Sleeping With Julia Roberts

Sleeping with Julia Roberts

 

Occasionally I have got up close and personal with real celebrities. As well as my heated sexual encounter with Sarah Lancashire on a Virgin Pendolino train , I have slept with Julia Roberts. Well, actually I have slept next to Julia Roberts. Well, next door to her to be precise. I was staying at the Sheraton Hotel at Paris Airport on a tedious work thing which lasted three or four days. Julia was making a film in the hotel. She was co-starring with Antonio Banderas. I am not sure that it ever made it to cinemas or even to DVD because I have not been able to find any reference to it in either of their filmographies or on the shelves at Blockbuster.

Nevertheless, I slept in the room next to Julia. She was/is beautiful and surprisingly petite. I got within six feet of her at one point (!) when they were filming on the landing outside of my room. Julia smiled at me. Only me. She was waiting to be filmed while we were watching one of the other female stars being thrown over the balcony. She survived. It was part of the film. There was a net. 

There was quite some disruption in the hotel during the filming. It was really quite exciting. For example, most of the time the guest lift was not working. Consequently, we had to use the service lift and walk through the kitchens and other “secret” areas of the hotel to get to reception. Walking through the kitchen made me feel a little bit like a US president en route to being assassinated – well, in the movies it always seems to happen that way doesn’t it ? They go through the kitchen and they get shot by the mafia guy (or CIA agent if you prefer conspiracy theories) along with some small Mexican waiter that is living the American dream. If you don’t believe me just watch the film “Bobby”. 

Lifts (elevators for our American cousins) seemed to figure heavily in the film as well. For about an hour I watched them try to film some “famous” French actor that I have never heard of and never seen in any film, enter the hotel The idea seems to have been that he would walk into the hotel, walk to the lifts, enter the lifts, and presumably go upstairs and throw a woman off the balcony. Simple. Except that, in the world of Hollywood, it seems actors are not allowed to press the button to call a lift or to wait for it to arrive. For a whole hour they were trying to time it so that someone would push the lift call button off camera, so that the actor would arrive in front of the lift just as the doors would slide open. They hadn’t managed it after an hour. I got bored and went and did some work. In any case Julia was not there to distract me. My little American Tinkerbell. 

Julia sent a bottle of champagne to my room to apologise for the noise and disruption. I thought that that was very nice of her. I waited in my room hoping that she would knock my door and share a glass or two with me. Unfortunately she didn’t. I didn’t hear her in her room that night. And, believe me, I listened. I listened hard. And, it came as a huge disappointment when I found out the following morning that Julia (or at least her staff) had sent a bottle of champagne to everyone on the landing. And, I thought that I had been special. Sigh.

This is the closest that I have come so far to a real “A-list” celebrity. To a real star. There have been many minor celebrities along the way (see earlier posting). And, on one occasion I got a little closer than was comfortable to a stoned, ageing rocker. Julian Cope checked me out in the urinals of the village hall in Portree on the Isle of Skye.  C and I went to Skye on our first ever holiday together. We actually got engaged while we were there. But, imagine our surprise when we discovered that Julian Cope was performing at the local village hall. He was doing a tour of the Inner Hebrides. Clearly the residents of Skye had never heard of him. Well, it was 1992 and the Teardrop Explodes was more of an ‘80s thing. We were joined in the village hall by maybe six or seven other people. Julian was stoned. I am not sure that he had a clue where he was. He was off his head. But he belted them out and the world shut its mouth. I went to the loo at a half-time break. Julian followed. He chose the urinal next to me. I am sure he checked me out. Now, if only Julia Roberts had got so close……

Anarchy In The UK

Anarchy In The UK 

 

So, would you have a go? Would you intervene if you saw a bunch of youths vandalising your property? Would you intervene if you saw someone being attacked in the street? Up until recently, my answer would always have been “yes”. But now, I am not so sure. Indeed, it is not all that long ago since I did tell two yobs off for causing damage. They were aged about fifteen and they were climbing on an ornamental hedge in the ornamental gardens of Tatton Park. They were standing on top of the hedge and beating it with a big stick. I told them to “Get the f**k down!” They did. It was a bit of a relief because it was a very big stick. And, imagine my surprise when I realised that the woman who was sitting on the bench in front of the very same hedge was their mom. She, their mom, batted not an eyelid, neither at their unruly behaviour nor at my aggressive admonishment.  

I also, regularly have been known to have “a quiet word” in the ear of groups of teenagers who are making noise in cinemas. But, maybe I am foolish to do so. Even if the gang of kids don’t take you on themselves, you run the risk that they will have phoned their big brothers who will be waiting for you outside the movie theatre, with pit-bulls and baseball bats at the ready. 

But recently, there have been too many murders of have-a-go heroes, or even, of innocents just trying to protect their own homes. And, it seems that every hoody in the ‘hood is walking around “tooled up” and prepared to use their weapons. On anybody. On everybody. Young male testosterone, bad attitudes, knives, drugs and alcohol are not a nice mix.  

Now don’t get me wrong, my teenage years were far from non-violent and I was always more than ready to respond with my fists. Nor is it the case that knives were particularly rare in downtown Handsworth in the early ‘80s. As readers of earlier posts will know I had a boy die in my arms as a result of being stabbed in a schoolyard fracas. And, I have personally had a knife pulled on me three times in my life – once when as a school prefect I was trying to remove a fifth former from school (it was a very small knife and his arm hurt very badly afterwards!); once when someone tried to mug me in London (I only saw the knife after I had smashed his nose and he ran away); and, once when I stepped in to protect my next door neighbour from her enraged boyfriend (see earlier posting). 

