The Reading

We held "the reading" of my radio play last night round at the home of some friends. Some Act-or friends. And we took another Ac-tor friend with us. And three copies of the script. And me with my laptop open at the relevant page, doing the sound effects and stage directions as and when.

It cantered along pretty nicely. The reading had the desired effect of pointing up areas of dialogue that didn't really work, or were out of character. Much more of the latter than the former, to be honest. That's because when I'm writing I run the conversation in my head while my fingers play the part of scribe. So the content is usually OK in terms of realism, because it is a real conversation going on in my head. The only slight problem is, all the characters end up sounding like me. Because it is me, holding the conversation with myself.

So then I go over the dialogue again, many times, changing the words around until they sound more like the people they're supposed to be. Only when we read it out the bits I'd missed, or where I'd not done this well enough, stuck out like a forest of sore thumbs. 17-year-old street kids don't use words like "palatial" for instance. Some more work to do there, then.

But overall not as much as I'd thought, and the reaction of the audience was uniformly positive - Jamie even enthusing "it's GREAT!" - which gave me a bit of a buzz.

Unfortunately, there is one huge problem. It's way too long. Even allowing for the fact that it was a cold read, so the actors weren't as familiar with the text as they would be if they'd had several rehearsals, the sound effects were "serial" rather than "embedded" behind the dialogue, and there were many over-long pauses, even with all that it still doesn't alter the fact that this is a script aiming for a 44-minute slot, and the first reading went to an hour and twenty minutes. Almost twice as long as it should be. I'm going to have to cut it by around a third, I reckon, to make it anywhere near the right length when it's performed for real.

In some areas what I need to do is obvious. There are entire scenes that can be cut without losing the thread of the narrative (some, indeed, that I added in earlier when I thought it was running short!). There are also several instances of verbose exposition (my internal conversations do tend to be a bit wordy most of the time) when far fewer words would be better. So I'll do all that and see what I'm left with. It's 57 pages at the moment, and after last night's experience I think it should be no more than 40. Which, ironically, brings us almost back to the old rule of thumb that a page of script runs for about a minute.

Interestingly, one observation that came up last night was that since it ran for 80 minutes with almost no pauses, it probably wouldn't take much to turn it from a radio drama to a 90-minute TV drama. Even if I get nowhere through the ABBA route, there might still be life in the old dog. For now though, it's back to the rewriting. Three weeks to go!

Book Review: If This Is A Man

A little late with this, the book club choice for January: Primo Levi's "If This Is A Man." Strictly speaking, two books in one, as it includes "The Truce" in the second half, but I didn't read that. To be honest, I'd had enough after the first couple of chapters and couldn't face another entire book of the same, no matter how short.

From what others said, I may have peaked too soon. The second book is supposed to have a jollier aspect than the first, but as far as I'm concerned it's no great loss. Let's face it, the second could hardly be more dour and depressing than the first, which is a recounting of Levi's time in Auschwitz in painful detail. Literally painful - he enumerates his sores, and beatings, and hunger, and cold.

I think this is probably a book that everyone in the "civilised" world should read, but that doesn't mean I think they'd enjoy reading it. I didn't. I wanted it to be over. And I felt guilty wanting that. Countless reviews bang on about Levi's beautifully crafted prose, and yes, it's true, the book is astonishingly well written. But to me that didn't help. The subject matter is still what it is, and the more illuminating it is, the more depressing.

Among all the horrors that Levi describes, what stood out for me is that no matter how much privilege, rank, and power are stripped away from men, even when they are stood naked in the mud and rain with nothing to their name but a few dirty rags of clothing and a spoon with which to eat their daily ration of foul soup, when even that very name is removed and they are referred to only as a number, even then men will find a way of imposing hierarchy to differentiate themselves from their fellows. To subjugate some, thereby improving one's chances of survival. To defer to others, for the same reason. Even when survival means nothing more than the chance to stand naked and freezing in the snow for another day, men - humans, I should perhaps say rather - will still do whatever it takes. Because the alternative is, for them, too frightening to contemplate.

That's what stood out, from his writing. But there was another aspect to reading this book. The way it makes you think about yourself. How would I react, I wondered? Would I be one of the ones prepared to do anything, say anything, eat anything, to survive? Or would I give up, and play the part of one of those Levi so eloquently describes, who wander around for weeks, sometimes months, with dead eyes, waiting for their body to catch up with what has already happened to their spirit?

No snow!

And there it was: gone! After listening to the 10 o'clock forecast warning that another two or three inches were expected (that'll be a disappointment for someone) and that some areas could have up to a foot (way too much of a good thing - someone else would be choking on it), what did we have?

A huge melt. There's nothing left.

Which, if repeated across the whole of the UK in these credit-crunchy times would be A Good Thing. At least, if yesterday's news is anything to go by. 6 million people failing to get to work, £1.2 billion lost to the crumbling economy, roads closed or impassable, trains, planes and buses cancelled, people full of the great British spirit battling their way to their local train station only to find that's as far as they're going to get. We wouldn't have won the war if we'd had this namby-pamby attitude back then, I tell you! Cough! Splutter!

Sorry. Got a bit carried away there. Still, it is faintly ridiculous isn't it? It's not like snow in February is exactly unexpected. It was even forecast. I heard Ken Livingstone on the news (mind you, he'll say anything to beat the drum won't he? Still smarting from having to hand over to Boris I expect) blaming the worst of the travel problems on councils who didn't want to send the gritters out on Sunday and pay overtime. What a load of bollocks. I was out and about on Sunday night and followed several gritters all over the North-west.

I tried to work out, in my usual geeky way, what proportion of the UK workforce 6 million came to. There's about 65 million of us altogether. If you assume a linear distribution of ages from 0 to 80 (I know that's not right, but for the sake of argument...) that makes 34 million of working age (over 18 and under 60), of which there's about 2 million unemployed (32) and an unknown number who don't work, or try to, at all. But even if you leave the figure at 32 million that's one-fifth of the entire workforce couldn't get to work! Crikey.

Rather madly I'd decided to stick to my usual routine and go in to the office yesterday. I could have worked at home, but as it turned out (and not surprisingly) a much larger than normal number of my colleagues had elected to do that, and overloaded the corporate VPN shortly before 9am, so I wouldn't have been able to get much done anyway. I really needed some light relief while negotiating the roads into the office, and it was duly provided by Radio 4, where they read out an email from a listener pointing out that we were now suffering the 21st-century equivalent of traffic chaos as well as the more traditional sort.

Yes, not only were the roads blocked and the public transport cancelled all over the place, but the traffic and travel WEBSITES were all crashing too, under the load of people trying to find out whether they should set out or not. What irony! What symmetry! The British do farce SO well.

Snow!

Like, I suspect, much of the country we woke this morning to a snowy scene. This is the 6am version. It has become quite unusual for Manchester in recent years and probably won't stick around for long. It'll be chaos on the roads while it lasts though. The slightest hint of snow on roads and pavements means all the nervous and semi-competent drivers will slow right down making things extremely frustrating and delay-prone for the rest of us. Never mind that the gritters were out in force last night and most major roads will be frost-free; it'll be 10mph all the way this morning. Bet on it.

The snow also gave rise to another feeling for us this morning: satisfaction. Because we did, in the end, pull out our collective fingers and spend a little time in the garden, taking advantage of the two crisp, clear, sunny days that we've just had. The fern count reduced by two. No point in rushing things, these are big buggers we're talking about, and any extended period of digging wakes my back up to the fact that it doesn't do spade work and what am I doing forcing it to take part in such activities and if I don't stop soon it'll go TWANG and that'll show me. So I took it steady. One fern on Saturday, and one on Sunday. Plus a bit of a haircut for the remaining three, so that I can see what I'm doing when I take my fork and my spade to the next one.

Only at the moment, I can't see what I'm doing because they're under two inches of snow. Which my back is very pleased about.

Red sky... you know the drill

A slightly better attempt at capturing this morning's sky, which to be honest was even more stunning than the one below. I expect this is a harbinger of the awful weather heading our way later in the weekend from the Continent (have they ever sent us anything GOOD?? - Well, pizza maybe. And spaghetti carbonara. They can keep that bloody Euro to themselves thoughbut) but it's worth it for that fleeting moment of beauty. As long as I don't have to drive anywhere.

So with the riches of an entire weekend stretched out in front of us, what's on the agenda?

Depends on the weather, really. If it stays dry we want to spend some time in the garden. Digging up those damned ferns before they start sprouting again, draining and removing the pond we no longer want before the frogs start spawning again, and generally having a tidy up. The garage needs taking down but that requires some planning effort as it's a cement asbestos construction, so we have to give advanced warning to the council before they'll accept the bits at the tip. Plus I don't really want to cart it there in the car, so we'll need to hire a flat-bed truck once it's down. No, that's definitely a job for warmer weather. Digging though... that's fine for a cold, dry day.

The study could do with a tidy. All that filing I did the other week, that ended up in lots of little piles, somehow stalled with half the piles still lying around on the carpet. So they're pleading to be put away, along with the stacks of books we intended to get rid of on eBay before we discovered how much it would cost to list them, and how many other people had had exactly the same idea with exactly the same list of titles! Maybe we'll hang on to them a bit longer, but not in the middle of the study floor.

