Chinese celebrations

So we took Nat & Blythe for dinner at the No.1 Oriental Buffet last night. Same idea as the Nawaab - all you can eat for a tenner - but this time with Chinese food instead of Indian. Fantastic! For us, the best part of any Chinese meal is the crispy aromatic duck, and here they have a corner of the restaurant devoted to assembling your pancakes - a huge plate of shredded duck, a tureen of Hoisin sauce and large dishes full of shredded spring onions and cucumber. The Szechuan chilli beef was to die for too, not to mention the crispy chicken and the excellent ribs.

One of the great things about buffet-style restaurants like this is the chance to try new stuff without incurring any extra cost, which was a relief when I discovered the fish with ginger and spring onions had almost no flavour at all, and one of the noodle dishes tasted like the smell of newly-pasted wallpaper. This made everyone laugh until they actually tried some. Then they laughed even louder when they agreed it was a perfect description of the flavour.

Back home we turned the lights down low and the home cinema volume up high and settled back to watch Forrest Gump followed by Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, accompanied with lots of ginger beer and ... no nibbles. We were all still stuffed!

Wobble

It's bloody cold. You're all gonna start laughing now, all you Canadians and North Americans with your -40­°C's and your wind chills, but lemme tell you when you move from a nice new double-glazed well-insulated relatively small house to a large old drafty Edwardian semi with no carpets and windows that don't shut properly, then even -1°C is cold, especially on a breezy day.

We discovered something though. The lounge stays warm if we close the door. Simple, innit? But again living in a modern house, you forget traditional stuff like closing doors. Or "puttin' t'wood in th'ole" as they say round here. It's amazing the difference it makes. There's a downside though. The room gets so warm we fall asleep. I'm not joking, there's not been a single night this week we haven't both fallen asleep in front of the telly. Must be an age thing. Or maybe I'm trying to hibernate.

My mate Phil sent me a couple of links yesterday. One to the top 40 funniest pictures - I was laughing out loud right from the first one - and one to the top 40 prettiest pictures. All of those are really beautiful. I've seen quite a few of them before. They're the sort of pictures Nikki's Mum often sends, usually wrapped in a transportable Powerpoint file with some inspiring music. Oh, and here's my go at tvor's book meme that came to me via Nikki. I've had to cheat a bit (no - I didn't reach for the most intellectual book - the closest one is Perfume, cos it's right across the desk from me owing to the fact that Nikki already did it, and the next closest is the Radio Times. I didn't even know the Radio Times had 123 pages, but it does and you're right in the middle of the radio listings so I didn't think they'd be very interesting) but I've found something interesting so maybe you'll forgive me. Remember, the idea is...

1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the next 3 sentences on your blog along with these instructions.
5. Don't you dare dig for that "cool" or "intellectual" book in your closet! I know you were thinking about it! Just pick up whatever is closest.

"In medieval European folklore, the Chichelvache is the wife of Bicorne. Chichelvache takes the form of an undernourished cow who has a miserable expression on her human face. She is supposed to live on a diet of wives who were both obedient and tyrannized by their husbands."

From 'The Element Encyclopedia of Magical Creatures - the ultimate a to z of fantastic beings from myth and magic' which we bought Natalie for her 18th birthday (and gave to her today). No wonder the cow is undernourished! Obedient wives? (*ducks*)

Mind your grammar!

I see in the news this week that this tarnished Labour government's "education guru" - Lord Adonis - has finally admitted he was wrong to abolish grammar schools. Since Tony Blair came to power in 1997 banging his podium to the beat of his mantra "Education, Education, Education" standards have continued to fall despite the spin put on school results by the government's propaganda machine. Young people spill out into the job market unable to read, spell or count properly and universities, as well as being virtually unable to distinguish good candidates from bad since an increasing majority have achieved "A" grades at A-Level, have to spend an ever greater proportion of the intake year bringing students' basic English and Maths up to an acceptable standard.

Luckily (and although some planning went into it, it is more luck than judgement) my two daughters have enjoyed a relatively high standard of education. One of the reasons I originally chose to live where I did back in 1988 was the proximity to the local junior and infants' school which was, and remains, an extremely successful school. The high school in the area is above average, and the A Level college my elder daughter currently attends is one of the best in the country (including private colleges).

I too led an almost charmed existence at school - starting off at Edwalton County Primary - which I'm pleased to see is still in fine fettle 40+ years after I left - and progressing through the local state schools and University with little trouble, apart from that of my own making. So I guess some would think I'm not best placed to comment on poor education: I didn't suffer it, and neither have my kids. But God! Those intervening years have been hard on so many, as one "guru" after another experimented with various teaching fads (Initial Teaching Alphabet to name but one), targets and statistics, curriculum changes and wholesale devastation of exam syllabuses. And who were the losers? Well teachers for one, as they struggled to cope with mounting workloads, crumbling schools, lack of basic tools and poor salaries. But of course the main losers were the kids.

True, some schools shine out like beacons in the void - ECP above being one of them - but all too many are struggling and failing to give our kids a fair chance of a good start in life, while all the time this vacuous government tries to convince us that things are getting better.

What does this have to do with the abolition of grammar schools? Well for generations, they were the passport out of poverty for thousands of working-class children. Many in today's upper echelons of industry and government started their climb to fame and fortune in a grammar school, and yet now they're busy denying the same chance to today's children. Deprived of the opportunity to push themselves to excel, surrounded by mediocrity and sullen resignation, they turn their back not only on academia, but on any pursuit of the mind including plain ordinary reading, content instead to while away their time on video games and mindless television pap such as Big Brother and Love Island.

This sorry state of affairs has gone on so long we now even have teachers who can't spell properly. How are they supposed to teach English? Simple - they decide spelling "isn't important" and stop correcting poor examples, with the result that the next generation's spelling is even worse. And don't even get me started on apostrophe usage.

Lord Adonis might well have the courage to admit he was wrong to get rid of grammar schools, but unless he or someone like him takes the next logical step and brings them back, education in this country will continue its downward slide save for a few islands of excellence.

The Signs of Power

It's long been a theory of mine that the more senior you get in an organisation, the less common sense you have. The more powerful you become, the more the simple things in life tend to elude you.

The original clue that led me to form this theory is the kind of sign you see on the inside of the toilet door in the gents lavatory (or quite possibly the ladies, but I wouldn't know about that). In my part of the world, oop t'North (and in an office populated by relatively junior staff) we simply don't have any signs on the toilet doors. You're expected to know what you have to do. Or use your initiative and work it out for yourself (with or without a pencil).

Years ago, when I started travelling down to our offices in the South (which by and large have a higher proportion of more senior staff), I noticed their toilets had twee little signs on the doors saying "Now wash your hands" or, in some cases, "Please leave this toilet in the condition you would wish to find it." This latter instruction is a euphemism aimed at men who...well...need help with their aim, or even worse never learned how to flush a toilet. I learnt that there are, apparently, more of that sort down there than there are up here.

But it wasn't until I visited our headquarters, where the CEO and all his minions hang out, that I saw the sign which caused my theory to gel. Here, the toilet signs read: "Please leave this toilet in the condition you would wish to find it. That means ensuring the toilet rim is dry and anything you have put down the toilet has been flushed away."

You see? It seems that at the seat of power, they don't even know what condition it is preferable to find a toilet in unless it's spelled out for them.

I was reminded of my theory today, as I had occasion once again to visit our HQ. As I was leaving the conference room I noticed the expensive-looking phone was displaying a message on its little screen. Nosy as ever, I bent forwards to see what it said. "Press the 'Phone' button to get a dialling tone." Next time I go, I'm half expecting to see signs beside the door handles: "Depress handle to exit room."

Smashing!

If we ever start to believe that we're living in a little civilised oasis here in our new place, and forget that we're actually part of the second largest urban conurbation in the UK, the recent spate of vandalism is more than enough to act as a wake-up call. After a lull of some months, suddenly everywhere we look there are smashed bus shelters once again, their sad little piles of broken glass littering the morning pavements as we drive to work.

