Is There a Doctor in the House?

This will be old news to some readers who know me, and as I originally posted nearly 4 years ago, the numbers are probably out of date.

Also, the database has changed slightly, but you should be able to verify most, if not all of the following GPs on the GPs Register.

If you are in the UK, you can check your Doctor's credentials on www.gmc-uk.org from the current list of approximately 200,000 GMC Doctors.

Of course, your Doctor might be Dr. Smith – but there are 1166 of those - or Dr. Jones (1183) – perhaps Dr. Singh (443) or Dr. Patel (741).

However things could be much more interesting. Sometimes some people seem simply to be suited to their profession – or perhaps not!

From the very same list (name followed by how many)…

Famous Doctors.

Dr. Watson 344 (Elementary!)
Dr. Foster 145 (but only 2 in Gloucester)
Dr. Robert 5 (Beatles fans)
Dr. McCoy 7 (no Leonard's)
Dr. Hoo 3 (well it's close!)

Good Doctors.

Whilst those of a certain age will know of Dr. Kiss Kiss, I could not find any of those but…

Dr. Kiss 3
Dr. Love 32

You'll feel at ease with…

Dr. Nice 3
Dr. Pleasant 1
Dr. Friend 12
Dr. Lovely 1

And of course, what could possibly go wrong when you visit…

Dr. Cure 1
Dr. Safe 3
Dr. Nurse 4
Dr. Doctor 3

You'll feel secure with…

Dr. Secrett 1

But perhaps a little confused with…

Dr. Patient 5

Specialist Doctors.

Maybe you have a particular ailment. Then a visit to one of the following (in roughly descending order) might help.

Dr. Hair 2
Dr. Head 24
Dr. Brain 24
Dr. Skull 2
Dr. Ruth 2 (the shrink!)
Dr. Bone 22
Dr. Smallbone 1
Dr. Limb 6
Dr. Hand 18
Dr. Hands 8
Dr. Lung 2
Dr. Liver 1
Dr. Back 4
Dr. Bottom 1
Dr. Belli 2
Dr. Tumi 1
Dr. Willy 1
Dr. Kneebone 5
Dr. Legg 10
Dr. Foot 9

If your time is precious, choose carefully between…

Dr. Quick 6
Dr. Slowe 2

Ones to avoid?

Perhaps it is in the best interests of your clean bill of health not to visit…

Dr. Bugg 3

And maybe steer clear of…

Dr. Beer 16
Dr. Beere 1
Dr. de Beer 13
Dr. Beers 1
Dr. Wines 1
Dr. Winer 1
Dr. Ginn 2
Dr. Ginns 2
Dr. Drinkall 1

...preferring…

Dr. Low-Beer 3
Dr. Drinkwater 5
Dr. Waterdrinker 1

…and of course…

Dr. Sober 1

Under no circumstances whatsoever should you visit…

Dr. Pain 10
Dr. Hurt 2
Dr. Risk 3
Dr. Blood 2
Dr. Cutter 3
Dr. Fear 4
Dr. Crack 1
Dr. Crackett 1
Dr. Scarr 2
Dr. Scarabelli 1
Dr. Grave 1
Dr. Gash 4
Dr. Slaughter 1
Dr. Coffin 4
Dr. De'ath 1
Dr. Kille 1
Dr. Heaven 3
Dr. Hell 1

Wrong Profession?

Maybe give these a miss as well.

Dr. Catt 1
Dr. Rabbitt 2
Dr. Woof 1
Dr. Goose 2
Dr. Gander 1
Dr. Duck 4 (and yes... one is called Donald!)

Seriously...

Like many people, I like sport.

I used to play football, and loved it, but now get most of my pleasure vicariously by watching all those sporting heroes.

My virtual sports of choice, roughly in order of preference, are Formula 1, Winter Sports, Football, Track and Field Athletics and Cycling.

Trouble is, of those five, it is hard almost beyond measure to enjoy them as I would like.

Just prior to le Tour, pro-cycling received (at the time) the latest in a long and undistinguished line of drug-related scandal.

The UCI named 56 of it’s members as drug cheats , with damning enough evidence that T-Mobile and Team CSC withdrew their No. 1 riders and event favourites, Jan Ullrich (1997 Tour de France Winner and 5 time Runner-up, 1999 Vuelta a España Winner) and Ivan Basso (2006 Giro d’Italia Winner) respectively, from the Tour. Other riders of major standing were also withdrawn.

Nevertheless, le Tour went ahead, the event being bigger than any of the competitors, and one of the most open an exciting Tours in recent history ensued.

Floyd Landis finally, and remarkably, on account of the osteonecrosis in his hip, took the Maillot Jaune on the Champs Elysees. His intention after the three-week race was to schedule in the hip-replacement operation he needs.

Due to his condition, Landis has special dispensation from the UCI to take an otherwise banned painkiller.

Then the news emerges that Landis fails a drug-test during the race!

Apparently abnormally high levels of testosterone were found in his system. Landis protests his innocence, but is the sport now irreparably damaged?

How is it possible for me to believe Landis on the back of Operacion Puerto?

For that matter, it is in some cases known and in others highly suspected that pro-cyclists have used performance-enhancing methods (drugs, hormones, blood-doping etc.) throughout their careers.

So, as much as I want to, how can I believe Lance Armstrong, who has never failed a drug test, when he says that he is “clean”. And let’s not get precious about it. How can I believe the British cyclists? David Millar, who took part in this year’s Tour, has confessed to using EPO in 2001 and 2003

Cycling’s reputation (if it had one!) is shattered – at least in my eyes.

So, we’ll move onto Track and Field, because only in the last week Justin Gatlin – the joint World Record holder for 100m – has failed a drugs test, and is likely to be stripped of his times and recent titles, before being banned… for his second offence!

Gatlin (not surprisingly) claims innocence, but then he is under the tutelage of Trevor Graham – coach of eight other athletes who have tested positive for drugs, a total that includes 6 World Champions and a World Record holder.

Britain’s record? Well, for example, Dwain Chambers, reputation potentially in tatters as part of the BALCO scandal, has just retuned to competition following a two-year drugs ban.

We all “knew” in the bad old days of the Eastern Bloc that Soviet and Eastern European athletes’ abilities were “enhanced”. We were fine singing from atop our high horses, weren’t we!!!

And so once again, how can I – Joe Public – possibly trust a single athlete on the world (or perhaps even junior) stage?

Athletics is hanging on by a thread, in my opinion, and needs to buck its ideas up quickly before it is viewed with the same mistrust as Cycling, assuming it’s not already too late.

Football next, I guess.

Whilst there seems to be less evidence of performance enhancing drug taking in “The Beautiful Game”, its reputation is getting closer to the brink as it seems to be played almost entirely by either thugs or cheats.

Often, this action is put down to the young age of many of the top players, but

a) increasing age rarely seems to effect the onset of increasing fair play and
b) their team managers often positively condone the actions of the players.

As a consequence, the major tournaments are more about who dives, jostles the referee, feigns injury, waves imaginary red and yellow cards, and less about any beauty in the game whatsoever.

Of my list, this leaves Winter Sport (a bit of a catch-all I know) and F1.

Winter Sports might be minor in comparison to the previous activities (even cycling) but that hasn’t inhibited the methods of the cheats.

Biathlon and Cross-country Skiing are endurance winter events, and there have been recent occurrences of athletes failing drug-tests, whilst other events have had their (un)fair share.

It means that at the back of my mind, there is always this nagging doubt about whose will be the next heroic performance that is drug-fuelled.

So maybe the last bastion of fair play is the F1 Circus?

Drug-cheating is probably (probably!) non-existent but that doesn’t mean they’re all good-guys.

When the driver who is arguably the greatest of all time (although not in my opinion) cannot but stop himself from downright breaking the rules by parking his car acrros the track during qualifying (thereby protecting his own best time) – well what hope for sporting endeavour, sporting greatness.

What hope for the genuine sportsperson?

The Wedding Singer

Went to a wedding on Saturday.

I was a hanger-on really, as it was the wedding of my partner's nephew and his fiancée.

I'm not good at social occasions, and it also meant I missed out on Doncaster Rovers' friendly against Real Sociedad (we won 1-0 by the way), Fish-o-Mania at Hayfield Lakes and... er... oh yes... my daughter's 16th birthday!

Bu-u-u-ut, I wouldn't've gone to the footy anyway, fishing is a big yawn to me, and daughter's birthday bash is not until the 15th of August... although actually closer to her birthday than in previous years.