Knives and sharpened metal combs were omnipresent in my youth. Bouncers on the pub doors in Erdington would regularly confiscate penknives, flick-knives and metal combs. But, they were rarely used. Fights were frequent too. But in my day there were still rules. No kicking. If someone went down in a fight you would never have dreamed of kicking them or stamping on their head. And, the fights were largely self-contained, involving like-minded violent youths only.

My teenage friends would never have dreamt of having a go at anyone who tried to stop us from doing something that we shouldn’t have been doing, or of picking on an innocent in the street or on a bus. People seem to be getting more and more fearful. I read that black army officers are to be drafted in as positive role models to try and deter black youths from joining gangs and getting involved in violence (unless it is on the streets of Basra or Helmund Province that is).

But I fear that we will see a growth in gated communities and a polarisation of society. We will find metal detectors and security guards in our schools. I fear that David Cameron’s plan to provide tax incentives to encourage people to get married and to stay together will fail to prevent the decline of our social make-up in which so many young men lack positive male role models. I fear that the Guardian Angels will soon be back on the London underground and groups of vigilantes will be roaming our estates.  

So, would I have a go? I really, really don’t know. Would you?

The Good Life

 

The Good Life 

It is a Thursday and I am at home. The sun is shining and I am wearing shorts, inflicting my skinny pale pegs on the unsuspecting world. Maslow, our furball baby cat, is on the sofa next to me snoring and purring and chasing squirrels or rabbits or mice in his dreams. Actually, he is much more comfortable than I am, having commandeered the greater part of the sofa so that he can stretch out while wedging me against the sofa arm.

But it is a workday so lounging about at home in my shorts sounds pretty ideal you would have thought. But it isn’t. Not entirely. I’m bored and at a loss what to do. You see, while the sun may be shining (an unusual occurrence in the great Cheshire summertime, so worthy of a second mention) my mood is a little flat. I got turned down for a job yesterday. Admittedly I did quite well in the interview process, being only one of thirteen who got to first interview out of some two hundred and fifty applicants. And, I got through to the final three. But, I was pipped at the post. On the plus side, it does show that my CV is strong and that I must have interviewed OK. On the downside, I had already planned a future involving a new car, new phone, banking my redundancy pay-off for a rainy day, enjoying an exciting and demanding new job, and living the life of luxury with a £25k pay increase. But, ‘twas not to be. Serves me right for getting my hopes up. It is a real shame though. 

So now, I ‘m a bit bored. A bit unsettled. A little uncertain about the future. Increasingly anxious. I am less than usefully employed and have plenty of time on my hands. There are only so many times I can go to the shops, walk or cycle around the block, or watch back-to-back Jeremy Kyle shows without turning one’s brain to soup. But, I am making good progress on my latest video game and, so far at least, I have not succumbed to watching live streams of Big Brother Live. That would be when I know I have totally given in. I do like to eat my lunch with Loose Women on TV though – they remind me of the ladies I have lunched with at work over the years. 

The recruitment market is also a tad slow at the moment. People are on holiday I guess. But, without a stream of suitable adverts to respond to I am afraid my mind is drifting somewhat. Straying into dark corners where I entertain my fears of not getting a job at the salary level I would like or need to maintain our standard of living. Of relying on my redundancy insurance to pay the mortgage until even that runs out and I have to start consuming my redundancy monies with far too much gusto. Of being unable to find a job for a couple of years and consequently becoming unemployable. A life of abject poverty surely beckons. Which is probably why my thoughts have drifted to self-sufficiency. Sustainable living. The Good Life. Felicity, Felicity (Kendal), you fill me with electricity. She was kind of cute in the Good Life and downright filthy in the Camomile Lawn. Sigh. 

Now let us be clear. I am not expecting C to don dungarees and grow pigtails in her hair. Nor am I turning into a Guardian reader or a hippy. We actually gave away the chicken coop that once lived in our side garden. I just like the thought of cooking using things that I have grown and nurtured myself. 

Now there have been sporadic delusions of growing my own vegetables over the years. My granddad always used to grow his own. Runner beans, potatoes, cabbages, tomatoes, lettuce, and gooseberries. The whole shebang. He could often be found pricking out in his greenhouse, so to speak. 

Even mom and dad were inspired by the financial benefits of growing your own and turned our back garden into a vegetable patch in the 1970s, when funds were low and the chest freezer had arrived. The chest freezer would be filled with the carcases of whole pigs, lambs, and the larger part of a cow’s anatomy. Offal. Sheep’s brain is a delicacy which has to be tried to be believed. And, our meat was accompanied by home-grown vegetables suitably blanched and frozen to see us through the non-growing period. I think that my main contribution in this period was to plant a few radish plants down the side of the summerhouse. 

When we moved to rural Cheshire I got the gardening bug, briefly. I was probably inspired by the early episodes of Big Brother when they used to look after chickens and tend to their own veggies. These were the early seasons before they started to put vegetables in the house as housemates.  A vegetable patch was dug, composted, and seeds were planted. The planted seeds were occasionally watered. It was a disaster. I was not big into weeding and my tendering was definitely fair weather and intermittent. The slugs and snails soon saw to any actual edible vegetation that appeared. My main crop was bindweed. Indeed, my only crop was bindweed. Nature’s very own barbed wire. 

But, the imminent onset of abject poverty coupled with the terrible tedium of having nothing to do has inspired me once more. And now, the front of our home is adorned with five terracotta earthenware pots, filled with the best growing compost. One is filled with mint, one filled with rosemary, one filled with coriander, another with parsley, and the last with thyme. I can sense the snails smacking their lips already. I know it is only a small start but it a start nonetheless. And, we know that from tiny acorns, mighty oaks do grow. Well, in my case it is likely to be bindweed again…….. 

I just have to get a job……….

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Oxford Experience

The Oxford Experience 

C and I have recently spent an excellent weekend with four good friends and one very cute, happy, five month old baby boy in Oxford. My Alma Mata. The place I went to university. I left just twenty years ago. It feels like yesterday. It feels like a hundred years ago. It felt very strange to be back.

