** Ghost Story **

There is accommodation on the top floor of the building I work in. It's for employees staying over for various courses and is often used by staff who, for one reason or another, need a temporary home. It's even been used as a place to crash for people who have been out on the town. It's basically a long corridor with rooms coming off of it that would make a Travelodge look palatial. According to one of my colleagues who has been staying there for a few weeks, it's haunted. 

The sound of someone in heels pacing down the corridor can be heard at three o'clock in the morning. When anyone is foolhardy enough to try and catch the culprit, there is no-one there. My colleague says he doesn't believe in ghosts but is at a loss to explain it. Many people have experienced this according to my colleague but I have not had a chance to verify it with anyone else. I see no reason to doubt him; he seems quite reliable and is unlikely to make himself look like a chump by mentioning it otherwise. 

I have spoken to many people over the years of supernatural matters and most people seem to have a personal ghost story, even if they are reluctant to mention it initially for fear of looking like an idiot. We used to have friends who recounted a story involving an attic room and a door. I don't remember the exact circumstances but I do remember the conviction with which he recounted the story. This otherwise level headed couple were unshakably convinced it was a ghost and couldn't be swayed otherwise.

Dearly Beloved and I booked to go to to a hotel that purported to have ghosts. We were originally going there with my most excellent and northerly 

Brother and Sister in Law who believe in this kind of thing but they had to pull out which was a great disappointment; Dearly Beloved and I went anyway. The reported apparitions were a large black dog that appeared on the stairs and a woman who walked down another flight of stairs that no longer existed. They didn't make a big fuss about it at the hotel although the dog had been seen the previous week by a guest who had no idea the place was haunted. He wandered into the bar and casually enquired who owned the dog. The Woman hasn't been seen for a couple of years the staff told me. I didn't see any such spooks myself; I can't say I'm surprised. 

I have never had a definitive event to prove to myself one way or another although I did once have an experience that was quite strange. I was in army cadets at the time and we were running about in a forest on Army land when our unit came across what looked like a stately home set in a clearing. It had manicured lawns and a gravel driveway leading to large metal gates, the house itself was behind a 10 foot high surrounding wall. Our unit ran across the lawns and along the wall to the back of the house and back into the woods. I could feel the lawns soft and springy under my boots and starlight sky above was crystal clear. In the morning it became clear that there was no such house or clearing anywhere near our location. Our little party discussed it at the time and even afterwards when we were back home. In fact two persons who were there are recipients of this blog, my brother Gary and my oldest friend Simon, perhaps they could verify the story and prove I am not suffering from early-onset dementia. 

For me, the jury is still out although I have spoken to people who have had experiences who believe wholeheartedly. The is no reason why a ghost would want to haunt my place of work and all the theories explaining their existence seem like superstitious mumbo jumbo to me, but still, the stories persist despite our technological age of reason and they do say there is no smoke without fire.  

Drac Tours.

One of my new-found friends and work colleagues comes from Romania, the central region to be precise. It's mountainous and very pretty with many picturesque villages, castles and fortified churches nestling on the hillsides and plains. It's all very quaint and 'olde worlde' as if time has passed it by. I know this because my friend has shown my pictures of it. The area he comes from is famous, everyone has heard of it. It's called Transylvania. 

My Romanian friend and I went for a pint the other day and he mentioned that he had told another colleague where he was from and she didn't believe him. 
She didn't realise it was a real place; she thought it was fictitious like Narnia or Middle Earth. My friend was quite taken aback by this ignorance of his homeland. It occurred to me that it's likely that many people don't realise it's an actual place you can go and visit, probably most Americans for a start off. That's when I came up with the Idea of 'Drac-tours.' The itinerary would be roughly as follows.

Day One: Meet and greet at the airport then you will be whisked away in our horse drawn cart to a small village where you will dress as a peasant and partake of a light meal of bread and a thin gruel in a genuine hovel and then spend the night starting fearfully into the sky.

Day Two: A visit to Dracula's castle (which is a real place known as Bran Castle.) The day will be spent exploring the castle and trying out our interactive dungeon and torture implement display. Prepare to be scared to death as friendly locals masquerading as blood sucking maniacs leap out from dark shadows and fall from the ceiling rafters to feed on you. (Please ensure your health insurance is up to date.) There will be bat feeding sessions after dark.

Day Three: Enjoy a lively run through the woods while being chased by a pack of slavering and rabid hounds from hell. For those that survive, the afternoon will be spent in the traditional Transylvanian pastime of stake whittling. 

