Gertsamtkunstwerk

Explosions?

I don't know whether I should be concerned but there have ben two loud bangs, at roughly half-hour intervals seemingly yards from Gert Cottage.

They're not cars backfiring. If they are fireworks they are the loudest fireworks I have ever heard. I don't think they're bombs - they don't sound like any bombs I have heard explode.

I suppose they could be demoliton-related, but I am not aware of any explosive demolitions planned round here.

I hope they're not gunshots, but, I suppose, there would be some personal comfort if they were.

I've not heard any sirens from the Emergency Services.

I suppose I get a little jumpy because I share a party wall with a company that sells car-paint.

IVF on the NHS?

You really should read The Observer's Breeding debate, because, not only does it remove the hysteria from the substance, it is also an excellent demonstration of skilled, fact-based debate.

Related post - please read IVF

NT Hell

I tried to send the following compalint to NTL, but I was told that there was a server fault and I was to contact the system administrator. Not that there any clues on how to do so. Or any othe rmeans of contact other than the non-functioning form.

I have just been cold-called by your sales rep. I (politely but firmly) said I do not do business with cold callers.

After I replaced the phone, I wondered whether perhaps the call was to inform me that your services were now available in my area.

They are not.

What kind of incompetent organisation are you that you try to market your (reputedly shoddy) product to people who could not receive it anyway, disturbing me in my own home.

I am not alone in being sick and tired of cold calling and would wish that money-grabbing incompetent organisations like your own would just leave us alone.

Incidentally, this form is also stupid.

Why do you require a title?

Why do you require an account number, when, as I have stated, I couldn't get your services if I wanted to. Which I don't.

How much?

My sister received a summons today. Seven days notice she's on, to pay a Southern Electric bill for £1400+. It's not actually for her address, where she has lived for 14 years. Nor has she ever been a customer of Southern Electric, choosing instead to pay a monthly direct debit to one of their competitors.

I'm not saying that my sister's name is common, but 192.com does throw up 67 of them. None of them actually at the address for this bill. I suppose the muppets saw someone with the same name in the same town and decided to bill her. Never the mind the fact that there is another person, also of that name, in the next town, who goes to the same dentist as our Pauline.

Don't forget that Pauline suffers from a chronic conditon exacerbated by stress. Or that she's on anti-depressants for anxiety.

Such a shame really, that our cousin is bored. He was made redundant from the legal department of a finance/debt collection firm at Christmas and is on a break from his world tour - awaiting his godson's wedding.

I think it's highly unprofessional to send out a letter to someone just because they happen to share the same name as a bad debtor. Surely an elementary credit check would show our P. has lived at her address for over 6 years. What do they do when John Smith or Mohammed Ali owe money.

Sarah

I worked with Sarah. She was on IT support for the Accounting system - which is quite quite quite different from normal IT support.

Sarah only had one real expense in life - every Thursday lunchtime she would go to the hairdressers to get her hair washed and blow-dried.

Except when she was on sick leave. Sarah took a lot of sick leave. She also did a lot of (paid) overtime to make up for the time she lost.

Sarah's boyfriend was a plumber by day and a bouncer at one of Peckham's premier clubs by night.

Sarah found the bodies of dead strangers in the street (one in a parked car) on two separate occasions.

Sarah was having an affair with our Assistant Director, Chris, whose wife, Carron, worked across the road in Housing.

Chris and Carron arranged to go away to a posh hotel in Bath to celebrate their wedding anniversary weekend.

Sarah booked a room in the same hotel that weekend.

And told us (Audit) what she was doing.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck

Pixie should count herself lucky that her umbrella doesn't collapse every twenty yards. And that she didn't have to walk from Victoria to Clapham Common, a distance of about three miles, only to get home and find out that the power was restored fifteen minutes after leaving Victoria. (I had questioned someone outside Queenstown Road Station and she said that trains were running but few and far between, and full). In truth, it was not a bad walk. Although it would have been better without pissy rain and hurty shoulder. Also better without Doc Marten sandals, although I was thankful I wasn't in kitten heels. It would have been better if I had a functioning digicam and could have taken some cool pics of the crowds milling round Victoria. "K-os," said one woman on her mobile. "You f***ing moron!" I said to the pinstripe who barged me out of the way. It would have been better without the smell of newly watered sewage rising in a foul miasma. It would also have been better if I hadn't lost the courage of my convictions, thinking I was heading West when I was, indeed heading South East. The BBC says there were power cuts in Brixton. As you can see I am not currently affected. I take the view that if my clock, answerphone and video stay programmed, then my freezer's okay. I'm going to stick my neck out and say that I bet this was caused by sudden and unexpected rain, because the f***ing infrastructure in this f***ing country can't f***ing cope with an f***ing moderate shower. And now I've got hiccups. Ah, well, the Blitz spirit. It makes me proud (blahblahblahblah repeat ad nauseam). PS The joys of rail privatisation - a separate, yet almost identical, announcement  was made in each half of the station. One was aimed at South Central customers, the other at Connex South-Eastern. PPS Tfl have a Press Release. Right, I'm prioritising London Bloggers on my Blogread!

