Four Minute Warning

I was working alone in an office in Prague, capital of the Czech Republic, at noon today when the four minute warning sounded across the city.

The alarm took the format of an old WWII air raid siren accompanied by a repeated announcement which I clearly did not understand at the time, it being in Czech. But, being a native of the nation that survived the Blitz and the Cold War I did not panic. I did what every sensible person would do at times such as these. I went onto Facebook and left a message saying goodbye to all my friends and telling my wife that I loved her.

My sense of panic increased a tad when a friend responded saying that she too was in the middle of a similar warning but that she was in Clermont Ferrand in France. Were the Russians invading Western Europe? Were aliens taking advantage of the G20 summit in London to wipe out the planet’s leaders in one fell swoop?

I was distracted somewhat by suggestions from another friend who shall remain nameless (Vanessa Coll) about what I could do with the remaining three minutes of my like. Frankly, however, most were impractical, illegal and anatomically impossible. But that is the kind of girl she is Always good in a crisis.

As it turns out, the city-wide security alarm is tested every first Wednesday of the month. This follows lessons learnt during the flooding of the city in 2002. I do not know how the public announcement in Czech translates. Presumably it means something like “this is a test” or “non-Czech speakers are in danger of drowning”.

Let’s Start A Revolution

My mate, Smithy, recently sent me this:

This is unbelievable, but true!

Can you imagine working for a company that has a little more than 600 employees and has the following employee statistics .

29 have been accused of spouse abuse

7 have been arrested for fraud

9 have been accused of writing bad cheque’s

17 have directly or indirectly bankrupted at least 2 businesses

3 have done time for assault

71 cannot get a credit card due to bad credit

14 have been arrested on drug-related charges

8 have been arrested for shoplifting

21 are currently defendants in lawsuits

84 have been arrested for drink driving in the last year

Which organisation is this ?

It’s the 635 members of the House of Commons, the same group that cranks out hundreds of new laws each year designed to keep the rest of us inline.

What an outrageous bunch we have running our country – it says it all. And just to top all that they probably have the best ‘corporate’ pension scheme in the country!!

Now, I won’t and can’t vouch for the accuracy of the data but even if it is only half true it is still pretty damning. And remember this is post Jeffrey Archer who, I am sure, would have driven the statistics up. It also omits statistics such as two of them, at least, are former terrorists (or traitors if you like) and the surviving members of Tony Blair’s Cabinet, including the chief honcho himself (Gordon Brown), should be convicted for War Crimes, collusion in torture, and plain stupidity, etc. etc. etc.

It does make you wonder why they were elected and why on Earth we follow their lead. It also dillutes the UK’s moral stance in the world when we look down our noses on the developing world and smaller nations and talk of corruption and other crimes.

It’s as simple as this. Unless there is a revolution and Jeremy Clarkson is appointed President I may need to think of emigrating and joining the cult of Obama…….

“We’re Doomed!”

To quote Private Fraser from the great British cult tv comedy classic, Dad’s Army, “We’re doomed, I say. Doomed”.

It would seem that the credit crunch is causing a fundamental shift in the British economy which is likely to have a devastating long-term impact upon the society in which we live.

Domino’s Pizzas have reported a 24.7% increase in profits. Apparently this is the result of a shift in buying habits, with people looking for cheaper alternatives to eating out. Yesterday, KFC announced that they would be creating 9,000 new jobsin the UK. This follows announcements from Tescos supermarket that they are recruiting heavily.

We are fast becoming a nation of shelf stackers and fast food junkies. Help. I need to emigrate. I’m normal – get me out of here.

Readers of these pages will know that I am far from a fan of KFC – read about it here. And, my past experience would indicate that if I am forced to go self-sufficient in order to get fresh vegetables, then I am likely to starve. Felicity Kendal (sigh), I am not! But, if we are to become a nation of obese couch potatoes sharing our lives and relationships in the full glare of Jeremy Kyle the I will have no choice but to consider departing these shores.

But, where to go? And, how to get there? If things continue as they are then I am even unlikely to survive the flight out of here. Undoubtedly, I will be crushed to death in my plane seat by a Fatty resting after a double pepperoni and zinger burger – read about it here.

Where’s my passport………..

Let’s Be Careful Out There!

Let’s Be Careful Out There!

 

I have recently had a job with responsibility for the security of payment cards and combating fraud. I loved it. I like to think I learned a great deal. I came to the job with almost zero knowledge and left it much better informed, with a huge suspicion and distrust of my fellow man, and of so-called secure technology. It was a huge eye opener.

