The daughter (bless her) is back from skiing in Canada. More elks than last year in Banff she says, and her boyfriend wore, for the first time a GSPS satellite navigational aid (as all good skiers now do) so that his progress and speed could be monitored from afar (60mph on the fast bits I think she said - but he is a very good skier).
Meanwhile the elder brother, the sister (bless her) and cousin Tim are skiing in Italy. Somehow I doubt that they are using the latest technological aids. I haven't skied with the elder brother since our childhood, but I would be surprised if he didn't still use yard-long laces to tie his ski boots, and I would expect his ski poles to be made of wood.
Back in Southern England I was feeling tired and grumpy in the office and thought it would be a good idea to wash some of the salt, grit and general snow-spray off the car. I therefore sloped off at around 3.00pm to visit the local car wash machine. Stupid mistake. A seemingly endless queue of cars which hadn't been pelting up and down the autoroutes of France all weekend was in place. Rather similar to "Operation Stack" which we experienced at the Channel Tunnel on Saturday (three hour delays due to an earlier security alert), the car drivers were hunched in their seats with baseball caps drawn down to their noses. Nothing better to do on a Monday afternoon so go and join the queue for the car wash. I declined the invitation and returned to work.
Work however was also full of little frustrations. I have now completed all the formalities for corporate registration as a seller on ebay but, needless to say, I've forgotten not only the clever password I gave myself, but also the clever user name. Oh, sod it!
Monday, February 28, 2005
Sunday, February 27, 2005
Thy Kingdom Come
Last week I at last got around to leafing through George Courtauld’s “unpublishable” Pocket Book of Patriotism (an obvious target for a ranting blog if ever there was one). Okay, it’s not a pocket book unless you are wearing a Barbour jacket. Okay so what have the Ten Commandments and the Lord’s Prayer to do with British patriotism - surely they are of universal appeal?
But putting aside these and other questionable inclusions and exclusions, the very existence of the little book serves to concentrate the mind on the worrying issue of national identity. You see I’m not Scottish, Irish or Welsh. I’m English. Or am I more British than English? My country of origin according to Microsoft’s drop-down boxes is “United Kingdom”, my car has a GB plate and I’m confused. My first allegiance is to England and St George, or should it be to the Monarch? I don’t have an English passport but I do have an EEC passport. The national anthem is, depending on mood, God Save the Queen, Rule Britannia, Land of Hope and Glory, Swing Low, Sweet Chariot. I haven't even mentioned Charles and Camilla and I am still more confused.
On to simpler matters - like kissing as the French do it. Saturday afternoon was emotionally charged as the wife and I paid a quick visit to our recently bereaved neighbour, Constant, who has now left our village in France and moved in with relatives in Dunkerque. My ration (greeting and departure) was a kiss on the left cheek, then the right cheek, then left again, then right again. Comparing notes afterwards the wife told me that hers went –Left –Right-Left-Right-then “Lips”.
Back to “Patriotism” I do get stirred up about the Six Nations Rugby. England’s third consecutive defeat goes to show how quickly a championship team can disintegrate, and how, when things start going wrong, it just keeps getting worse. A bit like my business really, but there’s always the hope that next year will be “Grand Slam Year”.Meanwhile it’s back to thoughts of the wooden spoon.
But putting aside these and other questionable inclusions and exclusions, the very existence of the little book serves to concentrate the mind on the worrying issue of national identity. You see I’m not Scottish, Irish or Welsh. I’m English. Or am I more British than English? My country of origin according to Microsoft’s drop-down boxes is “United Kingdom”, my car has a GB plate and I’m confused. My first allegiance is to England and St George, or should it be to the Monarch? I don’t have an English passport but I do have an EEC passport. The national anthem is, depending on mood, God Save the Queen, Rule Britannia, Land of Hope and Glory, Swing Low, Sweet Chariot. I haven't even mentioned Charles and Camilla and I am still more confused.
On to simpler matters - like kissing as the French do it. Saturday afternoon was emotionally charged as the wife and I paid a quick visit to our recently bereaved neighbour, Constant, who has now left our village in France and moved in with relatives in Dunkerque. My ration (greeting and departure) was a kiss on the left cheek, then the right cheek, then left again, then right again. Comparing notes afterwards the wife told me that hers went –Left –Right-Left-Right-then “Lips”.
