even need to drive to Hazlemere to take her home. In the euphoria though I have to come the heavy and tell her she has done no more than pass a test.She is still way off being a fully competent driver.
A is fine, a two and a half hour lesson which is totally stress three. He does a mock test and scores a similar mark to J. He is capable of a clean sheet and tell him to set that as his goal. We drive home in glorious evening sunshine through the magnificent Chiltern countryside, astonishingly lush after the recent deluge, the evening sun playing magical tricks of the light.
Elections elections. It seems finally that Hillary, for all her dogged resistance, has finally run out of steam. Obama has decided not to wait for her to quit and declare himself the candidate. H now faces an undignified scramble to be chosen as running mate,but the general opinion is that she has hung on too long to win even the silver medal.
Things are done differently in Zimbabwe. As far as I can tell, the actual results of the election there have never been released. It must have been a crushing victory for Tsingari though, as Mugabe has conceded a second round run off. The wheels of democracy turn differently hear though. Mugs storm troopers go to work whipping and beating anywhere their boss's support is deemed to be fragile, whilst Morgan finds himself banged up for 8 hours for addressing an "illegal gathering"
Meanwhile, what's happening in the world's two disaster zones, Burma and China? If you want to know don't turn to BBC, ITV, Sky or CNN, cos it's yesterday's news. No doubt to the relief of the Burmese junta, who can get back to serving their own interest exclusively, away from the nosey gaze of the world's media.
June 3rd (Tuesday)
The rain pounds down, the June sky is a stagnant deep grey from which the deluge descends unremittingly. Puddles on the road swiftly turn to small muddy ponds blistered by the never ending raindrops.
Embarrassment as I take M out on the dual carriageway. I wonder at how proficiently he manages the lesson and how expertly he fields my every question. It's only on the way home that it dawns on me that I ave given exactly the same lesson a fortnight before. He doesn't say a word!
Then to Aylesbury and S, whose test is now less than a week away. He does ok, and if he can hold it together may be in with a chance. Back to Wycombe, and A again puts in a sterling performance. All she has to do is hold it together and it should be a breeze for her. But it is a big if. Self belief is not her thing.
Drive back to Aylesbury in the evening A2 has his test there although he has done all his training in Wycombe. Again he should be ok.
Off to the local instructors jamboree in the evening. The usual diet of bickering and dithering, but t least we hear nothing of the YDE until 9:25!! An evening's bowling is booked which could be fun. Go for a drink with B and N afterwards. s decided he has had enough of LDC and is going it alone. Will be interesting to see how he gets along.
Embarrassment as I take M out on the dual carriageway. I wonder at how proficiently he manages the lesson and how expertly he fields my every question. It's only on the way home that it dawns on me that I ave given exactly the same lesson a fortnight before. He doesn't say a word!
Then to Aylesbury and S, whose test is now less than a week away. He does ok, and if he can hold it together may be in with a chance. Back to Wycombe, and A again puts in a sterling performance. All she has to do is hold it together and it should be a breeze for her. But it is a big if. Self belief is not her thing.
Drive back to Aylesbury in the evening A2 has his test there although he has done all his training in Wycombe. Again he should be ok.
Off to the local instructors jamboree in the evening. The usual diet of bickering and dithering, but t least we hear nothing of the YDE until 9:25!! An evening's bowling is booked which could be fun. Go for a drink with B and N afterwards. s decided he has had enough of LDC and is going it alone. Will be interesting to see how he gets along.
Monday, June 2, 2008
June 2nd (Mon)
Up at the crack of Dawn. It's a big day for Emsy! She's off on a school trip to Weston Super Mare, and she could hardly be more thrilled. She spent all last night packing, making sure she'd got hold of Heather's camera and my new Ipod and most of Sophie's clothes. Despite her advancing maturity though, there is not a moment's consideration to leaving without scruffy Harry, her favourite cuddly toy.
She is beaming all the way to school, and hauls her massively overpacked suitcase over to the waiting coach. The HM, Roger Dodds, is waiting and gives her the bad news that her best mate, Florence, will not be able to come this morning as she is sick. How caring of him to even know that they were best mates, and then to tell Emsy personally.