At some stage I have to pick up my paintbrush again and continue with the door-painting project. The two that I've finished look spiffy, but that leaves five - possibly six - that are yet to be started, and the whole hall-and-landing set up has a rather unbalanced aspect with two white doors and five (possibly six) stripped ones.

There's a lot more to do that that, naturally. Maybe I need to make a list. Yes, that's the ticket. When in doubt, make a list. I find it always gives me a sense of control, no matter how far-fetched. I'm sure if I looked hard enough (possibly under the piles of filing, or books) I'd find a partially-ticked-off list from the last time I felt organised. At least one, probably.

One of those meme things

So one of the things that tempted me back to the old blogstead was this meme that appeared on Di's blog yesterday. Never could resist a list. They always used to tell me I was a plant, but I think I'm more of a completer/finisher.

Rules: Copy, erase my answers, enter yours.

Use the first letter of your name to answer each of the following questions. They have to be real... nothing made up!

If the person before you had the same first initial, you must use different answers. You cannot use any word twice and you can't use your name for the boy/girl name.

1. What is your name: John

2. A four Letter Word: Junk

3. A boy's Name: Jeff

4. A girl's Name: Jemima

5. An occupation: Joiner

6. A colour: Jet

7. Something you wear: Jodhpurs

8. A food: Jalapeno

9. Something found in the bathroom: Jacuzzi

10. A place: Jodrell Bank

11. A reason for being late: Just couldn't run fast enough to catch the bus

12. Something you shout: Jerk

13. A film title: Jaws

14. Something you drink: Juice

15. A musical act: John Lennon

16. An animal: Jaguar

17. A street name: Jubilee Place

18. A type of car: Jalopy

19. The title of a song: Jean Genie

20. A verb: Jumping

Running

I ran out of excuses for not blogging last Saturday, when I finally worked out how I wanted to end the radio play I've been writing.

I don't usually write to a deadline. Not for pleasure anyway. But the competition closing date is Feb 27, and rather than leave it 'til the last minute (like I do at work), I wanted to give myself plenty of time to get it right. Because... well... this is far more important than work. It's what I'd rather be doing with my life. So, in a way, it is life. And, in the case of this particular competition anyway, it's a chance that only comes around once every two years.

So anyway, it's done. Written, read, re-read, re-written, and re-written again. Now it waits for next week, when a select group of friends from Chorlton Players will do a read-through so I can hear how the dialogue sounds when spoken and correct any lumpy bits. With that out of the way, what's been keeping me from here? Truth is, I found that I just didn't have anything to say. Maybe I'd lost the impetus, or something. Got out of the habit. Like going to the gym. Can you believe I used to go to the gym? Yeah. Twice a week for two years. But then something happened that meant I couldn't shower for a few weeks and I got out of the habit. Never went back. So think yourselves lucky. At least I was only gone for a month, not a decade.

And I still don't have anything to say.

Red sky in the morning

Not that this photo really does it justice, even after frigging around with the settings on my camera AND again later in PSP. And I'm not sure why I chose that as a subject either. Except it's supposed to be a harbinger of bad weather to come, and emotionally this is traditionally a time of "bad weather."

Christmas has been and gone (it was fab, thanks for asking); New Year has been and gone (it was fab, thanks for asking); and reality has once again bitten down hard and nasty. The back to work reality that we all (most of us) faced on Monday. The reality of another year stretching ahead doing something we really don't want to be doing, and trying to find the time and energy in between whiles to do the things we DO want to be doing. So, recognising that that is the same reality for 99.99% of people on the planet, and before this turns into a total whinge, I'll just say that that is the (main) reason for my long absence from here. Trying to find the time and energy to do the important stuff that's NOT work, and not having enough of either to blog.

Why?

Well the main reason is my forthcoming entry to the Alfred Bradley Bursary Award. I have until February 27 to write a 44-minute radio play to enter into this biennial contest, which then stands a fair chance of being produced in the Afternoon Play slot on Radio 4. More about that as and when. The first draft is about half finished at the moment, but after I have the bare bones down on paper, it will need a lot more work to really bring the characters alive. Quite a challenge when there are no visuals, I'm finding.

And on the agenda for the rest of the day, after I've knocked out a bit more of that play? Another pot of coffee, that's the first thing. Completing the upward journey of the Christmas decorations. Their sad little crates only reached the landing last week; they have still to make the final leap into the attic. While I'm up there I'll probably have a bit of a sort out, too. Maybe we will - finally! - list some of the crap that's up there on eBay, as we threaten to do every year. Oh, yes, and my tax return. I've never left it this late before, but it has to be in by the end of this month.

I'm sure there was something else. Let me know if I remember it, will you?

POEBIS day

Traditionally Friday is POETS day. I guess it's just possible there's someone out there who doesn't know what the heck I'm going on about, so just for you: Piss Off Early, Tomorrow's Saturday.

Today I have an alternative slant on the tradition. Piss Off Early Because I'm Sick. Yes, with infinitely perfect timing, right before I take two weeks leave and with only 5 days left until Christmas, I've picked up a chest infection. Or an URTI to be more accurate. If I didn't have extra evidence I'd have to guess that I met the little blighter at one of the two Christmas dos I was at last Friday and Saturday, but since about three-quarters of Nikki's office are down with it too, I think we'll have to conclude it was this one.

So I've struggled manfully on (which by some strange coincidence I've just noticed is an anagram of man-flu-ly. Don't say a word) to finish the piece of work that absolutely had to be done today, and attend the voice conferences I absolutely had to attend, and now I've collapsed, panting, in a soggy, hacking, headachy heap here in front of my PC. The irony isn't lost on me. I wouldn't mind if the do had been especially brilliant, but had I known I'd contract lurgius expectorensis I'd have been more than happy to give it a miss.

Happy bloody Christmas. (Don't worry, I'll be better by then) (he bluffed)

I *really* need Series Link

Switched into "archive" mode on the PVR last night to delete the thing that had just recorded (that we'd watched live) and by some quirk I spotted that the episode of Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles that had just started recording was *finishing* rather than starting.

Huh?

Checking the schedules revealed that Virgin1 had moved it back an hour to the 9-10pm slot.

Oh-oh. How long has this been going on?

I checked earlier weeks' recordings and gave up after the second one back. If I've missed three weeks I might as well delete the lot. Bummer.

There's an add-on for my PVR that provides an equivalent of Sky+'s "series link" and which I'd "been meaning to install" for some months. There's that old procrastination, biting me on the bum again.

Big ideas and grandiose plans

Yesterday's horoscope made me smile:
"Big ideas and grandiose plans come naturally to you, yet today's detail-oriented Virgo Moon requires you to place limits on yourself. No one else is going to do this for you; it has to come from within. Instead of looking out at every distant horizon and thinking you can go there, try concentrating on what's directly in front of you."

Haha. That's always been my problem. If I can be said to have *one* problem. Concentrating on what's in front of me. The task at hand. I'm a great starter. Not such a great finisher. When I was a kid, I'd lie on my back on the summer grass, staring up at the sky for hours, wondering where it went. What was out there? Every distant horizon has always held a dangerous fascination for me. They call it wanderlust, in all those many horoscopes I've read over the years, and they tell me it's a strong trait of Sagittarians. Tell me it's all bollocks. No, don't. You don't have to. But I do have it. That wanderlust. Sometimes.

Mainly when there's a mundane, tedious, mind-sapping task sat right in front of me requiring my concentration and with a rapidly approaching deadline. OK, OK, I'll do it. Fergawdsake. But I'd rather be out there. Staring at the sky.

Reality check

I heard on the radio a couple of days ago - while listening to a programme about sustainable food, the impact of supermarkets on health, and that kind of thing - a startling statistic.

That cities take up 2% of the Earth's habitable surface, but their inhabitants are responsible for using up 75% of the world's annual resources.

It wasn't so long ago - a couple of hundred years or so - that cities didn't exist. The Industrial Revolution began the lemming-like rush of populations into urban environments and it's really only in this century that urban populations have exceeded rural ones. But the city as it was envisaged in the late 18th century is no longer a sustainable model. A city the size of London - with ~10 million inhabitants - masticates its way through 30 million meals a day and the vast majority of those millions of people neither know nor care where the food comes from.

As if we didn't have enough to worry about, we now need to work out what "city life" or "country life" will look like in 100 years' time. "Unrecognisable" is probably the answer.

Emeralds are a boy's best friend

I gave blood yesterday. I was hoping to pick up one of those natty slate coasters that (as I found out after my last donation) they've started handing out to anyone who gives three times in one year. Sadly, they'd run out. They said they'd arrange to have one posted to me.

But in discussions over the obligatory post-bloodletting tea and biscuits I discovered the NHSBT have introduced a higher award. Still some years away for me - I'm still aiming for my gold pin for 50 donations - but until today I'd thought that would be it. The final goal. 50 and you're out (although I would have carried on giving until I couldn't climb up onto the table any longer).