Anyway, the bride's family are Scottish-Canadian, one of her bridesmaids (and family) are Sri Lankan, the groom's family on his mother's side are Irish, and one of the hymns they chose was...

"Jerusalem"!

As we belted out "... in England's green and pleasant land" I felt the Empire was in fine fettle.

Of course, when I say "belted", well it was that kind of singing you get in churches when people attend once a celebration... all croaks and missed notes, and selfconsciousness, because you can only actually hear yourself, and maybe the person next to you if they are particularly forthright - unless, of course, you happen to be Sri Lankan, and are faced with C of E hymns for probably the first time in your life, in which case you can doubtless hear everyone else, and must wonder if they've ever sung in their lives before!!!

And the thing is... probably not much.

As a rule, we don't sing.

OK, the story goes that we all sing in the shower, but I'm sure I don't. Nor does my partner. (In fact, I object to being spoken to in the shower as a response, if required, usually results in choking on half a pint of tepid soap-water.)

And whilst I confess I don't make a habit of entering people's salles de douche whilst they are showering as such... I'm not convinced they are any more vocally persuaded than I.

I guess there's the tuneless humming we sometimes elicit, as required, to inform others this particular cubicle in the public convenience is occupied, even though there is no actual lock to avail one of the opportunity to indicate as such by more conventional, mechanical means, but that doesn't really count, and besides, more often than not, that is tuneless whistling.

But actually me?

Well, I am a singer.

At the end of the reception of said wedding above, one of the groom's mother's sisters, came up to me and complimented me on my singing all the words to all the songs played by the DJ.

I was lucky to a point, as most were from my era, but still, if I say so myself, I knew pretty well most of them all the way through, including (perhaps a little less impressively) "Jeans On" by David Dundas.

And that's it you see... I love singing.

I don't sing in the shower, but I do sing in the car - big style! - and... I sing at work (frequently being "asked" to shut up!).

I'd like to say they don't appreciate a good thing when they hear it, but... erm... truth be told, they have a point.

You see, my fan from earlier in this post could see me singing, but couldn't actually hear me. It has to be said that this may have had some bearing on the level of her appreciation.

But, what I lack in talent, I make up for in enthusiasm.

I'm VERY enthusiastic!!!

Work and other curious pastimes.

I’ve got a new boss/department head at work.

He’s been with us a few weeks, but due to his induction course, meetings at our Norwegian Head Office, my two week leave and sundry other inconveniences, we hardly spoke more than a couple of pleasantries until he returned from said Norwegian sojourn.

So, a couple of Monday’s ago, he made a point of coming to see me with a view to scheduling a “getting to know you” chat.

Him: “Good Morning!”

Me: “Good Morning. How was Norway?”

Him: “Very Norwegian…”

We’ll come to the completion of that sentence later.

In January 2005, I was called upon to attend a couple of meetings in Norway myself, over a couple of days and therefore meaning an overnight stay.

Of course that imposes upon the hosts to make some sort of arrangements to “entertain” their guests for the evening.

Four of us were going, although just three of us travelled together, the fourth having arrived earlier in the week.

The trip was some weeks in the planning, and so a regular contact (and colleague) of mine in the Norwegian office, whom we shall call “Ingrid”, because that’s her name, had (half-jokingly?) suggested she take me skiing.

I’m sure I had mentioned in the past that I enjoyed skiing very much – to watch – but I had never so much as gone near a pair of skis in my life, never mind actually practiced the art!

Nevertheless, and I hope not too eagerly, I jumped at the opportunity, thereby committing Ingrid into taking a complete novice out on to the white stuff.

I should point out that this was Nordic (cross-country) rather than Alpine (downhill) so I was perfectly safe.

A little closer to the occasion, about the day before I think, I let Ingrid know that one of my companions, whom we shall call “John”, because that’s his name, was also keen to come. John had done some skiing before, but only Alpine, if I recall correctly.

My other two colleagues, whom we shall not name because they’re a pair of big wusses decided not to join us. (Actually, Ingrid may have breathed a secret sigh of relief over this as it meant she didn’t have to scrabble together another two pairs of skis!)

So, we arrived in Norway, actually on the evening prior to the first meeting, had ourselves delivered to the hotel, took a drink at the bar, and then (in my case at least) retired for the night to prepare for being up at some ungodly hour the next morning.

Ungodly o’clock unduly arrived and I went down to the breakfast room for Barely-awake thirty, to fuel up for the day. I seem to recall the fayre was very pleasant indeed. At least that’s what I remember from between the snoring.

Breakfast taken, it was back to my room to get ready for our taxi to take us the short trip to the office in time to start our day, Norwegian-style, at the hour of What-time-do-you-call-this. (I think it is generally known as eight o’clock, but that might be a scurrilous rumour.)

Everyone assembled, our meeting started – our attention maintained and concentration sustained by copious coffee and biscuits.

By 11:00am I am just about coming round, when it is universally decided that it is lunchtime!

We are escorted down to the canteen, with an easterly aspect over the fjord, and partake of a very unusual lunch.

Most of the food was recognisable, but it was just somehow very strange. I joined in the spirit by serving myself some fish, a poached egg, some processed cheese and a piece of toast with a glass of milk.

Replete, and with a little time to spare, it was an opportunity to shake hands with a few familiar faces (shake their hands, that is, not their faces!), and to put faces to a few familiar names, before returning to the office for the after(only just)noon session.

More coffee-fuelled work, until at about 1:30pm moves are afoot for a waffle-break. These people never stop eating, it seems!

Sure enough, by two of the clock, sweet warm waffles have arrived (about a million) accompanied by processed brown goats’ cheese. (The cheese was brown, I am unable to confirm the colour of the goats.) Another odd combination… but when in Rome…

(Mind you… the Romans eat pizza!)

The early start meant an early finish, at least for we guests, and so approaching four in the afternoon, plans were being hatched for the evening.

Our hosts had decided to take us to the Kukuriet (spelt from memory) for the evening meal. I must say the food was rather excellent, as indeed was the company. I don’t recall the entire menu, but I took advantage of the opportunity to try Reindeer, which of course I would find difficult to track down in Blighty.

(I’ve since discovered that I could have gone to the Reindeer Inn about 12 miles from where I live, between home and work, which specialises in Reindeer, apparently!)

My starter was something fishy-soupy and jolly tasty, and Rudolph arrived, sans antlers, in a blackcurrant sauce with various fried accompaniments.

(You must excuse me while I wipe up the drool.)

Ingrid, although not part of the meeting, had joined us, because we arrived at the restaurant hot-foot from our skiing adventure, which, I can now inform you, is the pertinent subject of this particular dissertation.

Yes, the skiing.

Although it was the back-end of January, this part of southern Norway hadn’t been blessed with what the locals count as snow, there being barely an inch of the stuff lying on the ground.

Nevertheless, Ingrid had a plan.

She supplied myself and John with ski-boots, and arrived at the hotel in her car, with the skis and poles in the back, and the rear split-seat half lowered to accommodate said equipment.

Now, if my memory serves me, I was to use some skis Ingrid had borrowed from a colleague, whom we shall call “Tor”, because I can’t remember what his name really is and that was the first Norwegian one I could think of, John was to use Ingrid’s skis and Ingrid was to use her (tall) husband’s.

There are reasons for this, partly to do with the boots, (certain types of ski only go with certain types of boot), and partly to do with correlating height with ski length.

Now remember that, because it comes up again soon. (Hopefully, I’ve remembered it right, but frankly, it’s a wonder I can remember anything at all!!!)

Anyway, we all climb in to Ingrid’s car. Ingrid (about 5 feet 5) driving, of course, John (similar height) alongside, me (6 feet) in the back.

I moved the football out of the footwell, and then noticed the seat had something of a booster on it. So I tried to fold it down… no… OK back… no… ri-i-i-ght, sideways then… hmmmph… I know, I’ll lift it off… no… er… oh.

Wanting to avoid, in equal measure, sounding rude and sounding like an idiot, I took the option of sitting on the booster, and merely looking like an idiot, with my head cocked to one side and shoulders hunched up under the car roof. If you’ve seen DJ Spiller in the phone box in the “Groovejet” video, you’ll get the picture! (I’ve since found out that Ingrid, who didn’t notice during either car journey, found the seat boosted a few days later, remembered I must’ve been sitting on it, and had fits of laughter imagining how I must’ve looked.)