It must be a sad and boring life indeed if the best you can do for entertainment is drive around the streets of Manchester in a beat-up old jalopy with a couple of mates and a baseball bat, and vent your frustrations on a load of defenceless bus shelters. The satisfaction you get from the *pop* as the glass shatters and the *tinkle* as it falls to the ground must be short-lived. Do you feel any remorse? No, I don't suppose you even know what it means. Do you ever think about the people who have to use the smashed bus shelters every day? They're pretty much people like you, except most of them will be on their way to work - another concept that I expect doesn't have much meaning for you.

I guess Manchester City Council have worked out the commercials and figure that it's cheaper to continually replace the smashed panels of glass with more glass, rather than build their bus shelters out of more durable materials. They must do, because smashed shelters have been a feature of our urban landscape for at least five years. Or maybe they think if the yobs take their anger out on the shelters, they'll leave other more sensitive targets, like people, alone.

Life After Death

In the news: an Israeli woman whose 22 year old son was killed by a Palestinian sniper has won a four-year legal battle to be allowed to create her own grandson using sperm she had asked to be extracted from her dead son's body. Over 200 hundred women responded to the woman's advertisement for a surrogate mother to carry her dead son's child to term, and the lucky winner will be inseminated with his sperm, which has been in liquid nitrogen for the past four years.

When you start to think about this incredible conundrum it's easy to understand why the legal argument has taken so long to settle. The man didn't have a partner and had no immediate prospects of having children. Did he even want children? Despite his mother saying her son's voice spoke to her when she was holding his photograph, telling her there was something she could do for him, there's no real evidence one way or the other. In life, parents often urge their children to present them with longed-for grandchildren, and many children resist the pressure because either they are not ready to procreate, or they never want to. In death, they cannot protect either their wishes or their genotype. If someone were to remove your sperm without your permission while you're alive they would be guilty of assault. When you're dead apparently you have no such protection.

Many people shy away from being sperm donors because they will have no control over the lives and upbringings of what are effectively their children. They may be condemning them to lives of extreme poverty, deprivation, degradation, abuse, indifference. You may make these decisions for yourself while you are alive, but apparently it makes no difference once you're dead.

What kind of relationship will the mother have? Is she just a surrogate? Does she want to bring the child up, or be involved at least? Is she being paid? It will be her child too. What rights will she have? Is she being coerced into signing them away?

What about the child? How will he or she cope with the knowledge that their germ was plucked from their dead father's loins and used to fertilise someone who not only didn't love their father, but had not even ever met him?

Science can do remarkable things, and the boundaries of what we can and cannot do are being pushed back further and further every day. I strongly believe that it is our right and our duty to use the intelligence with which we have been blessed to understand the world better, find out how things work, and change those things that are bad for the better. But this macabre case, perhaps more than any other, has pointed up for me the difference between what we CAN do, and what we SHOULD do. If our moral and ethical sciences don't keep better pace with our biological and chemical ones, then decisions like this one, driven by the raw emotional wants of distraught bereaved parents, will come to haunt us.

A Damp Squid

I love malapropisms. We recently gained a new character - Honey Mitchell - on the soap EastEnders here in the UK who is unintentionally hilarious with her misuse of words. It takes a gifted writer to invent malapropisms that are actually funny, but the real hilarity for me is when it happens in real life. I was listening to a news package on the radio today about how large supermarkets are deliberately making life harder for smaller retail outlets. Nothing new there, you might think, and true enough it's been going on for a while. So much so that the Office of Fair Trading are now looking into it. The case under discussion in the package was a small retailer who had recently opened a new branch. The opening happened several months after the local branch of Tesco's had been refurbished, but Tesco's chose this guy's opening week to leaflet the whole community and draw their brand spanking new premises to everyone's attention. In the words of the small shop owner, this turned his opening ceremony into "a damp squid."

ROFL! Squids are meant to be damp ;o)

Another classic that has now been virtually accepted into the language is "Early Doors." I would hate to be an etymologist in a hundred years time trying to unravel the meaning and provenance of that phrase. Similarly, if "damp squid" gained currency, who would ever guess that it was originally a corruption of a "damp squib?"

Incidentally, my Nikki has been rating her life so I thought I'd have a go. How does yours rate?

This Is My Life, Rated
Life:	8
Mind:	7.1
Body:	5.1
Spirit:	7.6
Friends/Family:	6.9
Love:	9.1
Finance:	7.9
Take the Rate My Life Quiz

Not what I call a weekend

I've had to work this weekend and I'm out of practice, I can tell you. I've been spoiled, for at least the last ten years, being in a position where I was able to restrict my overtime to weekdays and call the weekends my own. But right now I'm working on a big government bid (I could tell you what it's about, but then I'd have to shoot you) and for the second time in as many months, I've been working on it all weekend. And it sucks.

It might have been at least ten years since I did weekend overtime, but what sucks even more is that it's almost twenty years since I was paid to work overtime. Yes, I've reached the dizzy heights of the slippery pole where working additional hours (or even, "as many hours as it takes") to get the job done is not only expected, but if you don't do it your performance assessment suffers. This is an insidious, dehumanising side of business in the UK. Forget "a fair day's work for a fair day's pay." This is more like a long day's work for the privilege of having a job. Some years ago, I worked out how much the company owed me in unpaid overtime, based on my salary since 1988, and standard overtime premiums of 1.5x hours worked on weekdays and 2x weekend hours. The figure came to almost £100,000 then, and it's been at least five years since I did the calculation.

There's a silver lining to every cloud though, innit? And this weekend my silver lining has been the wonderful dinner Nikki cooked for me tonight - a smashing stick-to-your-ribs beef stew served up with a glass of chilled wine, a candlelit table, lashings of hot horseradish and an apricot crumble to follow (which we've yet to enjoy). That, and the snow that started up about half an hour ago, the first of the year. Nikki has a photo on her blog.

Celebrity Shopping

Wandering round my local Morrison's is the last place I expected to spot a "celebrity" but there we were in the middle of our weekly grocery shopping tonight when who should be stood there next to us but Chris Gascoyne, who plays Peter Barlow on Corrie. I had one of those "is he, isn't he?" moments for a while because he was wearing a flat cap and had his head down and also (sorry Chris, I bet you get this all the time) he was considerably shorter than I was expecting, but it was definitely him.

I shouldn't be surprised - Chorlton has long been a favoured haunt of Corrie actors. Craig Charles famously has a place here (very close to the Morrison's actually - I wonder if he and Chris were planning a boys' night in?) and ex-Corrie writer and archivist Daran Little lived locally too - so it's not unusual, but somehow you never expect to see these people in supermarkets do you? Realising that they have to do their own shopping is almost akin to realising that the Queen has to go to the toilet.

Anyway, cognisant of my recent faux-pas with Wendy Richard I did NOT approach him or shout "Chris! Hi!" or anything of the sort. He looked pretty nervous actually, so I guess he was trying to be a regular guy out doing his weekly shop and wanting to be left alone. Several other shoppers spotted him too, but no-one spoke to him the whole time he was in view, so I hope he got out without having to speak to anyone if that was his aim.

That's the second Corrie star I've seen in supermarkets, thinking about it. I stood behind Anne Kirkbride in a queue for the tills in Cheadle Sainsbury's a couple of years back. I know, I know, you're thinking "how exciting." In a couple of years' time, when I'm a famous author (*koff*) I hope I'll still be able to shop in Morrison's without being mobbed.

Interesting trivia:
When I was searching for a photo of Chris, I misspelled his name "chris gascoigne" and found the website of a famous photographer. The "Images" link on Google contained nothing but his photographs. "Never mind," I thought, "I'll search for Peter Barlow." And I found...the website of a famous photographer. Spooky.

Wind in the Willows

Yes, it was one of my favourite books as a boy, but in this case the title refers to this mad weather we've had today. 90mph winds? What's that all about? My colleague Steve called me up this morning to complain that he was going to be late for his meeting - the train was restricted to 50mph because of the wind. He had even more to worry about later - he and Nic were stuck at Euston after their trains home were cancelled altogether. There were so many fallen trees and branches on the lines they weren't safe. I've been working side-by-side with these guys for months and that could easily have been me.