No. They have a new award. Well... I'm not sure how new it is, but I didn't know about it. The Emerald Award. For 75 donations. An engraved glass plate - apparently - and an invitation to a gala dinner with other 75-pinters.

Part of me thinks that would be very nice, thank you. Recognition for a lifetime's support of the Blood Transfusion Service (as it used to be known). Another part of me thinks, hang on. To have given 75 times you're gonna have to be quite old. Why would I want to have dinner with a load of old people with whom the only thing I have in common is that we're blood donors? What are we going to talk about? Our best bruise? Our fastest donation? How the choice of biscuits is much better now than it was in 1977? And they'd be bound to serve black pudding.

It's at least nine years away for me, but already I'm thinking I'll probably give it a miss.

Do what you can

Our neighbour Linda who lost her husband in the summer has been getting a lot of support from family and neighbours. The kind of tea-and-sympathy support a woman needs (sorry if that sounds patronising, but you know what I mean) which is, in short, not the kind of support we're very good at.

We're more "grit your teeth and get on with it" kind of people, not given to navel contemplation, rerunning old conversations, or group therapy.

Which makes you feel kind of useless in a situation where that's the kind of help that's required. So it was with a mixture of relief and gratitude - having said at the time that she only had to ask if she wanted our help with anything - that we greeted her recent request for help on a more practical level. She's recently bought a new TV and had no idea how to put it all together. At last! Something I *can* do.

So we trotted off round there yesterday afternoon and, with a great deal of "help" from the kids (both indigenous and local), and also some slightly more practical help with the lifting from another neighbour, spent two or three hours assembling the stand, fitting the bracket, mounting the TV, cabling up and performing the final installation.

It reminded me of an old Spiritualist tenet. To do what you can. Don't worry about what you can't do, but if a chance arises to help in some way - however trivial it may seem - take it. Never underestimate the impact you can have on someone's life, even though to you it is the easiest of tasks. To us, it was only two hours out of our Sunday afternoon. Nothing at all. To Linda and the kids, it meant being able to settle down in front of their shiny new telly without having had to fork out the exorbitant installation charge from the supplier. It's a win-win! Smiles and cheers all round.

Tis the season to be merry - #2

Nikki's works' do migrated, as it does, to a different hotel this year, only this time to one we'd used before, three years ago: the Worsley Marriott. We were quite happy with this, as it's barely a 20-minute drive from home and we remembered how good the breakfasts are there. A strange thing to concentrate on when you're supposedly going there for a Christmas do, you might think, and I couldn't possibly comment. Except to say that Christmas dos are all too often much of a muchness, but a good breakfast is beyond price.

Anyway we had a relaxed start to the day - two pots of coffee and lots of 'puter time - and took a leisurely drive over there after a late breakfast, arriving around 3pm, checking in and making our way to the Chimney Bar.

Since our last visit the rooms have all been refurbished and are now very comfortably appointed, with a massive bed, good choice of TV channels and a well-equipped bathroom. Nice touch that the room's lobby had a motion-activated light too, which came on as soon as we opened the door and remained on long enough to find the other light switches.

A couple of Nikki's colleagues were already waiting for us in the bar so we treated ourselves to a sandwich lunch and a couple of beers, soaking up the atmosphere and generally relaxing. Soon it was time to return to the room and put on our posh duds, joining the rest of the company for a pre-dinner drink before walking through to the main restaurant area for dinner.

It's impressive how a hotel restaurant can serve up several hundred meals and not only have them all still hot when they reach the table, but also looking appealing and appetising. It's not always the case, but the Marriott did us proud. Tomato soup with roasted red pepper, turkey dinner with all the usual trimmings, and Christmas pud in brandy sauce for me, while Nikki had the same, but branched out to the chocolate mousse for dessert. If I was being uber-picky I'd say the roast potatoes were a bit on the hard side (Nikki reckoned they'd been roasted in advance and then microwaved too long), but other than that in mass catering terms the meal was very nice.

We spent a frustrating couple of hours trying to dodge the result of the X Factor final - the DJ insisting that he would bring us news as soon as he got it! Eek! - before retiring to bed at a far too sensible 11.30pm. Don't know whether the credit crunch is biting, or there's been a general realisation that it's crazy to stay up until the small hours getting drunk at hotel bar prices, but the party area was distinctly less busy when we went to bed than in previous years.

Having retired early and only consumed 4 or 5 drinks each, we were (as usual) awake long before dawn, and hence the first to arrive for breakfast almost on the dot of 7am. The breakfast staff concealed their surprise very well at seeing someone awake at that hour after a Christmas party, and the egg chef cooked me up two perfect fried eggs to go with the excellent sausage, hash browns, beans, fried slice, juice, coffee and toast, after which we checked out and arrived back home around quarter to nine! Very civilised and a perfect time to make another pot of coffee and settle back to watch our unspoiled recording of the X Factor. It was a close call, but we made it!

Tis the season to be merry - #1

No, I didn't mean jolly. Although I started off jolly as I left to drive into town yesterday morning just before lunch to meet up with an old team of mine for the first of several Christmas "dos", the last one of which won't take place until January 28th. Don't ask.

I had intended to catch the bus, thereby giving myself maximum flexibility to get bladdered or not, as the fancy took me, and depending on how the party panned out. You know how it is. Sometimes the sparks fly and you're really enjoying the mood, other times you can't wait to get home. A combination of another bitterly cold day and the probability of rain made me realise (a) I didn't really fancy the 20-minute walk from Piccadilly and (b) I wasn't really that bothered about having a lot to drink. That, and the fact that the restaurant I was heading for is surrounded by a multi-storey car park, meant the car was the obvious option.

This particular do was the "VME" Christmas party, so named because it's organised by, and ostensibly for, those people who are still working on VME. Many years ago, and for many years, I was one of those people. I still know a lot of them quite well, but more to the point their senior PA is also the lady who ran our office when 40 of us, followed shortly by another 40, branched out into the scary new world of Microsoft technologies a little over 12 years ago. That team is no longer together either, but since many of us came originally from the VME team, we share a history, and therefore a Christmas do. For most of us it's the only day of the year when we get together, because the majority of the original members (of either team) have moved to other companies, other parts of the same company, or retired, and even those who now work in the same building don't see each other very often owing to the overly paranoid security locks on all the internal doors, which admit staff only to the floor for their own department.

Today's meal took place at the modestly named "Glamorous" on Oldham Road, an establishment which I had visited on a couple of previous occasions and which can usually be guaranteed to provide mass catering on a huge scale and at extremely high quality.

Has it changed hands I wonder? Or chefs? Or is the credit crunch biting? I certainly don't remember the Christmas meal being this piss-poor in previous years. Two small scoops of chicken and sweetcorn soup, followed by some sad looking dim sum (paper wrapped prawns, spring rolls and ribs). OK, the ribs were excellent, but the rest didn't do much for me. Little did I know it was about to get worse.

Aromatic crispy duck was optional on the menu at an additional charge of £3.50, and owing to having a minimum requirement of two diners (per table), it had been left to us on the day to organise. Regular readers will know I'm an ardent lover of crispy duck. I'd be happy if that was the ONLY thing on the menu. So I was fortunate - I thought - to find four other duckophiles on my table. So we coughed up our £19.30 (10% service charge mandatory) and awaited our pancakes. 13 sad, cold, dry little pancakes between 5 of us. Two tiny plates of shredded leek and cucumber, and less than half a duck. Clearly, having left the ordering until the day, the restaurant had been caught on the hop by the popularity and run out. Instead of coming clean and saying "we've run out, sorry" they decided to fleece us of our £3.50s and spread what they had between all of us.

The mains were a disappointment too. No large, steaming bowl of rice for each table. No. A cold plate, with a handful of tepid rice (which was cold by the time the food was served).

That's another place to strike off my list of acceptable eateries at Christmas. But! All was not lost, for it's a truism that if the only thing you're going to a Christmas do for is the food, you're bound to be disappointed. The company is the thing! The craic! And boy, did we have some craic on our table.

After lunch we decanted to the Crown & Kettle for a pint. No offence, but what a dismal little hole this is. Sadly, what few sparks were flying at this party were extinguished as soon as we set foot through its dingy door onto its bare, dirty floorboards. I cracked an inward smile at the irony of the drink I ordered - a pint of Flat Cap - quaffed it as quickly as I could and beat a hasty retreat. Sincere apologies to those luvverly people I was sharing space with. Had the food been better, the watering hole more comfortable, and the weather warm enough to walk, I would have loved to stay longer. Next year, maybe?

Postman on the Pony Express

It's been a week for commenting on the news, but frankly it's been a while since there were so many stories in the media that beggar belief. Yesterday's was the story of our national postmen (and women) being told they would have to walk their rounds at an average of 4 mph once some new fangled satellite tracking / round estimating / computerised wizardry is introduced.

Up until now they've gone out, delivered a few letters and come back again. But mail volumes are rising and budgets are tightening and increasingly the delivery chaps (and chapesses) are returning to the depot with some of their rubber-band-bound-bundles undelivered(*). Yes, that's right. You may not have known this, but once the shift is up, postie stops work, whether or not the round is complete. Anything left over has to wait for the next day. So much for "come rain, or wind, hail or sleet, ..." etc.

