Christmas again

Here it is again. The season for Christmas cards, gifts, getting together with family ...and feeling horribly guilty about all the people you didn't find time to keep in touch with/ask for the weekend or a meal/give back that book you borrowed - over the past year.

It's awful that even when you're retired there still isn't time to do all the stuff you should be doing. Most of the time you get on with life with the occasional glance at the calendar to make sure there really isn't a spare weekend, evening or lunchtime somewhere. But at Christmas you can't escape it, can you.



No tree should be without a Grateful Dead bauble!

The top priority stuff gets done: family commitments, household chores, partner nourishment, the activities where people are depending on you, and (of course) there's time for other things you really enjoy. But always there's more you could have done with or for other people you care about. And you know you'd have enjoyed doing it too.

So instead of my traditional moan about Christmas (which invariably gets me into deep sh1t with C when she reads it about 6 months later - however witty I think it was) I'm going to take the advice of the brilliant Fascinating Aida. (Follow the link!)

Hope you have a great Christmas!

And if I didn't communicate enough with you in 2014 it's nothing personal! Will try harder!

Armed and dangerous

It started around the beginning of November. Cat poop on the minuscule border in front of our house.

The border does nothing more than host a hedge (yes, Leylandii. So sue me - it gives our living room privacy from passers by) and, in the spring, a pleasing if straggly display of daffodils and narcissi.

As recommended in the online forums, I scooped the offending turds into a plastic bag and binned them right away, scattered anti-cat pellets, and thought nothing of it.

But a couple of days later there's more, in a different place. The soil is dry and quite powdery under the hedge; it doesn't get much rain because of the hedge. Apparently an ideal place for a tabby toilet. I removed it again and used up the rest of the cat repellent - at about 3 times the recommended dose, hoping that it is not toxic to conifers or bulbs.

That didn't work either. This time I don't spot the disturbed soil right away and there are buried offerings as well as surface ones. By now I am getting fed up with constantly shovelling somebody elses's cat's excrement. It's unpleasant. It stinks. And I don't want it on or in my garden.

I decide on a different deterrent. I'll make it awkward for the cat to walk across the border. I rig up several short bamboo canes and thread garden twine to and fro like so many trip wires.

This is an abject failure. If anything the cat relishes the challenge. If only I could electrify the network. At 9:30 am one morning we actually spot the vile beast in the act and I rush out of the house yelling like a banshee, intent on scaring the bejeezus out of it. (Fortunately there's nobody on the street to witness this.)

But it was back a few days later. Clearly my banshee impression is not good enough.

One online contributor recommends vinegar so I scatter half a bottle. This had no effect other than depleting our stock of vinegar.

I decide to make it really hard for anything to walk across the border. I find a bag full of kebab sticks in a drawer in the kitchen and shove them into the soil. I'm leaving about 15cm exposed. Surely the bastard is going to give up now?

But I'm not going to get complacent. I rummage in the cellar until I find one of the kids' Super Soaker water pistols. It's been there for at least 15 years. Fill it up and make sure it's working. It is lock-and-loaded, primed and ready by the door for use if I see the perpetrator again. At this point I would dearly love to not only scare it out of its skin but give it a thorough soaking as well.

After several days lingering by the landing window, which overlooks the hedge, I still haven't seen any sign of the devil's spawn, but yet more poo appears.

I'm now wondering if anyone markets a landmine designed for cats. Obviously it would have to distinguish between a squirrel and a cat, and not be powerful enough to blow the thing into the road. That wouldn't look good. No, I don't need a weapon of cat destruction - I'd be quite happy just to take off a paw or leg. If there is no such device maybe I should patent the idea?

Wary that a Google search for such a device would probably ring alarm bells in Cheltenzham and Langzley, I settle for a trip to the hardware shop for more kebab sticks. (As will that last sentence - hence the 'z's in an attempt to evade their string recognition algorithms.) After this the density of sticks is around one every 5cm. At the same time I cover the surface of the border with flattened, semi-decomposed leaves from last year's leaf-mould-creation project. There is now no soft soil for the wretched beast to scuff about in.

But it's not enough! The damned thing has found a gap wide enough to squat and empty its miserable bum.

Outcome: more kebab sticks. But this time I've sunk them deeper And, there being an ample supply of  dry leaves on the drive, I decide that the border will benefit from the extra organic material these might provide.

And, oops, the latest batch of sticks are pointy end up ...and now accidentally covered with leaves. Oh dear. I'm sure they won't penetrate an unsuspecting paw...

I know what you're thinking. This is going to end up with me getting a nasty infection in my hand from a penetrating kebab stick in about 6 months time. But for now the cat has found somewhere else to use as a toilet.

Result.

3 Gigs in 2 weeks...

31/10/14 Cosmic Charlies, Fiddler's Elbow in Camden, London

A rare (third this year?) gig for the Charlies but they soon showed they had lost nothing of the flair and enthusiasm for playing this music.

An emphasis on Bobby tunes tonight following the cancellation of his Ratdog tour (due to ill health?) earlier this year. But the highlight for me was a St Stephen>Not Fade Away>St Stephen>Eleven>Lovelight sequence and a sweet Uncle John's into So What.

But I was too near the speakers in the first set and my right ear was ringing for 3 days!

Talked to an Alaskan Deadhead who works in Zimbabwe who just happened to be in the UK for a few days for a meeting and had Googled 'Grateful Dead + London' and found this gig! Another weird GD coincidence.

Check 'em out yourself on Youtube! Three more gigs booked at the Fiddler for 2015!

9/11/14 The Levellers, Rock City, Nottingham

Last time they played here I only knew 2 songs. This time the tour is to support a new greatest hits album which I have been listening to solidly for the last 3 weeks. So no surprises and plenty of favourites.(I think the only song played which was not on the new album was 'Sell Out'.)

Started at the front, firmly in the mosh zone, about 6 people back from the stage. Lasted just two numbers by which time I felt like I'd run a 100m alongside Usain Bolt, and had to drop back to a space with room to move without having to keep up. Getting old sucks.

The band were on fire. For energy, passion, and genuine anger they can't be beat. Songs that have to be heard load and live. Songs of protest, desperation, sadness. Songs that draw a line in the sand. Songs you can believe in (One Way, This Garden, Exodus, Liberty). "And if this is how far your culture's got. Then I deny it".

Talked to a guy doing a philosophy masters degree; for his dissertation he's going to investigate whether atheists have pantheistic tendencies. (Intellectually interesting but who really cares?)

