The best laid plans ...

Ooh, I’m cross.  I really am Mrs Angry of NW3.

Who do you have to screw to get an answer from Camden’s Planning department?

We applied for planning consent as part of a house refurbishment back in November.  Here we are going 90 miles an hour toward the end of February and we're no further on than we were before we started.  Camden say that they aim to deal with planning applications within 8 weeks.  Pur-lease!

The alteration we want to make to improve the property is nothing more than several identical houses on the development have already done, what’s the problem?  Well, as it turns out, the problem is elderly neighbours who think that our raison d’être is to ruin their lives.  They’ve whipped up a storm of protest which means that the planning department must examine our case in fine detail rather than rubber stamp it, as they have done with other lucky people's applications.

I feel my soon-to-be neighbours’ pain, I really do.  If I was 108, I also wouldn’t want someone doing an extension and a very tiny basement (only under the extension) next door to me either but hey, this is London, shit happens and for some people at least, life must move forward.

I used to like old people.  I have elderly parents, I like their friends, I loved my grandparents and I’m assuming that one day, I’ll be a cranky old bird too. (One day?)

If we don’t go broke as a result of the delay and if we ever get to do this work and move into this house, Big-J is threatening payback, big time.  “I hope they like Bob Dylan played very loud late at night” he fumes.  “If one of them falls over in the street, it won’t be me who rushes out to help them” he seethes.  “I won’t even say hello when I see them” he adds with a sulky face. It’s all a bit worrying as it’s me who will be spending the majority of daylight hours in the house which we may or may not ever move into.

“Are you really going to be horrible to them?” I ask.  After two seconds of deep consideration he grunts “probably not”. In fact, he’s as unlikely to ignore an old lady in difficulty as I am.

So, mentally I'm already baking a cake and putting the kettle on in anticipation of Big-J inviting them in for a cuppa before offering to mow their lawn, walk their dogs and give them a lift to the shops - if he doesn't run them over first.

Note to self:  never buy a property in-between two old biddies ever, ever again!

Dabbous - it's all teeny tiny

Last Saturday night we went to Dabbous. We were lucky. It’s more difficult to blag a table here than win the lottery thanks to the rave reviews by no less than AA Gill and Giles Coren. Luckily, friends of ours had booked theirs months ago so when their dining companions let them down, we were delighted.

The interior of the restaurant is stark. I don’t like to sound flash but it reminded me of Cape Town’s ‘The Test Kitchen’ – also the hottest ticket in that town and allegedly Heston’s favourite Cape Town haunt. Dabbous is a smaller place and its kitchen hidden away whereas in The Test Kitchen, the open kitchen is a feature in the middle of the restaurant. But the unadorned look and feel was similar.

A protégé of Raymond Blanc and Agi Sverisson at Texture, chef Oli Dabbous is well used to working with Michelin starred royalty and, I would say, is now chasing his very own first Michelin star.

We started with cocktails in the cavernous, subterranean bar. The cocktail menu is very varied, unusual even and we were asked whether we’d like any guidance. Aided by the waiter, we chose our beautifully presented drinks but agreed they were somewhat lacking in alcohol. We had to request something to nibble and were given a teeny, weeny dear little white bowl of cashews – just about enough for two nuts each – but more of that later.

Onward and upstairs to our table where the menus were difficult to read even with my glasses on although my companions claimed to have no difficulty – with their glasses on. I really must make an appointment to investigate laser eye surgery. This is happening far too often.

We decided to order a la carte rather than the tasting menu at £54 per head. I mention this only because in Raymond Blanc’s review dated January 2012, he refers to £49 per head for the tasting menu. So, get there quick because at that rate, in two years time, the price will be up at almost £80 per head (if you compound the six monthly 10% rise). The staff seemed a little put out when we ordered a la carte and said that we’d really need to order at least a total of four dishes each – two starters and two mains – as they were very small. Oh my, shades of 1981 and the accidentally most expensive meal I'd ever had at that stage at AWT's Ménage a trois.