Things have got so bad that even the managers have to go out on deliveries some days.

So they're introducing this new system. Never before has the walking pace of the British postie been subject to such scrutiny. But wait a minute. Where has the figure of 4 mph come from? Just plucked out of the air by some junior managerial type I shouldn't wonder. One of those who doesn't know his arse from his elbow. You must have met one. "Well, 4 mph is a pretty fair average," I hear you say. And you'd be close. 3 mph is actually closer to the average walking speed, but over what distance? Bear in mind that this speed - this average speed - has to be maintained over a three-and-a-half hour shift. Bear in mind that, while maintaining this average speed, the postie has to push a cart, or carry a heavy bag of post. Bear in mind that the average must be maintained on all surfaces, inclines and in all weathers.

Remember too that there are gates to be opened, slippery paths to negotiate, dogs to avoid, and that a percentage of all deliveries will be "attendance" calls. That is, visits where the recipient is required to sign for the package. So postie has to ring the bell, wait for the bell to be answered, collect the signature, and hand over the package. Possibly even pass the time of day with the punter in order to maintain the semblance of customer service for the good old Royal Mail. Or, if the recipient is out, he (or she) has to write out one of those little chitties that tell you the exact 5-minute period you're allocated to visit the sorting office and collect the undelivered item for yourself.

That's a lot of standing around for a man (or woman) who has to maintain an average speed of 4 mph. Remember also that Internet shopping is on the rise. We're all eBaying and Amazoning and play.comming much more than we ever have before. So the 3-4% estimate of "attendance calls" is actually more like 7-8% these days, and rising. Even more standing around. Much more of this and the nation's posties (and postesses) will have to be jogging between houses. They'll have no breath to spare for passing the time of day.

Oh, and did I mention Belgium has a similar system? Yes. Only their postpeople are only expected to achieve an average speed of 2.3 mph.

(*)I know the bundles are bound with rubber bands, because we find one on our front path almost every morning. Red ones, they are. And we're not alone. Our neighbours find them too, as do many of my colleagues. I wonder what proportion of each first-class stamp goes on buying new rubber bands to replace the ones cast on our paths willy-nilly? Surely it wouldn't add many picoseconds to the average round to actually put them in your pocket, mister postie? And... you know... reuse them? In these times of scarce Earth resources and global warming and all that?

A bugger's muddle

From the moment we're born - no, from the very moment we're conceived - there is only one thing that is absolutely certain about our lives: that they will end. Yes, death is the only certainty.

So why do we find it so hard to talk about? And more to the point, in the week where two high-profile cases of assisted suicide hit the news, why do we find it so hard to treat it rationally, sensitively, and humanely?

The case of Daniel James, who broke his neck in a rugby scrum and was paralysed from the chest down, and the more public (by virtue of it being the subject of a TV documentary that actually filmed and broadcast the moment of his death) but no less harrowing case of Craig Ewert, a sufferer from motor neurone disease who was not much older than me, have opened a tentative debate on the subject of a person's right to decide the time and manner of their death. Which at least in the latter case, was something the poor man had hoped to do.

So when is this fine, upstanding nation (allegedly) going to grasp this particular nettle and put an end to the typically British bugger's muddle that the law finds itself in at the moment? A situation where anyone who helps another to die risks prosecution and lengthy imprisonment (up to 14 years, as I understand it), and yet where increasing numbers of people are dragging themselves off to Switzerland, where a company called Dignitas are (legally) prepared to let them fulfil their wish to die. A situation where the CPS will examine each case on its merits, and in a majority of cases will elect NOT to prosecute, and yet where the threat of that prosecution hangs over the heads of all involved, and results in at least as many people deciding it's not worth the risk (it is estimated) as decide they will throw the dice and help their loved ones out of the terrible situation they find themselves in.

Situations like Daniel's. An energetic, athletic young man staring down the long dark tunnel of 40, 50, 60 years spent having someone else take care of him in the most intimate way, while he remained incapable of taking part in any of the activities that gave his life meaning. Or like Craig's. Facing the certain erosion of his ability to control his own movements until he reached the point where he would be completely unable to do anything for himself, including committing suicide.

Why are such people, already in desperate straits, forced to travel to another country to achieve their wish? Would it not be more fitting to allow them to die in familiar circumstances? At home, where as many family, friends and neighbours as they wish can be on hand to say that final farewell, where the surroundings are comforting rather than clinical, and where the absence of sufficient means to finance the final journey will not present yet another insurmountable barrier to their goal.

Yes, there are risks of abuse, coercion, of it becoming the expected thing. Yes, there are safeguards that must be put in place. But let's at least have the debate, and the maturity to realise that in the end, if no-one has the right to dictate how someone else lives, then no-one has the right to dictate how they die.

Choke on it

In the news yesterday, aside from the death of Oliver Postgate, the Tobacco Manufacturer's Association's response to government moves to ban the open display of tobacco in shops in England and Wales.

The idea is that moving tobacco products "under the counter" will discourage young people from starting in the first place, and evidence from other countries supports this thinking. In Iceland removing displays led to a 10% drop in the numbers of young people smoking.

Smoking research also suggests that people who start smoking between the ages of 11 and 15 are three times more likely to die prematurely compared with someone who starts at the age of 20, and they are also more likely to be hooked for life.

In opposing the display ban, the Tobacco Manufacturers' Association expressed a worry that the move might fuel the sale of illicit tobacco and could damage the income of smaller shops that rely heavily on tobacco sales.

So it's alright to condemn kids to a lifetime of addiction to a proven carcinogen as long as we protect the income of both the tobacco manufacturers and the retailers? Tell that to my mother, who after smoking since the age of 12 now has to fight for every breath, and cannot walk from the kitchen to the dining room without spending the next 20 minutes recovering. In fact why not replace the cigarette displays with looped footage of my mother and people like her?

There's a special place in Hell reserved for tobacco manufacturers, where they are forced to sit like laboratory beagles and inhale their products until their lungs are burnt out. Then a demon comes along and replaces their lungs with a set from another lifetime smoker, and the process is repeated. Ad infinitum.

So farewell then, Oliver Postgate

News broke this morning of the death of Oliver Postgate. I'm not sure how far his fame spread outside the UK, but here he was beloved by several generations of children as the creator and narrator of a whole host of classic television shows, including Bagpuss (once voted Britain's best-loved children's television character), The Clangers, Ivor the Engine and Pingwings, that had been going since the 1950s.

He died at a nursing home near his home in Broadstairs, Kent, yesterday at the age of 83.

While younger audiences, such as those who voted for Bagpuss, are familiar with his more recent work, to me he will always be the voice of Noggin the Nog (pictured here). Noggin, his friend Thor Nogson, and his wicked uncle Nogbad the Bad was Postgate's second foray into telly, from the disused cowshed near Canterbury where he first set up Smallfilms with the artist and puppeteer Peter Firmin.

The fact that such a wealth of brilliant storytelling could come from such humble surroundings is a story repeated several times in British television, especially television for children which was always treated as a poor relation (think of Gerry Anderson). But Postgate's real magic, for me, was in his wonderful narration. At once calm and measured, but also filled with expressive wonder and delight. The perfect package for young children. "Listen to me and I will tell you the story of Noggin the Nog, as it was told in the days of old..."

[Here's my obit for him on TV Scoop]

Mulled but not dulled

Our traditional mulled wine party was graced with family this year, as not only my elder daughter but also my cousin and her husband came over for the occasion.

So we had a kind of ante-party from about 5pm onwards, with a lot of delightful chat, catching up, and few sandwiches and nibbles before I set about mulling the wine shortly after 7pm. Things were slightly more confused than usual, since over the years we have gradually accumulated three varieties of mulling spices, each with their own discrete instructions. The first, and the one we've used in each of the last two years, requires a bottle of wine to half a bottle of water (only we use three bottles of wine to get the party started, naturally, and top up throughout the evening as the guests arrive with another bottle or eight).

The second box of spices, which we expected to have to break into this year, suggests a bottle of wine to a third of a bottle of water (75/25cl). And finally the box which we procured last year from the Northwest Fine Food Festival and are not expecting to have to use until next year, suggests using no water whatever.

Now I'm in the habit of refilling everyone's cup/mug/glass as soon as they become empty, so I opted for the first (i.e. the tried and trusted) recipe. I like to see my guests merry, but I don't want to impose a raging red-wine headache on anyone!

As last year, the first guests arrived at 8.10, and a handful of others drifted in between then and 9.30, by which time I was beginning to feel a little disappointed at the turnout. We'd had notice of no-shows from two couples, and fully expected one other couple to turn up in halves, as they have very young children to look after, but as for the rest...? I'd almost decided it wasn't worth lighting the oven - there was no way we could get through 100 hot Indian party nibbles with the numbers we'd had up to then - when virtually the whole of the rest of the street turned up in the space of 15 minutes.

Just goes to show you never need to worry about parties. They always turn out alright. Especially round here, where mulled wine evening is a well-established part of the social calendar.

