Gertsamtkunstwerk

Gay marriage

I started writing this as a comment on Jon's site, apropos New Rights For Gay Couples

It's an interesting one, because, on the whole, there are no impediments to straight people marrying, and if us straighties don't want all the hassle of a big ceremony there's nothing to stop us doing a three minute jobby at the Register Office with two random witnesses dragged in off the street (kicking and screaming from the bus shelter in the case of my local Register Office!).

When the matter was discussed on PolitX, Tory Boy brought up the issue of the two elderly spinsters. Now, he was using the elderly spinsters to beat gay people over the head (which is a fairly unique form of gerontophobia). Underneath the ridiculous ranting about marriage being for the children (thus rendering void every marriage of the barren and elderly - gerontophobia, again) and gays undermining the family (surely the elderly spinsters have been pretty undermining to family values, too!), there is potentially a serious point.

I am increasingly of the view that not only should it be a legal right for any adult of sound mind to designate any other adult of sound mind as next-of-kin, but, also for any adult to be able to designate a 'significant other' for, say, Inheritance Tax and pension purposes.

It would avoid the debate about the undermining of marriage (although, if it's so easily undermined, it can't be that hot a proposition). It would enable people who wish to get married for religious reasons to do so. Those who spurn the interference of church or state in private matters, as every good libertarian should, be they straight or gay, can ensure that they can die with dignity not leaving their life partner destitute. It would also ensure that those who will not, or cannot, share their life with a sexual partner are also not disadvantaged.

Another comment!

or, How an Old Post Comes Back To Haunt Me

On 17 February 2002 I posted a description of a small incident I observed in a Parisian restaurant. I then forgot about it until March this year, when someone calling themself "Yank" posted a reasoned and reasonable comment. Since then, there have been more comments posted, some of which have been so ridiculously inane from both 'sides' of the 'debate' that I have deleted them. Others I have kept. I have wondered about deleting the post, but there would be a fundamental dishonesty in doing so. However, the comment posted today by "Caz" is extremely funny. Perhaps I shouldn't laugh at a 14-year-old, but, please, I would have thought that by that age a rudimentary knowledge of the native language would have been achieved. Linger to view her email address. Revel in the irony (but don't send her email, remember she is only 14, and I don't think it's fair to do so to one so young).

And in just one click you can read the reason that led me to post that post! (please read before you leave a comment!)

Personal space

Another thing that annoys me. I went in a shop near the office ot get some milk. I go in maybe once a fortnight. there's a man who works there - sometimes, not every time I go in - who gives me the creeps. Today he said, "Did you have a good weekend?" "It was alright," i said in a non-committal close the conversation way. "Too much sleepy-sleepy?" he asked.

"None of your fucking business, who the bloody hell do you think you are asking questions about my life. I don't know you, we're merely conducting a minor commercial transaction. For all you know you stupid wanker I could have spent the weekend getting no sleep because of a sick child, dying grandparent, leaking roof, departing lover, barking dog. I could have just found out I was losing my job or need to have major surgery. Don't dare presume to make comments on my weekend, tosser. And furthermore,perv, you don't have to stroke my hand when you take the pound coin from it, perv."

"Huh! Thank you," I replied.

Disability now

In Croydon on Thursday, popping out of the Whitgift Centre for a smoke, I noticed a father and son. the son was between seven and ten, in a wheelchair. They were at the bus stop, waiting, probably for a bus, possibly for a lift.

I noticed a sticker on the entrance to the Whitgift, celebrating that it participates in Croydon Council's Disability scheme - whatever that is. On the bus Friday morning, I noticed that the bus is designed to accommodate one wheelchair user. I reflected that I have never seen a wheelchair user on a bus in Britain. Unlike in New York and Washington, where it seemed that every bus I was on 'knelt' to admit a wheelchair user. Basically, wheelchair users are not visible in Britain. I personally know two people - both of whom can, and choose to, walk short distances. I also know of one who campaigns tirelessly - and fruitlessly - for disabled access to Streatham Hill. Perhaps the wheelchair users I saw in the States were all men of a certain age - men who were old enough to have gone to Vietnam. Or am I being silly?

On Friday, just across the road from the Whitgift, I saw a man propelling himself down into the subway. Perhaps Croydon, for all its faults, is Disability Aware. On the way home waiting for a bus. I saw a couple emerge from a sandwich shop on Streatham Hill. She was about four foot, clearly a 'dwarf' - there is a medical name for the condition, I forget it. He was in a wheelchair and appeared from the back also to be a 'dwarf'. I wondered how they get around - the buses are not really accessible, and, as I say, Streatham Hill is a nightmare for anybody with any mobility issue (including buggies or luggage).

Thoughts on racism

Conscious that I tread into murky waters, I tread carefully.