12/11/14 Doors Alive, The Globe, Cardiff

I've lost count of all the Doors-related gigs I've done with my brother Mark. But this was up there with the best, apart from the two fights (do Cardiff geezers drink too much?) and the fact that I was at the bar when the second set started so did not get back to my place at the front amid the girls who were really going for it after the break (one of whom apparently ended up topless).

Willie's voice is great for these songs, and he has just the right stage presence without overtly imitating Jim. Every time I come away with something new, even though I know the music so well. There were good extended solos from the guitar player (why can't I find his name anywhere?) and (new) keyboard player.

Talked to a girl about the fighting (but sadly didn't hear a word she said).

Bottom line - I need to get fitter if I want to carry on getting the most out of rock concerts.

Lego is a tool of Satan, warns Polish priest

Father Slawomir Kostrzewa says toy company represents 'world of death' and that Zombie and Monster Fighter mini-figures can lead children 'to the dark side' (The Telegraph)

"It's never going to work, boss."

Beelzebub plonked the two fresh lattes down and sat next to Old Nick so he could see the tablet he was staring at. The 18-month project plan on the screen with its green bars, red milestones, resource lists, and deliverables looked convincingly solid.

"Look - the software's a mess. The last version just caused the figures to go a bit blurry. We should never have hired those guys from the universal credit project - I knew IDS was over-keen to let us have them. There will never be time to test de-bug the new version properly.

Then there's the polymer codification problem - you do know that nobody has embedded computer code directly into molecular substructures before, don't you? And the polymer chemists really really hate the nanotechnologists. It's like asking a werewolf and a vampire to team up for Strictly Come Dancing.

And the chronobiologists can't even get Tesco Double Cream to go bad just after the use-by date, let alone guarantee an activation sequence on a particular day of the year, ten months away.

Finally the ur-viles have a valid existential point that the inanimate may, by invoking just the right amount of dark arts, be transmogrified into the undead but there is no guarantee that their new-found soullessness will be virulent enough to infect human victims. In other words, we all know that zombies are impelled to attack, kill, and eat their pre-dead fellows, but who's to say their owners (the target children) will acquire the same characteristics? And will the Lego zombies even have enough bite to kill what is a significantly larger victim?"

"God, why are you always so negative, Bee?" replied Nick. "You're such an energy-stealer! We've got a whole week to iron out the final details and get the modified zombies into the shops in time for the Christmas rush. Then all we have to do is wait for Halloween..."

"The whole thing is tenuous! Too many unknowns!"

"Just shut up and have faith, will you, you old goat."

October 31st, 2015, 00:01 am

In a forgotten box of Lego, deep in a dark bedroom cupboard, something stirs. A single eye on a ravaged face blinks open. Zombie 1 has awoken!

He is followed first by scores, then hundreds, then thousands of others - in London, Los Angeles, Istanbul, New Delhi, Clacton...

"Told you so" gloated Nick, glued to his iEye. His henchman replied with a simple, sceptical "Mmmm".

As the pair watched, Zombie 1 sat up. Just feet away 6-year old Zoe, in her bed, slumbered on, oblivious to the mortal danger.

For the first time Zombie 1 could feel. He felt hunger. Not just pangs, but ravenous lust. He was driven - he had to feed - not just on anything, but on the flesh of his own. With blind purpose he rose up, climbed out of the box, and staggered around. He did not stop until he found what he craved.

Zoe turned over. Her teddy fell to the floor. And Zombie 1's teeth closed on the throat of ...a Lego Astronaut.

(Yeah, I know this Telegraph piece was an April 1st item, but couldn't resist having some fun with it.)

Double the fun (2)

I'm kneeling on the floor, newspaper laid out on the carpet. Adam's in the armchair and Franklin is busy at the boys' little table.

Franklin farts.

Adam says "Have you done a poo, Franklin?", which Franklin determinedly ignores.

Oscar takes it on himself to go up behind Franklin and administer the nappy test (i.e. fingers down the back of the nappy, creating a gap between nappy and back, peering down and simultaneously sniffing).

The next thing I know he's behind me, repeating the procedure! And not wanting to miss out, Franklin has toddled behind his brother and is performing the same test. A nappy-testing daisy chain!

So there's another first - I've had my pants checked by a 2-year-old.

At least he didn't announce to his dad that I needed a new nappy...

Getting Trent Bridge Test Match tickets

On past experience it was going to be a struggle. The objective was to secure 2 tickets for Ben and C, and also 2 for a friend, for Friday 7 August 2015.

The box office and online sales opened at 9:30 and we were ready and waiting: C with 2 browsers open (the PC and her iPad), and also dialling her mobile, and me on the landline.

C's immediately in two web queues with (microscopically filled) progress bars stretching across the pages. I've entered the box office number into the phone's memory after two "The number you called is busy" messages to speed up the re-dial process. Nevertheless all I'm getting is "Bleep - The other person has cleared" all the time with the odd "The number you have called is busy" thrown in just to relieve the boredom.

This goes on for 5 or 10 minutes and then things get weird.

"You have reached the Vodaphone Voicemail service for 07622842850. Please leave a message"

I don't think so! And any message I'm likely to leave right now is not going to be printable.

Then there are some more "Bleep - cleared" and "Number busy" messages until "You have reached the audio-conferencing service. Please enter your pass-code"! While it might be fun to take part in an audio conference about which I have no knowledge ("No - we really need to paradigm shift left-field on this one to wrongside any loss of stakeholder bandwidth"), I'm not about to start guessing pass-codes, and anyway I want the test match box office!

The next interesting answer I get, now some 20 minutes into repetitive redialling, is "Adrian Fowler is not available. Please leave a message or call him on 07982748572"! Then more "Bleep/cleared"s. Then somebody's O2 Messaging Service. Then "This is the Portsmouth Guildhall Ticket Line. Can I help you?"! Then "You have reached the Alston Conferencing Service, Please enter your PIN code"!

At one point I do get to hear a live voice - for all I know it's an undertaker in Glasgow - but we're cut off before I can even say hello.

Finally after 30 minutes of dialling I hear the words I am now longing for "This is the Trent Bridge Ticket Hotline". Result!

By now C's progress bars are about two-thirds of the way across. As I hand her the phone she wonders whether to drop out of her web queues. "NO!!!!" I cry. Bizarrely C seems to think that the progress bars are moving from right to left and her position is therefore getting worse!

Clutching the phone she relays the message to me "Please hold - you are 48th in the queue"!!!

48th can't be that bad can it?

It takes another 40 minutes to progress to 12th place but the PC browser is suddenly actually showing a booking page! C's quickly on the job and soon looking at the booking page.

"Shall I put the phone down now?" "NO!!!!" I cry.

