We’re in!

Well we are in! We have moved. We are tenants no more. We are landowners again (well, we have a wrap-around garden at least) and, more importantly, we are home owners. Home. A place to put down new roots. A place to grow. A place to share and to entertain.

The removal guys were great – punctual, polite, accommodating, hard-working, considerate, and, above all, patient. There were a couple of heavy items that they lugged all the way from the bottom of the garden, up to the house only to be ushered back by the Director, C, sending said object back to the bottom of the garden and up to the “man cave” above the “car barn” (you don’t have garages in Surrey but open barns with space above where the cars are parked). And, despite the heavy showers they were gone by mid-afternoon, leaving C and I as happy as pigs in sh*t and surrounded by boxes, and boxes, and boxes. And boxes.

But it was knackering. There was a lot of standing around. So, much that my knees are aching today. Just from standing around.

And, it has not been without frustrations. Indeed, my first task upon arrival was to remove the bannister at the bottom of the stairs. Without which neither of the beds nor wardrobes would have gone up the stairs. As I do not possess a hand saw (and even if I did I would not have been able to find it) my task involved befriending Kevin, the foreman at the building site across the lane (they are converting barns). Kevin is a burly but jovial guy who was up to his waist in mud and unmentionables but was gracious enough to provide me with a quick lesson in the use of a circular hand saw and the job was done. It was not the neatest of carpentry but got the job done!

Other than that my major contribution of day one was heading to Cranleigh for fish and chips at about 5pm – the first thing C and I had eaten all day (apart from the bag of Quavers I snaffled after a trip to the petrol station).

The major frustration was, predictably, technological. The TV. I spent hours untangling the various cables and leads left by our sellers and pouring over the manuals for the new BT Smart Hub and BT TV box. I managed to get wifi working (result!) but was unable to get terrestrial TV. It turns out that the vendors had omitted to mention that there was no TV aerial- C is already on the case. They also forgot to mention that the en suite shower cold water tap doesn’t work and that there was no plug in the bath. The latter was particularly annoying as I was looking forward to soaking my aching knees in my first bath for a year (the one in Shere was too small).

But, we will forgive them these slight omissions because they have given us a home. A home of our own.

May 20, 2017 at 7:45 pm Leave a comment

The joy of moving home….

I have read recently that “moving house” no longer makes it into the top list of most stressful life events. I was recently reading about this because we are moving house. Today. For the second time in just twelve months. And, if moving house is not right up there with the death of a spouse or getting divorced, then I do not want to encounter whatever else might be….

But, surely the worst of it must be behind us?! It was very stressful.

The stress of finding an estate agent. You know, the people who charge you a huge percentage of the sale price for the privilege of taking a couple of photos, sticking one of them, briefly, in their shop window, and posting your details on Rightmove.

The people who demonstrate a total lack of social skills and an inability to remember which is your garage and garden, so that you are forced to do the viewings yourselves lest potential buyers leave confused or misinformed.

We changed one incompetent estate agent for one slightly less so mid-process and still begrudge their percentage.

The stress of the viewings. The cleaning. The de-cluttering. The turning on of lights. The filling of the fruit bowl as a feature on the dining room table (which was clearly the clincher!). The lighting of a cosy, welcoming real fire even at the height of summer. The simulation of the smells of roasting coffee beans and fresh-baked bread. Praying that next door’s dog doesn’t bark. The waiting for viewers. The waiting for viewers. Waiting for viewers.

The viewers. Don’t they not read the details or look at the photos before turning up? No it isn’t a detached house. Yes it is very rural. No you cannot build a conservatory on the side of a grade two listed building. Yes, the three bedroom house does seem a bit small for you, your husband, your five teenage kids, three dogs and the donkey. And, worst of all, the divorcee just gong through the motions, horrified at the prospect of downsizing, despite being evicted from the family home by her vindictive ex on Monday…..