Tired of London, tired of life?

I have a feeling that I am pissed off with London. I never thought it would happen. I chose to move here, to fulfill a longterm ambition.

The reasons for living here are many - it's glamorous and cultural, I don't have to mix with people I don't want to, I can choose my friends, I don't have the neighbours prying into my business.

Get a grip - when do I ever do cultural things? Not frightfully interested - except for music. I don't really go out with friends very often, preferring to be with Jimmy. We don't go to glamorous places, preferring to go to restaurants and pubs, or, ocassionally to the cinema.

I loved the Outdoors Life on holiday. Walking and walking, being in boats - we failed to actually hire a self-driven boat. I enjoyed the Fort Bill fashion parade - the strutting of Berghaus and Regatta, the sneaky scutiny of footwear to ensure that it's suitable...for the pub. I feel most comfortable in walking boots and fleece. Who needs an umbrella when you have a kagoul. I love the ostentatious parading of walking poles. I like the feeling of sitting cosy and tired in a pub after a streneous mountain walk, looking round seeing other people the same - tangled hair, windswept faces, glowing eyes.

And I return to London and see the litter on the streets, the human detritus swilling in the drains, the losers looking only for their next fix, the fashion ratrace of the shallow rich and the sheeplike poor, the hatred and fear, the intimidation and dejection. The eating of junk and the mindless gym-going.

I'm tired of London, but hungry for life.

The desire to downsize

It was quite strange to go on my first real British holiday since 1986 (as opposed to long weekends or family/friend visiting, or buggerall). It's interesting in a way, seeing another part of my country. Or perhaps Scotland really is a 'foreign' country. I was conscious of being 'other' - although not uncomfortable or unwelcome. The currency was different - I struggled to identify the bank notes by colour alone. The dual (written) language took a little accustomising.

Some things were the same - no need for rapid mental arithmetic to calculate the cost; the ease of using Switch; the ease of walking into a pub and knowing how to behave and what to order; the same rubbish breakfast TV; same mobile provider (where there's a signal).

I had passing guilt that I was the *rich* Londoner being serviced by *poor* Scots. Then I pulled myself together. Scots have the same - better - educational opportunities as English people. Many of the people who served us had previously lived in a city, or were planning to go when they had done their Highers. Tourism isn't just a big industry for the Highlands and Islands, it's big for Britain and globally. Agriculture and Fishing are also big employers.

People are not forced to open their homes up as B&Bs. Most do it because they know that hard work has its own rewards. At one place we stayed, the woman does B&B during the summer, and in October takes off globetrotting for a month. She actually has the Lonely Planet Guide to Iran, has been to West Africa, and Vietnam/Cambodia/Laos, amongst others. This October she's off to Papua New Guinea and Easter Island.

There is something very attractive about living in the country. Deep in the country, I mean, not Surrey/Cheshire rurified suburbia. Yes, as Cath commented below, there are many conveniences to living in London, but I wonder whether the attractions of pizza delivery really compensate for the condoms on the path, the gangs of threatening looking youths hanging out on street corners, the noise and the pollution.

There is a risk in visiting a holiday location and deciding to radically change your life and live there. It's fine seeing it in August - what's it like in November or January. It's not normally warm, even in summer. Yes, it still being light at half nine on Skye is ace, but is 3 pm sunset so attractive in December. No doubt the bigger Co-ops, such as in Portree, are reasonably good, but wouldn't I miss my Sainsburys? Could I live somewhere where there is no Broadband? It's all very well having uncongested roads, but a bugger to be car dependent if you have just a minor limb injury.

Food glorious food

The standard of food encountered on holiday was exceptional. I twice ate frozen cod-and-chips - once on the ferry - and they weren't bad as far as such food goes. The breakfasts at Fort William's notorious Ossian's Hotel were appalling. Otherwise, we ate splendidly.