(Where I live is multicultural, multiracial, multiethnic. Thankfully, the outward manifestations of racism are passive. We don't get too many reports of racially motivated attacks. Of course, the rhetoric is different, and while I'm not condoning it, there's a big difference between an ignoramus mouthing off in a pub, and firebombing someone's home. And this is not intended as a comment on the ingrained institutional nature of racism, nor on inequality of opportunity etc)

Yesterday, I was sitting on Streatham Hill station waiting for a train to Croydon. Hearing a strange noise, I looked behind me to see a young black man riding his bike down the stairs to the platform. Baseball cap on backwards, earphones clamped to his ears, his face and body language yelling aggression. He rode the bike at speed along the platform, stopping only at the furthermost bench, where he dismounted, to sit. Not on the seat of the bench, but on the back, his feet resting on the seat, where some innocent will later place their clean trousers/skirt.

There was nothing wrong in what he did - certainly not criminally wrong. However, if I were not a Sandal wearing Guardianista, I would have been intimidated, and thinking 'Typical, aggressive, black man'. I looked around - on either side of me were black men of about my age. One staring into space, clearly lost in thoughts and daydreams. Another reading the manual for his phone (a man reading a manual?). Further along a twenty-something black man read his book. On the other platform, a sixty something black man read his Daily Mail. A late-teened black man paced around in that aimless waiting-for-a-train way, matching Ray-United-Airlines in his pacing.

All of those black men, like everyone else on the station, were going about their everyday life, not drawing attention to themselves. The faces of those close to me were gentle - the faces of good fathers, loving partners, conscientious workers.

Yet, for most people, the stereotype of a black man was that idiot riding his bike down the stairs and along the platform. I wonder whether he knows or cares about his image. Do I, as a middle class white woman, have any right to even comment? Should he change his image to confront, rather than pander to, the stereotypes of Middle England? Am I not being prejudiced in even noticing? And not until then noticing the characteristics of anyone else? Is my dislike of him a subtle - or not so subtle - form of racism, or is it a justifiable and justified dislike of aggressive anti-social behaviour?

Cockinafrock

Graybo's friend Lizzie is looking for photos of erect penises wearing Barbie costumes.

You will be anonymous. It's for Edinburgh, dahlings.

Whoever said that Grayblog is a parody of boringness!

The perfect cup of tea

How to make a perfect cuppa

For me, the perfect cup of chow would probably be Assam, made in a ceramic tea pot, poured in a china cup, with milk added first, no sugar. I actually prefer semi-skimmed to full fat. The tea has to be of a dark colour.

Generally, I drink Sainsbury's or M&S teabags ina mug, with the hot water poured on, a bit of stirring, and the addition of semi-skimmed milk.

My Lady Grey I drink weak with no milk or sugar.

Wimbledon

It's that time again. I don't pretend to be much of a sports fan. I suppose I like stuff, but most of the time I can find better things to do with my time. when I was a youngster it was a treat to have hours of Wimbledon coverage. You felt for two weeks you really could really get to know about the game. All those lager than life personalities. And Bjorn Borg. But seriously, was it a Golden Age, the Nastase-Connors-Borg-McEnroe-Cash-Becker Days. And Martina Navratilova, what a star? They used to play tennis in those days.

I get annoyed by the people who become instant experts for a fortnight but couldn't tell you who won the French Open, played just the other week at Flushing Meadow. I get really annoyed by the pubs advertising that they have tennis on the TV. Pubs, FFS - in the old days it was a time for men to escape down the pub while the women watched it on the TV indoors. When all houses just had one TV. As mine does now.

In the old days we all had our favourites. I was a McEnroe/Cash/Becker girl. My sister went for Borg/Wilander/Edberg. Andrea at school for Connors and that French geezer. It didn't matter what country they were from, they were our boys.

My cousin and her son, my godson, share my view but from a completely different angle. They are both good club players. He plays for the county, and has had commercial sponsorship. He'll be old enough to play in the Boys tournament next year, GCSEs permitting. I don't know if he's good enough.

They go to all sorts of tournaments in the strangest of places, where the star is the British number five and an unknown Croatian. My cousin gets annoyed when people say "Why does Tim Henman always lose?" "He doesn't," she says. "He wins plenty of tournaments that you've never heard of."

But it doesn't matter whether Tim Henman wins Wimbledon or not. He's not very good. Get over it. It'll be The Open (Golf) soon. I don't especially want Tim Henman to win. It doesn't make me unpatriotic. Okay, maybe I'm a hypocrite. (My appetite is whetted for the Rugby World Cup in Oz in October. Did you know that the England Rugby team, right now, is the best sporting team ever to have come from these Isles? The Aussies are still favourites, but never mind that!) I dislike the fact that Wimbledon has been turned into this excuse for waving the Union Flag - until Rudetski is knocked out, then he's a Canadian.

We will never be any good at tennis until it stops being such a class-ridden game. As I say, my godson is old enough next year to play in the Boys tournament, but he's from a background where GCSEs matter. A very modest background for a tennis player - his father's a teacher, his mother an ex-teacher now working in Local Government. I'm not sure that we need to be good at tennis. I just get bored by Wimbledon bores who suddenly become experts.

