My New York sister and family announced they were to visit. Only problem is that I’d booked a holiday (sorry, vacation) before I knew they were coming. I managed to claw back a day by postponing my trip and so spend it with my nephew Nathan (nearly 9) and niece Zoë (“I’m three and three quarters”). I hadn’t seen them for eighteen months and on the last occasion, my niece wasn’t even talking.
So I booked a show. The Gruffalo is a story with which I was utterly unfamiliar, it having been conceived at a time when I was well past keeping abreast with current children’s stories. In a nutshell, a mouse gets lost in a wood and scares off various creatures who want to eat it with tales of a monster called the Gruffalo which we all know doesn’t exist – or does it??
And so on the 27th December, my sister dropped the children and me at the tube station and we took the lovely Northern Line from Hampstead to Leicester Square. They were almost self-combusting with excitement and spent the entire journey pointing out to me the differences between our tube system and New York’s subway. I think the general consensus was that we win with our upholstered seats, electronic signage in a more sensible place and announcements in an English accent. They were incredibly sweet, opting to share a seat although there were plenty of empty ones available.
We arrived just the half an hour early and the wait for curtain-up was punctured by the time-honoured question: “when will it start?” Zoë sat, still and mesmerised (aside from jigging along to a couple of songs) on my lap throughout whilst Nathan gleefully responded to all prompts for audience participation, turning to me on each occasion we were told “but there’s no such thing as the Gruffalo” with a knowing “hmmm, we’ll see about that”.
After the show, we made our way to Pizza Express where a toilet stop was in order. It was in the toilet that we had the only tears of the day. The Dyson hand dryer terrified Zoë and I can’t say I blame her. Have you heard the noise those things make? A kiss and a cuddle soon sorted that out and we ordered our meal without too much fuss. As we waited, she suddenly took my hand in hers, kissed it and said: “I love you so much.” My heart, already melted, positively dissolved.
They ate beautifully and we chatted amiably throughout about their friends at school. “Do you have any cardboard?” asked Nathan. I said that as I didn’t have any small children at home, I tended to throw all of my cardboard away. “It’s not only people with children who have cardboard you know” he gently chided me. I had to agree. He wanted it (he said) to make a scale model of a London underground train. An ambitious project for a nine year old in a Pizza Express I felt. Zoë then regaled me with a story of one of her friends who had cut her head open during a fall at school. “You have to be very careful ‘cos if you fall and cut your neck” she added, “that is when you will die”. It was hard to argue the point. “I’ll just put on some lipstick before we leave” I said. “You already have lipstick on” she responded. “Yes,” said I, “I know, but I need to refresh it.” “Oh dear”, said she with some concern, “has it dried out?” An impressive knowledge of make-up in one so young I thought. I put some clear lip-gloss on her too and she was very pleased with that.
We walked back to Leicester Square marvelling at the London taxis. It was cold and I was tempted to treat them to a taxi ride but on balance, I felt that the tube had that little bit more to offer.
Arriving back at Hampstead, I opted to walk home although it really was freezing by now. Parts of the streets were still frozen from our recent snowy cold snap and she insisted on walking on the ice wherever it availed itself. “I’m not picking you up if you fall over” I said. “Don’t worry,” said my nephew quietly to me, “I will”. “You must be the best big brother in the whole world,” I said to him. “Well, she’s a really nice sister too … sometimes” he replied.
Five sixths of the way home, having walked a long way quite happily, she told me that she really wanted to be inside because “…when you take your gloves off” (get the mildly accusing tone), “you'll feel how cold my hands are”. I felt pretty guilty.
Back at my place, they wanted to see around. “I’m just going downstairs,” said she, “that is also your apartment – downstairs?” she asked. I showed them around. “This is my bedroom,” I said. “Wow, this is really cool,” said the three and three quarter year old. But she was really more interested in the big, fluffy toy dog in my 22 year old’s bedroom.
“Are you sure you don’t have any cardboard?” asked Nathan with a bit of a long face. What a terrible Auntie I am, I thought.
I pacified them with a small packet of white chocolate buttons each and found a suitable cartoon channel so that we could all blob out and warm up, which we did.
I think my day out with these two children whom, due purely to distance, I really hardly know, proved my theory that children are usually much better behaved with virtual strangers than they are when they’re parents are around. We had a luvverly day.
Wednesday 29 December 2010
Wednesday 15 December 2010
Thursday 2 December 2010
Speed awareness - you ain't heard nothing yet
“I am so pissed off” said Big-J as he threw himself down onto the sofa. “would you believe I have to go on a frigging speed awareness course” he added, “and all because I was doing 37mph in a 30 mile zone. It was a trap,” he grumbled. “And I have to report to a Police station to show my license – what a waste of bloody time. I’m far too busy for all this.”
We spent the next 20 minutes or so booking the course online for which we had a privilege of paying some £90. But, we reasoned, better than 3 points on your license and a £60 fine.
Big-J spent the following week arguing with the Plod about the unfairness of having to leave his driving license with them for the requisite 6 weeks. He needed it before then as we were shortly to be renting a car overseas. He took some informal legal advice which was basically – get a life. Eventually, a way around it was found (the Police retained the license for 48 hours) without my man having to resort to the legal action he was about to threaten, whatever that may have been. Good idea, I thought, to take on the might of the Met over a housekeeping matter.
The day of the Speed Awareness course arrived amid much moaning and groaning: “I’m just too busy to spend a whole morning do this…” “I’ve been driving for over 40 years, why do I need to go on a course …?” “How long will it take me to get to Ealing,,,” “Where am I going to park?” And so on, and so on, ad naseum.
He left home at 7.45h arriving just the 45 minutes early. Glass ever half full, he called me from a local Ealing café to describe the delicious breakfast he was eating.
At around 13.00h, when the course finished, he called me from the car.
“How was it?” I asked, sympathetically.
“It was AMAZING!” he replied. “What a brilliant lecturer!" He warmed to his theme. "I can’t believe how he held our attention for four hours! I learned so much, it was fantastic! Everyone should do it. It’s shame that you can’t do it voluntarily, I thoroughly recommend it.” A total volte-face, as is so often his wont.
That was the really the last I heard of it until some days later when I next got into the car with Big-J driving. We’d been going no distance at all before he asked me, “Do you know why there are speed bumps in some roads and not in others? No? Well, I’ll tell you. They’re not allowed to put bumps on major routes where they might impede the progress of ambulances.”
“Oh, I said, "interesting. I’d never have thought of that.”
“No” he said, “well you wouldn’t, you haven’t been on a speed awareness course like me; and come on, guess how many fatalities – as a percentage of all UK road fatalities – there are on motorways every year. Go on, go on - guess.”
“It must be quite small I suppose,” I said hesitantly. “Around 20%?”
“Aah no” said my speed aware husband, “far, far less. It’s 3%” he said triumphantly, “because most fatalities are in urban areas and involve pedestrians. There aren’t a lot of pedestrians on motorways.”
We drove on a little further.
“You see that big 50 mph sign?” he said, “that’s because it’s the ‘gateway’ to the 50mph zone. The 50mph signs along the road after that are much smaller. I’ll bet you never knew that did you?”
I had to admit that this was a fact I hadn’t known until that moment.
“And...” he added, “when you see one of those white circle signs with a black diagonal line across it, what do you think that means then?”
“I think it means that you’re out of the previous speed limit zone,” I said.
“Yes, yes it does” he said excitedly, “but what speed does it mean that you can do?”
“Er, 70” I mumbled.
“That’s where you’re wrong” he smugly replied. “The maximum speed limit varies depending upon whether you’re on a motorway, a dual carriage-way or another sort of road. The national speed limit isn’t 70mph you know. You really need to know what sort of a road you’re on and what the speed limit in that area is. It’s very important.”
By now, I was getting a Walter Meldrew, One Foot in the Grave sort of headache. Visions of having to live the rest of my life against this barrage of driving information was making me feel somewhat bilious not to mention very irritated.
“I could explain to you why the urban speed limit is generally set at 30mph if you like” he said.
“On go on do, that’d be really fascinating” I replied, lacing my answer with sarcasm in an attempt to stop him in his tracks. Totally lost on him.
“OK then, it’s because when you drive at 30mph, your car is moving at 13 metres per second and the length of a bus is 13 metres - ah ha!” he exclaimed, “so what does that mean?”
“I guess that means that if you’re overtaking a bus and someone walks out in front of it, theoretically, you’ll have time to brake,” said I.
“Yes, exactly! Well done you!” he replied.
I had to think of a way of stopping this before it really took hold.
“I’d really love to hear your new Bob Dylan album, have you got it loaded?" I said.
“Really?” said Big-J, “you’re not usually that keen to listen to Bob, you usually like to chat whilst we’re in the car.”
“Yes” I said, “I usually do.”
We spent the next 20 minutes or so booking the course online for which we had a privilege of paying some £90. But, we reasoned, better than 3 points on your license and a £60 fine.
Big-J spent the following week arguing with the Plod about the unfairness of having to leave his driving license with them for the requisite 6 weeks. He needed it before then as we were shortly to be renting a car overseas. He took some informal legal advice which was basically – get a life. Eventually, a way around it was found (the Police retained the license for 48 hours) without my man having to resort to the legal action he was about to threaten, whatever that may have been. Good idea, I thought, to take on the might of the Met over a housekeeping matter.
The day of the Speed Awareness course arrived amid much moaning and groaning: “I’m just too busy to spend a whole morning do this…” “I’ve been driving for over 40 years, why do I need to go on a course …?” “How long will it take me to get to Ealing,,,” “Where am I going to park?” And so on, and so on, ad naseum.
He left home at 7.45h arriving just the 45 minutes early. Glass ever half full, he called me from a local Ealing café to describe the delicious breakfast he was eating.
At around 13.00h, when the course finished, he called me from the car.
“How was it?” I asked, sympathetically.
“It was AMAZING!” he replied. “What a brilliant lecturer!" He warmed to his theme. "I can’t believe how he held our attention for four hours! I learned so much, it was fantastic! Everyone should do it. It’s shame that you can’t do it voluntarily, I thoroughly recommend it.” A total volte-face, as is so often his wont.
That was the really the last I heard of it until some days later when I next got into the car with Big-J driving. We’d been going no distance at all before he asked me, “Do you know why there are speed bumps in some roads and not in others? No? Well, I’ll tell you. They’re not allowed to put bumps on major routes where they might impede the progress of ambulances.”
“Oh, I said, "interesting. I’d never have thought of that.”
“No” he said, “well you wouldn’t, you haven’t been on a speed awareness course like me; and come on, guess how many fatalities – as a percentage of all UK road fatalities – there are on motorways every year. Go on, go on - guess.”
“It must be quite small I suppose,” I said hesitantly. “Around 20%?”
“Aah no” said my speed aware husband, “far, far less. It’s 3%” he said triumphantly, “because most fatalities are in urban areas and involve pedestrians. There aren’t a lot of pedestrians on motorways.”
We drove on a little further.
“You see that big 50 mph sign?” he said, “that’s because it’s the ‘gateway’ to the 50mph zone. The 50mph signs along the road after that are much smaller. I’ll bet you never knew that did you?”
I had to admit that this was a fact I hadn’t known until that moment.
“And...” he added, “when you see one of those white circle signs with a black diagonal line across it, what do you think that means then?”
“I think it means that you’re out of the previous speed limit zone,” I said.
“Yes, yes it does” he said excitedly, “but what speed does it mean that you can do?”
“Er, 70” I mumbled.
“That’s where you’re wrong” he smugly replied. “The maximum speed limit varies depending upon whether you’re on a motorway, a dual carriage-way or another sort of road. The national speed limit isn’t 70mph you know. You really need to know what sort of a road you’re on and what the speed limit in that area is. It’s very important.”
By now, I was getting a Walter Meldrew, One Foot in the Grave sort of headache. Visions of having to live the rest of my life against this barrage of driving information was making me feel somewhat bilious not to mention very irritated.
“I could explain to you why the urban speed limit is generally set at 30mph if you like” he said.
“On go on do, that’d be really fascinating” I replied, lacing my answer with sarcasm in an attempt to stop him in his tracks. Totally lost on him.
“OK then, it’s because when you drive at 30mph, your car is moving at 13 metres per second and the length of a bus is 13 metres - ah ha!” he exclaimed, “so what does that mean?”
“I guess that means that if you’re overtaking a bus and someone walks out in front of it, theoretically, you’ll have time to brake,” said I.
“Yes, exactly! Well done you!” he replied.
I had to think of a way of stopping this before it really took hold.
“I’d really love to hear your new Bob Dylan album, have you got it loaded?" I said.
“Really?” said Big-J, “you’re not usually that keen to listen to Bob, you usually like to chat whilst we’re in the car.”
“Yes” I said, “I usually do.”
Friday 29 October 2010
Why did we do what we did in Morocco?
To be quite frank, I had to drag Big-J to Marrakech kicking and screaming. “What’s wrong with France” he groaned, “THAT’S where I like to go”. By way of an afterthought he muttered a couple of times, “and I’ll have to spend a week drinking bad wine” as he stomped petulantly around the bedroom showing his displeasure. I had to explain carefully (for fear of offence) that whilst I too enjoy France, call me wild and reckless if you like but sometimes, just sometimes, I like to go to other places. “Well” said Big-J, “just be aware that I don’t really want to go, I’m doing this for you and whatever we do” he continued whilst lowering his voice and looking rather serious, “we must NOT buy a carpet. In fact, we mustn’t go near a carpet shop because once they get you in there, you can’t get out without buying a carpet. ”OK” said I, “suits me.”
“I don’t want to go NEAR a carpet shop, not even once” he said sternly.
It wasn’t easy. We had arranged a two-centre trip. Starting in Dublin for four days, we then had a quick overnight at home before leaving for Marrakech the following morning. Not a standard itinerary I grant you and I could explain the background but that’s not important right now. Because of the tight timing Big-J came into his own, planning our packing and our turnaround with military precision, he enjoys stuff like that. Stressful it may have been but there was a frisson of excitement as, with two friends, we headed toward Africa, a continent I had never visited.
First we had to tackle the vagaries of Victoria Station and the Gatwick Express. Big-J wasn’t a happy bunny. The thought of the taxi then the train then finding our way to our terminal was making him feel proper queasy and rather twitchy. As it turned out, it was really easy – even pleasant. “I’ll never be worried about flying from Gatwick again” he pronounced, “that train service is really great and do you know, they serve a lovely cup of tea”. So far, so good.
We weren’t expecting too much and our Royal Air Maroc scheduled flight fully lived up to our expectations. I had thought it impossible to find an airline worse than EasyJet (although I’ve never flown Ryanair) but this one was it. Old aircraft, no legroom, surly staff, late departure, truly putrid food. The one advantage was that we hardly saw the very few staff on board so that was a bit of a bonus. Suffice it to say, never again.
