Women's Lib.

I had an affair last week; in fact I had two. Both with attractive women half my age. One of them worked for Tesco's and the other at Halfords. Well, perhaps affair would be a bit strong, encounter would be better a word, and there was no actual touching.

The Tesco delivery van arrived as planned on Saturday and instead of the usual burly menfolk, a young slip of a girl was standing on the doorstep. She was bright and bubbly and in no way butch. She looked like she had just put her make-up on. She apologised for spilling a little cream over the shopping bags because she went over a speed bump too fast. My kind of girl I thought. She had tried to clean it up and it really was a tiny amount so I told her not to worry and that I would sue the council for excessive speed-bumping. She volunteered to bring the shopping in but I told her not to bother. I could see it was just a ploy to get me to invite her in. Dearly Beloved though it was because she thought I was an old git who needed a hand but I beg to differ. She hefted the packed and heavy boxes like an Olympic weightlifter which belied her slight frame and left with a sunny smile and a cheery wave. Most importantly, there were no substitutions.

As I left for work the other day I noticed the headlight was out on the car. I went to Halfords in the afternoon to get a replacement and decided to have them fit it as it's a fiddly job, especially for someone with sausage fingers like mine. The young girl on the till served me promptly and made an announcement over the tannoy for someone to come and assist. On the second attempt a chap appeared, followed me out to the car and whipped out the old bulb with a flourish then attempted to fit the new one. Time went on and I walked around the car for a while, he was clearly having difficulty.'Well it should go on' he said ' you just have to twist it.' 'Excuse me, I'll be back in a minute.' He disappeared back into the shop while I was entertained by a road rage incident outside the neighbouring shop between a van driver and a cyclist. The girl who had been on the till came sashaying across the car park towards me (yes sashaying) with her hair blowing in the breeze like a model on a catwalk.
'I'm sorry it's taking so long she said with a beaming smile, soon have you on your way.' She slipped her tiny hand under the bonnet and fitted the bulb in a trice. 'Give me a flash' she said. I assumed she meant my headlights so I did. 'That's it, all done.' She presented me with another beaming smile and disappeared back into the shop.

Sometime ago we had a wasp's nest in the external wall of our house. I rang the council who sent round a pest control operative in a van full of chemicals and rat traps. I was expecting a rough looking chap who looked like he would break your arm for twenty quid but young girl who appeared to be bunking off of school got out of the van. She whipped out her chemicals, shimmied up her ladder like a cat burglar and the job was done in double quick time. There were no amateur dramatics such as sucking in air over her teeth to indicate it was going to be tricky, fussing with the ladder or hints for a cup of tea. She was back on her way in no time.

Clearly I'm a sexist dinosaur who is still living in the dark ages but I can't help but be impressed when young,pretty girly-girls outperform men in traditionally male occupations. My MOT test is due in February, I can't wait.

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Seven Wonders of the World.

The world is a strange and obscure place full of mystery and wonder. There are secrets buried in time that we will never uncover, many things our puny brains can't fathom now and things hidden in the future that are yet to be revealed to us. The ancients had their awe-inspiring wonders such as the hanging Gardens of Babylon and the Colossus of Rhodes but our modern 'wonders' are a little more prosaic. Well they make me wonder anyway. In no particular order they are: 
1, Why do people drive with their headlights on during the day, even in bright sunlight? This seems to be a new phenomenon becoming more apparent over the last couple of years. Do modern cars have lights that you can't switch off?

2, Why do people who walking in one direction while looking in another always seem surprised when they  bump in to you? Sometimes they look annoyed as if it were your fault.

3,Why are politicians surprised that people are voting UKIP when all the major parties have been sidestepping the immigration issue for decades and blatantly ignoring the public's concerns either real or imagined?

4, Who actually watches Made in Chelsea.

Catlossus of Rhodes.

5, Why would anyone want to get a beauty treatment such as eyebrow threading done in the middle of a shopping centre in full view of the public? Hey look at me everyone, I'm hairy. 

6, Why do people volunteer to go on shows such as Jeremy Kyle and Embarrassing bodies? Where do they find all these people with such low self-esteem and self-respect that they are happy to get their most private parts and gross deformities out for the camera?

7,  Why do companies employ people who speak bad English and can't pronounce your name properly to ring you at inconvenient and often anti-social hours to try and sell you things. They can't have heard of that old sales adage 'you only get one chance to make a first impression.'

These are things that I find mind boggling these days, I'm sure you have a couple to add. Feel free to comment.      

My story: I wrote a short story a while ago and have decided to publish it in instalments on facebook. I believe Charles Dickens did something similar. It won't be everyone's cup of tea but I need as many comments as possible, both good and bad, I don't want to be the literary equivalent of the X Factor contestant who can't sing but thinks he's great because his mum says so. 

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'To sleep, perchance to dream'

I was in a very large house, the two rooms at the front that we lived in were decorated and tidy but the rest of the house was nearly derelict. The building seemed to go on forever, floor after floor of abandoned rooms, some the size of ballrooms .The plaster was cracked and blown and there were holes in the impossibly high ceilings showing the floor boards of the rooms far above, the threadbare carpets were damp and musty with a faded pattern. The old wallpaper hung limply, falling away from the walls and decaying with age. In each room there were piles of junk, old toys, clothes and worthless bric-a-brac

mixed with parts of old engines. In some rooms metal shelving lined the walls loaded with old, broken and useless objects. I turned to the person next to me who was standing in the shadows. I couldn't see his face but I knew who he was although I couldn't quite put my finger on it as is often the way with dreams. I remarked ' I expect we'll be able to sell it and make a little profit.'

I quite often have this recurring dream although this one was quite upbeat as I could see a way out of my predicament. It's always the same scenario with a house in an appalling state and skip loads of junk lying about although the actual house changes. Most often I am walking through it distraught with despair about how much work there is to do and how I can never afford to do it all whilst kicking myself for my stupidity. The chief emotion is despair. Sometimes I am excited about the amount of space tinged with frustration that it's going to take years of work and huge amounts of money before I can get it in order. Dearly beloved is always there somewhere in the house out of sight but the over-riding feeling is that I am on my own.

I had this dream last week. I have been having it for years and I still don't have a clue what it means. Apparently the house represents my head but I can't figure out what's going on. It's not a nightmare as the feeling I am left with on waking is despair, not terror. I have always had recurring dreams starting from when I was very young and they have changed over the years. This is the latest incarnation so if any of you amateur psychologists would like to have a stab at explaining it, feel free. Answers on a postcard to BarkingmadMeadie....... 

That 70s Show.