Of course, I'll watch some of the TV coverage. I like the Mixed Doubles. I'm right off the men's singles, especially all this crash-bang-wallop stuff. Bring back wooden rackets, I say.

I remember when tennis was fun to watch..

It bypassed video and went straight to ITV.

Scaryduck is collecting votes for the worst turkey film of all time. I'm sulking that he omitted Seven from his list. This is a much talked-about poll, the one that got a couple of other A-listers engaged in arm-wrestling over Breakfast at Tiffanys.

Dom (who he) emphasises why he doesn't agree why Apocalypse Now is on it

Especially seeing as Mrs Doubtfire isn't. Referee! How? I tried to walk out of Mrs Doubtfire, and I was watching it on a plane. That's how unutterably bad it really is.

Rant time

Should I rant about Wimbledon or the Anglican Church?

Anglican, first, I think. Incidentally, I have tried entering leviticus.com. Either the site's down, or it is, as yet, unclaimed. Hm, should I buy it or should I leave it to one of you homosexualists to create mischief?

The Bible, is, however, online. What Does the Bible Say About Homosexuality? Leviticus 18:22 (KJV): "Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind it is abomination." (Does that apply to women, too, I wonder...)

Mind you, Leviticus 4 says that if you sin, you should sacrifice a bullock on the altar of the Lord. If you lie, you should sacrifice a lamb.

I wonder when the next bullock/lamb sacrifice will occur at my local Evangelical Anglican church.

Leviticus 11 lists all the things you shouldn't eat. You know, shellfish being an abomination and all that.

A part of me doesn't really care who the next bishop of Reading is. However, whilst the Anglican Church remains a nationalised industry, I have as much right to express an opinion as the next person. I couldn't really care less whether the Bishop is gay, M&S, D&B, onanist or whatever, but I do get angry by bigots who decide that they find homosexual acts disgusting (although I am heterosexual I generally find the thought of other people's heterosexual acts disgusting.) I also dislike intensely this selective quoting from the Bible to justify a point of view.

My friend Geoff is an Anglican lay preacher. His boyfriend Andy is a Methodist minister - who presided at the wedding of Rachel and Steve, a wedding attended by the great and the good of the Methodist church. It doesn't seem to be a problem to them. Maybe it's about time the Anglican church did schism - within itself and away from the State.

Mind you, it's the same Anglican Church that decreed that Charles Windsor couldn't become its head because of his adulterous affair with a married woman. They seem to forget why the Church of England was set up in the first place - to allow Henry VIII his multiple marriages.

PS Leviticus 12 is good - it insists on circumcision. I would love it if the journalists asked each and every man who opposes the appointment of the gay bishop whether they have been circumcised. I would suspect that they probably haven't.

But, hey, they're breaking the law of scripture.

Diverse? Perverse? Perverted

Peter a Naked Blog has written a little story to inflate his hit rate entertain us all, based on those dreaded disturbing search terms.

Which reminds me, I haven't catalogued mine for ever such a long time...

sainsburys naked photo shoot - Just by the frozen chickens would be the most erotic, I would guess
what restaurants did princess diana like going to in life - maybe the same ones she likes going to in death...and haunting - 'Princess Diana's ghost'
uk bisexual blair mandelson I didn't know Mandy was bisexual. Hag fag, he's been described as
how to wear a sanitary towel If you have to ask the question...
Lesbian fivesome Would they be satisfied with a foursome - this does seem a bit specific and greedy?
ghastly seventies wallpaper I had nightmares as a child. I blame the wallpaper
men in my bra/men wearing bra not a pretty sight. Although some could do with the support
beach topless Christian Yes, it's okay, God gave you your body. It's beautiful. Get a life
cropped penis this may make some of you go ouch and clasp your hand to your groin. Maybe that's a picture I shouldn't have conjured up
letter to daughters boyfriend's parents who owe me money just abscond
farting minges that's me...!
"upset stomach" toilet I would strongly advise the use of a toilet when suffering upset stomach
boring work It was someone surfing from a gov.uk address that hit me with this
"tony blair" duncan smith tights So IDS is also a bisexual? This must be the new Inclusive Conservative Party
"Michael Owen" erotic story Do not put Michael Owen and erotic in the same sentence
my manager is a female pompous bitch I have a wonderful manager - now...; and

On Under Developed
Pictures of Auditors I mentioned this at work and was met with a chorus of 'Why?'

PS This site contains nothing about beasteality nor gay footballers.

Update And just after I published this, I get a search for 'futility caravan stories'. Yahoo asks whether they meant 'futility caravan sites'.

Waiting for rain

The atmosphere has been stuffy and sultry all day. Sweatingly hot but no sign of the sun. Wearing only tee-shirt and shorts, with the back door open, just doing the washing up made me sweat. It's normally the thought of doing it that makes me sweat.

For days the weather bods have been predicting thunder storms for Sunday. Thunder storms and flash floods. Great, I thought, nothing beats a thunder storm for clearing the air and freshening the earth. It rained lightly and briefly this morning. It soon dried.

I could smell the electricity hanging in the listless air. Great, I thought, I'm going to watch this.

