The movement to abolish the religious significance of Christmas gathers momentum.
My anxiety started at the end of November when I went looking for Advent Calendars for the wife and daughter. Sainsburys had them. Well sort of. But they are no longer called Advent Calenders - they are “seasonal” calendars - and behind each of the twenty-five doors there is a Malteser. References to Baby Jesus are not for Seasonal Calendars.
The National Trust is also a little bit wary about the religious aspect. Not for them the words “Happy Christmas”. All their cards have a “Seasons Greetings” message lest we offend people of other denominations. I know that the Red Cross bans all mention of Christmas in their charity shops, but I’m a bit mystified by it all. If someone of another denomination sent me a “Happy Ber-jal-ii” card or whatever, I’d be very pleased and treat the gesture as a compliment rather than an insult. I think I’d be a bit confused however if a card arrived in mid-June or whenever announcing mysteriously “Seasons Greetings”.
Maybe it’s all a plot by Clinton Cards to streamline their stock range by selling just one “Seasons Greetings” card all year round – suitable for Mothers Day, Fathers Day, St Valentines Day, Easter, Christmas and Birthdays.
And a Thought for the Poor and Needy …
The daughter brought back from Chicago a short video clip to remind me that Britain is not the only country to strive for correctness. It showed a group of young coloured teenagers playing (brilliantly) on sort-of-oil-can drums on a crowded sidewalk. The police came and chased them off (begging on the streets is illegal) to the shame and dismay of all passers-by who were both pleased with the high-quality percussion performance, and also happy to see the lads doing something constructive (and not overtly criminal) to improve their lot. Why, the question was asked, had the police not moved in against the Salvation Army collectors on the opposite side of the street? Were they, too, not begging and using musical instruments to reinforce their message?
And a Compliment to the Chef …
Slices from a well-chosen and precisely cooked Sussex Bronze (twenty-pounder), the inevitable sprouts*, parsnips and excellently roast potatoes, carrots and bread sauce, gravy and sausage, cranberry sauce and stuffing, all piled high on a single plate, and then second helpings, and then pudding (without pudding wine), then cheese (with pudding wine and port), then more and more. Well done to my sister (who to her chagrin has never previously featured in this blog) for preparing that lot, and for gathering a complete set of brothers, a parent, a betrothed, a sister-in-law, to say nothing of her own children all of us cheerful and well-behaved and peaceful (apart from the after-repast snoring in front of Harry Potter). No mean feat and sincere and public thanks for the huge effort.
*Too much Patrick O’Brien I’m afraid. I tried “ubiquitous” sprouts, then “froward” sprouts, then … well, I think we don’t want to go there, do we?
Monday, December 27, 2004
Thursday, December 16, 2004
So long since....
Well, I've been busy!
Over the last six weeks I have physically moved my business down the corridor (better view, you see), done a fairly major show (Mac Expo in Islington), done some recruiting, some visits to France, but mainly have had to provide daily cover for the running of the business and a thousand other things.
Exhausting, really, for a decrepit 58-year-old (albeit with a lot of help from his even-older missus).
So, to the ranting bit: -
Public Service isn't what it used to be. My parents always told me that the way to succeed in life was to become a "professional"; a lawyer maybe, or an accountant, or a Doctor, or suchlike.
I never did.
But if I was asked by one of my grandchildren "What shall I do with my life, Grandpa Nappa?", I'd be tempted to point them towards Parliament. Britain now has over 1,000 MPs (including the "euros" and the increasing numbers of "regionals". Backing these guys (who currently receive princely rewards) are legions of Civil Servants, and the financial rewards for producing copious amounts of ever-futile and unnecessary over-legislation are becoming seriously envy-making.
Roll on the Revolution!
Which of course it can't. Because too many potential revolutionaries are already in the pay of the State. And so on. And so on.
Over the last six weeks I have physically moved my business down the corridor (better view, you see), done a fairly major show (Mac Expo in Islington), done some recruiting, some visits to France, but mainly have had to provide daily cover for the running of the business and a thousand other things.
Exhausting, really, for a decrepit 58-year-old (albeit with a lot of help from his even-older missus).
So, to the ranting bit: -
Public Service isn't what it used to be. My parents always told me that the way to succeed in life was to become a "professional"; a lawyer maybe, or an accountant, or a Doctor, or suchlike.
I never did.
But if I was asked by one of my grandchildren "What shall I do with my life, Grandpa Nappa?", I'd be tempted to point them towards Parliament. Britain now has over 1,000 MPs (including the "euros" and the increasing numbers of "regionals". Backing these guys (who currently receive princely rewards) are legions of Civil Servants, and the financial rewards for producing copious amounts of ever-futile and unnecessary over-legislation are becoming seriously envy-making.
Roll on the Revolution!
Which of course it can't. Because too many potential revolutionaries are already in the pay of the State. And so on. And so on.
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
So much to rant about … so little time!
It’s all my own bloody silly fault! I’ve de-staffed the business to such a skeletal level that the wife and I have been stretching ourselves in a fairly preposterous manner just to keep things moving. Over four hundred parcels have been shipped in two weeks and some have actually successfully reached their destinations. But the price has been high in terms of human suffering.
Wow! That sound like newspeak (“more soldiers of the Black Watch… but the price has been high in terms of human suffering”).
So, who have I missed the chance to rant about over the past couple of weeks?
George W Bush and all who voted for him must be high on the list. The staff of BMW Showroom/Service Centres almost beat the US President (and all those who voted for him) as classic examples of chinless ineptitude and people who are a total waste of time.
Then there are the murderous extremists who use religion as a shield and an excuse for their criminal deeds. Newspeak talks about “Moslem” extremists, but Irish Protestant and Catholic extremists have behaved equally appallingly in the recent past.
Then there is Manchester United!
Whoosh! I’ve just upset 1,000,000 readers who are either Irish, BMW workers, terrorists, the majority of Americans, and the world’s Manchester United fanbase.
I could, alternatively, have a rant about under-achieving retailers like M&S and Sainsburys, or, indeed, my own illustrious business where I have taken to insulting customers who are never home to receive their goods and then blame me for non-delivery.
There have been just a few better moments. The wife and I took a few hours off work last weekend to go shopping (pleasantly), and to witness the son’s hospitable firework display (very competitive in his part of Hampshire). I’ve also become interested in “festive menus”. The village pub suggests Venison with Chocolate Sauce as a Christmas main course, and Robert Harris’s “Pompeii” lists the following tantalizing fare for a feast day:
“Sow’s udder stuffed with kidneys, with the sow’s vulva served as a side dish … Roast boar filled with live thrushes…”
Yummy.
Wow! That sound like newspeak (“more soldiers of the Black Watch… but the price has been high in terms of human suffering”).
So, who have I missed the chance to rant about over the past couple of weeks?
George W Bush and all who voted for him must be high on the list. The staff of BMW Showroom/Service Centres almost beat the US President (and all those who voted for him) as classic examples of chinless ineptitude and people who are a total waste of time.
Then there are the murderous extremists who use religion as a shield and an excuse for their criminal deeds. Newspeak talks about “Moslem” extremists, but Irish Protestant and Catholic extremists have behaved equally appallingly in the recent past.
Then there is Manchester United!
Whoosh! I’ve just upset 1,000,000 readers who are either Irish, BMW workers, terrorists, the majority of Americans, and the world’s Manchester United fanbase.
I could, alternatively, have a rant about under-achieving retailers like M&S and Sainsburys, or, indeed, my own illustrious business where I have taken to insulting customers who are never home to receive their goods and then blame me for non-delivery.
There have been just a few better moments. The wife and I took a few hours off work last weekend to go shopping (pleasantly), and to witness the son’s hospitable firework display (very competitive in his part of Hampshire). I’ve also become interested in “festive menus”. The village pub suggests Venison with Chocolate Sauce as a Christmas main course, and Robert Harris’s “Pompeii” lists the following tantalizing fare for a feast day:
“Sow’s udder stuffed with kidneys, with the sow’s vulva served as a side dish … Roast boar filled with live thrushes…”
Yummy.
Monday, October 18, 2004
Curious Habits
We all have them. Some of us more than others:
My younger brother boils eggs in a kettle. I (in the company of friends) teased him the other evening about this absurd practice and he retorted that it wasn’t as bad as all that, “it’s a new kettle!”. I’m still trying to work that one out.
The wife’s sister enjoys “the element of surprise”, like turning up when you least expect her. This afternoon my little company was struggling away, trying to turn an honest dollar, when who should appear, not at the door, but rather as an apparition at the window…
The older brother would say that it not he who is eccentric, but rather his travel agent. Off he goes to attend some celebration at his old university (McGill in Montreal) and what happens – he gets endlessly delayed by immigration officials at Washington DC (“excuse me Sir, but are you aware that this is the USA, not Canada…there are perfectly good flights to Montreal directly from London…do you wish to do harm to our President?”).
I won’t mention the daughter who knows she is “next up”. She reads this blog a little too avidly (an eccentricity in its own right).
Neither will I mention the daughter-in-law’s “christening” trousers. Abercrombie and Finch they were not (nor even Land Rover Owners Club official gear).
Oh dear! Too many people insulted…too little time!