As a result, I am all in favour of the government’s plan to mark privacy areas around ATMs – holes in the wall. For sure, I will never let that personal space be invaded while I am keying my PIN number. Indeed, I am a bit anal about the whole process of withdrawing money from a cash dispenser. I check for pin-hole cameras. I check for false keyboards. I check for card skimming devices. I check for shoulder surfers (people looking over your shoulder to see what PIN you enter). I check for people with MP3 devices within range. All of these things are widely used to your capture card details and to produce copy or counterfeit cards.

I never let my personal credit card out of my sight – petrol stations and Indian and Chinese restaurants are amongst the most common locations where card details are skimmed. Watch out for waiters who have a cloth hanging from their belt as it may be concealing a card skimmer. Never let them take your card away to pay.

I shred all material containing personal data. I would hate to be a victim of identity fraud. Am I over reacting? No I am not. Fraud is a lot more common than most people would think. You are a lot more vulnerable to becoming a victim of crime than you would think.

Did you know that statistically, 30 to 80% of all job applications contain lies or exaggerations; company employees commit 12% of fraud; management commits 40% of fraud. Who checks your expense claims? Perhaps you should take a closer look at those colleagues you sit with in the office every day. Is he or she a fraudster? How would you tell? Well, the typical profile of a fraudster is someone who does not take holidays, someone who is secretive about business processes, is resistant to supervision, has poor inter-personal skills, has good technical ability, works late, is prone to substance/alcohol abuse, is prone to relationship discord……..Sounds like most of my colleagues. Especially those in the security department. Worrying!

Actually fraud, or rather the impact of fraud, has touched me only fleetingly in my existence to date. And that is as close as I would ever like it to get.

I gave back my first ever company car. I had been so looking forward to my first company car. But, I sent this one back. I refused to drive it. How insensitive of the Company to give me a car that had previously been that of a recently deceased colleague. A recently deceased colleague who had taken his own life. A colleague who had killed himself by attaching a pipe to the exhaust of his company car, passing it through a small gap in a window and sitting in his car in his garage until he breathed no more. This was a lovely guy. He was an experienced sales rep who, just one month earlier, I had shadowed as part of my sales training. Unfortunately he was also a fraudster. He had been caught exaggerating sales in collusion with a number of dealerships for which he was responsible, meaning that they received higher commission payments from the Company than they had been entitled to. He was splitting the additional payments with the dealers. He got caught. The shame of being caught drove him over the edge. Drove him to suicide. He left a wife and two teenage kids. There was no way I was driving that car.

I also know someone who sold her company car. She was a bit loopy at the time.

On another occasion, C and I almost bought a house from someone who didn’t own the house they were selling. A house in Gee Cross near Hyde in Manchester. It was a beautiful house. A double-fronted Georgian house with an nice walled garden and a barn that could have been converted into C’s consulting room (she’s a counsellor and trainee psychotherapist). It was a bit dated inside and would have required decorating throughout, a new kitchen, and bathroom. But it was a beautiful house and would have been a wonderful investment property for us. It was going cheap because it needed some work and, we were told, because the owner had recently died very suddenly and unexpectedly.

We were going through the buying process when, on one evening while I was away on business, C was watching a reconstruction on a TV news programme. It was a reconstruction of the killing of the last victim of a notorious serial killer. It showed the killer parking outside of a beautiful double-fronted Georgian house in Gee Cross near Hyde in Manchester. It showed him entering the house through a nice walled garden, next to a barn. It showed him administering the lethal injection to his victim. The killer then went on to forge the poor lady’s will so that it looked as if she had bequeathed him a huge amount of money, and the house in which she lived. The house in which she died. The house in which she had been killed. And, the house in which the killer had subsequently intended to sell to us, before he was caught.

The killer was a doctor. A General Practitioner by the name of Doctor Harold Shipman. Doctor Death. The most prolific serial killer ever to disgrace these shores. After his trial, an inquest decided that there was enough evidence to suggest that Shipman had killed some 215 people, mostly women. His youngest victim had been a 41-year-old woman. Some sources have suggested that Shipman may have killed over 400 people.

I hate to think how we would have stood legally or otherwise (or where we would have lived) if we had bought the house before the fraudulent will had been discovered. It doesn’t bear thinking about. We had a lucky escape.