She can get 2 tickets for the Friday but not 4 together! So the fallback is the Thursday. Sure enough there are 4 together and she selects the seats and gets through to the payment page. Enters name, address, credit card details, and clicks 'pay'. Nothing happens. No response. We wait. Still nothing. So has the payment gone through or not?

Finally after 60 minutes in the phone queue C gets an operator who is able to ascertain that the internet payment did not go to completion but who can secure for her the 4 tickets for Thursday 6th. The phone call cost £6.52.

If you're a member of Trent Bridge Frigging Cricket Club you get priority booking weeks before the general public. Looks like C will have to join if she wants tickets for internationals in future. Or make friends with someone who is.

Why, Why, WHY?

Facebook has suddenly stopped working on my laptop.

Up until this week I was looking at it almost daily. Now I have to go upstairs to the ancient PC (running Firefox) to log in.

There's not even any sensible message from Internet Explorer, just "cannot display the webpage" as if there's no broadband connection. Only one other web sites is affected. My Co-op online banking and other password-controlled (https) web sites are fine. But the Nationwide Building Society log-in page is another no-no.

Virgin recently gave us a new, faster router. But it can't be that because I had the same problem when I visited my Mum.

So what the f*** has changed?!

I've not (knowingly) changed my Internet Explorer 9 settings. Or Vista.

A Google search for this problem throws up some technical things you can try, but without finding an exact description of my particular problem I'm reluctant to start trying things randomly.

Finally I find that Facebook and Nationwide will open OK in Firefox on the laptop, but Facebook is so slow to load it ain't worth the bother. Perhaps I'll download a more recent version.

But C can't access her Nationwide account on the PC, where she still uses Internet Explorer 8 and where all her favourites are.

This is SO ANNOYING

Marital conversations (41)

(On the bus on our way into town to see a film)

M: I feel like a sugar daddy when you get on the bus and have to buy a ticket while I just show my bus pass!

C: In that case shouldn't you be buying my ticket?

James Cousins Company, Lakeside Theatre Nottingham, 30 September 2014

The last dance performance I saw was Rambert doing "Rooster", a hugely entertaining and fun series of dances choreographed to several classic, early Rolling Stones numbers.

You couldn't accuse James Cousins of creating 'fun' pieces in either "Without Stars" or "There we have been", the first and second performances on this programme, which is inspired by the characters and events in Haruki Murakami's novel 'Norwegian Wood'. But both were utterly compelling.

"Without Stars" features 3 male dancers (Gareth Mole, Georges Hann, Albert Garcia) and one female dancer (Chihiro Kawasaki), moving and interacting in a sequence of scenes of violence, tenderness, loss... The music, lighting, and the movement and incredible control of the dancers pull you in to a world of intense feelings, ultimately unresolved after a spellbinding, exhilarating 45 minutes.

Georges Hann didn't have a lot to do in the first dance. But after the interval it was obvious why.

"There we have been" began with Kawasaki floating above the stage and it was soon clear that was Hann supporting her; her feet literally did not touch the ground for the 17 minutes performance. If 'Without Stars' was spellbinding this was spectacular.

Firstly it is rare (unique?) to see two dancers interacting so closely for such a long period. Secondly who would think it possible to see so much movement in such a confined space (i.e. the footprint of one body, not that Hann didn't move across the floor as well)? Thirdly the display of strength, of both dancers, to keep this up over a sustained period, something I have not seen trained acrobats display. But these factors were just the foundation for a piece of astonishing choreography: drama and grace in equal measure, with lighting and music contributing to a truly beautiful piece of art. With beautiful, talented dancers to boot.

To see this was a wonderful, must-repeat, experience. Contemporary dance doesn't have to be fun to be fabulous!

Double the fun

Yes, the twins came for a weekend visit sans parents this time. Sure we can cope! Our own kids survived to adulthood, didn't they? Without incurring post-traumatic stress disorder???

They are a delight to be around, but the trouble is that every time we see them they are a little bit older, more independent, more curious, and generally more likely to go where they shouldn't.

Turn your back and they're up the stairs. Of course they aren't allowed to go on them by themselves. And when they do, it's supposed to be on their hands and knees (up) and bottoms (down) - and not standing up holding the banisters...

If there's a drawer, door, or cupboard, they'll open it. And take things out: torches, ceramic bowls, ice packs, cod liver oil capsules, Warhammer warriors (who haven't seen daylight in 10 years)... We really need to tighten up our child-proofing protocols.

In the garden they want to (a) find a stick each and (b) stir it about in the pond - which, needless to say, they should not go near without an adult escort, but which acts like a magnet.

The other magnet outside is the greenhouse - full of hazards such as spades and rakes precariously propped up against the shelving. A sliding greenhouse door is no obstacle. They run back calling "Ah-towww" (not quite in unison but repeatedly and insistently), which we eventually translate as "Where have the tomato plants gone?" (Answer: they're in the compost bin!)

Their curiosity is boundless. One of them presents Uncle Ben with a snail he has found. Ben (who really doesn't do wildlife) grits his teeth and accepts it before chucking it as far away as possible as soon as they aren't looking.

Upstairs Oscar, when not jumping up and down on the bed, decides to unravel a metre or so of dental floss and Franklin is waving the alarm clock around, oblivious to the fact that it's breakable. For some reason my holiday notebook is fascinating but the receipt from my online booking for the Alcazar in Seville is deemed expendable and ripped in half. The guitar case is opened without hesitation but is needed again as soon as each child has had a go at strumming. I still don't know where the plectrum went.

And they are altogether more assertive. After a trip in the car they refuse to leave until they have sat in the front and pressed all the buttons. (At least I remembered to remove the keys, so only the hazard lights worked.)

They demand to have a go at everything with an insistent "Do it! Do it!" (="Let me do it") whether it's cutting a tomato up or peeling a satsuma, followed by yelling if you refuse to let them. After his toast-and-banana breakfast Franklin spots the Cheerios in the kitchen. I give him his bowl and explain that he needs to sit up at the table to eat Cheerios (like yesterday). But no - he wants to eat them in the living room.

Before I know it, he's marched to the far end of the kitchen with his bowl and commenced the yelling. To be joined almost immediately by his brother, also yelling and also clutching an empty bowl. Collective action! They'll be appointing a shop steward next! (P. S. They didn't have Cheerios that day.) Fortunately it is still fairly easy to distract them with, e.g., Peppa Pig, Finding Nemo, or Toy Story.

Oh the exciting journey of growing up, in which it is a total privilege to have a small part.

Twins Rock!

Marital conversations (40)

M: Why did you pick a ginger?