My younger brother boils eggs in a kettle. I (in the company of friends) teased him the other evening about this absurd practice and he retorted that it wasn’t as bad as all that, “it’s a new kettle!”. I’m still trying to work that one out.
The wife’s sister enjoys “the element of surprise”, like turning up when you least expect her. This afternoon my little company was struggling away, trying to turn an honest dollar, when who should appear, not at the door, but rather as an apparition at the window…
The older brother would say that it not he who is eccentric, but rather his travel agent. Off he goes to attend some celebration at his old university (McGill in Montreal) and what happens – he gets endlessly delayed by immigration officials at Washington DC (“excuse me Sir, but are you aware that this is the USA, not Canada…there are perfectly good flights to Montreal directly from London…do you wish to do harm to our President?”).
I won’t mention the daughter who knows she is “next up”. She reads this blog a little too avidly (an eccentricity in its own right).
Neither will I mention the daughter-in-law’s “christening” trousers. Abercrombie and Finch they were not (nor even Land Rover Owners Club official gear).
Oh dear! Too many people insulted…too little time!
Saturday, October 16, 2004
Looking the Part
Another Friday night, but it’s to London this time – catching the early evening train to Waterloo sensibly dressed in dinner jacket and black tie. I’m off to spend the evening with my friend Mr Angry at the Forty Club Annual Dinner at the Savoy (a cricket occasion if you really want to know, curious reader).
There is a tendency to feel a bit of a prat when you travel wearing a dinner jacket on a commuter train, surrounded by normally dressed people going about their normal life at 5.00pm. You have to “carry off” your appearance and a number of options occur. Obviously there is the “007” solution, total self-confidence and a look of superiority that says “these are my normal clothes, I have a gun and am off to a smart casino”. Then there is the “man from the band” solution, but you need a trumpet or other weird musical instrument case for that. I opted instead for the “total eccentric” solution as, having taken my seat, I produced a Bible from my briefcase and, somewhat ostentatiously, browsed through the Gospel according to St. Mark. Sadly this was not a sign of my devotion to religious matters, but rather swatting up on the reading I am to make at my granddaughter’s Christening later today. No-one took the empty seat beside me.
For the return journey, I was suitably refreshed with alcohol and felt quite normal with my tie askew, slumbering noisily all the way back to Petersfield. There I found that taxi drivers continue to exist in darkest Hampshire, even after midnight, and so I felt quite the part being chauffeur-driven back to my village and the somnolent wife and cat.
There is a tendency to feel a bit of a prat when you travel wearing a dinner jacket on a commuter train, surrounded by normally dressed people going about their normal life at 5.00pm. You have to “carry off” your appearance and a number of options occur. Obviously there is the “007” solution, total self-confidence and a look of superiority that says “these are my normal clothes, I have a gun and am off to a smart casino”. Then there is the “man from the band” solution, but you need a trumpet or other weird musical instrument case for that. I opted instead for the “total eccentric” solution as, having taken my seat, I produced a Bible from my briefcase and, somewhat ostentatiously, browsed through the Gospel according to St. Mark. Sadly this was not a sign of my devotion to religious matters, but rather swatting up on the reading I am to make at my granddaughter’s Christening later today. No-one took the empty seat beside me.
For the return journey, I was suitably refreshed with alcohol and felt quite normal with my tie askew, slumbering noisily all the way back to Petersfield. There I found that taxi drivers continue to exist in darkest Hampshire, even after midnight, and so I felt quite the part being chauffeur-driven back to my village and the somnolent wife and cat.
Thursday, October 14, 2004
Long Windedness
The first criticism of the “Ranting Nappa” is that it is too long-winded. And of course it should be long-winded, after all that is the essence of ranting.
It helps being English because we have more words to play with than other languages. I read somewhere that Shakespeare used 20,000 words in all his plays; whereas across the channel Racine (or was it Moliere?) only employed 2,000 words. Pity the poor person who did the counting!
The daughter’s godmother’s husband (why don’t I just say “Steve”?) used to say that one of the pleasures of reading The Economist was that every issue included a word that he had never encountered before. I, however, have enough trouble trying to understand (and therefore use correctly) the words I already think I know.
“Trauma” is one. I can handle “traumatic”, but every time I think I understand what it means I find it being used in a different way. Does it mean the mental consequence of grief, or the mental consequence of actual physical pain? I dunno, the word seems to crop up in both contexts.
Boris Johnson and my old workmate Jamie Camplin both use “elide” when they mean “omit” or “strike out” (I think). Maybe I should stop calling this a “blog” and call it a modernist “eclogue” instead. After all it is something of a poetic oration, though not in verse, addressed to shepherds or sheep or something.
Enough of this! Maybe I should start a "Society for the Eliding of Words from the English Language”. Once we have finished with a word, it should be struck off the list thus making the English language more manageable. A good starter would be the word “polytechnic”. This redundant word came to mind while driving past the imposing “University of Roehampton” last week.
It helps being English because we have more words to play with than other languages. I read somewhere that Shakespeare used 20,000 words in all his plays; whereas across the channel Racine (or was it Moliere?) only employed 2,000 words. Pity the poor person who did the counting!
The daughter’s godmother’s husband (why don’t I just say “Steve”?) used to say that one of the pleasures of reading The Economist was that every issue included a word that he had never encountered before. I, however, have enough trouble trying to understand (and therefore use correctly) the words I already think I know.
“Trauma” is one. I can handle “traumatic”, but every time I think I understand what it means I find it being used in a different way. Does it mean the mental consequence of grief, or the mental consequence of actual physical pain? I dunno, the word seems to crop up in both contexts.
Boris Johnson and my old workmate Jamie Camplin both use “elide” when they mean “omit” or “strike out” (I think). Maybe I should stop calling this a “blog” and call it a modernist “eclogue” instead. After all it is something of a poetic oration, though not in verse, addressed to shepherds or sheep or something.
Enough of this! Maybe I should start a "Society for the Eliding of Words from the English Language”. Once we have finished with a word, it should be struck off the list thus making the English language more manageable. A good starter would be the word “polytechnic”. This redundant word came to mind while driving past the imposing “University of Roehampton” last week.
Friday, October 08, 2004
Friends and Foes
“Go and write your blog … quickly”, orders the wife “and it would be good if you put the cat out for half an hour”. It’s Friday night and the cat and I dutifully go about our business.
It has been a strange week. Work is coming out of my ears, and yet none of it seems particularly rewarding, either financially or in terms of work-satisfaction. My online world is definitely attracting the “wrong sort of customer”; hawk-eyed students spotting that my site is undercharging for some required text that the publisher has just raised the price by 25%. Irritating phone calls from people demanding to know why the hard-to-source Springer-Verlag (New York Office only) title they ordered two days ago hasn’t been delivered by return of post. I am extremely likely to verbally “nut” one of them very soon.
Doing a Linux show at Olympia on Wednesday and Thursday was a time of mixed emotions, too. So many people coming up to the stand to ask “what happened to Sicilian Avenue?; “the shop in the City?”; even “where’s Darren, now?”. There were the usual crises (the non-operational printer which meant a nocturnal 80-mile round-trip to source another), the non-operational PDQ machine, the dire warnings that one hasn’t brought enough of this, that or the other. But it all worked pretty well, and it was great to have companionable contact with customers once again.
When I left publishing to become a bookseller I quickly realised that by running a specialist business I was likely to attract a fairly specialist sort of customer, and these people could point me at the right titles to stock with much more insight than publishers’ reps. By listening to their comments at the till, and by chasing up their asked-for books, you quickly establish a better business. You just don’t get that sense of human contact running a virtual bookstore. Gone are the Westlake’s and Blake’s; the Molyneux’s, Dr Elias and the teams from the local training companies. I miss them.
I also miss the staff. Just about every one of them, who span my thirteen-odd years of bookselling in London (and Brum). It’s good to see that they too regard those days as days to be recalled and have occasional reunions. I’m not sure if this is more in the spirit of school reunions or the type of gathering my Dad used to attend – of his fellow prisoners-of-war. Probably the latter!
There used to be a saying when I worked at Penguin that when people left the company (whether voluntarily or not) they always did better. I guess every rule has to have its exception.
It has been a strange week. Work is coming out of my ears, and yet none of it seems particularly rewarding, either financially or in terms of work-satisfaction. My online world is definitely attracting the “wrong sort of customer”; hawk-eyed students spotting that my site is undercharging for some required text that the publisher has just raised the price by 25%. Irritating phone calls from people demanding to know why the hard-to-source Springer-Verlag (New York Office only) title they ordered two days ago hasn’t been delivered by return of post. I am extremely likely to verbally “nut” one of them very soon.
Doing a Linux show at Olympia on Wednesday and Thursday was a time of mixed emotions, too. So many people coming up to the stand to ask “what happened to Sicilian Avenue?; “the shop in the City?”; even “where’s Darren, now?”. There were the usual crises (the non-operational printer which meant a nocturnal 80-mile round-trip to source another), the non-operational PDQ machine, the dire warnings that one hasn’t brought enough of this, that or the other. But it all worked pretty well, and it was great to have companionable contact with customers once again.