Our firm issued a bulletin later in the afternoon containing a list of closed roads as long as your arm, but by the time it came out I was already stuck in a queue on the A5103 bringing Nikki back from work. We didn't know at the time, but the queue was caused by a fallen tree completely blocking both sides of the dual carriageway. Someone sent this photo into the BBC News pages:

We sat stationary in the queue for almost fifteen minutes. Luckily we were just south of the M60 interchange so we were able to swing left onto the motorway and come home via Sale and Stretford, but even so it took us over an hour and a half to get home (a journey that usually takes little more than 10 minutes). Every road we tried was blocked with creeping traffic so in the end we decided we may as well stick it out. Found out later that it was a good job I didn't try Palatine Road as an alternative route home - there was a fallen tree there too and we would have had no escape if we'd been trapped on that road.

We're grateful that 90 minutes was not all we lost. The number of people killed is still climbing and not far from us the entire corner of a house has been taken out by another tree, so things could have been a lot worse. 40,000 people are without power tonight and many more have been injured, whereas the worst we had to do was stand the wheelie bins back up.

We're surrounded by sound

Annie popped over this evening to cable up the surround sound system. Wow. We had a quick blast of LOTR Return of the King. The battle scene is awesome. There'll definitely be a weekend viewing of the whole trilogy going down sometime soon, with candlelight, junk food and beer.

But amazingly, that wasn't the best part. Oh no. The best part was setting the XBox to full Dolby Digital 5.1 and hearing some of the games in full glorious surround sound. Amazing.

The only slight downside? We couldn't get DTV recording working. I've been struggling with this for two months now (ever since we left Sky behind - another story in itself) and it seems there's some incompatibility between the Pioneer media centre that came with the plasma TV, and our Sony PVR (which only has an analogue tuner). At least it wasn't anything obvious that I hadn't spotted, so I didn't feel too stupid.

I dunno, you pay thousands for this stuff and it won't talk from one box to the other? Sheesh. We can record a digital channel, but only as long as the TV stays set to that channel AND only if we've programmed the EPG and the PVR to the same time. Not a lot of use. I can see us forking out for a second Freeview box before long.

Avenue Close

While I was driving over to Nottingham at the weekend, I passed a street sign I've seen many times before in Stoney Middleton. It's "Avenue Close" and it always makes me chuckle. I was travelling on my own, so with no distractions my mind wandered to other comic possibilities for street names.

I think those Stoney Middleton planners missed a trick by not putting "Real Close" next to "Avenue Close." Of course, the classic "Letsby Avenue" is well known but by the time I'd gone through Memory Lane, Blind Alley, Bowling Alley, Upping Court, Back Passage, Tennis Court, My Way, Perfect Place and Whist Drive I was giggling fit to burst and almost had to pull over.

I'm easily amused.

A walk in the park

Waking after the party to a beautiful sunny, crisp, breezy January day, Nikki and I had the same thought independently: what a great day for a walk in the park.

When I used to live next door to a pub, it was so close and convenient that it lost its appeal. I sincerely hope the same doesn't happen with the park. It would be a shame not to take advantage of it.

Alexandra Park featured large in my student life. Lying on its sward listening to a transistor radio in the early summer was where I did most of my second year revision. Maybe that's why I didn't do too well in those exams! Today was the first time I had set foot in the part since those days back in 1977. Another couple of months and it would have been thirty years.

The wonderful day, and having Nikki with me, dispelled any thought of dwelling on those intervening thirty years. I just enjoyed the park: the footballers, the locals walking their dogs and children, the lake with its various waterfowl, the fabulous sweet smell of old autumn leaves and wet mud. Our conversation ambled along at the same pace as we did. After all this time Ally Park can still work its magic on your soul. We returned home feeling buoyed up by our walk and I found I was actually looking forward to the chance to do it again, but this time in the rain!

Read Nikki's thoughts on our walk (with extra pictures!) here.

The party of the first part

I love partying, especially in the company of delightful women. Naturally, I'm always in the company of at least one delightful woman, but tonight we attended a party thrown by Simon (one of our friends from Chorlton Chapters) along with around half a dozen of the Chapters laydeees. What a lovely bunch they are and it was great to have the chance to meet some of their partners too.

Simon does a unique line in parties. Salsa dancing in one room and karaoke in the other. It will come as no surprise to anyone who knows me that I gravitate to the latter, much to Nikki's occasional irritation ("can't we mingle?"..."we are mingling - there's lots of people in the karaoke room!") but it was, as usual, a whole heap of fun, especially later when the girls got going with the singing AND dancing.

And Nikki sang!! Woohoo!! Carpenters Superstar. She'll never again be able to tell me she can't sing.

We left at 2am - personally I could have stayed another hour or so :o) - but what a great night. Thanks, Simon. I only hope our housewarming party this coming May can match your high standard! (Even without the salsa)

A round-about way

I had to drive over to Nottingham unexpectedly today. My Mum's finding it increasingly difficult to get upstairs and had finally decided to have a single bed brought down into the dining room. As a result she has no space for the table/chairs and I was going over to pick them up, and to set up the bed for her.

In the usual circular way of things with Mother, this was a return to the state of play before Christmas when I thought I was going to have to juggle all the pre-Christmas goings on (such as the mulled wine party) with a dining room reconfiguration. At the eleventh hour she called the whole thing off. Someone had mentioned getting a Stannah stairlift fitted and that idea became flavour of the month. I knew very well she had no idea how expensive they are, so I just sent up thanks for not having to move the dining table before Christmas, and bided my time.

Sure enough, Stannah were kicked out of the house (£7,000 AND she would have had to have two radiators moved) and the move was back on, so off I set.

So now, we get to the point of my tale (at last! you're probably thinking) which is mini-roundabouts. Yes, sorry, another driving blog. Only in disguise this time. Non-UK readers, particularly those in North America may be in the dark about what exactly I mean by "roundabout." Well, you could Google it, but basically imagine a four-way stop (or in some cases, more, or less ways) but with a circular road in the middle instead of a square lump of tarmac, and where priority is given to cars coming round the circle (the roundabout) from the right. Only in the case of North America (and the rest of Europe), they would be coming from the left. If there's nothing coming from the right, you can enter the roundabout, and once you're on it you have priority over anyone else trying to enter.

I know from talking to North American friends that the idea sounds mad, but trust me it works very well and - to European eyes at least - makes a lot more sense than a four-way. How you ever work out who was first and last to pull up if it gets busy I wouldn't like to guess.

Anyway, I'm not talking about roundabouts per se, but MINI-roundabouts. These are used at junctions where there isn't enough space to build a real roundabout, but where traffic control is simplified by the roundabout concept. They're often just painted rings on the road like this one. My reason for blogging them is that on my journey to Nottingham there are two of these little guys, and at both of them I saw drivers making a real meal of them. I said they're used where there's not much space, right? So it's amazing how many drivers try to drive around the little painted circle, even when there are no other cars near the junction. Why?

The whole idea of them is that they introduce the concept of the roundabout, without necessarily needing to be treated like one in terms of road positioning. I admit opinion is divided on this one (and indeed there's even a campaign to abolish mini-roundabouts and end the confusion) but to me, all that is necessary is to give way to the right, just as you would on any other roundabout. If there's no-one about there's absolutely no need to attempt to drive around the paint. Indeed in many places it's physically impossible to achieve that anyway.

Woof! Woof!

Hey, we're almost there on the surround-sound front. Annie succeeded in her eBay quest and picked one up for a snip (well, £23 to be precise). Nikki & I elected to avoid the £20 postal charge by driving up to Blackburn this evening to collect it. The nice man even threw in a phono cable with the deal. Result!

Now all we have to do is wire everything up. Rear speaker shelves were taken care of last weekend in a few minutes - another benefit of picture rail!

I met Wendy Richard today...

I was in London today for a business meeting. Nothing unusual about that, nor about the fact that, since the meeting finished early, we decided to repair to the pub around the corner for lunch. Come to think of it that is quite unusual. It would have been only the second time I'd visited that particular establishment, but the second time will have to wait: it was closed for refurbishment.

Following closely on the heels of Nic, who knows the local pubs in the same way as he knows everything else - thoroughly - we dashed around the corner into an alternative pub and ordered pints. As I turned to find a seat who should be standing next to me at the bar but Wendy Richard, aka the recently deceased Pauline Fowler from EastEnders.