Our slightly nervous arrival in Morocco was a sweaty flurry of form filling and, to be granted entrance to the country, you have to queue. Naturally, the law of queues applied in our case as we chose the shortest one which then took the longest time. Never mind, our baggage appeared quite quickly and our hotel had sent a driver in a Djellaba to greet us.
The fifteen-minute drive from the airport to our hotel proved interesting as we took in our surroundings. Africa and Europe are very different indeed and we marvelled that at just three and half hours from London, we were in exotica. Negotiating Marrakechian junctions was a skilled affair which you’d probably have to learn from the cradle to ever hope to master. All around us was pink terracotta and the land looked arid aside from a beautiful park here or a little oasis there all clearly irrigated at a cost that could probably feed a family of 17 for eight years.
Our driver stopped in a street opposite (what we later discovered was) the highly secure and zealously guarded Royal Palace and around a 5 minute walk from the Medina. There, in-between a motor- cycle repair shop and a tyre replacement outlet, was an unobtrusive wooden door. It was open and we walked in down a rather nice, scented passageway out of the heat and madness into cool serenity where we did all the usual checking into a hotel stuff.
We had booked a Riad, which, for those not ‘in the know’ is a large house now converted into a hotel. As we later discovered, ours – with its 27 rooms - had previously been the home of a Judge (Judgeships must be very lucrative in Morocco) and was acquired by a French family and converted in the late 1990s. A Riad isn’t a Riad (we later found out) unless it has a fountain in its courtyard, which ours did. In fact it had two or three courtyards with fountains and two swimming pools. It also had a very good restaurant, a full Spa including a Hamman (more of which later) and lots of lovely little nooks and crannies which served as romantic, shady seating or bar areas. It was as though we had arrived in paradise. The Riad, Villa des Orangers is quite the nicest small hotel any of us had ever stayed in. It was hard to fault it and, shocking though it might be to those who know us, we really couldn’t find any cause to complain throughout our stay. Au contraire. So lovely was it that we felt as though we were guests in someone’s rather lavish and luxurious home. We highly recommend the place to anyone who is able bodied enough to manage a few stairs – there were two flights up to our beautiful suite - but as that was really the only exercise we had for five days, we were happy to climb them.
A few days into our holiday, we were all totally relaxed. The three of us had had a massage and the four of us, a Hammam (steam bath). I didn’t like the Hammam. Being naked and soaped down in front of other people isn’t something I care for but Big-J LOVED it – blue paper thong n’all. “Next time I come here” he said, “I’ll do the Hammam on the first day – and then again on the last day - only next time, I'll have to request a considerably bigger thong."
"By the way" he added, "when should we come again? I can’t wait to get back here, it’s great for R&R.”
Unlike the three of us, Big-J was an old hand; he’d been to Morocco several times before. “What we mustn’t do” he re-emphasised “is to buy a carpet … or to get lured into any carpet shops” he pronounced, “even if they tell you that it’s their uncle’s brother-in-law and you don’t have to buy anything, they just want you to look … once they get you in there it takes hours and you won’t get out without buying. Mark my words” he nodded sagaciously, “don’t get tempted”. No one in our party was remotely interested in buying carpets but we listened politely anyway.
A few days later we’d arranged a trip into the Atlas mountains. Our guide, Asir, arrived in his air-conditioned 4x4 and we set off. He suggested an itinerary that started off with a visit to Berber house complete with authentic Berber family, comprising adults and their seventeen children, two cows and other assorted animals all living in quarters that resembled something from the middle ages. This family open their home for visitors and apparently entertain hoards of tourists every morning. Enterprising, lucrative and nice work if you can get it. We were struck by how healthy and and beautiful these people were. I guess that with no TV, computers, cinemas, McDonalds, KFC, chinese take-aways, shops or other distractions, the lifestyle in these mountain villages is much healthier than ours as long as you can put food on the table each day and survive illness without any traditional medicine. Although it was heartbreaking to ignore the stunning children who congregated around the car waiting for handouts, our guide seemed to know most of them personally and shooed them away.
After leaving the Berber house, we drove off up the mountain road and Asir asked us whether we’d be interested in seeing the best carpet shop in Morocco. “No” we chorused, “we’re not allowed to buy carpets”. Asir suggested that it would be interesting to have a look anyway but we politely declined because we knew we didn’t want to buy carpet. As we drove past said carpet emporium we couldn’t help but look and remark on the beautiful rugs hanging outside.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stop?” asked Asir, “This is a Berber shop and the best carpet emporium in the area.”
“Well” said Big-J, “maybe we should just have a quick walk around – the girls need to use the loo anyway.”
Within a few moments of walking inside I made fatal a mistake: “That’d look nice in the living room,” I said ‘en passant’ and as a throw away comment and not at all seriously. “Remember” whispered our friend, “you said you didn’t want to buy a carpet, you told me to stop you from buying a carpet, I’m TRYING to stop you from buying a carpet!”. But it was too late. Big-J's eyes had lit up, he had a spring in his step, a hand on his wallet, buying lust had kicked in and the rest is history. Two and a half hours later after lengthy and entertaining negotiations between Big-J and the salesman, a price and delivery date was agreed.
So now, as we await delivery of our rug, I’m left to reflect on whether I should be firmer in my protests when his enthusiasm bubbles over.
Oh dear, he just can’t help himself.
“I don’t want to go NEAR a carpet shop, not even once” he said sternly.
It wasn’t easy. We had arranged a two-centre trip. Starting in Dublin for four days, we then had a quick overnight at home before leaving for Marrakech the following morning. Not a standard itinerary I grant you and I could explain the background but that’s not important right now. Because of the tight timing Big-J came into his own, planning our packing and our turnaround with military precision, he enjoys stuff like that. Stressful it may have been but there was a frisson of excitement as, with two friends, we headed toward Africa, a continent I had never visited.
First we had to tackle the vagaries of Victoria Station and the Gatwick Express. Big-J wasn’t a happy bunny. The thought of the taxi then the train then finding our way to our terminal was making him feel proper queasy and rather twitchy. As it turned out, it was really easy – even pleasant. “I’ll never be worried about flying from Gatwick again” he pronounced, “that train service is really great and do you know, they serve a lovely cup of tea”. So far, so good.
We weren’t expecting too much and our Royal Air Maroc scheduled flight fully lived up to our expectations. I had thought it impossible to find an airline worse than EasyJet (although I’ve never flown Ryanair) but this one was it. Old aircraft, no legroom, surly staff, late departure, truly putrid food. The one advantage was that we hardly saw the very few staff on board so that was a bit of a bonus. Suffice it to say, never again.
Our slightly nervous arrival in Morocco was a sweaty flurry of form filling and, to be granted entrance to the country, you have to queue. Naturally, the law of queues applied in our case as we chose the shortest one which then took the longest time. Never mind, our baggage appeared quite quickly and our hotel had sent a driver in a Djellaba to greet us.
The fifteen-minute drive from the airport to our hotel proved interesting as we took in our surroundings. Africa and Europe are very different indeed and we marvelled that at just three and half hours from London, we were in exotica. Negotiating Marrakechian junctions was a skilled affair which you’d probably have to learn from the cradle to ever hope to master. All around us was pink terracotta and the land looked arid aside from a beautiful park here or a little oasis there all clearly irrigated at a cost that could probably feed a family of 17 for eight years.
Our driver stopped in a street opposite (what we later discovered was) the highly secure and zealously guarded Royal Palace and around a 5 minute walk from the Medina. There, in-between a motor- cycle repair shop and a tyre replacement outlet, was an unobtrusive wooden door. It was open and we walked in down a rather nice, scented passageway out of the heat and madness into cool serenity where we did all the usual checking into a hotel stuff.
We had booked a Riad, which, for those not ‘in the know’ is a large house now converted into a hotel. As we later discovered, ours – with its 27 rooms - had previously been the home of a Judge (Judgeships must be very lucrative in Morocco) and was acquired by a French family and converted in the late 1990s. A Riad isn’t a Riad (we later found out) unless it has a fountain in its courtyard, which ours did. In fact it had two or three courtyards with fountains and two swimming pools. It also had a very good restaurant, a full Spa including a Hamman (more of which later) and lots of lovely little nooks and crannies which served as romantic, shady seating or bar areas. It was as though we had arrived in paradise. The Riad, Villa des Orangers is quite the nicest small hotel any of us had ever stayed in. It was hard to fault it and, shocking though it might be to those who know us, we really couldn’t find any cause to complain throughout our stay. Au contraire. So lovely was it that we felt as though we were guests in someone’s rather lavish and luxurious home. We highly recommend the place to anyone who is able bodied enough to manage a few stairs – there were two flights up to our beautiful suite - but as that was really the only exercise we had for five days, we were happy to climb them.
A few days into our holiday, we were all totally relaxed. The three of us had had a massage and the four of us, a Hammam (steam bath). I didn’t like the Hammam. Being naked and soaped down in front of other people isn’t something I care for but Big-J LOVED it – blue paper thong n’all. “Next time I come here” he said, “I’ll do the Hammam on the first day – and then again on the last day - only next time, I'll have to request a considerably bigger thong."
"By the way" he added, "when should we come again? I can’t wait to get back here, it’s great for R&R.”
Unlike the three of us, Big-J was an old hand; he’d been to Morocco several times before. “What we mustn’t do” he re-emphasised “is to buy a carpet … or to get lured into any carpet shops” he pronounced, “even if they tell you that it’s their uncle’s brother-in-law and you don’t have to buy anything, they just want you to look … once they get you in there it takes hours and you won’t get out without buying. Mark my words” he nodded sagaciously, “don’t get tempted”. No one in our party was remotely interested in buying carpets but we listened politely anyway.
A few days later we’d arranged a trip into the Atlas mountains. Our guide, Asir, arrived in his air-conditioned 4x4 and we set off. He suggested an itinerary that started off with a visit to Berber house complete with authentic Berber family, comprising adults and their seventeen children, two cows and other assorted animals all living in quarters that resembled something from the middle ages. This family open their home for visitors and apparently entertain hoards of tourists every morning. Enterprising, lucrative and nice work if you can get it. We were struck by how healthy and and beautiful these people were. I guess that with no TV, computers, cinemas, McDonalds, KFC, chinese take-aways, shops or other distractions, the lifestyle in these mountain villages is much healthier than ours as long as you can put food on the table each day and survive illness without any traditional medicine. Although it was heartbreaking to ignore the stunning children who congregated around the car waiting for handouts, our guide seemed to know most of them personally and shooed them away.
After leaving the Berber house, we drove off up the mountain road and Asir asked us whether we’d be interested in seeing the best carpet shop in Morocco. “No” we chorused, “we’re not allowed to buy carpets”. Asir suggested that it would be interesting to have a look anyway but we politely declined because we knew we didn’t want to buy carpet. As we drove past said carpet emporium we couldn’t help but look and remark on the beautiful rugs hanging outside.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stop?” asked Asir, “This is a Berber shop and the best carpet emporium in the area.”
“Well” said Big-J, “maybe we should just have a quick walk around – the girls need to use the loo anyway.”
Within a few moments of walking inside I made fatal a mistake: “That’d look nice in the living room,” I said ‘en passant’ and as a throw away comment and not at all seriously. “Remember” whispered our friend, “you said you didn’t want to buy a carpet, you told me to stop you from buying a carpet, I’m TRYING to stop you from buying a carpet!”. But it was too late. Big-J's eyes had lit up, he had a spring in his step, a hand on his wallet, buying lust had kicked in and the rest is history. Two and a half hours later after lengthy and entertaining negotiations between Big-J and the salesman, a price and delivery date was agreed.
So now, as we await delivery of our rug, I’m left to reflect on whether I should be firmer in my protests when his enthusiasm bubbles over.
Oh dear, he just can’t help himself.
Thursday 16 September 2010
I just can't stop going on
Dear reader
You may be starting to think that I'm as obsessed with the banks as Bob Crow is but I can't resist sharing.
Hats off to my business partner for this one.
He hauled the North London NatWest business manager over the coals, he really did. At the end of the pulverisation, he asked what NatWest thought might be an appropriate compensatory gesture for all of our time and trouble, not to mention aggravation. They suggested that they might put £30 into our account. We laugh in the face of £30! What an insult.
My business partner suggested that even on a modest hourly rate of £150, they really should be thinking more in terms of a payment of £800 to mollify us. The whole debacle had really taken up a lot of our time. The business manager went away to think about it and we weren't holding our coporate breath.
Lo and behold, a few days later the bank made us an ex-gratia payment of £250.
Back of the net!
You may be starting to think that I'm as obsessed with the banks as Bob Crow is but I can't resist sharing.
Hats off to my business partner for this one.
He hauled the North London NatWest business manager over the coals, he really did. At the end of the pulverisation, he asked what NatWest thought might be an appropriate compensatory gesture for all of our time and trouble, not to mention aggravation. They suggested that they might put £30 into our account. We laugh in the face of £30! What an insult.
My business partner suggested that even on a modest hourly rate of £150, they really should be thinking more in terms of a payment of £800 to mollify us. The whole debacle had really taken up a lot of our time. The business manager went away to think about it and we weren't holding our coporate breath.
Lo and behold, a few days later the bank made us an ex-gratia payment of £250.
Back of the net!
Wednesday 18 August 2010
RESTAURANT REVIEW
YORK AND ALBANY
127-129 Parkway, London NW1 7PS
T: 020 7388 3344
We ate at the York and Albany last night. It seems to me that it's a restaurant that has almost (but not quite) got it right.
The first two people we encountered to were unable to find our booking despite them having called me the previous Friday to check we were coming. (Ramsay restaurants are very hot on checking up and if you want a group booking for six or more, you have to sign a contract, give them a credit card number and let them take your children hostage.) After a nail biting few minutes where Big-J anxiously paced the bar asking me what we should do if we couldn't eat there - "eat somewhere else" I said, the bright and smiley Ms Restaurant Manager appeared and told us, wryly, that “you just can't get the staff”. We rejected the first table (right under the air conditioning unit) and were seated at a nice round one although the person on the outside seat was asked to move several times during the evening in order for chairs to be pushed by and for staff to gain access to the wine cupboard.
There were highlights and lowlights.
So, to the highlights: the service was really friendly and very efficient and even amusing – in a good way. The food we ordered was, in general, excellent. The pace of service was also very good – not too fast and not too slow.
The lowlights: (1) The first basket of bread brought to the table was stale. I'm perhaps being unfair, I'd say that it had probably been cut in the morning and left to dry out but by the time it reached us, it was totally inedible (unless you fancy cracking your expensive porcelain crowns) and we had to send it back. Really not what you expect from a Ramsay establishment – must do better. On the upside, they replaced it very quickly with a fresh basket. (2) The wine list is outrageous moving seamlessly from the one or two reasonably priced bottles at around £25 up to very overpriced offerings starting at £50. We estimated a 300% to 400% mark up on most of them. (3) The lighting (absolutely fine when we sat down) was then turned down so low that it became difficult to read the menu. (4) The menu itself was quite difficult. There was really only one starter and two of the main courses that I fancied. (5) My summer salad starter, whilst delicious, was absolutely teeny weeny. A minute, nouvelle cuisine, doll's portion which was a shame because every single tiny morsel tasted completely delicious. I could have done with a portion at least twice the size.