So, just you take care. Keep your cards close. Be careful what you throw away. Have a healthy degree of caution when dealing with others. And, watch your colleagues closely. Above all, if you are doing something wrong, stop it now. Before you get caught. The consequences don’t bear thinking about. As Sgt. Phil Esterhaus (Hill Street Blues) would have said: “Let’s be careful out there!”

 

 

 

Where’s The Volume Control?

Where’s The Volume Control?

 Where is the volume control knob on kids? C and I do not have any kids, apart from the fur baby, Maslow the cat. But we do appreciate the kids of our friends and family. We have been very fortunate to see all of our friends’ kids grow from babies.

We recently stayed for the weekend with my best mate, E, and his family. He has one daughter, R, who is five; one son, J, who is three; and, a new baby daughter, A, who is just nine months old. She has that lovely smell that only babies have. They are all adorable. But, they are all so noisy. Adorable and noisy. How can something so small generate so much volume.

We had an hour or two after arrival having a “grown up” chat with E, catching up on old times and then meeting baby A for the first time, after she had woken up. She was great fun. She is very sociable and used to being passed around between adults, due to the fact, unfortunately, that she has spent an awful lot of time in hospital. She is a lot better now though, thankfully. We spent a pleasant hour or so getting to know her – cuddles, playing hide-and-seek, dutifully picking up the things she had dropped, and taking her for a walk in the new three-wheeler buggy. A three-wheeler buggy. Apparently they are so much better for off-road walking! I’m afraid that E, Barnsley-born and bred, is sliding gracefully into the middle classes. He retains his social conscience though, picking up any litter he finds in the streets, and, rescuing “useful” things that have been discarded in neighbours skips. You can take the boy out of Barnsley, but……..

And then, mom returned with the other two kids. It was as if a tornado had swept through the house. An adorable tornado though. An adorable, incredibly noisy tornado. Admittedly, they were probably high on e-numbers, having just returned from a kiddies’ party, clutching their goody bags in sticky little hands. Apparently, J is at that age when little boys get a rush of testosterone. Well, it showed. The next couple of hours involved J running around laughing and shouting gleefully at all the attention he was receiving, bashing everyone with the balloon he had brought back from the party. He was not quiet. For those of you familiar with the spoof rock classic, Spinal Tap, J’s volume control definitely goes up to eleven!

Actually, we had a great time. J and I built flying monsters out of K’Nex, while C helped little R colour in some fairies that would subsequently be turned into badges and fridge magnets. R is big into fairies at the moment. She’s a proper little princess. These kids both have really great manners and wonderful imaginations, and, it is a pleasure to spend time with them without the necessity of batteries. Toys without batteries seem to be very rare these days. In any case, they are quite capable of providing their own sound effects.

For those of us without kids, it is hard to explain to those of you who have, how loud children can be. Parents seem to have an amazing skill at blocking this sound out. It washes over them. But, if one of the kids so much as misses a breath in the middle of the night, both parents would be wide awake and by their side in a second. They didn’t miss a breath as it happened, but all three kids did have a cough. They coughed through the night until it was time to get up and play. Time to make more noise.

This reminded me of the time I baby sat for the neighbours’ three year old boy. Michael was also adorable. He was cute. He was like a cartoon boy with a big head, big eyes, and a mop of brown hair that could never fully be stuck down successfully. He could have advertised Bisto. He was an outdoor kid and would spend hours in the garden with just his vivid imagination for company. He collected worms, newts and snails. He let the snails play on his slide……or should that be a roll? He loved to plant herbs with C in our garden. He would water them and come to visit often to see how much they had grown. On one occasion he touched some wild garlic and then smelled his fingers. He declared: “It smells like burps!”. Such wisdom.

Anyhow, I had never babysat before. I was a tad nervous, especially about the “toilet things”. Moms in the office spent the day reassuring me that three year olds were normally toilet trained. This was reassuring because I had Michael all to myself for about three hours as C was working late that night. His mom brought Michael round just before they left for their night at the ballet (in Crewe?). “He’s just been to the loo so he’ll just need his teeth cleaning and a wee before bed.” said mom. That was reassuring.

Mom left. A fort was constructed out of the cushions off the sofa and our lounge soon turned into a scene reminiscent of a bomb going off in Toys R’Us. And, just five minutes later, little Michael declared, “I need the loo!” and set off upstairs. He always made himself at home. I wasn’t worried until I heard a little cry from upstairs: “D, I keep falling in!”. His little bum was too small for our toilet seat. And, so it began!