It was at that point I turned into a gibbering wreck. I don't know what it is about being "around" famous people, but I don't cope with it very well. It's almost as if I'm trying to prove something. Along the lines of "I know you're famous but that doesn't cut any ice with me so I'm just going to treat you like anyone else and act completely normal and definitely not all fawning and star-struck." Only I don't act normal at all. I go completely the other way - wayyyyyyy too pally and sociable. Because even though I'm from the "friendly" North I just do not walk up to complete strangers at a bar and strike up a conversation as if we've known each other for years. But I did with Wendy. Not even a "hello, nice to meet you," or a "my name's John," or anything else that remotely resembled social graces. With no consideration of the fact that she probably just wanted to sit at the bar and have a quiet drink, I just sauntered up and asked "so what's next for you?"

I felt like Baby Houseman from Dirty Dancing where she meets Johnny Castle for the first time and says "I carried a watermelon."

Wendy removed her coat with infinite grace and replied politely "you can't have been watching much television over Christmas dear," referring presumably to the EE special that had been on which I expect covered something about the work she had lined up. No, I hadn't seen it, I admitted. She went on to tell me that she'd been on some breakfast programme and was about to do a spot on Wogan's radio show, but I wasn't really listening. I was already mortified at my presumption and looking to make my escape. One of the others asked me to order another drink and I gratefully turned around to address the barmaid. Wendy went back to her paper.

I couldn't leave it there though, could I? What would she think of me? So as I turned and walked past her with two drinks in my hands I said: "forgive me - us Northerners just strike up conversations without a by-your-leave." Wendy was ready for me again: "I'm from Middlesborough myself dear, so I quite understand." More embarrassment! Clearly if I'd been a real fan, I'd have known she was from oop t'North.

I sat down, reflecting on my total lack of social skill. I remember meeting Bryan Pringle in the Trip to Jerusalem one lunchtime many, many years ago. Bryan, most famous to me in those days for playing the part of 'Cheese and Egg' in a TV comedy called the Dustbinmen, had been appearing in a play at the Nottingham Playhouse and had also sought refuge in the pub. I spotted him when I was just about to leave the bar. "Hello Bryan!" I yelled, as if he was the long-lost best mate from my childhood, and when he smiled and said hello I beat a hasty retreat to the other side of the pub. Clearly I'd learned nothing about how to handle celebrity in the intervening 30+ years.

Next time I see someone famous I'll just nod and smile. Then they'll only suspect I'm simple minded - I won't have proved it.

Beresford & Wallace

What's this? Two consecutive posts about writing? The guy must be serious! :o)

Well almost - this one's about songwriting, for these are exciting times. If you've read my website you might know that last year my good friend Annie Wallace and I recorded an album. If you're a close friend or family member you may even have a copy. Short clips from each track have been available on our websites for a year but following an idea of Annie's and a short discussion we agreed we would make the whole thing available for download from a dedicated website.

Beresford & Wallace.com went live at the end of last week and for the time being you can still only get those original 30-second clips. Soon though, you'll be able to download the complete tracks. We're not expecting to do an Arctic Monkeys with any of our stuff, but you never know.

It's All About The Work

Actually that's a bit of a deliberate misnomer. It's the war-cry of my writing coach (and good friend) Colleen Patrick and it's also, despite the title of my blog, one of the most significant things I haven't written about on here so far! "The work" in question is the writing. The thing that, for writers, should be the most important part of the day. And the thing that, for me, always gets pushed so far to the end of the day that it falls over into tomorrow, only for the same thing to happen over and over again.

It's not that I don't write anything. I do. I write here. I write for TV Scoop (on a daily basis). I write technical documents during the working day at the only job I have that can pay the mortgage. But none of that is the writing I really want to be doing. And if I "really want to be doing it," why is it so hard to sit down and really do it?

I finished my novel in August last year. I like to write that, and have it stand in its own sentence, before going on to tell you that it's only the first draft. OK, fair enough most people don't ever get to even finish one draft, so maybe I should sit back and take some pride in that. But I think sitting back for almost six months is maybe overdoing it a little. I did start the first redraft, and I'm exactly six twentieths of the way through that, but I've been stalled for those six months.

Things have been hectic, of that there's no doubt. Moving house, decorating, entertaining (much of which is on here somewhere if you care to look), Christmas and all, but I know those reasons - or excuses, as you might call them if you were feeling harsh - wouldn't cut any ice with CP. She has a simple philosophy, which is that you should write every day. Even if it's only five minutes a day. Every day. So while I'm not one for New Year's resolutions a thought has been crystallising in my mind this last couple of weeks. That if my writing gets pushed to the end of the day, maybe that's the most sensible time to do it. I know some writers prefer first thing in the morning, but I already get up at stupid o'clock to get ready for work, and my brain is no longer sharp enough at that time of day to invent fiction. No, it's the end of the day for me. I'm always still awake long past when I should have been in bed anyway (unless I've fallen asleep in front of the telly) so what difference will an extra 30 minutes make?

Ignorance is no defence

Sorry to post two traffic-related rants consecutively, but it seems that standards of road use around the Manchester area are reaching previously unheard of lows just recently. It's not just discourtesy, road rage or stupidity but out-and-out law breaking, purely because the perpetrators know they can get away with it. In the last week I've witnessed:

• A guy turning the wrong way up a one-way street, in the centre of Chorlton, in full view of the massed shoppers on a Saturday afternoon
• A white van driving more than a mile down a bus lane just so that he can be first to turn left at the next set of lights
• A cyclist without lights riding on the pavement in the dark

and of course there's the usual crop of red light runners, cyclists included. At the junction near our place where I have to wait to turn right every morning, the number of people coming in the opposite direction and jumping the red light has reached epic proportions. To the extent where I can't complete my right-turn manoeuvre until the traffic starting out from their green lights to right and left is almost upon me. This is an insidious problem. It started out, and not so very long ago, with people pushing their luck accelerating through amber lights. They left it later and later, until they were crossing the junction as amber turned to red. A few years ago, people started tailgating the last car through the red light. What their defence would have been I have no idea but it didn't matter - very few if any were prosecuted. Confidence grew, and now three are four cars regularly tailgate over a red light at each change.

Do we really have to get to the stage where every set of traffic lights has to be fitted with cameras before these arrogant, ignorant people will obey the law? One thing's certain - there's no sanction worrying them at present. It's simple: no enforcement + no penalty = no obedience. And more and more people are working that out, led on by the example of the few.

Trouble is, it's the thin end of the wedge. Once you start down the path of picking and choosing which laws you obey and which are just "inconvenient," the next stop is anarchy.

Red lights at red lights

Although I've been known to rant on a bit in this blog I don't consider myself a person that gets easily riled, but being back on the roads today on this, the first working day of the year, reminded me of something that regularly pisses me off: the complete lack of empathy shown by drivers who sit at red lights with their foot jammed on the brakes, forcing me to stare at their high-intensity brake lights for minutes on end.

It's not comfortable, it's not pleasant, and in the majority of cases it's totally not necessary. Manchester is a reasonably flat city - a huge proportion of its traffic lights and junctions are on roads with no slope at all. When you're stopped, you stay stopped. No need for any brakes. Give your right foot a rest!

If you're one of the (no more than) 10% of UK drivers with an automatic gearbox, you might think you have an excuse. Nope. Pop the shift into neutral and give your right foot a rest!

What about when you're on a slope - surely then you have a reason? Nope. Ever heard of the handbrake? Yank it up and give your right foot a rest! When I learnt to drive, we were taught to use this clever little device for hill starts and to control the vehicle on slight slopes. Now, it's somehow become a point of macho pride to slip the clutch at hilly junctions, or use the footbrake and "prove" you can pull away quickly before you start to roll back.

But mostly it's just pure laziness. You come to a stop with your foot on the brake and you leave it there. It's not a foot rest! Take it off! Give my eyes a break!

Happy New Year

Yesterday was a hive of activity, as we wanted to have time to slob around and do nothing this evening and tomorrow, to savour what remains of the holiday. We set to with a vengeance to generally tidy up as well as taking down the Christmas decorations.