The chain. Oh, the chain. I guess we should count ourselves lucky in that we had no onward chain as we were renting. But, our buyers pulled out / fell through twice before we finally got there. Stress. Stress. Stress.

The joy of renting – which will be a tale to follow, once we have (hopefully) secured our security deposit!

The depressing search for a new home which won’t bankrupt us; is within at least twenty minutes of Waitrose; is not going to end up next door to a new estate or a traveller campsite; or, is right next to a busy dual carriageway.

 

But we found one. It is very exciting. It is very exciting in spite of the subsidence. Despite the survey. Despite the flood plain. Despite the lack of mobile phone signal. No. It is really, really exciting.

And at last it is moving day. Well, it is day one of a two day move. We are literally being put into boxes as I write. We have the keys for our new home and our sellers vacated yesterday. Today the removal guys pack everything apart from a bed, the TV (hopefully), the kettle, and a sofa. And, tomorrow they pack those and deliver them to our new home. Where we will unpack.

I sit here now midst a flurry of removal activity and sugary tea (3 sugars!) as two very nice (hopefully) men pack our lives into a thousand cardboard boxes secured by miles and miles of masking tape.

Fortunately we had decluttered ahead of our move down South a year ago, with most of those things of mine deemed to be superfluous ending up on eBay, at the local charity shop, or in the local dump.

C had embraced the opportunity for a clear out. Of my stuff.

The rediscovery of items unseen for years. Discovery of items that you hadn’t realised you had at all. Wondering what mysterious locks might be unlocked by the myriad keys you’ve held on to …. just in case.

The pile of wires and adapters for electrical equipment long ago sold on eBay. For gadgets long unused. Multi-shaped “USBs” for generations of iPhones. It is far too much trouble to decide what might be useful versus that which is superfluous so they all get chucked back into the “useful” draw until the next move, which will, hopefully, be never, ever, never again.

So, there has not been much of an opportunity for C to declutter me further. Indeed, many boxes still remain unpacked from our move to the rented house. Mostly books, and pictures. And, electric cables and adapters. And keys.

C has gone on ahead to do a clean of the new house and open the windows to air it in the hope that the last vestiges of the previous owners’ little dog with be wafted away so as not to trigger allergies.

The essentials have been secured lest they be inadvertently boxed and put on the back of the van. Passports, a change of clothes for the restaurant this evening, toothbrush, laptop, and a bottle of wine have all been hidden in the boot of my car.

So far, so good. There has been a constant stream of packing cases down the path to the van. And, of sugary tea. No breakages yet. I still have a TV, a sofa, a kettle, and hopefully – I haven’t ventured upstairs in case I get in the way – a bed.

Wish us luck!

May 18, 2017 at 12:04 pm Leave a comment

Happy Easter Everyone….

What the heck is going on in the world?

Little Britain (for we are sadly no longer the United Kingdom) has turned its back on the one institution which has largely kept the peace on the continent of Europe (if you ignore the Balkan wars that is….) since the Second World War (which ended in 1945 in case we have stopped teaching that in history lessons for fear that we might actually learn from the errors of the past….).

Those that voted for Brexit seem to have been motivated by frustration with having to eat straight bananas; “fake” advertising on the side of a bus; or the ridiculous notion that taking control of our own borders would somehow mean less of those people who “aren’t like us” streaming across. You know, those who do the jobs we don’t want to do, keep our institutions running, and make a huge contribution to our economy. But, maddeningly, they do so with a strange and untrustworthy accent….

And so, we have “triggered” (a very apt term methinks….) Article 50 and turned our shoulder to our neighbours to build closer ties to China, Saudi Arabia and the Commonwealth (or former Empire as we like to call it….) while continuing to lick the arse of the ginger Mad Man in the White House.

It seems to be going very well at the moment. Not. The Scots are demanding independence yet again, and we English hope to deter them with common sense (yet hypocritical and ironic) arguments that it would be economic suicide for Scotland to separate from its largest trading partner….