I had to hold Michael over the loo as he did his number twos. How could such a cute little boy produce such a horrible smell! It was clearly hard work. Michael was straining as if he was giving birth to a baby elephant. His teeth were clenched and he was turning red in the face through his exertions. The smell got worse. The noise was incredible. He was pebble-dashing the bowl. It was quite horrible. I began to retch. Fortunately I kept the contents of my stomach to myself. Things could not get worse.

Then things got worse. Michael finished. Michael skipped off the toilet, turned his back to me, bent over and touched his toes. I had to wipe his bum. Yeuch! I hope I never have to get that close to another human being in my life. My hat goes off to all those parents, nurses and other carers out there for which this is a common occurrence. Maslow’s litter tray is about my limit.

C thought all this was hilarious when she got home. Mind you her timing was perfect that night. I had the toilet experience. I then spent the next couple of hours keeping Michael entertained and tiring him out. Tiring him out!? I was exhausted. C arrived just in time for teeth cleaning, which he managed to do himself, and to read him a bed-time story…..Fair-weather babysitting if you ask me.

Adorable. Hard work but adorable. Noisy but adorable. To all my friends and family with kids, the utmost respect. We love them all. We especially love the way you take them back when we have finished playing. See you all soon. xx

Near Death Experiences Part 3

Drowning

I am not the world’s strongest swimmer. I did get my Swimming Proficiency Badge while in the Cubs so I am able to swim 25 metres and rescue a brick from the bottom of a heavily chlorinated pool while wearing pyjamas. But, this has not proved to be the perfect training for the real thing. The sea. The ocean. The big blue. Maybe I should always wear pyjamas when I go swimming. 

I have nearly drowned twice. The first time was in the beautiful lagoon of Oludeniz in Turkey. C and I were on holiday there a few years ago. Oludeniz is beautiful with its white fine sand tipping into the beautiful blue/green water of the lagoon. The lagoon is framed by sheer cliffs. Paragliders launch themselves from the top of these cliffs and soar like graceful eagles until they descend onto the beach. Indeed our neighbours, who are big in the paragliding world – Neil was former captain of the UK team – have flown here themselves. But, not on the day that C and I were there. 

It was very hot. C and I decided to swim a while in order to cool down a bit. The water was clean and cool. The beach sloped gently into the sea, giving an expanse of shallow water, before falling away quite dramatically into deep water. While swimming you could tell that you had crossed the “ledge” by the considerable drop in water temperature. C and I were close to this ledge, taking in the views.

Earlier we had spotted a bunch of local lads, in their early twenties, teaching one of their number to swim. Right now this lad was stood alone, near to us, waist high in the water, while his mates were catching some rays back on the beach. After a while he started to jump up and down in the water. After a little while longer he began to wave his arms around. His mates waved back. After a little while longer he began to slip under the water. It suddenly became clear to C and I that he wasn’t messing around. He was in difficulty. He was clearly caught on the edge of the ledge and the sand was slipping away beneath his feet. His mates hadn’t noticed and were too far away to help him in any case. And, then he disappeared. 

I dived into the water, over the ledge, and grabbed the lad. He was really panicking at this point and grabbed me and pulled me and dragged me down with him. It took a huge amount of energy and strength for me to get beneath him, to grab his legs and literally to hurl him away from me back into the shallows. He crawled to the shore. I emerged from the sea, gasping and gagging on water I had swollen. I crawled to the shore. There his mates surrounded me and patted me on the back. They had no English but it was clear that they were very happy that I had rescued their mate from a potentially dangerous situation. I was quite proud of myself that day. I think I save that lad’s life. 

The second time I nearly drowned was a lot more recent. It was Christmas 2005. It was the second day of our holiday in Australia. We were in Sydney staying with a very good friend, K, who was working over there.

We were taking in the coastal path walking from Clovelly to Bondi Beach. About half way round we stopped for a bite to eat at Bronte Beach before walking on to Tamarama. We were all a bit hot and so we decided to stay a while at Tamarama and take a cooling, refreshing dip in the beautiful blue sea. 

After a little sunbathing C and I went into the water together while K was guarding the bags and applying her suntan cream. C and I were bobbing up and down in the waves, sometimes hopping on one leg, sometimes with C holding onto me as I bobbed.