The hall looks very bare without the tree (why, when a tree decoration breaks, is it always one of your favourites? We'll be looking for another glass angel next Christmas) but the rest of the house looks just...normal. We never go in for vast quantities of danglies or tinsel anywhere, although now we're in a bigger place we really should invest in a few more bits and pieces. The overall effect of our deccies this year was quite muted. Having to take boxes of tinsel up to the attic room prompted us to have a look around for other things that could be moved up there out of the way and in the course of doing this we uncovered the kitchen curtains we'd brought with us from the old place.

Nikki realised they would match the new décor in spare room perfectly. Down came the original green ones, to be replaced with these rather fine terracotta alternatives, which have a literary theme (they're printed with various latin phrases).

We also cleaned behind cooker - Nikki being embarrassed by the large collection of food droppings, grease, dust, insects and old bottle tops in the gap between the cooker and the wall, and very conscious that the "cooker man" should be arriving one day this week to fix the problem with the oven.

With these and several other small jobs taken care of we were all set to settle down for a quiet evening in when an email arrived from Jamie and Lise urging us to come to their NYE party. We ummed and ahhed for a while but in the end decided to go and are we glad we did - they laid on a fabulous spread AND a quiz in the pub-stylee and we had a totally top night. Happy New Year to them, to all our friends and family and to anyone else who happens to be reading this!

Identity crisis

With the threat of Identity cards looming, the subject of identity and how to prove it is big news here in the UK at the moment. We have in recent years had to jump through extraordinary hoops, for instance, to open new bank accounts because anti-money laundering legislation now requires proof that you are who you say you are, and live where you say you live, before the account is set up.

So it was with some surprise I learned recently that a friend who is getting married this year has been able to apply for a passport in her married name, and has actually had the passport issued, several months before the ceremony is due to take place.

Naturally I hope things go well for her and that her and her partner enjoy a long and happy married life, but the simple fact is she is now in possession of a legal document for someone who effectively doesn't yet exist. What would happen if, between now and then, the wedding is called off? Would anyone check the validity of the passport if the wedding didn't take place? I very much doubt it. Passports tend to be taken at face value, and this attitude to the validity of such an important document as a passport, widely seen as a lynchpin of someone's legal identity, is only legitimate if the checks that are made before issue are completely watertight.

The last time I got married, my new wife travelled on her original passport in her maiden name and we took the marriage certificate with us. She was only able to exchange her old passport for one in her married name by submitting both the original and the wedding certificate to the passport office, thus proving that the marriage had already occurred.

This new approach, undoubtedly instigated in an attempt to be helpful and "citizen-centric," appears to be open to unwitting or deliberate abuse in those cases where the expected marriage doesn't happen (or indeed, in nefarious cases, was never intended to happen).

Going "home"

I took my girls home tonight. It's been great having them here since Boxing Day - a much longer time than we usually get to spend with them, and even when we don't do much more than eat, talk and watch TV, it's still wonderful to be able to spend time with them and just be "normal."

But however long they stay, there always comes that time when I have to take them "home." The trips back to Yorkshire are totally different from the journeys to Manchester. When I pick them up, we all have news of what's happened since we last saw each other, school events, social events, how we're all getting along with various projects. We hardly stop talking until the moment we pull up outside the house.

On the way back? Mostly silence. We usually kill the emptiness by listening to some music (this time round, Black Holes and Revelations by Muse) but there's very rarely any conversation. I can't speak for them, but for me this is largely because I'm feeling a bit down knowing that I won't be seeing them again for a while - usually two weeks - and that I'm gonna miss them. The house always seems so quiet when I get back and they're not here.

Have you read The Bible?

We were all watching a celebrity edition of The Weakest Link this evening when the question came up "who betrayed Jesus for 30 pieces of silver?" to which I immediately responded "Judas."

After a few minutes, Blythe asked me if I'd read the Bible. I said no (although in my teens I did give it a go. I never got past the middle of Genesis - all that x begat y and y begat z and people living to the age of 900 kind of put me off) and asked her why she'd asked.

"Well you knew the answer to that Judas question," she replied.

No bad reflection on my younger daughter, but she's thirteen and growing up in what ostensibly is a Christian country. I've never considered myself a devout Christian or a bible-basher, but I knew the story of Judas by the time I was eight, purely because of the teaching I was exposed to in what was then an average junior school. Now, my daughters have both studied all sorts of alternative religions as part of their "religious education" - Hindu, Buddhist, Islam, Shinto - and I honestly believe this is a good thing. The less ignorance there is about other people's beliefs the easier it is for everyone to rub along together (IMO). But why should that be an excuse not to teach about Christianity, especially when that is the mainstream religion of Britain? I'm no Christian fundamentalist, but it seems to me that such woeful ignorance of even the most basic stories from scripture loosens the bonds of our culture and can only be a Bad Thing.

This is an old story - many newspaper headlines from the past year and before tell it - but why must we be so apologetic about having, preaching and teaching a religion in Britain? All around, Christian symbols are being taken down, greetings at this time of year are watered down to "Happy Holidays" instead of "Happy Christmas" and the number of cards on sale with nativity or religious scenes reduces year by year, all for the sake of avoiding "offence" to other religions.

Hang on - I'm not offended if someone wishes me "Happy Hannukah" or a colleague at work brings in a box of chocolates so we can all celebrate Diwali. And of all my many friends, colleagues and acquaintances, whose various faiths are numerous, none of them are offended by me wishing them Happy Christmas. Why would they be?

First fire

Owing to a trauma suffered as a teenager, Nikki has never been very keen on open fires. I should rephrase that: she's actively avoided having one. But our new home has four fireplaces, three of which are open and one - in the study - which has a wood burning stove. So it was inevitable that at some stage during the winter, I was going to want to put a fire in.

And what better time to do that than when we're all at home intending to enjoy a quiet day watching "Christmas telly" - i.e. old movies, DVDs and catching up with stuff that's been languishing on the PVR since the summer? So off I trudged to the wood store and filled my bucket. I'd not been certain of being able to persuade Nikki that this was a good idea, so I wasn't prepared with firelighters or quantities of kindling. I did have a couple of old newspapers lying around though, and soon had a small fire set with twigs, bits of broken door and (very) small logs.

Within a few minutes, we had our very first fire and in true "real fire" style it looked a lot warmer than it actually was. Even so I still think it's true that you can't beat real flame. We turned the lights down low, snuggled up on the sofas, put Pixar's "Cars" on the DVD player, turned on the demo surround sound system and settled down for a cozy afternoon's viewing (interrupted only by three further trips to the wood store - I'll have to get a bigger bucket!).

I wimped out mid-evening. It had started to rain around 4 o'clock and I'd already made one damp trip for more wood through the downpour. Faced with a combination of torrential rain and darkness I decided to let the fire die out, which it did around 8. Lovely while it lasted though, and with a fine mesh fireguard in place, Nikki learned to love it too :o)

Christmas at the Azad Manzil

Last Christmas Day, we took Mum and our good friend Annie out for a Christmas curry to the Azad Manzil. The food was fabulous and the place was rammed, with a 'party' atmosphere to die for - everyone wishing everyone else a Happy Christmas - so we really enjoyed the experience and had originally intended doing the same this year. That was, until we'd been in our new home about a month and I began to feel that for the first Christmas here I'd prefer a traditional meal around our own dining table.

Having bought a massive turkey crown, our plans were royally thwarted when the oven packed in last Thursday. We'd cooked a perfect pizza the night before, when suddenly the oven decided it would leave its burner languishing at a height of half an inch and never rise above a temperature of 250°

So it was back to plan A, and we booked in at the Azad Manzil.

The first change we noticed was the menu. A choice of only one traditional or one curry meal, either of which had to be booked in advance. I've been a dedicated curry eater for over 30 years and I'd never heard of the dish on offer as "Meal B" - a chicken Kurzi - but we ordered two of those and two traditionals. The second difference was that they wouldn't let us book in for two o'clock: they were only catering for one sitting, which was at 3pm. Both of these changes, while perfectly understandable from a catering point of view and not being especially disappointing, did put a slight damper on our expectations.

We were right to be concerned. We arrived shortly after 3pm to find only two other tables occupied. Half an hour later when the "single sitting" began to be served, no more than six tables were taken and the atmosphere was more like a graveyard than a celebration. Service was quite slow and perfunctory (in complete contrast to the jovial atmosphere of last year) and although the Kurzi - which turned out to be a tandoori chicken covered with something like a curried bolognese sauce - was pleasant, it would never have been my first choice. To top it all, the Rasmalai promised on the menu (my favourite Indian dessert) was never offered, and Gulab Jamin (which I hate) were substituted without a word.