We drove out of town to a ski run at a place called Stokke. It just so happened, that in spite of the lack of snow, there was a prepared track for an upcoming competition.

In good snow conditions, there are extensive runs that travel through the forest, but at this time just a 1 km circular track had been prepared.

We arrived, to find there were a good few people already there, including one of the local ski clubs out training, some of whose members were on the other side of 12 from me, it appeared.

The weather was superb skiing weather (for a Brit) and I was fully kitted up with thermals and gloves and hat and numerous layers.

We attached skis, which was a challenge in itself, and made our way onto the circuit.

The start of the route was straight, and so tracks were cut into the snow for placement of skis. In classical Nordic style, on the straight, the skis are progressed forward through a combination of leg thrusts and arm pushes, and (can) stay completely within the tracks.

The track itself undulated, but, as expected, was generally flat.

Now the Norwegian attitude (or is it Ingrid’s attitude?) to “I’ve never skied before in my life” is “Go on, you’ll be fine”!

So I set off.

It took me about thirty yards to fall over.

Ingrid (kindly) said it was because I had the wrong kind of wax on my skis.

I picked myself up, and continued, fell over again, couldn’t stop laughing, and carried on in this vein, repeating the sequence numerous times, for another 40 yards or so.

On about the 763^rd fall, Ingrid (I think she had caught me up again after completing a lap) noticed that the “catch” on one of my skis was missing, presumed broken. (Their owner, Tor, later said it was missing all along. I think he was being nice.) Ingrid decided the best solution was to change skis.

Now this is where it gets really complicated!

After all the change-arounds, I ended up with Ingrid’s skis (Ingrid’s skis wouldn’t go with John’s boots) – right wax, professional skis, too short. John ended up with Ingrid’s husband’s skis – right wax, professional skis, too long. Ingrid ended up with Tor’s skis – wrong wax, beginner’s skis, wrong length.

OK… we made our way to the end of the straight.

On a corner, the ski action changes to more of a skating action, and so the cut ski-tracks are no use and disappear.

Of course, this means I have to get round the hairpin corner without assistance. Now, to be fair, I managed this, although rather in the style of Bambi on stilts!

Oh, by the way, you should be aware that all this time, everyone else is ripping past me (and John) at about 50 miles per hour – no exaggeration!

So we negotiate the bend, and the tracks begin again, at the head of a double-crested slope.

Hang on! I thought this was going to be flat! This was like skiing off a four-storey house!!!

Well, John went first, and much to his credit he successfully negotiated the drop, coming to a stop a few (hundred?) yards ahead.

Right, my turn.

Never been on skis before, remember!

I slowly push off.

Hey! This is alright!

OK, I’m a bit wobbly, for sure, but I think I’m going to make it.

Erm… wait a moment, I don’t know how to stop.

John is still in the tracks ahead of me… about a mile ahead of me it is true, but I don’t seem to be slowing down.

I took the self-sacrificial decision to deliberately fall.

Well, deliberate or not, I still couldn’t get up. Cross-country ski poles are about 9 feet long (with a four inch nails in the end, by the way!) and absolutely useless for getting up with. Well at least in my hands.

Nine year old kids are tearing past me, hurdling my flailing limbs, while Ingrid and John do the best to help me to my feet.

After some struggle, this mission is accomplished, and we complete the lap, which entails ascending a similarly house-sized slope to get back to our starting position.

“Do we want to go round again?” asks Ingrid.

Well, of course we do!!!!

So John and I set of on lap 2, Ingrid on lap 835.

This top straight stretch is a doddle now, now that I’ve got the right wax! Only fell twice!

Now the hairpin.

Well, I fell to the inside, got my skis crossed one way and my legs crossed the other and my poles crossed a third.

John is standing perhaps eight feet away, and said with all seriousness, and all honesty (albeit laughing his head off!) “I’d like to help you but I can’t get to you.”

Ingrid is off on another lap.

Fortunately, after about twenty minutes, I manage to untangle myself. My limbs are getting rather tired now, and I don’t have a prayer of levering myself up. But, help is at hand, as there is a large metal mesh of the type used to reinforce concrete that I can use as a support.

It takes a while, but I’m typing now, so I must’ve managed it.

We (me and John) stagger around the corner, and reach the top of “that” slope again.

John goes first again.

Now John did fall a couple of times on the course, it is true, but I think he managed the slope both times without incident.

My turn now. And now I know what I’m doing!

So, I push off.

Hands low and forward, I feel like I’m doing 100 miles an hour (although I suspect it was nearer 20), trying to keep my centre of gravity down.

Bit wobbly, but I’ll be OK as soon as I’ve cleared this second cre… WHHHHOOOOOOAAAAA!!!!!!!

As this crest lipped up, I lost my balance and went careening through the air. I distinctly remember looking “down” at my skis, only to realise that I’m looking up at them against a background of sky!

I am told there was much clear air between me and the snow.

I came crashing down, lost both poles and I think one ski (although I’m a bit hazy about he precise details) and ripping the backside out of my overtrousers. Fortunately dignity, such as it was, was preserved by the remaining layers.

At this point John from the bottom, and Ingrid from the top arrived to ensure I was OK… but they were absolutely killing themselves laughing!

I was uninjured – I mean, I had so much padding on you could’ve hit me with a truck and I wouldn’t’ve felt it – so after gathering together all my belongings and most of my faculties, we struggled up the final incline to complete lap two. Or 848 for Ingrid.

There wasn’t time for another round, so we headed back to the town and on to our aforementioned dinner date, where, of course, much fun was enjoyed, particularly by myself, regaling everyone else with my escapade.

Without doubt, my skiing experience was quite the most exhilarating and quite the most ridiculously stupid thing I have ever done in my life – and I would do it again in a heartbeat.

Anyway, I’ve got a new boss/department head at work.

He’s been with us a few weeks, but due to his induction course, meetings at our Norwegian Head Office, my two week leave and sundry other inconveniences, we hardly spoke more than a couple of pleasantries until he returned from said Norwegian sojourn.

So, a couple of Monday’s ago, he made a point of coming to see me with a view to scheduling a “getting to know you” chat.

Him: “Good Morning!”

Me: “Good Morning. How was Norway?”

Him: “Very Norwegian… I heard about your skiing!”

!!!!

Fal-darreeee, fal-darraaahh…

An old and long-estranged major buddy of mine rather took me under his wing in my mid to late teens.

An ex-army guy, about 8 or 9 years my senior, he was a bit well-trained, and liked to do all kinds of outdoorsy stuff, but usually it involved a serious amount of yomping – if not worse… but that’s a story for another day!

If he saw me now, he’d be somewhat disappointed in how I turned out – very much built for comfort – but in those days he used to drag me along, mostly willingly, on some of his escapades.

Anyway, at the age of about 15 – me that is! - he decided I should accompany him on the Lyke Wake Walk.

Now, I confess, I might get some of the specifics following slightly wrong or out of order, but forgive me, it was nearly 30 years ago… indeed while I was still in compulsory education!

For any not familiar, the Lyke Wake Walk is a walking route crossing North Yorkshire from Ravenscar to Osmotherly (or vice versa) of 42 miles and which should, correctly, be completed in under 24 hours.

There is some history to the walk, with which I am not at all familiar, other than the “Wake” in the walk is the obvious funereal reference. (I feel a trip to Wikipedia coming along!)

Anyway, we were walking from the coast inland, so, as an organised event we rolled up in Osmotherly on the back of his motorcycle, and were transported to our starting point in Ravenscar.

The walk was supported by the RNLI, if I remember correctly, and it was a group event with small groups having staggered starting times.

There were walkers of mixed abilities and experience, and those with experience were grouped with some who were not, in the interests of safety along the way. As such, we were paired with a husband and wife, and were last group to set off 12.30am.

The only team behind us were a professional support team to ensure stragglers were not left behind.

I don’t remember exactly the time of year, but it was certainly summer, and the night was pleasant for walking, even if it was rather foggy.

We were provided with details of the route, pretty much in long hand, so you couldn’t go wrong.

Anyway, after about 5 minutes, we went wrong.

I recall we had to turn right immediately after the churchyard, and then about half a mile along this path we would come to a mast, where we should turn left, and head out onto the open moor.

Now, in our defence, this is what we did, but after trudging along the path for about a week and a half, we decided we would’ve spotted the mast by now, or at least passed it, and if we turned round, we’d surely spot it on the way back.

In our further defence, half way back to our original turning point, we met up with the professional support team, who had similarly followed the instructions to the letter, and also gone the wrong way.