There are about thirty or forty parents lined up to wave the coach away as the excited kids bundle aboard and hunt the best seats. I think Emsy goes upstairs, but sadly the windows are smoked glass and I never get sight of her. I wave like fury, hoping I am on the correct side of the coach, but just wishing I could glance her little excited face before they go.
The the parents are left all alone, and many a moistened eye is wiped by both mums and dads alike. A few siblings are there too, waiting for school, skinny little legs poking out of baggy grey shorts and knee length skirts. This school has played such a delightful and rewarding role in the lives of every one of us, and it brings me to tears to think that we have not much more than a month left with it as part of our family. Emma's leaving service is going to be unbearable.
She is beaming all the way to school, and hauls her massively overpacked suitcase over to the waiting coach. The HM, Roger Dodds, is waiting and gives her the bad news that her best mate, Florence, will not be able to come this morning as she is sick. How caring of him to even know that they were best mates, and then to tell Emsy personally.
There are about thirty or forty parents lined up to wave the coach away as the excited kids bundle aboard and hunt the best seats. I think Emsy goes upstairs, but sadly the windows are smoked glass and I never get sight of her. I wave like fury, hoping I am on the correct side of the coach, but just wishing I could glance her little excited face before they go.
The the parents are left all alone, and many a moistened eye is wiped by both mums and dads alike. A few siblings are there too, waiting for school, skinny little legs poking out of baggy grey shorts and knee length skirts. This school has played such a delightful and rewarding role in the lives of every one of us, and it brings me to tears to think that we have not much more than a month left with it as part of our family. Emma's leaving service is going to be unbearable.
June 1st (Sun)
Pinch punch first of the month. It's bloody June already! Where does the time go? The sky is sullen grey again, and it brings with it a mood of quiet contemplation. I decide to tidy up my video bits and pieced. Madame Bovary has recorded on a dvd full of home vids so will have to be re done. I get a couple of spacey bits onto dvd though. This is so much handier than keeping everything on bulky vhs, but I wonder how long it will be before this seems as dated. Already I can fit 2gb of memory onto Sophie's tiny little memory stick. Incredible really.
It's fun day at Hughenden Valley FC, and apparently we are to support it. Groans on several fronts.
We get there and the sky has still not relented. It casts an atmosphere of refined contentment over the proceedings. The cloud is too high to ever threaten rain, yet at the same time far too thick to ever suggest the sun peeping out. A soft breezes flips at the very tips of the branches, and plays happily across our faces.
Football bloody football bloody football. Nothing against the game, but when will people realise how finite are it's variations, and how every "historic" scenario is but a re run of a near identical situation from last year, or the year before that, or the year before that. And why the desperate effort to make it a year round sport. Absence makes the heart grow............. but no,no one who administers, plays, or even watches the stuff has caught onto this yet.
Thank god the England team have finally got back into the habit of failing to qualify for major tournaments, and that Euro 08 kicks off soon without them. Thank God the place won't be festooned in a sea of red and white leaving the whole bloody place looking like a replica of the Shankhill Road without the benefit of the artwork, every car dragging one of it's sad little window flags in it's wake. Bliss! they are nowhere to be seen, and the summer footfest can at least be viewed with objectivity. Why did we only give cricket to the bloody empire? Our biggest mistake for sure.
The "fun day" does look fun for those who want to get involved. They play tug of war and netball and rounders, and of course bloody football (subs in for next season please, presumably it starts next week, if indeed the present campaign is terminated yet).
Emsy brings Sherbert with her, and as the only person taking a rabbit for a walk, or hop, she attracts much attention.
Later in the evening it is revealed that Sherbert made the acquaintance of another bunny in a nearby garden, and that we may well be expecting the patter..... He is also becoming aggressive towards the two cats, and it dawns on me that he may well be trying to shag them!!
Brilliant a cross species serial rapist bunny!
Up late, have another try at Madame B, but start too late again. Try to put it on disk once more.
It's fun day at Hughenden Valley FC, and apparently we are to support it. Groans on several fronts.