The highlights were Crannog in Fort William - a sumptuous feast, unfortunately we chose the halibut, not realising it was farmed; Uig Hotel - a luxurious South African run epicurean delight, where the giant prawns - langoustines - were caught by the waitress's father; Ee-usk on the North Pier in Oban (no website) - where the food was exquisite and the view terrific; the Water's Edge Restaurant at the Tobermory Hotel which was exceptional, and prides itself on locally sourcing wherever possible; and the Lodge on Loch Lomond

Hon menshes should also go to the Myrtle Inn in Callendar; Grog and Gruel; Ferry Inn, Uig - good food, let down by being understaffed; Oban Inn - minus point - it has no Real Ale; MacGochans for its Mull Cheese platter and Atlas ales; and the Village Inn for its succulent sandwiches and Fyne Ales.

Together with some good quality soups etc at Visitors Centres and so on, I can safely say that the nonsense spouted in the Press about British food being crap, except for in swanky West End restaurants is just wrong.

Hell is other people

I enjoyed my holiday muchly. Really, the only downside was the variety of loud, rude, ignorant and stupid people encountered in duration.

Incidentally, this piece may imply certain national stereotyping, whereas I believe all nations produce loud, rude, ignorant and stupid people; furthermore, it is often not possible to ascertain the nationality of the quiet, polite, intelligent people.

We made a mistake at Liverpool Street Station, getting into what they call "Business Class" with standard class tickets. The guard, 'Robert' did not appear to two minutes before arrival at Stansted. He was contemptuous and sneering in pointing out that we were in the wrong carriage. My pointing out that First Class normally has a big '1' on the window, and we were more concerned with getting the luggage onto the train before departure than examining the small print in the carriage was met with unacceptable rudeness.

All EasyJet flights were being checked-in at all desks, so passengers had to form one very long queue. Long, but fast moving. As we shuffled with our trolleys, an American walked along trying to find the back of the queue shouting very loudly "Gee! Holy cow!" etc ad nauseam. I refrained from sharing my two-and-a-half hour check-in at JFK.

And there was the French woman who pushed through the queue for the Ladies at the airport.

The Americans (three separate groups) who shouted very loudly in the Italian restaurant in Stirling. It wouldn't have been so bad if they had had managed one interesting sentence between them.

Rude Yank woman who, seeing me emerge from the hotel in Stirling carrying three bags, camera and monopod, thrust her camera at me, and yelled "Take a photo of the family with the Rolls Royce," (there was a wedding departing). I felt a look of being overwhelmed on my face, so she demanded "Do you speak English?" "Yes, the English I speak has a please on the end." "I thought you were German or something." I pointed out that my hands were full. After depositing bags and monopod in car, I went back to get a photo of Roller. The Yank husband approached me with aggressive body language and said something about "My wife". I chose not to hear and walked to the car.

Scotland in bullets

Day 0
Stansted to Stirling

Day 1
Stirling/ Douane/Callendar
Loch Venachar

Day 2
Loch Katrine - walk/beach
Loch Lubnaig - beaches
Brechlin Falls

Day3
Killin
Loch Tay – drive round via Kenmore
A82 up to Rannoch Moor, spectacular
Glencoe - breathtaking
Fort William

Day 4
Boat trip, seals
Glen Nevis - river - falls - walk up the dried-up stream

Day5
Main road to Kyle of Localsh - bleak mountainous, lots of lochs. Good road.
Skye Bridge
Broadford/Portree/Uig

Day6
Old Man of Storr - steep climb, brilliant view, drive round Trotternish peninsular
Live music, late night

Day 7
Dunvegan, boat to seal colony, gardens

Day8
Ferry to Tarbert, Harris.
Coach trip round Lewis - Callanish Standing Stones, Dun Galloway Broch, peat & heather landscape, Black House/White House, Stornoway – (United 4 Bolton 0 – when I eventually got WAP reception!)
Drive south onto Harris past Tarbet, sandy beaches, view of Taransay - paddling - midges
Ferry back to Uig

Day 9
Set off drive to Kyle and onto Invermorriston on the banks of Loch Ness.
Walk – waterfalls
Oban the scenic route

Day 10
Walk to Oban. Book ferry to Mull. Walk round to Kerrera ferry.
Ferry. Island walk – 6 mile circle. Four seasons. Not a race.
Clouds open – revel in being drenched
Choppy crossing
Bus to Oban!
Oban Inn – fall down stairs. hurt left shoulder, ankles saved by walking boots

Day 11
Oban and District General hospital “fell down a mountain”
In and out in an hour
Drive to power station. Full (it was raining heavily)
Connel and falls of Lora
Distillery
Walk to Colisseum – camera won’t work.