Anyway, back practically at the start, we reassessed our situation, figured we must have taken the right route, as per the instructions, but clearly the wrong route for the walk. We boldly decided to bypass our turnoff, and search for another.

Fully ten feet later, we found it… and soon reached the elusive mast.

Well… it was DARK! And FOGGY!

The walk was extremely well supported, and there were numerous feeding stations along the way, that also allowed the option to stop if anyone was feeling they had taken on too much. However, once committed, the first station was eleven miles from the start, plus, of course, any (ahem) minor detours one might’ve chosen to take.

So, best foot forward, and I must say at this point that our “less experienced” partners were by no means any hindrance to us, and we soon caught up and passed a number of other groups.

Well, the instructions guided us towards the Fylingdales Early Warning Station, which back in the late ’70s still possessed its famous golf balls. A pretty substantial landmark by anyone’s definition you would think.

How wrong you are!

Would you believe we got within about 50 feet of the station before the perimeter fence appeared out of the gloom?

Anyway “four hundred yards to the right, you will see a small post.”

FOUR HUNDRED YARDS!!!

It was SO foggy, we couldn’t spot a US Radar Base from 51 feet, and we had to find a “small post” 400 yards away! Get away with you!

OK… the plan became “Follow the perimeter fence.” I was ready for clicking my heels together, never mind following the fence. Trouble was, there was peat or mud all around, and the only reasonable route out, was to go back the way we’d come in… and don’t forget, we’ve done that one already this fine morning, matey peeps!

So we followed the perimeter fence, and soon, thank goodness, we noticed a light in the distance.

Was it sunrise?

Nope… it was better than that… it was the first feeding station!!!

Hey, and they had a decent set-up I can tell you. Soup went down a treat!

The station did resemble something a bit like a M*A*S*H unit, with people having blisters and minor injuries and ailments dealt with in triage, but our little group ate up our grub and passed on through, “overtaking” a good few more groups in the pits.

Sunrise was not far away, after all, and the first fingers of daylight were creeping over the landscape – actually that sounds a bit spooky!

And as I mentioned earlier, it was summer, and it didn’t take long for the fog to start slowly burning off.

The next station was five miles hence (subsequent ones would be just about every mile) and my abiding memory this section of the journey was a rail track bed.

We crossed some farmland, or fields, or whatever, and joined the track bed (no tracks, just the aggregate) and walked along this for an absolute age. I think it is about two miles, but it seemed like twenty-two, and my feet were KILLING me with all the stones underfoot.

And to cap it all, we were walking between two raised walls, about 7 feet in height. Might as well have been walking in a tunnel!

Leaving the track bed was relief, to be sure, and soon we reached the next station. Refreshments were available, and probably taken, but we didn’t stop, and soon enough we were chalking off station after station and mile after mile.

If I recall, the final station was itself about five miles from the finish, but psychologically, you are nearly there, and so the last stretch is head down, grit your teeth and get on with it.

Today, however, it was summer… did I mention that?

It was also about 160 degrees by now as it was the height of day.

We were walking along the edge of the North York Moors, looking out into the hazy distance over Teesside and beyond, travelling in a westerly direction.

Yep. We all got sunburn… on one arm and one side of the face!

Not to worry, we really are nearly there now.

About a mile or so from the end an optional route takes you up and over a couple of small peaks, or if you, choose, you may stick to the metalled, steadily inclined but even road.

We chose the road.

I have to say, we were feeling rather proud. Our companions had made a really good fist of it, it was the first time I’d done anything like this, we’d passed loads of people and, approaching 15 hours, we were well within the official time limit.

You ain’t gonna believe what happened next!

Scarcely a mile to go, and we heard someone approaching from behind.

A fit looking, but unmistakably elderly gentleman, was approaching at some speed.

He passed us.

As did another.

I don’t recall exactly, but my memory tells me that about half a dozen elderly people, men and women, passed us. I’m getting older myself now, so I guess I need to specify that they were at least in their sixties.

We arrived at the finishing area to find out they were just completing their Lyke Wake Run!!!

Anyway, we had still achieved our objective, and so we filled in all the necessary paperwork, said our adieus to our companions, and hopped onto my mate’s motorbike for the journey back home.

Pillion seat with high foot rests, it took my weary legs about 5 seconds to cramp!

My mate’s survived until about the third gear-change.

Yep, I’m pretty sure that at one point we were riding along, all four legs rigidly stuck out with muscle-spasms!!!

And do you know what?

I never got my coffin!

The Sands of Time.

Hmmm!

My delightful daughter took great pleasure, it seems to me, in informing me the other day that this week marks the completion of her compulsory education.

Bless her...

Not my problem, mate!

D’you know what?

I’ve decided my (current) least favourite word is “tree-hugger”.

I don’t know if it’s made the OED yet, although it is enough of common parlance that it probably has.

So why do I dislike it so much?

Well, it has absolutely nothing to do with any pedantry about grammar or syntax on my part. In fact, the word itself is an excellent example of the versatility of the English language, and how a newly coined word, or in this case word combination, can be used in a new, subtle and imaginative manner to describe a concept previously undescribed.

It does, however, have everything to do with its meaning and usage.

I saw an message on the BBC news website the other day, where the poster, replying in opposition to another point of view, used the phrase “vegetarian, sandal-wearing tree-huggers”.

The opinion that was being opposed was clearly preposterous, but the best argument this poster could come up with was “vegetarian, sandal-wearing tree-huggers”.

Now I’m neither a particularly demonstrative nor reactionary person, but I do consider myself a bit of a tree-hugger.

I think there’s nothing wrong with that, but “tree-hugger” is used as a term of derision and ridicule by many people against any number of others on this Earth who themselves have a greater or lesser concern for the welfare and fate of the planet.

As if such concern is somehow A Bad Thing.

Bang-a-ding-dong-hoopa lah-la-diggy-ley.

It’s that time of year again, when 437 countries from in and around Europe will send the epitome of their music talent to represent them in a spectacle of mutual love, friendship, harmony and unity, before a televised audience (doesn’t that mean the audience is on TV?) of 138 billion in the gala pree-sentation that is, The Eurovision Song Contest.

Overdid the intro a bit, do you think?

OK… point taken.

Well… what can I say? I love Eurovision.

I know we in Blighty are not supposed to admit that, but I’ve loved the contest ever since it was on after my bedtime in 1974, and I was only able to hear about Abba’s Waterloo second hand.

Yes, I know most of the songs are complete crud, but where else can you hear this kind of unique talent? The bad songs are bad in so many different ways.

Yes I know there’s block (or should that be Bloc) voting, but then you wouldn’t get that little frisson of excitement when one of the Scandinavian countries votes with it’s heart and not it’s passport, or when one of the Eastern European states gives douze points to (gasp!) Malta instead of Russia.

Yes I know the presenters are cringingly terrible, without exception, and of course the “half-time” entertainment is – Riverdance aside – pretty abysmal.

But that’s what makes Eurovision so great. It might frequently be the nadir of taste, but it is always the zenith of kitsch – and all the better for it, if you ask me!

So… 2006 has already seen its share of controversy, as Serbia & Montenegro has withdrawn amid an alleged tactical voting scandal when choosing this year’s entry.

No Name, the Montenegrin band which represented the nation in 2005, won again, but voting irregularities were suspected, and a restaging of the event could not be agreed. And so Serbia and Montenegro withdrew, and could face a fine of 35,000 Swiss Francs and a three-year ban from the competition.

Enforcing the ban could be interesting should the Montenegrin referendum on the Declaration of Independence from Serbia (scheduled for May 21^st – the day after the final) result in a “Yes” vote.

This is serious stuff, you know!

Croatia take the, now, spare place in the final, and this year another new nation, Armenia, enters for the first time with one of its best-known singers is representing his country.

Oh yes… and that’s another thing. The small matter of nationality – or even European-ness – doesn’t come into the equation when seeking Eurovision glory.

After all, a Canadian (Celine Dion) has represented Switzerland, an Australian (Johnny Logan) has represented Ireland (twice!), another Aussie (Olivia Neutron-Bomb) has represented the good old U of K...

I could go on.

In fact I will, because this year’s Swiss entry is a six-piece singing group only one of whose members is actually Swiss.

The others are German.

And Swedish.

And Maltese.

Oh… and Israeli.

And indeed Bosnia-Hercegovinanan…anan (?)

What of the musical stylee itself?