When I left publishing to become a bookseller I quickly realised that by running a specialist business I was likely to attract a fairly specialist sort of customer, and these people could point me at the right titles to stock with much more insight than publishers’ reps. By listening to their comments at the till, and by chasing up their asked-for books, you quickly establish a better business. You just don’t get that sense of human contact running a virtual bookstore. Gone are the Westlake’s and Blake’s; the Molyneux’s, Dr Elias and the teams from the local training companies. I miss them.
I also miss the staff. Just about every one of them, who span my thirteen-odd years of bookselling in London (and Brum). It’s good to see that they too regard those days as days to be recalled and have occasional reunions. I’m not sure if this is more in the spirit of school reunions or the type of gathering my Dad used to attend – of his fellow prisoners-of-war. Probably the latter!
There used to be a saying when I worked at Penguin that when people left the company (whether voluntarily or not) they always did better. I guess every rule has to have its exception.
Monday, October 04, 2004
Not Bloggin’ Weather
On days like today you drive to work, headlights-on in the near-dark pouring rain and immediately immerse yourself in an orgy of customer complaints, record-level mail-order-processing, humungous amounts of goods-in, behind-with-the accounts stuff, a really unnecessary order for urgent maritime books for Cyprus and then (hours later) you look out of the window and realise that … it’s all blue skies and sunshine outside; people are doing happy things like playing golf or walking the South Downs Way; enjoying a lingering lunch at one of those nice-but-expensive South of England pubs, all that sort of stuff. Then…much later…you drive home in the dark and the pouring rain…
Work is sometimes a four-letter-word. But it could be worse (says he Candide-style). The writer could be trying to rant about the Tory conference. Hearing Ms Widdicombe on the radio this morning (and Stephen Norris last evening), one realises that we already have a conservative government and that Mr Howard’s lot have nothing particular to add.
Mr Blair’s lot are about the least “extreme” form of government that one could hope for. Okay, they are townies and spend too much money trying to improve the “right” things like health, education, transport, etc., with too much bureaucracy and too little action. But would any sane person really prefer to replace them with Ann Widdicombe, Stephen Norris and people like that. Hell, I’d hate to have the Soames-man leading the way in Iraq; far better the useless Hoon and Jack-whatever the Foreign Secretary who turns unmemorability into an art form.
You are fortunate, dear reader, that the writer hasn’t yet got his mind around UKIP!
A ranter like myself cannot bring himself to vote Tory, or anyone-else for that matter. Time, perhaps, to give up bookselling and to enter politics…the “Ranting Party” is formed.
PS to copy editors: There are two semi-colons in this piece, so he’s getting better. But what about all those “…” things. Interestingly (or incredibly boringly if you don’t like trivia), Microsoft Word’s edit-find feature will find semi-colons, but not “…” things.
Work is sometimes a four-letter-word. But it could be worse (says he Candide-style). The writer could be trying to rant about the Tory conference. Hearing Ms Widdicombe on the radio this morning (and Stephen Norris last evening), one realises that we already have a conservative government and that Mr Howard’s lot have nothing particular to add.
Mr Blair’s lot are about the least “extreme” form of government that one could hope for. Okay, they are townies and spend too much money trying to improve the “right” things like health, education, transport, etc., with too much bureaucracy and too little action. But would any sane person really prefer to replace them with Ann Widdicombe, Stephen Norris and people like that. Hell, I’d hate to have the Soames-man leading the way in Iraq; far better the useless Hoon and Jack-whatever the Foreign Secretary who turns unmemorability into an art form.
You are fortunate, dear reader, that the writer hasn’t yet got his mind around UKIP!
A ranter like myself cannot bring himself to vote Tory, or anyone-else for that matter. Time, perhaps, to give up bookselling and to enter politics…the “Ranting Party” is formed.
PS to copy editors: There are two semi-colons in this piece, so he’s getting better. But what about all those “…” things. Interestingly (or incredibly boringly if you don’t like trivia), Microsoft Word’s edit-find feature will find semi-colons, but not “…” things.
Sunday, October 03, 2004
House of Love
I’m pleased that I never chose the Church as a career. I have no doubt that I could render a fiery sermon, get muddled over the choice of hymns and generally do all or most of the things that vicars do. But I would have found “change” hard to deal with.
My birth sign is Cancer, you see, and that means that I (tenaciously) cling on to old stuff. I’m very fond of the old communion service, traditional hymns, slightly mystical prayers and all that. So Friday nights rather long (1hr, 35mins) service to “license” the new vicar unsettled me a bit.
The bishop (wonderful hat) made no bones about it: the appointment should be “confrontational” when it comes to sleepy Sussex parishes which might prefer to wallow in tradition. Now I like the new vicar. He is young, pleasant and had obviously made a success of his previous parish (in Littlehampton if that means anything). But I didn’t recognise the hymns and I got all agitated when the vow to HM Queen was omitted - we got the vow to the Bishop of Chichester, no problem, but why was the one to HMQ rather obviously omitted when it was printed on the prayer sheet? Have we a Republican in our midst? Isn’t HM Missus Kwin (as Kwaage called her) meant to be boss of the C of E, Defender of Faith, etc?
I also wondered what my Mum would say if she knew that we lived next door to the “House of Love”, as the bishop described the parish church? Ho, hum. At any rate in an odd sort of way I rather enjoyed the occasion. It seemed to typify everything about the New Britain. In the pew ahead of us was a Littlehampton family with a small (maybe six or seven) child who was given freedom of the church by her parents. She wandered up and down the aisles, interrupting her obviously devout parents every couple of minutes, and never ever being told to quieten down, sit still, etc. By the third hymn it was too much for the wife who gave the child a mild (by her standards) rebuke. This was apparently a new experience for the child, and we later recalled the young Zoe (daughter of American friends) who had similarly been reared as a free spirit. Ugh, spank ‘em every time!
My birth sign is Cancer, you see, and that means that I (tenaciously) cling on to old stuff. I’m very fond of the old communion service, traditional hymns, slightly mystical prayers and all that. So Friday nights rather long (1hr, 35mins) service to “license” the new vicar unsettled me a bit.
The bishop (wonderful hat) made no bones about it: the appointment should be “confrontational” when it comes to sleepy Sussex parishes which might prefer to wallow in tradition. Now I like the new vicar. He is young, pleasant and had obviously made a success of his previous parish (in Littlehampton if that means anything). But I didn’t recognise the hymns and I got all agitated when the vow to HM Queen was omitted - we got the vow to the Bishop of Chichester, no problem, but why was the one to HMQ rather obviously omitted when it was printed on the prayer sheet? Have we a Republican in our midst? Isn’t HM Missus Kwin (as Kwaage called her) meant to be boss of the C of E, Defender of Faith, etc?
I also wondered what my Mum would say if she knew that we lived next door to the “House of Love”, as the bishop described the parish church? Ho, hum. At any rate in an odd sort of way I rather enjoyed the occasion. It seemed to typify everything about the New Britain. In the pew ahead of us was a Littlehampton family with a small (maybe six or seven) child who was given freedom of the church by her parents. She wandered up and down the aisles, interrupting her obviously devout parents every couple of minutes, and never ever being told to quieten down, sit still, etc. By the third hymn it was too much for the wife who gave the child a mild (by her standards) rebuke. This was apparently a new experience for the child, and we later recalled the young Zoe (daughter of American friends) who had similarly been reared as a free spirit. Ugh, spank ‘em every time!
Monday, September 27, 2004
A Time to Laugh, A Time to Cry
A perfectly miserable Monday. From 8.30am to 6.30pm a continuous, dreary procession of order enquiries, research into availability of maritime insurance books (seriously), more order enquiries, research into availability of accountancy titles, more order enquiries, a credit control enquiry, a purchase ledger enquiry, a sales ledger enquiry, research into availability of books on calculus, a chat with Josette at O'Reilly & Associates (highspot of working day), more order enquiries....ugh!
Then it was (yawn) time-to-go-home. Get into car (decide that it was a non-aggressive evening, so no high jinks around the corners), off I go, and on goes the radio. Radio 4 and a slightly pompous literary quiz, just interesting enough to hold my attention - "Which otherwise fully-employed author is quoted as saying 'If I want to read anovel, then I write one'?" (answer - Disraeli), and things like that.
Approaching the village things changed. A delicious quote from (would-one-believe) Nancy Mitford's Love in a Cold Climate nearly had me crashing off the road. It was so funny that I hooted out loud, chortling uncontrollably and was still smirking when I walked into the house to find the wife having a serious phone conversation with my sister.
I took the receiver and chatted with the sister about the joys of her recent "Captain Corelli" holiday on Catalonia (all the tourists were English, and mostly from Manchester, oh dear!). I replied with anecdotes on the subject of "snobbery" from that Radio 4 programme and she then, shyly, told me that she was planning to marry her "Simon" next year and I instantly offered warm and affectionate congratulations. Hooray for her, and I hope it goes better than the last one, etc. She then told me that her first call had been to our Mum, and that the news had rendered the dear parent completely speechless.
Later in the evening I phoned the said parent who, it turned out, was anything but speechless and (after careful consideration) was full of beans about it.
Funny how cheerfulness can take over from "doom and gloom" in a very short space of time.