I watched the Channel 4 program 'It Was Alright In The 70s' the other week. It featured TV programmes from the 70's and what they used to show that they couldn't show now. There were lots of references to what would now be considered casual homophobia, racism and inappropriate sexual references mostly directed at school girls. The 70s used to be considered laughable as the 'decade that taste forgot' but now it's getting a much more sinister and malevolent reputation.

The world has moved on as it should and things that were acceptable to say and show then are not acceptable now, even if people still think it. What surprised me most was the shock and horror displayed by the younger generation of interviewees who weren't there at the time, the implication seemed to be that anyone who watched 'Benny Hill' should be a little ashamed of themselves. Those staples of 70s sitcom Dick Clement and Ian La Frenais came under fire for inappropriate references to paedophilia and even Carla Lane was mentioned for a casual mention of female rape fantasy. Clearly Jimmy Saville was the tip of the iceberg and everyone was at it. The younger generation were aghast.

Of course the production company set out to be provocative because that makes good Telly and I shouldn't be surprised at the modern reaction. The culture these days is for accusation and denouncement, pointing fingers and laying blame rather than a mild amusement for the past which didn't know any better. One needs to appear shocked and appalled in case you are deemed to be condoning it or complicit in some way. You can't be seen to laugh it off.

You Gotta Love the 70s.

They have had some successes in changing our cultural history by adapting 'Enid Blyton' stories and chopping out the characters they don't like. You won't find references to those three scallywags and petty crooks " Golly, Wolly and Nigger' any more. They have managed to erase Gary Glitter and are currently at work airbrushing out Jimmy Saville from the BBC archives along with a handful of other TV personalities. 

There were a lot of inappropriate references in the decade between the supposed liberation of the 60s and the social awaking of the 80s. In fact most of it was outrageously inappropriate. Perhaps we ought to save time by airbrushing the whole decade out at once and pretend it didn't happen. Mind you they are easily shocked these days, just trying using that old, mild playground insult 'spastic' and see what happens.

Bad Juju.

Did you ever have one of those days were everything goes wrong, the sort of day that defies logic and the natural order of things. I expect you have, I had one last week. It started when I went to the cupboard to get my trainers for the cycle to work; they weren't there. The cupboard is where they live and always are, except today. I didn't have much time for a good look so I had to put on my old, retired trainers with the holes in. Luckily I hadn't got round to putting them in the bin yet. I had noticed the previous evening that my beanie hat wasn't in my bag where it should be either. That's not such a loss as I look a twat in it but it did keep my ears warm. 

The cycle was uneventful and I had my shower at work in the normal manner, but standing there dripping wet, I discovered that I had forgotten my uniform work shirt. I am really pernickety about packing my backpack for exactly this reason. I make a point of counting the items in and double checking. I've been doing it for years with no mishap, until today. I even began to suspect a prank but then realised it was paranoia. I didn't have time to cycle home and couldn't sit there all day in my sweaty t shirt being ridiculed by my team mates. What to do? Fortunately it was a Saturday and Dearly Beloved was at home so I attempted to ring her to see if she would do an emergency dash and bring one down in the car. There followed a comedy of errors which included missed calls, voicemail messages, my phone ringing my good buddy instead which wouldn't allow me to disconnect and returned calls that my phone wouldn't allow me to accept no matter how many times I pressed the 'answer' button all topped off with some frantic texts. Eventually I managed to explain my predicament and she brought one down.

Unfortunately, the Tesco shopping delivery was due at exactly the time Dearly Beloved was rescuing me. I imaged her making phone calls trying to reorganise the delivery she had missed due to my stupidity. She wouldn't have been pleased. Fortunately, she made it back just in time. Unfortunately she didn't have a key as our youngest son had it so she couldn't get back in. She thought she would have to sit on the door step all day surrounded by shopping and waiting for me to cycle back home. In a rare flash of good luck, our middle son was late for work so he let her in. A minor disaster narrowly avoided.

As you would expect on such a day I was given my least favourite job at work which is currently going through some 'operational changes' leading to cock ups and confusion all round. By the time I left for the cycle home my head was spinning. I was trying to stick to my guns by not buying a bottle of red wine on the way but the cracks were showing. I managed to steel myself and avoided the shop but the day wasn't finished with me yet.

The light bulb in the kitchen has been playing up for a while and it finally went that night. However, then it came on again flickered of a while then went off again, then on again. The bulb was off, then I closed the back door and it came on again. By this time I'm taking the hint that this is probably an electrical fault rather than the bulb. You can't work on electrics in the dark so my next day off is going to be spent inspecting the circuitry and worrying how much a re-wire would cost. That's if the house doesn't burn down in the meantime. I was still resisting the draw of the red wine at the point but then came the coup- de- grace.  One of Shakespeare's witches rang our doorbell.

She rang it not once but four or five times, it sounded like the prelude to a police raid. I warily pulled open the door and did a comic double take, there was no-one there. I looked down and there she was sitting on my doorstep. I know of this lady, she is elderly with curly grey hair, she looks exactly like a witch complete with warts and wispy chin hair. She has that look that suggests she is not entirely with it. She likes to feign illness by sitting outside our local shops and looking poorly until some kind soul comes across and asks her if she is all-right. Sometimes she pretends to fall down so people run over and call an ambulance for her. When the ambulance arrives she makes a miraculous recovery and wanders off. She is well known to the local emergency services and here she was sitting on my doorstep. She looked up at me with plaintive, rheumy eyes, held out her unsteady stand and said 'buy a raffle ticket dearie?' 
'No thanks' I said closing the door on her in a manner which hopefully suggested that I was going to have no truck with her shenanigans and to make herself scarce. I waited five minutes before opening the door to check she had gone which she had. She has never done this before and hopefully she won't do it again.

By this time my resolve had dissolved and I was off down the local shop for a bottle of red wine. After the first glass the day's events disappeared in to history and no further mishaps occurred that day. I'm sure this is a normal day for some people out there but it had far too much drama for my liking. You will be pleased to know that the following day was uneventful and suitably chilled, mind you I still have the electrics to fix and I still haven't found my shoes.

Growing old Disgracefully.

If you go walking in the country and particularly by the coast, you will notice that people you pass will shout a greeting at you in cheerful manner. It's generally something like 'morning' or 'fine day isn't it and they seem even more enthusiastic if they are accompanied by a dog.' I always shout a cheery reply with additional gusto just for the humour value. By contrast, in our towns and cities, people never speak to you except to say 'sorry' for a minor pedestrian related inconvenience. They don't really mean it and never look you in the eye. However I have noticed a worrying trend recently, older people have started to try and engage me in conversation for no particular reason.