Well, Daz Sampson is representing the UK with a rap… cleverly backed by the ever-popular “schoolgirl” vocals.

It’s just odd enough that it might win… except that he’s up against Finnish Death Metal and German Country ‘n’ Western and an Icelandic character from television fiction (with male strippers – apparently!). Not to mention the, doubtless, numerous power-ballads (probably France and Malta for starters) the never-out-of-date Europop (probably France and Malta for starters) and a lot of somethings that sound vaguely Turkish from anyone to the south east of Italy… except the Greeks who will try to follow last year’s victory with something vaguely Greek… but a bit Turkish, or Europoppy, or power-ballady.

But I don’t think we’ve actively fallen out with anyone this year, and Daz has been doing the clubs around Europe, promoting himself and his song to the Eurovoting public… so could this be our year?

Well, I guess we’ll find out soon enough.

So what of those Eurovision highs? What is the best song to come out of Eurovision?

You’re all shouting Waterloo again, aren’t you?

Well I beg to differ!

It must be admitted that true quality has been thin on the ground but I have four favourites that I wish to share – three of which give away my traditional-folksy leanings, it must be said, and one of which even I admit is more kitsch than class.

So in reverse order, let’s start kitsch.

Yes the 2004 winner, Wild Dances by Ukraine’s Ruslana. I think I would’ve liked the song even without the leather, but it was easily the best song of the year, and a “deserving” winner.

Next the runner-up in 2003, Sanomi by Belgium’s Urban Trad. Again, decidedly folky, and sung in a made-up language. (Before you groan, especially if you are into Enya or Sigur Rós, the former frequently sings in Loxian, the latter in Hopelandic!)

My runner-up… well I couldn’t not give two-thumbs-up to Waterloo now, could I? It is, after all, a top song by the best band ever to appear in the contest. Yes, I’m also a big Abba fan.

But I do think there has been a better song.

In my humble opinion, the 1995 winner, and representing the country of Norway no less, was the best song ever to come from Eurovisionland. It can only barely have stayed within the rules of the game, and indeed the rules may have been changed since then, to insist on more words, as the “song” was almost instrumental.

I give you Nocturne by Secret Garden.

Treat yourself, find it somewhere on the web and have a listen.

As for this year, well it’s the semi-final tomorrow (18^th) and the Grand Final on Saturday (20^th).

Don’t Miss It!!!

So you think you can’t read Russian?

Try this, my (hardly) tried and (barely) tested Russian Learning Tool.

Here follows twenty words / names / places in Russian. They are all genuine. They will help you learn to read and pronounce the letters of the Russian Alphabet.

OK, it’s a bit unfair to plunge you straight in at the deep end if you have never tried Russian before, so as a buoyancy aid, the first four I will give you... and you will almost certainly have come across them before.

The first is pronounced “DA” and means “YES”, the second is “NYET” and means “NO”, the third is the (reasonably) well known Russian beetroot soup called “BORSHCH” and the fourth is “ROSSIYA” which means “RUSSIA”.

Note carefully the transliterations!

The rest I’ll leave up to you.

They are all easy, so don’t confuse yourself! The letters in brackets are the new ones you are learning for each word.

At the end is a three part task.

ДА (да)
НЕТ (нет)
БОРЩ (борщ)
РОССИЯ (сия)
КОКА КОЛА (кл)
ПЕПСИ КОЛА (п)
ТЕННИС
СТУДЕНТ (у)
ЖУРНАЛИСТ (ж)
ФУТБОЛ (ф)
БЕЙСБОЛ (й)
ХОККЕЙ (х)
ЮГОСЛАВИЯ (югв)
ПРЕЗИДЕНТ БУШ (зш)
ВЛАДИМИР ПУТИН (м)
НЬЮ-ЙОРК (ь)
ВАШИНГТОН
БОРИС ЕЛЬЦИН (ц)
МИХАИЛ ГОРБАЧЁВ (чё)
ЭЛЬФ (э)

That’s 31 of the 33 letters you have learnt (?).

The last two are Ъ and Ы.

You should have figured something out about Ь from the list above. The same thing applies to Ъ. (You will notice they are similar looking – but entirely different – letters.)

The remaining one, Ы, is generally transliterated into English as either “i” or “y”, and is pronounced a bit like the “i” in “bit”, but down in the throat somewhere. It’s not a sound we make in English.

Right… the task.

This is not so easy – but be brave, and use your intuition.

1. What is the trait that is common to Ь and Ъ?
2. What is the English word (not transliteration) for the Russian ШАХМАТЫ?
3. Write your name (or if you prefer your username) in Russian text.

Go on… have a go… you know you want to.

No cheating, by the way!!!

I hate cars!

I have enough pet peeves for a whole series of Room 101, but perennially close to the top of the list are cars!

Maybe it’s genetic, as neither of my parents were drivers.

My father was somewhat disabled, and so as far as I know, never learnt to drive.

My mother, on the other hand, did learn apparently, but on what became her final lesson, she stalled at the Gaumont traffic lights, caused “Doncaster’s longest traffic-jam”, got out and never sat in the driver’s seat again.

So we were a no car family – which even in my youth was fairly unusual.

Consequently, and thanks to a subsidised bus service, we (I) didn’t develop a reliance on the personal motor vehicle that maybe in others evolved “naturally”.

A weekly visit to my family on the other side on town would take two bus-rides each way, for the princely sum total of 36p – for me and me dad.

Then, as I took my first job, I could walk to work “the short way” and there was no benefit in taking the bus, unless it was raining… two buses, 30p.

Marriage was not far in the future, and even though, as a then husband, my new wife had learnt to drive at 17, we lived even closer to my work, and so I never felt the urge to acquire this skill, not least as the thought now terrified me.

I was cajoled and coerced in fairly equal measure – I think wifey was fed up of ferrying me everywhere! – to begin lessons at the age of 24 (ish), and for about a month (or two, or six) I took my weekly lesson, without ever actually showing any particular aptitude.

Then, a stroke of luck, I got an opportunity to change jobs at work, which meant we needed to relocate, but more importantly meant I could quit the lessons, and get back to using the buses.

And for about 18 months or so that was fine.

OK, what I mean is it took another 18 months of cajoling and coercing from my ever-determined missus before I took the plunge again.

I still hated it – I was still terrified! – but over the following year or so, an extremely patient instructor honed me from a gibbering wreck with no idea, to a gibbering wreck who should be able to pass a driving test.

Or maybe not!

My first test was an unmitigated disaster.

Maybe it was pre-test nerves, maybe it was the fact that my examiner was himself being examined, and I had a back-seat passenger in the guise of Flight Lieutenant Brigadier General Sir Torquil Farquhar-Smythe DSO retd. or maybe it was just the fact that I THOUGHT I WAS GONNA KILL SOMEBODY!!!!!!

I didn’t quite knock the cyclist over at the crossroads, but I did stall, blocking all four lanes of traffic and felt the steady drip, drip, drip of perspiration as it began its freefall from the end of my nose.

Oh mother dear, I think I know how you must have felt!

Well I didn’t get out, and I didn’t crash, but I seem to recall the examiner saying something along the lines of “Well better get back to the testing station”. Let’s just say I failed.

Test 2 was not such a complete catastrophe. I managed to keep the perspiration under control, although I evidently didn’t keep the car under control, as I once again… erm… deferred my success.

But test 3 was a different matter. I was much more accomplished, controlled and calm, and I don’t think I frightened any passers by with unpredictable steering.

So SUCCESS!!!

Er… well no actually.

You were allowed 2 minor incidents in those days, and I chalked up three. Something to do with the handbrake (wrong colour, I think), being too hesitant at a T-junction, and pulling out too quickly at a T-junction… er… hang on, we only went through one T-junction didn’t we?

My instructor said something about quotas, and it was the last week of the month. Harrumph, that means more lessons, and I’m still terrified!

So anyway, a fourth test was arranged, which duly fell on July 1^st 1991*.

We-e-e-ell, I didn’t think things went quite as well as in test 3.

I seem to recall a session of kangarooing, and I certainly recall getting stranded mid-crossroads again, this time though due to the fallibilities of another driver.

They’d even changed the test from “reversing round a corner and reverse parking” to “two reversing manoeuvres from any five” which I had basically spent the last six lessons practicing. You know… reversing up a tree, that kind of thing.

Anyway, we got all the way to the end, to the Highway Code bit.

I just KNEW the examiner was going to ask me stopping distances. I knew all the signs back-to-front and inside-out, even the trick ones like “Beware of low-flying cows or sudden cow noise”, but the stopping distances I was just a bit shaky on.