We left feeling completely let down and I doubt very much whether we'll be back for a third visit next year (oven willing!).

Entertaining Mother

Christmas Eve, and for the fifth year running I set off early to pick up my Mum. She spends three days with us, and normally enjoys the change, but after a year of failing health I was expecting this year to be more of an ordeal for her. Looking on the bright side, it would have been worse had we still been at the old house, which had many more stairs to negotiate. With deteriorating hip joints and muscle wastage in one leg, she finds stairs increasingly difficult and had at one point declared that she would sleep on a sofa because she wouldn't be able to get upstairs.

Having assembled the portable pharmacy she needs to carry with her these days, we set off back home just after 11am. The roads had been relatively quiet on the way down, but by this time everyone had woken up to the fact of it being the last shopping day, and the journey through Stockport was very slow.

The journey from Nottingham takes about two hours so we arrived at the predicted time and gave Mum the ground floor tour, leaving the upper floors until my cousin and her husband arrived. I needn't have worried quite so much about the stairs - turns out in the last couple of days Mum has improved slightly and developed a way of getting up that is slow but effective.

Trish and Rob stayed for tea and sandwiches and headed off around 6pm leaving us with the evening telly. There was a time, and I'm sure this is not a rose-tinted memory, when our whole family could sit and watch TV quite happily together. Maybe the lack of choice back then (when I left the parental home there were only three channels available) forced us to be less discerning and/or more easily satisfied, or perhaps it's a complex combination of factors, but I find it almost impossible to watch in the company of my mother for any length of time. So much has changed since those days of my adolescence. Back then television was our main form of entertainment. Now, while my Mum remains glued to the same narrow spectrum of programs (soaps and crime dramas such as Poirot and Morse), we barely watch an hour's TV per night, preferring instead to spend time online, playing games, reading, or with friends.

Even when our telly habits overlap - as with soaps - it's not always a good match. We watch EastEnders; she doesn't. She watches Emmerdale; we don't. And our attitudes to the storylines couldn't be more polarised. David Platt's exposure of grandma Audrey's affair with Bill Webster, for instance, which took place over the family meal on Christmas Day in front of Bill's wife was greeted by us with cries of "Excellent!" and howls of laughter. My Mum sat stony-faced and muttered: "He needs a damned good hiding."

And once the soaps are over for the night, there is very little we can find that will satisfy our mutual viewing needs. Mum's lived on her own for 13 years now, and is used to having sole charge of the remote. Since we're not prepared to sit in front of endless rehashes of Midsomer Murders or The Inspector Linley Mysteries, whatever we choose to watch is punctuated by regular tuts or exasperated exhalations from Mum's corner of the room followed shortly with "I think I'll go to bed, John." No, it's never relaxing watching TV in the company of the aged P, but in some strange way it has come to represent the distillation of 21st century Christmases.

Mulled wine, mates and home cinema

What a weekend this has been! New friends and old friends in abundance and although not the official housewarming, our new home now feels even warmer and more friendly than it did before.

We learned from the previous owners that they had held a mulled wine evening somewhere close to Christmas for the last five years. Right from the off we were very keen to uphold this local tradition. There was a momentary hiccup while we debated with some other neighbours who should hold it, because we'd been told they had expressed an interest in doing it this year. Having spoken with them, it turned out this was only a backstop in case "the new people" didn't want to do it. As soon as we convinced them we really wanted to have the party here, they more or less insisted we do it.

With most of the house still to some extent in a mess, we had to leave it until the last possible weekend before Christmas to organise it, so eventually the date was set for Friday 15th and invites went out. We had one decline (previous engagement) and no other replies, so we didn't have any idea what to expect - but the last thing we anticipated was the arrival, on the dot, of the person who said she couldn't make it. "Hubby's been delayed at work, so I thought I'd just pop over and show my face," she laughed, and was joined a few minutes later by another neighbour in a similar situation. Both she and her husband were off to different works' dos but she wanted to support the event and stayed for a glass of wine.

We learned from the first that she was still getting "funny mail" having been here more than ten years (not sure whether that was a comfort or not!) and from the second that her kitchen man had managed to install her entire kitchen for less than a quarter of what we were quoted. A useful man to know!

After slightly overstaying their declared thirty minutes, both these ladies made their apologies and left, and Nikki and I stood in perfect pre-party gloom, alone with our cups of mulled wine wondering whether anyone else was going to turn up. We needn't have worried: during the next hour more-or-less the whole street turned up, and the wine, cheese and excellent conversation flowed well into the night. The "second era" of mulled wine parties was well and truly ushered in that night and we thoroughly enjoyed it.

The following day we were up early again and preparing to welcome all my mates from Nottingham for the weekend. After the successes of the Great Orme weekend and the 50th birthday celebrations we were determined to keep up the pace of get-togethers since there'd been a bit of a cultural desert in the middle of the year. We just managed to squeeze this date in before Christmas and it was the first time anyone had seen the new place.

Once everyone had arrived, had a brew and been given the 50c tour, we caught the bus into town to take in the Christmas markets. Not surprisingly (this was the markets' last weekend of trading) they were all rammed, but we had a good look around and then repaired to Sinclairs Oyster Bar for a very welcome couple of pints. We timed it perfectly - hitting the upstairs while there was still one table free and space at the bar. Within 15 minutes of our arrival it was standing room only and three deep at the bar!

Walking back up Market Street, we caught the bus from Piccadilly and on arrival home sat those who were fans down in front of Strictly Come Dancing while we prepared a chilli. It was a squeeze fitting eight around our dining table, but SO great to have everyone there enjoying the meal, laughing and joking. For me, at that moment, the spirit of Christmas crystallised. There is surely nothing better than welcoming your oldest friends and their partners into your home and sharing a wonderful meal together.

There then followed a shift change in front of the TV as the Strictly Come Dancing fans made way for the X Factor fans and we watched the final, with (naturally) rather more piss-taking than normal service would have expected. Pretty soon after we were all showing our age - various nodding heads paying homage to the lateness of the hour, the full bellies and the quantity of quaffage, so we declared an end to proceedings and went to our various beds.

Sunday morning dawned bright and bleary and with a traditional breakfast of bacon baps tucked away, the mates departed each to their own destinations. For while I still refer to them all as "my Nottingham mates" the truth is they only originated in Nottingham. Nowadays only two of our group live there (and one had not come for the weekend). The rest of us are more widely dispersed but still answer to the title "Nottingham mates" and ever mote it be.

The excitement of the weekend was not yet over, however: a further surprise was yet to come in the form of Annie offering us an option of a second-hand home-cinema-surround-sound system she'd been hawking around on behalf of another friend. Scarcely pausing to draw breath she was upon us, wiring up a demo (sans sub woofer) and insinuating the delights of surround sound under our skins to the point where we could hardly refuse the deal. Like I said at the beginning: WHAT a weekend!

It's *your* responsibility

One of the most apparently innocuous aspects of the weekly grocery shop is something I find really irritating and makes me keenly aware on a regular basis what a topsy-turvy world we've created for ourselves.

It's the warning on the travelator between the ground and first floor levels at Asda Trafford.

A model of high technology, Asda have installed detectors at the top and bottom of each travelator and, when anyone comes within range, the detectors initiate a recorded woman's voice saying "Approaching landing level; please take care." The detectors are finely tuned and can distinguish people standing only a few inches apart. The message is played for each person detected and when walking around that end of the store there is an almost constant background noise of "Approaching landing level; please take care...Approaching landing level; please take care...Approaching landing level; please take care."

How much money it cost to install I have no idea, but Asda clearly believed it was money well spent to ensure that not only had they done everything possible to avoid a customer falling off the end of the moving walkway and suing them for negligence, but also each individual customer would, as far as possible, hear their own personal message. But negligence? Like it's not their own responsibility, having stepped onto the device, to maintain sufficient awareness of where they are to know when the end is nigh.