Our bread came out in a brown paper bag – sort of an incongruous gimmick. We were told it was homemade soda bread with all sorts of stuff in it and it came with apparently homemade butter on a little slate. The bread was really delicious – the butter was too salty.

The starters were by and large excellent (in a tiny sort of way) although my first, a concoction of allium (that’s a bulbous plant of a genus that includes the onion and its relatives, e.g., garlic, leek, and chives – but I’m sure you knew that) in a cold, clear liquid with a herbed oil floating on top – ach, I could take it or leave it. The others raved about the smoked egg and we all agreed that the ‘pea and mint’ – a sort of thick, cold mint soup-come-sauce with goodies in it was just to die for.

Two of us had the Iberico pork and two had the lamb for mains. The pork was heralded as ‘the best pork I’ve ever eaten’ by both men. The lamb was very good – but not the best I’ve ever eaten. In fact, I’ve eaten better lamb cooked by my husband – but it’s one of his specialities.

What we didn’t understand is that they clearly serve the tiny sized, tasting menu portions as their a la carte versions. Why do they do that? Why not scale up, charge a little more and serve proper sized portions so that people don’t have to order two starters and two main courses? If I were Oli, I’d re-think that.

For the duration of the meal, the service was irritating and bordering on amateur. My wine glass was removed a total of three times despite the table's wine bottle being half full and my having asked them not to take it away. Go know. There was a lot of leaning across the table to serve food and to take plates away – hasn’t anyone trained these people – and they got the starter order wrong not once, but twice. It was a bit strange really. They were all very posh but slightly odd too.

The evening wasn’t helped by the two men in our party having a few too many sherbets resulting in some very boring and repetitive conversation which went like this:

Man 1: The food really is very, very good.
Man 2: Yes, very good – but the service is amateurish.
Man 1: Yes, that’s a shame because the food really is excellent, even though the service isn’t very good.
Man 2: Well, the food is really good but it’s let down by the service.
Man 1: The service is terrible which is a shame because the food has been excellent.

… and so on, ad naseum.

My dessert was ridiculous. The description was ‘peach in it’s own juice’ which led me to think it would be a whole fruit or perhaps half in some delicious sauce. What came out was a small slice of peach, less than a quarter of a fruit, in a juice. Rather disappointing. My other half had a creamy, bananaery concoction, which he enjoyed (he likes a banana), and our friends both had cheese – pretty generous portions.

Now let’s re-visit the teeny, weeny, inadequate bowl of cashews. It came up on the bill at £3.00 which we all though outrageous, a real ‘spoiler’. Other than that, the cost was reasonable for what we had – although we’d have liked to have paid a little more and not left feeling slightly hungry.

The big test is – would we go back there? Well, far be for me to disagree with the doyens of eating but I largely just didn’t get it. Yes, some of the food (not all of it) was spectacular but the concept needs a little adjusting if it’s going to work in the long run. The very reason we went off-piste was so as not to have to have the tiny tasting portions.  Ho hum. So the answer is no – at least for the moment.

Big-J runs Canada (the whole of it) as I get to grips with American politics

We almost didn’t go to Canada.  Big-J is taking his training for the Adidas Thunder Run very seriously in-deed.   And what with his damaged hamstring, his strict training programme has been forcibly interrupted in a big way by intensive physiotherapy.  He hadn’t wanted to see a physio because illness and injury seems to equal weakness in his book but, having had a few sessions with the lovely Jonny in Colindale, true to form, Big-J now has a new best friend.  “Such a nice bloke,” he told me, “so caring and so kind.  I really like him.”

So the trip to the wedding of our friend’s daughter was conditional.  Conditional upon him being able to do at least two 10k runs whilst we were there.   “I have to do it,” he said - repeatedly.  “I can’t let my team down.  They’re relying on me.”  As the oldest in the team by a fairly long way, Big-J is determined to put on a good show and, so to speak, keep his end up.  