Then it was (yawn) time-to-go-home. Get into car (decide that it was a non-aggressive evening, so no high jinks around the corners), off I go, and on goes the radio. Radio 4 and a slightly pompous literary quiz, just interesting enough to hold my attention - "Which otherwise fully-employed author is quoted as saying 'If I want to read anovel, then I write one'?" (answer - Disraeli), and things like that.
Approaching the village things changed. A delicious quote from (would-one-believe) Nancy Mitford's Love in a Cold Climate nearly had me crashing off the road. It was so funny that I hooted out loud, chortling uncontrollably and was still smirking when I walked into the house to find the wife having a serious phone conversation with my sister.
I took the receiver and chatted with the sister about the joys of her recent "Captain Corelli" holiday on Catalonia (all the tourists were English, and mostly from Manchester, oh dear!). I replied with anecdotes on the subject of "snobbery" from that Radio 4 programme and she then, shyly, told me that she was planning to marry her "Simon" next year and I instantly offered warm and affectionate congratulations. Hooray for her, and I hope it goes better than the last one, etc. She then told me that her first call had been to our Mum, and that the news had rendered the dear parent completely speechless.
Later in the evening I phoned the said parent who, it turned out, was anything but speechless and (after careful consideration) was full of beans about it.
Funny how cheerfulness can take over from "doom and gloom" in a very short space of time.
Sunday, September 26, 2004
Declining Fast
A "free" weekend, and what did I do? I worked. Saddo that I am, I went to the office on both Saturday and Sunday and spent five hours or more each day sorting goods-in and listing availability on 136 business books. If that wasn’t excitement enough I visited the Liphook Sainsburys (gentle reader, I could rant about the Liphook Sainsburys until the end of November but I feel that you would be overcome with boredom – like the customers and staff of the Liphook Sainsburys).
What a thriller!
I suppose I did a few other things as well. On Saturday we saw the son and his family for "tea" and, later on, had a real social occasion - Wine Tasting and Quiz at Uppark - where we met the vicar-elect and discussed village life with the locals (didn’t do much good with the quiz, and doubt if I scored with the locals either).
On Sunday I test-drove the sister-in-law’s new Polo (wow, blue fascia lights, and very zippy if you keep away from fifth gear). And I cooked omelettes for the wife and her Auntie Jane who is in residence.
I also phoned my Mum who cheered me up with the tale of the older brother’s car security system: it played up first thing this morning making him late for church. Then it refused him access at all when he parked at the golf club – for a swim. That’ll teach him.
All in all, it feels like time for a change. The wife told me that she “wanted a break”. Maybe I want one too. There's only so much one can do for a business that has had its day.
Time for "La France" and that great unwritten novel...
What a thriller!
I suppose I did a few other things as well. On Saturday we saw the son and his family for "tea" and, later on, had a real social occasion - Wine Tasting and Quiz at Uppark - where we met the vicar-elect and discussed village life with the locals (didn’t do much good with the quiz, and doubt if I scored with the locals either).
On Sunday I test-drove the sister-in-law’s new Polo (wow, blue fascia lights, and very zippy if you keep away from fifth gear). And I cooked omelettes for the wife and her Auntie Jane who is in residence.
I also phoned my Mum who cheered me up with the tale of the older brother’s car security system: it played up first thing this morning making him late for church. Then it refused him access at all when he parked at the golf club – for a swim. That’ll teach him.
All in all, it feels like time for a change. The wife told me that she “wanted a break”. Maybe I want one too. There's only so much one can do for a business that has had its day.
Time for "La France" and that great unwritten novel...
Thursday, September 23, 2004
Non-stop Abuse
Well, what does one expect when one entertains the son and daughter to supper? Actually the Royal Oak at Hooksway isn’t the brightest venue on a Tuesday night (two other diners, and one local who supped his pint and fled on our arrival), so you can understand a little teasing.
Having reserved a table earlier in the evening, the daughter (careful now – she is about the only reader of this blog) decided that we shouldn’t leave the village and eat in the nearest pub. This would mean no driving and anyway she had already been there and had a few before coming to the house.
And why do people get so uptight about hats and shoes? The son told me off for wearing my flat hat (in the house). Conversation during the meal seemed to orbit around shoes – the wife’s “dyke-boots”, the daughter’s “ski-boots”, and the son’s “pixie-toed slip-ons” which he insisted were Prada as if that justified the upturned toes.
And why do people get so upset with the quality of my driving? I am a Jeep-owner after all, and the fact that I don’t thank other drivers for their occasional courtesy (which I should) is down to incompetence rather than bad manners.
And what about that shop? Life is seriously crazy on the work-front as I try to take on the functions of several people. The wife is earning huge star ratings for helping out in this time of crisis. Inevitably business is trying to pick up in a major way at a time when there is no-one else to help. I seem to be working around the clock just to keep up with half of the workload.
Grumble, grumble. Must retire soon…
Having reserved a table earlier in the evening, the daughter (careful now – she is about the only reader of this blog) decided that we shouldn’t leave the village and eat in the nearest pub. This would mean no driving and anyway she had already been there and had a few before coming to the house.
And why do people get so uptight about hats and shoes? The son told me off for wearing my flat hat (in the house). Conversation during the meal seemed to orbit around shoes – the wife’s “dyke-boots”, the daughter’s “ski-boots”, and the son’s “pixie-toed slip-ons” which he insisted were Prada as if that justified the upturned toes.
And why do people get so upset with the quality of my driving? I am a Jeep-owner after all, and the fact that I don’t thank other drivers for their occasional courtesy (which I should) is down to incompetence rather than bad manners.
And what about that shop? Life is seriously crazy on the work-front as I try to take on the functions of several people. The wife is earning huge star ratings for helping out in this time of crisis. Inevitably business is trying to pick up in a major way at a time when there is no-one else to help. I seem to be working around the clock just to keep up with half of the workload.
Grumble, grumble. Must retire soon…
Monday, September 20, 2004
Something About...
There’s something about Manchester United that I just don’t like. It’s not particularly about Roy Keane and his tackles, the gloating Van Nistelroy and Giggs, the self-righteousness of the great Sir Alex. I just don’t like Manchester United.
There’s something, too, about Bernard Langer and his Ryder Cup team. This time something unbelievably positive about the teamwork and the deserved victory. A wonder to behold! Specially I enjoyed seeing Darren Clarke and Davis Love III sitting together after their enthralling match, with large cigars and obvious pleasure in each others company, watching the inevitable conclusion unfurl. A great day.
There’s something, too, about the frailty of human existence and fortune and the remarkable powers of recovery we humans can sometimes enjoy. I more or less wrote myself off at the weekend (as a capable working entity at any rate) when my back seemed to collapse as I went in search of a sherry bottle in my Mum’s flat. Bloody agony. And the indignity of lying down in the spare bedroom, only to have to rely on wifely strength to restore me to a standing position. And yet, here I am a couple of days later, more or less fully restored. Thank you Neurofen, Volterol, hot baths, the joint wisdom of my medical advisers (wife and daughter) and lots of sleep.
There’s something, too, about Bernard Langer and his Ryder Cup team. This time something unbelievably positive about the teamwork and the deserved victory. A wonder to behold! Specially I enjoyed seeing Darren Clarke and Davis Love III sitting together after their enthralling match, with large cigars and obvious pleasure in each others company, watching the inevitable conclusion unfurl. A great day.
There’s something, too, about the frailty of human existence and fortune and the remarkable powers of recovery we humans can sometimes enjoy. I more or less wrote myself off at the weekend (as a capable working entity at any rate) when my back seemed to collapse as I went in search of a sherry bottle in my Mum’s flat. Bloody agony. And the indignity of lying down in the spare bedroom, only to have to rely on wifely strength to restore me to a standing position. And yet, here I am a couple of days later, more or less fully restored. Thank you Neurofen, Volterol, hot baths, the joint wisdom of my medical advisers (wife and daughter) and lots of sleep.
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
“The World’s a Stage”…More Ranting
Driving to work this morning I caught another dose of parliamentary speeches on the radio (much better than on TV because you are not side-tracked by the rows of empty seats, the bored and tired expressions, or the smugness that pervades the majority party). This is pure theatre, and should be of the highest quality.
However the speakers' careful enunciation, as if they are reading from documents that have been pre-prepared by polit-bureau chiefs, really grates. Okay one should always be careful with words, but these men and (mostly) women are nauseatingly horrible as they deliver their obviously prepared speeches. There’s no spontaneity (however do you spell that word?). The only humour is artificial in a processed-cheese-sort-of-way, and the entire content of the speech might have been rehearsed endlessly in front of a mirror.
Members of the House of Commons were whingeing (carefully) about having to “forsake their constituencies in September” and get back to what they call “business” after only ten weeks’ or so holiday. Those attending the House of Lords were equally upset about this disruption to their social calendars, and the inconvenience of ongoing alterations and repairs to the building, which were having a knock-on effect to their chosen refreshment points.
These people seem so different to the star performers of years passed. I have been fortunate enough to have encountered the likes of Ian Gow, Tony Benn, Tam Dayell and Enoch Powell and have unreserved respect for their total enthusiasm for the process of government in this country. They seem miles apart from today’s spoilt and simpering elected (and non-elected) representatives, who one reads are soon to lose their free parking benefits at BAA airports.