We get there and the sky has still not relented. It casts an atmosphere of refined contentment over the proceedings. The cloud is too high to ever threaten rain, yet at the same time far too thick to ever suggest the sun peeping out. A soft breezes flips at the very tips of the branches, and plays happily across our faces.
Football bloody football bloody football. Nothing against the game, but when will people realise how finite are it's variations, and how every "historic" scenario is but a re run of a near identical situation from last year, or the year before that, or the year before that. And why the desperate effort to make it a year round sport. Absence makes the heart grow............. but no,no one who administers, plays, or even watches the stuff has caught onto this yet.
Thank god the England team have finally got back into the habit of failing to qualify for major tournaments, and that Euro 08 kicks off soon without them. Thank God the place won't be festooned in a sea of red and white leaving the whole bloody place looking like a replica of the Shankhill Road without the benefit of the artwork, every car dragging one of it's sad little window flags in it's wake. Bliss! they are nowhere to be seen, and the summer footfest can at least be viewed with objectivity. Why did we only give cricket to the bloody empire? Our biggest mistake for sure.
The "fun day" does look fun for those who want to get involved. They play tug of war and netball and rounders, and of course bloody football (subs in for next season please, presumably it starts next week, if indeed the present campaign is terminated yet).
Emsy brings Sherbert with her, and as the only person taking a rabbit for a walk, or hop, she attracts much attention.
Later in the evening it is revealed that Sherbert made the acquaintance of another bunny in a nearby garden, and that we may well be expecting the patter..... He is also becoming aggressive towards the two cats, and it dawns on me that he may well be trying to shag them!!
Brilliant a cross species serial rapist bunny!
Up late, have another try at Madame B, but start too late again. Try to put it on disk once more.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
May 31st (Sat)
No A today, but A steps into the breach (if you follow my drift). he is being picked up by his Dad this weekend. Interesting as his pa is a driving instructor. Not only that , he has 6 others working for him. He is a good lad, but makes a couple of uncharacteristic mistakes today. I am sure he won't repeat them on test though.
There is talk on reaching home of doing something to the hovel. It's June tomorrow, and the plan was to have everything ready by September. Ha bloody ha! The place is a bigger shambles than ever. I get out my router, and try forming some profiles in a putative kitchen door. It's good, but is it good enough??
I spend a couple of hours ferrying the three kids two and fro various social engagements. Emsy has been out to the Buck's Goat Centre, and I wonder what ever happened to the keyring carousel thy ordered. I never heard from them again!
More takeaway in the evening, Chinese this time. Fortunately it wasn't particularly nice, and hopefully this will serve to dissuade us from allowing this to become a habit.
I stay up late messing with the pc and dvd machines. H goes off to bed. I hear the snoring coming through the floor. Assuming she is in our bed I make up the sofa bed in the lounge, then discover our bed to be empty. She is upstairs as Dan has vacated for the evening.
I start (again) to watch a BBC production of Madame Bovary. It's very good, but three hours long and too much for the eyelids. I awake at some crucial juncture, but switch straight off. It's recording to disk, so there'll be another time.
There is talk on reaching home of doing something to the hovel. It's June tomorrow, and the plan was to have everything ready by September. Ha bloody ha! The place is a bigger shambles than ever. I get out my router, and try forming some profiles in a putative kitchen door. It's good, but is it good enough??
I spend a couple of hours ferrying the three kids two and fro various social engagements. Emsy has been out to the Buck's Goat Centre, and I wonder what ever happened to the keyring carousel thy ordered. I never heard from them again!
More takeaway in the evening, Chinese this time. Fortunately it wasn't particularly nice, and hopefully this will serve to dissuade us from allowing this to become a habit.
I stay up late messing with the pc and dvd machines. H goes off to bed. I hear the snoring coming through the floor. Assuming she is in our bed I make up the sofa bed in the lounge, then discover our bed to be empty. She is upstairs as Dan has vacated for the evening.
I start (again) to watch a BBC production of Madame Bovary. It's very good, but three hours long and too much for the eyelids. I awake at some crucial juncture, but switch straight off. It's recording to disk, so there'll be another time.