C: Dunno. Maybe I go for the underdog

Man versus sycamore

It's not that I have it in for all sycamore trees. They can be a very fine tree - in the right place. Preferably in parkland where their devil's spawn seedlings will get mowed as soon as they dare to show their vile faces above ground. Ditto their cousins the Norway maples. Lovely autumn colours, bla bla bla.

But where we don't want to see these invaders is in woodland where we want to encourage invertebrates and other wildlife and where they are so damn prolific they threaten to suppress native species such as oak, ash, field maple, elder etc.

Friends of Sharphill Wood are conducting an ongoing battle to remove the sycamores and Norways, which have been introduced to this island in recent centuries by man, and encourage the species that have been here longer (and to which our wildlife is adapted). This way the native species and wildlife will, we hope, thrive.We used to just saw through the larger invaders, effectively coppicing them so the wretched things sprouted again the following year. Nowadays we poison the stumps in a safe fashion, using Ecoplugs.

But the best way is to get the saplings young enough to dig up. It is possibly the most satisfying job in the wood! You can vent all sorts of spleen, using a spade against these enemies: scything through roots, levering them until they snap, and finally heaving them out of the  All sorts of anger related to ISIS/Boko Haram/UKIP/the privatisation of the NHS/the changes to the Guardian's Weekend magazine etc can be expended.

Not that I was bothered by these things whilst wielding a spade for nearly 5 hours last week. There is enough to think about, trying to use as little energy per sapling as possible. The conditions were excellent: dry, warm but not hot, and no biting insects for a change.

Photo by Kate Troy

Unfortunately sycamores will be an ongoing problem because there are several large trees which cannot be removed, even by contractors, because their loss will change the canopy and the view of the wood from the surrounding city and countryside. So the fight will go on.

Why Citizens Advice?

I blame my former colleague and friend Louise Elder. She left work when she started a family around 1997 but we stayed in touch and some years later she asked for a reference when she applied to become a CAB adviser. I was surprised at the time. Mainly because I didn't really know what CAB was all about except that it was a worthy organisation. But on reflection it was obvious that they would welcome with open arms an intelligent, articulate woman who was motivated to volunteer.

Then in 2009, after I was unbelievably fortunate to get early retirement at the tender age of 57 and saw it as an opportunity to do some things there simply weren't time for before as well as something socially useful after working for a crappy drug company for the last 31 years, there was one organisation that interested me more than all the others. As a bonus I might even gain some colleagues who weren't as ancient as me!

Citizens Advice in the UK dates back to 1939, the first bureau opening just 4 days after the outbreak of war. The numbers of centres peaked at over 1,000 in 1942. The number now stands at around 340.

Contrary to popular belief, each local CAB is an independent entity, a charity which has to raise the funds it needs to operate locally. Each pays a subscription to, and operates to standards set by, the national Citizens Advice organisation which in turn provides training, the IT framework, and other support.

Training is provided for volunteers and this has been considerably streamlined from when I did it in 2009: you now start helping clients after just 6 weeks rather than the 6 months it used to be (in our Nottingham bureau, anyway). You learn about the main enquiry areas (benefits, debt, employment, housing...), the resources, the advice process.

But why bother? Well there is the satisfaction when a client goes home less anxious than when they arrived (which is, in fact, most of the time) and you've helped someone with their problems.

And a lifelong observation that people who don't do anything for anyone else tend to be more miserable than those who do. (Conversely those people who "would do anything for anyone" end to be both vivacious and happy.) Which gives my altruism a selfish side, but that's OK by me - at least somebody else benefits as well.

Beyond the help you give to individual clients there's the combined impact on 'social policy'. In the last year or so Citizens Advice campaigns, based on data collected by local bureaux, have had a positive impact on restrictions on payday lenders, bailiff guidelines, the childcare rules for universal credit, and some of this government's legal aid restrictions.

A lot of clients' problems are a result of bad government policies and bad business practices. (Sometimes it's life-changing events, sometimes bad decisions.) But often it's a result of poor interpretation of guidelines or policies either through ignorance, having to meet quotas (which don't officially exist), or bloody-mindedness.

So, last but not least on my list of reasons to be a CAB adviser, is that, just sometimes, you get to STICK IT TO THE MAN!

YEAH!

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The Kite Runner, Nottingham Playhouse, August 2014

I should know better by now. My last 2 visits to plays were disappointing. But at least 3 people had told me, independently, that this was an excellent production and should not be missed if it came back to Nottingham. Not so.

You can't criticise any of the actors, designers or production staff. Ben Turner, in particular, was on stage the whole time and played the part very well. And the on-stage sitar player certainly added to the atmosphere. (They have a sitar tradition in Afganistan?)

The basic problem is the story. Which I didn't particularly like when I read the book several years ago. (In my opinion Hosseini's 'A Thousand Splendid Suns', although an order of magnitude bleaker, was a far superior book.) It is basically a standard betrayal-atonement tale spread over perhaps 30 years of the narrator's life, and not a very interesting one.

The last 10 minutes of the play degenerated into something akin to a pantomime or farce.

Bad news: Hassan was murdered by the Taliban!
Good news: Hassan's son Sohrab is alive!
Bad news: Amir is too scared to go to Kabul to get Sohrab!
Good news: He's changed his mind!
Bad news: Sohrab has been given by the orphanage to a Taliban gang leader!
Good news: Amir knows where the gangster lives and is going round there!
Bad news: It's Assef, bully who used to terrorise Amir and Hassan as youngsters!
Good news: Sohrab blinds Assef with his catapult and they get away! Sohrab can go live with Amir!
Bad news: Amir can't take Sohrab back to America; he has to go home and apply for adoption from there!
Good news: The paperwork comes through!
Bad news: Sohrab is now an elective mute!

etc etc etc

I don't think I'll be bothering with any more plays.

Homage to the girls of Andalucia, September 2014

I don't know

if you're visitors or local

I know nothing

about your lives.

I just know

that you make beautiful cities -

Ronda, Seville, Cordoba, Grenada -

even more beautiful

by just being there.

But somehow,

whatever I'm trying to photograph,

you always manage

to get

in the picture

without

even

trying

Damson gin

C is making damson gin and wants to know if we have a demijohn left over from the '70s when we made homemade wine from elderflowers, magotty apples etc.

After a foray into the cellar I eventually find one under the shelving at the back of the table, hidden by carpet offcuts from the good old days when we used to have carpets.

"The good news is we do have a demijohn. The bad news is - there's something in it".

"Urrgh! Not a frog?!" C exclaims. Nope, not a frog nor any other kind of subterranean creature. What is in the jar is liquid.