We were ecstatic. We could not believe that only a couple of days earlier we had been in the depths of a British winter, complete with snow. We were engrossed in the view, the excitement, the whole experience. I should also add that this was considered to be a safe beach. And, there were lots of other people in the water at the same time as ourselves. The beach was guarded by life guards and we were well between the flags that designated the safe swimming area. 

Anyhow, after chatting for ten minutes or so, C and I noticed that we had drifted a few metres away from the main crowd of bathers. At the same time, waves began to break on top of us, taking us under. But at this point, once the wave had broken, I was still able to hop and bring my head above the surface. We looked at each other and decided it would be best to swim for shore.

We swam. We swam for a good five minutes. We were getting nowhere. Actually we were getting further from the shore. We were swimming backwards. We were in a rip tide. We were in a rip tide that was taking us beyond the edge of the rocks and into the open sea. Into the open, shark-infested sea. We had already heard of two swimmers who had been killed by bull sharks since our arrival Down Under, so this was not a pleasant prospect. And, again, waves began to break onto us and take us under. But, by now I was tiring and there was no sand beneath my feet when I attempted to hop. By now, I was beneath the surface more than I was above it. I realised that I was helpless. I was too tired to swim to shore. C is a stronger swimmer than I am. I told her she should leave me and try and swim back. She refused. She wouldn’t leave me. This was the closest I have ever felt to death. C and I were actually, silently, beginning to say goodbye to each other. Helpless. But, at least we were together.

 

 

 

I got taken down again by a big wave. As I spluttered back to the surface and looked around for C, I was surprised to hear another voice: “G’day folks. Do you need a hand?” It was a lifeguard. Sat there on a surfboard, all bronzed, blond and muscular in his red swim shorts. I could have kissed him. They must have been watching us from the shore and realised that we were in difficulty. He had swam out beyond us on his board to come to our rescue. However, we were in a very rough bit of sea so as we clung to his board he signalled for another lifeguard to came and help. And soon, another surf knight arrived on his gleaming steed.

Being rescued was not the easiest. For a while both rescuer and rescuee spent a good time somersaulting around in the water, gripping a surfboard, as waves crashed about us. My knuckles were raw from gripping the cord and being pressed against the board. Eventually we made it to some flat water. Now they attempted to get us onto the boards. C was hesitant. Throughout most of this experience she had been clinging on with just one hand, while the other attempted to cling onto her dignity and the bikini bottoms which every crashing wave attempted to wrench from her bum. C insisted on pulling her pants back up before climbing on board and being whisked to the safety of land.

Once C was safe it was my turn. I was instructed to clamber aboard on my belly. Once I was on, I heard something from another man that I hope never to hear again: “Spread your legs mate, I’m coming in from behind!” With my guardian angel kneeling behind me we veritably flew back to shore. “No more swimming for you today mate!” He instructed as he went off to move the safety flags…..

 C and I clambered back to our friend Kate. Our friend Kate who had missed the whole thing. An old guy who had been sat next to her suddenly remarked: “Jeez, if I’d a known they wuz with you, I’d a given you a heads up” (to be read in an Australian accent). Everyone we met thereafter seemed to have good advice how to survive a rip tide. I wish they had given it to us before we had entered the water. The advice goes a) don’t attempt to swim your way out – you will just tire and drown or attract shark and be eaten; b) put one arm in the air to signal that you require assistance; c) float. Apparently rip tides pull you out but then, as if in a big arc, will simply deposit you further down the coast. As long as the sharks don’t get you, you’ll be fine as long as you float. 

We chilled for the rest of the day and then, in the evening, went to a bar in another Sydney suburb to meet up with some of K’s work colleagues. One Aussie native was adamant that she knew C from somewhere. We then attempted to determine how this could possibly be. We ruled out London and other parts of the UK and everything else until the girl suddenly exclaimed: “I know! You were the girl rescued from Tamarama Bay this arvo……” C’s fifteen minutes of fame. 

I hope we don’t come that close to having to say goodbye to each other for a very, very long time, C and I. 

Near Death Experiences Part 2

The Goats Of Atros

 

So, having successfully avoided chemical scud attacks on holiday in Israel (see earlier posting), C and I continued to risk life and limb on our various sojourns in warmer climates.Beware the Goats of Atros!