Just one further thing to mention. I was discussing the party earlier this evening with a friend, explaining how I'd kept the wine flowing and we'd all had a great time chilling out, chatting, exchanging anecdotes and just generally enjoying the ambience and the company of good friends. She said: "That sounds sooooo John Beresford!" And you know what? She's right. I *do* like to be the enabler of good times for people I love.

A hive of activity

It's amazing what you can get done when there's a party in the offing.

We're holding our annual mulled wine evening tonight, so we've been busy since about 8am this morning:

• putting the finishing touches to the tree (i.e. hanging the red and gold beads, setting the timer, and fixing the skirt)
• erecting the small sparkly fibre-optic tree in the lounge
• boiling the eggs for sandwiches
• vacuuming absolutely everywhere
• opening up the conservatory, turning up its radiators and removing the dead flies
  
• preparing the mulling equipment
• cleaning absolutely everywhere that hasn't been vacuumed
• hanging the last few decorations
• fetching an uplighter so those in the conservatory can see each other
• fixing a hook for the towel in the downstairs cloakroom
• hanging the windchime (that's been sitting in a bag in the front porch for two years)
• putting up the Christmas cards (two so far)
• refilling all the tea-light holders
• plumping cushions
• generally tidying up and putting away of boxes
  

Four-and-a-half hours later and there's almost nothing left to do. Except have a shower.

And make the sandwiches.

And mull the wine (but that comes later).

A stain on your character

I'm thinking bloodstain. With DNA. On a database.

The European Court of Human Rights declared yesterday that it's illegal for UK police to hold on file the DNA signatures of people who have been arrested but subsequently either not charged with an offence, or acquitted. Apparently (and surprisingly, I feel) there were approaching a million of these records - out of the 4.5 million in total - of which 40,000 were for children. DNA from people who as far as the legal system is concerned are guilty of absolutely nothing at all, but whose DNA the police were hanging onto "just in case."

The case was brought by a couple of guys from Sheffield - one who was charged with an offence but where the charges were dropped a few months later, and another who was tried for attempted robbery and subsequently acquitted - who didn't fancy having their records on file for all time. And who can blame them? For me, this case raises a number of profound questions:

• It seemed fairly obvious to me, way before the verdict, that this represented a breach of human rights. Yet the case went before the House of Lords and was thrown out. So that presumably means either the Law Lords are incompetent at interpreting Human Rights legislation, or they were party to, and their judgement affected by, the government's approach to DNA fingerprinting...
• ...which appears to be the establishment by stealth of a national DNA database, populated with DNA from anyone the police don't like the look of. That may sound alarmist, but if the only criterion for storing your DNA is that you've been arrested for something, and the police can arrest anyone they like (and they can), then it's a fact. Let's be clear, I don't have a problem with holding the DNA of known (i.e. tried and convicted) criminals. With reoffending rates as high as they are, it would be madness not to. And we're not talking here about holding unmatched DNA from crime scenes. Those records will continue to be held, offering the chance of a match with someone arrested later for any offence anywhere else in the country. Such cases have already occurred. But innocent people do not deserve to be tainted by having their DNA on record when they've done nothing.
• Whether or not you believe in the benefit of a national DNA database (and I do, as it happens), its purpose must be clearly articulated, debated by parliament in the usual way, and probably, for a change as far-reaching as this, subject to a referendum. Either record everyone, or no-one. However, that said, this government (or any government come to that) has proved time and again that they simply do not have the competence to handle large volumes of sensitive data. Until they have demonstrated such competence, with data of a less personal nature, no-one should trust them with their DNA records. And that's before we get into any debate about the potential for misuse.
  
• A rather over-excited article in the Telegraph (still, what do you expect from them?) states: "Deleting the records could mean that thousands of rapists, murderers and other criminals are not caught." What utter nonsense. Despite a huge increase in the number of DNA profiles on record, crime solving rates have hardly changed. Scotland already deletes DNA records where suspects are not charged, or are acquitted. Is Scotland therefore full of "thousands" of uncaught rapists and murderers? Good grief.
  
• On a more general note, what is the point of the House of Lords when their rulings can be thrown out by a higher court? What used to be the highest legal authority in the country is now effectively reduced to the level of a magistrate's court. Only there to provide a filter for the more powerful European Court, and handle the easy cases. But this means that cases like the one I'm discussing here are subject to interminable delay. Those two Sheffield lads started this legal journey in 2001! EIGHT years they've been waiting for yesterday's result. We may as well do away with the legal responsibilities of the Lords and fund a European court that is resourced well enough to handle all the cases across the whole EU. At least we'd be assured of getting to the real, final answer a sight quicker than we do at the moment, and at a much reduced cost.

Makes me seethe (©1994 Mr. Angry)

Every cloud dumps on the struggling artist

As if it wasn't hard enough trying to break into the literary market, news reaches me today of another dire effect of the credit crunch. According to Writersmarket, now is not a good time to be a struggling author, as publishing houses tighten their belts and rely (even more) on trusted names and stories within an ill-defined "comfort zone."

So basically, unless you're Bill Bryson or Ian Rankin, (which clearly I'm not), you may as well look forward to a few more months of rejections, whether or not your ms is any good. Still, look on the bright side, eh? As we all know, writers write because they have to, not because they need the money or the recognition or anything. ;-;

Not-so-cool number plates

You know the ones I mean. They look as if they *might* mean something, to somebody, if you could only just work it out. Today's example: B16 NDN. Now I've seen enough private plates to know that B16 is meant to be BIG. But... NDN? Big nuddun? WTF?

Fortunately (in a way) I was behind this vehicle in a queue of traffic, so at one point I came close enough to read the small print under the registration. It said: THE BIG INDIAN.

NDN. INDIAN. Right. Was it worth it?

Who put the "con" in congestion charge?

Here we go then. Our voting packs for the "TIF" proposals (aka the Manchester congestion charging scheme) arrived this morning. We have until December 11 to vote, but ours will be in the post tomorrow.

Various polls on local radio have suggested that a majority of voters will be voting No, but will that really make a difference? Scaremongering tactics among the yes campaigners would have it that this is a one-off chance; all or nothing; say yes now or lose all that lovely transport investment. I don't believe that for one minute. Firstly, I wouldn't put it past them to bring the scheme back under another guise in the event of a "no" result. I'm sure our councillors are quite capable of learning that trick from the EU. The new EU constitution has gone through on the nod, despite being virtually identical to the previous attempt and there being no UK referendum. So watch out for Manchester councils to reinvent the scheme, claim it has nothing to do with the old scheme and therefore doesn't warrant a new vote, and do it anyway.

Secondly, if congestion really IS that bad (it isn't. Industry watchers say that city centre traffic levels have remained virtually unchanged for the past ten years) then everyone will be up in arms in a little while and the money will be found from somewhere. It always is. Usually from the motorists. We all have bottomless pockets, you know.

I don't mind telling you it'll be a NO from me. The alternative is to force Nikki to take the bus to and from work every day - changing her 25 minute round trip into 2 hours - or incur the full daily charge of £5 to give her a lift. That's £1200 a year right out of our increasingly empty pockets. No thanks.

School run madness

I've commented on this before, but today I saw something that really took the biscuit. Being on the roads during the school run is always a nightmare, but I calm myself with the thought that most of the drivers have probably come from distances too far for their kids to walk, and/or not on handy bus routes. Today's candidate for my road rage didn't have any of those excuses.

The car turned out of a house on Alexandra Road South, drove to the junction with Barlow Moor Road, and then turned in to Whalley Range High School for girls. A distance of no more than 400 metres. A parent with a very lazy child, or a very lazy teacher? I don't know. Either way they shouldn't be on the road (and, interestingly, unless they make the return journey before 9.30am, they won't be subject to any congestion charge if the new scheme goes ahead).

My ire was alleviated somewhat on the return journey by the site of another cool number plate: TO 08 OSY. Spaced out to read TOO BOSY. Now is that supposed to be shorthand for too bossy, or should it really have a well-placed screwhead to turn it into too busy? You decide.

Birthday Boy

Happy Birthday to me. A time for reflection, and as luck would have it, I DO have time for reflection. So I'm reflecting. On another year gone by, family, friendships old and new, hearth and home, the world, the news. It would be easy to feel depressed, but I remain (a) philosophical and (b) upbeat. I'm relentlessly upbeat, me. Even in the face of having to spend my birthday in the office, and not receiving any birthday cards from my closest family. Again.

Nikki excepted, of course. Her card is perfect. It is undoubtedly the best birthday card I've ever had. Concisely expressing the most moving and touching of sentiments without being cloying, trite or juvenile. A grown-up card from one grown-up to another (we like to pretend). So thank you for that, my darling; it made my day.

Maybe I'm being needlessly old-fashioned. Maybe the tradition of sending cards is being gradually eroded, from both ends of the generational spectrum. From the aged P who can no longer get out to the shops, to the younger generation who have never been used to sending, or taught by example to send, cards. Instead they are supplanted with phone calls, email messages and scribbled notes on Facebook. But although that may be just dandy for geographically dispersed friends and acquaintances, somehow it just isn't the same when it comes to family. You can't beat the excitement of the plop on the mat, the attempt to guess who it's from by analysing the handwriting, slicing open the brightly coloured envelope and slipping out the contents to read the heartfelt message within.