We were staying in a Landmark Trust property called the Old Parsonage in Iffley Village, to the south of the city. The house had its own walled garden running down to the river Isis (being what the Thames is known as when it passes through Oxford). Little were we to know that just a week or so later, Oxford would be flooding. I do hope that the flood waters went into the meadow on the opposite side of the bank rather than climbing the steep garden to the ancient building that we had stayed in.

The Old Parsonage was truly beautiful. It dates back to Norman times but most of the present building dates back to 1500. The downstairs rooms are beautifully panelled in dark wood, and the bedrooms and bathrooms on the upper two storeys are tastefully decorated. Comfortable. It is a perfect size for a group of six and a baby. C and I were dreaming of owning and living in such a place.The oven was a bit dodgy though – the back burner on the hob didn’t work, the oven door wouldn’t shut properly, and the grill only lit at the front. Consequently, the oven took about twice as long to cook things, unless you were prepared to stand there all evening with your knee against the oven door, wrapped in a t-towel to protect against the heat. Still, it’s better than camping! And, C’s pork with pears and parsnips was a success. Thank you Jamie Oliver.

We had a great weekend. We ate ourselves stupid with cooked breakfasts/brunches and wonderful dinners. If I never see another sausage again…….We drank ourselves stupid with the fine wine and beers and gin that we had brought, topped up with a couple of trips to local hostelries. Even the flat southern beer hit the spot.

And, we kept ourselves entertained with Radio 4 in the kitchen, an iPOD shuffling away to itself in the lounge, evening games of University Challenge (a game with beginners, intermediary and difficult questions based on the TV programme, complete with electric buzzers but the crappiest scoreboard in the world) and a “guess who” game of our own invention. Apparently, “Irish” is not a good one-word clue to Eddie Murphy. Sorry guys.  We even mostly (!) coped with the sleep deprivation that results from a strange bed, a breast-feeding baby, and too much booze (and apparently my snoring and crying out in my sleep).

The weather was not brilliant. It is the height of the British summer after all. Saturday was sunny enough to allow us to walk along the river into the city and to take in the Dreaming Spires and the more typical touristy things such as the Radcliffe Camra, the Bridge of Sighs, the Sheldonian, the Covered Market and the like. The weather allowed us to enjoy a bbq on the Saturday evening cooked by our very own resident Aussie.  More sausages. Otherwise it mostly rained, but we were happy enough enjoying the surroundings of the Old Parsonage itself.

Visits to Oxford over the last couple of years (C and I stayed in the other Landmark property in Oxford – The Steward’s House – for my birthday last year) have convinced me that the place was largely wasted upon me as a student.

I was probably too young and immature to get the most out of it. Don’t get me wrong, I was by far from being the youngest. I am sure that there were several infant genii/geniuses there (that will no doubt spark a debate on its own – what is the plural of genius?) who were much younger than myself. Indeed, Ruth Lawrence was in the same year and would often be spotted on the High riding a tandem with her father, including one memorable time when we were blocking the entrance to All Souls in protest against Margaret Thatcher, who was receiving an honorary degree there.

Nevertheless, I was one of the youngest in my year. Most of my intake seemed to have already taken a year off, polishing daddy’s yacht or doing an internship (without that dress I hope) at Accenture (or Anderson Consulting as it was back then), or having done a seventh term crammer, or re-applying, having failed to get in the first time around. And, at that age, the extra year here or there seems to make a big difference. You do a lot of growing up between the ages of 18 and 21. Or, at least, you are supposed to.

And, I admit to having been a little bit intimidated at first. I had always been used to being one of the brightest in my school but now I found myself to be just another bright kid amongst many. Also, I had a bit of a working class chip on my shoulder. Apart from the occasional school football and cricket matches these were the first public school students that I had ever met. And they were, frankly, different.

While I knew that I was there on merit, having gained a scholarship following the entrance exam and interview, and, gaining four grade A “A-Levels” with distinctions, I wasn’t sure about my fellow students. A lot of them seemed to be there because they went to the right schools, or because daddy was an old boy, or mommy went to Cambridge, or because they were top rowers or rugby players, or minor royalty. We had an actual, genuine African prince at college while I was there.

There was I in my Wrangler jeans (never the most fashionable), Dunlop trainers (before they were trendy – dad got a discount in the company shop), and donkey jacket with the rubberised back. I was amongst brogues, chords, striped open-neck shirts, the occasional cravat (I joke not) and jackets with leather patches on the elbows. I felt that I did not fully conform. I remember returning to college once after having attended a job interview. As such I was unusually wearing a suit. I bumped into my History Tutor, Dr Parker, and he exclaimed (imagine the voice of Prince Charles and you won’t be far off) in surprised amusement: “You are transformed! You are without denim.”

I was also somewhat distracted in the beginning of university life. I had attended an all boys school and now found myself surrounded by beautiful, intelligent, young ladies. I was like a dog on heat. Or at least I was like a dog on heat in the privacy of my own room. I think I was a tad too eager in the beginning. I remember pursuing one young lady in the first week, at the end of which she described me as “ubiquitous”. I had to look the word up. I’ve been called worse. We didn’t hit it off.

So, the beautiful surroundings were a bit of a blur in my formative student years. I was once stopped in the street by an American tourist who asked me where the university was. I only visited the Union once. For a blind date charity event. I ended up spending a most boring evening with some posh bird who had apparently been in the Sunday Observer magazine just the week before. And, it is only in the last couple of years that I have stepped foot in the Bodleian or any of the Oxford museums. I can recommend the Pitt Rivers and the Ashmolean. But, I could always find the Turf pub down its hidden alleyways with my eyes shut.