Day Four: Dress up as a vampire minion and raid a local village to capture a buxom beauty and carry her off to the castle. This is followed by a traditional lunch featuring goblets of fresh blood. A full range of blood types are available on our menu. The evening will be spent practising hanging upside down before retiring to a luxurious silk-lined coffin in a spider infested draughty crypt.( single beds only no en-suite facilities) 

Day Five: Spend a 'lazy day' buried underground in a bespoke coffin, plenty of time for relaxation and reflection. The more adventurous may wish to escape their entombment by breaking out of the coffin and clawing their way through six feet of earth to free themselves.The choice is entirely yours. The evening gives you a chance to dress up again and become a member of an angry mob complete with flaming torch and take part in the storming of a castle. (Subject to authorisation by the EU health and safety executive)

Day Six: Take a trip to market in the back of our vegetable wagon where you can buy goods made by local craftsmen. Some popular items include, garlic infused pendants, garlic sweets, garlic jam and a strong spirit drink made from garlic.

Day Seven: Get lost in the tremendous scenery of the Carpathian Mountains; quite literally. We'll drop you off at a high mountain pass and last one back buys the drinks. It's fun for all the family, just make sure you are back before nightfall. 

It's seems like a sure fire winner to me. It's still a work in progress at the moment so I would appreciate any ideas to enhance the experience. I will be looking for volunteers to test it so if you are interested let me know although I expect it will be oversubscribed.

My friend may even know a real vampire. I'm hesitant to ask in case he deems it a racist incident and reports me to the authorities. I know he isn't a vampire himself as I have worked a day shift with him which would rule him out of being one of the undead. The Romanians themselves seem quite keen on fostering the vampire connection and although the link between Prince Vlad Tepes and Bran Castle is tenuous, they have taken it to their hearts and seem to be quite proud of it, it is, after all, just a story... or is it?

Spooning.

There is a kitchen where I work and it's in use twenty four hours a day, every day of the year. There is a constant trail of people heading backwards and forwards to make various hot drinks or use the micro-waves to heat their lunch; we drink a lot of tea and coffee at my place. It's rectangular and approximately ten feet square, there are four fridges, two microwave ovens, a stainless steel sink with drainer and one of those large wall mounted boilers so there is a constant stream of hot, drinking water. There are wall and floor mounted cupboards and in two of the cupboards there are draws with towels in one and cutlery in the other, including tea spoons. That's where the trouble starts.  

We don't have a cleaning fairy in our kitchen which is often pointed out by those who feel the need to wash and clear up the dirty cups and plates left lying around by those who can't be bothered to do it. The usual scenario is for someone to go into the kitchen, become so upset by the state of it that they feel compelled to wash up and then come back into the main office and send round a sarcastic and accusatory message to all the other members of staff ranting about having to do it. The messages often include such comments as. 'AGAIN!!!!!' or 'I'm not here to clear up after YOU!!!!!' and similar. We had one from a staff member the other day bemoaning that she had to wash up all the teaspoons. Now, I agree that crockery should be washed up and put away by the person who uses it but, in my opinion, teaspoons are a moan too far. 

The spoons are usually left lying around the sink or draining board, the reason for this is that there are in almost constant use. If you wash them up and put them away then I expect it would take no more than an hour and a half for them all to be back on the draining board again. Therefore putting them away is completely pointless. We drink so much tea in our house we always have a teaspoon in the sink or on the draining board; we just wash it and re-use it. So, would I do it at home? Damn right I would. Anyone stupid enough to waste their time gets no sympathy from me. No one asked her to wash them, we have cleaners for that, if she'd rather be a cleaner then I'm sure she would have no trouble getting a job. Clearly she ought be getting on with her own job rather than hanging round in the kitchen doing someone else's. She is clearly not busy enough if she can come to work and all she worries about is the bloody spoons. If you want to wash the spoons, that's fine in my view but don't come and bitch about it by grabbing the moral high ground and trying to make everyone else feel bad because they don't share your obsessive need to tidy up. No one asked her to and no one expected her to.

From a mathematical perspective, if you have a total of twelve spoons and twelve spoons are on the draining board then you have reached finite mass as it were. It's not as if you going to be wading waist deep in spoons if nobody put them away. It has yet to be demonstrated to me how twelve teaspoons, when used correctly for their intended function, are a risk to health and safety. 