May (30th) Fri
The sky resumes it's brooding, leaden grey mood, which brings to the summer countryside a soft green luxuriant feeling,which is not remotely unpleasant. Not a languid summer day, but restful in it's own way. The trees are now overflowing into the roads, hiding the signs with their explosion of growth. The country lanes have real magic, and we take them so much for granted.
Equally restful is T's driving, so much improved I can hardly believe it.
L cancelled yesterday,, so after T there is only A, and then an afternoon off.
The afternoon is spent transfering data from my old, believed dead, laptop, onto the new, dying one! There are hundreds of photos on there which soe experts had tried to tell me were lost forever, but I never gave up hope and on the advice of S, I installed a thing called Knoppix, which has enabled me to transfer everything via a memory stick.
My new ipod device arrived today, free courtesy of Barclaycar. I must now remember to cancel the policy it came attached to!
I drag Malcolm up to Prestwood yet again to collect his car. Why can't he just buy the bloody Berlingo and get it off my drive?
Tonight's ruby is an odddly unsatisfying affair. The Bombay duck were lovely, but tiny, and at 90p a time bloody expensive. Time to buy some of my own I think, whence I can get back to the Curry Centre and a free beer every Friday evening. Again Daniel is on the lookout, so the Friday curry bill is now close on £20.
Equally restful is T's driving, so much improved I can hardly believe it.
L cancelled yesterday,, so after T there is only A, and then an afternoon off.
The afternoon is spent transfering data from my old, believed dead, laptop, onto the new, dying one! There are hundreds of photos on there which soe experts had tried to tell me were lost forever, but I never gave up hope and on the advice of S, I installed a thing called Knoppix, which has enabled me to transfer everything via a memory stick.
My new ipod device arrived today, free courtesy of Barclaycar. I must now remember to cancel the policy it came attached to!
I drag Malcolm up to Prestwood yet again to collect his car. Why can't he just buy the bloody Berlingo and get it off my drive?
Tonight's ruby is an odddly unsatisfying affair. The Bombay duck were lovely, but tiny, and at 90p a time bloody expensive. Time to buy some of my own I think, whence I can get back to the Curry Centre and a free beer every Friday evening. Again Daniel is on the lookout, so the Friday curry bill is now close on £20.
May 29th (Thurs)
More J. Her last chance to impress before her test. She can't do any of the reversing manoeuvres properly, and there isn't time to spend on them. I really do wonder if it's just a question of can she maintain respectability on the day. I hope I am wrong, but to date I have never had a pleasant surprise with someone I felt wasn't quite ready.
A is a strange case. A perfectly competent driver who is scared stiff the moment I arrive at the door. She hardly speaks, but after a while starts to come out of her shell. Logically she should have absolutely no problem with her test but with nerves logic goes out of the window.
Started at 9 and lessons due to go through to 8:30.
I am just pulling into Harefield at 6:28 when J rings. She's sorry, her Mum has just come out of hospital and she will have to cancel. And of course, she had no inkling that any of this was going to happen until 6:28.
What is it with me that I don't just say "Well fuck you, you have lost the 2 hours you have paid for."?
Drive home and H is out for the evening. I microwave a readymade spagbol and soon it is time to get to the Red Lion to pick her up. It's gone last orders so we sit silently in the dismal Falcon for half an hour before retiring to our separate beds. Hmmm.
A is a strange case. A perfectly competent driver who is scared stiff the moment I arrive at the door. She hardly speaks, but after a while starts to come out of her shell. Logically she should have absolutely no problem with her test but with nerves logic goes out of the window.
Started at 9 and lessons due to go through to 8:30.
I am just pulling into Harefield at 6:28 when J rings. She's sorry, her Mum has just come out of hospital and she will have to cancel. And of course, she had no inkling that any of this was going to happen until 6:28.
What is it with me that I don't just say "Well fuck you, you have lost the 2 hours you have paid for."?
Drive home and H is out for the evening. I microwave a readymade spagbol and soon it is time to get to the Red Lion to pick her up. It's gone last orders so we sit silently in the dismal Falcon for half an hour before retiring to our separate beds. Hmmm.
May 28th (Weds)
Maidenhead, Aylesbury, and back to Wycombe. I certainly pile up the miles, and with petrol now around £1.15 a litre for God's sake, I think I should plan more to avoid this.