I rinse the sealed jar under the tap to dislodge several years worth of cellar grime, remove the stopper, and we each sniff - we agree that the contents smell vaguely alcoholic.

I decant a small amount into a glass and we take turns to warily taste the ruby coloured liquid. "Cough mixture" delares C. The best description I can come up with is "Not right".

By mutual agreement we pour the contents into the kitchen sink. The fluid, perhaps a litre or so, is followed by perhaps three dozen damsons.

"How long has that been down there?!" we ask each other.

...which rather sums us up. Although as individuals we are reasonably reliable (well one of is, anyway), as a couple credit card bills, undeposited cheques, parking fines etc MUST stay in full view until dealt with. It is also why we should NEVER be allowed to take on the responsibility for ongoing projects such as pets, all but the most hardy of house plants, raising offspring etc.

The current batch of damson gin is staying right where it is - firmly in the way on the kichen worktop.

Lucy

"The science is hokum! Bla Bla Bla", so say the critics.

Well yes - this is a science fiction you numbskulls. The creators have made a change to our received understanding of a piece of science and asked 'what if?'. It's what SF writers have been doing since before HG Wells.

Scarlet Johansson kicking ass, on screen for 80% of the film, and not a weird alien! In a character that's part Buffy, part Nikita, part Carrie, who gets most of the superpowers shared out amongst the cast of Heroes all to herself! What's not to like?!

Possibly the biggest mash-up of other films I've ever seen: loads of "2001 A Space Odyssey", bits of "Limitless", every film with a ruthless Chinese/Columbian/Japanese drug baron, D.O.A., Transcendence, etc etc. But so what, it's a cracking good film - fast-paced, visually absorbing, and short (by today's standards).

Marital conversations (40)

(On our way to the shops on the Avenue, Saturday morning.)

M: I might buy some exotic mushrooms from the farmer's market

C: You make even that sound seedy

M: !

Paris and Giverny in a day (2)

Our driver from Cityvision, Sayeed, arrived on time and it turned out we were his only passengers. He gave us a commentary as we drove through and out of Paris and it was also interesting to talk to him about his background and family; we really enjoyed his company.

Giverny was about a 75 minute drive. Usually longer, but in August much of the Paris traffic disappears because of the vacations. We did a short detour to see a couple of interesting old villages near to Giverny. Then he dropped us by the gardens and we arranged in 2 hours time. We were fast-tracked because of the wheelchair and because we had pre-booked.

The weather was dry but mostly cloudy. We were lead past some flower beds and over a road to the lake. The place was busy, but not so it was difficult to get around, and the paths were good for pushing the wheelchair. The water lilies were in flower but perhaps the lighting was not ideal to see them at their best. Nevertheless you could see the shapes that Monet depicted so brilliantly: the willows, the waterlily leaves and flowers, the reflections on the water surface, the bridge. Mum was thrilled to see it.

Then we crossed back over the road to see the rest of the garden. This was a series of borders, many of which were no accessible to walk through but all of which were utterly packed with shape and colour. It seemed that every plant was in flower at the same time! No name plaques - the plantings seemed to focus on presenting spectacular blocks of colour rather than being informative in any way. 

And the impression was truly spectacular. Almost everywhere you looked there was a photograph to be taken or a painting to be made.Two hours was only just long enough and we missed going into Monet's house and spending more than 10 minutes in the extensive paintings gallery.

Back in Paris we were dropped at our hotel and went out to a local restaurant to eat. The waiter made a big fuss of Mum, including kissing her but (according to Mark) called me 'Pappa' blasting my theory that I look younger than my brother.

After taking Mum back to the hotel, Mark insisted that Montmartre was within easy walking distance and, easily lead that I am, I agreed, forgetting that this represents the biggest hill for miles and about 2,000 steps. At the top, when I finally got there, there were people selling bottles of water from rucksacks. The view over Paris was fantastic.

(the lighting flatters Mark's hair colour)

It was buzzing with people enjoying the evening, just chilling or watching the street entertainers. The church, Sacre Coeur, was open and we went inside, no charge. Mark lit a candle for Dad and I lit one in memory of Jerry. When we came out it was dark and we descended and sat in a nearly bar for a drink and to watch the girls walking by. A great end to a great day.

I know you it's ridiculous to spend just one day in Paris/Giverny, but it was enough for Mum, and I don't think we could have used the time any better. Am sure I will return with C.

Paris and Giverny in a day (1)

Four train journeys, a pre-booked but weather-vulnerable visit to a garden, a strange city, 3 travellers with a combined age of 209 ...surely something would go wrong?

But no - for blogging purposes it was a total disaster. The worst thing to happen was that I didn't like my brother's favourite beer (Belgian, revolting ...after I drank it he told me it was flavoured with cumin!) which he insisted was my birthday treat.

So I'll just have to write about what a nice time we had.

When asked, a couple of years ago, where she would like to visit before her passport runs out Mum said she had always wanted to see Monet's garden at Giverny. We had planned a trip last year but she fell and broke her hip, so it ended up as a 90th birthday treat this year, paid for by her 3 sons. Two of us agreed to take her, and for simplicity we booked the Eurostar to Paris for 2 nights and an afternoon minibus trip out to Giverny.

Mum uses a mobility scooter at home because it takes her a long time to cover much ground on foot, so I borrowed a lightweight transit wheelchair from the local Red Cross (brilliant service) for the trip. The journeys were all on time and we met Mark at St Pancreas as agreed. The hotel (Albert 1er) was a short walk from the Gard de Nord and perfect for a B and B with plenty of restaurants to choose from nearby (with English translations on the menus, unlike 30 years ago!).

It was raining the afternoon we arrived so we agreed to be up early and do a bus tour the next morning.We had to be back at the hotel to be picked up for the Giverny tour at 1:15.

L'OpenTour do 4 hop-on-hop-off routes with a Yellow Line stop at Gard du Nord, so we were there for the first bus at 9:15 and switched to their Green Line at Place de la Madeleine. It was dry and sunny and being August 9 I wore my Jerry Garcia T-shirt, which I do every year on the anniversary of his death.

Next time I'd use the service buses as a lot of time (80%) was spent stationary while new passengers paid the driver, but on the Green Line you get to see all the famous places: the Seine and several of the bridges, the Louvre, the Champs Elysee, the Eiffel Tower (from every angle), the Place de la Concorde, the Musée d'Orsay . And the commentary was good, too (though 80% was filler consisting of cheesy Paris-related ditties).

I'd seen these buildings before, but not the amazing vertical garden on the wall of the Musée du quai Branly (15,000 plants from 150 different varieties). Or all the padlocks left by lovers on the bridges.