The day waited for night to fall - which happens jolly late this time of year - and a few minutes ago it began to drizzle. Drizzle is no good. I want Donner und Blitzen, I want the elements colliding in a meteorological spectacular.

I feel cheated.

Richmond to Kew

We have an ambition to go to Richmond Park. We weren't far away on Sunday. We caught the train to Richmond Station. Twenty nine minutes from Streatham Hill is excellent. I sort of misunderstood the map, so instead of going into Richmond Park, we went into the Old Deer Park and walked along the Thames Path. That would have been a lot nicer if it wasn't for the cyclists.

Yes, I know cycling's a jolly good thing, good for the environment and so on, but so's walking. They whizz along so much faster than walking pace, and because the path is generally quite narrow, we had to walk in single file.

I wouldn't have minded so much if it wasn't for the appalling manners on parade. Very few said thank you. There were some who were entirely oblivious that their selfish hogging of the path, at speed, was actually pushing us into the nettles.

I have to say it is indicative of a certain section of society who spend so much time exercising their bodies and so little their minds. I don't suppose more than one in ten of them actually observed any of the nature that surrounded them.

We spotted some steps and went down to the beach. That was so much more civilised. Apart from a little squelchiness at times it was much easier to walk along and hold a conversation without the constant harassment from cyclists. We had a much better view of river life, from wading birds to small craft to pleasure cruisers. As we walked along I commented on how deserted the beach was. Perhaps we had come down the only access to it. We decided it would be best to climb the Embankment, a steep concrete bank. There were chains attached, and Jimmy hauled himself up by them. I tried to follow, but lost my foothold. This was where the chains came into their own. Although I was falling backwards, I was able to fall in a measured way. My inability to climb at the first attempt was not because I was a pathetic girlie but because I had my camera round my neck and my rucksack on my back.

Camera? you say. Are there, perchance, photos?
Well, blow me, yes there are!

We walked all the way to Kew Green, where we stopped for lunch at the Rose and Crown. The chef's special was Brochettes of scallops and prawn on a bed of green leaves and samphire grass. We both ordered it, and when it came I was surprised to see that the scallops were wrapped in bacon. I took it to the bar and explained that there was nothing on the board that said it was in bacon; I don't eat bacon. The barman summoned someone - a manager, I guess - who said he would ask chef to make me another, without the bacon. Whilst I was waiting I went to the bar to get in another round. The manager said they were on the house. And my replacement meal came fairly promptly, with no hint of bacon.

We spent some time on the green watching a cricket match. Ah, the sound of leather on willow on a hot summer's day/ We then decided to make for Kew Pier, cracking jokes about "Queue here". We arrived on the dot of half four, when a boat was due to leave. It hadn't yet arrived , nor had the three thirty.

A boat arrived at ten to five, and almost everybody rushed to get on it. There were a dozen of us who hung back, and half a dozen who were refused entry on the first boat because it was full. There was not a seat to be had on deck. We didn't mind. We had heard the ticket selling man say that two were coming. whilst the panickers were stampeding to get on the first one, the second one arrived.

We had a choice of seats and had a leisurely cruise back to Westminster. We even saw Concorde approaching Heathrow. I took a few snaps. Although they are nothing special, nevertheless, I was so pleased with one of them I entered it for Theme Thursday.

When we returned to Westminster the fun began! We decided it would be too much hassle to get the Tube, so we would get a bus instead. Jimmy wondered how long it would be for a 159 to come, so I suggested we could get a 12 and change at Oval. Wrong! The 12 doesn't go to Oval.

We got off at the second bus stop at the Elephant, It would have been stupid to get off at the first one, by the Bakerloo Line entrance. We wanted the northern Line. But the northern Line entrance is closed, so we walked round and round the dreaded underpasses to the Bakerloo Entrance, and round and round the station to the Northern Line.

We changed to the Victoria Line at Stockwell. Only there was no train due for ten minutes and another Northern Line arrives, so we caught that to Clapham Common. We stood at the bus stop for ages before a 137 arrived. It turns right just after the common. This time it couldn't. Clapham Park Road was blocked off by a police car. so, it carried on up Clapham High Street. We expected it to take a left onto Bedford Road to head back to its route, but, no, it continued to Stockwell Station where it turned to head to Brixton. It was increasingly surreal looking at the perplexed faces of people at bus stops as a 137 sailed past, well off route. Or rather, two 137s, because in inimitable style, two had turned up together.

It was a relief to get home and crack open the rum (for him) and gin (for me)!

A night out

I did culture last night. Last minute email from Megan who had two tickets for a BBC Singers Invitation Concert, did I want to go? Why not. It was free and it was a pleasant twenty minutes walk from the office through the Embassied roads of Belgravia to St Paul's Knightsbridge. We adjourned to the Wilton Arms, which was not unpleasant - I had Shepherd Neame's Masterbrew.

As we queued to enter the church I could not help notice the age profile of fellow concert-goers. Almost all of them were in the 50-80 age group. We only spotted two pairs younger than us, and maybe a dozen in the 35-50 group.