You have probably noticed how young children gravitate towards each other at parties or other social gatherings. It's as if they seek a kindred spirit away from the scary, confusing and very boring world of grownups. It's a safety in numbers kind of thing. Children who don't know each other soon fall into playing together and become oblivious of the adult world around them. Older folk are the same, they tend to naturally band together as if they share an unspoken common ground.

Over the last year I have had a couple of instances where an older person has made a tentative approach by sidling up to me in Tesco or similar and trying to engage me in conversation as if they have found an ally and sympathetic ear. I am neither of the above. They must look at me and think 'he looks like a friendly, harmless old duffer who I can swap hospital stories with.' Clearly my dashing good looks and 'flirting with the devil' air need a revamp; I seem to be losing my effortless street cred. I am at the age where I would like to be considered a dashing older man in the mode of a George Clooney rather than an escapee from a care home.

There's nothing wrong with old folk they are wonderful people by and large and of course it's all relative, I just don't want to be one quite yet. I could try shaving off all my hair and tattooing my face but I feel that might be a bit extreme. One things for sure though, the first young whippersnapper who gets up to offer me a seat is likely to get a punch on the hooter.

Men from Mars, Women from Venus? -The Evidence.

I thought you mighty blog readers would be interested in an item I found in the popular scientific journal 'The Periodical'. Apparently, an Archdeacon Ridcully, a faculty member from an obscure but well respected university, has unearthed some ancient Babylonian papyrus which he claims shows proof that men and women are from different planets.

For example, why are women generally shorter than men? It's because the atmospheric pressure on Venus is 92 times heavier than on earth whilst on Mars  the pressure is only 0.6. This effectively kept female average heights down whilst allowing men to sprout like trees. The Babylonians believed this squashing effect is what leads to women swelling in the hips and buttock region in later years. Conversely, due to the rarified atmosphere on Mars males had to put on extra ballast in the stomach region to ensure they were safely grounded.

In terms of climate Venus is Isothermal meaning it has a constant surface temperature, day or night and throughout all the seasons. Being as it's close to the sun this means is hot all the time. This is highlighted as the reason why women have a very low tolerance to temperature changes and are often cold. Mars on the other hand has huge temperature changes due to its distance from the sun and its elliptical orbit. Hence males are impervious to changes in heat and explains their incredulous disbelief when women say they are cold all the time. This also explains why men are hairier than woman as they required additional covering to prevent heat loss. There is no rainfall whatsoever on Venus which is said to account for women's intolerance to precipitation of any kind.

Another interesting variation is caused by the different day lengths of the planets.  A Mars day is approximately the same length as an Earth day. However, Venus spins so slowly (approximately 6.5 kilometres per hour) that one day takes 243 earth days. This has caused confusion over night and day among the female species and causes them to fall asleep at random times such as watching a DVD or to get up ridiculously early in the morning.

Venus has a high sulphur content and clouds of sulphuric acid plague the surface. The Babylonians pointed towards this as the reason women from ancient times could be so scolding and acerbic. Sulphur has also been recently linked to memory which may explain why women can remember things long forgotten by their male counterparts. Another interesting and telling fact is that there seems to be an unusually high methane content on Mars. It's generally considered that men are much more flatulent than women so could this stand as evidence? Man's obsession with size has often been remarked on but this concern doesn't seem to afflict the female population. However, Mars is about half the size of Venus and It's suggested that this fact has caused feelings of inferiority leading to a need to compensate, it's possible.

Over the years since the Babylonians made their initial observations the differences between the sexes have become less marked. Hairy, flatulent women are not uncommon and neither are temperature intolerant men who whinge about the rain playing havoc with their hair. Archdeacon Ridcully's conclusion is that both races found themselves on Earth although it's not clear if it was via space travel or a divine hand. He believes that by lucky fortune they discovered their reproductive organs were compatible and a new race was born, much in the way of a labradoodle. It's surmised that both races left their parent planets to set up home on a much prettier and more pleasant planet where you could hang curtains without them being eaten by acid and chop down trees or hunt animals in a manly way.

The truth has been lost in the mists of time. Modern scientists would tell you that the Babylonian papyrus is bunkum and probably an elaborate forgery but they have failed to come up with an adequate answer to these mysteries. Is the Archdeacon onto something? I think so. 

Lyrical Philosophy.

We only have one car in our family. Dearly Beloved generally walks to work and I often cycle but use the car when the weather is bad so we don't really need a second. Also, I'm too tight to pay for one. It just so happened that last Friday Dearly Beloved need the car for a rare visit to a client so I had no option but to cycle. Unfortunately, it was the same day that the god of comeuppances was tallying my record sheet, found me to be in the red and saw an opportunity to redress the balance. As it got closer to my departure time, the sky clouded over and the wind started to blow. By the time I left it was blowing a gale and the sky had darkened to an ugly black. Halfway there the rain began. I was struggling up a hill against a vicious head wind with the rain coming down in torrents, I was metaphorically shaking my fist at the sky and roundly cursing all the gods when a line from an old song come into my head that made my smile. I pressed on with the cycle with the song in my head and within a short time the rain had stopped and I was arriving at work with the promise of a hot shower. 

The line from the song was 'I'm never gonna stop the rain by complaining' from Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head. It's one of those songs lyrics that have stuck with me over the years as being inherently true. Often when I find myself  becoming irrationally annoyed at something I have no control over the song pops into my head to remind me to stop whinging and get on with it.

 I have a few of these lyrical gems such as the brilliantly worded 'the worlds your oyster but your future's a clam' from 'When You're Young' by The Jam'. Weller is right, no sooner do you reach an age where the world opens up than the financial commitments and personal responsibilities start piling in. I have always loved the line 'Life is just a bowl of All-bran, you wake up every morning and it's there' from the Small Faces' Happy Days Toy Town. It wonderfully conveys the humdrum ordinariness of life.

Another lyric that sticks with me is from The Who's 'Won't Get Fooled Again:' 'meet the new boss, same as the old boss.'  It just seems to sum up the inevitability of things, a little hiccup and it's back to business as usual. Should you have been around in 1977 you may well have heard of the band X-Ray Spex and their excellent singer Poly Styrene (well, it was punk). Their album included the track 'I can't do anything' which perfectly captures that lack of confidence and anxiety that strikes everyone from time to time. That feeling that you're going to be found out for a fraud at any moment. 

These are a few that have stuck with me over the years and there are many more. I've no doubt that anyone reading this would have their own bank of lyrics that struck a chord (as it were). Well go on then, what's your favourite?

The Left has Left.

I have never been a fan of Russell Brand; he's one of those celebrities who are particularly annoying. Just recently he has been doing the rounds touting his new book promoting socialist ideologies and generally slagging of the status quo (not the band). According to him, the BBC and all the other institutions are complicit in keeping us under the thumb so they can herd us like cattle and milk us for all our money thereby making the rich richer. This is, of course, an old argument and one which is naive and simplistic. Mr Brand believes that there are alternative forms of government and social models (not Kate Moss) that would be fairer. Whilst considering this, it occurred to me that you can't actually vote for socialism.