We all opted for the Côtes de boeuf (I told you the menu wasn't easy) and it really was excellent. Perfectly cooked and served with a delicious braised endive, the like of which I've never tasted before. Lovely.
We didn't have dessert, we drank one bottle of reasonably priced wine between 4 (two of our party were on some sort of mad ‘detox’) and at £115 per couple we thought that was pretty expensive for what it was. Because of that, we won't be rushing back.
127-129 Parkway, London NW1 7PS
T: 020 7388 3344
We ate at the York and Albany last night. It seems to me that it's a restaurant that has almost (but not quite) got it right.
The first two people we encountered to were unable to find our booking despite them having called me the previous Friday to check we were coming. (Ramsay restaurants are very hot on checking up and if you want a group booking for six or more, you have to sign a contract, give them a credit card number and let them take your children hostage.) After a nail biting few minutes where Big-J anxiously paced the bar asking me what we should do if we couldn't eat there - "eat somewhere else" I said, the bright and smiley Ms Restaurant Manager appeared and told us, wryly, that “you just can't get the staff”. We rejected the first table (right under the air conditioning unit) and were seated at a nice round one although the person on the outside seat was asked to move several times during the evening in order for chairs to be pushed by and for staff to gain access to the wine cupboard.
There were highlights and lowlights.
So, to the highlights: the service was really friendly and very efficient and even amusing – in a good way. The food we ordered was, in general, excellent. The pace of service was also very good – not too fast and not too slow.
The lowlights: (1) The first basket of bread brought to the table was stale. I'm perhaps being unfair, I'd say that it had probably been cut in the morning and left to dry out but by the time it reached us, it was totally inedible (unless you fancy cracking your expensive porcelain crowns) and we had to send it back. Really not what you expect from a Ramsay establishment – must do better. On the upside, they replaced it very quickly with a fresh basket. (2) The wine list is outrageous moving seamlessly from the one or two reasonably priced bottles at around £25 up to very overpriced offerings starting at £50. We estimated a 300% to 400% mark up on most of them. (3) The lighting (absolutely fine when we sat down) was then turned down so low that it became difficult to read the menu. (4) The menu itself was quite difficult. There was really only one starter and two of the main courses that I fancied. (5) My summer salad starter, whilst delicious, was absolutely teeny weeny. A minute, nouvelle cuisine, doll's portion which was a shame because every single tiny morsel tasted completely delicious. I could have done with a portion at least twice the size.
We all opted for the Côtes de boeuf (I told you the menu wasn't easy) and it really was excellent. Perfectly cooked and served with a delicious braised endive, the like of which I've never tasted before. Lovely.
We didn't have dessert, we drank one bottle of reasonably priced wine between 4 (two of our party were on some sort of mad ‘detox’) and at £115 per couple we thought that was pretty expensive for what it was. Because of that, we won't be rushing back.
Monday 2 August 2010
NatWest, the helpful bank? It just goes on and on - and on
Yes, it's not over till the fat lady sings and she's still only humming.
Last week we discovered that despite the length and breadth of the initial meeting, there were several unsigned documents that needed signing, in triplicate, in blood. These could not be emailed, only faxed or mailed and if faxed, the original had to be sent in the mail too for an original signature.
I don't even have a fax machine anymore. Here in the 21st century, we regular, non-banking folk usually find that email is the quickest, most efficient and cheapest way of moving documents around quickly. We did away with carrier pigeons and faxes some while ago.
Then, someone from the Chief Executive's office eventually called me - that was last Thursday I think - a full ten days after I sent my letter of complaint. By banking standards, that was probably quite fast. He wanted to know if everything was resolved so I made the right noises and explained that their Mike Jones from High Barnet is now looking after us. "I'll give him a call if I can track him down" he said. I offered him Mike Jones's contact details to which the reaction was "thank you so much, you have no idea how difficult it is to get people's contact details within this organisation". I was momentarily speechless. Eventually, I spluttered "what a terrible indictment on your internal systems".
"Yeah, tell me about it" he replied.
Enough said.
Last week we discovered that despite the length and breadth of the initial meeting, there were several unsigned documents that needed signing, in triplicate, in blood. These could not be emailed, only faxed or mailed and if faxed, the original had to be sent in the mail too for an original signature.
I don't even have a fax machine anymore. Here in the 21st century, we regular, non-banking folk usually find that email is the quickest, most efficient and cheapest way of moving documents around quickly. We did away with carrier pigeons and faxes some while ago.
Then, someone from the Chief Executive's office eventually called me - that was last Thursday I think - a full ten days after I sent my letter of complaint. By banking standards, that was probably quite fast. He wanted to know if everything was resolved so I made the right noises and explained that their Mike Jones from High Barnet is now looking after us. "I'll give him a call if I can track him down" he said. I offered him Mike Jones's contact details to which the reaction was "thank you so much, you have no idea how difficult it is to get people's contact details within this organisation". I was momentarily speechless. Eventually, I spluttered "what a terrible indictment on your internal systems".
"Yeah, tell me about it" he replied.
Enough said.
Saturday 24 July 2010
Ho-bloody-rah!
When we spoke to someone much higher up the NatWest food chain, of course they agreed to open the account. No problem at all. We're currently awaiting all the guff - cheque books, paying in books and online banking codes. They should arrive this week. What a palaver.
Wednesday 21 July 2010
Lies, dam lies and statistics ...
Although we all know that 83.2% of statistics are made up on the spot, I heard on the radio this week that a person is more likely to get divorced than change banks. See my earlier blog for a possible explanation.
Tuesday 20 July 2010
NatWest. Helpful banking?
I despair, I really do.
Last week I tried to open a business bank account at a High Street bank. Well, let's not beat about the bush, it was NatWest. Me and my business partner went there as he has a connection at an affiliate bank of theirs. Despite that, it was an unmitigated disaster which ended in tears.
Our appointment with the branch business development manager had been made for 10.30 on Thursday and, arriving at that time, were told that she wasn't there. We were turned away without so much as an apology and told to make a second appointment for the following day.
For our second appointment, we arrived five minutes early and were then kept waiting a further fifteen. When we were called into her office, again there was no apology nor any appearance of her having made any preparation for our meeting.
I had the temerity to ask why we’d been kept waiting, particularly in light of it being our second trip into the bank, I was told that she had been on the phone to a customer and what did I expect her to do, put the phone down? I resisted the temptation to say “well, yes actually dear” as clearly she should have either not been on the phone knowing that she had a meeting at 2.30pm or she should have told the phone customer that she was keeping people waiting and would have to call that customer back later. I also pointed out that she should have been there the previous day and she told me, in high pitched tones, that it wasn’t her fault as the meeting had not been entered into her agenda. Again, there was no apology, just a crude justification in a very aggressive manner. She also took it upon herself to scold me and my 'unpleasant tone', which strangely did nothing to mollify me or to warm up the atmosphere in her very hot office.
Then the endless paperwork started. What is it with banks that they haven't cottoned onto computers yet? (Later on when I asked her for an email address she told me that there was no point in giving it to me as they weren't allowed to use email. How very forward thinking of them!) She then refused to accept a certified copy of our company's certificate of incorporation – certified by a firm of chartered accountants. If this is now bank policy, accountants and lawyers beware because your certification of documents is no longer valid. What a load of twoddle. In any event, a quick look online either at Companies House or our accountants would have confirmed that the company exists but no, I was told I would have to return to the bank, for a third time, with the original document in order that their own staff may make a photocopy.
Our company has three directors and two of us were at the meeting. Our third director is not involved with the day to day running of the company. Ms NatWest BA(Hons) - as stated on her business card - refused to continue with the process until our third director joined us at the meeting. We called her and she came to the bank so as not to delay this simple account opening even further. She was rewarded by hostility and a telling-off when, after having been kept waiting for ten minutes or so, she tried to attract the attention of Ms NatWest by waving at her through the window of the adjacent office to which she had retreated to for reasons that escape us.
Copies then had to be made of all the documentation. She went to do this job herself which took an inordinately long time and delayed the process still further. All in all, the meeting took over an hour and half. Can that be standard?
Far more seriously, the very young and possibly Latvian Ms NatWest was totally unable to grasp the activities of our new business. We have set up a new training company offering courses to teach people how to trade Forex online. She actually got mildly hysterical at the prospect of our trading forex through this new account. Despite repeated attempts, we were singularly unable to get the fact over to her that the company’s ONLY activity is to TRAIN PEOPLE and ergo, to equip them with the knowledge to trade in foreign exchange. She kept telling us that if we traded through the Nat West account, she could lose her job – something she mentioned several times during the meeting and was evidently her main concern.
As a result of all this, we almost walked out to try another of the many banks in the High Street. With the benefit of 20/20 hindsight, that's exactly what we should have done. We had chosen NatWest because we felt that the connection might make it easier to open an account at NatWest. Clearly it did not.
Now get this ... A few days later, Ms NatWest called me to say that unfortunately, the bank would not be able to open this account as it is linked to a forex trading business and even though she understands it is a training company, the bank will not open this account. At that point, I truly lost the will to live. As politely as I could with my blood boiling, I asked for a name and contact details of someone higher up in the bank so that I might try to explain, to a more senior person, what we are trying to do but she wouldn't provide this telling me that everyone in the bank would tell me the same thing. She did eventually agree to call me back later that day with an appropriate name. I am still waiting for that call.
If this is the way NatWest treat potential new customers and new businesses, I really am surprised that they're still in business at all. We wasted the best part of a week only to be told that we cannot open an account at that bank. More importantly however, not only was Ms NatWest's manner appalling, coming over as breathtakingly rude and aggressive but she was clearly unable to process new information once she had an idea set in her head.
If you want a real laugh, read the bank's customer charter http://www.natwest.com/global/customer-charter.ashx
I have sent off swingeing letters of complaint to everyone from the chief executive, Stephen Hester, downward. The initial apology has come in today from their customer complaints department and I await further news.
I feel a trip to Barclays coming on ...
Addendum: My business partner really lost it today. Having escalated this complaint, he sent the following email to his contact at the affiliate bank earlier today. I'm only posting it here because it made me laugh out loud.
Firstly I'm sorry you are being caught in the crossfire - I know this Kafkaesque situation is not of your making - but since Natwest are refusing to give out e-mail addresses I should be grateful if you would forward this e-mail to the area new business manager.
Following the fiasco of the last few days, I find it not only extremely rude but devestatingly incompetent that he has not had the courtesy to contact me today. You did state in your e-mail that he would be contacting me "early afternoon" and it is now approaching 5p.m. and I have heard nothing. Still if Natwest can describe Ms NatWest as a "business development manager", then it would be relatively easy for them to describe any time between now and midnight as "early afternoon".
As Natwest's irritatingly smug adverts observe "There is another way". Yes - and it's called Barclays.
NB Names have been changed to protect the guilty.
Last week I tried to open a business bank account at a High Street bank. Well, let's not beat about the bush, it was NatWest. Me and my business partner went there as he has a connection at an affiliate bank of theirs. Despite that, it was an unmitigated disaster which ended in tears.
Our appointment with the branch business development manager had been made for 10.30 on Thursday and, arriving at that time, were told that she wasn't there. We were turned away without so much as an apology and told to make a second appointment for the following day.
For our second appointment, we arrived five minutes early and were then kept waiting a further fifteen. When we were called into her office, again there was no apology nor any appearance of her having made any preparation for our meeting.
I had the temerity to ask why we’d been kept waiting, particularly in light of it being our second trip into the bank, I was told that she had been on the phone to a customer and what did I expect her to do, put the phone down? I resisted the temptation to say “well, yes actually dear” as clearly she should have either not been on the phone knowing that she had a meeting at 2.30pm or she should have told the phone customer that she was keeping people waiting and would have to call that customer back later. I also pointed out that she should have been there the previous day and she told me, in high pitched tones, that it wasn’t her fault as the meeting had not been entered into her agenda. Again, there was no apology, just a crude justification in a very aggressive manner. She also took it upon herself to scold me and my 'unpleasant tone', which strangely did nothing to mollify me or to warm up the atmosphere in her very hot office.
Then the endless paperwork started. What is it with banks that they haven't cottoned onto computers yet? (Later on when I asked her for an email address she told me that there was no point in giving it to me as they weren't allowed to use email. How very forward thinking of them!) She then refused to accept a certified copy of our company's certificate of incorporation – certified by a firm of chartered accountants. If this is now bank policy, accountants and lawyers beware because your certification of documents is no longer valid. What a load of twoddle. In any event, a quick look online either at Companies House or our accountants would have confirmed that the company exists but no, I was told I would have to return to the bank, for a third time, with the original document in order that their own staff may make a photocopy.
Our company has three directors and two of us were at the meeting. Our third director is not involved with the day to day running of the company. Ms NatWest BA(Hons) - as stated on her business card - refused to continue with the process until our third director joined us at the meeting. We called her and she came to the bank so as not to delay this simple account opening even further. She was rewarded by hostility and a telling-off when, after having been kept waiting for ten minutes or so, she tried to attract the attention of Ms NatWest by waving at her through the window of the adjacent office to which she had retreated to for reasons that escape us.
Copies then had to be made of all the documentation. She went to do this job herself which took an inordinately long time and delayed the process still further. All in all, the meeting took over an hour and half. Can that be standard?
Far more seriously, the very young and possibly Latvian Ms NatWest was totally unable to grasp the activities of our new business. We have set up a new training company offering courses to teach people how to trade Forex online. She actually got mildly hysterical at the prospect of our trading forex through this new account. Despite repeated attempts, we were singularly unable to get the fact over to her that the company’s ONLY activity is to TRAIN PEOPLE and ergo, to equip them with the knowledge to trade in foreign exchange. She kept telling us that if we traded through the Nat West account, she could lose her job – something she mentioned several times during the meeting and was evidently her main concern.
As a result of all this, we almost walked out to try another of the many banks in the High Street. With the benefit of 20/20 hindsight, that's exactly what we should have done. We had chosen NatWest because we felt that the connection might make it easier to open an account at NatWest. Clearly it did not.
Now get this ... A few days later, Ms NatWest called me to say that unfortunately, the bank would not be able to open this account as it is linked to a forex trading business and even though she understands it is a training company, the bank will not open this account. At that point, I truly lost the will to live. As politely as I could with my blood boiling, I asked for a name and contact details of someone higher up in the bank so that I might try to explain, to a more senior person, what we are trying to do but she wouldn't provide this telling me that everyone in the bank would tell me the same thing. She did eventually agree to call me back later that day with an appropriate name. I am still waiting for that call.
If this is the way NatWest treat potential new customers and new businesses, I really am surprised that they're still in business at all. We wasted the best part of a week only to be told that we cannot open an account at that bank. More importantly however, not only was Ms NatWest's manner appalling, coming over as breathtakingly rude and aggressive but she was clearly unable to process new information once she had an idea set in her head.