A has rung up to rearrange this evening's appointment so the day is less arduous than it mght have been.
S, now well into year wo of his training, and with atest less than a fortnight away, returns to his previous tactic of crash bang wallop and panic! Oh please S, sort it out in the next two weeks. You are a nice guy and I really couldn't take you blowing it after all this time. Fingers crossed!
A has rung up to rearrange this evening's appointment so the day is less arduous than it mght have been.
S, now well into year wo of his training, and with atest less than a fortnight away, returns to his previous tactic of crash bang wallop and panic! Oh please S, sort it out in the next two weeks. You are a nice guy and I really couldn't take you blowing it after all this time. Fingers crossed!
May 27th (Tues)
J is still a country mile away from being able to take her test, but she is determined to do so on Wednesday week. SO today we stat a further 8 hours. I somehow doubt it will be enough.
Ashley should fare better, but again he is trying to rush and learn to drive in just 20 hours. His biking experience gives him a reasonable chance.
The trek over to Harefield for J is becoming galling. She certainly has an attitude problem, and clearly has no intention of listening to, let alone accepting, any advice. As I talk to her I can almost feel her eyebrows raising to the ceiling. She thinks she can do it, and I fear only failing her test will suffice to convince her otherwise. And then it'll be the examiner who is at fault.
Pictures have arrived from Phoenix. They are the sort of thing that fuel the argument of the "why bother" squad in relation to space flight.I won't be booking my hols in the frozen Martian north for sure. The land is flat, barren and pebble strewn, but the scientists scream excitedly about "polygons" apparently similar in character to those found in the terrestial arctic.
Ashley should fare better, but again he is trying to rush and learn to drive in just 20 hours. His biking experience gives him a reasonable chance.
The trek over to Harefield for J is becoming galling. She certainly has an attitude problem, and clearly has no intention of listening to, let alone accepting, any advice. As I talk to her I can almost feel her eyebrows raising to the ceiling. She thinks she can do it, and I fear only failing her test will suffice to convince her otherwise. And then it'll be the examiner who is at fault.
Pictures have arrived from Phoenix. They are the sort of thing that fuel the argument of the "why bother" squad in relation to space flight.I won't be booking my hols in the frozen Martian north for sure. The land is flat, barren and pebble strewn, but the scientists scream excitedly about "polygons" apparently similar in character to those found in the terrestial arctic.
May 26th (Mon)
Bank holiday Monday, and no silly mistakes such as booking lessons before I realised it. Actually I did one, but that mistake was soon rectified with the happy acquiescence of S. A glance out of the window suggests that "plan A", ie a day of idleness watching England loose the test match at Old Trafford, may not be on the cars. The rain is tanking down and the sky is that glowering, unyielding grey which suggests it is there to stay.
Imagine our surprise then when we switch on the telly to see bright blue skies in Manchester. Okay, it's blowing a force ten storm, but they can't have everything can they.
For a match they should have lost by a mile, things go surprisingly easily for England. All of a sudden the demons have vanished from the pitch, and Vettori, who had been tipped to demolish England, looks toothless.
England make a few attempts to throw it away in the afternoon, but New Zealand seem equally keen to throw it away, and in the end England gain a strangely easy victory.
And so to the evening and my chicken tikka surprise. An increase in income seems to be being quite literally swallowed up by my taste for takeaway fare. Let's review.
Thursday; Thai, Friday;Curry, Saturday; Chinese, Monday; curry. Can't be good for health or wallet, surely?
Imagine our surprise then when we switch on the telly to see bright blue skies in Manchester. Okay, it's blowing a force ten storm, but they can't have everything can they.
For a match they should have lost by a mile, things go surprisingly easily for England. All of a sudden the demons have vanished from the pitch, and Vettori, who had been tipped to demolish England, looks toothless.
England make a few attempts to throw it away in the afternoon, but New Zealand seem equally keen to throw it away, and in the end England gain a strangely easy victory.
And so to the evening and my chicken tikka surprise. An increase in income seems to be being quite literally swallowed up by my taste for takeaway fare. Let's review.