You can't vote for socialism the same way that you can't vote for compassion or faith. It's something you practice or experience. The great socialist movements came about by people banding together for the good of all in kind of giant self- help group, usually in the face of great adversity. Nobody voted for them. The true socialist's are the 'do gooders', those people who give up their time to help others for no reward. They don't have any political representation and perhaps wouldn't consider themselves political activists but they are. They are plugging the holes left by the current system that relies on their goodwill and selflessness to prevent the 'needy' falling through the gaps. How many people who consider themselves socialist give up their time to go and work in a soup kitchen or hand over some of their wages to a credit co-operative so the socially deprived don't have to go to the banks? Some, but not all. Instead of pointing at those that 'have' and demanding they hand over the cash, they should be looking at those that have less to see how they can help them.

It's quite possible to have a fairer more even handed society but it's got nothing to do with politicians. MP's who claim to want a fairer society should give up their seats and spend their time and energy promoting food banks, credit co-operatives, bartering systems, community assistance programs and enabling the disabled. Voting Labour doesn't make you a socialist. It seems to me that people who vote for socialist parties (if you can find one) are perpetuating the system they claim to despise and ducking their social responsibility. 'I'll vote for you and you can change the world for me because I can't be bothered.' Re -distribution of wealth doesn't work. Giving people money isn't social justice it just enables them to buy a bigger telly so they can join in with the rest of the capitalists but with less work. They don't need more money; they need less dependence on money. 

If you buy an IPad, that's capitalism. If you use the same money to chip in and buy someone a wheelchair who then repays you by helping you out once a week, that's socialism. It's the basis of all major religions and you can't vote for them either, at least not in this country. If everyone who voted Labour applied their natural talents and turned their back on materialism to aid their fellow man, social inequality could be seriously improved within a very short time frame. Politics can't bring about serious social change on its own. It has to come from society itself. In the words of Elvis (yes, that Elvis) "a little less conversation and little more action"

I'm clearly no political scientist but it seems quite simple, if people didn't buy things they didn't need there would be no capitalists and the rich wouldn't get richer. If all the people turned their backs on materialism and turned to bartering for goods or services there is not a damn thing the government could do about it. If everyone went out of their way to help each other then everyone would benefit and everyone could contribute. Mr Brand says it's the institutions holding us back and keeping us down, the mysterious 'them' scaring us into compliance. I think not, it's that there is no serious desire to change, no-one wants to roll up their sleeves and get their hands dirty no matter how much they moan about it. They are quite happy to let the unseen army of the selfless struggle on whilst planning what extravagance they can invest in at Christmas and do their bit by voting labour and sticking a few quid in the charity pot. They like it just the way it is. They don't want to be reminded how ugly the world is and the establishment are happy to oblige. 

Please feel free to shoot me down in flames, the only way to test a theory is to try and knock it down. If you're still talking to me that is. 

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Seating Psychology.

Dearly Beloved and I went to the cinema last week to see 'Gone Girl and I'm due to go again in couple of weeks with my good buddy and all round excellent fellow Neil to see something a little more manly. I must confess to being quite fussy about where I sit. I like an aisle seat so I can get in and out easily and I'm not boxed in, somewhere near the front so I don't have to look over peoples head's and to the side away from the slurping, chomping and general chit chat of the great unwashed. I think where you choose to sit says a lot about yourself.  

For example, a gregarious party person would probably sit right in the middle surrounded by cohorts and hangers on. The same would apply to any military dictator or mafia boss. It is a well-known fact that anyone up to no good would be sitting right at the back. This is a hangover from school days where the trouble makers, the talkers and the slackers all sat at the back of the class room or bus on school trips. It's a rule of thumb that anyone at the back is up to something they shouldn't be. This also applies to newly dating couples whose interest is more in each other than the film. 

Any wannabe celebrity would no doubt sit right in front thereby making sure that as many people could see them as possible and gain maximum exposure. On the other hand, a genuine 'A lister' would be sitting to the side by the door trying not to be recognised, Unfortunately this would also mean that they are sitting amongst the folk with weak bladders and persons who have to pop out for a nacho refill halfway through the film. Shy people wouldn't sit in the middle of a row because they would have to ask people to move if they needed the loo. Anyone sitting about a third of the way up and bang in the middle is probably using an illegal recording device. You can always spot the people with anxiety issues; they will be the ones sitting next to the fire exit.

The management have started a seat booking system now at our local cinema which is particularly annoying as I don't know where I want to sit until I'm in there. I like to sit away from other people if possible. On last week's trip we sat in the front block which was empty until four teenagers came in and sat immediately behind us. had they not had to pre-book the seats they would probably have sat further away. I can see cases of Seat Rage occurring when people start arguing about what seats they ought to be in. I can't even see any reason for it unless it's a prelude to charging extra for aisle seats and more leg room. 

I've no doubt that most people don't give a fig where they sit, wouldn't give it a moment's thought and just plonk themselves down randomly. Although it's possibly not as random as they think on a sub-conscious level. What my seating preference says about me is that I don't like crowds and would rather have the place to myself. Perhaps what this also says about me is that I would be better off at home with a DVD and a bottle of wine. 

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Crumbling Cookies

Dearly Beloved and I had a great day yesterday. We woke early in the morning with the sun streaming in through the window and the birds singing in the trees outside. We had our usual light continental breakfast at the large kitchen table washed down with a pot of tea and then she went outside to feed the geese and ducks and tend to her small cattery cum rescue home. She doesn't really make any money out of it but she enjoys it. I took the dog for a walk across the fields and didn't see another soul, just me, Bruno and the day. When I came back I went to my office to do my mornings writing which went really well. I always find the view across the valley from my office so inspiring, I never tire of it.

I finally emerged from my office about eleven thirty to the smell of fresh coffee coming from the kitchen and feeling quite pleased with my excellent day's work. The postman had been and brought another royalty cheque, this one for £250,000.I thought back to the days when money used to be an issue and felt quietly relieved that those days had gone forever. I feel quite sorry for Dave our postman because we have a drive that's about a 1/4 of a mile long. It deters the most intrepid of double glazing salesmen or Seventh Day Adventists from bothering, and just in case they don't get the hint, There is a large and particularly ominous 'beware of the dogs' sign with a picture of a spectacularly evil looking beast. Of course Bruno wouldn't hurt a fly but they aren't to know that. We also bought one of those new phones that recognises sales calls, answers it and then pretends it's you while automatically switching to a premium number. In a good month BT owe me money. 