Atros is a small monastery high up in the mountains above the port of Poros on the beautiful island of Kefalonia, the famed setting of Captain Corelli’s Mandolin. It truly is a beautiful spot. Indeed, the area in the north, around Fiscardo, is officially the 7th most beautiful spot on the planet. I don’t remember who officially designated it as such, but, I am not one to argue. And, the six more beautiful places must be quite some sight. 

There is a story about the monastery at Atros. Apparently the monks there are very sociable. They welcome all visitors who take the time and the trouble to visit them, rewarding them with bread, olive oil and salt, and a glass of ouzo. In return, all they ask is that you send them a postcard from home. Well, this little piece of cultural and social idealism appealed to my better half, C.

And so we set off one day, C in search of cultural and social idealism, and me in search of a welcoming glass of ouzo. The guides all told us that the road cum path up to the monastery was steep and windy. But, I was not deterred. I was not deterred because a) I am generally fearless, b) my inhibitions tend to reduce significantly with proximity to alcohol, and, c) I was driving a four wheel drive Suzuki jeep with the roof down. How cool is that!?

Unfortunately, the same could not be said for my diminutive partner. C is not the most confident passenger in the world, while I am the master of under-statement. Nor is she the best at heights. What I hadn’t known until this fateful day, is that she is also not to hot on crumbling edges of roads. I was really enjoying winding my way up the dirt track to Atros. C was not. C was clutching the jeep door like a theme park ride. Even without her glasses, the imminent fall off the sheer drop at the site of the road was clear to her.

I decided against an approach of reasoning, and reassuring that my Advanced Motorist techniques were more than a match for the route. When the screaming got too much, I parked. We parked about half way up the mountain path to the friendly monks.  

We decided to walk. As we walked we were passed by a couple of other 4WDs carrying labourers from the monastery on high. They looked at us as if we were idiots for attempting to walk up the mountain. They must have fell about in a heap when they realised we had decided to walk with a perfectly functioning 4WD of our own parked below. I just hope to God that they mistook us for Germans. They don’t like Germans on Kefalonia. Don’t mention the war. 

We walked. We climbed. We climbed. We walked. The path disappeared into a steep wooded area. All of a sudden we could hear a distant clunking sound. Like a pebble being rattled in an empty coke can. The clunking got louder. The clunking got closer. The clunking was joined by other clunking sounds. C and I stopped walking and we stopped climbing. C and I looked at each other in bemusement. And, then, all of a sudden, the source of the clunking became clear as hundreds, and hundreds, and hundreds, of mountain goats hurtled through the trees towards us. There were hundreds, and hundreds of them. It was very frightening. 

These were huge beasts. Mythical beasts from ancient times. They all had huge, sharp horns sticking out from their heads. They were stampeding. Towards us. C took shelter. C took shelter behind me. I had nowhere to hide. Wide-eyed and nostrils flaring (the goats not me), these huge beasts flew towards us, hooves striking sparks on the rocks beneath them. Fortunately, they all somehow managed to spot us quaking there and changed their course at the last minute. We could smell them as they whipped past. The stampede seemed to last an absolute age. And then, all of a sudden, they were gone. It was quiet.

C and I looked at each other. Hugged each other. Sighed with relief. We climbed a little more until we heard a distant clunking sound. The clunking got louder. The clunking got closer. We had to endure another two stampedes of hurtling mountain goats. It was quite terrifying. Only when we were confident that the mountain top was goat free did we continue on our way.

The path steepened. Unfortunately, C and I were ill prepared for such a walk in such a heat. Expecting that we would have driven to the monastery (!) we hadn’t bothered to bring water with us, or hats. It was very hot. We were very dehydrated. And soon, C began to feel the effects of the heat and the sun. She was sick and dizzy. She went weak at the knees. I avoided all obvious jokes. It wouldn’t have been the right time. And so, as we caught a tantalising first glimpse of the monastery on high, we stopped. C could go no more. Fearing the re-emergence of the demonic goats, C refused to be left while I returned for the jeep. We gathered our strength and trudged wearily down the path to our jeep below.

We stopped at the first shop we could find for a refreshing can of coke. Fortunately, these cans of coke were clunk free. We never did get that glass of ouzo. But we had survived yet another near death holiday experience. But even today, the bleat of a goat or a clunking sound or cow bell in the distance can cause the hair on the back of our necks to stand on end. Beware the goats of Atros! Ignore your wife. Drive to the top! 