My Oxford experience was a blur of watered-down beer, the occasional glass of port at formal dinners, Pimms at garden parties, and sherry in a Don’s room on wintry evenings. Football, croquet, darts, frisby, rowing, one game of hockey in which I received a concussion after being hit round the head with a stick after a “disagreement” with a member of the other team, the occasional game of squash, and cricket over a beer barrel in the park. I edited the college magazine for a year. I was Entz Rep for a couple of terms – sweaty bops on a Friday night and the occasional cocktail party on a Saturday.

I was so busy that it was sometimes difficult to find time for the study. But, fortunately, our tutors lacked imagination and would set the same essays year to year. It was always a good tactic to get hold of the essays of previous-year students – it saved a lot of unnecessary reading. I was embarrassed, however, when a tutor asked me once to explain what had caused the Hundred Years War…….

Nevertheless, I left university with a 2:1, a cheating girlfriend (a fact I only discovered after the event) an overdraft, a hangover, a good general knowledge of how to mix cocktails, a white bow tie which I have never since worn, and a thorough understanding of which knife and fork to use at formal dinners. And, some of the best friends in the world……Not such a waste after all.

Man Flu

I think I may be coming down with a sniffle. A cold. I have been sneezing and my nose is a little redder than normal due to the number of times that I have blown my nose. I say a “little redder” because being “reddish” is, unfortunately, my normal state of affairs. My face is often pink. It is probably genetic. But, unlike my total colour-blindness (red-green and  blue-violet) which was clearly my grandma’s fault (it is passed down the female genetic line), this seems to be my dad’s fault…. 

My reddishness is not because I blush easily (but I do) or because I am easily embarrassed (but I often am). Nor is it because I have spent too long under a sunbed (but I do). Nor is it related to any blood pressure problems. As far as I am aware, I don’t have any. No, but I do have Rosacea, which, according to the NHS Direct is “a common inflammatory condition of the skin of the face that causes redness that looks like a flush or blush”. It is made worse when it is hot, at times of stress, and after spicy food, etc. It can be embarrassing. I can’t count the number of times that I get asked if I have been away on holiday and the like. Fortunately, my Rosacea manifests itself as a whole head blush. I think that this is slightly better than it being blotchy or patchy. My poor dad looks as if he has a rash sometimes. 

Anyhow, it is not surprising that I have a cold. I have spent the last couple of days outside in the rain a lot. The great British summer. Flooding everywhere. Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink. I have been living in my wellies, desperately trying to stop water flooding into the hallway. It has rained pretty solidly in Cheshire for the last couple of weeks. Fortunately, we are not near a river or a stream and do not have the same flood risk as those poor people in Hull and South Yorkshire, Gloucestershire and Oxfordshire and elsewhere. But, the fields around home are sodden. Water is pouring off the fields onto the roads, and, the poor soak-away drain that we have in the front drive could not cope with the rainfall. It was even worse than in my earlier posting “It Rains Up North”.  

Fortunately my rudimentary barricade of bricks, a couple of pieces of wood, and, compost bags were not quite tested. But, it was close. And, so, yesterday, I went and purchased 15 bags of Cheshire Pink gravel (it is a planning requirement!) and piled it outside of the front door in an attempt to divert future inundations away from the house. Fingers crossed. The joys of climate change! 

So, I seem to have a cold. And it probably didn’t help that we were without central heating and hot water from Saturday until Tuesday, because we ran out of oil. My fault. I should have ordered earlier. But, this wet weather combined with a cold-water stand up wash in the morning is not the best start to the day. But, I will not succumb. I do not do “man flus”. You know, when men exaggerate their illnesses so that when they have a cold they claim they have the flu, etc.  

Fortunately, I have been ill very infrequently in my forty or so years. So far.  Touch wood. Fingers crossed. When I was a kid I had the annual bout of tonsillitis. Spookily it would always come during the Christmas holidays so I didn’t even get the benefit of time off school. And, one Christmas I remember a hurried last-minute scramble for Christmas dinner ingredients because I was too ill to travel to our Auntie Jane’s as scheduled. 

In the twenty years that I have been working, I have had just two days off work through illness. That was due to a chest infection which required me to take anti-biotics for the first time in my life. Which I hated. I hated it because a) it meant that I had to curtail my alcohol intake for a couple for days and b) because I find it really hard to swallow pills, tablets and capsules. They make me gag. I can’t swallow them. Normally, I end up chewing the damn things, which is not nice because most medicines taste bloody awful. 

The only time that I have been really ill was when I was at university. I developed a form of herpes of the mouth. Nice. I caught this from kissing my girlfriend when she had a cold sore on her lip. Nice. I was ill. The whole of the inside of my mouth and tongue were coated in painful ulcers.  I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t drink. I lost about two stone in weight in about a week and a half. This was extreme dieting. I also had blood poisoning which caused hallucinations including a really, really scary dream about being chased by nuns. This was a result of falling asleep in the Junior Common Room while watching the Sound of Music one Bank Holiday Monday. She can be damn scary that Mary Poppins (sic!).  

The college doctor shipped me off to the John Radcliffe Teaching Hospital in Oxford, where I became a bit of a spectacle. Apparently, what I had was very rare. Which meant that every doctor and every student-doctor in the place (of which there were many) felt it necessary to come and have a look, and take a swab, and have a poke. It was not nice. It hurt. It only lasted a couple of weeks or so. Fortunately.