“So, Mr. Birdman, what’s the stopping distance at 70 miles per hour?”

“315 feet.” In those days we still used this arcane measuring system – God knows how we coped! But anyway, it sounded about right.

Then the killer…

“And how far’s that?”

I KNEW it! I just KNEW he’d say that the £*$&*%… calm down now… don’t, whatever you do, say anything too near.

With this gem of personal advice in mind, I pointed to a bright yellow vehicle parked just on the horizon, “There!”

OK, slight exaggeration, but the car was a good half a mile away – and after returning his telescope to its case, the examiner seemed to mark a tick.

Phew!

A couple more road signs… 30mph limit (tick), level crossing without gates (ooh clever knickers, tick), and then chevrons…

“Err…,” I know what chevrons mean, “err…,” but putting it into words, “err… YOUGETTHEMATROUNDABOUTSYOUHAVETOGOLEFT!” I blurted.

“Sharp Deviation to the Left,” says the examiner.

“That’s it!”

“I’m pleased to tell you, Mr. Birdman, you have passed your driving test.”

Worse performance than test 3, I’m sure, but 1^st of July, you see… quota not yet filled!

And that was it… suddenly, at the grand old age of 27, I’m allowed on the road unaccompanied, and suddenly… I LOVE IT!!!!

And that’s the thing.

I LOVE driving… but boy, do I HATE cars!!!

Er… which, if you’re still with me, is why we’re here.

Well, strictly speaking, it’s not the cars themselves I hate, but the incessant draining expense that they impose upon us all.

The financial cost of actually keeping the on the road is bad enough… but then things go wrong!!!

Arrghh! Give me strength!!!

Last year I was driving a P-reg Fiat Brava. Nice little (ish) car, providing you don’t want to listen to MW radio, decent looker, nice colour… all the important things are right.

Well, you see, that’s the point. I know absolutely zippedidoodah about cars. I can put the fuel in (providing it’s not got anything tricksy like a locking petrol cap) and I can point it the right way most of the time. I know where the people and the luggage go. And that’s it.

Unless there is a big sign with an arrow on it pointing to, say, the hydroponic argonator, containing the legend “THIS IS ABOUT TO BREAK, DUMMY!!!”, I’ve got no chance.

And in my experience, car-dealers don’t use as many of those signs as they could.

Anyhew, after 3 years of iffy motoring, things start going wrong with the Fiat on a seemingly weekly basis.

Now I’ve got a pretty decent garage-man, and he could probably keep a piece of string roadworthy, which is a good thing all in all. Not least when I’m travelling along the A18 past Althorpe, and in my rear-view mirror I see my exhaust failing to take the bend I’m currently negotiating.

Ouch… that’s gonna hurt in the wallet. That much I do know.

So get the exhaust replaced, and within a couple of months the engine starts doing really strange things… like not actually going.

Or going… and then stopping.

Now this car has cost me an arm and a leg already this year, and I’m starting to get a bit sniffy with it. Plus it’s now ten years old, and needs “a new engine”.

I’m tearing my hair out (still got plenty to go at!) and grinding my teeth to the gums. I HATE CARS! But I can see nothing else for it.

Then, guess what, instead of replacing the engine on a clapped-out jalopy with an exhaust worth twice the rest of the car, my girlfriend has a plan.

Bless her complete heart, my lovelight performs some sort of financial jiggery-pokery, and with the help of the Alliance and Leicester, she gets me a car for Christmas!!!!!!!!! (I mean really loads of !!!s)

And I’m really happy… I LOVE my little car… it does everything I want it to, it’s actually smaller than the bag of spanners it dethroned, slightly miffed that it hasn’t got a sunroof (which I discover I previously used as a nifty bird-watching accessory at 60mph… now I have to keep my eyes on the road, I guess!), but we ain’t got all the dough in the world, so forgo the sunroof. And besides, it’s a great colour, and a funky little thing to be sure.

I give it the once over. OK, it hasn’t got one of those “DUMMY!” signs but I can check the number of wheels… 4… oh yes, and that one inside, I can just about tell that the front half is not a Ford Fiesta and the back half not a caravan, and I can count the number of keys. “IT’S GOT A CD PLAYER??? LOOK, PETAL A CD PLAYER!!!”

Petal looks resignedly as she pushed my eyes-on-stalks back into their sockets, whilst I throw wads of cash that I don’t have at the car “sales” person, and leave with a big grin. Actually, we do all the necessary just in time for me to pick it up on the 23^rd of December.

Then it snows, and it’s cold, and it barely gets above 30mph for a three weeks.

No problem, gotta get used to the new car.

Winter starts to thaw, the roads get clearer, and I can go at 60… hang on, what’s that rattle?

No worries, it’s just the parcel shelf… you ain’t go a Roller, so it’s gonna rattle a bit.

Right, used to that.

Now, what’s that squeak?

It’s under the gear lever somewhere. What’s under there? I dunno, but it’s squeaking.

Hang on, what’s that creak? Ooh… that doesn’t sound right.

What’s that funny sound when I turn the engine on?

OK… back to the garage.

Turns out the last funny sound is a problem with the starter motor.

The garage needs to order the part, so a fortnight later, it’s changed. £233!!!

“Ahhh!”, says I, “under warranty, so there!”, or something like that.

So I get that for free… except the creaks and squeaks haven’t gone away.

Another visit.

Dry bushes apparently!?!?!?

Fixed just in time to leave my new wheels behind as we take the other vehicle on holiday… where the exhaust goes.

Fortunately, it doesn’t spoil our break, but garage-man reckons it’s the catalytic converter playing up.

Oh God.

If there’s one thing I have learnt about cars, it’s that when they’re being fixed you pay by the syllable!

Garage-man is absolutely stacked up so we book in to get fixed a month hence, using the car as little and as gingerly as possible in the meantime, now relying on my Xmas box.

Anyway, catalytic converter day came round this week… Wednesday just gone.

I had to get a cash advance off my credit card to cover it, and we picked the newly healed steed with trepidation.

Turns out it wasn’t the cat… but a wheel bearing.

Cost us £180 less than expected.

HOORAY!!!! One of life’s little victories!

So next day (Thursday) on my way to work… what’s that rattle????

Oh no… not the exhaust, ple-e-e-e-e-ease!!!!

It sounds like I’m driving around in a 30-year-old tractor!

Ring garage-man… sounds liked a cracked manifold (cracked manifold… four syllables… expensive!!!)

Bless him, he squeezes me in today, and by tea-time he’s fixed it…

Not a cracked manifold. It took him some while to figure it out.

Apparently this fell out… and needed replacing.

Seventy-five Quid.

Oh I HATE cars…!!!

(But I do still love my new little ‘un)

*might’ve got the year wrong… doesn’t quite seem to add up, but what the hey!

Teenagers, eh?

If you’ve been paying close enough attention to the comments added to my blog, you might have noticed a rather forward-sounding individual going by the name of Zanna_x.

Only the occasional “Dad” gives the game away that Zanna_x is indeed the fruit of my loins (do I detect a clothing franchise there?), and hence is allowed to take enormous liberties that would result in the swift decapitation of any other such offender, or at least would send me into a severe case of the sulks!

Yes… I have… (gulp!) a “Teenage Daughter”!!!

Well, those of us of a certain age (i.e. 20 plus!!!) know that today’s Teenagers know nothing.

Thay carn’t spel, do’nt no nuffink about grammer n puncturation, bearly knoe there ABDs, an’ adinup? That’s for swotty lame-oes!

Oh, and if you actually ask them anything… the stock response is “Wha’?”

We-e-e-e-e-e-ll, I suppose the real truth is; they do know some things… just different things.

They know how to program DVD players for a start, and they know just how many gigabutts there are to an iPodsworth, and therefore just how many years of music they’ll never listen to they can carry around with them on a nifty gadge that costs barely 120 quid. (Although they’ve no idea how much 120 quid is!)

They DON’T know what LPs are, for Pete’s sake… although after a brief debrief on the subject, my Teenage Daughter now equates them to mp minus 10s. (I thought mp zeros, but apparently that’s FAR too modern for this old codger!)

It seems that after years of tuition, they can scarcely string two words of their native tongue together into a sentence, and yet they’ve developed a whole new language from scratch. Thr gr8 @ txtn.

But, and this frightens me, most seem to know exactly what they’re going to do with their lives.