Still, a happy smiley email is better than nothing I suppose. Anything is better than nothing.

The instant wind-up

I may have mentioned before how easily I lose patience with my mother. It's always been this way, as long as I can remember. Whether walking deliberately across my train set, accusing me of taking her address stamp, or mis-remembering past conversations, this aspect of our relationship has a long history and has remained constant for as long as I can remember. She can make me blow my top with a single sentence. Which for someone as normally even-tempered as myself, is even more annoying and frustrating than if I were the sort of person who regularly "goes off on one."

So I was grateful for the slowly falling snowflakes yesterday morning as we rose early and drank our morning coffee while staring out into the garden and wondering whether it was worth striking up a conversation with someone who can't remember what we've said from one minute to the next. Because those flakes gave us a ready-made excuse to beat a hasty retreat. "Don't want to risk getting stuck on the tops," I said, knowing that we wouldn't be taking the high road home in any case and that the risk of encountering any snow was minute. "We'd better get going."

It's still hard for me to bite my tongue when faced with the kind of provocation we encountered this weekend. It would *almost* be worth the two-hour drive home at midnight after the Chinese to avoid it. But then, there's the element of "duty." More on that another time, maybe. For today, it was tongue-biting, and leaving as quickly as possible, before it became unbearable. The path of least resistance, I think they call it.

Broken China

Our annual pilgrimage to Cropwell Bishop took place yesterday, to experience once again the delights of the Chinese food at the Wheatsheaf.

Last year, we had the "cheap" menu. The one without the aromatic crispy duck. Now for me, no Chinese meal is complete without crispy duck. So last year's performance was a huge disappointment. The cheap menu includes in its place some kind of deep-fried mince served in a lettuce leaf bowl. Totally no substitute. This year we all agreed we'd go for the more expensive menu. The one With Duck. Only guess what? The hoisin sauce was not real hoisin sauce. It was runny, vinegary, and had none of the distinctive flavour of hoisin. So even with The Duck, the meal was not up to the expected standard.

Sure the dim sum were nice. The ribs were nice. The mains were nice. But without a decent helping of duck, with proper sauce, it just ain't the same. Luckily, as always, the company was more than up to standard, so we still had a good time. If we were only going for the food though, I don't think I'd bother again.

Book Review: One Big Damn Puzzler

At last! After a host of books I've struggled and waded and cursed and bled through, here's a book club read I can honestly say I enjoyed. Not that I was expecting to. I almost gave it a miss, and then while I was on Amazon searching out this cover pic for the club website, I read some of the reviews. Some uniformly positive reviews. So I bought it, and they were right. One of the best reads I've had in a long time. Many, many laugh-out-loud moments. A few tears. But most of all some fresh, engaging, original prose with a heap of messages; some hidden, some overt.

The book opens with one of the main characters - a Pacific islander called Managua - having his life's work of translating Hamlet into pidgin English interrupted by the arrival on the island of an American lawyer, William Hardt. He hasn't got much further than: "Is be, or is be not? Is be one big damn puzzler," so the interruption is particularly irksome. He straps on his artificial leg and hobbles off to greet the stranger, whom the entire island are soon referring to as gwanga. This simple act explains why William is there: to gain compensation for the islanders for the landmines that American forces have left scattered around the North of the island, and which have been responsible for a large number of limbs being lost.

But during his stay, William learns that the islanders are not defined by their injuries. He learns about their culture, their beliefs, their morals and their society. So different from anything he's encountered before, and yet not so very different. Told with rare warmth and humour this is a book that will suck you in and take you, like William, to a world you will never forget.

Word Search

We receive quite a few free sheets round here, and most of them are thrown away unread. Occasionally though, one or other of us will find ourselves with a few minutes to waste - waiting for the cafétiere to steep for instance - while one of the rags is still lying around. Today was one such day and led to unintentional hilarity that had us holding our sides to prevent imminent splitting.

The free sheet in question was the "Alexandra News" ("St. Edmund's and S. James' Church - sharing God's love in the Community"). This edition offers a Coffee Break word-search puzzle on the back to keep the kiddies amused:

Oops! Proof read fail. You'll see FART in there as well, although that's just an unfortunate side-effect of having one of the legitimate answers - TRAFFIC - arranged backwards on the line.

Feeling rejected

One of the only nice things about being away is coming home. There are many nice aspects to being back home, but the one I'm going to write about is the downloading of several days' worth of emails and sifting through them to find the handful of interest.

Today I was treated to a couple more rejection emails from agencies. In common with the overwhelming majority of the rejections I've had so far, neither of these two had anything bad to say about the work itself. The first one simply said it wasn't for them (in other words, even in the face of my supposedly careful selection of agents, it was a genre misfit) and the second thanked me very much for considering them but unfortunately they are totally swamped with submissions at present and can't possibly contemplate taking on any more work.

I like to look on this as a good thing. So far no-one has told me it stinks. On the other hand, no-one has enthused over it either. I really would like to have ANY feedback at all. Even bad feedback would tell me more than the bland, neutral kind of rejection I've had up to now.

So for those who like to measure this kind of thing, the "score" so far is 20/0/12. Time to send off some more submissions, I reckon.

On our way 'ome

A considerably more substantial breakfast this morning, as I knew I wouldn't be eating again until we were airborne on the return journey. So I tucked in to a bowl of cereal crunch, a fried egg (freshly fried in front of my eyes by the griddle chef, or whatever they're called), sausage, schnitzel and potato cakes, juice, coffee and a small slice of delicious chocolate cake.

Since the lectures today were repeats of yesterday, in pretty much the same order, there was little value in returning to the conference centre (although coaches were provided for those who still had business to do), so I elected to take a walk into Augsburg and see something of the town.

A light drizzle greeted me as I stepped out of the hotel and turned right onto (what I thought was) the main street. I'm always fascinated by the subtle differences in local architecture when visiting other countries, but I wasn't prepared for the wonderfully eclectic mixture of old and new buildings as I made my way slowly down Gögginger Strasse in the direction of Stuttgart. This one sported an inscription mounted around the top floor, each glass block holding a single letter. Further up the street a private apartment building carried this unusual mural.

The further I walked the stronger the drizzle became, until after about 25 minutes I realised I risked being caught in a downpour and turned back for the hotel. Altogether I was out for about 50 minutes and didn't see any sign of a shopping centre. A later examination of the town centre on googlemaps revealed that I should have turned left rather than right at the end of the road on which the hotel stood.

I spent the rest of the morning in the hotel lobby, reading, caught the coach to Munich airport at 12.30 and arrived back at Stansted shortly before half past four. I could have done without the four-hour drive back to Manchester through the M11/A14 rush-hour traffic, but since it was the only way to get home I gritted my teeth and got on with it. An interesting experience, all things considered, but not one I'd be in any hurry to repeat.

VISIT 2008

After a light breakfast (previous experience of shows like this led me to suspect I'd be able to graze all day) we set off for the short coach trip to the Augsburg Messe where the conference was being held.

Arriving at the hall I battled through the throng of smokers - a crowd never numbering less than a hundred who restricted access throughout the day forcing everyone to run the gamut of secondary smoke and half-stubbed dog ends to get into the building - and registered at the main desk, collecting my conference map, schedule and badge.

The event had been divided into two main areas: Hall 7 where the presentations and expert talks were held, and the main arena housing the partners' and suppliers' stands, the 360 presentation theatre and the restaurant. I spent most of the morning listening to presentations, including one from the CTO, and broke these up with a brief stop at the restaurant for some lunch and to sit in on the 1pm showing of the 360 presentation - a multi-media show incorporating actors and sfx to showcase the history of Fujitsu-Siemens and their latest infrastructure offerings.

Finally at around half past three it was time for my factory tour. Very similar to the one I'd enjoyed on my aforementioned visit to EMC, with a similar set of production lines, automated fabrication machinery, automatic and manual testing, and palettes full of equipment awaiting shipping. Then it was back to the hotel for another free bar (definitely a theme of the event) and the "gala dinner" complete with speech. Short speech, thankfully. I declined the offer of a trip into town, and headed back to my room while the majority of my fellow diners headed for "Peaches" many of them, apparently, not returning until around 4am.

Illusions newly shattered

When I was offered the chance to attend Fujitsu-Siemens Computers "VISIT 2008" event in Augsburg a couple of months back, I jumped at it. Jollies like this are few and far between these days and my memory of such events in the past is uniformly good.

When I learned UK delegates were to be flown to Munich by private jet from Stansted my excitement leapt up a notch. Memories of our most excellent trip a few years ago to visit EMC's factory in Cork were uppermost in my mind: the 8-seater Gulfstream, the stretch limo, the feeling of ultimate luxury. So it was with great expectations that I set off from home just before 8am to ensure I arrived at the Inflite terminal in good time.