The sport of 'Washing and Bitching' is not just a female pastime; we have some males who practicing it as well. It just so happened that it was a female this time. I have washed up cups and plates before now that weren't mine, I just did it. No drama as they say.  Perhaps the woman who moaned about the spoons was bitterly disappointed there wasn't a couple of plates or bowls as well so she could feel really indigent and be twice as cutting in her missive to the office. No doubt there will be champion spoon-washers who will read this and be aghast at my slovenly attitude and reply with some withering and caustic comments. Personally I shall continue to leave my spoon in the sink for the next person to use. Tea anyone?    

'The Times They Are a Changing'

 Forgive me father for I have sinned, it's been six months since my last confession... Well blog post anyway and many things have changed since then. Dearly Beloved and I have been on holiday to possibly the world's most boring place; it's like Eastbourne but warmer.I have a new East European friend who can tell me fascinating stories about living under Ceausescu and we have potentially new and undiscovered family members waiting in the wings. Sadly we have also had a bereavement but such is the way of life and the world moves on.

As a nation we have discovered that we really are crap at sport, particularly rugby and we have uncovered a German, fifth column plot to slowly poison us all. The country has rallied behind a new Labour leader who may be able to temper the more extreme excesses of the Great Tory Fire-sale. We have also discovered that the evil hordes waiting to invade our country are really just nice guys looking for a safe home. I don't think I can remember a time when public opinion changed so dramatically, almost overnight, due to one image. It probably ranks up there with the photo of Kim Phuc running naked from the napalm attack in Vietnam for its global resonance.

My friend and musical accomplice Rod came round the other day and changes are definitely afoot for him. A side-effect of this will hopefully be that we can get our Bob Dylan tribute out of the studio and on to the stage; it's very good, you should see it. I am generally a fan of change, I like new opportunities and experiences as long as they don't cost too much. I myself have bought a new phone and we are seriously looking into buying a new car.
I am even considering changing my name to Miriam and my underpants more than once a year. 

Maybe it's this atmosphere that has given me the nudge to start writing my blog again, maybe it will last more than a week. A few people have said they enjoyed it so if they were just being polite, that will teach them. I shall keep a weather-eye out for the future and report back accordingly. Onwards and upwards and may the devil take the hindmost.   

Postscript: I have just come home to discover that my most excellent Brother and Sister In Law have bought a house so congratulations to them. It will mean the end of years of renting and having to move home at least once every year... I expect that trumps my new car and fresh underpants then. 

The Smoking Gun.

There used to be a smoking shelter where I work. It looked like a bus stop in the middle of a large courtyard and it seemed to be waiting patiently for a bus that never came. It was the only place where smokers were allowed to indulge their habit and there were always people there, come rain or shine, snows or blizzards. There are a lot of people where I work and the smoking shelter attracted people of all ranks and departments, all bound together by their love of the weed. 

We had a new 'big cheese' take over the reins and he used his proverbial new broom to sweep away the bus shelter and replaced it with an industrial sized ash tray screwed to a wall and a yellow rectangular line painted on the ground just big enough for 3 people to stand in. there was a sign on the wall next to the ashtray saying ' Three People At A Time Only.' This has done nothing to deter the hardcore smokers who still gather and seem to have trouble recognising the number three.  I don't smoke and it doesn't bother me that people do but I think it would be very interesting to be a fly on the wall, despite the obvious risk to health.

I have no doubt the smoking area is a hot-bed of gossip, rumour and intrigue; a place where information is shared and traded. Where alliances are formed and where certain colleagues are stabbed in the back. It's clearly a place for moaning and bitching but how many affairs and romances have been facilitated there over the years as well. How many 'I'll meet you outside in 10.' texts have been sent, not just a few I should think.

 It's like an information bazaar where people are can blow off steam and swap stories and phone numbers; a small and exclusive enclave in the dull drudgery of work. I know for a fact that the smokers in my department are privy to information that I am not. That doesn't bother me as I don't gossip and am not interested in the politics. However if you wanted to keep you finger on the pulse as they say, that's where you will find it.

I haven't smoked for nearly twenty years now but I sometimes miss the excuse to step out of work for 10 minutes for a moment's reflection and relaxation. One of my reformed colleagues also mentioned that they missed the camaraderie of being one of the oppressed minority in 'leper's corner' as he put it. No doubt if I made a fuss I could pop down to the smoking area but I don't want to stink of cigarettes or die of passive smoking so I don't think I'll bother. 'Fag breaks' are fast becoming a thing of the past and many places don't allow them at all so It won't be long before 'Leper's Corner' and its ilk are stubbed out in the ashtray of history. 