Thursday; Thai, Friday;Curry, Saturday; Chinese, Monday; curry. Can't be good for health or wallet, surely?
Monday, May 26, 2008
May 25th (Sun)
So 7 months to Christmas. Or, on a more cheerful note, about 6 weeks until the nights start to shorten. The glorious weather of a few weeks back is but a memory. The rain pounds down from a leaden sky, bashing on the wooden patio.
If Wimbledon marks the start of high summer, then the start of the French open tennis is a sign that this is not so far away. The ghastly Andre Murray scrapes through against an unknown Frenchman.
The test match amazingly escapes the weather, though it looks pretty nippy up there. Vettori rips through England and the Kiwis look to have the match in the bag, though when they bat, Monty does an even more comprehensive job on them. A good start by England leaves the match delicately poised.
The parents arrive for dinner. I cook chicken and pork, with more stinging nettles. I drain them better this time and they are well received. It's a lovely meal, and they are in cheerful form. Malcolm leaves for a while, and fails to return for dinner.
Last August we went to Florida. Billed as the holiday of a lifetime to celebrate my 50th birthday, the daily jaunts to the Wonderful World of Walt left me struggling to disguise that I was underwhelmed, and in general I failed miserably, to the growling annoyance of my dear spouse.
The highlight for me was to watch the launch of a space shuttle mission, though even this was a slight anti climax. You really don't get very close at all, but I loved the space center(sic) tour. Unfortunately due to the 24 hour delay we suffered, we missed another launch, that of the Mars Phoenix lander.
Every day since though, forgotten by most of the world's population, this little craft has been hurtling towards the red (actually brown) planet at some extraordinary rate of knots, covering over 400 million miles in the process. It is heading for the martian arctic, where it hopes to dig into a layer of subsurface ice. Less than one in two such craft reach their destination, and I tune in excitedly to watch the NASA coverage.
7 minutes of fear is the billing, as the craft has to decelerate from 12500 mph to 5mph in that time. Everything has to work perfectly, there are no second chances, and of course, due to the distance involved, no chance to correct anything should it be seen to have gone wrong. In fact, by the time we are ready too observe the 7 crucial minutes, it's fate is already decided. It's either landed or crashed, and all we can do is follow it's fate fifteen minutes after it has happened. Dan watches with me.
The craft separates on time. The parachutes open. The parachutes detach, sending it into freefall towards the surface. Then the rockets fire. It slows down. Mission control are announcing 1200 metres, 1000 metres. Then it's in the hundreds, then 80, 50, and then 10 8, 5, and finally contact. Fantastic! What an achievement.
Phoenix sends back a message to say it's where it should be and then so bravely turns itself off. It's deliberate. It communicates with earth via three satellites orbiting the planet, and they are due to move out of range. So to save battery it switches off until one of them reappears, whence the signal can be sent to start unpacking all of it's boxes of tricks.
H is still awake when I go downstairs at two and her first question is for the fate of the little lander. Well done everyone.
If Wimbledon marks the start of high summer, then the start of the French open tennis is a sign that this is not so far away. The ghastly Andre Murray scrapes through against an unknown Frenchman.
The test match amazingly escapes the weather, though it looks pretty nippy up there. Vettori rips through England and the Kiwis look to have the match in the bag, though when they bat, Monty does an even more comprehensive job on them. A good start by England leaves the match delicately poised.
The parents arrive for dinner. I cook chicken and pork, with more stinging nettles. I drain them better this time and they are well received. It's a lovely meal, and they are in cheerful form. Malcolm leaves for a while, and fails to return for dinner.
Last August we went to Florida. Billed as the holiday of a lifetime to celebrate my 50th birthday, the daily jaunts to the Wonderful World of Walt left me struggling to disguise that I was underwhelmed, and in general I failed miserably, to the growling annoyance of my dear spouse.
The highlight for me was to watch the launch of a space shuttle mission, though even this was a slight anti climax. You really don't get very close at all, but I loved the space center(sic) tour. Unfortunately due to the 24 hour delay we suffered, we missed another launch, that of the Mars Phoenix lander.