The bloom left the rose slightly when I drove past the gate guard on my arrival. "Make sure you don't leave any gaps when you park up," he advised. "We have to get 100 cars in here today."

Sure enough, for my second experience of private jet travel, it wasn't at all what I'd expected. Gone was the 8-seater executive jet; the leather; the gleaming, polished walnut. Gone were the dainty sandwiches with their crusts cut off, served on crested china plates, fresh coffee in china cups. In their place a 30-year-old Boeing 737-200, its seats configured in the worst charter airline style. I swear there wasn't more than nine inches between me and the seat back in front of me, occupied (as they always are) by a man incapable of sitting still for more than five minutes at a stretch. I couldn't even deploy my tray table without breathing in.

The meal, when it came, was the ubiquitous mystery chicken beloved of airlines the world over, served in plastic, along with a schizophrenic dessert that wasn't sure whether it was apple pie or apple crumble. I couldn't tell you what the coffee was like: I didn't dare try it. Having missed my chance of a pee at the airport after consuming a complementary coffee in the lounge, and with a tray table that wouldn't rest less than 25° from the horizontal, it was too risky on all counts.

Touching down at Munich I finally remembered the mantra of seasoned travellers - never pass up a chance for a pee - and leapt for the gents' as we were waiting at the baggage carousel. After an uneventful (but long!) transfer we arrived at the Hotel Dorint in Augsburg, about 70km NW of Munich.

My room - a slightly more upmarket version of hotel rooms the world over - was very pleasant. The hotel is in a cylindrical building of about 35 floors, only the bottom 11 of which are the hotel. The rooms, arranged radially around the central lifts, are wedge shaped, with a walk-in shower nearest the centre, widening into a well-appointed bathroom which then widens further into the main part of the room. Each room has a semilunar balcony which gives the building the appearance of a series of bubbles on a stick (I've since discovered the hotel is known locally as the "corn cob").

With a free bar starting at 7pm and a late arrival owing to traffic and a massive construction project on the autobahn out of Munich there was just time to phone home and confirm my safe arrival before heading downstairs and seeking out some fellow Northerners with whom to sample the local Bavarian ale.

Bankrupt stock

So the government, having contributed to the drink problem in the UK by relaxing the licensing laws (you know it's true, even if their statistics have been cooked to say otherwise), is now demanding an end to happy hours and cheap booze in supermarkets in an effort to cut the cost of policing hordes of drunken idiots in city centres.

When are we going to stop penalising the entire country for the behaviour of an antisocial minority? When are "they" going to start considering the "human rights" of the majority, like me, who enjoy going to the odd happy hour, and/or buying their bargain booze at Morrisons, and are capable of consuming it responsibly without staggering barely conscious into a city centre, puking over a copper or smashing up a bus stop? Why does the government's every reaction to a problem have to have the effect of carpet bombing, when what they need is a tactical strike?

We all have to bump (and all too often grind) our way over hundreds of speed control humps on account of a handful of overexuberant spotty erks going joyriding. A few high-profile deterrent sentences would have sorted the problem out in short order but instead local authorities go for the easy option, causing discomfort and inconvenience to everyone.

Makes me seethe (©1993 Mr. Angry).

I'd forgotten how good this is

I mentioned that we bought some DVDs and music CDs yesterday. Two CDs to be precise, both by King Crimson. I'm still slowly and almost half-heartedly rebuilding my vinyl collection from the 70s and 80s and I was very pleased to discover both their debut album, the famous In The Court of the Crimson King, and Lizard, in HMV.

I couldn't tell you the last time I listened to ITCOTCK all the way through, but regular readers won't be surprised to read that it was probably "over thirty years" ago. No, seriously, that's just irony talking. I certainly played it at one time while living in Alsager, a period which ended 20 years ago this year, and I may even have played it at some stage while living in the village, but it's probably at least ten years since my turntable was connected up and playable.

And as it says at the top there, I'd forgotten how good the album is. And that is "awesomely good." Both musically and from a personal memory standpoint, this is one of my favourite albums - and favourite bands - of all time. Now if I can only find a copy of Starless and Bible Black...

Shop til you drop

I hate shopping. Have I mentioned that before? I mean the kind of shopping where you don't really know what you want, you wander aimlessly around the mall or the city centre streets looking for something that you're not sure exists, battling against crowds and elbows and noise and smells.

That kind of shopping, I hate.

I can just about cope with short bursts as long as I know what I'm going for, where I'm going for it, and we can get in and out and done in as short a time as possible. And sometimes, like today, I realise it's unavoidable.

Because I'm off to Augsburg for a two-day business seminar (plus a day's travelling) on Tuesday and the dress code is business casual in the day time and smart casual in the evening and that gives me a big problem. For months I've been working at home most days, slobbing around in Ts and jogging bottoms. Even on the days I've been hauling myself into the office, I've been wearing jeans. Not a good image for Augsburg; something had to be done.

Then, a miracle happened. We arrived at the Trafford Centre just as it was opening up, went straight to BhS, found two pairs of large-waisted chinos and two decent shirts for not much more than fifty quid, found a few extra Christmas presents for people we'd been struggling with, picked up Christmas cards for close friends and family, had a rather nice panini and coffee while listening to the Sally Army band blowing their way brassily through some Christmas favourites and were home by one o'clock! Result!

If shopping was always this quick/painless/successful I wouldn't have a problem with it.

And really, the fact that we somehow managed to also pick up almost a hundred quid's worth of movie DVDs and music had nothing to do with my feelings of satisfaction.

Dos

It's not an age thing. I've never been able to hold a proper conversation in a crowded pub, even in my twenties. Worse when it's a small group of people sitting round a table. The added distance, measured in inches only, may as well be yards (substitute centimetres and metres if you were born after 1970). Still worse if there's live music playing. Even if, like last night, the music is good.

So we sat there, listening to the lively Portuguese salsa music, and watching the lips move on the people we were supposedly conversing with, trying not to be eaten up by the ubersoft couches in one of the little alcoves, and trying to judge when was the right time to laugh, or nod, or just look attentive. We probably looked like we'd escaped from somewhere clinical. Or that we weren't interested. Which wasn't true at all. The odd word that reached us tantalisingly across the table, fighting and clawing its way to our ears desperate to be heard - epée... choreography... joey... tequila - all sounded like the bones of a fascinating story. But there was no meat. No organs. And no sense at all. So like the carcass of the Christmas turkey picked clean before you press it into the kitchen bin, the conversation was never going to fly.

When live bands do a sound check prior to striking up for their first number, it's traditional to use the word "two" to allow the sound man to set the right level on the mic. That word is chosen because it embodies, in one short simple syllable, everything the engineer needs. The 'plosive' of the initial 't', the transition from 't' to 'oo' and the bass note of the 'oo' itself gives a dynamic soundwave perfectly suited to a mic check.

Only this was a Portuguese band. So their lead singer said "Dos" into the mic a few times, which didn't serve the purpose half as well, but provided a comic touch for anyone with a sense of irony. And that was us as we knocked back the last of our drinks and left the rest of our small group to flap their gums at each other. Dois povos, wending our quiet way out through the hubbub. Boa noite!

Luxury

After only one night, I think we can declare the transformation of the bed a total success. The gentle warmth of the natural duvet - which claims to be warm in winter and cool in summer - is so luxurious neither of us wanted to get up this morning, and the feather topper is a perfect antidote to mattress-induced discomfort.

Does look a bit strange with two long dents in it though. Reminds me of a scene from Psycho.

New beds for old

Shortly after moving in here we decided the main bedroom was large enough to accommodate a super-king bed and Nikki performed her usual miracle of online shopping, finding a sumptuous cherry wood suite including a sleigh bed. We bought the mattress online too, which unfortunately proved to be slightly less of a success. It's the first time I'd bought a bed without trying it out first. Turned out we'd chosen the wrong hardness.

By the time the problem became obvious it was too late to return the mattress, so for two years we've put up with it. In Nikki's case we're convinced it contributed to her frozen shoulder, and I've woken to more dead arms than you can shake a stick at (you certainly wouldn't be able to shake a stick with one. It's dead) as well as a shoulder that might qualify as frozen (or at least slushy) and various aches and pains.

Having spent a couple of nights enjoying the luxury of the master suite in Chesterfield (on two separate occasions), we determined to do something about our discomfort, and that something arrived today in the shape of a luxury feather mattress topper, a duck feather and down 13.5 tog duvet and a pair of duck feather and down pillows. Arriving home we wasted no time in tearing off the existing bedding and replacing it with all the new stuff.

The topper is about two inches deep, but the combined effect of that and the new duvet makes our bed resemble something from The Princess and the Pea. About a foot higher and considerably plumper. (I should refrain from using the word 'plumper' really, as I'm sure it'll attract the attention of totally the wrong sort of reader, but anyway...)

It remains to be seen what effect all this new gear will have on our sleeping, but I think it's odds-on for an early night tonight.

Waking to a new world

I don't very often comment on politics, but on this day of all days maybe it's appropriate.

We woke before 5am this morning. Not because of any excitement about the result of the US election, but simply because we're in a vicious cycle of going to bed early and waking early. And waking early makes us tired, so we fall asleep by 9pm and then wonder if there's any point sitting dozing in front of the telly. So we go to bed early. And wake early.