We settled down for the concert, which was introduced by a woman in real Radio Three voice. The theme was the two Elizabeths, which was somewhat excrutiating, but the music was not unpleasant - madrigals and galliards composed to honour Queen Elizabeth I and pieces by Tippett, Britten and Bliss to mark QEII's Coronation. The highlight was Britten's six Choral Dances from Gloriana. The recording took just about an hour and will be broadcast on July 29th at one o'clock.

The compere explained that Betty didn't like Gloriana, ostensibly because it was based on QE I's dalliance with the Earl of Essex, but my guess is that it was all rather lost on a middle-brow, semi-educated person. When she said that, there was a ripple of deferential amusement. A woman in front turned round, as if to exchange a look of loyal admiration, just at the point where I was pulling a face to signify my disdain, or, perhaps, my disgust.

As I said, the music was not unpleasant. The man in front, said, in resounding bass to his companions, as the final appaluse rolled, "Such fabulous music". I wondered what was more depressing, the paucity of his vocabulary or the absence of musical taste.

In my humble opinion, the Britten was excellent and Thomas Bateson's "Hark, hear you not: Orianna's farewell" was second rate, but the rest of the music was third rate, although admirably performed. One madrigal sounds very much like another. Gallairds and madrigals were the pop music of their time. Not exactly mind expanding.

I found the Church curious. I am almost certain that it is Anglican, but I was somewhat confused by the noticeboard outside advertising High Mass and Low Mass, and, inside the smell of incense. I can never really fathom out these Anglo-Catholic churches. Although, I suspect, I should become Anglican. It's the sort of religion where you don't actually have to be religious. I don't think you even have to believe in God. It's just a useful social arrangement, top be called upon for hatches, matches and dispatches.

As I had walked up 'Embassy Row' I had seen no end of cars, mainly attached to Embasies, with number plates in single and low double digits. I probably saw every number from 1 to 40, except thirteen. When we were walking from our second visit to the Wilton Arms, to Victoria Station, I spotted a '13' on a blue open top sports car. Probably A German make.

We had stopped to give directions to some Floridians looking for The Grenadier Pub. I told them it was far too touristy. Amused, they pointed out that they were Tourists.

Information and Communiation Technology

Not too many years ago some chaps I knew, still know, sort of, (but they don't know each other), developed an affectation for referring to the wireless. You know, that apparatus from which you are able to receive the Home Service and the Third Programme. Perhaps it was little different from me pretentiously referring to a common household instrument as a 'telephone'. Bizarrely, from being a delightfully old-fashioned term, 'wireless' now refers to cutting edge technology.

I think I revealed a little about myself earlier, when I stated "I'm not very good at text-messaging..." I suspect that the word is actually texting. I'm not sure how to pronounce the past tense version - I texted, you texted, he/she/it texted.

I am encountered a number of references recently on weblogs to IM and ICQ. I think I know what they are, but I don't entirely get them. Why would I want to communicate with them when I have telephones at home and work and a mobile telephone, too, as well as numerous email addresses?

Sniffing out the truth?

Last night, when I was coming out of Streatham Hill station, there were over a dozen police officers, and a couple of plain clothes people, who could have been railway revenue inspectors or police, plus a police dog. Each one of us had to show our passes or tickets and be subject to a sniff by the dog.

Strange really. Streatham Hill is not exactly the crime station of London. It's not even the most crime-ridden station in Streatham. At that time, it is characterised by two or three hundred people shuffling off the train, coming back from work. Not very intimidating.

Have I ever told you about me and dogs? I make dogs nervous. I know that, so that makes me nervous, which makes them even more nervous. It was a deeply traumatic experience anticipating a police dog going berserk in the enclosed space that is Streatham Hill ticket office.

I am curious to know what it is about. Talking with a colleague this morning, he said 'drugs'. Feasible, credible, but...isn't that treating me as a suspect? And, indeed the other hundreds of people? I am all for anything that will work in eradicating crack and smack from my community, but sceptical at how effective treating a bunch of commuters, who almost certainly won't have their dope, charlie or Es on them, as suspects. Also, all the officers were men - would I have been within my rights to refuse a rub-down by a male officer?

The dog must have been very well trained - it seemed oblivious to my nervousness.

12,000 year old art in Derbyshire

Britain's 'earliest' prehistoric cave art

Jolly good stuff. I always feel we are a little lacking in pre-history.

"The art is partially obscured by 1940s graffiti" says the Beeb website.

Were they thick or something in the 40s? I mean, you go in a cave, you see some pictures, you decide they're rubbish, and you draw over them, never pausing to think that, perhaps, fame and fortune could be yours if only you mention them to a passing historian.

Don't assume that educational standards have gone down hill!