The Green Line circuit took about 2 hours and we couldn't risk being late for our pick-up so we opted to get a taxi back to the hotel rather than complete the Yellow Line circuit. There was just time to grab a Subway sandwich and eat it in the hotel lobby.

Commonwealth Games, Glasgow 2014, racism, Gaza, everything

Rant alert...

Last Monday 4 of us did the trip from Borrowdale where we were staying up to Glasgow for an evening of athletics at Hampden Park, Glasgow. This was for C's benefit, this being her celebratory "retirement/birthday" family holiday.

The park-and-ride car park was about 30 minutes from the ground and then we were kept waiting, hungry and thirsty, in a very un-Scottish sun for well over an hour outside the ground. (When we got home on Saturday we had a voicemail to say the start had been delayed for 30 minutes. Thanks!) Inside the ground the choice of food was poor, you couldn't even get a coke, and the only beer available was a small Heineken at £4.50.

I didn't find the events we saw particularly interesting, but you have to applaud the skill and physicality of the competitors.

The worst part was standing for the national anthems during the medal ceremonies. For as long as I can remember I've been deeply unsettled by the experience of standing for the National Anthem and doing the same for the official tunes of other countries does not feel any better. I can't help the feeling that patriotism is a short stone's throw from nationalism, which is nothing but a couple of short stone's throws from racism, fascism, ethnic cleansing, genocide, and whatever you want to call the attitude of the Israeli government and many of its people to the other races who share their part of the world.

And if anyone else (yes, Jon Voight) accuses people who dare to criticise the Israeli government (or for that matter people who oppose the ritual mutilation of male babies - Tanya Gold that's you - just because circumcision isn't as barbaric as fgm doesn't make it OK!) of being anti-Semitic I shall explode. Not in a nice way.

To anyone remotely impartial Israel is a colonising state which has illegally occupied and populated neighbouring territory and subjugated its people; small wonder that some of them react adversely. Where are the trade sanctions applied when other countries do this? Instead it's 'Oh you've used up some shells - here have some more'.

And while I'm ranting ...the Hamas leadership. It has been said that madness is "trying the same thing over and over again expecting a different outcome". The discriminate lobbing of missiles into a neighbouring, hugely militarised power and other attacks on its civilians, is always going to end in disaster for the people they are supposed to be leading. Over and over again. Try something different!

Rant over. It's probably best not to watch the News or read a newspaper. Makes for a less angry life.

Finding a place for lunch in Bassenthwaite

The really great thing about having a Good Pub Guide in the car is you can find somewhere nice to have lunch wherever you are. So, after a morning walk to view the osprey nest at Dodd Hill and a short walk (verdict: Blue Walk is possibly the most boring walk ever), it was an easy decision to ignore C's pleas to stop at the Ravenstone Lodge Coach House and Restaurant ("British favourites with a twist") and head for the Sun Inn at Bassenthwaite.

I turn off at the Bassenthwaite sign, pass a few buildings and then find we are on a narrow country land. The Bassenthwaite Community Hall is on the left, but no more buildings for another half mile when we hit the village of Bassenthwaite, though hamlet would be a more fitting description. No sign of a pub, so I follow the road for village centre. No people around. No vehicles. It is only marginally more inviting than the hillbilly homestead in Deliverance. A cat sitting in the road watches us pass by with supreme disinterest. Eventually I spot The Sun on the side of the building on the right and pull over. The place is closed. During the school summer holidays!

No worry - there's another Good Pub at Braithwaite, around the other side of the lake. And the road is close to the water so we should get some good views. No such luck. We're on the A66 and the views are hidden by a strategic belt of trees. Can't have drivers getting distracted by the landscape. Now here we are approaching Braithwaite,and sure enough there's the Middle Ruddings Country Inn visible just off the main road to the right with plenty of time to take a right turn and into the car park. Where, strangely, there are no other vehicles. This, too, is closed!

There is nothing for it but to head to Keswick, where we will have to pay for car parking, but which hosts the 'Dog and Gun' ("busy town centre pub with a changing selection of six real ales ...bar meals served all day"). We park up and stroll through the market place, now very hungry. On the window of the 'Dog and Gun' is displayed their latest Food Hygiene Rating. "TWO stars!" exclaims Ben. "I've never seen one that low! I am NOT eating in there!".

Nevertheless I breeze in one door - and exit the other as I observe there are no spare seats at all.

We end up having a very pleasant lunch in a cafe. Perhaps I won't take my Good Beer Guide next time we go on holiday.

Fun in Keswick

I am sitting in the front seat of someone else's car, babysitting two slumbering toddlers in the car park next to Booths supermarket in Keswick. Somehow, out of the 6 adults available, I was the one selected for this dubious honour.

I don't have my ipod, or even a phone. There is no reading material apart from the owner's manual in the glove compartment and a couple of nursery reports on the floor. From these I learn that on Monday 7 July Oscar ate half of his roast turkey dinner and Franklin filled 4 nappies but two of them were only wet.

The CDs in the door are by Adele, Olly Murs, and McFly.

After the rain last night and this morning the bit of mountain I might have seen through a gap between the buildings is shrouded in cloud.

After 10 minutes I am reminded of the experiment where subjects were left in an empty room with nothing to do and several resorted to giving themselves electric shocks to alleviate the boredom.

Decide I am better than that, and will "make my own entertainment" by observing the people using the pay-and-display machine. However we are in a remote corner of the car park and of the few people who use, it at least 80% are male. (So much for equality when it comes to paying for the car park, ladies!) And those females who do use it are wearing jeans or slacks. After the bare-leg fest that was Keswick market place in the sun yesterday, normal Lake District service has clearly been resumed.

There are now, simultaneously, two miniscule patches of blue sky visible through the cloud. Am I going to see some mountain?

Colin Fitzgerald comes to empty the bin beside the pay station. It's either Colin or someone who has borrowed Colin's high-viz jacket.

After about 20 minutes I start to wonder if there are jump leads in the boot, but then I hear a snuffle behind me. I turn around to find 2 pairs of just-awake eyes checking me out. Hooray, some people to play with!

But just then their mum arrives to relieve me. Rats!

Caitlin Moran, Nottingham Playhouse, 15 July 2014

"You might be the only man there!"

C's comment as I'm setting off for the gig, having secured a returned ticket for the sold-out performance that morning. (Long-term readers of this blog will know why I want to see her.) I brush off her concerns, but on arrival at the Playhouse there are crowds of people outside enjoying the warm evening and drinks and I struggle to find even one male face. Yipes!

