Gertsamtkunstwerk

More firework mayhem in Brixton

Yobs throw fireworks into crowd and Family seconds from death

I'm sure there are similar tales from other towns.

People watching

When I arrived at the Fairfield Hall, the concert goers and those going to the Ashcroft were standing around waiting in the foyer. It was fun, although not difficult, to work out who was going to the concert and who to the theatre. Although someone playing the same game would have put me down as Puppetry of the Penis

I went to my seat; as I was settling a couple walked in to take the seats behind me and just alongside another couple. One of the other couple said "I've got to have another op; they've found another gallstone. I asked whether they're taking them out one by one."

Oh dear god, I thought. I really can't stand it when people strike up these artifical superficial friendship type-things just by dint of having regular proximate seats in the same venue.

After the interval I went back to my seat, and the couple behind me were talking to a woman alongside them, who had previously given me a "We're both here on our own, we're both women approaching middle age; let's be friends" look (no! no! no!).

"Oh, we see them a lot. Mainly at the London Mozart Players, but they're also in our National Trust Group. I always say hello and smile. But I really don't want to know about his operations..."

Fairfield Revisited

I realise I only did half an account of the concert I went to last week.

Assuming the link will die in time, the full programme was:
Hungarian National Philharmonic Orchestra
Zoltán Kocsis: conductor
Jenõ Jandó: piano
Attila Fekete: tenor

Kodály: Intermezzo
Rachmaninov: Three Songs - The Pied Piper; Oh, Never Sing To Me Again; What Wealth of Rapture
Liszt: Piano Concerto No. 2 in A
Dvorák: Symphony No. 9 in E minor, "From the New World"
Berlioz: Rakoczy March

Attila Fekete was pleasant to listen to. I always find it fascinating when you see a relatively young and unknown performer and wonder if in years to come they will remain only to the cognoscenti or become wider known. If he becomes wider known, just remember that I was sat just a couple of feet from him, and considered him pleasant, and, in the final song, passionate. But not mind-blowingly brilliant.

Zoltán Kocsis struck me as a very good conductor. Not that I'm any expert, but sometimes I just have to rely on my instincts. A bit of a show off, though - he conducted the Dvorák and Berlioz without a score. Ooh, look at him...! At the end he shook the hand of not only the leader of the orchestra, but also the principal of the second violinists, violas, cellos and double-basses, having also initiated applause for the other sections. I have never seen a conductor do that before.

Things children say...

There is little more boring than proud aunties trying to claim that the sayings of their neplings are hilariously funny.

So I will recount a few things said by mine that were just slightly amusing.

Out to dinner with my sister's family, I mentioned that Jimmy and I were debating somewhere to go at Christmas, and we wanted somewhere hot, either Cuba/Mexico/Dominican Republic area or Egypt. Nephew, 8, "Why don't you go to Baghdad, it's hot there..." (In fact, it's London followed by Manchester. Neither hot...).

Niece on being taken to Harrods whilst the boys were plane spotting, "Mummy, why aren't there any proper shops round here, like Asda?"

Nephew at London Transport Museum "Why aren't there any aeroplanes?" (Brother-in-law - "Exactly which part of London Transport is served by aeroplanes?")

Also scary thing. Nephew "Is St George's hospital famous? Was a Norman Wisdom film filmed there?" Aunt in panic mode. Does Norman Wisdom have cult status amongst 8 year-olds? (Fortunately, I later found that a friend of my sister's family hired a cinema for his 40th and invited friends, including children to watch A Stitch In Time)

Rules of engagement

John has left a comment regarding GWB's forthcoming visit to Britain, which has shocked me. I do very much welcome such contributions - articulate and reasoned, calm and courteous, even where there's clearly a difference of opinion.

Not even a difference of opinion, more an arguing from different premises. I am absolutely not advocating a flame war - far from it, I want to encourage erudite debate.

Why do I feel deeply uncomfortable about a police force from another country having some powers to operate in my country; is my discomfort different from my cheery acceptance of (and use for General Knowledge quiz) that the French police have some powers to operate in and around Waterloo Station? Isi t merely because of my visceral dislike of GWB and his puppet masters, a visceral dslike shared by a large proportion of the UK population. Or would I feel the same if it was, say, Helen Clark of New Zealand or Lula of Brazil visiting?