If you want a real laugh, read the bank's customer charter http://www.natwest.com/global/customer-charter.ashx
I have sent off swingeing letters of complaint to everyone from the chief executive, Stephen Hester, downward. The initial apology has come in today from their customer complaints department and I await further news.
I feel a trip to Barclays coming on ...
Addendum: My business partner really lost it today. Having escalated this complaint, he sent the following email to his contact at the affiliate bank earlier today. I'm only posting it here because it made me laugh out loud.
Firstly I'm sorry you are being caught in the crossfire - I know this Kafkaesque situation is not of your making - but since Natwest are refusing to give out e-mail addresses I should be grateful if you would forward this e-mail to the area new business manager.
Following the fiasco of the last few days, I find it not only extremely rude but devestatingly incompetent that he has not had the courtesy to contact me today. You did state in your e-mail that he would be contacting me "early afternoon" and it is now approaching 5p.m. and I have heard nothing. Still if Natwest can describe Ms NatWest as a "business development manager", then it would be relatively easy for them to describe any time between now and midnight as "early afternoon".
As Natwest's irritatingly smug adverts observe "There is another way". Yes - and it's called Barclays.
NB Names have been changed to protect the guilty.
Tuesday 6 July 2010
Rock n' roll and the great outdoors
Some weeks ago, Big-J asked me if I fancied the Hop Farm Music festival. “No” I said. I thought that was pretty clear. He wanted to know why not and just like that, I cited ten good reasons: it might be raining, it might be too hot, it might be too cold, I didn’t want to sit in a field all day, my hay fever was bound to flare up, we’d have to leave home too early, we’d get home too late, I had stuff I needed to do, I couldn’t face portaloos and I’m just too bloody old to go to a festival. (I’d never even been to one in my ‘yoof’ and I wasn’t keen on starting now.) Those were just the reasons I came up with off the top of my head. Given time, I feel sure I could have thought up at least 97 more.
“But Bob’s topping the bill” he said in a sort of plaintive tone, “and there’s Ray Davis and Pete Docherty – whoever he is” he continued. “It’ll be a lovely day out” he persisted. “And I’ll owe you big time” he added, by way of an incentive.
I told him that I absolutely wasn’t going and that was final.
So last Saturday at midday, we found ourselves driving down to somewhere near Sevenoaks to said festival after the customary discussion as to whether to drive through town or take the very much longer route around the car park they call the M25. I opted for the M25, he wanted to drive through town but because I was very grumpy, I won and I was wrong. It happens occasionally. The journey, which took barely an hour and twenty on the way back, took over three hours on the way there, the last half an hour spent queuing from two miles away to get into Hop Farm.
It was a scorchingly hot day. Parking our car miles away, we trudged through fields and fields to reach the festival entrance. We needed to find a pitch so that we could eat our picnic. We got as near to the stage as we could – which was pretty far away but at least we could see the action on the two huge screens on either side. There was no shade, we had nothing to sit on but we soon bought a couple of brilliant collapsible chairs and sat eating our smoked salmon beigals in the sunshine, surrounded by thousands of lookie-likies, to the strains of the very unmemorable Pete Docherty who managed a few notes in-between foul-mouthed rants about something or other. We were, at this point, the oldest in a massive crowd that would have made my 21 year old feel like a bit of pensioner. It was incredibly hot and the wafts of weed-laden smoke all around us were already making me feel quite high. I didn’t want to drink too much as the first inevitable visit to a portaloo loomed large but after smoked salmon and in 30 degree heat with public announcements every half an hour or so to take care, slap on the sunscreen and drink plenty of water, I really had no choice. At one point, Big-J decided to investigate whether we could get nearer to the stage. “Wait here” he said, “I’ll be back in a moment”. Some half an hour later, he eventually found his way back to me – panicked, sweating and panting - a picture of relief. The crowd was so huge that even with his A grade Geography A’ Level, he had become disorientated. We tearfully reunited vowing not to lose sight of each other for the rest of the day, too scary.
The phenomenon that is Seasick Steve was next up. He played a short set on his homemade three-string geet-aar. What an entertainer and how amazing to be discovered just at the age when the rest of us get our Freedom Pass. He was great fun and I’m glad I saw him live. Now I know what my son’s been banging on about these last few years.
Nothing much else happened for a while other than we went in search of a portaloo where there wasn’t a 40-minute queue. We eventually found one in the car park field. Have you ever used a non-flushing portaloo after thousands of other people? No? Well I don’t recommend it but at least I’ve discovered just how long I can hold my breath for. Amazing what one can do in adversity. I’ll move swiftly on so as not to make you feel bilious.
We missed most of J Mumford and Sons, another band we’d never heard of but apparently very popular with the young people of today. Then came Ray Davis, he of the Kinks fame. His set was good, he really got the crowd going, yeah, he really got them now, he got them so they can’t sleep at night. He spoiled it a bit by starting 20 minutes late then refusing to cut his set short (whilst swearing horribly at someone off-stage) meaning that ‘His Bobness’ would inevitably be kept waiting along with the Bob-heads in the crowd. Big-J was outraged, “how rude” he said, “how very inconsiderate” and it quite put him off Ray which was a shame because, his old stuff at least, really was rather good.
By now the crowd had swelled to around 70 million and even in our mid-arena position, we were squashed like sardines with no hope for a shortie like me of breathing out let alone glimpsing the stage. I was ever so slightly scared that we’d get squashed in any sort of stage-rush or if a fire broke out or if we were invaded by aliens but as it was, other than being barged a few times, it was bearable. It was a beautiful, warm and starry night and the mood in the arena was chilled and friendly – and stoned.
And suddenly, there was Bob. Resplendent in a black suit with diamante seams, a bright magenta shirt and a trademark white cowboy hat. At least I think it was Bob. The camera crew had clearly been instructed that no close-ups were allowed so even on the big screen, it was difficult to make him out. He’s only a little fella after all. That was a shame, it would have been good to have seen his expression as we all drowned him out singing along to Like a Rolling Stone.
“Sing Maggie’s fucking farm Bob” screamed a bloke next to us, repeatedly and then again for good measure. Bob never did sing Maggie’s Farm that night. Good, it’s one of my least favourites. He did lots of old stuff and a few tracks from Modern Times. He growled and rasped his way through with that interesting upswing phrasing which he uses when he can’t hit the note anymore. I’ve since heard that a lot of the kids didn’t like it at all. Well, they couldn’t possibly ‘get it’ could they? How could they be expected to appreciate that they were privileged just to be in the presence of a living legend, the voice of their parents' generation? The man can still pull an impressive crowd which is why he keeps performing I suppose although I’m always in two minds about whether it’s really a good idea to keep on keepin’ on at his age n’ all. Big-J was a very happy man, for him it was all worth it. He’d had a lovely time and that, I figured, is what it was all about.
When Bob exited stage right, we raced back to our car, which we’d cleverly re-parked right next to the one exit provided for the 350,000 cars. But then we sat and we sat and we sat and we sat some more. Nothing moved and no one really knew what the problem was. At this point, I could describe the next two and a half hours in minute detail, outlining for you the complete Radio 4 nighttime schedule, but I’ll spare you. Suffice it to say, it took a very, very long time to get out onto the open road but then barely an hour and twenty to get home by 2.30am. I was thrilled. I’d get a good five hours quality kip before having to prepare lunch the next day for six guests.
So was it worth it? For me? Honestly? No. I won’t go into how many of my fears came to fruition that day in the field but I’ll chalk it up to experience, an experience I fervently hope never to repeat. For him though, it couldn’t have been more worth it. He’s always worried that if he doesn’t take the opportunity to see Bob, he might just miss the last show ever. But even Big-J has admitted (quietly to me, in a weak moment) that he won’t be rushing along to the next outdoor festival.
“But Bob’s topping the bill” he said in a sort of plaintive tone, “and there’s Ray Davis and Pete Docherty – whoever he is” he continued. “It’ll be a lovely day out” he persisted. “And I’ll owe you big time” he added, by way of an incentive.
I told him that I absolutely wasn’t going and that was final.
So last Saturday at midday, we found ourselves driving down to somewhere near Sevenoaks to said festival after the customary discussion as to whether to drive through town or take the very much longer route around the car park they call the M25. I opted for the M25, he wanted to drive through town but because I was very grumpy, I won and I was wrong. It happens occasionally. The journey, which took barely an hour and twenty on the way back, took over three hours on the way there, the last half an hour spent queuing from two miles away to get into Hop Farm.
It was a scorchingly hot day. Parking our car miles away, we trudged through fields and fields to reach the festival entrance. We needed to find a pitch so that we could eat our picnic. We got as near to the stage as we could – which was pretty far away but at least we could see the action on the two huge screens on either side. There was no shade, we had nothing to sit on but we soon bought a couple of brilliant collapsible chairs and sat eating our smoked salmon beigals in the sunshine, surrounded by thousands of lookie-likies, to the strains of the very unmemorable Pete Docherty who managed a few notes in-between foul-mouthed rants about something or other. We were, at this point, the oldest in a massive crowd that would have made my 21 year old feel like a bit of pensioner. It was incredibly hot and the wafts of weed-laden smoke all around us were already making me feel quite high. I didn’t want to drink too much as the first inevitable visit to a portaloo loomed large but after smoked salmon and in 30 degree heat with public announcements every half an hour or so to take care, slap on the sunscreen and drink plenty of water, I really had no choice. At one point, Big-J decided to investigate whether we could get nearer to the stage. “Wait here” he said, “I’ll be back in a moment”. Some half an hour later, he eventually found his way back to me – panicked, sweating and panting - a picture of relief. The crowd was so huge that even with his A grade Geography A’ Level, he had become disorientated. We tearfully reunited vowing not to lose sight of each other for the rest of the day, too scary.
The phenomenon that is Seasick Steve was next up. He played a short set on his homemade three-string geet-aar. What an entertainer and how amazing to be discovered just at the age when the rest of us get our Freedom Pass. He was great fun and I’m glad I saw him live. Now I know what my son’s been banging on about these last few years.
Nothing much else happened for a while other than we went in search of a portaloo where there wasn’t a 40-minute queue. We eventually found one in the car park field. Have you ever used a non-flushing portaloo after thousands of other people? No? Well I don’t recommend it but at least I’ve discovered just how long I can hold my breath for. Amazing what one can do in adversity. I’ll move swiftly on so as not to make you feel bilious.
We missed most of J Mumford and Sons, another band we’d never heard of but apparently very popular with the young people of today. Then came Ray Davis, he of the Kinks fame. His set was good, he really got the crowd going, yeah, he really got them now, he got them so they can’t sleep at night. He spoiled it a bit by starting 20 minutes late then refusing to cut his set short (whilst swearing horribly at someone off-stage) meaning that ‘His Bobness’ would inevitably be kept waiting along with the Bob-heads in the crowd. Big-J was outraged, “how rude” he said, “how very inconsiderate” and it quite put him off Ray which was a shame because, his old stuff at least, really was rather good.
By now the crowd had swelled to around 70 million and even in our mid-arena position, we were squashed like sardines with no hope for a shortie like me of breathing out let alone glimpsing the stage. I was ever so slightly scared that we’d get squashed in any sort of stage-rush or if a fire broke out or if we were invaded by aliens but as it was, other than being barged a few times, it was bearable. It was a beautiful, warm and starry night and the mood in the arena was chilled and friendly – and stoned.
And suddenly, there was Bob. Resplendent in a black suit with diamante seams, a bright magenta shirt and a trademark white cowboy hat. At least I think it was Bob. The camera crew had clearly been instructed that no close-ups were allowed so even on the big screen, it was difficult to make him out. He’s only a little fella after all. That was a shame, it would have been good to have seen his expression as we all drowned him out singing along to Like a Rolling Stone.
“Sing Maggie’s fucking farm Bob” screamed a bloke next to us, repeatedly and then again for good measure. Bob never did sing Maggie’s Farm that night. Good, it’s one of my least favourites. He did lots of old stuff and a few tracks from Modern Times. He growled and rasped his way through with that interesting upswing phrasing which he uses when he can’t hit the note anymore. I’ve since heard that a lot of the kids didn’t like it at all. Well, they couldn’t possibly ‘get it’ could they? How could they be expected to appreciate that they were privileged just to be in the presence of a living legend, the voice of their parents' generation? The man can still pull an impressive crowd which is why he keeps performing I suppose although I’m always in two minds about whether it’s really a good idea to keep on keepin’ on at his age n’ all. Big-J was a very happy man, for him it was all worth it. He’d had a lovely time and that, I figured, is what it was all about.
When Bob exited stage right, we raced back to our car, which we’d cleverly re-parked right next to the one exit provided for the 350,000 cars. But then we sat and we sat and we sat and we sat some more. Nothing moved and no one really knew what the problem was. At this point, I could describe the next two and a half hours in minute detail, outlining for you the complete Radio 4 nighttime schedule, but I’ll spare you. Suffice it to say, it took a very, very long time to get out onto the open road but then barely an hour and twenty to get home by 2.30am. I was thrilled. I’d get a good five hours quality kip before having to prepare lunch the next day for six guests.
So was it worth it? For me? Honestly? No. I won’t go into how many of my fears came to fruition that day in the field but I’ll chalk it up to experience, an experience I fervently hope never to repeat. For him though, it couldn’t have been more worth it. He’s always worried that if he doesn’t take the opportunity to see Bob, he might just miss the last show ever. But even Big-J has admitted (quietly to me, in a weak moment) that he won’t be rushing along to the next outdoor festival.
Thursday 20 May 2010
Appearances, aspergers and adoption
Today, our disgraced ex-Home Secretary, Jacqui Smith, gave her first media interview since unceremoniously losing her seat in the election. After revealing that like a lot of other people in this country, she's looking for a job, and 'holding her hands up' on the issue of the claim she 'mistakenly' made for her husband's porno movies, she segued seamlessly into talking about Theresa May, our shiny new Home Secretary. Jacqui publicly sympathised with Theresa about the 'style police' who seem obsessed more with clothes, shoes and hairstyle than they are interested in substance and Home Secretarial capabilities. Ms Smith thinks they should all get over themselves and concentrate on what's really important. Mmm, we'd all like a friend like Jacqui wouldn't we? Well, who's she to decide what's important in a job or not? For me, appearance is everything, crucial in fact. Far from putting a stop to it, it must continue unabated and be equally applied to the men. Is it my imagination or is Nick Clegg's goldy-yellow tie getting a bit grubby? Perhaps he models himself on Erik Satie, the French composer and pianist who owned ten identical suits, shirts and ties? And why are they all completely plain? Has our Nick been taking lessons from Obama's stylist or is he fixated on out-plaining Dave in the tie stakes? As for Vince Cable, isn't it about time he shaved those stickie-out hairs on the top of his head and whilst he's at it, his eyebrows and nostril hair could do with a trim and brush up. Ken Clark's going to have to shed the Hush Puppies this time around whilst George Osborne could badly do with a San Tropez spray tan - I've never seen anyone that white and still alive. As for Eric Pickles and Lord Strathclyde, we know they ate all the cookies in the cookie jar. Get those boys a good dietician - and fast.