I've arrived early to pick up my ticket, so my first stop is the ticket office, already feeling horribly conspicuous. Next move is to make a walk across the foyer - ostensibly to the merchandise table at the other side - but actually desperately scanning the assembled womanhood for a face I might vaguely know from somewhere.

Then I realise I'm very thirsty and will surely need a drink to be able to speak lucidly to whoever I happen to be sitting next to. And queueing at the bar is going to be less embarrassing than just standing around.

There is more choice of drinks at the main bar - but the queue is enormous and almost exclusively female. And the bar is lit by those lights which they use in canteens to keep the food warm. I can feel my face, already red, begin to positively glow as I slowly begin to cook in the heat. I almost give up, but the prospect of standing outside or in the foyer without a cold drink looking like a belisha beacon is even worse.

Eventually I'm able to shuffle away from the bar with my coke. To find, standing in the entrance, Tony Hodges, a colleague from the CAB!

I like Tony (in fact he's a 75-year-old CAB legend with 10 years service, a wonderful dry sense of humour, and a magnificent approach to clients) but would have been pleased to see anyone at all just then. Tony also has returned tickets, a pair, but has been unable to find a single (female) acquaintance available at just 50 minutes notice, so he's trying to give one away. We agree to meet in in the interval.

My seat is just 3 rows from the front, but imagine my horror and disappointment (in an audience which is 95% female, mostly under 40) I'm in between two blokes!!! Oh well; there is an exhilaration turning round and seeing all those excited faces not just waiting for a performance but to to see a heroine.

Caitlin appears on stage and launches into a long anecdote about her moon cup failing when she borrowed Richard Curtis's Suffolk guesthouse  - and the subsequent effects on the white bathroom carpets and Farrow and Ball walls, converting the soft white interior decor into something akin to an abattoir.

Behind this and several other gags was a serious point concerning the abridged portrayal of women in the media, including books, TV and film (including porn). (In this case, specifically, the gallons of unnaturally spilt blood depicted in films, dramas etc against the absence of any mention of naturally spilt menstrual blood.) Her thesis is that cultural change like this will change attitudes. What needs to happen is to expand the lexicon - to embrace a whole range of normal women, not just the few usual stereotypes. Serious stuff, but delivered with zest and plenty of humour.

At the interval Tony has already got drinks in before I reach the bar. (I said he was a legend!) He doesn't seem over-impressed with the first half, in spite of Moran's column being the reason he takes The Times. But it's a treat to have someone to talk to, a luxury that it's someone interesting.

As the session is ostensibly to promote her new book ("I thought I was writing about the process of becoming the adult you are, but apparently, according to the reviews, I was just writing about wanking") we get a reading or two. What stands out for me in the second half was her tips for girls on how to deal with a huge penis. (E.g. in the doggy position subtly move forward during thrusts to minimise penetration; you might get twice around the bed before he notices!)

We also get plenty on her erotic obsession with Benedict Cumberbatch, her mother's approach to parenting, being isolated at school, and what happened when she met her own heroine Courtney Love.

Whilst not the laugh-a-minute you get with some comedians, this was a fine evening's entertainment. I was tempted when she said that everyone in the queue for book signing afterwards would get a hug, but a 62-year-old man standing in line with large numbers of young women may have an ever-so faint whiff of desperation so I went straight home.

When I see Tony at the bureau, 2 days later, it turns out he was disappointed. She was too crude and he 'didn't like the messed up white carpets bit". It was gross, yes, but in my book achieving a groan of disgust is only just second to achieving a belly laugh. Maybe it's my weird sense of humour. Looking forward to reading her new novel.

ROCK ON CAITLIN!

Our two living room rugs

The hairy beasts have lived with us since we got rid of the carpet and sanded the floorboards in the living room in 2006. On the face of it they are simply woolly shag pile rugs. The blurb that came with them advised frequent vacuuming at first because they were likely to shed some fibres.

That was 8 years ago ...and they are still shedding fibres! In fact I am convinced that had I saved all the woolly fluff we'd vacuumed up over this period, possibly as much as a Dyson-full every couple of weeks, we could re-spin it and make several rugs of the same size. Frankly I call that moulting, not shedding.

All of which supports my theory that, innocent though the rugs appear, they are actually alien life forms capable of appearing completely inert but which actually have enormous regenerative powers.

I would guess the living entity is housed in the grid on which the wool is woven and that it is nocturnal. Every time I examine it I just see normal, commonplace, very terrestrial rugs. Perhaps the organism is sensitive to vibrations and reverts to an inert state whenever there is movement or sound in the vicinity.

Further proof of its status as a life form comes in its propagatory habits. Lumps of its fluff, presumably inert spores (whether the result of asexual or sexual reproduction I will not hazard to guess; we do have a pair...) have developed the ability to adhere to socks, much in the way the seeds of some plants adhere to passing animals or birds. They are then dispersed throughout the house.

Thankfully these potential invaders tend to be vacuumed before they have a chance to start growing. But what if we inadvertently left one and went away on holiday? We might come home to find a new rug in the bedroom or kitchen! Possibly displaying a different phenotype from the relatively harmless entities in the living room - the ability to move, envelop, and digest a prey for example.

OK that settles it. From now on, if we've been away, C can open up the house while I busy myself with getting luggage out of the car.

Marital Conversations (39)

(Wimbledon on TV again for the next 2 weeks.)

C: That's Simona Halep. She had boob reduction surgery and since then she's leapt up the rankings.

M: Well I guess it's worth the expense if it will help us beat the Jacksons

The tyranny of an immobile spouse

C broke her ankle and was more or less off her feet for two weeks and then doing minimal walking wearing a massive boot thing for the next 4 (prompting the nickname RoboRiv at work). She was off work for 3 weeks and then it was another 4 before she could manage the clutch pedal.

I didn't mind a bit looking after her (though she would dispute that), even the drives to and from Gedling 3 times a day during the time she wasn't driving.

The observations below were made in the first few days after her accident, I guess when the shock and pain was still quite acute.

1. C's prone position on the sofa means she can see right under the (very heavy) armchair. Her usual, brutally pragmatic, approach to housework ("We'll do it after the twins have been" or "There's no point, it'll need doing again at the weekend before our visitors come") seems to have given way to a novel and alarming fastidiousness.

I actually vacuumed yesterday, but omitted to move the chair, and she has spotted an offending collection of woollen fibres lurking underneath. I now find myself shuffling the wretched thing this way and that just to retrieve the elusive lump of fluff. The fluff appears to be telekinetically linked to the chair, so whichever way I jerk the chair, it follows. Eventually nailed it with much huffing and puffing.