Every day since though, forgotten by most of the world's population, this little craft has been hurtling towards the red (actually brown) planet at some extraordinary rate of knots, covering over 400 million miles in the process. It is heading for the martian arctic, where it hopes to dig into a layer of subsurface ice. Less than one in two such craft reach their destination, and I tune in excitedly to watch the NASA coverage.
7 minutes of fear is the billing, as the craft has to decelerate from 12500 mph to 5mph in that time. Everything has to work perfectly, there are no second chances, and of course, due to the distance involved, no chance to correct anything should it be seen to have gone wrong. In fact, by the time we are ready too observe the 7 crucial minutes, it's fate is already decided. It's either landed or crashed, and all we can do is follow it's fate fifteen minutes after it has happened. Dan watches with me.
The craft separates on time. The parachutes open. The parachutes detach, sending it into freefall towards the surface. Then the rockets fire. It slows down. Mission control are announcing 1200 metres, 1000 metres. Then it's in the hundreds, then 80, 50, and then 10 8, 5, and finally contact. Fantastic! What an achievement.
Phoenix sends back a message to say it's where it should be and then so bravely turns itself off. It's deliberate. It communicates with earth via three satellites orbiting the planet, and they are due to move out of range. So to save battery it switches off until one of them reappears, whence the signal can be sent to start unpacking all of it's boxes of tricks.
H is still awake when I go downstairs at two and her first question is for the fate of the little lander. Well done everyone.
May 24th (Sat)
Get up early as A is playing netball and wants an early lesson. I leave home with H to pick up my cay, and when I get there realise my phone is at home. I still don't know which house A lives in, I always call her from outside, which of course I can't do. Second time this has happened. I decide to ring home.I have two 20ps, which is what a bloody phone box call costs these days.
I dread someone being on the phone and me going through to call minder, which of course will involve the 40p going down the metaphorical BT drain.
Fortunately I get through to Dan, and even more fortunately H has just walked through the door. She rings A and we eventually meet. She's pretty upbeat about her theory test and is confident about next time.
The footie season is finally relinquishing it's grip. Hull City will be in the premiership next season. Hard not to think it will be a brief visit prior to a return to mediocrity and obscurity.
The test match goes in fits and starts,, with New Zealand generally on top. Considering England were supposed to brush them aside 3-0 before getting on to the important business of South Africa, things can hardly be said to be going to plan.
If it's fine (though cold) in Manchester, here, all pretence of summer has been abandoned. It's cold, and grey with the sun but an occasional visitor.
In the evening we watch the scoring bit of the Eurovision song contest. It's hard not to admire Wogan. His manner has changed in recent years from gentle mockery to open scorn, but he does come out with some prize lines.
We sit around and eat a Chinese takeaway en famille and watch the Russians storm to triumph.
I dread someone being on the phone and me going through to call minder, which of course will involve the 40p going down the metaphorical BT drain.
Fortunately I get through to Dan, and even more fortunately H has just walked through the door. She rings A and we eventually meet. She's pretty upbeat about her theory test and is confident about next time.
The footie season is finally relinquishing it's grip. Hull City will be in the premiership next season. Hard not to think it will be a brief visit prior to a return to mediocrity and obscurity.
The test match goes in fits and starts,, with New Zealand generally on top. Considering England were supposed to brush them aside 3-0 before getting on to the important business of South Africa, things can hardly be said to be going to plan.
If it's fine (though cold) in Manchester, here, all pretence of summer has been abandoned. It's cold, and grey with the sun but an occasional visitor.
In the evening we watch the scoring bit of the Eurovision song contest. It's hard not to admire Wogan. His manner has changed in recent years from gentle mockery to open scorn, but he does come out with some prize lines.
We sit around and eat a Chinese takeaway en famille and watch the Russians storm to triumph.
May 23rd (Fri)
Pick up T after dropping off Dan at school. He is another speed merchant and I decide I have to let him no fair and square hat he is not going anywhere until he calms down. Amazingly he responds and drives like an angel. One of the best improvements I have seen in a single lesson. Apparently he is pretty depressed with life. He has split with his girlfriend and is still very upset by the loss of his dad. Poor lad.
L, another racer, also drives nicely and sensibly, and A does as he always does.