The result, apparently, became clear at 4am UK time, and was heralded for us by such things as family messages on Facebook ("Go Obama!") and emails from friends in the right timezone. So I thought I'd pop along to the BBC News website and see what they had to say. And what they had to say was firstly that the result was a lot closer than some had predicted, but with several States left to declare Barack Obama was already past the winning post.

Then I made the mistake of reading his victory speech, which is reproduced in full on the BBC webpages. I defy all but the most battle-hardened cynics to read the full text without a tear in their eye. There's a message in there for those cynics too.

Who knows how many bloggers all around the world are recording their thoughts on the dawn of what most of us hope will be a new day, in all senses of the phrase? Mine is just one tiny, insignificant, uneducated voice in that massive melee of humanity, so I will say only this.

There is no doubting the strength and passion of Obama's oratory. Nor do I doubt his sincerity. Uniquely among politicians (for yes, where that breed are concerned, I'm just as cynical as the next guy) I believe there is a man here who says what he means and means what he says. But oratory is one thing, and achievement is another. He knows what he has to do, he knows it will be hard, and he knows he can't do it alone. Let's pray for the miracle he will need if he's to do it at all, in the face of greed, self-interest, corruption, duplicity and malice.

On this very day, 403 years ago, a man tried to change the course of history with kegs full of gunpowder. Let's hope after 400 years America has found a man who can light a metaphorical fire under their administration.

Mandriva - Day 2

Armed with my WEP key, retrieved from my security spreadsheet, I booted into Linux after managing my morning emails.

The configuration went without a hitch, and the wireless network burst into life using the Windows driver and ndiswrapper. I began to wonder whether I'd have been able to read this value using OpenOffice Calc.

The trick I was missing yesterday is that (as far as I can tell) there are two standard ways of navigating the filesystem, and an application can use one or the other. Some apps have an entry for each disk that uses the disk label. I wasn't recognising my original disk because it still has the manufacturer's label (a six-digit numerical value). I'll have to relabel this as "Windows". Other apps - and this includes OpenOffice - navigate below the Linux root only.

In this case - as I remembered eventually - all the hard disks are under /media. hd is my original Windows disk, hd2 and hd3 are the two partitions on the new disk. And there under '/media/hd', as if by magic, is all my familiar filestore.

One problem though. My security spreadsheet is secured with an Excel password, and this seems to crash Calc. It will happily open any of my other spreadsheets, but the password protected one is a certain app killer.

I had a brief poke around at some other applications, including the Gwenview photo viewer and KMail Mail client, but before long it was time to head out to pick the girls up.

On my return I discovered the network had stopped working. I tried reconfiguring it, but this threw some error about not being able to find the ndiswrapper service! I rebooted and the network came back to life, but after 20 minutes or so it fell over again. This time I managed to resuscitate it using the Network Center. Not sure if there's a timeout value somewhere I haven't seen, or it's just a bit flaky.

Anyhow, with a live network I published my first blog entry from Mandriva (the Brideshead book review below), and WROTE my first entry (this one). That's two activities I can tick off my list.

Problems/weirdness so far identified:

1. The automatic update utility is failing to find one of the updates it says I need (rpmdrake)
   
2. Whenever I click on "Help" it ALWAYS says the help file doesn't exist
3. I really need to make a list and attack this in a coherent way, cos at the moment I'm jumping from one cool tool to another. A lot of fun, but not much discipline ;o) I noticed there's a personal organiser included in this distro - KOrganizer - which might be a good place to keep the list!
4. Sometimes when I launch something, it'll say "oh, I need an update" and bugger off somewhere to get it. This has, on occasion, taken 20 minutes.
   

I'm loving it though. And Nat's already said "can you put Linux on my laptop, please?" lol. Probably not until I'm a bit more up to speed meself. I feel like I don't have a clue what I'm doing, but it's too exciting to leave alone.

Mandriva - Day 1

I finally had some free time yesterday to begin playing with Mandriva - my chosen Linux distro.

I'd already downloaded and burnt the CD image I needed. This is "Mandriva One" - which includes everything I need for a basic system and comes as a "live" CD, meaning the system can be booted from the CD before installing onto disk.

So feeling a small frisson of excitement, I booted the CD. About 15 years ago I remember a colleague at work taking the - then extraordinary - step of installing Linux on a works desktop. Back then he'd had trouble getting it started on account of there not being a video driver for the proprietary video card in that model of PC. This was the first time the massive benefits of the open source community had been brought home to me in a concrete way. He posted the spec of the video card on a Linux forum and when he came back into work the next day, someone in the States had written him a driver.

Fifteen years on, and I expected no such problems. Linux has matured into an OS that is suitable for moderately computer literate users to use, and the hardware I'm using has become much less proprietary. What I DID expect to have a problem with, is the fact that I haven't touched any flavour of Unix for about ten years, so I'll be crawling up that learning curve again almost as a novice (but with some dimly remembered snippets of information about file systems, forks, processes, and strangely-named utilities).

Mandriva booted without incident, and I ran through the initial config to set language, keyboard layout, and timezone. Faced with a desktop that was at once familiar and different, I launched Firefox. The Linux version looks very slightly "clunkier" than on Windows but other than that it appeared unchanged. However, I had no network connection. There is no LAN cable in this PC, and the wireless network was not configured. After a few seconds scratching around I found the right place to set up a wireless connection, but the distro did not include a native driver for my Netgear WG111T USB wireless dongle, so (I discovered) I'd need to use the Windows driver with something called an ndiswrapper.

I marked this down for future reference as I figured there wasn't much point doing the configuration while booted from the CD, and moved on to try a Live Install. I quickly learned that I couldn't install onto an NTFS-formatted partition. The boot partition has to have a native Linux filesystem (thus negating my formatting of the new disk earlier in the week). I used the Linux partitioner to recreate a boot partition. This looked extremely scary and reminded me how powerful Linux is and how easy it is to wreck an entire system if you don't keep your wits about you. I was glad I'd chosen to install Linux onto a completely separate disk. It was easy to stay away from doing any damage to Windows, as that is all on "sda" (Mandriva's name for my primary hard disk) while Linux is going on "sdb".

Having created a boot partition I tried the Live Install again, only to find it was asking where I wanted it to put the swap space. I backed out of the install. I'd rather spend some time reading up exactly what I need to do, instead of attacking each new requirement as it arises and getting through the process one painful step at a time.

Before closing down, I took a look at Open Office Writer - the Linux equivalent of MS Word. Again, it looks kind of familiar but with some differences. I had hoped that I'd be able to hold a single central document store and access it from both Windows and Linux (while I'm in this transitory stage), but I couldn't get the Writer file open dialogue to navigate outside the filestore of /usr/guest. I'm hoping this will be a restriction of the CD boot.

It was time to reload Windows and do some reading. I found out where the Netgear driver is, and I read up a few forum entries on installation prerequisites. Apparently, I need:

1. A swap file. Formatted as "Linux swap" and about 512MB in size. One of those dim memories tells me the swap space needs to be at least as big as the PCs memory, so I figured I'd give it a gig.
2. A root partition, mounted as "/" and formatted as "ext3" (Linux has a bewilderingly huge list of alternative file systems, which as a long-time Windows user, where you have the choice of FAT, FAT32, or NTFS, I found somewhat daunting. But as usual with such things, you appear to be able to ignore most of them - which probably have specialist functions - and stick with one or two basic types). The forum said 1GB is "more than enough" for this, but since space isn't a problem for me, and the entry may be outdated, I decided to go with 5GB
   
3. A home partition (where all the user files are kept). This can be "as big as you like" but given that it's readable only by Linux I decided to restrict it to 50GB to start with. At some point once everything is working I'll format the rest of the disk as NTFS and use it for media files, which should be readable by either system

Armed with this new information, I rebooted from the Mandriva CD and completed the Live Install successfully, choosing a graphical GRUB loader to replace the Windows loader. At one point the install told me it had found a whole load of hardware drivers that I didn't need, and asked whether it was OK to leave these out. I figured yeah, why not? Going ahead and rebooting from the hard disk, my first task was to get the wireless connection working. I think some of you will be ahead of me here, but guess what? Yep - the wireless package was one of those things the install had decided I didn't need. Ouch.

I tried to search for a way to install the wireless package from the CD, but with my woefully limited knowledge I couldn't find a way of mounting the CD so it was accessible to the software installer, and using the file browser I couldn't find anything on the CD that looked like it might be a wireless package. Time to reinstall.

I hoped there'd be a way to select individual packages to include - the wireless one was clearly visible in the list - but it is an "all or nothing" exclusion, so this time round obviously I had to elect to include them all. Rebooting AGAIN (this could get boring!) I navigated successfully to the Wireless configuration page and hit my final frustration of the day - I'd forgotten to make a note of our WEP key. I'd run out of time for playing with Mandriva - and almost run out of patience if I'm honest - but I'd learned a lot even though it didn't feel as though I'd achieved much. Better luck next time, hopefully.