The lads came round in the afternoon so Dearly Beloved went shopping with her best friend. We messed about in my music studio and knocked out a few numbers, recorded some drums and put the finishing touches to last week's track. We don't take it too seriously and it's just a laugh but I must confess to being quietly proud of some of the tracks. Apparently ours sons rang yesterday and spoke to their mother. The middle ones over the moon as the Hot Tub company he started as just made its first Million. No doubt there will be some ribbing between him and the eldest as he made his first million a couple of years ago in IT. We were even graced with a rare call from our youngest in LA.  He says they have renewed his contract in the hit HBO TV series so at least Dearly Beloved will be able to see him on TV each week even if not in person. 

There are several restaurants round our way we go in the evenings when I'm not committed doing local gigs. Last night we went Italian with Dom, Sally, Rachel and Angus, We had a brilliant time and I don't think I have laughed so much for months, in fact I think someone put a complaint in as we were a bit loud but I expect Gio ( Giovani, the owner) would have given them short shrift. 

We were back home by ten and I took Bruno for his evening walk, I love that time of the night when it's quiet, just the stars for company and the fields seem to go on forever and you are the only person alive. Bruno and I went back home, I did my evening routine and went to bed. I fell asleep with the full moon shining in my window and the hoot of owls somewhere in the distance.

I woke up this morning in my own bed in my own house in the middle of a housing estate to overcast skies and pouring rain with the prospect of another day at work before me. None of the above is true and even if I had the money, that's not the way the world works. Unfortunately, that isn't the way the cookie of life crumbles.

The Y Factor

Dearly Beloved and I went to Great Yarmouth last week to see some relatives. For those of you that don't know Yarmouth, it's stuck in a time warp. Until recently you couldn't walk down the high street without being reminded that Elvis is still the king but I'm pleased to say they have shifted forward now to sometime in the mid 70's. The town is still home to many of those small street corner pubs with a separate public and lounge bars where the decor has changed little in the last 50 years and neither have the patrons and It was in one of these we saw our first pub band for many years.  

I say band, it was more of a rabble. I don't think I have ever seen such an odd mix of people. The bass player looked like an elderly accountant who had turned up after work, whipped his tie off and started playing. The female drummer with goth overtones was probably still at school and the singer was on the wrong side of 30 and dressed in the rock tradition complete with Axel Rose style bandana. The two guitarists were a study in themselves, the old and the new. One was of indeterminate age with an elegantly wasted style that would give Keith Richards a run for his money playing the classic sunburst Les Paul through a Marshall amp whilst the second ,much younger, was clearly from the newer thrash metal school with an Ibanez and an array of pedals. They may have looked a mismatched bunch but they could all play and they ripped through their set of old hits from the 60s, 70s, and early 80s with no problem.

It was one of those bands where the more you drank the better they got. The bar we were in was tiny and the 5 piece band took up half of the floor space with the audience crammed against the bar. The audience themselves were a motley crew of die hard rock fans and they loved every minute off it. The local character turned up in his wheel chair sporting a cap saying 'Rock God.' The band let him get up and warble his way badly through ' teenage kicks.' He forget the words and lost his place in the song but he had a good time regardless. Due to the noise and lack of clarity of the vocals you often couldn't tell what the song was until they got to the chorus but nobody cared. The young guitarist put a solo into 'You Really Got Me' which bore no resemblance to the original and would probably have made Ray Davies drop his guitar in shock. Was anyone fussed? Not a bit. Did they manage to make all the songs sound pretty much the same? Yes they did. Did anyone care? No.

None of the band would have made it through the opening stage of the X Factor because they don't have any of the requirement for being a modern pop star. They don't have the look, the attitude or the swagger although the talent seems optional. However they managed to entertain a room full of people who had an excellent night out and that, dear Simon, is what it should be all about. 

The Breakfast Policy.

A full English breakfast is a wonderful thing. I have had them all over the country, sometimes not even at breakfast time. But what actually constitutes this legendary repast? Most places describe it as a 'full English' but what you get varies enormously. Sometimes it's one sausage and a slice of bacon, sometimes its two of each. Sometimes you will get black pudding, most times not. Many places ask you to choose between tomatoes or beans bizarrely. Does it need a slice of fried bread to qualify? It seems not. You can't take a breakfast at face value, you have to read the menu; just like an insurance policy.

I have just had my buildings and contents policy renewal through and they seem to have put the price up, however, when you read the small print, not only have they put the price up, they have added a huge compulsory excess to the water damage clause. To use the breakfast analogy, this is akin to robbing me of a sausage which is a fundamental element in my breakfast. I don't mind them putting the price up a little every year but I don't want to have to check the menu to confirm that they haven't skimped on the beans and fried egg since last time. I rang them up and they advised me that it was 'unavoidable' so I 'avoided' it by taking my business elsewhere.

What I want is a JD Wetherspoon's policy, double sausage and bacon and just about everything else you can think of including chips if you want them all for a fiver, fabulous. Unfortunately no such thing exists in the insurance world. It's an annoying waste of time to have to re-broke the policy each renewal but the insurance companies themselves leave me no option. You can't even rely on those cuddly meerkat fellows they only tell you the upside, not the downside. Sly buggers those meerkats. 

If you enjoyed this, look out for the next in the series: Rocket science and the Sunday Roast.

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End of an Aura.

Back in the late 80s I attended my brother's wedding down in Plymouth. On the way back we came up the A303 which took us past Stonehenge so we decided to stop for a while and have a look. We pulled off the road and drove up a short track to a makeshift car park. I don't remember having to pay to park but it's possible we did. We walked up to the wire perimeter fence surrounding the site which was hung with signs asking us to not to cross and looked at the stones a short distance across the field. Then we got back in the car and left feeling culturally enriched. We had occasion to go down that particular road again last week so we thought we would pop in again. My! How things change.

The same wire perimeter fence is there but now someone put up another wire fence some distance out and is charging people £14.90 per adult to walk round some old stones. They have laid on bright, shiny buses with Stonehenge emblazoned on the side to ferry people in from god knows where, they have a fancy car park and one of those 'environmentally efficient' visitors centre's which turn every visit into a 'school trip' and to sell pointless junk. An excellent start I feel but they have missed a couple of tricks. Surely they could increase revenue by sponsorship on the stones. They could hang flags off them or even paint them. They could make the site more impressive by adding a few extra polystyrene stones to give more value for money. There are many ways of turning a 3,500 year old religious monument into a cash cow.