Day 12
Ferry to Craignure. Drive to Tobermory. Bad road. Picturesque town.
Drive to Derveig
Old Byre Heritage Centre – scope for Victoria Wood play, role for Celia Imrie!
‘Scenic’ route – via unclassified road – to Calgary sandy beach – our plan to develop.

Day 13
Set out to Iona Ferry. Go two miles – rain and bad road. Turn back.
Tobermory pottery – shop
An Tabar Arts Centre – Sheila Robertson exhibition
Walk to Rubha Nan Gall lighthouse.

Day 14
Drive to Criagnure. Mull miniature railway. Steam loco. Fun.
Ferry to Oban and drive through Argyll to Loch Lomond. Hairy road – supposed to be a trunk road. ‘Arsehole huggers’
Luss – strolling, walking and relaxing

Day 15
Hour cruise round Loch Lomond
Drive to Loch Long. Too hot for walking. Just chill out. (Newcastle 1 United 2)

Day 16
Drive to airport
Security – frisked, boots x-rayed and swabbed.
Flight – pretty picture of the field patterns of Southern Scotland and England
Anxiety in getting home – how’s house. Isn’t London shit?

Back

17 days away. Two taxis, one train, two aeroplanes, 1000+ miles driven, four ferry rides, three pleasure boat trips, one castle, one museum, one distillery, dark brown arms, neck and face, hundreds of midge bites, one trip to A&E, 400+ photos until borrowed Nikon digicam gave up, 60 photos on phonecam, 20 on one-use cameras. Bank account seriously dented.

Later in the day I will publish, in bullet form, the highlights of the trip. Mainly for my own purposes, because this is my diary. Over time, some photos will also be published, but quite selectively, and probably interrupted by photos of Matt and Abby's wedding.

Have fun

Gone walkabout!

Back for the Bank Holiday

Beautiful noise

Yesterday, I missed her - ironically, I was too busy fiddling the monopod onto the camera. This evening, just after seven, she roared over, a beautiful white dart of light against a sky turning pink. At nine o'clock, her lights cleaved through the darkening sky, her engine the epitome of power. She'll soon be arriving in New York, if that's where she's going. Twice this evening I rushed into the garden to see her fly over. I won't have many more chances. I'm not a plane spotter, but I will mourn the passing of this era. We have grown up together and it won't be the same without her. I was in a meeting on the day she retook to the skies after being laid off. The meeting paused. Some people went to the window. There was very nearly applause.

Taken in June

Hair removal

Body hair is natural - did you know that women have as many hairs on their face as men but it is finer?

The human body is covered in hair except for a few places such as the palms of the hands and the soles of the feet.

The norms of society dictate that body hair in women is unsightly. This is a message I have taken to heart since my mid teens. I once pulled a sicky from work because my legs were too hairy to wear a skirt, and it was a hot day. I went to get my legs waxed. Migraine, I said on my sick form.

I'm less paranoid these days. Besides, years of waxing have left my lower legs virtually hair free. A quick shave in May has got me to now.

The night before holiday.

Suddenly, the hair removal cream has to be used. Can't have hairy legs when walking round the Highlands, now, can we?

What a palaver. One lot says Apply a layer 1/16 of an inch thick. Forgot to get the callipers.

Cream is smeared over legs and arms. And toilet lid and shower room floor. And taps. And windowsill. And pair of sunglasses on windowsill.

A cigarette is smoked and it's time to remove.

Why is there always a little bit of hair left round the elbows and knees? And dry red skin metamorphosises in an instant.

Next stop - do toenails. Pink, I think.

Emap awards?

Chris

My site has been running since 1879. I'm the fifth generation of my family to hold the editor position. When it was originally started, it was one of the very few pages on what was then known as the Lancashirewideweb. The address was originally lww.madmusingsof.me.nh, making use of the Newton Heath Top Level Domain. In those days it was a campaigning journal highlighting various incidents of trouble at th'mill, and the occasional anti-Disraeli rant. The history has been chequered, to say the least. But you will see that from the archives.

It was originally published only once every Preston Guild, as was customary back in the days of the old Lancashirewideweb. Nowadays, well you can see.

I only get one or two hits now on the lww; significantly more on the worldwideweb.

Back in the old days it was staffed by child labour, sometimes working up to fourteen hours a day in sweatshop conditons. Nowadays it's outsourced to a Call-centre in Mumbai. There are countless contributors, but, because they are mere contributors, they all go by the name 'Bert' (Bert was the original weblogger, back in 1879 - although, being the Industrial North, it was all coal driven, not wood.