I'm glad that this government is re-considering the Gary McKinnon case. He was the guy who hacked into the Pentagon systems and stands accused of committing the biggest military computer hack of all time. The Americans want him and, if tried and found guilty there, he faces up to sixty years in the slammer. This is patently absurd. Forget that he suffers from Aspergers, pay no heed that fear of ending up in the American penal system poses the very real risk that he'd kill himself - if the guy is clever and resourceful enough to repeatedly hack into the Pentagon's system, he shouldn't be facing prison, someone should give him a job. All he needs is a bit of direction along the lines of 'Gary, forget about looking for UFO's luv, we all know they don't exist. How about trying to track down some terrorists? That'd be so much more useful.' Just think, with his computer capabilities, what couldn't he do for to MI5, the CIA or Mossad? The authorities really are missing a trick here.
Finally, my sister published an article on the US website, www.salon.com, today. Salon (according to their own website) is 'the award-winning online news and entertainment Web site, combining original investigative stories, breaking news, provocative personal essays and highly respected criticism along with popular staff-written blogs about politics, technology and culture', it's worth a look. My sister's article was a review of Rodrigo Garcia's new film, Mother and Child (yet to open on these shores), a film exploring 'grief' using adoption as it's wrapper. Actually, my sister wrote her piece from her own perspective of the adoption process, something with which she is familiar having adopted her daughter three years ago. I know I'm biased but her article was excellent. Some of the huge on-site response the article generated has been breathtakingly hostile with people out there willing to pillory my sister from a position of total ignorance. It really is quite shocking what these contributors are prepared to say and write under a cloak of anonymity. One of the worst suggested that people who adopt children do it because they're either too vain or too lazy to have children themselves. Pur-leese! To make a comment on the site, you have to sign up and other readers then have access to all of your past comments on other articles. Suffice it to say, some of the commentators have three, four or five hundred previous postings. What can I say? They really should get out more.
I'm glad that this government is re-considering the Gary McKinnon case. He was the guy who hacked into the Pentagon systems and stands accused of committing the biggest military computer hack of all time. The Americans want him and, if tried and found guilty there, he faces up to sixty years in the slammer. This is patently absurd. Forget that he suffers from Aspergers, pay no heed that fear of ending up in the American penal system poses the very real risk that he'd kill himself - if the guy is clever and resourceful enough to repeatedly hack into the Pentagon's system, he shouldn't be facing prison, someone should give him a job. All he needs is a bit of direction along the lines of 'Gary, forget about looking for UFO's luv, we all know they don't exist. How about trying to track down some terrorists? That'd be so much more useful.' Just think, with his computer capabilities, what couldn't he do for to MI5, the CIA or Mossad? The authorities really are missing a trick here.
Finally, my sister published an article on the US website, www.salon.com, today. Salon (according to their own website) is 'the award-winning online news and entertainment Web site, combining original investigative stories, breaking news, provocative personal essays and highly respected criticism along with popular staff-written blogs about politics, technology and culture', it's worth a look. My sister's article was a review of Rodrigo Garcia's new film, Mother and Child (yet to open on these shores), a film exploring 'grief' using adoption as it's wrapper. Actually, my sister wrote her piece from her own perspective of the adoption process, something with which she is familiar having adopted her daughter three years ago. I know I'm biased but her article was excellent. Some of the huge on-site response the article generated has been breathtakingly hostile with people out there willing to pillory my sister from a position of total ignorance. It really is quite shocking what these contributors are prepared to say and write under a cloak of anonymity. One of the worst suggested that people who adopt children do it because they're either too vain or too lazy to have children themselves. Pur-leese! To make a comment on the site, you have to sign up and other readers then have access to all of your past comments on other articles. Suffice it to say, some of the commentators have three, four or five hundred previous postings. What can I say? They really should get out more.
Wednesday 5 May 2010
Man on the edge
Big-J is a man who likes to live life on the edge. On the edge of driving me into an early grave that is.
When we left for the airport, at the crack of sparrow fart last Saturday, we had travelled no further than a mile when his dashboard turned fluorescent red and pinged repeatedly in an alarming way. ‘Oh no’ said he, ‘it’s a flat’. We hastily detoured into the nearest service station to inspect the tyre. ‘It’s a slow puncture’ said he knowingly, ‘I’ll pump it up and it’ll be fine’.
I suggested that the chances were that the tyre would be flat after five days in Luton airport’s car park and that really, if we were sensible, we’d go home and swap his car for my slow-puncture-free alternative vehicle. But oh no, he didn’t want to do that. My guy only likes to move forwards, never backwards.
So, after five rain sodden days on the French Riviera (a place where it’s really difficult to do anything when the weather is very wet), and a long walk back through the aforementioned airport's car park, we found - and yes, you’re there before me - a totally flat tyre. Well, I had warned him and now I told him so, several times. Nightmare visions of having to call out the AA and waiting the obligatory three hours for them to arrive. ‘No, I’ll have to change it’ said Big-J with a show of complete confidence entirely for my benefit I’m sure as his last tyre change was probably back in 1973. Nevertheless, he brushed aside my enquiries as to whether or not he knew how to change a tyre or even how to unscrew the thief-proof wheel nuts especially fitted to the vehicle to prevent thieves (or hapless amateurs) from removing the wheels, as he rolled up the sleeves of his pale blue Ralph Lauren shirt.
With real teamwork, reminiscent of Dunkirk, together we burrowed deep into the boot and spied an interesting looking small black box, about the size of two paperback books stuck together. “I think that’s a pump,” I said (actually, I’d cheated because the pictures on the box front showed quite clearly that it was some sort of pump). Imagine our surprise and delight to find that it was a dear little electric tyre pump which plugged into the car’s cigarette lighter at one end and screwed onto the tyre at the other before, at the flick of a switch, pumping in air and bringing almost instant relief and unbridled joy to both of us. High five!
But all was not entirely well. No, no, no. Four miles later, those now familiar red lights flashed as the pings resumed pinging, ‘Maybe it’s not such a slow puncture’ he said as we pulled onto the hard shoulder to pump up the tyre again.
Having narrowly avoided death by exhaust fumes or worse, moments later we were off again, homeward-bound when Big J uttered what I can only assume is one of his favourite lines (because he says it quite often) ‘… and now we’re running out of petrol’. This is what I mean by living on the edge. He likes to run the petrol right down to the last teaspoon before filling up the car. I really don’t know why. Is that a man thing? And I absolutely don’t know why he especially seems to like doing this when we’re driving abroad. In this particular instance, we were only four miles south of Luton and twenty from home with the prospect of a friendly service station looming large. I suggested that we take the opportunity to stop there to fill up the car – and pump up the tyre once more which might just get us all the way home without another hairy stop on the hard shoulder. Fortunately for him, he agreed. Had we been in deepest Croatia, he’d probably have wanted to drive on, in the spirit of discovery, until we found the service station after the one we knew was just about to appear or even try to eek out the petrol to get to the one after that. What is it about men that they seem to thrive on the danger and uncertainty of an empty petrol tank? (That’s me trying to be complimentary, plenty of other less flattering thoughts spring to mind here.)
We stopped, we took our fill of fuel and pumped in beautiful fresh air whilst managing to have a run-in with four burly bailiffs - but that’s another story. (Perhaps I should mention that this was pure co-incidence and nothing at all to do with us or our chattels.)
And guess who’s going to be taking the car to have a new tyre fitted tomorrow? Here’s a clue … not him.
When we left for the airport, at the crack of sparrow fart last Saturday, we had travelled no further than a mile when his dashboard turned fluorescent red and pinged repeatedly in an alarming way. ‘Oh no’ said he, ‘it’s a flat’. We hastily detoured into the nearest service station to inspect the tyre. ‘It’s a slow puncture’ said he knowingly, ‘I’ll pump it up and it’ll be fine’.
I suggested that the chances were that the tyre would be flat after five days in Luton airport’s car park and that really, if we were sensible, we’d go home and swap his car for my slow-puncture-free alternative vehicle. But oh no, he didn’t want to do that. My guy only likes to move forwards, never backwards.
So, after five rain sodden days on the French Riviera (a place where it’s really difficult to do anything when the weather is very wet), and a long walk back through the aforementioned airport's car park, we found - and yes, you’re there before me - a totally flat tyre. Well, I had warned him and now I told him so, several times. Nightmare visions of having to call out the AA and waiting the obligatory three hours for them to arrive. ‘No, I’ll have to change it’ said Big-J with a show of complete confidence entirely for my benefit I’m sure as his last tyre change was probably back in 1973. Nevertheless, he brushed aside my enquiries as to whether or not he knew how to change a tyre or even how to unscrew the thief-proof wheel nuts especially fitted to the vehicle to prevent thieves (or hapless amateurs) from removing the wheels, as he rolled up the sleeves of his pale blue Ralph Lauren shirt.
With real teamwork, reminiscent of Dunkirk, together we burrowed deep into the boot and spied an interesting looking small black box, about the size of two paperback books stuck together. “I think that’s a pump,” I said (actually, I’d cheated because the pictures on the box front showed quite clearly that it was some sort of pump). Imagine our surprise and delight to find that it was a dear little electric tyre pump which plugged into the car’s cigarette lighter at one end and screwed onto the tyre at the other before, at the flick of a switch, pumping in air and bringing almost instant relief and unbridled joy to both of us. High five!
But all was not entirely well. No, no, no. Four miles later, those now familiar red lights flashed as the pings resumed pinging, ‘Maybe it’s not such a slow puncture’ he said as we pulled onto the hard shoulder to pump up the tyre again.
Having narrowly avoided death by exhaust fumes or worse, moments later we were off again, homeward-bound when Big J uttered what I can only assume is one of his favourite lines (because he says it quite often) ‘… and now we’re running out of petrol’. This is what I mean by living on the edge. He likes to run the petrol right down to the last teaspoon before filling up the car. I really don’t know why. Is that a man thing? And I absolutely don’t know why he especially seems to like doing this when we’re driving abroad. In this particular instance, we were only four miles south of Luton and twenty from home with the prospect of a friendly service station looming large. I suggested that we take the opportunity to stop there to fill up the car – and pump up the tyre once more which might just get us all the way home without another hairy stop on the hard shoulder. Fortunately for him, he agreed. Had we been in deepest Croatia, he’d probably have wanted to drive on, in the spirit of discovery, until we found the service station after the one we knew was just about to appear or even try to eek out the petrol to get to the one after that. What is it about men that they seem to thrive on the danger and uncertainty of an empty petrol tank? (That’s me trying to be complimentary, plenty of other less flattering thoughts spring to mind here.)
We stopped, we took our fill of fuel and pumped in beautiful fresh air whilst managing to have a run-in with four burly bailiffs - but that’s another story. (Perhaps I should mention that this was pure co-incidence and nothing at all to do with us or our chattels.)
And guess who’s going to be taking the car to have a new tyre fitted tomorrow? Here’s a clue … not him.
Thursday 15 April 2010
Iceland and the UK election
What is it with Iceland? First they can't control their dam banks so fritter all our money away and then they can't control their bloody volcano which succeeds where Al Qaeda has historically failed because they've managed to shut down our entire air space indefinitely. What a disaster, particularly for my friends stuck out in Arizona, forced to endure even more endless sunshine and great sounding sporting activities. My heart bleeds.
I've just watched the first party leader debate on the UK's Independent Television network. Well, never mind who said what - who looked best? Nick Clegg got my vote for the best tie, David Cameron won for the best suit and Gordon ... oh gawd. Well done to ITV for screening a question from a token Jewish person and showing that they had someone in a muslim head dress in the studio audience. So P.C. So pukey.
When our leader and would-be leaders got to the question of law and order, Clegg and Brown talked a load of rubbish but Cameron seemed to have the right ideas on longer and more punitive sentences for crimes affecting people's lives. But we're always told that our prisons are overcrowded so they haven't got the room have they? Don't worry, I think I've come up with the solution. We must round up the criminals and tie them all together with a thick rope in a very tight bunch. Then ship 'em to Iceland and pop them as a 'cork', headfirst into the mountain top to stem the volcanic eruption.
Voilà! Two birds with one stone and all that. Roll on May 7th.
I've just watched the first party leader debate on the UK's Independent Television network. Well, never mind who said what - who looked best? Nick Clegg got my vote for the best tie, David Cameron won for the best suit and Gordon ... oh gawd. Well done to ITV for screening a question from a token Jewish person and showing that they had someone in a muslim head dress in the studio audience. So P.C. So pukey.
When our leader and would-be leaders got to the question of law and order, Clegg and Brown talked a load of rubbish but Cameron seemed to have the right ideas on longer and more punitive sentences for crimes affecting people's lives. But we're always told that our prisons are overcrowded so they haven't got the room have they? Don't worry, I think I've come up with the solution. We must round up the criminals and tie them all together with a thick rope in a very tight bunch. Then ship 'em to Iceland and pop them as a 'cork', headfirst into the mountain top to stem the volcanic eruption.
Voilà! Two birds with one stone and all that. Roll on May 7th.
Sunday 4 April 2010
It's a sin
Hail Mary, full of grace. Until last Friday, did anyone know that the Pope has his very own personal preacher? How cool is that? I think we should all have one of those; someone on hand just to give us a little preach here or there whenever we need one. I’m thinking of appointing one myself but I can’t decide how to write the job spec. Would it be full or part time? And should the Preacher follow me around everywhere and, well, preach? Must I set him some monthly preaching targets and would he expect an annual job review and merit salary increases? A bonus perhaps for exceptional or outstanding preaching? So many questions, so little time.
Anyway, last week, the Pope’s personal preacher made a Good Friday address at St Peter's Basilica in the Vatican. He said that recent attacks on the Pope and the Church were comparable to the persecution suffered by the Jews who “know from experience what it means to be victims of collective violence” and are thus “quick to recognise the recurring symptoms.” He went on to tell the congregation that he’d received a letter from one of his good Jewish friends who had written that “the use of stereotypes and the shifting of personal responsibility to a collective guilt reminds me of some of the more shameful aspects of anti-Semitism suffered by Jews under the Nazis.” Aaah, that old chestnut. The Catholic Church can talk about the War now because back in 2000, the Pope apologised to the Jewish faith for his Church's role in it. So that’s all OK then, we’re all friends now.
The Vatican really must be luxuriating in its very own little bubble of smug self-righteousness if it can’t see just how offensive and out of touch this sort of rubbish is.
Let’s have a think about this. First, how very admirable that Father Raniero Cantalamessa, the Pope’s personal preacher has a Jewish friend. Very well done and three cheers to him in demonstrating so publicly how clued up and right-on his is in widening his social circle beyond the hallowed walls of the Vatican. I’m sure he wanted us all to know how by mixing with a variety of people (and yes, even Jews) he has much more a well-rounded understanding of human nature. Friends, let’s give him a round of applause and big respect. Next, he’ll be telling us that some of his best friends are Jews or excuse me, was that implicit?