Over-paid, enjoying fabulous work benefits, and incapable of speaking without reading from carefully rehearsed scripts, our parliamentarians are failing us. They behave like actors on a stage. Important government announcements are first “leaked” to the Press in order to maximise newsworthiness, and some vital decisions appear nowadays to be made without proper reference to Parliament at all.
Bah! I’m losing my own script – becoming more of a “rambling” Nappa than a “ranting” one.
The stage thing, though, wasn’t confined to the morning news. Driving home this evening I caught an interview with a really bizarre theatrical producer (whose name I didn’t catch). His Macbeth had witches who spoke in French (no “eye of newt”), his soldiers were Liberian freedom fighters, and his production featured cross-dressing (Scots wear skirts was the justification), extreme audience participation, and the whole thing set in Africa. Oh my!
As a postscript, gentle reader, you may ask about my punctuation thing. Well, I read a bit of Lynne Truss and, so far, I am allowed my brackets and inverted commas. I am even allowed the – occasional – dash. It’s all there to help you understand me better. But I haven’t fully mastered apostrophes yet, as you have probably noticed.
As a post-postscript, gentle reader, tonight’s news shows our parliamentarians at their dismal worst. Thousands of protesters in Parliament Square, while a small handful of MPs put an end to hunting. Why was the Chamber of the House of Commons so bloody empty at such an important time? The protesters who got into the Chamber seemed to outnumber the MPs. A dreadful night for Britain’s leaders, and for London’s Police Force, and for the poor old Serjeant-at-Arms. What a shambles this country is becoming! Rant, rant, rant.
However the speakers' careful enunciation, as if they are reading from documents that have been pre-prepared by polit-bureau chiefs, really grates. Okay one should always be careful with words, but these men and (mostly) women are nauseatingly horrible as they deliver their obviously prepared speeches. There’s no spontaneity (however do you spell that word?). The only humour is artificial in a processed-cheese-sort-of-way, and the entire content of the speech might have been rehearsed endlessly in front of a mirror.
Members of the House of Commons were whingeing (carefully) about having to “forsake their constituencies in September” and get back to what they call “business” after only ten weeks’ or so holiday. Those attending the House of Lords were equally upset about this disruption to their social calendars, and the inconvenience of ongoing alterations and repairs to the building, which were having a knock-on effect to their chosen refreshment points.
These people seem so different to the star performers of years passed. I have been fortunate enough to have encountered the likes of Ian Gow, Tony Benn, Tam Dayell and Enoch Powell and have unreserved respect for their total enthusiasm for the process of government in this country. They seem miles apart from today’s spoilt and simpering elected (and non-elected) representatives, who one reads are soon to lose their free parking benefits at BAA airports.
Over-paid, enjoying fabulous work benefits, and incapable of speaking without reading from carefully rehearsed scripts, our parliamentarians are failing us. They behave like actors on a stage. Important government announcements are first “leaked” to the Press in order to maximise newsworthiness, and some vital decisions appear nowadays to be made without proper reference to Parliament at all.
Bah! I’m losing my own script – becoming more of a “rambling” Nappa than a “ranting” one.
The stage thing, though, wasn’t confined to the morning news. Driving home this evening I caught an interview with a really bizarre theatrical producer (whose name I didn’t catch). His Macbeth had witches who spoke in French (no “eye of newt”), his soldiers were Liberian freedom fighters, and his production featured cross-dressing (Scots wear skirts was the justification), extreme audience participation, and the whole thing set in Africa. Oh my!
As a postscript, gentle reader, you may ask about my punctuation thing. Well, I read a bit of Lynne Truss and, so far, I am allowed my brackets and inverted commas. I am even allowed the – occasional – dash. It’s all there to help you understand me better. But I haven’t fully mastered apostrophes yet, as you have probably noticed.
As a post-postscript, gentle reader, tonight’s news shows our parliamentarians at their dismal worst. Thousands of protesters in Parliament Square, while a small handful of MPs put an end to hunting. Why was the Chamber of the House of Commons so bloody empty at such an important time? The protesters who got into the Chamber seemed to outnumber the MPs. A dreadful night for Britain’s leaders, and for London’s Police Force, and for the poor old Serjeant-at-Arms. What a shambles this country is becoming! Rant, rant, rant.
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
Just Beneath the Surface...
Maybe the Moon is at odds with Saturn, perhaps Capricorn is roughing it up with Pisces, or we are fast approaching the end of the Year of the Rat. There just seem to be more problems affecting more people than you’d normally expect for mid-September.
When the wife collected the cat from “kennels” this morning, the moving force behind the cattery had thrown a tantrum. He’d “upp-ed and off-ed” with his wife, leaving the rest of his family (mother, sister, etc.) in considerable turmoil. The business was running okay, but just beneath the surface…
My business has been affected. We knew that Ross would return to university in mid-September, but we didn’t expect the mail order department to be poached without warning by Jackanory (or is it Blue Peter?). I thought that things were running smoothly, but just beneath the surface…
My neighbours (I live next door to a graveyard) have been affected. Out of nowhere there is the need to create a disabled parking amenity beside the road immediately outside my rented house. This will entail the removal or replacement of one or more bodies (subject to their having enjoyed peace and quiet for at least one hundred years). There are no disabled people yearning for this facility, but it is apparently “the law”. I thought I lived in a quiet and well-governed village, but just beneath the surface…
The weather is foul; money is short and customers are slow in paying their bills. This is normal for the time of year, but just beneath the surface…
By way of a footnote I must stop using brackets (I'm doing this blog partly to try and improve my writing style). I'll also try to abandon italics, and to cut the number of punctuation marks I use by half. Moreover I may even snaffle a copy of "Eats, Shoots and Leaves" (I've sold enough in the past). It might give advise on how to cut down on the use of "inverted commas". If not I'll have to book punctuation lessons with Mrs Chip (the first of my bag ladies). She'll "learn" me!
When the wife collected the cat from “kennels” this morning, the moving force behind the cattery had thrown a tantrum. He’d “upp-ed and off-ed” with his wife, leaving the rest of his family (mother, sister, etc.) in considerable turmoil. The business was running okay, but just beneath the surface…
My business has been affected. We knew that Ross would return to university in mid-September, but we didn’t expect the mail order department to be poached without warning by Jackanory (or is it Blue Peter?). I thought that things were running smoothly, but just beneath the surface…
My neighbours (I live next door to a graveyard) have been affected. Out of nowhere there is the need to create a disabled parking amenity beside the road immediately outside my rented house. This will entail the removal or replacement of one or more bodies (subject to their having enjoyed peace and quiet for at least one hundred years). There are no disabled people yearning for this facility, but it is apparently “the law”. I thought I lived in a quiet and well-governed village, but just beneath the surface…
The weather is foul; money is short and customers are slow in paying their bills. This is normal for the time of year, but just beneath the surface…
By way of a footnote I must stop using brackets (I'm doing this blog partly to try and improve my writing style). I'll also try to abandon italics, and to cut the number of punctuation marks I use by half. Moreover I may even snaffle a copy of "Eats, Shoots and Leaves" (I've sold enough in the past). It might give advise on how to cut down on the use of "inverted commas". If not I'll have to book punctuation lessons with Mrs Chip (the first of my bag ladies). She'll "learn" me!
Sunday, September 12, 2004
MerryGoRound of Fortune
Fruit machines are silly things and, for my sins, an expensive habit. The daughter, the wife and I had gone to Le Touquet to await the arrival of the daughter’s boyfriend who had spent his Saturday working “somewhere near Heathrow”. Feeling rather bloated after three days in France our evening meal was a visit to the chip van in Etaples (terrific) and then off to the slot machine casino in the rue Jean.
I actually did rather well to start with. My initial fifty euro bucket of tokens first doubled and then grew a bit more as I meandered from machine to machine. But then the inevitable decline set in as I tried my luck on the more expensive “dynamite” machine and squandered a lot on “Betty Boop” and “Gold and Silver”, both of which had been kind to me on previous occasions. My wallet was emptying in a fairly serious way and with it came the expectation of a frugal Sunday, a visit to a cash machine that had not featured in my personal cash-flow forward projections, and that feeling of guilt that washes over unsuccessful businessmen who know that too much money is going out for an effective nil-return (a subject which I know rather too much about). At least when you spend money on food, drink and travelling there is usually a positive experience. When you lose money gambling, you simply throw notes out of the window.
The boyfriend arrived, the daughter beamed cheerfully and I borrowed a further fifty euros from the wife. The fifty euros went quickly. I watched the wife play her “frogs” machine and I looked at my watch. Time to go. Time to file this bad experience away. Tomorrow will be another day. But then maybe there is just enough left at the bottom of the wallet for one last bucket of tokens. Maybe, just maybe my luck will turn.
I buy the “last bucket of tokens” and find the “MerryGoRound” machine is free. It is a gimmicky machine, which people tend to play for the fun of the carousel feature rather than for serious winnings. Next door to it is the much more popular “Flaming Sevens” machine from which punters seem to take hefty winnings. The wife starts to play the “Flaming Sevens”. My fortunes ebb and flow (mostly ebbing) and the daughter checks out our progress. She’s still grinning like a Cheshire cat, but it has probably more to do with her reunion with the boyfriend than her fortune on the machines.