(The fluff originates from the life form which shares our living room in the guise of woollen rugs, of which more later.)

2. I was tasked with retrieving item of clothing from the top bedroom. Have you ever had to find the "purple birdy one" on a wardrobe rail packed tightly with 40-50 jumpers, T-shirts and other tops?

I did a quick scan for purple: nothing.

I then went through the contents of each hanger one by one looking for birds: nothing.

I then went through them again, examining each one in detail for either (a) something remotely purple or (b) something avian in shape: nothing.

I was certain there was no top that was a non-spectral colour between red and blue, sporting an avian motif in the wardrobe. (WHY does she have so many, anyway?! And why wouldn't one of the others suffice?) I eventually had to give up.

Weeks later, when she made it up to the top bedroom and gloatingly waved said top in my face it wasn't even purple! And you almost needed a magnifying glass to see the birds!

3.The day after she was injured I blithely assumed she would be confined to the living room and downstairs toilet during the day, and innocently left 3 tea towels on the kitchen worktop. But she hopped in when I wasn't looking. The language!You'd think I'd trashed the place!

4. The last side effect of a broken ankle that I was expecting was an attack of grandiloquence. But the morning after the accident almost the first thing C said after waking up was "I've got cross-laterality pain syndrome". I think she was  referring to the injuries to her left wrist, right elbow, and left ankle - all causing insomnia problems, but where this phrase came from I have no idea. Thankfully she reverted to her normal speech after that.

 



Heard on the bus

...the girl in the seat behind me was talking on her mobile, presumably to her boyfriend.

"Why do you tell me these things when I'm pissed. Cos I won't remember!".

Sounds like a variation on the tactic of waiting till your partner has just fallen asleep to confess you broke her favourite mug/invited friends for the weekend/bought a big motorbike/have another family in Bognor Regis.

("I DID tell you - last Tuesday night to be exact".
"Huh! I must have been asleep")

The Google ruling by the European Court of Justice stinks

Yes, the ECJ has got it badly wrong.

Google stinks, too, for its tax avoidance tactics in the UK.

But, along with the world wide web, search engines in general, and I guess Google in particular, have transformed our access to information and made it so much easier to find out about people, companies, organisations, and governments and what they've been up to. As such they are agents of transparency and a Good Thing.

Pre-digital, a news item or document in the public domain might be forgotten and lost unless someone was prepared to spend hours or days looking for it manually in source material, possibly on microfilm, or via an index of some kind if the publisher or another body had found fit to invest in one.

Then back in the 1970s we had computers to help but digital storage was expensive and storage of text was rare. You would only be able to store a representation of a document (an abstract and meta data such as author, keywords, index terms). Searching the meta data was fine, like searching any database, but parsing the abstract text was slow. To facilitate searching, text retrieval systems were developed which used an inverted index: a record of each word in the abstract, where it was, and its context.

Then storage became cheaper, the world wide web happened, and text retrieval systems morphed into search engines.The expectation is now that you can search anywhere in the text of those news items, documents, and pages that are on the world wide web.

Except that now us Europeans, just like in China and several other countries where governments like to control what their citizens can read, will no longer be able to locate material deemed undesirable, albeit by individuals and organisations rather than governments.

Yes - people need protection against abuse and threats made over the web, but the ECJ seems to have confused this circumstance with fact and information already in the public domain. The ruling will enable those convicted of all manner of crime: fraud, child abuse, rape, murder etc to effectively airbrush their actions out of history. Thanks a bunch!

The source material is not effected: it is legal to publish this on the web. So how can an index to that material be deemed illegal? All Google is doing is processing the text out there on web servers and creating a searchable inverted index of the words in the text.

What's more, search engines based outside Europe won't be subject to these restrictions. Perhaps a serious rival to Google without a base in Europe, will now emerge? I hope so.

Ironically Mario Costeja González, who is responsible for the case which lead to this ruling, will now always be known as the bloke whose home was repossessed in 1998, the opposite of what he intended. Serves him right.

Paint it black

Our front door used to be a distinctive Prussian blue colour. It was a reclaimed door, installed by our then builder, John Harman, in 1996 and fitted with stained glass by Sebastian Glass.

It looked very distinguished and for years I would tell visitors who hadn't been before to 'look for the blue door'.

But sadly the blue door is no more. C instructed the decorators we hired to paint the house to eliminate the blue in favour of ...black.

Instead of a bright, up-beat, welcoming entrance we have a sombre gothic gateway. You can almost see the "Abandon hope..." notice above the arch.

Quite what motivated this sudden change is a mystery.

Or perhaps it wasn't sudden - perhaps C had been lusting after a black door for years and only now seized her opportunity?

Or has she been taken over by colour-blind aliens?

Or has she heard the Rolling Stones song on the radio and been subliminally influenced?

Or does it reflect a seduction by the dark side?

I suppose I could ask her...

New species at Chelsea Flower Show

Don't get me wrong - the Chelsea Flower Show is a jaw-dropping experience. Your senses of sight and smell are bombarded with delights. But joyous it is not. Filing around the gardens and then the indoor stands with the crowds would be a bit of an ordeal, even without either a recently broken ankle or a hip with advanced osteoarthritis.

The wow factor is rather diminished by the wall-to-wall BBC2 coverage for the past 5 days. I saw just one person smile, and that was at something his companion had said.

And the experience is not exactly enhanced by the obtuse behaviour of some of your fellow visitors. There are basic rules to be followed when in a crowd but some people seem oblivious to them. Here are the worst offenders, graced with appropriate botanical names you might see in the Chelsea plant lists.

• Individuals in the flow of people getting from A to B who suddenly for no known reason stop dead - causing, if not the death and injury this behaviour would produce on a motorway, at least jarred hip and knee joints, inconvenience, and loss of temper in those behind them. (Haltus abruptus)



• People who are standing at the front of the crowd and then suddenly start reversing without a care as to who or what might be behind them: sandled feet, small children, people with their broken ankles in plaster etc etc. (Bacca onathespectrum)


• The people who are behind you waiting to look at the garden in front, but who then stand motionless when you turn to leave, thereby blocking your exit and everyone else's (Obstaclore stationarae)


• People who wave their walking stick about 5 cm from your nose. (Gesticulor obliviatus - If that had touched my face, you'd have been on the ground mate, whether we share a degenerative musculoskeletal condition or not.)


• People who knock your head with their umbrellas. Bastards. (Brollo lethala)



• The idiots who crowd around any garden where a TV personality is being filmed, both preventing anyone else from viewing the garden and blocking the flow of people past the garden. Get a bloody life! (Celebritus asinino)


• Everyone else