Back to “Patriotism” I do get stirred up about the Six Nations Rugby. England’s third consecutive defeat goes to show how quickly a championship team can disintegrate, and how, when things start going wrong, it just keeps getting worse. A bit like my business really, but there’s always the hope that next year will be “Grand Slam Year”.Meanwhile it’s back to thoughts of the wooden spoon.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
A Disorderly Mind
When my friend the Ayatollah and I (all those years back) struggled to find answers to Times crossword clues, our old chum Charles would become angry. He couldn’t abide a pastime which is at times inexact and frivolous (as well as utterly time-wasting). The idea that the clue conceals the answer rather than offering it in a straightforward way made no sense to him. Sadly Charles is not with us now to offer his thoughts on Su Doku the numbers game which has recently become a regular feature in both the Times and Telegraph.
Just in case, gentle reader, you are still unaware of Su Doku (also known as Sudoku) it is a numerical puzzle which derives from an American puzzle which was adopted by the Japanese The format is a grid with nine columns and nine rows (yes, that makes 81 squares). Within this grid there are nine “boxes” (three down, three across), and the puzzle-setter completes typically 32 squares with apparently random numbers from one to nine. All the solver has to do is to complete the remaining squares with numbers from one to nine in such a way as to leave every column, every row and each of the nine “boxes” carrying the numbers one to nine without omission or repetition. For every puzzle there can only be one correct solution.
If this sound complicated, you’d better look at www.sudoku.com where the thing is much better explained. But beware, this is a dangerously addictive pastime. I only got to fully understand the game (or whatever you call it) yesterday, and it is already eating into my day-time (and night-time) hours. I’m sure that the younger brother sits in his local pub solving the Times Su Doku grid in about four minutes flat. Our maternal grandmother would have been good at it, but personally I’m not so sure. I still prefer the uncertainty and randomness of crossword clues. Better to be able to argue about the answer to a clue than to have such mathematical strictness.
Just in case, gentle reader, you are still unaware of Su Doku (also known as Sudoku) it is a numerical puzzle which derives from an American puzzle which was adopted by the Japanese The format is a grid with nine columns and nine rows (yes, that makes 81 squares). Within this grid there are nine “boxes” (three down, three across), and the puzzle-setter completes typically 32 squares with apparently random numbers from one to nine. All the solver has to do is to complete the remaining squares with numbers from one to nine in such a way as to leave every column, every row and each of the nine “boxes” carrying the numbers one to nine without omission or repetition. For every puzzle there can only be one correct solution.
If this sound complicated, you’d better look at www.sudoku.com where the thing is much better explained. But beware, this is a dangerously addictive pastime. I only got to fully understand the game (or whatever you call it) yesterday, and it is already eating into my day-time (and night-time) hours. I’m sure that the younger brother sits in his local pub solving the Times Su Doku grid in about four minutes flat. Our maternal grandmother would have been good at it, but personally I’m not so sure. I still prefer the uncertainty and randomness of crossword clues. Better to be able to argue about the answer to a clue than to have such mathematical strictness.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Constructing wooden legs…
But first the matter of “seasons”. Last night the wife and I consumed avocado pear, cauliflower, rhubarb (crumble) and a rather pleasing Waitrose “rich and creamy” stilton cheese with some walnuts. I mentioned to her that no food seems to have a “season” anymore. You can buy asparagus, raspberries and oysters at any time of year thanks to modern farming techniques and local suppliers in places like Peru. Hot cross buns are readily available from Sainsburys in November, and Spring Lamb in August. She managed to counter this with “what about marrows, then?” but it must be only a matter of time before I find a marrow in Waitrose proudly labelled “product of Zimbabwe”.
Now to these wooden legs. I am indebted to Dot Wordsworth’s Spectator column for drawing my attention to the wondrous vocabulary of church furnishings – “dossals and paenula-shaped chasubles, footpaces and tables of prothesis”. Now what is a table of prothesis doing in a church? It surely has something to do with artificial limbs? Off I go to seek out Shorter OED Volume 2 (Marl – Z) but somehow I have mislaid the mighty volumes. So it’s the Bloomsbury Encarta Dictionary that sorts me out: prothesis being, as all my readers will already know, another term for the Eucharist, and prosthesis being the wooden leg word. Bah, ignorant Nappa!
Moreover, the subject of wooden legs reminds me of my Long John Silver impersonation at the granddaughter’s splendid birthday party last Saturday. All was going well with the twenty three- and four-year-olds happily playing on the bouncy castle in Grayswood Village Hall and eating lots of M & S junk food. Then the son wickedly produced pirate hats, eye patches and plastic swords for all. In the ensuing mayhem the children decided that there was only one real target for their politically incorrect aggression – the ancient Nappa. Every time I tried to slope off back to the bottle of Cotes du Rhone (provided for the parents and consumed by the Nappa) a little person would track me down and solicitously hand me a replacement sword. This done a hoard of little monsters would move back in for the kill.