Secondly, which particular ‘aspects of anti-semitism suffered by the Jews under the Nazis’ weren’t shameful? I’m trying really, really hard to think of some but (and perhaps it’s just me) I simply can’t come up with any that were sort of OK rather than shameful. Perhaps it was the early book burning that Father Cantalamessa finds acceptable? Has anyone tried to burn the Pope’s books recently, attempted to take away his job or ban him from any particular schools, restaurants or modes of public transport?
Maybe it was the deportations that weren’t really that bad. Has anyone endeavoured to deport the Pope for no reason at all or indeed suggested that his job should be forcibly taken from him and given to someone else?
Could it be that robbing people of valuables has some merit? Have any uniformed thugs tried to rob the Pope of all of his valuables or to pull out his gold fillings in the last few weeks?
In fact, has anyone said or done anything to make the Pope fearful for his life or well being in any meaningful way? I’m sure that they haven’t because that really would be shameful. Hey Father Cantalamessa – Hellooo! Media and public comment is one of the horrid inconveniences that a free society must suffer in order to remain free so just get over it. If the Pope can’t take the heat, he should take himself back to Germany.
Finally, what a huge insult to the people whose lives have been demonlished by the criminal paedophillic activities of Catholic priests. For the record Father Cantalamessa, the jury’s out on whether Pope Benedict’s unit that investigated child abuse amongst Priests attempted to ‘crack-down’ or ‘cover-up’ and very often, there’s no smoke without fire. It’s not the Pope who suffered at the hands of child abusers but it is him who perhaps should have acted and spoken up sooner, louder and far more forcibly than he chose to do. In words of few syllables Father Cantalamessa, let me explain that it is this that so many people are so upset about. So now Pope Benedict has to face a little public criticism for his role (or lack of it) in this sorry affair. Well boo hoo, we all feel really sorry for him.
Whether the Pope is personally culpable or not, he’s the leader and the buck stops with him. Shame on you for your sickening comparisons, shame on the perpetrators and shame on the conspirators within your Church who knowingly kept this all under wraps for so long. It’s a sin.
Anyway, last week, the Pope’s personal preacher made a Good Friday address at St Peter's Basilica in the Vatican. He said that recent attacks on the Pope and the Church were comparable to the persecution suffered by the Jews who “know from experience what it means to be victims of collective violence” and are thus “quick to recognise the recurring symptoms.” He went on to tell the congregation that he’d received a letter from one of his good Jewish friends who had written that “the use of stereotypes and the shifting of personal responsibility to a collective guilt reminds me of some of the more shameful aspects of anti-Semitism suffered by Jews under the Nazis.” Aaah, that old chestnut. The Catholic Church can talk about the War now because back in 2000, the Pope apologised to the Jewish faith for his Church's role in it. So that’s all OK then, we’re all friends now.
The Vatican really must be luxuriating in its very own little bubble of smug self-righteousness if it can’t see just how offensive and out of touch this sort of rubbish is.
Let’s have a think about this. First, how very admirable that Father Raniero Cantalamessa, the Pope’s personal preacher has a Jewish friend. Very well done and three cheers to him in demonstrating so publicly how clued up and right-on his is in widening his social circle beyond the hallowed walls of the Vatican. I’m sure he wanted us all to know how by mixing with a variety of people (and yes, even Jews) he has much more a well-rounded understanding of human nature. Friends, let’s give him a round of applause and big respect. Next, he’ll be telling us that some of his best friends are Jews or excuse me, was that implicit?
Secondly, which particular ‘aspects of anti-semitism suffered by the Jews under the Nazis’ weren’t shameful? I’m trying really, really hard to think of some but (and perhaps it’s just me) I simply can’t come up with any that were sort of OK rather than shameful. Perhaps it was the early book burning that Father Cantalamessa finds acceptable? Has anyone tried to burn the Pope’s books recently, attempted to take away his job or ban him from any particular schools, restaurants or modes of public transport?
Maybe it was the deportations that weren’t really that bad. Has anyone endeavoured to deport the Pope for no reason at all or indeed suggested that his job should be forcibly taken from him and given to someone else?
Could it be that robbing people of valuables has some merit? Have any uniformed thugs tried to rob the Pope of all of his valuables or to pull out his gold fillings in the last few weeks?
In fact, has anyone said or done anything to make the Pope fearful for his life or well being in any meaningful way? I’m sure that they haven’t because that really would be shameful. Hey Father Cantalamessa – Hellooo! Media and public comment is one of the horrid inconveniences that a free society must suffer in order to remain free so just get over it. If the Pope can’t take the heat, he should take himself back to Germany.
Finally, what a huge insult to the people whose lives have been demonlished by the criminal paedophillic activities of Catholic priests. For the record Father Cantalamessa, the jury’s out on whether Pope Benedict’s unit that investigated child abuse amongst Priests attempted to ‘crack-down’ or ‘cover-up’ and very often, there’s no smoke without fire. It’s not the Pope who suffered at the hands of child abusers but it is him who perhaps should have acted and spoken up sooner, louder and far more forcibly than he chose to do. In words of few syllables Father Cantalamessa, let me explain that it is this that so many people are so upset about. So now Pope Benedict has to face a little public criticism for his role (or lack of it) in this sorry affair. Well boo hoo, we all feel really sorry for him.
Whether the Pope is personally culpable or not, he’s the leader and the buck stops with him. Shame on you for your sickening comparisons, shame on the perpetrators and shame on the conspirators within your Church who knowingly kept this all under wraps for so long. It’s a sin.
Friday 19 March 2010
Flying high
A couple of weeks ago, me and Big-J were sat having lunch with friends of his of some forty years standing; lucky friends who've found that the harder they've worked, the luckier they've got. As a Joanna-come-lately, I’ve officially adopted them as my very own bosom buddies - and we’re very close. ‘Are you going to Cannes for the property fair?’ said the friend (let's just call him The Don). ‘No’ we said whilst explaining that the property sector isn’t really in Big-J’s new client target vista just at the moment. ‘Well if you fancy a few days there,’ said The Don, 'I’ll give you a lift.’
We knew what that meant. We knew exactly what that meant and we were excited.
The Don has a private jet at his disposal and clearly had a couple of spare seats on the Nice to and fro. We thought about it ooh, for a nano-second, before biting his arm off. Who were we to turn down an act of such lavish generosity? It would've been rude. And as it happened, Big-J had been invited, by various contacts, to attend a couple of parties and events there so we knew it made sense.
When you show up at Luton’s private terminal it’s frankly very weird. Everyone’s shockingly nice to you. It's all plush carpet, tie-back curtains, leather settees and potted palms. They smile, they talk, they offer you coffee and biscuits and you park your car in the dear little space just outside so as you can see it out of the corner of your eye as you watch breakfast TV on the eighty-four inch plasma screen. There’s not a hint of queuing, pushing, screaming children or nasty niffs. It’s all just über civilised and very calm.
Halfway through your second coffee, a pilot appears to say that we’re about ready to go but please, no hurry, do finish your refreshments and then we’ll take you out. A large and comfortable car drives you the few yards to the door of the plane and, after boarding you choose your seat, one of six pure luxury leather arm-chairs that, at the flick of a switch, go backwards, forwards and swivel. The day’s newspapers and a selection of magazines are on hand as are cushions, blankets and an on board toilet should you get caught short. Twenty minutes into the flight, breakfast is served. To be honest, this is where it all got a bit stressful – to choose the double chocolate or the blueberry muffin? An impossible quandary. In the end, I opted for a portion of beautifully prepared exotic fruit but I sampled Big-J’s chocolate muffin because when you eat something like that off someone else’s plate, it’s not fattening.
The weather was clear and bright, the flight was smooth and sociable and on landing at Nice another car was waiting on the tarmac to transport us to the terminal where there was a dinky little, unmanned passport control point. This was where it all seemed to be going horribly wrong. We were told we must wait whilst they found an immigration officer to check our passports but, after a few minutes when no one appeared, our escort gave us that familiar French ‘shrug’ and took us through anyway.
The Don's driver dropped us off at the car hire point and it was there we parted company until a few days later when we all flew home again, same fashion, same style and still no immigration officer at Nice passport control.
It really is the only way to travel but back here in the real world, with a bloody great bang, I’m just dreading my next Easyjet bun-flight.
We knew what that meant. We knew exactly what that meant and we were excited.
The Don has a private jet at his disposal and clearly had a couple of spare seats on the Nice to and fro. We thought about it ooh, for a nano-second, before biting his arm off. Who were we to turn down an act of such lavish generosity? It would've been rude. And as it happened, Big-J had been invited, by various contacts, to attend a couple of parties and events there so we knew it made sense.
When you show up at Luton’s private terminal it’s frankly very weird. Everyone’s shockingly nice to you. It's all plush carpet, tie-back curtains, leather settees and potted palms. They smile, they talk, they offer you coffee and biscuits and you park your car in the dear little space just outside so as you can see it out of the corner of your eye as you watch breakfast TV on the eighty-four inch plasma screen. There’s not a hint of queuing, pushing, screaming children or nasty niffs. It’s all just über civilised and very calm.
Halfway through your second coffee, a pilot appears to say that we’re about ready to go but please, no hurry, do finish your refreshments and then we’ll take you out. A large and comfortable car drives you the few yards to the door of the plane and, after boarding you choose your seat, one of six pure luxury leather arm-chairs that, at the flick of a switch, go backwards, forwards and swivel. The day’s newspapers and a selection of magazines are on hand as are cushions, blankets and an on board toilet should you get caught short. Twenty minutes into the flight, breakfast is served. To be honest, this is where it all got a bit stressful – to choose the double chocolate or the blueberry muffin? An impossible quandary. In the end, I opted for a portion of beautifully prepared exotic fruit but I sampled Big-J’s chocolate muffin because when you eat something like that off someone else’s plate, it’s not fattening.
The weather was clear and bright, the flight was smooth and sociable and on landing at Nice another car was waiting on the tarmac to transport us to the terminal where there was a dinky little, unmanned passport control point. This was where it all seemed to be going horribly wrong. We were told we must wait whilst they found an immigration officer to check our passports but, after a few minutes when no one appeared, our escort gave us that familiar French ‘shrug’ and took us through anyway.
The Don's driver dropped us off at the car hire point and it was there we parted company until a few days later when we all flew home again, same fashion, same style and still no immigration officer at Nice passport control.
It really is the only way to travel but back here in the real world, with a bloody great bang, I’m just dreading my next Easyjet bun-flight.
Monday 1 March 2010
It's very simple...
Are you a fan of cookery programmes? We love 'em. Being children of the sparse Fanny and Johnny/Galloping Gourmet TV era, the veritable banquet of such programmes today is like beluga caviar to people like us.
But there's one thing that gives us indigestion. I challenge you to watch one of these programmes without the chef telling you, at least twice or fifteen times, "this is very simple to make ..." as they assemble 23 ingredients, 8 bowls, two whisks and several gadgets that no domestic kitchen could ever even source. Take Ray White for example, tonight I watched him prepare a 'very simple' dessert of apple soufflé served in a hollowed out, lined and baked apple. As if it wasn't enough to watch him preparing this simple dessert in a matter of TV edited moments, he then suggested serving it on a fluffy cloud of sabayon and garnishing it with small pieces of caramelised apple - very simple to make - and small dollops of apple jelly - an absolute doddle apparently if you happen to have apple juice, agar flakes and several spare hours to hand, a quenelle of exquisitely home made apple sorbet (which is simplicity-on-a-plate if you happen to own a professional ice-cream maker) and all this garnished with a wafer thin apple crisp - so simple that he didn't even show us how to make it. I put it to you that this dish would take a normal person around seventeen hours to prepare. Oh s'il vous plait Monsieur Blanc! Voilà, anyone could do that.
A couple of Saturdays ago, James Martin on Saturday Kitchen must have told us nine or ten times how very simple the dish he was cooking was. I can't remember what it was now. I sort of lost the will to live at the fifth simple saucepan and eighteenth simple ingredient.
We indoors like to think we can cook (although those who saw our inaugural TV appearance a few weeks ago may disagree) but like Shirley Conran, I think life really is too short to stuff a mushroom, hollow out an apple or fashion an espresso cup and saucer from liquid chocolate.
How the hell, I often wonder, do these chefs define the word 'simple'? So come on you cheffy guys, just stop it with all this ridiculously simple stuff. You can take the heat, you're in the kitchen! Show us what you're made of and cook something really complex for a change. I can hardly wait ...
But there's one thing that gives us indigestion. I challenge you to watch one of these programmes without the chef telling you, at least twice or fifteen times, "this is very simple to make ..." as they assemble 23 ingredients, 8 bowls, two whisks and several gadgets that no domestic kitchen could ever even source. Take Ray White for example, tonight I watched him prepare a 'very simple' dessert of apple soufflé served in a hollowed out, lined and baked apple. As if it wasn't enough to watch him preparing this simple dessert in a matter of TV edited moments, he then suggested serving it on a fluffy cloud of sabayon and garnishing it with small pieces of caramelised apple - very simple to make - and small dollops of apple jelly - an absolute doddle apparently if you happen to have apple juice, agar flakes and several spare hours to hand, a quenelle of exquisitely home made apple sorbet (which is simplicity-on-a-plate if you happen to own a professional ice-cream maker) and all this garnished with a wafer thin apple crisp - so simple that he didn't even show us how to make it. I put it to you that this dish would take a normal person around seventeen hours to prepare. Oh s'il vous plait Monsieur Blanc! Voilà, anyone could do that.
A couple of Saturdays ago, James Martin on Saturday Kitchen must have told us nine or ten times how very simple the dish he was cooking was. I can't remember what it was now. I sort of lost the will to live at the fifth simple saucepan and eighteenth simple ingredient.
We indoors like to think we can cook (although those who saw our inaugural TV appearance a few weeks ago may disagree) but like Shirley Conran, I think life really is too short to stuff a mushroom, hollow out an apple or fashion an espresso cup and saucer from liquid chocolate.
How the hell, I often wonder, do these chefs define the word 'simple'? So come on you cheffy guys, just stop it with all this ridiculously simple stuff. You can take the heat, you're in the kitchen! Show us what you're made of and cook something really complex for a change. I can hardly wait ...
Monday 15 February 2010
Murano - it's a 'must'
I must highly recommend Murano, that's the restaurant and not the small glass blowing island near to Venice although please don't misunderstand me, that's a pretty place to visit too - for glass. The food's better though at London's Murano restaurant.
Yes, it may be part of the ubiquitous Gordon Ramsay group and yes, we'd all love the excellent restaurants that we adore to be small, independent entities but, Murano must take some beating.
My husband is, as those who know him will attest, a generous spirit. He's also ever so slightly barmy and when those two personality traits collide, it can be a very dangerous and hazardous combo. I say that because he invited a group friends to a lavish dinner at this Michelin starred restaurant to celebrate both our birthdays. How often have you had a invitation like that?