As I teenager I certainly didn’t, and even now I pretty much walk around in a daze as the whole world passes me by in a blur. (If it weren’t for my Teenage Daughter, I’d have absolutely no idea what’s hip and groovy these days.)

But go on… look at her profile!

She’s got A-levels sorted, what she’s going to do at Uni, how she’s going to earn a living (my little pension plan) and where… not in the UK you’ll notice!!! And she’s got a Plan A, a plan B AND a plan C!!! And (get this!!!) that’s before she’s even mentioned the alternative source of income that she’s already planning to supplement her main career. (I didn’t plan to get that many “plans” in there… it was just skill!)

So, what happened? Did I miss the meeting where this was all agreed?

Or has there been some sort of firmware upgrade? Downward compatibility’s gone out of the window a bit with Teenager v2006 but the expansion potential…!!!

And have you seen the musical instruments?

That’s the oddest one-(wo)man-band I’ve ever come across… and I haven’t the foggiest idea how she’s going to carry those drums!

But that’s beside the point – doubtless she’ll get one of the entourage to take care of it.

On the other hand, some things, I guess, never change.

Moods and attitudes – yeah I remember those!

My mum used to give me that “I know what you’re thinking – stop thinking that!” line. Cue lots of pet-lip, wrinkled brow, denying everything and wondering just how does she know! Now I understand… it’s written all over their cherubic faces, ain’t it?!

And they also have causes.

It was “Nuclear Power – No Thanks!” in my day, complete with yellow window sticker – can’t quite remember whether it had a smiley face, a cross face or a radioactive face, but I’m sure you know the one.

Well, my Teenage Daughter is a vegetarian… I don’t know where I went wrong!

Actually, to be fair, and to avoid getting kicked, I should point out that she is vegetarian for the only reason valid, in my opinion. And that’s because she wants to be.

It stems from a number of things, I think; the ethical treatment of animals and a healthy lifestyle are on the list, and I believe she’s pretty well clued up enough to be asking herself the right kinds of questions and testing her own principles. (The problem with having principles, of course, is you have to stick by them!)

But, by gum, does it cause problems at mealtimes.

She loves cheese, in fact она очень любит сыр (где мой сыр? Private joke!) but cheese, and for that matter, dairy, really does make her ill… and if you take away meat and dairy… er… what’s left?

“Erm… Air on toast please, hold the butter… oh and has the bread been near any animals…? It has… rats!!!”

“Rats on toast?”

“Er no… just a glass of water, please, no flies.”

OK, I made all that bit up, but we did, just this weekend, get embroiled in this very conversation at a local baker’s…

Me: “Do you want to share a vegetable pasty?”

Daughter: “Do you want to?”

Me: “Yes, do you?”

Daughter: “OK then.”

Me: “Well, we’ll need to check it’s vegetarian pastry.”

Daughter: “I hadn’t thought of that!”

Me: “Does your vegetable pasty have vegetarian pastry?”

Mabel: “Ooh, I don’t know. Does the vegetable pasty have vegetarian pastry, Doris?”

[Strange look from Doris.]

Me: “Is it just butter in the pastry, or is there lard?”

Doris: “Ooh, I don’t know love, do you know Mabel?”

Mabel: “No, I don’t know Doris.”

Doris: “Do you know Betty?”

Betty: “What’s that?”

Doris: “Does the vegetable pasty have vegetarian pastry?”

Betty: “Ooh, I don’t know.”

Doris: “I’ll go and find out for you.”

[Doris walks into back room… to make a telephone call!]

Me: “You see, it’s my daughter, she’s vegetarian, and she hadn’t thought of that.”

[Notice how I surreptitiously deflected the blame there?]

[Doris returns.]

Doris: “She’s on the ’phone, but I’ve left a message on the voicemail.”

[Ooo… get Doris!!!]

Mabel: “Ooh, she could be ages, don’t really know when she’ll ’phone back!”

Doris: “Ooh yes, she could be ages.”

Me: “Not to worry, I’ll have a steak slice.”

Well there’s always a way round life’s little problems, ain’t there?!

Anyway, I suppose I should end this piece in time-honoured “Dad” fashion, and embarrass my daughter… it is, after all, what I’m for.

Really real truth be told, my daughter can spell, she’s hot on grammar and punctuation, she knows her ABCs and for that matter her АБВы, and she’s doing adinup at A-Level, so she must be good at that too. She’s even borrowed a book from me (“Does Anything Eat Wasps?”) and is finding out all sorts of stuff that will come in handy for when her teenage kids know nothing. She knows the value of a penny and what a record is. She can string hundreds of words together and frequently does, and she cn txt @ lite speed. She really can play all those instruments and she really does have a lifeplan. What is more, she makes sure I don’t get too out of touch with the modern world. She makes me laugh, and I love her so much I generally feel like I’m going to burst.

But most of all, she’s the best daughter you could wish for and I’m the World’s Proudest Dad.

Love you, sweetie! xxx

The Joys of Spring!

Yes, Spring has sprung.

OK, I understand that Spring officially commenced about 4 weeks ago, but everyone knows that the arrival of Spring has nothing to do with the vernal equinox and everything to do with the arrival of the Easter Bank Holidays.

As a movable feast, that being the second Sunday after the calling down of the chocolate-milk producing cows to low grazing, except in a leap year, or something like that, this year’s Easter is a late one, and so whilst we blokes have had the benefit of a bit of a long hibernation… the lawns are just aching to be mown.

The grass just does not seem to understand the First Gardening Commandment – Thou Shalt Not Scythe Thy Pasture Before The Friday Of The Good.

Nevertheless, now being said Friday, I got the mower out.

Tradition dictates that the first job is to untangle the unnecessarily long flex that has been wrapped about the mower handle for six months. My mower is only small, but clearly I am expected to mow the London Marathon or something. That can be the only reason why the flex is so extensive! One day, I might take advantage of this and plug it in next door, while they’re not looking. Look after the pennies, and all that.

Anyway, I know the flex was fine when I left it, but during the winter gloom it has gradually constricted and entangled itself in the manner reminiscent of a boa that’s had one or eleven too many Bacardi Breezers during it’s stay. Where’s that extra arm when you need it?

OK, it took a while, but mission accomplished.

Our mower lives in the garage, with the fridge freezer, and the spare bedspread, and the extra shower cubicle doors, and a sofa… I could go on.

The cars, meanwhile, live outside. I feel there’s something very British about using a garage for everything except its job spec. I nearly said everything except what it’s designed for… but maybe that’s the point. In my experience, garages are designed to accommodate cars, but only on the understanding that you don’t actually want to get out of them. Perhaps you’re supposed to drag them in.

Oh, and DON’T CLOSE THE GARAGE D... too late. Never mind, it’ll knock out, I’m sure.

Anyway, the point is, mower in garage, therefore I decided to do the front lawn first.

I stepped onto the lawn to inspect something, although I’ve no idea what because I was immediately distracted by the springiness underfoot.

I remember Titch Alanmarsh telling me that this might happen, and that it’s not A Good Thing.

So, after about ten minutes bouncing, the dampening effect kicked in enough for me to gingerly step off the lawn. I looked closely, and sure enough… moss.

How on earth did that get there? I don’t remember planting any!

Anyway, I thought, I’ll be a good little gardener and rake the moss out before I trim the grass.

My very good lady had said to me, just ring the doorbell, if you need anything. So I rang. And rang. And rang again.

Then I played Mozart’s Musical Joke on the doorbell. Twice.

Hmmm… clearly my beloved had gone to Mars, or something. Or maybe she was hanging the washing out.

So I walked round the side of the house to the gate and lovingly beckoned, “Oi!!!”

“What!!!?” came the tender reply.

“I need the rake!”

“Which one!!!?”

Which one? You mean I have a choice? I wasn’t banking on that!

“Erm, the lawn rake!” I manfully demanded. Half of any job is confidence, oh yes indeed!

“Where is it?”

“It’s in the garage!”

After all, where else would it be than in the garage, next to the sacks of birdseed, the disposable barbecue and the ladder?

A minute or so later, my attention was garnered from the opposite end of the garage with a sweetly alluring “Oi!!!”

(“Oi” is practically a term of endearment in our house.)

“You mean that lawn rake there!!!?”

My living delight’s outstretched arm was pointing at said lawn rake, positioned next to the workbench, the garden chairs and the contents of the previous car’s boot, a full eighteen inches from where the mower had been.

“That’s the one. Thanks, love.” No need to feel sheepish, she’s come to expect it of me!