Unfortunately, a much longer-term problem, thankfully now cured, was the “eating disorder” it left me with. When I finally made it back into “normal” college life (which must be an oxymoron) I looked bloody awful because of the weight I had lost.  I was put on a “special” diet.  Special food. It was like being a baby again. Mostly mushy stuff like scrambled egg, custards and the like. The special diet meant that I was served my meals in formal hall after everyone else had been served the normal meal that was available that night. My food was paraded in by my very own waitress, who I happened to have been on a couple of dates with (which was totally against college rules). It was very embarrassing. I became very self-conscious. I thought everyone was staring at me. This was because everyone was staring at me. And, it left me with a bit of a phobia about eating in public, which stuck with me until my mid-Thirties. It was worse when I was feeling a bit stressed. I was stressed a lot until my mid-Thirties. Lunches with customers, romantic meals with girlfriends (or girls I wanted to be girlfriends) were an absolute joy. Not. You don’t want to know how many restaurant toilets I have thrown up in. 

If you just think how often you actually have to eat in the company of others then you may get a sense for how big a problem it could be. Normally I would just push the food around on my plate to make it look as if I had eaten something. I would hide the meat under my potatoes and I would hide my leftovers under my napkin. And then I would wait until I was back in the comfort of my own home before eating. Mostly mushy stuff like scrambled egg, custards and the like.  To this day, my best friends from university vie for the strategic place next to me at the table so that they can scavenge my leftovers. I am still not a big eater when in the company of others. 

So, take my advice. No matter how gorgeous your girlfriend. If she is need of Zovarax, leave her alone. Cold sores are to be avoided!

A Strange Old Week

A Strange Old Week

It has been a strange old week. A busy one. In no particular order or preference, there has been flooding across much of the country, a new (ish) Prime Minister, terrorist attacks in London and in Glasgow (and arrests on the M6 at Sandbach, VERY near where we live), a couple of funerals, a ban on smoking in public places, a phone call from my mom and dad who are on holiday in Canada, a meeting with a Head Hunter, Birmingham City have signed two new players, Brian has brought Rory back home to Ambridge in the Archers, Charlie has somehow survived another week in the Big Brother House, and, we have run out of oil.

It is Sunday. C is upstairs, trapped in her study, trying to make progress on an assignment that she has to complete by next Friday as part of her psychotherapy course. She is very disciplined. Very dedicated. She will be locked away until either she completes the task, or,  the urge of a nicotine fix kicks in. Following the Government ban on the 1st July, our lounge is now one of the few places left in this great nation of ours where C can smoke without risking a fine or public derision. This week I even got a letter from the leasing company reminding me that my company car is designated a workplace and that smoking is, therefore, banned.

Fortunately I do not smoke. I never have. And, even if I had, I am sure I would never have smoked in a car. Far too enclosed a space. But, C will be OK with the ban. She only really smokes in the evening, just four or five a night, and is very aware of her smoke and prefers not to smoke when eating or when others would be offended.

Maslow, our furball baby cat, has been a bit fractious today. There have been several episodes of “mad cat”, when he stares with wild, wide eyes at imaginary monsters, drops his tail, and bounces around the room like a lunatic feather-duster on speed. It might be the weather. It is very wet and windy. He doesn’t like the wind. It might be because C is ensconced in her study and he is not getting the attention he seeks. Or, it might be because I released the little “present” that he brought us this morning – a little robin red-breast. I managed to retrieve it from Maslow’s mouth and release it through the dining room window. It was a little shocked and chewed but unpierced and he flew away under his own steam, thankfully.

As for the funerals, I attended one and sent a memorial message to the other. The funeral that I attended was of our neighbour’s father. A lovely man. The one I didn‘t attend was that of a work colleague. He was also a lovely man. His death was maybe even more tragic in that he was so young and it was suicide – maybe only a year or so older than I am. Such a waste. God Bless both.

Anyhow, with C at work upstairs, I am at home with the Sunday Times, listening to Radio 4 and the frequent, heavy showers outside. I am glowing slightly and emitting a faint pink radiation. I have not long returned from five minutes in a stand-up sunbed. Consequently, I am a tad flushed and smell a little singed. Which is unfortunate really as a shower is out of the question. This is because we have run out of heating oil and so have neither hot water nor heating since Friday. I doubt that they will deliver before Wednesday, which means a couple of early mornings having a stand up wash in cold water, and, shaving and washing hair by boiling kettles. Lovely.

I have applied for three jobs this morning. One out of the paper and the other two as a result of the many, many, many email prompts that I receive from all of the recruitment agencies that I am now registered with. Getting a job is a full-time job in itself. I met with a Head Hunter on Thursday (a recruitment specialist rather than a wild man from Borneo).He seemed quite hopeful, and the job that he described would certainly be of interest. He said he will probably be able to tell me tomorrow if I will be called for an interview. So, fingers crossed!

In the meantime, I am desperately trying to conjure up some enthusiasm about Gordon Brown’s arrival at Number 10. I would like to believe that he is genuine in his cabinet approach and a Government of “all talents” but I am guarded in my enthusiasm. I still feel badly let down by Blair and his lies that took us to war in Iraq. And Brown is the least impressive front man that I have ever seen. He is such a dull speaker. So monotone. I find myself drifting off when he is talking, even when it is about something as important as the latest terrorist threats. And, I can’t seem to get beyond that slack-jawed gagging thing that he does with his mouth. So, the jury is still out………as indeed, it is on Brum’s latest signings, Garry O’Connor and Olivier Kapo. So, watch this space.

Incidentally, it is a bit worrying that suspect terrorists were arrested near Sandbach on the M6 – if I stand on tip-toe in my garden I can almost see the spot where the police stopped the traffic and pounced. It is a little too close to home. Especially, since the failed car bomb in London was outside of the Tiger Tiger nightclub, being the last place that I “hit the town” in at a colleague’s leaving do. The food and service was crap, by the way. But, why are they picking on me……

 

 

 

Fifteen Minutes Of Fame

Fifteen Minutes of Fame 

 

Andy Warhol once declared that: “The day will come when everybody will be famous for fifteen minutes.” Well, I am not sure if we are all supposed to become famous on the SAME day, or, we all have our own day in the glare of paparazzi flashes. And, clearly, there are some people like David Beckham, the Queen, Kylie, and Nicholas Parsons who have had much more than fifteen minutes. So, how does it work? If someone takes half an hour of fame does that mean that someone else has to do without? Is it like carbon emissions? Can I sell my fifteen minutes to some wannabe Big Brother contestant or someone in the auditions queue at the next X-Factor? 