Costs are covered by begging outside tube stations. I promote my site by whoring - (that's a technical weblogging term invented by the second editor, Pert).

Best wishes

Gert

originally left at Me(ish) and emailed in reply to the email I received.

Obligatory weather post

I'm tempted to issue a disclaimer to this post. WTF, this is my diary. Today has been officially London's - although not the UK's - hottest ever day.

I decided to take the day off - slight hiatus at work due to pending holiday.  The garden, even the back, northerly garden was baking. The drive outside the South Wing of the cottage was almost unbearable. I have gone around touching radiators, convinced that freak occurrence has brought the central heating on. I have kept the front curtains shut all day. I am sweating in my back room. The heat rises from the carpet. the bathroom, wherein lives the boiler is technically a sauna.

And I haven't drunk enough liquid!

Telecoms

Once upon a time when I were lass, telephones came with a dial. They had letters as well as numbers, because only a few years earlier, you would dial the Exchange with letters. Scotland Yard was, famously, Whitehall 1212. Even today, the Met Police use 1212. My local nick is 020 7326 1212.

In 1989  a young family member received an activity centre for Christmas. I laughed because it included a telephone dial. By then it was standard for phones to be push button. You could only do two things with phones: make and receive voice calls.

In 85 or 86, after an evening out there was a suggestion of going back to someone's place. Finola  needed to phone her parents to tell them where she was. Simon said he could use her carphone. I wasn't on that night out, but it became notorious. We all knew what carphones were, of course,  but the idea of a Sixth Former having one was ludicrous. (Simon went on to be President of the Oxford Union but has no member notes on Friends Reunited.)

Nottingham South Labour Party took advantage of a promotional offer to use a couple of mobiles to assist with fighting the General Election.

Between 1989 and 1991 I became far more aware of mobiles, as I often travelled through the City. In late 94 two friends got their own - one because her father was waiting for a heart transplant and another because his wife was pregnant. I got my first one in January 1995 - combining a life as an auditor and  a councillor made it essential to keep it in touch. It was twice the length of my current one, probably four times the depth, and the batteries lasted ten hours on standby. You could store ten numbers in memory - no names - and you could make and receive voice calls.

In early 1998 I bought my first home PC and was connected to the internet. This involved pay-by-minute dial up on a modem at about 28kbps.

Today, I have spent a long time making voice calls to sort out a) the fact that my ADSL connection was not working (work at the exchange) and lamenting the slowness of 46kbps dial up, and, eventually, getting my mobile phone (with which  I can surf a limited part of the www) to email a photograph to my home PC.  The send email takes minutes -  a long time. With ADSL back working, receive is instant.

The photo quality is not great but it will be useful for docu-snapshots when it is not sensible to get full camera out of rucksack. I was warned about the resolution quality, anyway!

If I look back on this in five years time, I wonder what technological changes will have happened to phones, cameras, PCs and the internet.

Thought for the Day

If you listen to The Today programme, what do you do during Thought For The Day?

Do you agree that it should be removed from our airwaves, notwithstanding people like Richard Harris, Bishop of Oxford, the chap from The Iona Community and yesterday's return of Rabbi Lionel Blue?

I find most of the rest of the contributors to be gratingly twee, or intolerant, or smug, or hectoring. They rarely actually talk about religion. Jonathan Sachs did once - it was stunning. Mainly they attempt to tell some sort of parable on one of the news stories of the day. Usually incredibly simplistically.

I generally take the opportunity either to attend to my bowels or to disappear into the shower.

Geekiness

How difficult can it be to spend a voucher valid in Dixons/Currys etc. This is the voucher supplied by my insurance company, which I have had for two months. To actually have the voucher, and proof of my address with me on a day where it is convenient not only to go shopping but to lug stuff home. Bear in mind that this included replacement cost of my original digicam and memory cards, but the model I wanted was not available from Dixons. A new Walkman is a must, a new printer overdue. I would like to get a travel charger and bluetooth for my Palm but that is proving quite difficult. I have managed to buy a monopod and a phonecam, although Caroline has pointed out that I won't be able to use the phonecam with the monopod. I still have £145 left. Conspicuous consumption is so difficult!

And made more difficult by a power cut on Victoria Street, the nearest shopping street to work. The bank was entirely closed - annoying, because I need to pay in a cheque. Dixons was open, but the tills weren't working. Card payments had to be filed in manually and endorsed using an old-fashioned manual machine. They were unable to take my voucher because they were unable to give change in vouchers.