We were lucky to get our table for eight at Murano because they don't really do tables for eight. Gordon Ramsay restaurants apparently think that a table for more than six people is horribly vulgar. They don't say that overtly but I'm told it's just that those 'in the know' know.
Our table was a great. A big round one at the rear of the restaurant although we were just opposite the door to the kitchen but, as we were eight and the conversation was flowing, it's didn't disturb us. Anyway, it was nice to glance into the kitchen from time to time. No shouting, no flying saucepans, no Gordon-type theatricals in evidence here. Perhaps it's because the chef is a lady. It's Angela Hartnett's restaurant and she's doing a brilliant job. The menu is fabulous with a great choice and even a full vegetarian menu as an option which was music to our ears as two of our guests were non-meat eaters. With the fish choices on the main menu and the added bonus of the vegetarian menu, they had more choice than they are used to. They actually got a bit over-excited.
I started with Scottish sea scallops served with apple and cucumber salsa, pata negra, pumpkin purée, and candied walnuts which was quite simply drop dead delicious and followed that with a perfectly cooked Gressingham duck breast to die for, served with parsley root purée, creamed Savoy cabbage and confit leg. The portions were small but perfectly formed leaving room for dessert - the best bit. I chose a Plum crémeux and spiced caramel parfait with a feuillantine crunch and roasted plum which was perfect - until I clapped my beady-greedy eyes on the pistachio soufflé with hot chocolate sauce (that another of our party had opted for) which was even more perfect. I've never seen such a quintessentially voluptuous, impeccable soufflé in my entire life and, hovering menacingly with my spoon, I barely waited to be invited before plunging in for a taste. It was utterly spectacular and I wished I ordered it too - along with the Plum crémeux! It was that delicious, I could have eaten both.
Other highlights included well, everything. I could go on in detail about the white onion risotto, Scottish venison loin, Winter vegetable sald or line caught sea bass but suffice it to say, our whole party was agreed that it was some of the best food we'd eaten in London in recent memory.
If I was to be an icky-bicky bit picky, I'd have to say that the wine list is über expensive. My advice, stick to Italian wines as the French wines on their list are second-mortgage worthy. The service was also a tad slow although all of the staff were very friendly without being intrusive or in any way snotty. It didn't matter to us as we were up for a whole evening out but our table was booked for 8pm and we eventually rolled out at just before midnight. At just under four hours, it was a long dinner. In their defence, it was the night before Valentine's day so they were running a special eight course Valentine menu alongside of their à la carte and the restaurant was full to capacity.
It's not cheap and not somewhere to go everyday but for a special occasion and for Mayfair, it's not extortionately, ludicrously expensive either. The dinner menu is priced at £60 per head for three courses, the only supplement being an £8 charge for cheese (which I don't fully understand). We didn't stint ourselves. We started with a bottle of Prosecco and followed that by a bottle or two of white and three or four bottles of red. With all of that, we felt we'd had good value.
Murano offers a set lunch at £27 per head. If you like lunching, that'd be a real bargain. And if you want company, I'm free!
Yes, it may be part of the ubiquitous Gordon Ramsay group and yes, we'd all love the excellent restaurants that we adore to be small, independent entities but, Murano must take some beating.
My husband is, as those who know him will attest, a generous spirit. He's also ever so slightly barmy and when those two personality traits collide, it can be a very dangerous and hazardous combo. I say that because he invited a group friends to a lavish dinner at this Michelin starred restaurant to celebrate both our birthdays. How often have you had a invitation like that?
We were lucky to get our table for eight at Murano because they don't really do tables for eight. Gordon Ramsay restaurants apparently think that a table for more than six people is horribly vulgar. They don't say that overtly but I'm told it's just that those 'in the know' know.
Our table was a great. A big round one at the rear of the restaurant although we were just opposite the door to the kitchen but, as we were eight and the conversation was flowing, it's didn't disturb us. Anyway, it was nice to glance into the kitchen from time to time. No shouting, no flying saucepans, no Gordon-type theatricals in evidence here. Perhaps it's because the chef is a lady. It's Angela Hartnett's restaurant and she's doing a brilliant job. The menu is fabulous with a great choice and even a full vegetarian menu as an option which was music to our ears as two of our guests were non-meat eaters. With the fish choices on the main menu and the added bonus of the vegetarian menu, they had more choice than they are used to. They actually got a bit over-excited.
I started with Scottish sea scallops served with apple and cucumber salsa, pata negra, pumpkin purée, and candied walnuts which was quite simply drop dead delicious and followed that with a perfectly cooked Gressingham duck breast to die for, served with parsley root purée, creamed Savoy cabbage and confit leg. The portions were small but perfectly formed leaving room for dessert - the best bit. I chose a Plum crémeux and spiced caramel parfait with a feuillantine crunch and roasted plum which was perfect - until I clapped my beady-greedy eyes on the pistachio soufflé with hot chocolate sauce (that another of our party had opted for) which was even more perfect. I've never seen such a quintessentially voluptuous, impeccable soufflé in my entire life and, hovering menacingly with my spoon, I barely waited to be invited before plunging in for a taste. It was utterly spectacular and I wished I ordered it too - along with the Plum crémeux! It was that delicious, I could have eaten both.
Other highlights included well, everything. I could go on in detail about the white onion risotto, Scottish venison loin, Winter vegetable sald or line caught sea bass but suffice it to say, our whole party was agreed that it was some of the best food we'd eaten in London in recent memory.
If I was to be an icky-bicky bit picky, I'd have to say that the wine list is über expensive. My advice, stick to Italian wines as the French wines on their list are second-mortgage worthy. The service was also a tad slow although all of the staff were very friendly without being intrusive or in any way snotty. It didn't matter to us as we were up for a whole evening out but our table was booked for 8pm and we eventually rolled out at just before midnight. At just under four hours, it was a long dinner. In their defence, it was the night before Valentine's day so they were running a special eight course Valentine menu alongside of their à la carte and the restaurant was full to capacity.
It's not cheap and not somewhere to go everyday but for a special occasion and for Mayfair, it's not extortionately, ludicrously expensive either. The dinner menu is priced at £60 per head for three courses, the only supplement being an £8 charge for cheese (which I don't fully understand). We didn't stint ourselves. We started with a bottle of Prosecco and followed that by a bottle or two of white and three or four bottles of red. With all of that, we felt we'd had good value.
Murano offers a set lunch at £27 per head. If you like lunching, that'd be a real bargain. And if you want company, I'm free!
Friday 12 February 2010
A giant victory for man, a small victory for mankind
Don't you just love it when something you expect to go wrong, goes right? Allow me to explain. I've just won a HUGE victory against a GIANT medical insurance company, proof positive that sometimes, with a bit of grit and perseverance, the 'little man' can occasionally win against the corporate giant.
What happened is that a couple of years ago, I had surgery on my eyes to cure a problem that was affecting my vision. Well, the surgery cured one problem but created another, worse one. I won't go into the gory details lest to say that I required further surgery to rectify the damaging side effects of the first surgery. The procedure I required was defined by my medical insurers as 'cosmetic' and they refused to cover it. The truth is that under normal circumstances, the procedure I had would have been cosmetic. However, I did not elect to have it and I would not have chosen to have cosmetic eye surgery. After what I'd just been through with the first surgery, I never wanted to see a doctor again. The eye surgeon who performed the second 'cosmetic' surgery was so convinced of my absolute need of it that he had offered to take me onto his NHS patient list. As I had medical insurance and as members of my family were concerned about the MRSA virus and didn't want me treated in a large teaching hospital, I chose to have the surgery privately. I was convinced that the insurer would eventually see sense and cough up.
Prior to the second surgery, my insurance company sent me for various silly tests (all of which were 'rubbished' by my surgeon) and then had an 'independent expert' prepare a report which, they said, proved that the surgery was unnecessary and therefore cosmetic. Their expert was appointed and paid by them. He never examined me nor spoke to either of my two surgeons. To me, that bore none of the hallmarks of independence.
So, after taking legal advice, as the claim was relatively small I elected not to involve lawyers but to put the case in front of the Financial Ombudsman. The Ombudsman required all sorts of forms to be filled and evidence to be submitted. This was a long and drawn out procedure but, after a year or so of consideration, the Ombudsman's adjudicator found in my favour. Great, now (I thought) I'll wait for the cheque.
But no, the insurance company decided to appeal to the highest level at the Ombudsman's service and submitted a further whining letter explaining why they should not have to pay out in this case. At that point, they did not submit any new evidence. We were accordingly able to (metaphorically) tear that letter to bits.
It took a further seven months for the Ombudsman to uphold their own adjudicator's decision and unequivocally find in my favour. The medical insurance company is now obliged to pay me in full plus a whopping 8% interest on the total amount dating back to day I first put the case to the Ombudsman - now just short of two years. I'm currently waiting for the cheque which, if it doesn't arrive, will be generated by means of an enforcement order issued by the Ombudsman against the insurer. You could say that in these straightened times, it's proved to be rather a good investment.
It's a right and fair decision about which I feel wonderfully, happily and gloriously smug. So, don't let the bastards grind you down! There are remdedies. Fight for your rights!
What happened is that a couple of years ago, I had surgery on my eyes to cure a problem that was affecting my vision. Well, the surgery cured one problem but created another, worse one. I won't go into the gory details lest to say that I required further surgery to rectify the damaging side effects of the first surgery. The procedure I required was defined by my medical insurers as 'cosmetic' and they refused to cover it. The truth is that under normal circumstances, the procedure I had would have been cosmetic. However, I did not elect to have it and I would not have chosen to have cosmetic eye surgery. After what I'd just been through with the first surgery, I never wanted to see a doctor again. The eye surgeon who performed the second 'cosmetic' surgery was so convinced of my absolute need of it that he had offered to take me onto his NHS patient list. As I had medical insurance and as members of my family were concerned about the MRSA virus and didn't want me treated in a large teaching hospital, I chose to have the surgery privately. I was convinced that the insurer would eventually see sense and cough up.
Prior to the second surgery, my insurance company sent me for various silly tests (all of which were 'rubbished' by my surgeon) and then had an 'independent expert' prepare a report which, they said, proved that the surgery was unnecessary and therefore cosmetic. Their expert was appointed and paid by them. He never examined me nor spoke to either of my two surgeons. To me, that bore none of the hallmarks of independence.
So, after taking legal advice, as the claim was relatively small I elected not to involve lawyers but to put the case in front of the Financial Ombudsman. The Ombudsman required all sorts of forms to be filled and evidence to be submitted. This was a long and drawn out procedure but, after a year or so of consideration, the Ombudsman's adjudicator found in my favour. Great, now (I thought) I'll wait for the cheque.
But no, the insurance company decided to appeal to the highest level at the Ombudsman's service and submitted a further whining letter explaining why they should not have to pay out in this case. At that point, they did not submit any new evidence. We were accordingly able to (metaphorically) tear that letter to bits.
It took a further seven months for the Ombudsman to uphold their own adjudicator's decision and unequivocally find in my favour. The medical insurance company is now obliged to pay me in full plus a whopping 8% interest on the total amount dating back to day I first put the case to the Ombudsman - now just short of two years. I'm currently waiting for the cheque which, if it doesn't arrive, will be generated by means of an enforcement order issued by the Ombudsman against the insurer. You could say that in these straightened times, it's proved to be rather a good investment.
It's a right and fair decision about which I feel wonderfully, happily and gloriously smug. So, don't let the bastards grind you down! There are remdedies. Fight for your rights!
Wednesday 10 February 2010
I'm cooking on television!
Hold the front page, I'm going to be on the telly. Yes, I really am. It's a bit of a thing in my family, my brother works for the BBC and he's on all the time. I admit it, he makes me jealous. It's like, I mean like, I totally crave celebrity - know what I mean like? - for no other reason than to be invited to onto Strictly Come Dancing. I can see it now - the dancing, the sparkly dresses, the make-up, the exercise, the weight loss, the having a little affair with my dance partner ... Anyway, I digress.
My programme is much less sparkly and is called Instant Restaurant. To be broadcast on the posh channel, BBC2, on Tuesday 16th February at 17.15h, it's part of a 20-part series commencing the day before, on Monday 15th February. I have no idea what it's going to be like.
And so it came to pass that one day back in October, I spent around ten hours cooking in my kitchen, with my husband and a film crew - well, the film crew weren't cooking, they were filming. But my husband was cooking because truth be told, in many ways, he's a better cook than me. But we had to elect one of us to be chief cook. On the day and for one day only, he played sous-chef which makes a change because usually he's a bit of a kitchen bully. Very bossy and strict about whipping, stirring, chopping and keeping the granite worktops shiny and clean, he believes that there's a right way of doing things, that's his way. But for that one glorious day he had to follow my orders or at least, pretend to. I was allowed two 'helpers' and the second chosen one was my stepson, the gorgeous investment banker Joseph who made such a hit as 'maitre d' that he generated a generous 'service charge'.
Anyway, the ten hours that the film crew spent filming us has been edited down to around twenty minutes (or less) for the forty-five minute programme and I have no idea of what it's going to be like as I haven't seen it. No doubt it will include every mistake, every cross word and every mopping of the sweat off our brows. The day was fun but stressful and beyond exhausting. I'm scared, I'm very, very scared.
The premise of Instant Restaurant is that two amateur cooks go head to head to see if they've got what it takes to create a restaurant in their own homes for one night only - and make a profit. The profit came from ten diners who were allowed to pay what they thought the meal was worth plus whatever we didn't spend of the original food budget of £20 per head. We were asked to create a three course menu with two choices per course which meant, when it boils down to it - and you get a 'jus' -cooking six courses. This we did between approximately 10.00h (when the crew showed up) and 18.30h (when we served). Advance preparation was forbidden so it was hard,hard work. The series will be presented by the very charming Nadia Sawalha.
I guess what the edited show may not make clear is that on the day of cooking, I had no idea of whom I was competing with. None of us 'cooks' knew who our competition was. That only came out some weeks later when we were eventually brought together at the unlikely venue of a conference centre in Cheshunt where we were filmed 'chatting' to Nadia and reacting to being told how much profit we had made, ergo whether we had won. I won''t spoil the surprise for you by divulging the winner but my competitor was a Moroccan lady who cooked about 153 great sounding dishes. As I told her, I'm sure my husband would like an invite round her gaff.
Before we agreed to participate, we spent hours carefully questioning the production company about how they would recruit the ten mystery diners. We weren't allowed to invite any of our friends or family or anyone who knew us or who knew anyone who knew us. We were told that the production company would advertise locally, in the local (excellent) paper and by putting up notices in all of Hampstead's lovely little local food-type shops; the delicatessen, the fishmonger and maybe our local Waitrose. We were to expect a posse of Hampstead 'foodies' and perhaps a local chef and/or food critic. We planned our menu accordingly.
Well, none of that happened.