Now to these wooden legs. I am indebted to Dot Wordsworth’s Spectator column for drawing my attention to the wondrous vocabulary of church furnishings – “dossals and paenula-shaped chasubles, footpaces and tables of prothesis”. Now what is a table of prothesis doing in a church? It surely has something to do with artificial limbs? Off I go to seek out Shorter OED Volume 2 (Marl – Z) but somehow I have mislaid the mighty volumes. So it’s the Bloomsbury Encarta Dictionary that sorts me out: prothesis being, as all my readers will already know, another term for the Eucharist, and prosthesis being the wooden leg word. Bah, ignorant Nappa!
Moreover, the subject of wooden legs reminds me of my Long John Silver impersonation at the granddaughter’s splendid birthday party last Saturday. All was going well with the twenty three- and four-year-olds happily playing on the bouncy castle in Grayswood Village Hall and eating lots of M & S junk food. Then the son wickedly produced pirate hats, eye patches and plastic swords for all. In the ensuing mayhem the children decided that there was only one real target for their politically incorrect aggression – the ancient Nappa. Every time I tried to slope off back to the bottle of Cotes du Rhone (provided for the parents and consumed by the Nappa) a little person would track me down and solicitously hand me a replacement sword. This done a hoard of little monsters would move back in for the kill.
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Greetings Cards, Lemons and Mechanical Parts
As a dedicated gin drinker I’m always extremely pleased when Shrove Tuesday has come and been and gone. Pancake Day is the only day in the year that the Lemon Marketing Board can justifiably increase public awareness of its subject and, needless to say, all lemon producers and supermarkets jack up their prices. So I feel obliged to seek out limes (which are an enjoyable accompaniment to my evening glass but a bit too overwhelmingly fruity) or get in some cucumber in order to revisit my bottle of Hendrick's gin. But Shrove Tuesday acts as a herald for Easter which this year comes early.
You have to respect the man (whose son is called Clinton) who runs the extraordinarily successful chain of card shops. Hardly have the Christmas decorations been put away than it is St Valentine’s Day – an essential card-sending occasion. The very next day his card shops are pestering us about Mothering Sunday (or is it Mother’s Day?) which the window banners proclaim is only three week’s away on March 6th. The Village Store is awash with Easter Eggs and paraphernalia, but before Easter comes I will have had to deal with some birthdays – yes the wife, the son, the daughter, the mother, grandchild 1 and grandchild 2 to start the list. I’ve neglected cousin Judy’s seventieth and so will have to send a “belated greetings” card. I’m sure that St Patrick’s Day is not far way, etc., etc.
While I rant away about card occasions, the wife and I are having more gremlin trouble. The main laser printer at work was one thing, but the blocked kitchen sink has proved quite another. The wife has been desperately trying to unblock years-worth of accumulated grease, coffee grounds, a false tooth, hair, calcium, limescale and other unmentionables using pumps, wires, acids and caustic soda, all to little effect. Meanwhile it has transpired that I was talking rubbish about the “lambda sensor” in my car. It was the “crank angle sensor” or something of the sort which was to blame. The rechargeable torch won’t recharge, and the adding machine in my office is behaving strangely (lending some really strange forecast items to my new business plan).
While all this is going on I receive reports from the Essex Coast. My mother is reacting strangely to news of Charles and Diana’s forthcoming nuptials (even expressing a tendency towards republicanism). Good on them says the ranting nappa, but did the Daily Mail really have to celebrate the announcement with 21 pages of coverage?
I in turn am reacting strangely towards Ken Livingstone and his refusal to apologise for less-than-amicable remarks aimed at a reporter who was Jewish. As the Prime Minister and other New Labour dignitaries ask him to apologise and “move forward”, I find myself for the first time in my life firmly on the Mayor’s side. Whatever purpose is served by an “apology” unless it is fully intended and wholehearted. If Mr Livingstone feels that he cannot sincerely apologise then hats off to him for direct honesty (however naughty his comment may have been). It is absolutely typical of the PM and his colleagues to suggest that he tells a lie by making an apology without intending it, so that pre-election media coverage can concentrate on the more serious business of slagging off politicians of other parties. Yuck!