Random thoughts

One of the drawbacks of blogging is knowing when to keep one's mouth shut. I went on a really interesting audit visit today to one of the department's establishments, somewhere in Cambridgeshire. I would love tell you my thoughts and impressions, and, I think, it would be of genuine interest to the taxpaying community. But it's just one step too far in terms of yattering about work  (you see, I natter about the trivial and the personalities, but never about the substance, and almost never about the policies. On the train we found an abandoned Daily Mail. I've always known it to be right-wing, bigoted and really rather anti-people, but it's also rather depressing. The constant doom-and-gloom must leave half its readership morose and the other half in fear and trembling, as the country goes to wrack-and-ruin. There seems to be no intentional humour to relieve the suffering. The unintentional humour is good. Someone wrote to the letters page and said that he has just returned from holiday in Tenerife. He could see no less than 12 cranes from his hotel. Is this a world record? No, from our office we can probably see 112! I wish my dearly beloved didn't go to bed so early; otherwise I would have rung him up and got him to confirm the exact days he wants to go on holiday. I think I have found a flight for £4 (For International Readers, this is approximately 6 Euros or USD).

Phew what a scorcher!

Spent the last couple of days out and about. On Saturday we decided to head out for Dulwich Park, on the basis that neither of us had ever been there. En route we say signs for Dulwich Country Fayre (sic) so thought we would investigate. We were sent onto Gallery Road, where we could park. Jimmy commented that it was a bit of inspiration to build an Art Gallery on Gallery Road...

We strolled past Belair House and thought we would investigate the grounds. Very tranquil.

We carried on down the road, and cut through the Sports Ground whereupon we came across Dulwich Park, venue of the Dulwich Country Fayre. We spent a couple of hours there. It seemed pretty standard summer fair - a funfair, on which we didn't venture because my dearly beloved doesn't like going round and round, let alone up and down and upside down. There was a farmers' market winding down as we arrived, various craft and commercial stalls, food, drink the usual. The entertainment didn't seem to be on the scale of Lambeth Country Show, which usually has displays from the military, Sealed Knot etc.

I took quite a few photos. The one I didn't take which I wanted to was of a man I kept seeing. He was tall, black, dressed to match a stereotype of a gangster, bling-bling included. He walked around carrying a semi-automatic gun. It would have looked quite intimidating if it hadn't been purple and yellow plastic and designed for blowing bubbles!

Birthday Honours

Celebrities get gongs.

As a child I was fascinated - and impressed - by the Honours system. As a teenager, I was virulently opposed, seeing it as no more than a snob-accumulation-of-pseudo-status.

Age has mellowed me, and I am now broadly in favour of the Honours system. The different classes leave an unpleasant taste - for example, Senior Civil Servants and their NHS/Local Government equivalents tend to get a C, whereas Admin Officers get the M - but overall, I think it's a good thing.

As usual, I looked through the list. People seemed to have got them for a variety of reasons. There are clearly a few who have got them for giving enormous amounts of money to Charidee. A cynic would say that they gave the money in order to buy an honour - to be honest, it has limited cache, except, perhaps when reserving tables in a restaurant.

Cabinet ministers I have fancied...

I joined the Labour at sixteen out of firm political convictions. It gradually took over my life - what with party activity and eight years being a Lambeth councillor. I have met the majority of friends and, indeed, former boyfriends, via the Labour Party. Even my fiancé, whom I met in a pub, turns out to resigned from the Young Socialists over Vietnam.

When I first joined, part of the Left - where I firmly placed myself - were characterised by a lack of humour and a strict adherence to dogma. There was a specific way to dress. I embraced the jeans, DMs and long dangly earrings, but ruined it by wearing brightly coloured tops. In my final year at Uni I took to wearing skirts (with thick tights and DMs, I hasten to add). Andy, who was Chair of the Conservative Association, told me that I didn't look like a lefty. I suggested to him that he did. We agreed that sometimes your message can be more effective if you challenge the stereotype.

Make no mistake, I was a serious politician.

However, I am also a human being with a predilection for developing embarrassing teenage crushes.

Back in 92, I was staying with Auntie Moira, one of only two people in her ATS regiment to vote Tory in 1945. Tony Blair, then Shadow spoke on Employment (I think) was on the TV. She asked me whether I thought he was dishy. Yuck, I said. He's going to be Prime Minister, she said. Rubbish, I said, after Neil Kinnock, it will be Gordon Brown.

1995. I was my constituency party's delegate to Young Labour conference. The oldest one - I slipped into the age range by one day. It ran concurrently with Local Government Conference. On the Sunday lunchtime, we came together for a series of keynote addresses.

I was late into the hall, and joined the group of other late people standing at the back. When Tony Blair began his speech, I panicked, realising that by standing, I would by default, have to join in the standing ovation. I spotted a spare seat next to Jimbo, then leader of Lambeth Labour Group. Our relationship over the years has been variable. But it was a seat. Stood just behind where I had been standing was Cherie, literally trembling with nerves as Tony spoke.

A few months later I had to substitute for Kate Hoey at an event. The main speaker was Paul Boateng.

When I met him, it was one of those very few occasions that I felt a tingle, an excitement, a lust-at-first-sight. He was very charming. (Of course, that's part of a politician's job description, but I've met a good few in my time, and he was different). I invited him down the Town Hall bar afterwards. He declined, much to my disappointment.