I think what probably happened is that one day in the planning process, whoever was in charge of recruiting diners thought to themselves, "...hang on a frigging minute! There are twenty programmes with two cooks per programme. That equals forty dinners. That means finding 400 diners! Holy Moly, that's a lot of people to find and we haven't got the budget". At that point, they gave up the ghost and bunged a notice up on their website, then taking whoever applied.
We were lucky because the ten who turned up on the night were absolutely charming lovely people but there wasn't a chef, a critic or what I'd call a 'foodie' amongst them and had we known, we'd have planned a totally different menu. (I give you this nugget as background lest you think us completely insane and totally out of touch with reality when you see the show.)
Just before I go, things to look out for on the night are the hollandaise, Jeff's melba toast, my neighbour's beautiful sculptures and proof positive that you just can't run a restaurant from a domestic kitchen with no plate warmer.
My programme is much less sparkly and is called Instant Restaurant. To be broadcast on the posh channel, BBC2, on Tuesday 16th February at 17.15h, it's part of a 20-part series commencing the day before, on Monday 15th February. I have no idea what it's going to be like.
And so it came to pass that one day back in October, I spent around ten hours cooking in my kitchen, with my husband and a film crew - well, the film crew weren't cooking, they were filming. But my husband was cooking because truth be told, in many ways, he's a better cook than me. But we had to elect one of us to be chief cook. On the day and for one day only, he played sous-chef which makes a change because usually he's a bit of a kitchen bully. Very bossy and strict about whipping, stirring, chopping and keeping the granite worktops shiny and clean, he believes that there's a right way of doing things, that's his way. But for that one glorious day he had to follow my orders or at least, pretend to. I was allowed two 'helpers' and the second chosen one was my stepson, the gorgeous investment banker Joseph who made such a hit as 'maitre d' that he generated a generous 'service charge'.
Anyway, the ten hours that the film crew spent filming us has been edited down to around twenty minutes (or less) for the forty-five minute programme and I have no idea of what it's going to be like as I haven't seen it. No doubt it will include every mistake, every cross word and every mopping of the sweat off our brows. The day was fun but stressful and beyond exhausting. I'm scared, I'm very, very scared.
The premise of Instant Restaurant is that two amateur cooks go head to head to see if they've got what it takes to create a restaurant in their own homes for one night only - and make a profit. The profit came from ten diners who were allowed to pay what they thought the meal was worth plus whatever we didn't spend of the original food budget of £20 per head. We were asked to create a three course menu with two choices per course which meant, when it boils down to it - and you get a 'jus' -cooking six courses. This we did between approximately 10.00h (when the crew showed up) and 18.30h (when we served). Advance preparation was forbidden so it was hard,hard work. The series will be presented by the very charming Nadia Sawalha.
I guess what the edited show may not make clear is that on the day of cooking, I had no idea of whom I was competing with. None of us 'cooks' knew who our competition was. That only came out some weeks later when we were eventually brought together at the unlikely venue of a conference centre in Cheshunt where we were filmed 'chatting' to Nadia and reacting to being told how much profit we had made, ergo whether we had won. I won''t spoil the surprise for you by divulging the winner but my competitor was a Moroccan lady who cooked about 153 great sounding dishes. As I told her, I'm sure my husband would like an invite round her gaff.
Before we agreed to participate, we spent hours carefully questioning the production company about how they would recruit the ten mystery diners. We weren't allowed to invite any of our friends or family or anyone who knew us or who knew anyone who knew us. We were told that the production company would advertise locally, in the local (excellent) paper and by putting up notices in all of Hampstead's lovely little local food-type shops; the delicatessen, the fishmonger and maybe our local Waitrose. We were to expect a posse of Hampstead 'foodies' and perhaps a local chef and/or food critic. We planned our menu accordingly.
Well, none of that happened.
I think what probably happened is that one day in the planning process, whoever was in charge of recruiting diners thought to themselves, "...hang on a frigging minute! There are twenty programmes with two cooks per programme. That equals forty dinners. That means finding 400 diners! Holy Moly, that's a lot of people to find and we haven't got the budget". At that point, they gave up the ghost and bunged a notice up on their website, then taking whoever applied.
We were lucky because the ten who turned up on the night were absolutely charming lovely people but there wasn't a chef, a critic or what I'd call a 'foodie' amongst them and had we known, we'd have planned a totally different menu. (I give you this nugget as background lest you think us completely insane and totally out of touch with reality when you see the show.)
Just before I go, things to look out for on the night are the hollandaise, Jeff's melba toast, my neighbour's beautiful sculptures and proof positive that you just can't run a restaurant from a domestic kitchen with no plate warmer.
Sunday 7 February 2010
USA warn the Taliban of forthcoming offensive
I really don't understand politics and I guess I'm horribly naive. I've just been watching the BBC news where they report that the USA has stated its intention to launch a major offensive to clear the Taliban from its remaining strongholds in Helmand province. I think it's planned for next week. Wednesday at around 15.42h I believe. We are being warned of likely UK casualties. Now, if you were the Taliban, what would you be doing? You'd probably be thinking to yourself, "how jolly nice and polite of the USA and its allies to warn us that they're about to try to kill us all. Very gentlemanly of them. Let's have a think ... mmm, now how should we react? Ooohh, we're really scared so let's just all throw down our weapons and come out with the white flags".
Well, I'm no tactician or military strategist but judging on the allies experience to date - somehow, I don't think so.
I make no comment about the rights and wrongs of us being in Afganistan in the first place but I'd always been led to believe that a key element of warfare is that of surprise. With all the intelligence, counter intelligence, spying, hacking and goodness knows what else in these information super-highway days, in modern warfare, the element of surprise seems to have been largely lost. But to a layman like me, it does seem ludicrous in the extreme that we're announcing, big and bold as brass through the BBC, that we're about to try to annihilate the 'enemy'. Our boys on the ground must be busy writing down their last thoughts and wishes and wondering if this time, it's going to be them as their bowels turn to water. I feel quite sick, I really do.
I just give up, I'm ready to throw in my towel. What a bizzare world we're living in. When it's all over, would the last person left please switch off the lights?
Well, I'm no tactician or military strategist but judging on the allies experience to date - somehow, I don't think so.
I make no comment about the rights and wrongs of us being in Afganistan in the first place but I'd always been led to believe that a key element of warfare is that of surprise. With all the intelligence, counter intelligence, spying, hacking and goodness knows what else in these information super-highway days, in modern warfare, the element of surprise seems to have been largely lost. But to a layman like me, it does seem ludicrous in the extreme that we're announcing, big and bold as brass through the BBC, that we're about to try to annihilate the 'enemy'. Our boys on the ground must be busy writing down their last thoughts and wishes and wondering if this time, it's going to be them as their bowels turn to water. I feel quite sick, I really do.
I just give up, I'm ready to throw in my towel. What a bizzare world we're living in. When it's all over, would the last person left please switch off the lights?
Tuesday 19 January 2010
BA cabin crew - don't strike!
The rumblings are rife. I can hardly count on two hands the number of people whom, over the last week or so, I've heard saying that they'll never fly British Airways again. This is mainly due to the threat of cabin crew strikes which, thwarted by management over Christmas, now threaten to ruin Easter for thousands of holiday-makers.
Do the cabin staff have a multiple suicide pact or something? Don't they like their jobs? Can't they see that their idiotic plan could bring down our national airline?
Back in the early 1980's, BA was in a lot of trouble. Over simplifying somewhat, we were just coming out of a devastating recession, fuel costs were high and passenger numbers were down. The company had been plagued by strikes and they were in a lot of poo. The then Sir John King was brought in as chairman with Colin Marshall (later to become chairman) as managing director. Saatchi and Saatchi, for whom I was working, came on board as the advertising agency and together, the team set about changing things. Saatchi's somehow satisfied the Advertising Standards Authority that use of the phrase 'The world's favourite airline" was kosher by virtue of passenger numbers; at the time, British Airways flew more people to more destinations than any other airline ergo, must be the World's favourite. That lovely, calming, catchy piece of classical music (Lakme by Delibe) was appropriated and became inextricably linked to British Airways. It seems almost comical now in these green, politically correct and straightened times but one of our campaigns focussed on the fact that if you'd booked a ticket, even if you were only one passenger, British Airways would put on a plane to fly to you to your destination. (Now, some people claim it's mere co-incidence that my time looking after the BA account corresponded with a change for the better in their fortunes. Some people may think otherwise, but I couldn't possibly comment.) Very soon, a sense of national pride in our airline was restored and so began the 25 or so 'feast' years.
The last couple of years have been hard for everyone. Again, fuel costs are high and everyone's cutting back on business travel wherever possible. But I've flown BA several times over the last year and have found the service to be excellent, prompt and courteous despite some cut-backs. That's not counting getting stranded in France, for an extra 24 hours, the day after the Big Snow shut down UK PLC but I couldn't blame the airline for that. I just counted myself lucky not to have been booked on Easyjet. Some of their passengers were stranded for four or five days.
If the cabin staff strike it could just spell the end. There are already talks of a merger with Iberia in order to survive but if loyal passengers start deserting in big numbers, the end could be nigh.
I have a little bit of sympathy with the crew. Willie Walsh doesn't strike me as the most sympathetic, charming or charismatic individual but he's a businessman fighting for his life and the future of BA here. Use mediators, find some common ground. The cabin staff need to understand that some cut-backs now are vital to ensure their future employment. Guys - painful though it may be the short term, long term prosperity, your job security and national pride is at stake here.
Don't strike! Negotiate, mediate and spare a little thought for the passengers.
Do the cabin staff have a multiple suicide pact or something? Don't they like their jobs? Can't they see that their idiotic plan could bring down our national airline?
Back in the early 1980's, BA was in a lot of trouble. Over simplifying somewhat, we were just coming out of a devastating recession, fuel costs were high and passenger numbers were down. The company had been plagued by strikes and they were in a lot of poo. The then Sir John King was brought in as chairman with Colin Marshall (later to become chairman) as managing director. Saatchi and Saatchi, for whom I was working, came on board as the advertising agency and together, the team set about changing things. Saatchi's somehow satisfied the Advertising Standards Authority that use of the phrase 'The world's favourite airline" was kosher by virtue of passenger numbers; at the time, British Airways flew more people to more destinations than any other airline ergo, must be the World's favourite. That lovely, calming, catchy piece of classical music (Lakme by Delibe) was appropriated and became inextricably linked to British Airways. It seems almost comical now in these green, politically correct and straightened times but one of our campaigns focussed on the fact that if you'd booked a ticket, even if you were only one passenger, British Airways would put on a plane to fly to you to your destination. (Now, some people claim it's mere co-incidence that my time looking after the BA account corresponded with a change for the better in their fortunes. Some people may think otherwise, but I couldn't possibly comment.) Very soon, a sense of national pride in our airline was restored and so began the 25 or so 'feast' years.
The last couple of years have been hard for everyone. Again, fuel costs are high and everyone's cutting back on business travel wherever possible. But I've flown BA several times over the last year and have found the service to be excellent, prompt and courteous despite some cut-backs. That's not counting getting stranded in France, for an extra 24 hours, the day after the Big Snow shut down UK PLC but I couldn't blame the airline for that. I just counted myself lucky not to have been booked on Easyjet. Some of their passengers were stranded for four or five days.
If the cabin staff strike it could just spell the end. There are already talks of a merger with Iberia in order to survive but if loyal passengers start deserting in big numbers, the end could be nigh.
I have a little bit of sympathy with the crew. Willie Walsh doesn't strike me as the most sympathetic, charming or charismatic individual but he's a businessman fighting for his life and the future of BA here. Use mediators, find some common ground. The cabin staff need to understand that some cut-backs now are vital to ensure their future employment. Guys - painful though it may be the short term, long term prosperity, your job security and national pride is at stake here.
Don't strike! Negotiate, mediate and spare a little thought for the passengers.
Monday 11 January 2010
Festive blubber
The festive season is all well and good but the aftermath is pants, especially when you can't fit into yours.
Having spent most of last year ridding myself of excess weight and getting fit, the blubber has piled on over the last couple of weeks and I've set myself back to about last May. Actually, I don't know quite what the damage is because I haven't dared weigh myself to avoid potentially spiralling into the depths of despair. I hardly ever weigh myself, I prefer to judge my weight by whether or not I can fit into my tight jeans and just at the moment, I can't.
I hit the gym today for the first time in ages and it was really, really hard to do my routine, even at a reduced pace. And I went and hurt my leg. I also punished myself with no breakfast, a baked potato and salad lunch and a lean chicken and salad supper with no wine (lucky I like salad) - although I couldn't resist the Williams Sanoma balsamic onion chutney brought lovingly to me by my Christmas visiting Canadian friends. Yummy.
The problem is, I like most things. My inclination is to see food and eat it. I just love food and I love all the wrong stuff. I love all the right stuff too and I've never really got the hang of portion control. Control is a concept I've never been that comfortable with in any aspect of my life which is what makes curbing excesses so much more difficult for me than for normal people. I can resist anything but temptation.
It's important for me to stay slim and eat properly because frankly, I feel so much better when I do those things. I guess I need to be very rigid most of the time and allow for the odd excess here and there without beating myself up. Yes, good idea because we're making a roast beef lunch for guests this coming Sunday. Then, toward the end of the month, we've been invited to friends who have a rather famous Michelin starred chef coming over to cook dinner for them and their eight nearest and dearest (no, it's not Gordon - but close). i can't miss out on that one.
So, until Sunday at least, it's rations for me and lots of exercise - even if I have to do it on one leg.
Having spent most of last year ridding myself of excess weight and getting fit, the blubber has piled on over the last couple of weeks and I've set myself back to about last May. Actually, I don't know quite what the damage is because I haven't dared weigh myself to avoid potentially spiralling into the depths of despair. I hardly ever weigh myself, I prefer to judge my weight by whether or not I can fit into my tight jeans and just at the moment, I can't.
I hit the gym today for the first time in ages and it was really, really hard to do my routine, even at a reduced pace. And I went and hurt my leg. I also punished myself with no breakfast, a baked potato and salad lunch and a lean chicken and salad supper with no wine (lucky I like salad) - although I couldn't resist the Williams Sanoma balsamic onion chutney brought lovingly to me by my Christmas visiting Canadian friends. Yummy.
The problem is, I like most things. My inclination is to see food and eat it. I just love food and I love all the wrong stuff. I love all the right stuff too and I've never really got the hang of portion control. Control is a concept I've never been that comfortable with in any aspect of my life which is what makes curbing excesses so much more difficult for me than for normal people. I can resist anything but temptation.
It's important for me to stay slim and eat properly because frankly, I feel so much better when I do those things. I guess I need to be very rigid most of the time and allow for the odd excess here and there without beating myself up. Yes, good idea because we're making a roast beef lunch for guests this coming Sunday. Then, toward the end of the month, we've been invited to friends who have a rather famous Michelin starred chef coming over to cook dinner for them and their eight nearest and dearest (no, it's not Gordon - but close). i can't miss out on that one.
So, until Sunday at least, it's rations for me and lots of exercise - even if I have to do it on one leg.
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