Sophie has a problem. She has an abcess on her chin, very similar to those suffered by her and myself and H in the recent past. I drop her to A & E and H takes over.
I am out with B & N in the evening. It is a good evening, but is truncated by H's arrival. Apparently S is in pain. We decide that we'll pick up mine and Dan's takeaway and then H will drop her back to A&E.
When I get to the Indian I look at my texts and she is begging for pain relief. H goes up the hill and I wait for the ruby and get a taxi. I gobble down my grub and then jump on my bike to go down to the hospital.
When I get there she has gone. I ride up the hill (on top of beer and curry I don't do it in one go)
and she is st home and very distressed. Basically the hospital have told her to stop wasting their time.I know just how much pain these things cause, and it is despicable to treat her this way.
L, another racer, also drives nicely and sensibly, and A does as he always does.
Sophie has a problem. She has an abcess on her chin, very similar to those suffered by her and myself and H in the recent past. I drop her to A & E and H takes over.
I am out with B & N in the evening. It is a good evening, but is truncated by H's arrival. Apparently S is in pain. We decide that we'll pick up mine and Dan's takeaway and then H will drop her back to A&E.
When I get to the Indian I look at my texts and she is begging for pain relief. H goes up the hill and I wait for the ruby and get a taxi. I gobble down my grub and then jump on my bike to go down to the hospital.
When I get there she has gone. I ride up the hill (on top of beer and curry I don't do it in one go)
and she is st home and very distressed. Basically the hospital have told her to stop wasting their time.I know just how much pain these things cause, and it is despicable to treat her this way.
May 22nd Thurs
A trip to Maidenhead to begin with. S is one of my favourites, one of the first I feel I have converted from a no hoper into a half decent driver. Today I reflect on this as she hurtles confidently along the dual carriageways at 70mph.
Next up is L, daughter of a friend of P. She's a happy go lucky girl who has been learning with the AA (she won £500 of free lessons from them) but feels she is just repeating the same old things. An interesting girl. She's at Misbourne school but did work experience at Sky TV and now works there at weekends and in school hols. To my mind she has not been well taught. doesn't look in her mirrors and seems quite surprised when I mention it might be a good idea.
We part on very good terms, but I get the impression she wasn't hearing what she wanted to here and that i won't be hearing from her again, which would be a shame.
Afterwards J, and a mock test, ridiculously premature, but is necessary to show her how far away from test standard she is. She is!
J mark 2 at 6 pm. She thinks she is Louis Hamilton, and seems far more interested in planning a three day bank holiday piss up than actually concentrating on her driving, which is not good. I suspect a racing driver dad is to blame for this. She has been brought up tearing around wherever she goes, and thinks this is the natural way to drive, despite having none of the skills to deal with it.
In the evening I am up to Prestwood with Malcolm with his bloody car for the second night running. Tonight I am spared his rebuke for my wold views. Last night I was not so lucky.
Treat myself to a Thai takeaway in the evening. Delicious.
Next up is L, daughter of a friend of P. She's a happy go lucky girl who has been learning with the AA (she won £500 of free lessons from them) but feels she is just repeating the same old things. An interesting girl. She's at Misbourne school but did work experience at Sky TV and now works there at weekends and in school hols. To my mind she has not been well taught. doesn't look in her mirrors and seems quite surprised when I mention it might be a good idea.
We part on very good terms, but I get the impression she wasn't hearing what she wanted to here and that i won't be hearing from her again, which would be a shame.
Afterwards J, and a mock test, ridiculously premature, but is necessary to show her how far away from test standard she is. She is!
J mark 2 at 6 pm. She thinks she is Louis Hamilton, and seems far more interested in planning a three day bank holiday piss up than actually concentrating on her driving, which is not good. I suspect a racing driver dad is to blame for this. She has been brought up tearing around wherever she goes, and thinks this is the natural way to drive, despite having none of the skills to deal with it.
In the evening I am up to Prestwood with Malcolm with his bloody car for the second night running. Tonight I am spared his rebuke for my wold views. Last night I was not so lucky.
Treat myself to a Thai takeaway in the evening. Delicious.
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