The Music of Love - Is Ska.

I went to my eldest son's wedding last week; many of you will know this as you were also there. I love weddings, not because of some schmaltzy, teary-eyed romanticism but because it's a happy occasion where families get together and have a party which includes the very young and the very old. Of course, it's also a time to raise old grievances and re-open old arguments but that's the joy of families and it generally doesn't mar the proceedings, not in my family anyway; they are quite a cheerful, laid back bunch on the whole. 

I have been to many weddings over the years including two of my own. I can remember when I was young, sliding round on my knees on the wooden floor with my brother and cousins and playing under the tables. We were probably being a real nuisance but I was having a whale of a time. When I was older, I remember going to weddings and hoping I was going to get off with a girl (hopefully not related). It is a well-known fact that everyone pulls at weddings so even I might be in with a chance. There are not many times when you can drink too much and dad-dance to your hearts content, weddings is one of those occasions. 

Every wedding I have been to has been different, and all of them are memorable; unfortunately, not always for the right reasons. But even when adversity strikes the general goodwill sees us through and I have never been to a wedding where a fight has broken out. That's not true if christenings unfortunately. They tend to follow a pattern where the young drink too much, the older folk and very young children fall asleep regardless of how loud the music is and the mothers and grandmothers start surreptitiously clearing up near the end as a signal that it's time to go home.

The Wedding last week had many memorable moments including the Bride in full regalia singing with the choir in the church, The eccentric vicar and his multi-coloured shoes, the bass and drums accompanying the hymns rather than the more traditional organ. The bride and groom dancing up the aisle to ska music and many others including Joe's fabulous dancing, no-one dances like Joe. I am sure everyone has their own memories that will last forever. 

A couple of years ago I met my dad's cousin Alfie; I didn't even know he existed. Alfie got in touch with my dad again after several years and they had been chatting on the phone. Poor old Alfie is not very well, he had a stroke and lost the use of his right side. He is practically house bound and relies on daily visits from carers. He lives in a tiny one-bedroomed council flat somewhere in the back end of West Drayton where we went to visit him. As we were standing in his dark and musty front room he looked at me and said, I remember your wedding, you played ' Nights in White Satin, A good wedding that.' He was right, we did, but I didn't even know he was there. Thirty years on and he can still remember the songs we played at my first wedding and that's why I love them. I am going to another one next month where I shall be a taking up the mantle of Best Man, roll on May the 25th. 

                         ** To Alex and Beth - all our love for the future **

Insufficiently Limp-Wristed.

I play the guitar as many of my readers will know. I'm not a great player but I muddle along in an average kind of way. I have managed to get the hang of most of the techniques required over the years but there is one thing I still can't seem to be able to do effectively; fast strumming. Pete Townshend from the Who was one of my early influences and I tried for years to play Pinball Wizard which involves, for those of my non-musical friends, a very fast strumming pattern. I start off okay but after a bar or so my wrist refuses to co-operate. Despite years of practice I can't seem to get my wrist to move with the same fluidity as Townshend or the masters of funk such as Nile Rogers. I'm currently working on Hendrix's version of 'All Along the Watchtower' and he uses the same effortless strum. It's a breeze if you can do it, it's murder if you can't. The fact that I am rubbish at strumming and have fingers like sausages lead me to believe that I am not a natural guitarist.

If you Google my name, the first few pages of hits are related to a world famous virtuoso of that great rock and roll instrument, the euphonium. My namesake was born a year after me in Bournemouth and has achieved fame and fortune by sticking with the unsexy euphonium while I have achieved sore fingers, frustration, great times and good friends in total obscurity. Perhaps it would have been different had I chosen the xylophone. I can't help feeling it must have been tough for him during the punk years though trying to get into a band as a euphonium player.

What if Mo Farah had taken up discus instead of running because he fancied a girl on the field team? We may never have heard of him. If Bradley Wiggins had taken up boxing instead of cycling he would be just another 'shmo' with dodgy sideburns. The world is brimming with people who have undiscovered talents and talented people who haven't been discovered; that's not to say I am one of them though.

I have just finished a book by Stephen King called ' On Writing' which is a short autobiography followed by a brief synopsis of his approach to writing. In it he discusses having a true passion for your art whatever it may be and I believe I fall short of having the all-consuming desire necessary to be better than average on the guitar. Never mind, I'll keep plugging away as I still enjoy it. My friend and bandmate Rod will be pleased; there's not much room for a xylophone player in a Bob Dylan Tribute duo.