Near Death Experiences Part 1

Saddam Tried To Kill Us

 C and I often joke that whenever we go on holiday we end up having a near death experience. This is not always the case. But it is mostly the case. So, I’m not sure why our parents are always so keen to come with us…..We did get a bit spooked when we went to Eilat in Israel and almost ended up in the middle of a second Gulf War (this was, of course, long before the second Gulf War). Eilat is at the base of Israel, on the Red Sea. Eilat is surrounded by hostile states. From our hotel you could see Jordan – Eilat is next door to Aqaba in Jordan, which is where Lawrence of Arabia went through all that grief to get to. We used to joke that as long as the lights were on in Aqaba then we were OK. Saudi Arabia was also visible from the hotel and Egypt was just 10 minutes round the corner on the coast road. And, most importantly, Eilat was within scud missile range of Iraq, Saddam’s Iraq.

That would be enough to put most people off Eilat, especially at a time of such international tension. But not C and I. Indeed, the threat from weapons of mass destruction aside, I am not sure that Eilat is somewhere that I would recommend to anyone other than the most committed scuba-divers. Eilat is a bit like holidaying in Birmingham by the Sea, or, a Portsmouth with dolphins. It is quite a big city, at the edge of an even bigger desert, with nice beaches, a wonderful aquarium, and dolphins. But, it also has huge shopping malls (a bit disconcerting when you get searched as a possible suicide bomber on the way in), prostitutes, and quite a lot of industry too. It also has the rudest rip-off taxi drivers I have met anywhere. They are even worse than those of Paris (don’t get me started) with the one notable exception – Eilat cabbies tote guns!

When you visit Israel you can kind of understand why they do not get on with their neighbours. Israel is surrounded by hostile states. Admittedly, those states are hostile because they lost the war and ended up with a very westernised, very Americanised, very militaristic Israel in the middle of their holy land, and, in their own cities and homes. To the victor the spoils of war. Also, Israel is only something like forty miles across at the widest point – and that is shrinking fast as the Dead Sea finally seems to be giving up the illusion of life. And, it seems that the Israeli’s are not always the easiest of people to have as your neighbours. Israeli’s differentiate between those that are born and bread in Israel and those that are immigrants. The home-grown variety are called “Shabra“. In Israeli this means “Prickly Pear”, being soft and delicious on the inside but spiky and aggressive to the outside world.

Anyhow, things were a little tense when we were in Eilat. Saddam was not playing ball. He was not allowing the UN weapons inspectors to search for those mythical WMDs (Weapons of Mass Destruction) that would cause Tony Blair so much trouble later on. The Security Council, egged on by the US and Britain, were spoiling for a fight. Israel expected to be a target and mobilised its forces. Admittedly, C noticed this mobilisation a little later than the Iraqis probably did. She is a bit short sighted. I had to point out to her that every Israeli man and woman of a certain age, walking about the streets of Eilat, was sporting a sub-machine gun. The navy was constantly patrolling the Red Sea. The naval base was just five minutes up the road from our hotel. Trips to Jordan were cancelled after a tourist bus had been fired on. We never did get to see Petra. We were searched going into the local mall. We watched Red Neck US satellite TV to stay in touch with the scarce news. We were getting worried. We got even more worried when we met another British couple at a bus stop and they told us that they had been advised to report to an Israeli police station upon arrival to be issued wit their gas masks. We had received no such warning. We had no gas masks. Thank you Foreign Office. Thanks for nothing.

Local TV was full of advice about sealing your home against a chemical attack. Great. There is only so much bottled water you can store in a mini-bar. And, mosquito nets are not the best defence against anthrax spores.

C and I even conjured up an escape plan. In the event of something kicking off we were going to steal bikes from the hotel reception and cycle the two miles round the coast road to Egypt and seek sanctuary there . This could have been fun; it had been a long time since C had been on a bike…….As it turned out we were evacuated instead. We were evacuated through Eilat’s military airbase, which was bristling with attack helicopters and other such military hardware. It was quite spooky. And, being interrogated by a rather good-looking 18 year-old female soldier about the contents of your luggage was pretty spooky too, especially when she went into graphic detail about how little explosive was needed to bring down a jumbo ( a credit-card sized amount will do it apparently). We didn’t mention that we had left our bags unguarded at reception for two hours as we took a last swim in the pool…….

As it turned out, Saddam did not unleash the mother of all battles at this time. The day was saved by Kofi Annan, then top honcho at the UN. He flew into Baghdad just as we flew out and he came to an arrangement about the weapons inspectors……It was pretty tense for a while though.