Then, without warning, I win. No spectacular bell-ringing, musical fanfares, or excitement. Just three “MerryGoRounds” in the same line and a green light glowing on the top of the machine. Jackpot!
Later on, back at home, we talk about the way fruit machines are computer networked. I am probably the worst kind of jackpot winner from the casino’s point-of-view as I don’t scream and jump up-and-down like many French punters. I don’t even “rant” and so there are no great theatricals “pour encourager les autres”. My feelings are more akin to being involved in a near-miss incident where I escape disaster by the skin-of-my-teeth. It’s what life is all about really.
I actually did rather well to start with. My initial fifty euro bucket of tokens first doubled and then grew a bit more as I meandered from machine to machine. But then the inevitable decline set in as I tried my luck on the more expensive “dynamite” machine and squandered a lot on “Betty Boop” and “Gold and Silver”, both of which had been kind to me on previous occasions. My wallet was emptying in a fairly serious way and with it came the expectation of a frugal Sunday, a visit to a cash machine that had not featured in my personal cash-flow forward projections, and that feeling of guilt that washes over unsuccessful businessmen who know that too much money is going out for an effective nil-return (a subject which I know rather too much about). At least when you spend money on food, drink and travelling there is usually a positive experience. When you lose money gambling, you simply throw notes out of the window.
The boyfriend arrived, the daughter beamed cheerfully and I borrowed a further fifty euros from the wife. The fifty euros went quickly. I watched the wife play her “frogs” machine and I looked at my watch. Time to go. Time to file this bad experience away. Tomorrow will be another day. But then maybe there is just enough left at the bottom of the wallet for one last bucket of tokens. Maybe, just maybe my luck will turn.
I buy the “last bucket of tokens” and find the “MerryGoRound” machine is free. It is a gimmicky machine, which people tend to play for the fun of the carousel feature rather than for serious winnings. Next door to it is the much more popular “Flaming Sevens” machine from which punters seem to take hefty winnings. The wife starts to play the “Flaming Sevens”. My fortunes ebb and flow (mostly ebbing) and the daughter checks out our progress. She’s still grinning like a Cheshire cat, but it has probably more to do with her reunion with the boyfriend than her fortune on the machines.
Then, without warning, I win. No spectacular bell-ringing, musical fanfares, or excitement. Just three “MerryGoRounds” in the same line and a green light glowing on the top of the machine. Jackpot!
Later on, back at home, we talk about the way fruit machines are computer networked. I am probably the worst kind of jackpot winner from the casino’s point-of-view as I don’t scream and jump up-and-down like many French punters. I don’t even “rant” and so there are no great theatricals “pour encourager les autres”. My feelings are more akin to being involved in a near-miss incident where I escape disaster by the skin-of-my-teeth. It’s what life is all about really.
Saturday, September 11, 2004
French Miscellany
Sense of Timing
An English farmer will plough, sow or harvest when he’s good and ready. He won’t be able to predict precisely when as so much depends on climatic conditions, good fortune and such imponderables as the appearance of the crop and the football or cricket fixture lists. The same fairly offhand approach to forward planning applies to the movements of his animals.
French farmers on the other hand seem to work to a precise calendar. Our local village farmer can tell you the exact date next spring that he will move his Charolais herd to pasture in the field next to our house (probably the Tuesday after Easter, but I haven’t yet asked). The vineyard owner where we buy our Fleurie was no less emphatic when consulted about this year’s grape harvest. It will commence on the 20th September. Not a day sooner. Not a day later.
Hello and Goodbye to Friends and Family
Sipping an afternoon beer on a cafe terrace in a small French town, we watch two school buses draw up and the first lets out a handful of children, their studies over for the day. Boys in the second bus pull faces at those who have disembarked in the manner of children the world over. The children scamper off in different directions while, for a brief moment, two boys aged around seven years stand and talk. Then, very formally, they shake hands before going their various ways.
There seems to be an increase in the numbers of kisses French men and women exchange with family, friends and work colleagues. On this trip we have spotted many examples of “quad” kissing – two on each cheek – and, once or twice, “sextuples” which become a little tedious. I must remember this next time I visit Le Saladin restaurant in Le Touquet where the Madame expects her customers (even English) to greet her formally – something the daughter’s boyfriend seems to do with alacrity, even if he won’t openly extend such formal greetings to the daughter, her mother or (thank heavens) her father.
Accidental Sheep
My first ever blog (Moths, Rust and Thieves) drew attention to the arrival of the two “accidental” lambs in our meadow. Very cheerful and both born black to a fairly dirty white ewe, these little August numbers hardly conform to the natural timetable of the Spring lambing season. Now yet another August lamb (this one white) has arrived in the field and the three youngsters happily graze away with their mothers who are safely apart from their ram.
Other recent “Nature Notes” report one dead goldfish, and a nocturnal near-miss when the daughter had to react quickly to prevent the car slamming into a large snowy owl who had underestimated our speed last night as he swooped into the road ahead of us.
An English farmer will plough, sow or harvest when he’s good and ready. He won’t be able to predict precisely when as so much depends on climatic conditions, good fortune and such imponderables as the appearance of the crop and the football or cricket fixture lists. The same fairly offhand approach to forward planning applies to the movements of his animals.
French farmers on the other hand seem to work to a precise calendar. Our local village farmer can tell you the exact date next spring that he will move his Charolais herd to pasture in the field next to our house (probably the Tuesday after Easter, but I haven’t yet asked). The vineyard owner where we buy our Fleurie was no less emphatic when consulted about this year’s grape harvest. It will commence on the 20th September. Not a day sooner. Not a day later.
Hello and Goodbye to Friends and Family
Sipping an afternoon beer on a cafe terrace in a small French town, we watch two school buses draw up and the first lets out a handful of children, their studies over for the day. Boys in the second bus pull faces at those who have disembarked in the manner of children the world over. The children scamper off in different directions while, for a brief moment, two boys aged around seven years stand and talk. Then, very formally, they shake hands before going their various ways.
There seems to be an increase in the numbers of kisses French men and women exchange with family, friends and work colleagues. On this trip we have spotted many examples of “quad” kissing – two on each cheek – and, once or twice, “sextuples” which become a little tedious. I must remember this next time I visit Le Saladin restaurant in Le Touquet where the Madame expects her customers (even English) to greet her formally – something the daughter’s boyfriend seems to do with alacrity, even if he won’t openly extend such formal greetings to the daughter, her mother or (thank heavens) her father.
Accidental Sheep
My first ever blog (Moths, Rust and Thieves) drew attention to the arrival of the two “accidental” lambs in our meadow. Very cheerful and both born black to a fairly dirty white ewe, these little August numbers hardly conform to the natural timetable of the Spring lambing season. Now yet another August lamb (this one white) has arrived in the field and the three youngsters happily graze away with their mothers who are safely apart from their ram.
Other recent “Nature Notes” report one dead goldfish, and a nocturnal near-miss when the daughter had to react quickly to prevent the car slamming into a large snowy owl who had underestimated our speed last night as he swooped into the road ahead of us.
Friday, September 10, 2004
Blogging Along
It was only a week ago that I started my blog and I have already broken most of the original rules I set myself. I vowed never to talk about the weather but I’m afraid that I’m an Englishman and it is impossible for any Englishman (or woman) not to talk about the weather. I vowed not to overdo the “ranting” bit, and already I am sounding like a Victor Meldrew-clone. I vowed to blog steadily (one every two days), but I seem to be composing either blogs several days apart, or several hours apart. I vowed not to use the blog as a sort of child-like diary (“this morning we got up and had toast for breakfast. Then we went to school with…”) and yet today’s contribution seems to be just that. I vow to improve, especially as the quality isn’t up to much so far.
The last couple of days in France have been great. It’s yet another four-day break from work and I’m aware that when I get back on Monday I’m in for a horrible period of virtually running my business single-handed. The daughter said yesterday that “men can’t multi-task”, and I have a nasty suspicion that she’s right. Oh heck! How will I get on running exhibitions in London, whilst at the same-time performing all the different jobs associated with running a mail-order and internet bookselling business? I fear that I know the answer already.
We went to collect wine from Fleurie, having crossed from Portsmouth to Le Havre on Wednesday night. Sharing a cabin with the daughter as well as the wife had its dangerous moments, mostly concerning the indiscriminate use of a fly-swat after lights out. But it certainly made a change from Eurotunnel. The morning drive south from Le Havre was memorable for an off-autoroute stop in a small French town where we found good coffee, and an excellent bakery. The daughter’s help with the driving was a real bonus (“Ranting Nappa” snoring loudly from the back seat), and hotel rooms and restaurants yesterday evening were all fine.
Our dinner in Madame Chagny’s excellent Michelin-starred Restaurant Cep in Fleurie took so long to be served (as is normal in that restaurant) that we were able to enjoy watching some great cameo performances from other diners:
* The inevitable Belgian, this one a Mike Reed lookalike, was accompanied by his (typically Belgian) wife to whom he addressed not a single word throughout the entire meal.