Actually, if I think about it, I might have already used my own fifteen minutes up. Except in my case, it is probably more a case of a quarter of an hour of infamy…. 

It started at an early age. In fact, at birth. I was declared to be a “Miracle Baby”. No, nothing to do with a donkey, a carpenter, a manger and three stargazing hippies high on frankincense. No immaculate conception for my momma. No divine inheritance for yours truly. No, apparently, it was a miracle that I survived. I decided to come out upside down, the wrong way round, attempting to snuff myself out before I had even begun by strangling myself with my own umbilical chord. My mom lost a lot of blood.  

Fortunately, however, such suicidal tendencies have largely been absent in the years that have followed – if you discount me glugging from a bottle of Domestos bleach while potty training, setting fire to the frayed landing carpet when a toddler, and, whacking Leroy Hunter around the head with a cricket bat at Junior School. He was hard. And, not just in the head. 

I made it into the internal magazine at my dad’s work (Fort Dunlop Tyre Factory in Birmingham) when I was about six or seven. This was because I had won an art competition by painting “My dad at work”. I think I probably won because my dad’s job was a little different to most who worked in the tyre factory. My dad was the company chauffeur. While others were no doubt sketching pictures of men in overalls and tyres, I was able to push out a passing representation of a man in a peaked cap holding open the door of a big posh car. 

I made it into the Birmingham Saturday pink Sports Argos newspaper. Twice. Once when it was recorded that I had been sent off in a school cricket match. I know. I can’t think of anyone else who was sent off at a cricket match. I was sent off for ungentlemanly conduct because I punched the wicket keeper. I hit the wicket keeper because he was taking the p*ss. But, at least I was decent enough to drop my bat and remove my gloves before decking him. The second time in the Sports Argos was when our team photo was included when we lost (yes lost) the national schoolboys’ cricket final at Edgbaston in 1982. We lost by a whisker. Five minutes in fact (it was a timed game). If only we had dawdled over our sandwiches during the tea interval…… 

I even made it onto the Nine O’clock News. Well, not THE 9 O’clock News. Not on the BBC. No this was the Irish version. I was filmed, together with my mates from University, coming ashore in Ballinskellig, County Kerry, Ireland. We were on a cycling and camping holiday there during our first summer holidays. It was June 23rd 1985 and we had been on a boat trip to visit the early Christian beehive monastery and the puffins on the Island of Skellig Michael.  On the way back to the mainland we found more than we had been looking for. We found ourselves amongst the floating wreckage of Air India Flight 182, which had been blown up by a terrorist bomb while en route from Canada to Heathrow. 329 people died. It was an eerie scene. Fortunately we did not see any bodies but we did find bits of wreckage floating on the surface. A galley door. A bit of wing. An unused safety vest. The boat’s captain radioed ahead. Apparently we were the first people to find the wreckage and the news reporters were waiting on the beach for us when we returned.

But, it has been down hill since then on the fame front, I’m afraid. I made it into my college gossip mag “Queenie” (Queen’s College) a couple of times. But, that was hardly surprising as I was the editor and I am not known for being self-effacing. And, I have made it into my company’s internal magazine at least twice – once in the basket of big truck-shaped balloon (don’t ask) and once when photographed with Eddie the Eagle (really, don’t ask). I have even made it into Sweden’s leading industry publication on plastic card production. I am not entirely sure why I was in it because I don’t speak Swedish, but hopefully it was something to do with combating card fraud, as that was my job at the time.

So, I guess it is time I pulled my finger out and did something else noteworthy. Unfortunately, inspiration forsakes me at the mo……….

 

  

 

Ladies Who Lunch

  Ladies Who Lunch 

Since I have worked in Shameless (see earlier entries), in a plane-proof building near Manchester Airport, I have always shared my lunchtime with an ever-evolving group of ladies of a certain age. My ladies who lunch.

As an aside, the fact that the office was supposedly “plane-proof” was quite reassuring when I first moved up from London all those many years ago. For about five minutes. The building is on the flight path. The landing path in fact. And, in the event of a crash it would be on the crash path. And, I was working on the third floor. The top floor. The floor over which all the planes skimmed on their way into land. It was a bit disconcerting and, therefore, somewhat reassuring to hear the office described as “plane-proof”. Until it was explained to me exactly what that phrase meant.

In the old days, before the onset of outsourcing, and off-shoring, the Shameless office used to house the company mainframe systems (they are now in Prague and Bangalore). The systems were in the basement. Underground. In the event of an aircraft crashing onto the roof of the building, it is designed to collapse in on itself to form a protective layer of rubble, debris, and, presumably, dead employees over the mainframes so that they could carry on working without interruption. Even during the recovery of the bodies. So, not so reassuring after all.

Incidentally, and as another aside, the company’s Danish headquarters, in Copenhagen, used to be Nazi headquarters during the Second World War. Not out of choice you understand. In any case, as Nazi headquaters it was an obvious target for Allied bombing raids. Those canny (this being the mildest word that I could have used, believe me) Germans knew this of course and decided to protect themselves by letting it be known that Allied Prisoners of War were housed in the building’s upper storeys. A latter-day human shield. I am glad to report, however, that us even-cannier Brits responded by developing a new type of bombing attack (using the Mosquito bomber) which enabled buildings to be struck from the side in such a way that the upper storeys would collapse down, relatively intact. Hmmnn. Risky, but apparently it did work.