There is a renewed call for the reunification of the Island of Ireland as an alternative to rebuilding the wall between North and South. And, the Welsh are also upset, spurning the allure of the structured funding it received from the EU (some £4 billion since 2000) and are looking to rebuild Offa’s Dyke, restart their campaign of burning holiday homes, and, reprinting all the road signs in Cymraeg….

The Government, somewhat at a loss at what to do, seem to be resorting to that Thatcheresque (or Putinesque, or Trumpesque) strategy of looking for a winnable foreign war to distract us from events at home; and, doing its level best to stoke our jingoistic fervour.

Thankfully we stopped short of unleashing Bumbling Boris on Russia, preferring instead to antagonise easier targets; reaffirming the Britishness of the Falkland Islands; sending “the Fleet” to Gibraltar; and issuing a new pound coin and a fiver with a picture of Winston Churchill on it….

And, we have taken this great leap into the blindingly obvious at a time when there is a mad man in the White House; a mad man in the Kremlin; a mad man in Pyongyang; and, a mad man in power in Istanbul; a murderous mad man gassing his own in Syria; the Chinese building airstrips and naval bases in any part of the Asia-Pacific that has proximity to oil; and, fanatical Islamist mad men wielding kitchen knives, automobiles and road-side bombs just about everywhere.

Bumbling Boris has his hands full at a time when diplomacy seems to have died a death and our great leaders prefer to send messages to each other via Twitter and email, and in the form of gun boats, barrel bombs, nuclear weapons testing, and the Mother of All Bombs….

At least it is a long weekend here in Blighty. The shelves at Waitrose are now empty of lamb; devoid of all varieties of festive confectionery; and we can bury our heads while chasing the Easter Bunny and hunting for eggs and pretending that we are safe and sound, green and pleasant, and soon to be Great again!

Unless one of the mad men blows it all up….

April 15, 2017 at 4:12 pm Leave a comment

The morning commute….


This weekend we were blessed with a visit from the mother-in-law who was staying with us as we were celebrating the first birthday of our niece on Saturday. So, it was a welcome relief that C taxied me to the train station nice and early this morning, leaving the mother-in-law snoring in the spare room, in the knowledge that she would be long gone by the time I return on Wednesday.

Unusually, my trip to Paris this week started with a commute into London as I had a business meeting there before heading over to Heathrow in the afternoon.

Thankfully my way into London starts at the sleepy idyll which is Clandon station and a South West train complete with empty seats, a guard and, unlike Southern Rail, a semi-reliable service. I was joined on the platform by a small group of rather sullen and weary looking commuters – perhaps their in-laws were staying for the whole week….

The Guildford to Waterloo train is a very middle-class service, full of a professional clientele sporting briefcases, Mulberry, and expensive hairstyles, traveling into the City from the Surrey Hills and the leafy suburbs of Cobham Stoke D’Abernon and Surbiton of the the Good Life fame (sigh Felicity)

After a few stops the train began to fill up. Those seated sat knee to knee or shoulder to shoulder. Those stood were rucksack to laptop bag or briefcase to handbag.

The modern commuter has seemingly mastered the art of standing while holding safety bars with one hand or leaning against them and operating smart phone with the other hand. Most of the carriage was head down, ear pieces or headphones in place, swiping their phones left to right while rocking gently with the motion of the train and studiously avoiding eye contact with their fellow passengers.

There were the occasional muffled conversations – parents talking to their children having left home before get-up time; some early-morning business telcos. But most were head down on iPhone or Android exploring the overnight updates on Facebook and Instagram, planning their evenings on Tinder, assessing the latest banal Tweet from Trump, or, playing Candy Crush. And, the carriage resonated with a dawn chorus of text message pings and the whooshes of tweets being sent.