* An American couple, a seemingly harmless woman who made the mistake of sharing a table with one of those awful men who you just want to hit (apologies for revealing my latent violent nature, but it's like road rage when you are a natural "ranter"). Presumably her partner or husband, Cedric was about five foot tall, hair parted in the middle, thick (possibly surgically-enhanced) lips, and a whining voice that made anyone who could hear him (and that was everyone in the restaurant) cringe. He demanded exact information about every dish, wondered if he could "go large" on one, and inevitably left the small matter of paying the bill to his companion. Ugh!
* A table of eight elderly English on the other hand was just so well-behaved that it seemed unreal. Normally English people sitting around a table in a restaurant will all talk (or mostly talk) loudly and at the same time. As the meal progresses they will get louder (and drunker). But this party behaved impeccably. It seemed that they would only ever have one person talking at a time and that very quietly while the others listened attentively. They also seemed very happy, totally uncomplaining, and wholly at home in their surroundings. A wonder to behold.
The last couple of days in France have been great. It’s yet another four-day break from work and I’m aware that when I get back on Monday I’m in for a horrible period of virtually running my business single-handed. The daughter said yesterday that “men can’t multi-task”, and I have a nasty suspicion that she’s right. Oh heck! How will I get on running exhibitions in London, whilst at the same-time performing all the different jobs associated with running a mail-order and internet bookselling business? I fear that I know the answer already.
We went to collect wine from Fleurie, having crossed from Portsmouth to Le Havre on Wednesday night. Sharing a cabin with the daughter as well as the wife had its dangerous moments, mostly concerning the indiscriminate use of a fly-swat after lights out. But it certainly made a change from Eurotunnel. The morning drive south from Le Havre was memorable for an off-autoroute stop in a small French town where we found good coffee, and an excellent bakery. The daughter’s help with the driving was a real bonus (“Ranting Nappa” snoring loudly from the back seat), and hotel rooms and restaurants yesterday evening were all fine.
Our dinner in Madame Chagny’s excellent Michelin-starred Restaurant Cep in Fleurie took so long to be served (as is normal in that restaurant) that we were able to enjoy watching some great cameo performances from other diners:
* The inevitable Belgian, this one a Mike Reed lookalike, was accompanied by his (typically Belgian) wife to whom he addressed not a single word throughout the entire meal.
* An American couple, a seemingly harmless woman who made the mistake of sharing a table with one of those awful men who you just want to hit (apologies for revealing my latent violent nature, but it's like road rage when you are a natural "ranter"). Presumably her partner or husband, Cedric was about five foot tall, hair parted in the middle, thick (possibly surgically-enhanced) lips, and a whining voice that made anyone who could hear him (and that was everyone in the restaurant) cringe. He demanded exact information about every dish, wondered if he could "go large" on one, and inevitably left the small matter of paying the bill to his companion. Ugh!
* A table of eight elderly English on the other hand was just so well-behaved that it seemed unreal. Normally English people sitting around a table in a restaurant will all talk (or mostly talk) loudly and at the same time. As the meal progresses they will get louder (and drunker). But this party behaved impeccably. It seemed that they would only ever have one person talking at a time and that very quietly while the others listened attentively. They also seemed very happy, totally uncomplaining, and wholly at home in their surroundings. A wonder to behold.
Monday, September 06, 2004
Caffe Nero - Oh, the Shame of It
The local papers have enjoyed running a story about a big coffee-shop chain running roughshod over the planning authorities in Petersfield. At first sight it looked just the sort of issue I could have a grumble about. I could happily rant on about the awfulness of big corporates when they can take the law into their own hands and apply both change-of-use and physical changes to one of the towns oldest shops without proper permission or consultation. After all I am no friend of large corporate retail chains and will pour damnation on KFC and McDonalds, or Boots and Dixons for just about any reason.
But then I recalled the problems I had encountered when trying to get three individual shops converted into a single larger shop in London's Sicilian Avenue. I remembered the English Heritage "blockade" tactics (if it changes something, we'll oppose it - regardless of the reasons for the proposal which we won't even bother to consider).
Careful scrutiny of the newspapers revealed that Caffe Nero had in fact been in lengthy consulations with the planners, knew that there was every chance of permission being granted, and had taken a measured risk to proceed with the work rather than lose more and more potential custom. Well done them. I even like their coffee.
I had to wait 18 months and endure an appeal to the then Department of the Environment before I could "touch a brick"; but then I was a small business and couldn't afford to complain or to risk the wrath and condemnation of Camden Council. Poor me!
Anyway the local planning authorities have much bigger eggs to fry with the A3 "tunnel" to cut out the Devil's Punchbowl and the Hindhead traffic lights. I'm sure I'll be ranting about that in the fullness of time.
But then I recalled the problems I had encountered when trying to get three individual shops converted into a single larger shop in London's Sicilian Avenue. I remembered the English Heritage "blockade" tactics (if it changes something, we'll oppose it - regardless of the reasons for the proposal which we won't even bother to consider).
Careful scrutiny of the newspapers revealed that Caffe Nero had in fact been in lengthy consulations with the planners, knew that there was every chance of permission being granted, and had taken a measured risk to proceed with the work rather than lose more and more potential custom. Well done them. I even like their coffee.
I had to wait 18 months and endure an appeal to the then Department of the Environment before I could "touch a brick"; but then I was a small business and couldn't afford to complain or to risk the wrath and condemnation of Camden Council. Poor me!
Anyway the local planning authorities have much bigger eggs to fry with the A3 "tunnel" to cut out the Devil's Punchbowl and the Hindhead traffic lights. I'm sure I'll be ranting about that in the fullness of time.
Sunday, September 05, 2004
Running Commentaries
Today was the last of my “cricket days” at Lords. India played a Flintoff-less England in the third of a best-of-three series of one-day matches, the first two of which England had already won. Wonderful weather, splendid company, lots of food (including Mr H’s rather eccentric blueberry bagels with smoked salmon and cream cheese), excellent Chablis from Mr B who was much concerned about the effect of direct sunlight on his sensitive skin, a superb spell of bowling by Harmison, fine batting from the “insouciant” (to quote Christopher Martin Jenkins) Ganguly, and an eventual (deserved) victory for the Indian team.
Following England’s unimpressive football performance in last night’s World Cup qualifier where a two-goal lead was equalled in the second half by a determined and unfancied Austrian team, it seemed almost inevitable that the cricket team would follow suit – not exactly snatching defeat from the jaws of victory, but providing a disappointing end to what has been a great run of wins.
The Indian team, it must be said, played really well and their bowling (fast and slow) was really impressive. Like the Austrians who cheered their goal-scorers and lifted team morale, the surprisingly large crowd of enthusiastic Indian fans played an important part in encouraging a sense of team spirit so often lacking in English national sports.
But my issue-of-the-day is not about team spirit. It is about broadcast commentaries – the ways both good and bad in which sport, particularly cricket and football are presented through television and radio.
First, hats off to radio coverage of cricket. The Martin-Jenkins, Agnew, Blofield team have to keep up a non-stop dialogue regardless as to whether or not anything is happening on the pitch. They do it informatively, with humour, and a depth of knowledge about the game, its players and its past. They get side-tracked by shirt colours, buses, planes and, today, by the expression “a breathless hush”. They are terrific, and there is the added bonus of the Shipping Forecast interruptions and news of conditions in the mysterious North Uitsere, South Uitsere…
But then there is the awfulness of football coverage. I don’t mean the actual match commentaries which are often informative and worthwhile, but the dreadful, endless sessions with men in chairs pontificating about the finest details of the match, or the players performance both before the match, at half-time, and after the final whistle. On and on they drone. Breathtakingly pompous and arrogant, these know-alls seem to represent all that is bad in English Football – the back-stabbing, the organisational inadequacies of the game, the spending of extraordinary sums on players salaries and new signings, the sacking of managers whose teams lose successive matches, compared with the lack of attention to the games infrastructure, development of stadiums and top-rate facilities for spectators, the rearing of new English talent (easier to sign a foreign superstar), and the development of the game through schools and youth centres.
Oh, how I rant on. But more football on TV and less talking about football would seem a sensible idea.
Following England’s unimpressive football performance in last night’s World Cup qualifier where a two-goal lead was equalled in the second half by a determined and unfancied Austrian team, it seemed almost inevitable that the cricket team would follow suit – not exactly snatching defeat from the jaws of victory, but providing a disappointing end to what has been a great run of wins.
The Indian team, it must be said, played really well and their bowling (fast and slow) was really impressive. Like the Austrians who cheered their goal-scorers and lifted team morale, the surprisingly large crowd of enthusiastic Indian fans played an important part in encouraging a sense of team spirit so often lacking in English national sports.
But my issue-of-the-day is not about team spirit. It is about broadcast commentaries – the ways both good and bad in which sport, particularly cricket and football are presented through television and radio.