Nevertheless, I developed a crush on him, and still have it slightly.

I will never ever forget 1 May 1997 for as long as I have my marbles. Bliss it was in that dawn etc. Hope filled the country, a country disillusioned by Tory misrule. Even Auntie Moira voted Labour, and for the first time ever, Hove returned a Labour MP.

I was excited that finally we had a government whose policies were broadly on the right track, whose values were my values, and were staffed by people a little bit more like everyday people. I rapidly developed a mega celebrity crush on Tony Blair, that lasted for about three years. I know more about him than is healthy for anyone to know.

And although I am going through a period of disillusionment with politics, and with the Labour Party, I am still of the belief that it is a Good Thing to have a Labour Government.

Continents and populations

How many continents are there? I'm sure, at primary school we were taught five -Europe, Africa, Asia, North America, South America.

At secondary school, the problem of Australia (or Australasia, or Oceania) and Antarctica raised their heads. And Central America was added to the equation.

Harwich for the Continent, they said, (and Frinton for the incontinent).

Alternatively, there are but two main continents - Eurasia/Africa and America. Oh, and Australia and Antarctica.

But how many of the world's population live in island states>

• Indonesia 210 million
• Japan 127 million
• Phillipines 85 million
• UK 60 million
• Caribbean nations and territories 38 million
• Madagascar 16 million
• New Zealand 4 million
• Ireland 4 million
• Mauritius 1.2 million
• plus Hong Kong's 7 million, whose sovereign status I don't fully understand

Also, there are dozens of nations and territories with populations in the tens and hundreds of thousands. And Pitcairn with its population of 44.

This indicates that some 600 million, one tenth of the world's population, lives in island nations or territories. This does not include those who live in the island regions of continental countries, such as Spain and USA.

- stats from Foreign Office

Reshuffle

My analysis waits to see what happens in the middle and junior ranks. Particularly considering my department is currently minus two Ministers of State. And it looks like we have a lost a bit of the department, so, having been off today with the runs, I need to examine the emails at work., especially to see whether it will have any effect upon the Unit.

As I watched the news I reflected that the second most-dishiest member of the Cabinet has departed, leaving, let's face it, only one hunk. Then I looked more closely at the formerly second-most-dishy Cabinet member and thought, 'Blimey, hasn't he aged?'.

Then I remembered that I didn't study all that time for a Politics degree in order to be able to appraise the relative hunkiness of Cabinet Ministers.

Death on the road

Five killed in M1 crash

It's very unusual for road traffic accidents to get such prominent news coverage - generally, they're dull and un-newsworthy, unlike train and air crashes, which are rare and memorable. This is clearly different - it involves vehicles newly returned from Iraq. The fact that the region is at a standstill, and England have a match tonight, is reminiscent of that TV programme the other week - I'll find the link in due course.

I note the quote

The Ministry of Defence (MoD) says a civilian vehicle pulled in front of the transporter, causing it to jack-knife

I have a friend who always says, you may regard yourself to be a safe driver but can you prevent the murderous stupidity of other drivers? Cos it's cool, clever and funny to cut in front of something. Especially an artic carrying heavy vehicles.

I hope that the Press and various lobby organisations will call for a public enquiry into the number on deaths of Britain 's roads and introduce measures to minimise those deaths.

Quite why these vehicles couldn't have been transported by train is beyond me.

Updated to correct a few typos - our internet link at work is so piss poor I just publish and be damned.

Parcelfarce and Home-waste-of-Space

I received this email today:

Thanks for contacting me with your comments.

I was concerned to read about the problems you've encountered when trying to
arrange the redelivery of this parcel, please accept my sincere apologies for this
incident.

I've forwarded a selection of redelivery options which you may like to take
advantage of. Please forward your delivery address for cross-referencing.

-Collection from the depot which is open from 8am until 6pm Monday to Friday and
Saturday 8am until 12 noon - 2 forms of ID will be needed
-Redelivery to a neighbour
-Redirection to the an alternative address within the depot?s delivery area.
-Redelivery to a local post office in your area for a charge of 50p payable to
post office counter on collection of your parcel.(not currently available for
those parcels with customs charges)

Please let me know if you?d like me to set one of these up.

Thanks for contacting me with your enquiry. If you require any further assistance please do not hesitate to contact me again. Alternatively, you can contact our enquiry line on 08708 501150, Textphone 08000 855857 (for the Deaf and Hard of Hearing) or fax on 0113 382 2944.

Regards
Carolyn Clark
Parcelforce Worldwide

I replied:

Dear Carolyn

Thank you for your email.

Please could you explain why it is not possible to deliver to Chez Gert Postcode - the service for which I paid. Also, please explain how
you intend to compensate me for this ridiculous charade

Yours

Gert

My email to Homebase:

I have communicated by fax and telephone and have received an unsatisfactory service.