Not so very long ago, it would have been sufficient to install a (silent!) sign saying something like "end of travelator approaching - face forward." Indeed airports still seem to manage perfectly well with this simple measure - I have not yet heard a verbal warning in an airport and I hope I never do. And of course, before the advent of such signs we had something called "common sense" which imbued everyone with the ability to face the right way, watch out for the end of an escalator or travelator, and step off it on their own like real grown up people. What's more, if they tripped up off the end, they would most likely have thought "stupid me," got up and walked on.

In recent years we've heard a lot about "human rights" but not much about human responsibilities. Like taking responsibility for your own actions and not looking for someone else to blame when something happens to you that you should have foreseen, or could have avoided with a bit of thought. I despair sometimes, wondering how today's kids will survive growing up in a "warning environment" where they are never expected to fend, or even think, for themselves. Where they learn to expect to be told what to do at every step of every process. Like when the landing level is approaching.

Spare room decorating: Finished!

Today was a day for finishing things. The boiler refit was completed and the boiler commissioned by about 6pm, after a freezing day at home with both front and back doors open all day. In the end I shut myself in the study with only an oil heater for company but at least I was warm enough for my fingers to move over the keyboard.

With the painting complete (including retouching where the "low touch" masking tape had pulled off paint - and sometimes paper - from the edges of the peachy walls) we could move the furniture back in to spare bedroom and rehang the curtains. OK, being the original curtains they don't exactly match the rest of the room anymore, but they'll do for now. And the room needs a light fitting (one I've saved from several houses ago which has been looking for a home for almost 20 years) and some small bedside tables and a small dresser, and we haven't yet decided what to do about all the stripped doors in the house, but hey - it's decorated!)

Lunchtime was taken up with completing the assembly of the wardrobe. I reckon this has taken about nine hours to put together, but the end result looks great and we can finally take the rest of our clothes out of boxes and portable wardrobes exactly two months after moving in!

Finally, we erected and decorated the new Christmas tree. With so many cracks between floorboards we decided a long time ago that we'd give up having a real tree. We both love them but they're a pain to fetch, you can never find exactly the right shape and getting rid of them afterwards is more pain, so artificial it is. Still looks nice though and it fits the hall perfectly.

Spare room decorating: Day 8

Another day working at home (in this case because I had to be here to let the heating engineers in - we're having the old boiler ripped out and a fab new combi boiler installed) so the second coat of copper on that fourth wall was my lunchtime task again for today.

Since we're without heating tonight (old boiler has gone; new boiler not yet connected) we kept warm by carrying on with the assembly of the wardrobe. Completed the two-door section and the complete carcase of the single-door section. These imports are very well put together, but as always the instructions are not quite up to the mark. For instance - the picture shows that the strengthening blocks at the four corners at the back have to be screwed in at stage 4, so when you come to bolt the two sections of wardrobe together at stage 12, you can't get two of the bolts in because the blocks are in the way! Doh!

Oh, and we figured out where those two weird feet go on the bed. With it being a super king (6-foot) bed, the central support strut carrying the slats needs those two feet screwing to it to hold it up. And the rest of the screws? They're for the slats themselves - three each side - so they don't slide about under the mattress. That would have taken just one picture - come on guys!

Spare room decorating: Day 7

Since I've now run out of holiday and had to go back to work, progress has slowed to a crawl but luckily I can work at home today and with only one wall left to paint I can get the first coat on in my lunch hour. This is the feature wall, so it's copper.

Spare room decorating: Day 6

Last day of the holiday and as I applied the second coat of peach to the three walls it was clear I wouldn't be finishing the room in the allotted time - that ceiling had set me back a day and I never recovered it. I have to wait until the peach is properly dry before I mask off around the edges of the fourth wall, so that will have to wait.

The painting didn't take too long, so I was soon on to the next task of the day - assembling the three-door wardrobe that was delivered yesterday. Most of the furniture was delivered already assembled, but the wardrobe had arrived in five separate packages and it wasn't until I opened the fifth package that I found the instructions! A small panic there! It was obvious from the off that this isn't a one-person job and what's more, it's going to take more than one evening, but I managed to get the first two-thirds of the carcase together so at least it would stand up on its own.

The Christmas do

A day off from decorating! After five solid days I was ready for it, and yesterday was the day of Nikki's work's Christmas do at Moorside Grange. The celebrations started early - too early to do any decorating as we had to be there between 2 and 3pm for post-check-in drinks.

After checking in and dumping our bags we joined the other early birds for a couple of beers in the bar. I'd had a feeling of déja vu since learning where this place was, and turning into the lane it's on I'd finally remembered it as the place I'd spent a rather unhappy two days at a business conference almost seven years earlier. I think it might have been called something else back then.

Early drinks over we escaped to our room to shower and prepare for the evening's "entertainment" - which consisted of more drinks in the bar (including cocktails) and then being frogmarched into the Pennine suite banqueting hall with about 180 other unfortunates. It was bloody freezing in there but before long we were served our gruel to mark the start of the meal. Now I know "Christmas party" catering has an apocryphal bad name but this reached new depths. I wonder whose job it was to count the sprouts onto the plates, because we all had exactly four baby sprouts, along with two slivers of carrot, four small balls of something that resembled roast potato, two slices of turkey breast and a very small pig in a threadbare blanket. In my case this was followed by one of those individual cheesecakes that you only get at mass catering dos - looks like a small gasometer and tastes like shaving foam.

With only a disco to look forward to after that, and neither of us fancying our chances on the postage stamp dance floor we beat a retreat as soon as it was politely possible and crashed out in the (passably comfortable) room, only to be woken at 6am by the sound of the very high moorland winds rattling the tiles beside our window, which was set in a cross gable.

Spare room decorating: Day 5

Big painting day today, starting with the second coat of gloss on the picture rail and then moving on to the ceiling, where I hope one coat of white emulsion will be enough (I hate painting ceilings). I'm using the same builder's grade white emulsion on the walls above the picture rail.

After lunch I moved down to apply the first coat of peach emulsion to three walls and once that was complete it was obvious that the walls above the picture rail needed another coat of white, so I cracked on with that too.

I would have finished painting earlier had it not been for the arrival of the OvenU man to clean our range. For the first couple of days after we moved in we were convinced there was a gas leak in the kitchen, but it turned out to be the cooker - it was absolutely filthy. We did our best to clean the worst off the main oven so that we could use it, but we didn't want to go anywhere near the grill pan which was an inch deep in rancid fat. Nikki found these guys online - they turn up, take your cooker apart, clean it with industrial-strength stuff and reassemble it. We had them do the cooker hood too, which was also thick with grease. It took the man almost four hours but by the time he'd finished it looked like new. Trouble was whenever I came down from the decorating for a brew, he'd regale me with oven-cleaning tales. Each cuppa ended up taking half an hour!

The second distraction was the arrival mid-afternoon of our new bedroom furniture from Ivy House. After several weeks' searching online we finally went for the Quebec range and it was delivered today in twelve packages (plus mattress). The delivery guys were very helpful and agreed to take most of them up to the first floor, but the two largest wouldn't go up the stairs, prompting Nikki to worry that we'd have to send the whole lot back. I was pretty sure that whatever was in those parcels would fit once the packaging was removed, but even so there's always that small voice of doubt.

Fortunately we'd already arranged to eat with Annie at Wetherspoons so she gave me a lift up with (what turned out to be) the headboard and footboard for our new sleigh bed. Nikki was keen to get the bed assembled - we'd moved our old bed into the study the previous night to leave room for the delivery - so it was another late night by the time we'd figured out where everything went.

Well, not quite everything. We had two strange looking feet left over when it was all put together. Just blocks of wood really with rubber feet on, and a bag containing ten screws. There were no instructions with the bed, and it was too late to work it out, so we gave up wondering and went to bed.

Spare room decorating: Day 4

Today felt like a turning point in the decorating project - the first day I'd dipped a paint brush to apply a final coat - the first coat of satinwood gloss on the picture rail.

My main target for today was to complete the papering. This was the second experiment in the room - to investigate whether heavy-duty (1000 grade) lining paper was good enough to cover the blemishes on the rather strange plasterwork. If it wasn't, it meant that in all the other rooms we'd have to strip the plaster back to brick and have them replastered - obviously a much longer, dirtier and more expensive process and one we wanted to avoid if possible.