Anyhow, the ladies that I have lunched with over the years (though the will have called it “dinner”, being good northern lasses) have been a frequent source of inspiration, sometimes frustration, often information, and, always, entertainment. Sharing lunch breaks with them is like living through an episode of Loose Women on HRT (Hormone Replacement Therapy). Most are good Manchester stock, living fairly close to Shameless. Fairly close to where they were born, went to school, got married, had kids, and worked. Most have worked for the company for a number of years. Woman and child. Child and mother. A number of years brutally interrupted when they were outsourced for three years before being insourced back following the collapse of the outsource relationship. My advice would be to avoid EDS like the plague.

I have always respected these ladies. They are all doers. They come to work. They do their jobs, diligently. They go home. They take their pay. And, they get on with their lives outside of work. They have a job rather than a career, because they have other things in their lives that are more important to them. Family. Kids. Elderly relatives to care for. Pets. Hobbies. Lives.

Lunchtimes have always been entertaining. Not least because of the food, which is, frankly, appalling. Fridays is always battered fish or breaded fish, chips, mushy peas or garden peas and gravy. Gravy! With battered fish? Is it a northern thing? Spotted dick. Manchester Tart (it is a dessert). Bland salad options. Boiled liver. And “vegetarian chilli con carne” (con carne means with meat!). Chips, chips and more chips. Well at least it is free. But most of the entertainment has come from these amazing characters themselves.

“Riz”, a miniscule, pocket-sized bundle of humour and inner strength. A single-mom. A traditionally-attired Muslim, with a broad Glaswegian accent and an even bigger heart. This lady is indomitable. She survived a violent husband, sleeping in a single room with her child, with drug dealers for neighbours. She never missed a day’s work and managed to make a new life for herself back in Glasgow, where I understand she and her son are now thriving. She never stopped smiling. She never stopped helping those around her.

“Julie B”, who started in the mailroom. There is almost a mythology around that clique of people who started in the mailroom. I suspect that there was something quite suspicious about what they put in the mailroom tea. Anyhow, “Julie B” started in the mailroom about 35 years ago and I suspect that is where she developed her wonderful cynicism and particular view of the world. The spectacles that “Julie B” wears are not exactly rose-tinted for sure. Again, “Julie B” is a survivor who over the years has tended to sick parents, neighbours and cared for her siblings. “Julie B” has a story about everything and the ambition to share them all with you. Whatever you have done, “Julie B” knows someone who has done it earlier, bigger, better, and more often. That someone is, more often than not her brother, upon who she dotes. If you have an illness or have been the victim of bad luck, then “Julie B” will know someone who has had it worse and is pleased to tell you how bad things could still get. “Julie B” also has a huge heart and a wonderful sense of humour. She is totally self-effacing and would do anything for you.

“Fiona” is the youngster on the block. She has been with the group for almost as long as I have. She has the art of smoking down to a tee. She can complete her cigarette in the exact time that it takes to walk from the office to the canteen (they would like us to call it a restaurant but that is a bit too grandiose). Again, “Fiona” has a heart of gold and, for many years has brought up her (ex) boyfriend’s young child in very difficult circumstances. She has a certain innocence and I delight in making her blush. So, it maybe was a mistake on her part to let me know that she recently got locked in the bedroom after a night of passion with her new feller. Of course, I was totally discreet and haven’t told a soul….

“Kath”, cat-hater with her “senior moments”, hot flushes, amazing shopping and party tips. Let me tell you, it isn’t a true party unless “Kath” is there with her musical cake slice from the Pound Shop; “Susan” with her filthy sense of humour, “interesting” home life, amazing hobbies, and crap cars; “Anita” with her belligerence and self-confessed alzheimers; the two “Pauline”s……..there are far too many to detail here. The group has changed over the years as people have moved jobs or left the company or gone to circumnavigate the globe in a yacht. Please do not be offended if I haven’t mentioned you here. And, please don’t be offended if I have. You will all be in the book if it ever gets published, unless you bribe or blackmail me that is.

As I prepare to leave the company myself, and as I am in the office less and less I do not have the same opportunity to share their company, I realise that I will miss them all very much. Thank you ladies. Thank you all. You have been from time to time my informants, my confidantes, my counsellors, and my friends. You have kept me going through the tough times. You have made me laugh. And, you have inspired me. I wish you and yours good luck and every happiness. You deserve it.

Anyone for lunch?

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

A Bag Is For Life

A Bag Is For Life 

 

It seems that a bag, like a puppy, is for life, and not just for Christmas. Every time I visit my local Waitrose (which is often) I am offered a “Bag For Life”. No, this is not some promotional idea of a charity raising funds for poor children in Africa or for a new scanner of some kind at a local hospital. No, these are eco-friendlier bags; stronger so they last longer, and, presumably more bio-degradable than your typical supermarket carrier bag which is destined to clog up some landfill site for a couple of millennia. On the news this morning there were a bunch of eco-warriors of uncertain sexuality and various degrees of cleanliness, intelligence, and sowing ability who had taken the idea one step further. They had made shopping bags out of old clothes. Nice. Would you want to bring your groceries home in someone else’s granddad’s Y-fronts? 

Now don’t get me wrong. I am all for saving the planet and avoiding climate change. But, this Bag For Life thing just doesn’t seem to work for me. I think I have about six of the damn things already. Perhaps they are breeding. But for sure, I think I will be stuck with them for a very, very long time simply because I forget to take them with me to the supermarket. I now have to go through that whole routine where they ask me if I would like a Bag For Life; I say, “no thank you because I have several at home already”; and they reluctantly hand me two old-style carrier bags when I clearly need five or six for my many purchases, and they scowl at me in a way which is clearly intended to make me feel as if I am uniquely and personally responsible for imminent climactic chaos on an unprecedented scale. 