I received four out of six parcels on 17 May 2003. Since when, despite
numerous communications with yourselves and Parcelforce, I have not received
the other two boxes, despatched as one package. You, Homebase, have not had
the courtesy to reply to me. I was phoned by Parcelforce last week, who informed me that the parcel was too heavy to deliver. I suggested that they split it into two boxes and deliver it to me that way. I instructed them to do so on Saturday 7 June. Needless to say they didn't.

Today I received an email from Parcelforce. I have copied today's correspondence to my blog.

As you will see from the earlier installments, this is a matter of some interest to my readers.

If I do not receive a satisfactory response from one or other or both of you by the end of the week, I will be contacting You and Yours

Why should I put any more effort into this? I feel more robbed by these dreadful organisations than I do by the little sh*ts that burgled my house.

Escape

Prison Van Hijack. Of course, this is outrageous, hope the driver recovers quickly etc etc.

A second eyewitness, who did not wish to be named, said he was in the nearby drugs centre on Newington Causeway when he heard two shots being fired.

He said:"All I could see was this great red wall, and elephants flying around." A spokesperson for the Metropolitan Police said, "This man is clearly on something and is not a reliable witness." A Spokesperson for Southwark Council said, "No, we are satisfied that this eye-witness is entirely lucid."

These documents are far too big to downlaod at work at lunchtime, but if you're interested in the Elephant and Castle Regeneration scheme, there appears to be some sizeable documents linked through from Southwark.

Euro or not Euro

I am broadly in favour of joining the Euro. It seems such a no-brainer. As a tourist, I resent the cost of money changing. Even though I have a commission free account, I inevitably lose out on exchange rates somewhere along the line. Indeed, it's such a hassle having to go and pick up currency before going on holiday. If it's an expense for the individual, I am prepared to believe it is even more so for business.

Time again, Big Business People state how their medium-and long-term investment needs are predicated on the UK joining the Euro. Just this morning, Alan Wood, Chief Executive of Siemens plc said that Britain not joining the Euro may lead to Siemens withdrawing investment from the UK.

There is a lot of popular opposition in the country to the idea of joining the Euro. Some of it is based on cold analysis of the hard economic facts, and I will respect that opinion.

But so much of it is based on sheer prejudice, or on absorbing the propaganda from newspapers owned by people who have just their own business interests to worry about.

Some people fear a loss of sovereignty were we to join the Euro. Ask the majority of them what 'sovereignty' they have, and they'll say that it's about having the Queen's Head on the coins. Ask them about all the other Western democracies where sovereignty is deemed to lie with the people; contrast that with the British system, where sovereignty lies with the 'Queen-in-Parliament'.

Apparently, if we join the Euro, we'll lose a lot of freedoms. Nobody's ever really explained what those freedoms are. Just because Eddie George has the freedom to set interest rates - and, thus, my mortgage repayment - at whatever rate he wishes doesn't give me any freedom. It makes no real difference whether it's the Bank of England or the European Central Bank.

Of course, interest rates in the Eurozone are significantly lower. According to the reactionary g Hertfordshire and Surrey Commuter Belt Evening Standard, this will fuel a housing boom, followed by a bust. This might well be the case; it doesn't really mention the fact that plenty of people would be very happy to see their mortgage payments slashed.

I think that there is such an ingrained insularity in too many Britons that once again, we are choosing to marginalise ourselves, and in time, will rue it, but feel better ruing than being 'ruled' by the 'French'.

Lovely lovely brand new camera

This gal has just got herself a brand spanking new Canon G3 and I'm lovin it lovin it lovin it...well, in between suffering disabling stomach cramps.

It's a beeyewtiful baby and it's mine all mine.

I spent some time messing around, just to get the feel of it, and I'm learning about things I've never needed to know before (I've always been a simple girl). I've posted a few photos at Under Developed, but I need to get rid of the shaky hand and I need to get out beyond my front door.

Snippets

On Monday I blogged that Radio is the new telly. Well, the new issue of Radio Times has Stephen Fry (calm down, Vaughan) on the front cover and poses the question - What Made Radio 4 so hip?.

On the bus on Brixton Hill, I was puzzled when I saw a woman with a horrified look on her face, run to her car, parked in the bus lane. A few yards on I saw two more cars stopped in the bus lane and a huddle round...a motor bike lying on its side and a person with a blanket covering all but motor cycle helmet and boots, lying very very still. It's sight I find chilling and disturbing. I know that doctors call motorbike riders 'organ donors', but I do wonder why this was just on the opposite carriageway from where I have seen two of my previous three such incidents. I hope he's okay.

Checking out the BBC News site, I found the story of the disappearance of Farley's Rusks. When my little brother was a baby, I developed a real craze for Farley's Rusks. I must have been about eight at the time.

Two footy teams and cathedrals

Liverpool named Capital of Culture.

As I predicted, Liverpool have got it because of the whine, whinge, we're badly-done-by factor. Forget the exciting commitment to innovation in Gateshead. After all, as Mike McCartney said on the radio, Liverpool has the Beatles, two football teams and two Cathedrals.

I, for one, will not be patronising it.