To be fair, I understand where he’s coming from.  The Thunder Run is a relay race which is run over 24-hours with one runner having to be on the track at all times during the 24 hours.  Through daylight and dark, in sunshine or rain, they must run and run …. and run.

Day One in Toronto was a bit hot and humid with the imminent threat of thundery showers so he headed off to the hotel’s state of the art, fully air conditioned gymnasium.  There they had had multifarious treadmill machines and he managed 5k on one of those but didn’t enjoy it at all.  Returning to the room 40 minutes later he said: “I only like to run outside” as he did a few star jumps.  “That way, I at least feel like I’m getting somewhere.  Better for the knees it may be but running on the spot just doesn’t float my boat.”

He spent the next 48-hours asking anyone (who was prepared to listen) what outdoor route he should take and where he was least likely to encounter bears  (his bear wrestling days are over) and all the other stuff that people-who-run seem to find so fascinating. Two days later, he donned his dinky shorts and specially designed aerodynamic running shirt and headed off to the great Canadian outdoors.  That was at 9am on the Sunday and he expected to be back in the room by around 10am – that same day.

By 10.32am, my mind was wandering into some spine-chilling places.  I knew that, to keep his silhouette lean and clean, he’d left with no phone, no money and no real clue as to where he was headed.  However, I felt confident that a man with A-Level geography couldn’t come to too much harm and, telling myself not to be so silly, I pushed all panicky thoughts to the back of my mind as I watched Mitt Romney and Barak Obama shamelessly electioneer courtesy of CNN.  They’re so, well, obvious – the Americans.  No subtlety at all. The way I see it, both candidates are offering the electorate big tax breaks which anyone marginally above idiot can tell is unaffordable in the current economic climate.  And Obama should be ashamed of himself – but I digress.

At 11.06am I started pondering the complexities of arranging trans-Atlantic transportation of a corpse assuming, that is, that I would ever find his body being as how he had no identification, no money and no phone about his person.  It would clearly take some time and ingenuity. By 11.34am and having an anxiety attack, I was mentally preparing to break it to my friends that Big-J was missing.  This, in the full knowledge that his disappearance would blight their big weekend and that their daughter’s wedding would forever be associated with our tragedy.

By 11.47am I was suppressing hysteria as my imagination ran riot.  Perhaps he’d wandered into that scene from the Bonfire of the Vanities and been mugged, dun-over, kidnapped, beaten, shot or knifed.  And do they actually have bears in downtown Toronto? The endless possibilities stretched out before me. At this point, I’d like to be able to tell you that all was well and he’d come back to the hotel and been waylaid in the bar by a friend – but he hadn’t.  Anyway, I didn’t dare leave the room to check just in case I missed him as he staggered in (perhaps missing a limb or two) after whatever grisly experience had befallen him.

Finally, at around 11.53am he did actually sort of fall into the room, flushed, sweating and palpably overwrought.  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry …” he spluttered.  “You must have been so worried” he added.  “I’m really sorry …. so sorry.”  It transpired that he had indeed got lost - very lost - having thought that the whole of Toronto was designed on a grid system and not realising that one part of it skewed off at an angle.  His internal compass had really let him down. He’d been out running and walking for almost three hours and was somewhat shaky on his pins.  I tried to be annoyed but actually, I was just relieved to be able to breathe again.

In the words of the great bard, all’s well that ends well. This coming weekend we’re off to buy Big-J a running bum-bag for storage of his phone and some money before even runs Regents Park again – A-Level Geography or not.

Great knees, shame about the arse

I’m rather proud of Big-J just at the moment. And I’ll go further. Just between us here and not to be mentioned to anyone else, I have a sneaking admiration for him. Having spent most of his life as a dyed-in-the-wool, sitting-on-his-arse couch potato, he regularly preached the gospel of a three-course meal with plenty of wine being far better for the soul than a game of tennis.  But blow me down with a feather, last Sunday he competed in a 10k race in sunny Crouch End.