Those not engrossed with their smartphones sipped coffee from various chains with a history of tax avoidance. Some ladies applied their makeup. Some, mostly older male, follically-challenged and pin-striped passengers, pretended to do the cryptic crossword of their favourite broadsheet. Others simply closed their eyes and put their heads back to catch a five minute snooze or simply to block out the world.

The rather mild morning had obviously confused many. The on-board dress code was varied with some in shirtsleeves and others sporting full overcoat (mostly those pretending to do the crossword).

Some, like myself, were simply people watching or looking out of dirty windows and watching the transformation of the landscape from fields and forests to suburbia, looking into passing gardens or fleeting back bedroom windows, until they gave way to graffiti-strewn hoardings and office blocks interspersed with cemeteries and abandoned, ghost like stations – due to ongoing engineering works the train did not stop between Surbiton and Waterloo.

Finally we were free of the building works around Vauxhall and Battersea and emerged into a skyline punctuated by glass and chrome steeples and cranes before being disgorged onto the platforms of Waterloo station where we shuffled our way to the underground or though the barriers into the main station accompanied by the click and rattle of a thousand trolley bags.

I pushed my way outside through the smokers and vapers to the relative quiet of the taxi queue and the inevitable conversation about Uber and Brexit. We stuttered through the bikes, the delivery vans, and the buses and I wondered what the traffic would be like if we didn’t have congestion charging, before awarding myself thirty minutes of tranquility ahead of my meeting, courtesy of the free wifi at Pret, an almond croissant and a vanilla latte…..

March 20, 2017 at 4:13 pm Leave a comment

It is Nineteen Eighty Four……Resist.


At first I thought it must be “fake news”……but it wasn’t.

Trump’s Press Secretary, Sean “Goebbels” Spicer, excluded many of the leading journalists from some of the world’s most prestigious news agencies from a briefing in Washington, including the BBC. And then he tried to “spin” it as an attempt to expand “the pool” of journalists. It just so happened that it was the “cess pool” of journalists, including only sycophants from like-minded red neck rags who are happy to tout the same right wing, racist and frankly delusional rubbish that comes from the flabby lips of the Great Narcissist in the Oval Office. Think of them as the Daily Mail on steroids. Think the KKK with typewriters.

So it seems that nation will no longer talk unto nation until such time as “the leader of the free world” (sic) can control the message and remove all criticism. Trump has branded the BBC, CNN, the New York Times and others as exponents of so-called “fake news” – for pointing out facts that run contrary to the political rhetoric spilling forth from Satan’s jowls. “Facts that run contrary to” being otherwise known as “the truth”. Or in an Orwellian dystopian world of Trump, which seems to be just around the corner, as “thoughtcrime “…..

Resist. Resist. Resist.


Meanwhile, closer to home, democracy is also gasping for air in the absence of any credible opposition. After Copeland fell to the Tories for the first time in 80 years, the Great Narcissist of Islington North, blamed Tony Blair, Peter Mandelson, Storm Doris and the emotional backlash to the sacking of Claudio Ranieri……

He refused to entertain the absolute home truth that HE might be to blame. That he and his policies, and Diane Abbott have made the Labour Party unelectable, no matter how many “members” or how grassy your roots….. Without the people; without the voters, you are nothing more than an ineffective protest party pissing in the wind.

Resist. Resist. Resist.

February 25, 2017 at 11:33 am Leave a comment

To Fly. To Serve. My Arse!

@
To Fly. To Serve.

Well, one out of two I suppose….but with the current industrial action I suspect that British Airways is not doing very much of either at the moment!

Now I am no supporter of the so-called mixed fleet strike action. To my mind if you accept a job based upon a set of contractual conditions then you should do your work accordingly. And, if you subsequently decide that the job doesn’t suit you, go and find something different to do and give somebody else a chance. Don’t just go on strike and torment the very people you are supposed to be serving.

To my mind, this is just another example of those political dinosaurs at the Unite Union – they who have inflicted the inconsequential Jeremy Corbyn upon us – trying to drag us all back to their image of pre-Thatcherite Britain.