I can't show you any photos from my phonecam because I am attempting to set up email settings on my mobile. I don't know whether the problem lies with O2, or with a very poorly designed anti-instinctive phone - Ericcsson T68i - but how come I am pretty competent at using a computer yet a phone baffles me.

Weird search *STOP PRESS*

Just found in my Stats: "Sex with an inflatable chair that I got from Argos"

That sounds like a very specific fetish!

Utterly ridiculous who does he think he is

By indirect means, I ended up on Conservative Commentary. I'm not setting out to engage in the actual issues within the post, or the comments, but more my initial reaction to it. This post was intended to be a rant, philosophising or waffle rebutting this comment

The key point here is that the only webloggers that really matter are the ones who do engage with their opponents, which in practice includes linking to them and posting comments on their blogs. Navel-gazers of all political persuasions are irrelevant because they are refusing to engage in any political debate at all.

by Andrew Zalotocky

I initially read it to say, "Blogs that are not political are navel-gazing and therefore irrelevant."

My second reading of it is - in the context of the post and previous comments - is "If you have a political blog, it is pointless unless you engage in debate."

Which could lead to an interesting (or, maybe boring) meander on whether political blogging has any merit in itself and is it of greater value than other blogging, which could end up in a discussion about the meaning of life.

I am creating a post and destroying it as I write. I want to know what political blogging is, indeed what politics is.

The BBC News front page currently has on it two quasi-political stories: Pauline Prescott's Reunion Delight and Cherie braced for pop hit. I'm not going to go into a rant about celebrities. I'm not even going to go into a rant about how the wives of senior politicians are treated merely as adjuncts to their husbands.

I have never quite worked out what politics is. If you believe the mainstream media, it's about how a small bunch of elite score points off one another. Ask Oxford gives four definitions, which seem all encompassing.

Stung by the comment above - or, at least, how I originally read it - I prepared my rebuttal. My post below, about Architecture was never designed as evidence for the rebuttal. But it set me thinking - if I were to restrict this blog to issues such as Architecture, Celebrity Worship, Trains Going Slow, even if I didn't mention party politics , could I call myself a political blogger?

If I included posts about office summer attire and the plethora of titles available at John Lewis, would I still be a political blogger?

Could I post about clay kitty shooting and feel obliged to include a view on why I feel that the shooting of real kittens is generally a bad thing (I was the person who condemned a friend for his typical right wing Tory cruel disregard for life, when he went clay pigeon shooting. Look, I'm a townie...).

This post has been one drift towards nothingness. To conclude: I thought Politics was about ideas and about how one set of ideologies collides with another set. I am now unconvinced - they are just the side-show to the decisions and actions being taken every day. To return to architecture as a an analogy - it is a deeply political subject. Opinions can clash, and run deep - the traditional versus the new, eyesore vs cutting edge, not in my back yard. But how buildings are designed for people, and how the state must act as arbiter, regulator, enabler, and, often, provider, is far more an important a subject for the political bloggers than many other subjects that are teased to death. I am far more interested in how the state and other powers interface with people than in fisking a newspaper article or imagining myself to have an influence over foreign policy. Because, in my humble opinion, that is where life, and, therefore, blogging, is interesting.

String, stones, scared, trees and blackberries

Richard asks the following.

1.What is the ideal length of a piece of string?
2.Which is better - architecture or archaeology?
3.Have you ever been really truly scared (and I don't mean at a film, or some such thing, I mean in Real Life)?
4.Can you identify the species of a tree by sight?
5.What is the best use of blackberries - pie or jam?

I have just realised that I answered number 3 when answering Lori's question.

The ideal length of a piece of string is the right length. It's not something I've ever really worried about. I don't think that I even have any string in the house. Lots of wool - I used to knit a lot.  Lots of garden twine. Even a spare length of washing line cord. But string - no. I mean, come on, when was the last time you used string.

The architecture/archaeology question is a fascinating one. As, indeed is the use of the word 'better'. What is more important for society? Body or soul? And which is which. Archaeology is important, because it tells us where we come from in a very existential way, and also teaches us for practical everyday life. It helps us understand how we used to live and how we live now. I believe that to understand is important.

Architecture is absolutely about the practicalities of life nowadays. We could live satisfactorily in functional boxes - although even they need an element of design. But real architecture is fascinating. It's the most accessible, public form of art.   I love the new innovative designs I see springing up in London (and elsewhere, but I don't go to elsewhere very often).