I have no doubt that if you were to ask whichever outfit is profiting from this particular circus they would tell you that it's necessary for the preservation and maintenance of the site regardless of the fact that they have ruined the atmosphere, magic and ambiance that made it special in the first place. The site has managed to remain standing for 3,500 years without our help and I would respectfully suggest that if they ripped up their car park and packed up their visitors centre and buggered off it'll stand for 3,000 more. Someone just needs to pop back once in a while to check the wire fence.  

I have no doubt this is old news as there was an encampment of hippy types just outside the main fence who were probably there on some kind of vigil or protest so I am sure arguments on both sides have been aired and others reading this would have more knowledge than I. Needless to say we didn't pay to get in and left, sickened and dismayed by the modern age we live in. I know I shouldn't get upset about it, after all, what did I expect but if rampant commercialism were a cake, for me, this would be the icing. 

En Vogue.

Ever since I was a kid dreaming of being James Bond I've wanted to drive along the South Coast of France through those glamorous towns of St Tropez and Nice in a convertible with the wind in my hair and a beautiful girl at my side; well I've come close. It was actually Northern France in our middle aged Astra but the principle is the same. We got by easily enough with my basic French and it transpires that Dearly Beloved has a knack for gesticulating in French which came in handy a couple of times. France is a vast and complex country and we only travelled a tiny part of it but one thing in particular struck me. The French do like to dress up.

I don't know if there is such a thing as a national pastime but if there is it would be dressing up for the French. All the time we were there I didn't see a single hoody or tracksuit. We came across an organised running event and every participant young or old, man or woman wore garishly coloured Lycra. None of that shorts and T shirt malarky you would get in this country. It was the same with the many cyclists we saw. There must be a law that states you can't ride a bike on the road unless you are garbed in luminous Lycra with colour co-ordinated hat and accessories. I suspect the garb costs more than the bike. The joggers followed suit, no-one stumbling along with baggy shorts, dirty trainers and an old Led Zep T-shirt. Even on the country lanes near nightfall where no one would see them. They certainly looked the part even if the actual running didn't.

Mon Dieu, these woollen pants are chafing.

We went to Boulogne-Sur-Mer on the Sunday and they have a lovely tree lined green just near the Sealife Aquarium. A group of local headcases calling themselves the Medieval Society had set up some tents and were busy demonstrating medieval crafts and techniques, roasting a pig and standing proudly round a small trebuchet that they were no doubt intending to fire later. There were quite a few of them and they were all exceptionally well dressed in well made and authentic looking outfits. Some of the women's dresses wouldn't look out of place a museum. It didn't cost anything to get in. no one waved collection tins at us or even asked for a voluntary donation. The stated aim was to keep alive the medieval crafts and traditions although it was clearly an excuse to dress up just for the hell of it. Why not I say?

The school run looked like a photo shoot for Vogue magazine and the people out walking their dogs looked they had been prepped by a PR assistant before they stepped out. Needless to say not everyone has my sartorial elegance and effortless fashion sense so not everyone hit the mark; some people you just can't do anything with but everyone looked like they had tried. Most of the teenagers looked like they had come straight off the pages of a catalogue. People even sat on the beach with their clothes on. It's probably quite shallow but it's nice to see women who are happy to wear skirts and dresses instead of jeans and T shirts and teenagers who don't look there are up to something they shouldn't be. It projects a kind of national confidence and positivity. On the whole I think I approve although you will be pleased to know I won't be buying any Lycra. 

And The Winner Is.....

Blog is a little early this week so
do not open till Sunday.
(It's all in the anticipation)

What has been the greatest invention of all time? Some might say it's the car or the railway or maybe paper or even the wheel. What about TV or the aeroplane? It could be the plough but then again, it could be the World Wide Web. All worthy winners but I would suggest it's something much more humble.  My vote would have to go to the Bic Cristal pen. Not that stupid yellow one which writes like a spider with muddy feet has staggered across your page. I mean the clear plastic one that writes in either blue, black or ominous red. 

Firstly, it's a genius of design being ridiculously simple but effective. It consists of only 5 parts including the cap but only has one moving part in the nib. The clear plastic casing means you can see exactly how much ink you have left and what colour it is. Mr Bic (actually Baron Marcel Bich) even made the casing hexagonal so that it wouldn't roll off your desk but it still feels comfortable in your hand. The perfectly designed nib rolls across the page and never leaks. It even comes with its own built in stress reliever, in moments of contemplation you can chew on the cap to aid concentration. When the spittle ridden cap has been munched to oblivion, you can start on the little blue end cap. When you have swallowed that you can start on the pen itself. You will find the hard outer casing and the softer polythene ink container are both edible. You can't do that with a Montblanc. For moments of light relief the pen also converts into a handy pea shooter so you can annoy anyone within spitting distance, what more could you ask for.

This marvellous device also has magical properties. If you suddenly have need of a pen but don't have one about your person, just have a quick look round and one is likely to turn up. They magically appear in draws, under desks or in handbags. They like to manifest themselves in those containers nobody has touched for years in piles of paper or behind sofas. They can be found under the seat of your car or in the glove box. They can even be found outside in the gutter or under bushes, even on the pavement itself. Unfortunately they also like to disappear in the same manner. 

The effect this humble invention has had on the cultural landscape is immeasurable. How many snotty nosed children have begun their primitive scribblings with this sublime invention only to turn into the great writers, scientists and world leaders of our age? How many exams have been sat and passed using this amazing tool. It's incredibly cheap to produce and therefore affordable to the most deprived of students making education and self- expression available to people from the poorest countries and backgrounds. It is the great leveller, a tool that can be wielded by the privileged grammar school boy in London as well as the child in the South American jungle to equal effect.

Girls have their pencil cases stuffed with multi-coloured highlighters and gel pens but the trusty Bic has always been a staple. Some of the more pretentious males have had their posh pens from time to time but they get lost just as easily and are no-where near as comfortable to write with. These days youngsters do everything on computer so can no longer write or spell; is this the death knell for the trusty ink provider? I don't think so, not yet. There are not many people who use a computer who don't have a pen and paper handy but it's going that way. Pity those poor students who only use a computer, you can't chew on a mouse when your stressed or doodle when you are pretending to pay attention. Therefore my vote goes to the Bic pen, the unsung hero of our age.

Ps. Unfortunately, old man Bic's genius seems to have ended with the pen. Its stable mate the 'Bic razor' is the spawn of the devil and should be avoided at all costs unless you want to slash your face to ribbons and be forever known as Scarface.

The King is Dead.

There is an old saying which suggests 'money makes the world go round;' it doesn't. There is another old saying that proposes 'money talks and bullshit walks;' alas that's not true either. Just like clouds, windmills and weather vanes it's wind that makes the world go round, or more specifically hot air.