Raining it may have been over most of London but in Crouch End, the sun shone on my man as strutted his stuff around the “fun” run route. Along with his 30-years-younger son and a just slightly older friend, he completed the course in around 58 minutes – not his best ever speed but as near as damn it. We all know this because each run is meticulously recorded via a GPS watch onto his computer. He can chart his progress, compare his times and inspect his various routes. Marvellous. I love it when he painstakingly explains all that data to me. Not a man who can do anything by halves, I fear he's mentally in training for a marathon at some future, unspecified date.

When he arrived home, he was triumphant. “I could have gone on and on” he said, “it was really easy, I feel fantastic,” he added as he did a few lunges and star jumps before skipping off for a shower. The reward was a very naughty but nice brunch, prepared by yours truly, for the runners, me and a fellow running widow.

Running is actually quite boring but endless discussion about running takes boring to a whole new level. It’s sort of like train spotting. They talk about their shoes, their kit, the route, the warm-up before, the cool down afterwards, the pace, the sprint at the end – I could go on or we could all just go watch some paint dry.

After a good half an hour of yawning tedium around the table, I had to ban all talk of running just until we finished our meal and I could escape to the kitchen to do the far more interesting clearing up.

A rather sporty friend of ours was dead impressed that Big-J, at his advanced age, is able to run without any apparent ill effects.
“Did he do any sport as a youngster?” asked our friend.
“No”, said I. “He was a couch potato, he just sat on his arse until around three years ago.”
“That’ll be why he can run at his age,” said the friend, “most of us have knackered our knees by now which is why we can’t do it.”

So, along with his many other talents, Big-J has great knees! It’s just such a shame that he's worn out his arse.

Are we hampered by our own technology?

I think I speak for many of my age and older when I say: Too right we are.

I am in technology hell. And I had thought I was reasonably clued up.

Yesterday I took delivery of a new (used) car with lots of toys. I know, I’m very lucky to have satellite navigation, Bluetooth and a car that actually tells me – not only when it needs fuel – but what's more if it fancies some brake fluid, coolant, oil or a service. It'll also have a chat with me - if I speak to it strictly on its own terms. My only problem is that the system is completely different from my last car and has totally confounded me. (By the way, I hope you don't think I'm trying to show off, I am merely attempting to outline the depth of my difficulties.)

Yesterday, I thought I’d cracked the Bluetooth thingy. I got my iPhone connected and my (dreadful, according to Big-J) music stored on said device was streaming nicely into the car. OK, I couldn’t figure out how to choose what to listen to. It insisted upon playing whatever it liked, only permitting me to change tracks randomly, and after six track changes by me, it stubbornly refused to cooperate any further. Today, I can’t get either the telephone function or the music to work through the system unless I physically manhandle the phone and tell it what to do by pressing buttons. So quaint and old fashioned.

And then the worst thing of all happened. Whilst backing up and syncing my phone this afternoon, I pressed something and disabled it completely. Nightmare. Never mind – I thought – I’ll rush up to my appointment in town and wrestle the phone into submission when I get back. But no. Barely a mile down the Finchley Road I realised that without a working phone to pay for parking and for the congestion charge, I was utterly stymied. So, I turned around and headed straight to my son’s place (and, without a working mobile phone, I was forced to drop in at home to call him from the landline and warn him of my impending arrival - very inconvenient but only fair) in the hope that he would like, sort it like. Oh he – the wondrous Apple’ite for whom, last Christmas, my sister bought a t-shirt emblazoned with “No, I can’t fix your computer,” pressed a few buttons and the dam phone sprang back to life. It took him ooh ... all of four and a half seconds. “Ah” he mused, “you really should be connected to the Cloud and then everything would sync on all your devices.” Go know…

So now, the phone is functioning again – but not as it should be doing in the car. The Cloud is operating – but not entirely. The car is working – although the seatbelt is trying to strangle me, the mirrors don’t fold in as they should do and I can’t get the music going or make a phone call with any confidence. But of course (as Big-J so wisely pointed out to me), we mustn't forget the whole point of a car. It is, in fact, to get us from A to B and that, dear friends, is something it's doing rather well.