What's even more exciting is the creative functionality.  There is  more understanding about accessibility in buildings, more drive to develop buildings with a smaller environmental footprint, and more understanding of how buildings should be an integral part of the community - check out the sites of the RIBA award winners - Public; Commercial; Education and  Domestic.   I think my enthusiastic linking shows which I find more interesting.

Ask me that five years ago, and I would have said that archaeology is really interesting and architecture is boring.  Partly working for Southwark, a Borough enthusiastic about building-led regeneration, and partly blogging/using a digicam, I have woken up to the endlessly fascinating buildings around me.

Graybo, look away! I am, however, completely useless at recognising trees. and flowers for that matter. I find it embarrassing when posting photos to my phlog and having to say "Er, it's a ." I actually bought a book for £4.99 which calls itself an Encyclopaedia of Garden Plants and Flowers. 245 pages list flowers and trees alphabetically. For example, pp 158-9 has about one hundred words on each of Liriodendron (tulip tree)  and seven others through to Lobelia. There are fourteen full - and rich - colour photos, ranging from the size of my thumb to the size of my albeit small hand.

Blackberries? Er, what are they? Seriously, I'm fairly indifferent to blackberry jam, but I do really like Blackberry pie. Actually, I was very partial to apple-and-blackberry pie as made with "Pie Filling" from a supermarket back in the Eighties. I almost never make pies these days. Perhaps I should make some jam in the autumn...

Fish

I haven't forgotten that I asked you all to leave me questions, and I 'm supposed to be answering them. The sharper of you may have noticed that I was doing them in order. Most of you will be thinking "Er, what, when..." The Scarier, Duckier among you may be thinking "Fish."

Such a simple question "What's your favourite kind of fish?"

Oh, the questions are dead simple, it's the answers that are so fecking hard.

I mean, I love fish. I would happily eat fish every day. Indeed, I more or less do. Friday: Wetherspoons cod and chips. Saturday: King Prawn Delight from the curry house. Sunday, a microwave steamed salmon and pasta dish with prawns and green pesto. Today - a tuna and sweetcorn sandwich, and the almost obligatory Prawn Mayonnaise.

I hated fish when I were young. But so what - there is usually no significance arising from one's childhood. I developed a taste for prawn and mayonnaise sandwiches during Sixth Form, and in adulthood I steadily developed my fish tastes. For many years, it was salmon. I don't remember having smoked salmon until my cousin's Christmas Party in Peckham when I was in my mid twenties.

Salmon became so boring, so predictable, and, truth be told, with most of it coming off farms, so dull. I realised trout, that special treat, was much the same. There isn't many fish I haven't tried - from kippers to snapper, from salmon to swordfish, from turbot to tuna.

I don't go into a restaurant and say "Mm, I'll have the sea bass." Whether I'm cooking at home, or dining in a swanky restaurant, it's often the sauce that attracts more than the fish.

Don't tell Jimmy this, but, to me, one fish tastes pretty much like another!

August is the silly season

Trains slow as UK swelters

I was going to post a rant along the lines (slowly, obviously) of "Isn't this bloody typical of Britain, we get temperatures which are normal for most of the rest of the world and only we have to slow our trains down."

But my train-spotting colleague has informed me that it is standard practice in most countires to slow the trains down. Not perhaps in France, where safety is not a high consideration, but many other countries.

So I need to rant about the inability of journalists to research basic facts, and how they make a story out of a non-story. Amateurs.

I don't think it will affect my line which, I don't think exceeds ten miles an hour in any point of its journey.

Dress code

Looking around, not just in my office, but also en route this morning and in the Victoria Station area morning and lunchtime, there is a very high proportion of men wearing black, dark grey, navy etc suit-type trousers. I don't understand it. One of my colleagues, who is out of the office today, wears light white cotton trousers on hot days, and I think he looks entirely appropriate, despite being somewhat overweight. I could not bear to wear any of my trouser suits today, not even my summer suit, (which has a nylon lining, which will have to go, I think). I am currently wearing a beige cotton skirt and a blue tee-shirt. I don't think I would wear them if I had a meeting, but my female colleagues are dressed similarly, or in cotton dresses, except for one black woman who feels the cold. Our admin bloke is even wearing a tie.

It's not like we have a dress code here, just, as auditors, you tend to dress a certain way. Throughout my career I have often dressed down in the office, especially in the summer, but my managers have always been able to trust me to dress appropriately for meetings. Ten years ago I had a meeting with some terribly senior chap who was popping in at half eight en route from Cheltenham to Whitehall. I decided to wear my thoroughly gorgeous red suit with black velvet collar and cuffs. Afterwards, my manager said he knew what I would wear. I must have pulled a face, because, hurriedly, he said, "No, no, I mean, I knew you would want to create a professional impression."