It's a well-known fact that those alternative energy scientists are devising a way to install an air collection system into the roof of the parliament building. They suggest they would be able to harness enough hot air to power the borough of Hackney. The best thing about this new source of energy is that it is free. Politicians can break promises and rip up manifesto pledges while delivering only bluster and flannel to their hearts content, safe in the knowledge that the general public will never seriously ask them to pay up. The key function of government is to control the public purse but they freely admit that not only is the purse empty, we are in debt to such an extent that we can never pay it back. So what exactly are they doing?

The financial institutions replaced money with hot air years ago. They are happy to take it off you as long as you don't ask for it back because they haven't got it. They have already invested it. For those of my readers not familiar with the concept of investments, it means gambling. The fact that all they actually hold is a handful of IOUs doesn't stop these giant bags of wind from throwing their weight about and threatening their poor debtors with increasing interest rates. That's why they were so concerned about the collapse of the euro; their bag would have been well and truly burst.

When I was in sales years ago, my manager explained that nothing is worth anything without someone to sell it. To this end the ad-men over the years have constructed an entire alternative universe of fakery made up of smiling people, happy families and glamour. It's a sad fact of life that if you are an obnoxious twat and you buy a new car you are not suddenly going to become effortlessly cool, you're still going to be an obnoxious twat. That new toothpaste is not going to change your life, it probably won't even whiten your teeth as promised, but who can be bothered to go back for a refund. People don't buy objects, they buy into a lifestyle, aspiration or a self-image and that's the part where the profit is made. Fortunately for the plucky ad-men the consumers seem perfectly happy with this arrangement and never complain when the glitz and the glamour don't arrive with the product.

Money? There is no money. The king has been deposed and replaced by those twin upstarts blarney and flannel. The power behind the throne has been whittled away until only an empty illusion is left. There have always been shysters, con-artists and flim-flam men running the show and no one is really surprised but now it's their empty promises and hollow rhetoric that keep the world turning. In fact, should you possess a significant amount of actual cash, the police would be very interested in talking to you to find out where you got it from.

Going Dutch.

It seems our partner for the last 300 years is no longer content within our relationship. The tribes beyond the wall are acting up again and shouting about independence. That old jibe ' remember Bannockburn' has been taken up by a new generation. It's true to say that those blue faced terrors north of the boarder have been causing trouble since roman times, that's why they built the wall in the first place. I say enough is enough and we should resolve the problem once and for all. I say we should sell Scotland off.

The idea is not as daft as it sounds. Our Monarch and the Prince of Wales own vast tracts of land in Scotland and it's a safe bet that the other peers of the realm, the financial institutions and the Vatican also own large chunks of it. The rest can be bought by compulsory purchase. Let's face it, most of it is heather and sheep. In times gone by countries would often sell or gift land to other countries so there is a historical and legal precedence for it. But who would want to buy a large, mountainous and sparsely populated country? The Dutch, that's who.

The generally accepted wisdom is that sea levels are rising. This means that it won't be long before those famous Dutch dikes are breached and the whole country will be underwater. Those wonderful Dutch folk will have no choice but to go and live in Germany or France. They will become a dispossessed people spread across the landscape of Europe. Surely the better option for them would be to buy a new home; one that isn't flat and is big enough to accommodate the entire population. They could start a resettlement program almost immediately and by the time they need to leave their homeland, Scotland would be a home from home. The lowlands would make excellent tulip fields and all that wind Scotland is prone to would probably double Windmill productivity. They might need to get rid of their bikes and all that rain would play havoc with their wooden clogs but they would still have a coastline bordering their beloved North Sea.

The current natives would soon get used to persons of questionable gender parading in their windows wearing scanty underwear. I've heard it's very tasteful so it's classier than their current arrangements. I'm also sure those legal drug cafes will attract custom from the indigenous population. There will, of course, be an issue with the language but being as the locals are unintelligible anyway when speaking English there won't be much difference.

From the English point of view this all makes sound economic and cultural sense. The money raised from the sale would make a huge dent in our national debt meaning the end of Cameron's 'austerity measures'; it'll be spend, spend, spend. We will be able to go on holiday to a foreign country without have to cross the sea. Folks living in the north of England will be able to hop across the border to sample the more relaxed approach to sex and drugs. Margaret Thatcher has already stolen most of the North Sea oil so there is no economic loss to the transaction. The best benefit of all is that we won't have to put up with their perpetual whinging any longer. What's in it for Alex Salmond and the Scots?... who cares? Mind you, they might finally manage to produce a decent football player.

Heating Up.

It's nearly that time of year when Dearly Beloved and I begin our good natured but deadly serious war of attrition. It happens every year but I'm disappointed to note that it might be starting a little early this year which is not to my tactical advantage. I'm hoping there will be a change in the atmosphere which will play into my hands so I have a weather eye out. It's a well known fact that Sun Tzu dedicated a whole chapter to it in his ancient Chinese book on tactics. This game of strategy is known the world over as the battle of the central heating. 

The problem is that Dearly Beloved gets much colder than I do; perhaps it's my extra layer of blubber. I have suggested that she does the house work with a little more vigour to warm herself up but for some reason she took offence. Her view is that there is no point in being cold when you have central heating and of course she is correct but I'm too tight to pay for it. Thereby the battle lines are drawn. No doubt in some households the heating is put on without a word of complaint or all parties are in agreement and the heating kicks in on December 1st regardless of the weather. In our house the respective front lines are drawn and the artillery in place ready and waiting for the opening shot.  

The first salvo is always fired by Dearly Beloved and is usually something like 
'it's getting dark in the evenings isn't it?' My response would be something similar to ' yes but it's only September darling.' It carries on like this for a couple of weeks with her saying it's getting cold and dark and me countering with shorts and T shirt wearing and sitting in the garden. After a while she brings out her heavy artillery or rather her jumpers and dressing gown. Under this terrible onslaught I have no option but to make a tactical withdrawal and fight a rearguard action by turning on the gas fire in the evening. By this time I'm retreating and that's when she uses her cavalry to deliver to a fatal blow to which I have no defence. Dearly Beloved gets up at 5 AM and even I have to admit that it's cold at that time of the morning so I'm left running for the hills as the heating goes on. The only action left to me, akin to spiking my guns, is to turn the heating off again as soon as she goes to bed in the evening. 

It's not a matter of if the heating goes on but when so I am always doomed to fail. My aim is to delay the inevitable for as long as I can and thereby pay those thieving energy companies as little as possible. My spring strategy is much more guerrilla than trench warfare. As soon as it's warm enough I start to chip away at the timing and temperature settings until Dearly Beloved says
'have you turned the heating off?' There may be a little skirmish or two over adjustments but by this time I'm on the home straight with warm spring days
just around the corner. This year looks like it's going to be particularly bad for me. She's already started and it's only bloody August. 