Okie dokie, so set to with the lawn rake and give this moss what for.

Huge chunks of evil vegetation spewed forth and this was rather satisfying in a masculine sort of way, for a good minute and a half, until the arms started to ache and the lungs gave in.

Well, I’ve only just got over the flu… that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.

Unfortunately, I’m committed now. It’s not the kind of job one can start and not complete, and even if one could, one is in danger of earning some serious brownie points if one pulls this off! Hey guys… we all KNOW how important that is!!!

Besides which, if I tried to mow the lawn in this condition, I like as not wouldn’t stop bouncing before Autumn – and so, of course, I persevere, stopping every 90 seconds or so to lean on the rake and do a passable impersonation of an asthmatic orang utan.

It was during one of these rest breaks that my next-door but one neighbour pulled up onto her drive, the top down on her Vauxhall Something-or-Other Cabriolet.

I don’t want to give the wrong impression here… I’m working in the garden, the love of my life is hanging the washing out, and the next-door but one neighbour has been out for a spin in the convertible – but it ain’t exactly a heat-wave.

Sun’s out, yes, but the temperature is about 13 or 14 degrees C, so maybe 55 Fahrenheit. I hear the breakers down in Newquay are pretty decent, but I think you’ve guessed that this ain’t exactly Surfer’s Paradise!

But we are a resolute lot we Brits, and I’m sure next-door-but-one figures, “I’ve got a convertible, I’m damn well gonna use it!!!” Good for her!

Anyway, she gets out the car, and through the duffel coat I hear her muffle that traditional, and funny every time, British phrase “You can do mine if you want!”

I could’ve, but that would probably have meant spec-ing out the job, square-meterage of lawn and such, working out an hourly rate, clearing some room in the diary, that kind of thing – not to mention going to university to earn a horticultural degree, getting a loan to set up a business and obtaining a licence to trade from my home.

And besides, I had to go to Sainsbury’s later.

So I declined.

I guess she figured I probably would.

Anyway, we spent a few jolly and friendly minutes discussing the relative merits and demerits of working in general and gardening in particular, at which time she pointed out that “at least it’s a nice day for it.” We then decided that had it been raining, however, I would have been inside in front of the telly and perhaps in possession of a cold beer.

Nevertheless, it was a pleasant and enjoyable interlude, and availed me the opportunity to regain some of my lung capacity and a few of my faculties.

At that moment, darling appeared with a recuperatory cup of coffee, and I praese-ed my chat with next-door-but-one.

“Well, at least your getting all the rubbish out and the lawn won’t die this year.”

Next-door-but-one’s cold beer plan sounded the more appealing, it must be said.

(I’m really not cut out for this working for a living lark – or simply working, for that matter. I feel I’m more your rich philanthropist type – that seems to be the role I was born for. I certainly have the philanthropist’s heart at any rate, but it seems I am finding the talent for accumulation of wealth somewhat elusive. Well, back to the grind, I suppose!)

I was getting on well, a good three-quarters through and it had only taken me three and a half hours – or was it a week? And I’m beginning to really feel like Dermot O’Gardener.

On the plus side, I had gathered enough moss and thatch to start a Home Counties Roofing Company – maybe I should check out that business loan after all!

Anyway, onward ever onward, and a slight change of orientation as we approach the house. Wouldn’t want to put the rake handle through the front window now, would we?

The grass is a bit more lush here… ideal conditions for one’s moss garden it seems, and so thorough raking resulted in an even more threadbare appearance than the rest of the lawn. Topsoil’s OK though.

Another coffee, tending of my wounds, and a deal of that good old Yorkshire grit, and that was it! Job’s a good ’un!

I’m well fed up now!

Oh, hang on… tools away, garage locked, lovely thatched roof on the compost heap… right, I’m going in – complete with real manly blisters on my soft girly hands.

So, like I said, I got the mower out today. OK, I didn’t actually mow the lawn... but it has got a nice parting.

Let's get the pedantries over and done with...

I can't help it, I am a pedant in the extreme.

I know I am, I know it annoys others, it even annoys myself, and I try to keep a lid on things as much as possible.

But... it can attack at any time, sometimes without warning. Other times it builds slowly, until I can contain it no longer, and I find myself exploding with the most trivial of observations that for some reason don't seem to bother the living hell out of anyone else. At which time, of course, I feel obliged to inform everyone who cares to listen (or perhaps more accurately, hasn't yet learnt to switch off when I "go off on one") of the correct phrase/fact/behaviour, etc., fit for the occasion.

"Grammar" in all its many and varied forms, causes me most angst - spelling, pronunciation, punctuation and such.

I'm one of those who pulls out one's hair at "10 items or less". I guess we all now know it should be "fewer"... no... we do, don't we?

The latest in a similar vein that is getting to me is a trailer for Coast on one of the uktv channels, where Nicholas Crane happens upon a sign warning, one presumes, that "Nudists may be seen on this stretch of beach".

!!!

MIGHT be seen... or is the council giving permission? Perhaps there's an honesty box.

Another thing that bugs me is Americanisms.

(Now before any US readers get up in arms, I should point out that Americanisms are perfectly fine for Americans, upon which I shall expand in due course.)

I don't particularly mean American words, rather American pronunciation by British people of English words.

I've been asked to prepare a [skedule] at work.

It was the MD who asked, so I thought better of carrying out my desire to throttle him there and then, shouting "Not [skedule] dumbass*... [SHEDULE]!!!"

I think, all things considered, that was probably a good move.

But, do you know what really gets my goat?

Non-words.

Not new words, of the kind coined to express some action/state/situation, etc., etc., etc., etc., where there is a current gap in the vocabulary, but, more accurately, non-words where a perfectly serviceable word already exists.

And, par-TIC-ular-ly, Corporate Management BS Non-Words where a perfectly serviceable word already exists.

The ulitmate sin, in my eyes - though I'm open persuasion otherwise - is "Proactive".

What the hell is proactive supposed to mean?

Common parlance seems to be something along the lines of, "Issue X is about to kick off, and it could mean we have systematic problems that will need resolving, so let's be proactive guys," followed by the facial equivalent of a thumbs-up and a go-get-'em-Floyd attitude.

"Huh? Proactive? Whaddya mean 'proactive'?"

"Well, let's have a real-time solution for combatting the issue."

"Oh, so you mean 'active'?"

"No, I want us to be more than active. We don't want to be reactive, we want to be pre-prepared**. We wanna be proactive!"

"Oh, you mean preactive... or perhaps pre-emptive, then?"

"Well, call it what you want, we just need to be ready."

Yeah, well, I think you'll find you're just "calling it what you want", matey-peeps.

You see, a pedant's life is not a happy one.

I suppose I should think about rounding this missive off, before the blood-pressure reaches levels beyond the recuperative capabilities of my current medication.

So, as a (near) final point of clarity, I should like to point out that any embarrassing errors of spelling or punctuation, particularly in this submission are fair game to my kindred spirits out there, though please be advised that such are almost certainly on account of me not being able to type!

However, I grudgingly acknowledge, and you may have noticed, that I do seem to subscribe to the It-must-be-time-for-one-now School of Comma Insertion, and I am a fully paid up member of the Too-many-exclamation-marks Society.

But nevertheless, my pedantic brethren and brethrenesses, here, you have refuge, where you will find sympathy, understanding and perhaps some solace.

And finally, my favorite pedantry joke...

Q. Who led the Pedant's Revolt?

A. Which Tyler.


Footnotes:
*See... American words are fine.
** Pre-prepared... that's another one!

Welcome one and all!

Welcome, indeed, to my first posting on my first blog.

Forgive me any indiscretions as I make my way gingerly in this brave new world!

So what's this all about then?

Well, for those who are curious, and even for those who aren't, my blog title translates (I hope!) as "Idle Chatter".

I was going to call it Мнения (Opinions) as I thought that would be what I would mostly submit. I do, after all, have an opinion on everything, even when I've no idea what I am talking about!

But then I figured that would be simply too restrictive, and besides, what's wrong with a bit of idle chatter from time to time?

I guess as things develop, this blog will mature and grow, and if it provides any interest whatsoever, then it will have been worth doing.

OK... a couple of ground rules which you must allow me!

1. I stand by what I say in the context I say it and the time it is said.
2. I reserve the right to change my opinion at any time.

And if you feel the need to challenge me... please do... strongly if you wish, but always in good spirit.

After all, we can't all agree, and what a boring place this world would be if we did.