First, hats off to radio coverage of cricket. The Martin-Jenkins, Agnew, Blofield team have to keep up a non-stop dialogue regardless as to whether or not anything is happening on the pitch. They do it informatively, with humour, and a depth of knowledge about the game, its players and its past. They get side-tracked by shirt colours, buses, planes and, today, by the expression “a breathless hush”. They are terrific, and there is the added bonus of the Shipping Forecast interruptions and news of conditions in the mysterious North Uitsere, South Uitsere…
But then there is the awfulness of football coverage. I don’t mean the actual match commentaries which are often informative and worthwhile, but the dreadful, endless sessions with men in chairs pontificating about the finest details of the match, or the players performance both before the match, at half-time, and after the final whistle. On and on they drone. Breathtakingly pompous and arrogant, these know-alls seem to represent all that is bad in English Football – the back-stabbing, the organisational inadequacies of the game, the spending of extraordinary sums on players salaries and new signings, the sacking of managers whose teams lose successive matches, compared with the lack of attention to the games infrastructure, development of stadiums and top-rate facilities for spectators, the rearing of new English talent (easier to sign a foreign superstar), and the development of the game through schools and youth centres.
Oh, how I rant on. But more football on TV and less talking about football would seem a sensible idea.
Saturday, September 04, 2004
Stress City
My friend the Ayatollah (who lives on Romney Marsh) avoids London at all costs. The reasons he gives are so numerous and so eloquently phrased that their diatribic qualities would shoot this fogeyist blog clean out of the water.
I seem to have spent so much of my life in and around London that I have always tended to like the place, even though there may be warts a-plenty. But after a period of living in the countryside my return to London this sunny September Saturday (a detour on the way back from France to get a long overdue haircut and to sneak a couple of hours watching the Australia-Pakistan one-day match at Lords) left me feeling less certain about Londoners.
It had nothing to do with the cricket (Lords is wonderful on days like these), nor the Sister-in-Law who gave me a pleasant cup of tea in her SW1 flat, nor even the bad-mannered Saturday afternoon driving that is such a feature of our capital city. It was the sullenness of the inhabitants, the sheer unhappiness of the faces in the street and even the glum-looking pleasure-seekers in Hyde Park on an otherwise glorious day that cast a shadow over my day.
Driving out on the A3 I felt a sense of release at escaping London. A minor spat with a fellow motorist at Tolworth made me wonder if my unease with Londoners was a manifestation of fogeyist road-rage and that I was simply upset with the less-than-perfect driving (and pedestrian manners)of my fellow citizens. But then drivers and pedestrians in many
parts of the world are prone to unexpected outbursts - New York and Maltese cab-drivers come to mind, the tram/truck/car/bike battles in the streets of Amsterdam, and French urban driving are all synonymous with passionate and heated exchanges. But in these places the participants are behaving normally and smiling/grinning/laughing within minutes of whatever incident sparked their fury.
Maybe the traffic problems, the awfulness of the public transport system on occasion, homelessness, hunger, crime, unemployment, work problems and so forth are taking their toll.
But if London is to succeed in an Olympic bid, it must learn to smile again. Londoners must re-train in skills such as courtesy, helpfulness and above all happiness.
The day after writing this I met (at Lords) my friend Mr H who has lived in North London forever and who is a great evangelist for London. On his way to the cricket ground he had leant out of his car window (his girlfriend was driving) and shouted "Oiks!" at three West Indian youths who were ostentatiously chucking litter from their car window onto the road. Their response was to turn their car and follow Mr H for the next six miles until his car drew up at Lords beside a group of police and security guards. Unsettling to say the least. But that's the new London for you.
I seem to have spent so much of my life in and around London that I have always tended to like the place, even though there may be warts a-plenty. But after a period of living in the countryside my return to London this sunny September Saturday (a detour on the way back from France to get a long overdue haircut and to sneak a couple of hours watching the Australia-Pakistan one-day match at Lords) left me feeling less certain about Londoners.
It had nothing to do with the cricket (Lords is wonderful on days like these), nor the Sister-in-Law who gave me a pleasant cup of tea in her SW1 flat, nor even the bad-mannered Saturday afternoon driving that is such a feature of our capital city. It was the sullenness of the inhabitants, the sheer unhappiness of the faces in the street and even the glum-looking pleasure-seekers in Hyde Park on an otherwise glorious day that cast a shadow over my day.
Driving out on the A3 I felt a sense of release at escaping London. A minor spat with a fellow motorist at Tolworth made me wonder if my unease with Londoners was a manifestation of fogeyist road-rage and that I was simply upset with the less-than-perfect driving (and pedestrian manners)of my fellow citizens. But then drivers and pedestrians in many
parts of the world are prone to unexpected outbursts - New York and Maltese cab-drivers come to mind, the tram/truck/car/bike battles in the streets of Amsterdam, and French urban driving are all synonymous with passionate and heated exchanges. But in these places the participants are behaving normally and smiling/grinning/laughing within minutes of whatever incident sparked their fury.
Maybe the traffic problems, the awfulness of the public transport system on occasion, homelessness, hunger, crime, unemployment, work problems and so forth are taking their toll.
But if London is to succeed in an Olympic bid, it must learn to smile again. Londoners must re-train in skills such as courtesy, helpfulness and above all happiness.
The day after writing this I met (at Lords) my friend Mr H who has lived in North London forever and who is a great evangelist for London. On his way to the cricket ground he had leant out of his car window (his girlfriend was driving) and shouted "Oiks!" at three West Indian youths who were ostentatiously chucking litter from their car window onto the road. Their response was to turn their car and follow Mr H for the next six miles until his car drew up at Lords beside a group of police and security guards. Unsettling to say the least. But that's the new London for you.
Friday, September 03, 2004
Feeling Charitable
I'm normally deeply troubled by the way charitable organistions conduct their affairs. I've had bad feelings in the past about the RSPCA, National Trust, World Wildlife Fund, English Heritage and any organisation which resorts to "tabard" salesmen/women outside Holborn tube station (sorry Macmillan Cancer - that includes you).
My cousin Tim's bike ride (London to Paris for the Royal British Legion - see previous posting) made me totally forgive the Poppy people for all earlier grumbles (why do poppies have to go on sale - and be worn - about three months before Remembrance Sunday?). Here were 200 mostly middle aged or better people pedalling for pleasure and raising a great heap of money. Madame Moutarde and I met Tim at his afternoon stop-off/refreshment point about three quarters of the way from Calais to Abbeville (his destination for the night) which happened to be within walking distance of our house in the Authie valley.
The skilful and thorough way the event was organised was quite inspiring: a dozen or so French motor cycle outriders clearing the way for the cyclists so that they never had to slow or stop, even for red lights; volunteers in smart people-carriers bringing sensible food, drink and medical supplies; cycle repair and maintenance vans bringing up the rear (one cyclist told me that they took scarcely more than 30 seconds to change a damaged wheel). Massage tables were set up at the stop-off, and volunteers even removed all litter afterwards.
I suppose that I wasn't surprised to learn that the event organiser is a Frenchman.
My cousin Tim's bike ride (London to Paris for the Royal British Legion - see previous posting) made me totally forgive the Poppy people for all earlier grumbles (why do poppies have to go on sale - and be worn - about three months before Remembrance Sunday?). Here were 200 mostly middle aged or better people pedalling for pleasure and raising a great heap of money. Madame Moutarde and I met Tim at his afternoon stop-off/refreshment point about three quarters of the way from Calais to Abbeville (his destination for the night) which happened to be within walking distance of our house in the Authie valley.
The skilful and thorough way the event was organised was quite inspiring: a dozen or so French motor cycle outriders clearing the way for the cyclists so that they never had to slow or stop, even for red lights; volunteers in smart people-carriers bringing sensible food, drink and medical supplies; cycle repair and maintenance vans bringing up the rear (one cyclist told me that they took scarcely more than 30 seconds to change a damaged wheel). Massage tables were set up at the stop-off, and volunteers even removed all litter afterwards.
I suppose that I wasn't surprised to learn that the event organiser is a Frenchman.
Moths, Rust and Thieves
In France. Lots of moths, quite a bit of rust and, fortunately, no thieves. The house is great despite its dire state of repair. Apart from every form of insect life we seem to number two frogs, countless goldfish, two "accidental" lambs, and of course the field of charolais cows (plus bull).
Unusually we have a clear blue sky and this is probably the worst sort of weather for cousin Tim who is due to cycle through our valley this afternoon on his way from London to Paris (with 199 other cyclists supporting the Royal British Legion). I don't think that I would have progressed more than 10 miles with my state of physical fitness, so I'll raise my hat/glass to Tim (7 years my senior).
Quirky thought for the morning concerns Mae West. Okay she was a celebrated and beautiful actress who gave her name to a life-jacket. But she also gave her name to a dog (Mae West Boxers) and to a cake. I never even gave my name to a bookshop and, if I ever manage to write the great novel, I'm sure that it will publish under a pseudonym.
Unusually we have a clear blue sky and this is probably the worst sort of weather for cousin Tim who is due to cycle through our valley this afternoon on his way from London to Paris (with 199 other cyclists supporting the Royal British Legion). I don't think that I would have progressed more than 10 miles with my state of physical fitness, so I'll raise my hat/glass to Tim (7 years my senior).
Quirky thought for the morning concerns Mae West. Okay she was a celebrated and beautiful actress who gave her name to a life-jacket. But she also gave her name to a dog (Mae West Boxers) and to a cake. I never even gave my name to a bookshop and, if I ever manage to write the great novel, I'm sure that it will publish under a pseudonym.
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