You have to respect the man (whose son is called Clinton) who runs the extraordinarily successful chain of card shops. Hardly have the Christmas decorations been put away than it is St Valentine’s Day – an essential card-sending occasion. The very next day his card shops are pestering us about Mothering Sunday (or is it Mother’s Day?) which the window banners proclaim is only three week’s away on March 6th. The Village Store is awash with Easter Eggs and paraphernalia, but before Easter comes I will have had to deal with some birthdays – yes the wife, the son, the daughter, the mother, grandchild 1 and grandchild 2 to start the list. I’ve neglected cousin Judy’s seventieth and so will have to send a “belated greetings” card. I’m sure that St Patrick’s Day is not far way, etc., etc.
While I rant away about card occasions, the wife and I are having more gremlin trouble. The main laser printer at work was one thing, but the blocked kitchen sink has proved quite another. The wife has been desperately trying to unblock years-worth of accumulated grease, coffee grounds, a false tooth, hair, calcium, limescale and other unmentionables using pumps, wires, acids and caustic soda, all to little effect. Meanwhile it has transpired that I was talking rubbish about the “lambda sensor” in my car. It was the “crank angle sensor” or something of the sort which was to blame. The rechargeable torch won’t recharge, and the adding machine in my office is behaving strangely (lending some really strange forecast items to my new business plan).
While all this is going on I receive reports from the Essex Coast. My mother is reacting strangely to news of Charles and Diana’s forthcoming nuptials (even expressing a tendency towards republicanism). Good on them says the ranting nappa, but did the Daily Mail really have to celebrate the announcement with 21 pages of coverage?
I in turn am reacting strangely towards Ken Livingstone and his refusal to apologise for less-than-amicable remarks aimed at a reporter who was Jewish. As the Prime Minister and other New Labour dignitaries ask him to apologise and “move forward”, I find myself for the first time in my life firmly on the Mayor’s side. Whatever purpose is served by an “apology” unless it is fully intended and wholehearted. If Mr Livingstone feels that he cannot sincerely apologise then hats off to him for direct honesty (however naughty his comment may have been). It is absolutely typical of the PM and his colleagues to suggest that he tells a lie by making an apology without intending it, so that pre-election media coverage can concentrate on the more serious business of slagging off politicians of other parties. Yuck!
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
I'm Just an Essex Boy
It was all for nothing! After yesterday’s almost optimistic rant about the Jeep’s yellow warning light the business consultant promptly emailed to say that I couldn’t even spell “Lambda Sensor” (to which I pleaded the Dagenham exception – the Ford Focus has a “Lamda Sensor” dunnit).
But Mr Sparks (Automotive Electronics) had the last word. “Nothing to do with the sensors, it’s probably a Jeep thing. You’d best talk to them”. And the yellow warning light is back on. Oh, sod it!
Talking of the business consultant I’ve taken a peek at the latest Business Plan thing he sent me (just in case you are interested). It asks killer questions about quantifying your plan with market research statistics. Oh lordy, what bookseller on earth (with the exception of W H Smith and Borders who are not proper booksellers) ever gave a moments thought to market research.
My plan is simple. My business needs to “make” £350 a day to cover its costs and continue trading on a level plane. To achieve this magic figure I need to sell a whole load of books and some will make me £1 each and others £10 each. Now wouldn’t life be simple if every day I sold exactly 35 of the £10-margin books, a bell would ring and the Nappa would rush home to continue his vertical tasting of Hendrick’s Gin vs. Gordon’s Distillers Cut, or even swing a golf club. Sadly I have to be as interested in the £1-margin books as I do the £10-margin because it is the final total that matters, not the split of low-margin/high margin.
After that provocative statement (which will probably cause burst blood vessels chez the Business Consultant) I’ll turn to calmer ranting waters …such as the utterly ridiculous brainlessness of West Sussex people when confronted with murky early morning fog. The white van drivers en route from Chichester to Petersfield come pelting through the village at twice the speed of normal, and in Nyewood, would you believe, unlit cyclists dice with death, and on every country lane hitherto never seen wide-load tractors with virtually no lighting come out to join the fun, and the wretched, lazy pheasants, and the munkjacks, and, and, and ….
But Mr Sparks (Automotive Electronics) had the last word. “Nothing to do with the sensors, it’s probably a Jeep thing. You’d best talk to them”. And the yellow warning light is back on. Oh, sod it!