And in any case, I recycle/reuse the carrier bags. We put our rubbish in them. Our non-recyclable rubbish that is. I am a frequent visitor to the paper bank, the bottle bank, and the plastic recycling place. But we use the old-style supermarket carrier bags to put our non-recyclables in. And, incidentally, our non-recyclables consist mostly of unnecessary supermarket packaging! Let he who is without sin……. 

And, why do we need plastic bags at all? Why can’t we use paper bags like they do in America? Surely that would be much better for the planet. It would encourage the planting of more forests, and paper is much more easily recyclable than plastic. And, just think how many of us could have met our soulmates in one of those everything-falling-through-the-bottom-of-a-wet-paper-bag movie moments…… 

And, while I think about it, why can’t we have those nice carton things that Americans eat their Chinese takeaway out of using chopsticks, instead of those silver carton things and the plastic forks that we have over here? They may not have signed up to Kyoto, but they do seem to have a thing or two to tell us about packaging.  No, it seems that I am destined to feel the full weight of my own carbon footprint in the form of the growing number of Bags For Life that are to be crammed into kitchen cupboards and the millions of wire coat hangers that seem to be taking over the wardrobes upstairs. Every shirt that comes back from the laundry returns with its own hanger. If only I was creative and talented enough to recycle the hangers into children’s mobiles or sci-fi statues, or anything that I could make my fortune doing. 

And, while I think about it, the real purveyors of global warming and climate change are those little bastards who keep nicking our recycling bins. This happens far too often. We have already had one brown bin for compostable (is that a word?) stuff (weeds, leftover grub, etc.), and one blue box (for paper) stolen. Our neighbours have all been hit as well. We presume it is just kids doing it for fun, as there is not a lot else to do in sleepy Bradwall, rather than eco-terrorists. But it does seem crazy that I have to burn more CO2 by driving to the recycling place myself as a consequence of some childish prank. Perhaps the council can use those tracker things that they are putting into bins these days to find mine and return it to me.

 PS.Incidentally, on the subject of poor children in Africa and elsewhere, I would wholeheartedly recommend World Vision to you. C and I sponsor a little five year old Tanzanian girl called Sesilia. Her mom and dad are only young themselves and are subsistence farmers. We like to think that our contribution will make a real difference to Sesilia’s life. Hopefully, we will be able to pay for her education. And, hopefully, this will enable her to find her own place in the world. We dream one day of visiting her in her village and saying hello properly. In the meantime, we enjoy sending her the occasional photograph and letter and receiving letters from her, translated into English by one of the charity workers.

 

  

 

Who Am I? Part 2

 Who Am I? Part 2 

Actually, I am quite pleased to have discovered that I am an ESTP. Extrovert, Sensing, Thinking and Perceiving (see previous entry: Who Am I? Part 1). It was quite a relief. It was quite reassuring. It kind of reminded me who I am. Who I am on the inside. Who I really am. And, who I need to be on the outside too. The rediscovery of myself helped to explain why I have been less than entirely happy at work recently. For, being ESTP also makes me a square peg in a round hole in my current job. And the master of understatement.

The company that I work for has recently asked me to become a project manager, driving global process, product and infrastructure standardisation initiatives. And, to be frank, it just ain’t me. Don’t get me wrong, I can do it. I have done it. But, it does not come naturally. And, I do not really enjoy doing it that much. It pays pretty well though. To do this job you need to be good at planning, at detail, and interested in enforcing the rules. You need to be a political animal who is turned on by templates, blueprints, stagegates, rules, and doing everything the same way, everywhere. And, I am not.

As an ESTP, I am more of an entrepreneur. I am good in a crisis. I like to take risks. I like variety. I like to roll my sleeves up and get involved. I am pragmatic and practical. I also do not take kindly to too much direction and doing as I am told. I like plain speaking. I like to be autonomous and able to set my own agenda.

ESTPs tend to work least well with people who complain all the time; take themselves too seriously; or, who discuss ideas to death without ever taking a decision and actually doing anything. Well, maybe not every multi-national oil giant is the same, but the one that I work with is full of people like that. I am irritated by rules and regulations; routine; corporate bullshit; and, people who do not take responsibility for themselves. I do not fit in anymore. If I ever did. And, if you bear in mind that I have worked for the same company now for nearly twenty years, I guess it is time I considered a change.

I recognise that I am not perfect though. As an ESTP I am prone to look for a crisis where there isn’t one and am often sarcastic. And, when stressed, I can become withdrawn and moody. Abrupt. Snappy. Grrrr. I can also irritate others by being abrupt, and telling them to pull themselves together. If I have done that to any of you, well, sorry. I can recommend a very good counsellor though.

I guess you might be wondering why the sudden urge for self-enlightenment. Well, I am being made redundant. I am being made redundant after twenty years. The wonderful global project that I was asked to lead did not go ahead. It was my own fault really because I was one of the ones who recommended it did not go ahead. I just thought that the company could invest the $40 million better elsewhere. They quite gratefully accepted my recommendation, and, are now making me redundant as a consequence.

Actually, I am quite pleased. Sure I am worried a little bit about getting another job. I am worried about money. But me and the old company have been drifting apart for quite some time now. This is exactly the kind of kick up the arse I needed to get myself motivated to change. So, that is what I intend to do. And, part of the process is to understand the kind of environment that I prefer to work in; the type of people that I prefer working with; the kind of role that best suits my personality. And, that is where the psychometric test came in. It is actually part of the process offered by the outplacement service that the company has kindly given me access to.

So, now I know who I am, I can better focus on the type of job that would suit me. According to the manual that the outplacement consultant has given me, the most attractive occupations for people like me include law enforcement, general management, farming, or, working in a factory. Maybe I could enforce the law in a battery hen farm. Hmmm. Any of you who know me got any ideas or suggestions?

Gizza job!