A Comic Tragedy..

Dearly Beloved and I had a new bed delivered the other day and I think I upset the delivery man. He brought some parts in and asked where it should go, I pointed up the stairs, 'the first on the left' I said and quipped, 'the room without the bed in.' I thought I was being friendly and jovial. He gave a thin smile and carried the flat pack up the stairs. He then went back outside and returned with the mattress while his crew-mate shifted some stuff around in the back of the van. He asked if I would mind giving him a hand with it. 'Is your mate too ugly to get out of the van then' I jokingly enquired. I didn't mind assisting at all and thought I was being humorous. It wasn't until after they left that it occurred to me that I had probably come over as a sarcastic twat.

I can't help it, things come into my head that I think are funny or witty and I say them. I was making a round of tea and coffees at work when one of my female colleagues announced she had a new mug. As quick as a flash I said 'Congratulations, what's his name'.* I thought it was hysterical and laughed to myself about it for hours. She probably hates me now, especially since it transpires she prefers women.

Dearly Beloved says that I come across as rude sometimes although that's never my intention. My good friends Steve and Syd who read this blog can probably cast their minds back many years to when I went through a short phase of calling everyone 'Jed.' I thought it was really funny at the time but I expect it was extremely irritating and I'm lucky I didn't get punched.

I think I'm getting paranoid about it. The other day I went to a local charity depot to drop off some unwanted items. I introduced myself to the chappie in the warehouse who came out to help me unload. We were generally chatting away when about halfway through he gave up helping me and walked off into the warehouse without a comment or backward glance; no word of thanks or goodbye. I don't even remember cracking any jokes.

There comes a time when you are too old for wise cracks and witty one liners and the smiles turn to groans. I was at lunch with Dearly Beloved and our youngest when I cracked a joke with the waitress. It wasn't a good joke and made my son cringe with embarrassment so he told me off. Well, how was I to know he'd been at school with her. Good job it wasn't rude.

Old guys who attempt to share jokes with the younger generation unfortunately come over as a bit sad. Instead of a smile of genuine amusement, you receive a smile that says 'silly old duffer'. Do they engage in witty banter with you? No they just up the patronisation levels. Just watch '24 hours in A&E' for evidence. You're just putting another nail in the coffin of your own irrelevance in their eyes. Fortunately my own generation of friends and family still find me hysterically funny... Don't you?  

I expect I shall have to give up this humour lark; it's fraught with danger and just not funny anymore. I'll attempt to develop an air of stately gravitas instead. It's just not me though and I think I'm too short to pull it off.


* If I have to explain the joke it's not as funny as I thought it was.

PS. Regarding last week's post, I had no replies from any female readers so it's official; It's definitely better to be a bloke. 

Bad Hair Day.

Dearly Beloved and I went to Old Amersham last weekend. It had been sunny with rain showers all day and as we were walking down the street spots of rain started to appear. Just at that point a woman come out of the hairdressers, looked up at the sky with a worried frown and tottered of down the street in that mincing, pointless run that some girls do; lots of hands and feet waving in the air without producing much forward motion. I'm not a mind reader but I knew exactly what she was thinking. She was thinking ' If it rains, my hair is going to frizz up and I am going to spend the rest of the day walking round like a freak. As a bloke with minimal hair I have no such concerns and at that moment I was truly glad I wasn't born a woman.

There's nothing wrong with women, I love them but I think I would have made a rubbish girl. Given the choice between 20 minutes spent painting my nails or playing the guitar, the guitar would win every time. It takes me less than half an hour to get ready in the mornings including a cup of tea. I couldn't be bothered to mess around for an hour or more like most girls although I've no doubt some blokes do take as long. The irony being of course that they don't do it to attract a partner, they do it so other women don't look down their noses at them.

Women generally seem more sensible than fellows. You can't get away with being such a juvenile plonker when the mood takes you if you're a girl. People expect stupid behaviour from men but expect the voice of reason and restraint to come from the female. Perhaps it's the mothering instinct.

Society doesn't really expect much from men. As long as you go to work and don't pee in the street you are generally left alone. Unfortunately women are judged much more harshly. It's a fact that a pretty girl has advantages an ugly girl can only dream of; not so for blokes. It's women who are pressured into the messy business of children by their mothers and grandmothers. If it was left up to lads, the overpopulation problem would be solved in no time. It also seems to be women who are expected to look after their elderly relatives while the son pops in once a month to check on how his inheritance is doing.

The only advantage of being born a woman would be that you can wear a dress if you felt like it. Being as I never feel like it, it wouldn't be much of an advantage to me, although some males would disagree. I'm very glad that Dearly Beloved takes the time to look after herself and takes her 'girly' responsibilities seriously, but if I was her, I couldn't be bothered. I would be interested to hear from my female readers what advantages there are to being a girl because I can't see any. Bad hair days? I don't have them.

French Farce

Bonjour et bienvenue. Dearly Beloved and I are going to darken the shores of our old enemy France later this year for a week driving around the countryside. I went once before many years ago with some friends on a day trip to Calais. I remember drinking copious quantities of alcohol, ending up in the sea fully clothed and my girlfriend being violently sick on the ferry. I expect this trip will be more refined.

I have always liked the idea of learning another language. I'm easily impressed by anyone of who can waffle on in English and then switch to another lingo without pausing for breath. I remember my Dad trying to learn French with LP records called 'Learn French' where you were asked to repeat all the oohs and Ahhs of the French alphabet by a woman with a BBC accent. I don't know how far he got but perhaps that's where I got the desire from.

Several years ago I went to evening classes to have a serious stab at learning it. I bought all the books and tapes requested and worked quite hard. I attained the heady heights of 'Bucks Open College Level 1' which probably has all the kudos and academic standing of a 25 yard swimming certificate. I haven't been to France since so I haven't had the opportunity to test it out... till now.

Since those heady student days I've managed to lose the tapes but have recently been working through the book reminding myself of all the words and how to ask for slice of strawberry tart. I am currently on section seven explaining to Claudette that I do the washing and Ironing but my wife does the shopping and cooking. I am particularly looking forward to boring some poor French barman with that valuable nugget of information. 

The problem is that I can read the basics but, because I have lost the tapes, I have no idea how to pronounce it. I have tried listening to french language radio but I only recognise about one word in twenty. I could have listened to a whole program about household chores and not realised it. it's beginning to dawn on me that I'm wasting my time.

I have several friends who go to France regularly who posses varying degrees of French aptitude and they seem to survive without getting thrown in jail or causing an international incident so I expect we shall be all right. I have brought the required car accessories to prevent getting an immense fine and the ferry crossing is booked. I shall bring you all back some onions.