Talking of the business consultant I’ve taken a peek at the latest Business Plan thing he sent me (just in case you are interested). It asks killer questions about quantifying your plan with market research statistics. Oh lordy, what bookseller on earth (with the exception of W H Smith and Borders who are not proper booksellers) ever gave a moments thought to market research.
My plan is simple. My business needs to “make” £350 a day to cover its costs and continue trading on a level plane. To achieve this magic figure I need to sell a whole load of books and some will make me £1 each and others £10 each. Now wouldn’t life be simple if every day I sold exactly 35 of the £10-margin books, a bell would ring and the Nappa would rush home to continue his vertical tasting of Hendrick’s Gin vs. Gordon’s Distillers Cut, or even swing a golf club. Sadly I have to be as interested in the £1-margin books as I do the £10-margin because it is the final total that matters, not the split of low-margin/high margin.
After that provocative statement (which will probably cause burst blood vessels chez the Business Consultant) I’ll turn to calmer ranting waters …such as the utterly ridiculous brainlessness of West Sussex people when confronted with murky early morning fog. The white van drivers en route from Chichester to Petersfield come pelting through the village at twice the speed of normal, and in Nyewood, would you believe, unlit cyclists dice with death, and on every country lane hitherto never seen wide-load tractors with virtually no lighting come out to join the fun, and the wretched, lazy pheasants, and the munkjacks, and, and, and ….
Monday, February 07, 2005
Pandering to the Muslims
No, it’s not that sort of rant! I just happen to dislike the verb to pander, so much so in fact that I put aside A – Markworthy and reached for Volume II of the Shorter OED, the redoubtable Marl – Z, when the radio newscaster talked about some new Home Office edict “pandering to the Muslim community”. Sadly for my readers the word has been around a long time (Chaucer, Dr Johnson et al), so I cannot initiate a national “stop pandering” campaign. Indeed my researches discovered the rather interesting sounding panderess (“one who ministers to the baser passions or evil designs of others”). Maybe one day I’ll meet a panderess. Maybe I already have!
The new word/phrase/expression for the month of February has to be Lamda Sensor. This is apparently what is wrong with my Jeep and tomorrow Mr Sparks (Auto Electronics) is due to confirm this and tell me how much it will cost to replace.
The local garage-owner mumbled something about “lamda sensors” when fixing the intermittent yellow warning light on the car a couple of weeks ago, but I just tried to look insouciantly knowledgeable (wow, maybe my next blog will be “The Insouciant Nappa”) when he tried to tell me about what the trouble might be. He fixed the yellow light at the time without repairing or replacing anything, but last weekend the Jeep wreaked its vengeance – just as we departed for France the bloody warning light came back on.
The wife and I had decided to take a rather eccentric day trip to check out our maison secondaire. We took the Jeep on the night ferry to Le Havre on Friday disembarking early on Saturday morning eager to enjoy the 150-odd mile drive to the house mostly on excellent (and under-used) motorways. The Jeep had other ideas. As soon as we got on the motorway the wretched vehicle’s electronics system imposed a 100-kilometres-per-hour speed limit on itself. Yes, I lumbered along with a few lorries that also had 100-kilometres-per-hour speed delimiters, and every time I tried to overtake one of them the car would judder in protest and simply not respond. The shame of it all. But I did save myself at least one likely speeding fine.
On arrival at the house, the Jeep forgave me and for the return journey to catch the Saturday night ferry back to Portsmouth, it relaxed the delimiter. Indeed for the final 50 miles of the journey the bloody warning light went out completely and we have been pretending nothing is wrong at all. Damned cars. Damned Lamda Sensors (my business consultant is likely to be an expert on Lamda Sensors and will doubtless send me lengthy emails on the subject which, like cash-flow forecasts, I won’t quite fully understand). C’est la vie.
The new word/phrase/expression for the month of February has to be Lamda Sensor. This is apparently what is wrong with my Jeep and tomorrow Mr Sparks (Auto Electronics) is due to confirm this and tell me how much it will cost to replace.
The local garage-owner mumbled something about “lamda sensors” when fixing the intermittent yellow warning light on the car a couple of weeks ago, but I just tried to look insouciantly knowledgeable (wow, maybe my next blog will be “The Insouciant Nappa”) when he tried to tell me about what the trouble might be. He fixed the yellow light at the time without repairing or replacing anything, but last weekend the Jeep wreaked its vengeance – just as we departed for France the bloody warning light came back on.