We still haven't figured out exactly how the walls in this house have been plastered, but one thing's for sure: we've never seen anything like it. Every wall of the house is roughly finished in what looks like Artex. None of it is done in traditional Artex patterns (apart from the bathroom). It's as if the original plaster was in really bad condition so they had someone in to do the cheapest repair possible - only he wasn't a professional plasterer so he's skimmed it all with Artex. Yuck. Anyway, we're giving the lining paper approach a try - simple, quick and cheap :o)

Another late finish tonight - after 11pm - but the whole room is papered and ready for painting - yayyy!

Spare room decorating: Day 3

After the previous day's disaster with the mega-plank, the first task for today was a trip back to B&Q for a more realistically-sized version. I had another surprise in store - all the shorter planks were more expensive. Didn't take me long to figure out the answer to this though - I bought another 3.6 metre plank and had the man at the cutting desk chop it down to 2.5 metres. Much easier to fit into the car too!

Back home the first job was to sand down the stripped picture rail & rub it down with wire wool soaked in white spirit. Once done, the surface of the wood was a lot cleaner and smoother. If I'd taken more care I could easily have varnished it and left it at that, but I knew that would mean having to strip the skirting boards too and I was on a deadline for this room. It had to be ready for my Mum to use at Christmas, and Blythe a day or two after that.

Final task for today was papering the ceiling - and I knew I had to get the whole lot done in a day to remain on schedule. I've only ever papered a ceiling once before, but the task was made easier by having the new improved plank to hand, and also by the choice of paper - an embossed vinyl which was quite lightweight while still being very resilient. I finished papering a little after 9.30pm and collapsed into the bath exhausted.

Spare room decorating: Day 2

As I mentioned yesterday the spare bedroom, along with most of the other rooms in the house, has some cracks in the ceiling. I'd assumed these were similar to the cracks we used to get in our previous house - that is, they were due to shrinkage or settlement and could be filled and sanded in the usual way. Err...wrong. Turns out the old lath and plaster ceilings have been covered with some sort of heavy-duty paint (possibly latex paint) which had cracked in places and started to peel back. Once I started at this with a scraper it quickly became obvious that I wasn't going to be able to get a good result with filler - the cracks were too shallow - and in any case large areas of paint started to flake off.

I concluded the whole lot needed to be taken off before papering the ceiling; a decision which cost me the whole day and a very sore shoulder!

After climbing repeatedly up and down my step ladder for several hours last night, I'd also decided it was time to buy a plank. This was the first task of the day, as I figured it would save a lot of time and bruised feet. But finding a supplier was tough going. I really wanted a simple scaffolding plank, but couldn't find anywhere that sold them. Eventually I reached B&Q Warehouse in Trafford and found something close to what I was looking for in the builder's yard - a 3.6 metre length of rough-sawn timber for a little over £8. They had shorter ones, but I wanted to be able to set the plank up between two ladders and walk the length of the room without getting down. 3.6 metres looked perfect.

It wasn't so perfect when I got it out to the car though - it wouldn't fit! I had a verrrrry slow journey home, with the plank sticking out of the passenger window and me hanging onto it with one arm; driving with the other. For a start it would slide off its resting place on the door mirror if I cornered too quickly. If I drove any faster than about 25mph the plank would catch the air like a wing and fly up to the top of the window, and if that wasn't enough I was seriously worried about clipping a street light or a parked car with the front end of the plank. I knew I'd only do this once - even at 20mph it would have taken out the rear of my car in a second since the plank was so thick and heavy. Ever noticed how when you're in this situation there are always more police cars around than normal? None of them paid me any attention beyond a few funny looks.

Once I'd safely reached home I soon realised I'd made a big mistake. The plank, which now looked MUCH bigger than it had in the builder's yard - was almost too long to fit through the front door. With great care I got it into the hall, and then upstairs, but it was obvious that it was going to be too long to use in the little room. Back to the stepladder for the day. Doh!

Spare room decorating: Day 1

My last week's holiday starts today and the goal is to complete redecoration of the spare bedroom - the smallest room in the house (besides the smallest room, of course!). It's a bit of a test case in two respects. Firstly I'll be investigating the most effective way of removing the metallic gloss paint from off the picture rail.

We have this in most rooms of the house - it's one of the ubiquitous and idiosyncratic décor features beloved of the previous owners. We've kept it in the lounge (for now) but up here I'm going to see what it looks like with a more traditional white satin finish. This particular room has a gold rail but we also enjoy copper and bronze rails in other rooms.

The other experiment involves lining paper, but more of that later. Today's job is to strip the picture rail and I'm all set up with a can of Nitromors, a pile of wire wool, some white spirit and a pair of heavy duty rubber gloves. One small drawback is the fact that the bedroom window is painted shut so I can't get as much ventilation in the room as I'd like when using Nitromors. Nevertheless I began on a two-foot section by the door, painting the solution on as instructed and waiting five minutes. I spent those five minutes on the computer in another room in deference to the fumes! The next part of the procedure is to work another thick coat of Nitromors into the loosened paint on top of the previous coat, stippling the paint with the brush. I have to say it looks like the brush I'm using will be ruined so I'm glad I chose a cheap one for the job, and I'm also a little concerned at the globs of Nitromors-soaked paint that are falling onto the skirting board and blistering the sleeving on the telephone wire tacked down there.

After a further twenty minutes soaking, the blistered gloopy mixture is ready to be scraped off (carefully!) with a shavehook, revealing the bare wood. Except the wood isn't completely bare - it has several small sections where the paint has not been completely lifted from the surface, so according to the instructions I have to go over this again with coarse wire wool soaked in Nitromors. More mess, more fumes! I'm not enjoying this.

After scraping the rest of the mess off I went over the section again with more wire wool, this time soaked in white spirit. I have to say this is not the most rapid process - it's taken me two hours to clean off two feet of rail (it's the small white section in this picture, which also shows the interesting original rag rolling on the walls) and it's not been pretty. The room is full of carcinogens, the floor is covered in chemical waste and the rail still doesn't look especially clean. If I was intending to varnish onto bare wood it would need more processing but luckily I'll be painting it.

Having wasted so much time on this I decided to "blow torch" the rest using a hot-air stripper and the next two hours saw me stripping off almost twelve feet of rail. Much more effective and a much better finish. I think the rest of the Nitromors can will be relegated to stripping small sections of detailed moulding, if I ever have any. With the picture rail stripped bare, it was time to start scraping and filling the cracks in the ceiling, but I soon realised this was more of a job than it looked.

My new teenager

I've got a new teenager. No, I didn't get her from a shop: she grew up! My younger daughter turned 13 yesterday, and as this weekend was one of their visits, we took them out to Chorlton's newest Japanese restaurant: Yakisoba. We'd heard good things about the place from friends and online forums so we took a chance and went straight there. Normally with a new place Nikki and I will suss it out before taking the girls, in case the menu is weird, or there's something wrong with the place. This time, we put out trust in the good reports, and it paid off really well.

The only online review I could find wasn't very complimentary, but we found the food appetising, the menu varied and the presentation impeccable. But the highlight of the evening was the aromatic crispy duck which both Blythe and I ordered. Not especially Japanese, I hear you say, but it is a firm favourite with all of us and when we realised they serve individual portions, we couldn't resist. SIX pancakes per portion, and easily enough duck to fill them all. Fabulous.

Epigenetics, or "why I got fat"

So following on from the programme on graphene was another fascinating Radio 4 show, this time about epigenetics. There's a huge amount of material available online explaining what this is (try this BBC Horizon link or this news item on the link between epigenetics and obesity, or there's always Wikipedia) so I don't intend to go in for a huge long explanation here, but simply put epigenetics is the idea that it's not only your genes that control how you develop but also the effects of external environmental factors on your genes. These factors can turn genes on or off and are especially influential during foetal development or, in males, before sperm start to develop.

A boy's environment, behaviour, nutrition, etc can affect the gametes and effect changes not only on that boy's children but on his children's children.

Of particular interest to me was the statistical revelation that a father who started smoking before reaching the age of puberty was much more likely to have children that were fatter than average in later life.

So it's nothing to do with all the pies I've eaten! It's because my Dad started smoking when he was eight!