All of the "balloons and whistles" are merely designed to make our lives more comfortable and less stressful. Yeah. Pass me the valium please.

STRICTLY BOB DANCING

I was all of a dither. Should I miss Strictly Come Dancing to see Mark Knopfler and Bob Dylan at Hammersmith on Saturday night? And not just any old Strictly I’ll have you know – this was the gala coming from Wembley Arena. Strictly – Bob; Bob – Strictly. An agonizing choice.

“I don’t know why you want me to come anyway,” I moaned to Big-J. “Why not take someone who cares?” I continued. However much I bleated, he would not be moved. “Look” he said, “here’s the text you sent me when I managed to get Strictly tickets”. Upon inspection I saw that I’d said “Wow, thanks luv. Now I’ll love you forever.” I was well and truly hoist by my own petard. “If you really love me,” said Big-J, “you’ll come along and you’ll enjoy yourself.” Having said “never again” after I saw Bob live in Milan (2009 I think), I found myself being dragged kicking and screaming in a Westerly direction last Saturday night.

Blimey, the Hammersmith Apollo could do with a makeover. In contrast to the showy, sparkly glamour and glitz of the Strictly Come Dancing studio the previous week (and before you ask, you have to know someone really important to get those tickets), this was a real culture shock. I don’t think it’s seen a paintbrush since around 1963. But the Bob-heads didn’t care. They were six deep at the bar stacking up their sherbets in plastic cups. Really quite grubby. I ordered a bottle of water and was told that I could take it into the auditorium if they removed the cap for me. “Can I take it in if I promise not to chuck it?” I asked. The barmaid looked me up and down and clearly felt that a woman of my dress sense and seniority probably wasn’t about to indulge in nefarious activities and so, to my relief, I was given special bottle-top dispensation.

I must admit that I was secretly looking forward to seeing Mark Knopfler. I loved all those hits that were background music to my youth. Money for Nothing, Sultans of Swing, Brothers in Arms, Romeo and Juliet – yeah. Well, he didn’t play any of those. It was a real swizz and left me feeling very underwhelmed. After listening to him for an hour, I was beginning to look forward to Bob. At least I’d know some of his tunes.

Bob and his beige-suited band took to the stage, with Mark Knopfler on board for the first four numbers. Apparently, they're good friends those two and Mark is undoubtedly a genius guitarist. But Bob really must take the prize for being the worst dressed rocker ever to have graced a stage. Where does he get those clothes? A long black jacket with matching trousers featuring white satin or grosgrain facings, silver shoes and the ubiquitous black hat, he looked faintly ridiculous. But … there’s just something mesmerising about the little guy, it’s hard to take your eyes off him whilst he’s on stage. At age 70, he played around fourteen numbers, ten of which I recognised including Highway 61 Revisited, A Hard Rain, Don’t think Twice It’s All Right and Make You Feel My Love – yes, written by Bob and not by Adele. He strummed his gee-tar, he played keyboards, he even indulged in some strange and wondrous dance moves, the like of which I’d never seen before (and frankly, am not in a hurry to see again). The band was very tight, the music was great. Although his voice sounds like razor blades these days, as he growled his way through all those familiar numbers, he never missed a beat or got a word wrong. At least, of the words I could hear – he didn’t get one wrong.

I know that the die-hard fans, comprising around 98% of the audience, will want to see Bob again and again – even when he’s really on his last legs (heaven forfend) and, whilst the man can still fill a decent size venue, I suspect he’ll go on and on ... and on and on and on and on. But I’m afraid that for my money, living legend and voice of a generation that he is, I think the time may have come for a graceful exit stage left.

Out of the mouths of babes

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.

Size matters

Some people have told me that my postings are too long.

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.”

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 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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.