The wife and I had decided to take a rather eccentric day trip to check out our maison secondaire. We took the Jeep on the night ferry to Le Havre on Friday disembarking early on Saturday morning eager to enjoy the 150-odd mile drive to the house mostly on excellent (and under-used) motorways. The Jeep had other ideas. As soon as we got on the motorway the wretched vehicle’s electronics system imposed a 100-kilometres-per-hour speed limit on itself. Yes, I lumbered along with a few lorries that also had 100-kilometres-per-hour speed delimiters, and every time I tried to overtake one of them the car would judder in protest and simply not respond. The shame of it all. But I did save myself at least one likely speeding fine.
On arrival at the house, the Jeep forgave me and for the return journey to catch the Saturday night ferry back to Portsmouth, it relaxed the delimiter. Indeed for the final 50 miles of the journey the bloody warning light went out completely and we have been pretending nothing is wrong at all. Damned cars. Damned Lamda Sensors (my business consultant is likely to be an expert on Lamda Sensors and will doubtless send me lengthy emails on the subject which, like cash-flow forecasts, I won’t quite fully understand). C’est la vie.
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
Nappa Goes in Search of Bling Bling
One of my New Year resolutions was to learn some new words. English words.
Over Christmas I picked up chav on the front page of the Telegraph and had to sit humbly while the Wimbledon niece (as opposed to the Wigan niece) explained the meaning and reassured me that the Ranting Nappa is not a chav.
Today I lost my way when a young man on the radio talked about “putting on some bling”. It seemed a good excuse to test the new MSN search engine against Google. Both had good results, the latter leading with a news article to say that the OED now includes bling bling (which of course means flashy jewellery). MSN led me to www.thinkbling.com which started well (links for Hip Hop Jewellery) but then confused the poor Nappa by linking him through to a “singles” dating agency (Looking for Bling Bling?). Oh heck!
On the subject of radio I have discovered Spirit FM – Chichester’s own commercial radio station. Now I know that small American towns have there own local stations, but this is ridiculous. The traffic news was “early morning build-up at the level crossing”, and “quite busy on the bypass” and didn’t fully justify the announcer’s excitement. There was a phone-in quiz with an escalating prize for recognising a mystery voice. Several farmers and a few jolly ladies had called in but none could identify the voice and the prize fund had soared to a giddy £30. But the advertisements are great, truly local stuff like “Buy your blankets at Sheppeys, 40 High Street – Sale Now On”. Presumably Spirit FM is in competition with Bognor Sound and Midhurst FM.
Went to London today and wore the big macintosh which makes me look rather larger than normal (very useful in trains when people are choosing which of the remaining seats to take for themselves). It does however give me a sort of Hagrid-look, and I absolutely terrified someone coming round a corner in a dark corridor of my office building.
London was rather bleak and very crowded. Before getting a haircut I wandered through Sicilian Avenue. The old shop is still empty, along with three or four others. All rather sad.
Over Christmas I picked up chav on the front page of the Telegraph and had to sit humbly while the Wimbledon niece (as opposed to the Wigan niece) explained the meaning and reassured me that the Ranting Nappa is not a chav.
Today I lost my way when a young man on the radio talked about “putting on some bling”. It seemed a good excuse to test the new MSN search engine against Google. Both had good results, the latter leading with a news article to say that the OED now includes bling bling (which of course means flashy jewellery). MSN led me to www.thinkbling.com which started well (links for Hip Hop Jewellery) but then confused the poor Nappa by linking him through to a “singles” dating agency (Looking for Bling Bling?). Oh heck!
On the subject of radio I have discovered Spirit FM – Chichester’s own commercial radio station. Now I know that small American towns have there own local stations, but this is ridiculous. The traffic news was “early morning build-up at the level crossing”, and “quite busy on the bypass” and didn’t fully justify the announcer’s excitement. There was a phone-in quiz with an escalating prize for recognising a mystery voice. Several farmers and a few jolly ladies had called in but none could identify the voice and the prize fund had soared to a giddy £30. But the advertisements are great, truly local stuff like “Buy your blankets at Sheppeys, 40 High Street – Sale Now On”. Presumably Spirit FM is in competition with Bognor Sound and Midhurst FM.
Went to London today and wore the big macintosh which makes me look rather larger than normal (very useful in trains when people are choosing which of the remaining seats to take for themselves). It does however give me a sort of Hagrid-look, and I absolutely terrified someone coming round a corner in a dark corridor of my office building.
London was rather bleak and very crowded. Before getting a haircut I wandered through Sicilian Avenue. The old shop is still empty, along with three or four others. All rather sad.
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