Cult of celebrity

Eloon makes a good point in my comment box below

The coverage we give to celebrities in this country is obscene.

I am very much in agreement.

I will accept that it is the way of the world that people take an interest in celebrity. It may not be logical, or understandable, but it happens. Somehow, the Press creation and fulfilment of the public’s need to know more about the actor pop star whatever, has turned into a vile mutation of itself.

Shakin' life a leaf...

I've just been driving for the first time in four years. I've been wimping it ever since. Only round the block, mind. I got beeped once. Would it surprise you that it was by a van driver. Pardon me, I was driving on a road alongside the common on a blistering hot Sunday, a road with cars parked both sides, leaving just enough clearance for one vehicle, I was assessing the risk of pedestrians striding out into the road as 'high' and I was driving at 20 mph. So strike me down.

I'm going to get some P plates,. They have no legal meaning in the UK, but they do indicate to the vehicle behind to keep their distance from the nervous driver in front.

Sadly, DDP, it's not Haiti we're going to. (Basically lots of UK bloggers are on hiatus and someone speculated what the plural of hiatus was, and I decided it was far more trendy to go on hiatus then holiday.)

We're off to Scotland on Friday, returning three weeks today. I expect from a Californian perspective Scotland is fairly exotic, but I think we'll spend more time getting to Stansted Airport than we'll do going from Stansted to Glasgow and beyond.

Sulk

As I mentioned, my camera, my luvverly Canon G3 broke on Thursday night. The reasons behind the breaking will be glossed over. I contacted Jessops, from whence I bought it, and they said, "No problem, bring it in for repair." I mentioned that I am due to go to Haiti next week. They said they could lend me an equivalent camera. Which, you know, is cool, because there's nothing in the warranty that promises me that.

I duly took it in, and they have a lent me me a Nikon Coolpix5000. Which is not a bad camera, even though my initial perusal made me declare it a glorified point-and-shoot. It seriously isn't a point-and-shoot but I am utterly convinced that it is vastly inferior to the Canon G3. Simple things, such as Zoom: Canon 4x (14x); Nikon 3x (4x), Aperture: Canon 2.0-8.0; Nikon 2.8-4.8.

The Canon has a wireless remote control, the Nikon doesn't. The Canon has a number of specialist modes for snapshots - Portrait, Landscape, and Night. On the Canon, the varous modes are managed by a dial - so move from Auto, to default Programme, to Aperture priority just by turning one dial, and adjust using another. On the Nikon, you decide whether you want the auto, or not, by use of the menu, and then you have to fiddle round with far too many buttons just to widen the aperture, or whatever...

I simply don't like the controls on the Nikon, they seem unergonomical. The Canon can recharge the battery in the camera whereas the standard for the Nikon is an adaptor with battery removed. I suppose there is a disadvantage to having to have the camera recharging the battery. The battery specs are not directly comparable but the Canon seems better.

As I say, I shouldn't complain, but I am slightly pissed off that I am left with a somewhat inferior camera for my holiday. I just hope my G3 is mended in time for L'il Bro's wedding - five weeks time.

So sue me

I was disgusted last night to find the way that the Ten O'Clock News covered the John Leslie case. If you were only half listening, you would be forgiven for thinking that he had personally broken the rail speed record and parachuted across the Channel.

He really is a minor celebrity. When the story broke, Jimmy and I were en route to meet up with my sister and family. The newspaper billboards screamed "Ulrika 'rapist' named". Pauline had bought a Standard, out of curiosity, and informed us who it was. "Who?" we both said. Subsequent conversation revealed we were not alone in not knowing who he was. I suppose Pauline, being retired, has more of an awareness of daytime TV 'celebrities'.

Of course I know that there is a presumption of innocence until proven guilty. I also know that there is a problem of women falsely claiming to be raped. But sod it, the statistic prove over and over again that a very small proportion of rape suspects are ever charged, and, frankly, when I hear how his life has been ruined, my heart doesn't bleed for him. This lionisation actually turns my stomach.

The news that he may sue for libel amuses me. Truth is a defence for libel; civil suits are decided on the balance of probability, not beyond reasonable doubt.

If you dismiss my views just as those of a militant feminist, when I heard of the accusations against the Hamiltons, whom I absolutely detest (remember in my formative years Neil was right wing Tory MP for the constituency neighbouring where I lived, and where many of my classmates lived), my instinct immediately told me it was complete baloney.