I remember it well. When the lights used to go out at the weekend. When rubbish piled up on the streets, and small children queued for bread on ration at the local bakers. A time when the current-day “service” offered by Southern Rail would have been aspirational.

Would those of you who are calling for the nationalisation of our railways please dig out the back catalogue of Morecambe and Wise. There is a reason that most of their best material was at the expense of British Rail and British Leyland. Because they couldn’t run the railway and the cars were shite.

And, sadly, I think we are now witnessing the dramatic downfall of another great industrial icon – British Airways.

In my working life, most of which has been spent sitting in unyielding plastic seats in airport lounges resembling refugee centres, waiting for planes and searching for somewhere to charge my phone, I have seen the sad and steady demise of the British Airways on-board food and in-flight service. Of customer service.

To be honest, the disappointment with the modern British Airways experience begins at the very start of the flying experience. The online check-in.

I am a frequent flier with BA. I fly at least 6 times a month. I have bronze status. And given the current generosity (not) of the loyalty programme I will be lucky if I can attain silver status before I retire. I have registered my preferences online with the BA Executive Club. An aisle seat. No special preferences with regard to food…..nothing too demanding one would have thought.

Despite my loyalty, my executive status, and my preference for an aisle seat, the online check in system NEVER ALLOCATES ME AN AISLE SEAT! And so, I have to pay €10 every time I fly to change my seat. If there are any aisle seats available to change to.

The disappointment continues when you have struggled through all of the security checks and the chaos of the departures area and arrive at the gate. Passengers are essentially kettled into two queues – one for the priority boarding; the other for general boarding.

Now the only real benefit of my bronze status is that I get priority boarding. This is essential if you are to stand any chance of stowing your luggage. More of that later. But, even the priority boarding privilege is being eroded. Now even the most loyal of frequent fliers have to wait while the ever-increasing number of wheelchair users board the flight. We have to wait while the people who volunteer to put their trolley bags into the hold board the plane. And, we have to wait while families with small children and others requiring assistance jump the queue too. I have often considered blagging a wheelchair for myself….

And then we board. And then the “luggage rage” begins.

It is quite simple. Trolley bags overhead. Wheels in first. Other bags tagged with the yellow label under the seat in front of you. Any coat that does not fit on top of your trolley bag should also be placed under the seat. Except in an emergency exit row.

But, apparently these rules only apply to me.

Luggage rage spreads through the cabin like wildfire. Those of us already sat in our aisle seats, having paid €10 for the privilege, get annoyed at being smacked on the shoulder by everyone taking their seats further down the plane with a bag on their shoulder, and, being hit in the face by every rucksack wearer turning to ask their companion what seat they are in. How can so many people be so spatially unaware?

And then everyone else boarding gets annoyed when there is no room for their luggage because everyone else, except me, has ignored the advice about the yellow tag, coats, and wheels in first.

Fist fights almost break out when people see passengers using “their spaces”. Or moving other people’s luggage to make room for theirs. Or, when the cabin crew intervene and snatch any bags with no home from already disgruntled travelers and send them to the hold never to be seen again.

Eventually everyone manages to sit down and begins to relax, ignoring the safety video, and looking forward to a glass of something to calm the nerves. Or not…..

Back in the day, business travellers would look forward to a decent complementary hot meal served with a couple of glasses of your tipple of choice by a smiling, smartly dressed stewardess who had just stepped out of a teenage boy’s wet dream.

We used to look forward to making that key decision of “beef or chicken?” (always chicken), peeling back the foil lid and tucking in with an actual knife and fork made from actual stainless steel, sipping our Cabernet Sauvignon from an actual glass glass, wiping our mouths with a cloth napkin, cleaning our teeth with a wooden tooth pick, and refreshing ourselves with a hot towel.

But, over the years the great English breakfast gave way to a soggy bacon baguette which would scold your tongue on a short-hall flight because you didn’t have time for it to cool down. Metal cutlery and glass have given way to plastic. And, the choice of “beef or chicken?” gave way to “crisps, nuts, or sweet biscuit?”

And this year, BA has terminated its complimentary service in Euro Traveller (economy) class for good. Thus removing the only thing that differentiated our once great national flag bearer renowned for its customer service from RyanAir’s cattle class. Instead, they have replaced it with a trolley service of M&S produce at Fortnum & Mason prices that you can only pay for by credit or debit card using some over-engineered iPad POS that constantly has to be rebooted and takes forever to process a transaction.

Nowadays the in-flight experience is shattered by frequent incidents of “trolley rage”. It begins with the first free rows behind that irritating curtain that separates the business class passengers with their complimentary food and drink and an accessible toilet from those of us that now get the full-on budget airline experience.

It begins when they realise their free packet of nuts and can of Heineken are no more. For many that was to be their only “meal” after a busy day of international commerce. It builds when they are told that the M&S sea salt and balsamic vinegar hand cut crisps all sold out on the incoming journey. It builds when they are told that they cannot pay with actual money, requiring them to unbuckle and search for their wallet in the overhead baggage compartment. And, it builds when the iPad needs rebooting.

And then the trolley rage spreads. It spreads because the two members of cabin crew, with their one trolley of M&S produce (minus the crisps) and temperamental iPads only have time to serve the first two rows before we have begun our descent into Heathrow. The rest of the plane goes hungry. The rest of the plane gets grumpy. And the whole of the plane, at least those of us behind the curtain, gets angry.

Traveling with BA is stressful. And now you can’t even get a drink to calm your nerves. No amount of the Flower Duet Sous le Dome Epais is going to help you then….

To Fly. To Serve. My arse.

February 18, 2017 at 6:21 pm Leave a comment

America! What’s this got to do with me?


For those (hopefully few) people turning a blind eye to events happening across the Pond in the US at the moment; for those hiding behind the “democratic will”,  take a pause. Stop. Look to history.

It starts with a wall, a ban on a people and religion perceived to be a threat to the nation. It starts with the infringement of established civil liberties such as the right to an abortion, and the removal of anyone who challenged the validity of his actions. But, where will it end?

Have we learnt any lessons from history? Let’s hope so….

Hitler was a powerful and compelling speaker who used the media channels of his day to attract a wide following to a nation that was feeling forgotten and a people clambering for change. He promised a better life and a return to greatness for Germany. Hitler’s message appealed particularly to the poor, the unemployed and members of the lower middle class.

Once in power Hitler’s Germany soon became a police state. Individuals and protesters were subject to arbitrary arrest and imprisonment. Hitler’s Government moved quickly to control the media and the PR around its policies, forcing federal state governments and other political organisations to “toe the line” by putting prominent Nazis into positions of power. This was particularly true for seats of power in the legal sphere, the economy, education and culture. Government effectively became a rubber stamp for Hitler’s dictates. Authority was imposed from above and absolute obedience towards one’s superior was expected, demanded and enforced.

Having established himself as dictator, Adolf Hitler turned his attention to the driving force which had propelled him into politics in the first place, his hatred of the Jews. It began with a simple boycott of Jewish professional and businesses on April 1st, 1933, and ended in holocaust. It took a world war to stop him.

Remind you of anyone?

Hitler was allowed to get away with it because other nations turned a blind eye in those early days. Appeasement. Governments ignored Hitler’s politics in return for assurances that their national interests would be protected. While he shook their hands and smiled for the cameras, Hitler picked their pockets and planned world domination.

Just sayin ‘

Do not be quiet. Resist. Do not be stupid. Resist. Do not appease. Resist. Do not turn a blind eye. Resist. Do not let him get away with it…..

January 31, 2017 at 6:45 pm 3 comments

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