Need to chill

Roger's sent me home from work for crying.

I think I'm going to soak myself in the bath filled with bubbles, with a Plácido CD on the upstairs stereo

I think I ran out of adrenaline...

Not for the faint hearted

Do not click if you're squeamish.

Otherwise, I'm sure you'll be delighted to know that I took a photo in between having the old dressing removed and the new one applied. (Apologies for the light, you know what hospitals are like...)

Please take my money...

I telephoned T-mobile to settle an outstanding bill of Jimmy's. He forgot to pay it a while ago because he had decided to switch to pay as you go, and they had sent a demand.

I explained that I was paying it on behalf of my partner. They asked for his password. I said I didn't know it. They said I couldn't access his account, because it would be a breach of T-Mobile's security policy. I explained that I didn't want to access his account: I had his account number, address, phone number and outstanding amount in front of me and was prepared to read them out over the phone. I was, in fact, prepared to give them my Bank Account details, on trust, in order to settle the bill. "It's a breach of data protection," the pompous twit told me. I assured him it wasn't - they would not need to disclose to me anything about the account I did not have in front of me. I did my usual "I appreciate that you're not empowered to take such decisions, may I speak to your superviser." Twunt hung up. I vented my spleen. Tim and Lily both said that they often pay bills for their partners and vice versa. I pondered whether there was perhaps a technical breach of the Data Protection Act. Lily pointed out that if I took the bill to the bank and paid by cheque, the bank would not demand his T-mobile password.

I thought I would try Lambeth Parking. Driving in Bus Lane fine. Oops - actually, I thought they only applied 4-7 pm, this was 2.40 on a Saturday. Mistake. Genuine mistake. Hands up. Will pay fine. £50 if settled within 14 days; £100 within 28. Trouble was, it took 14 days to arrive, due, no doubt, to the post strike. The automated payment line was saying £100. I rung another number where a very pleasant young man, on hearing that I was happy, well willing, to pay the fine but felt the £100 was a little unfortunate, explained they were allowing a little leeway because of the strike, gave me another number and politely urged me to pay it promptly.

I got the most incredible woman on the phone. Sarf London's finest. I would say she was shouting, although not actually in volume. Very aggressive. I explained. She asked me whether I had got the right ticket. I double checked the number. "That was issued on the 11th October," she yelled, Jade-like.

"No, the incident occurred on the 11th October; the ticket was issued on the 23rd October"

"No, it says ere, 11th October."

"It says the incident was on the 11th October. The ticket was issued on the 23rd. It says so twice. It arrived on the 6th November. Delayed, I assume, because of the postal strike."

"When was the postal strike?"

"I didn't get any post in the week beginning 27 October. I got my first delivery on 3 November. This arrived on the 6th."

"And you want to pay £50?" incredulity."'Old on."

Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold.

"But it is only £50. You said it was £100."

"Well, I tried your automated service; it said £100."

"What automated service? Is this the right ticket?"

"Please please please can I give you my money."

And eventually, after various more " 'old ons", I was relieved of the fine.

I'm sure there must be an easier way to spend over a hundred pounds...

Frontline dispatch

I was seen by an A&E consultant this morning, who said that the burns are most superficial. There is a deep one, on my shoulder, and that will scar. Hopefully, it will lie under straps etc in the summer.

There was a lad in the cubicle next to me who was being treated for a firework burn to his thumb and middle finger. The doctor gave him a serious telling off, and told him to tell his friends that hundreds of people get injured that way every year and it's extremely dangerous. Outside the cubicles, the staff were saying they only had one firework injury last year, this year they've had dozens. When the nurse came to do my dressing she said that out of fifteen people in clinic this morning, five were firework injuries.

I received a much more discreet dressing and went on my merry way. I was thinking off snooping round, with camera, to record the media circus for the Royal Baby. But, despite the hospital fencing off a substantial area outside the main entrance, there were a mere five journalists and one TV camera waiting around outside. So I couldn't even be bothered to get out my camera to take a photo of what I had expected would be a media scrum.

Speechless

Yard fury over Bush visit

Read this article very carefully, especially para 2 and the final para.

This is quite possibly the most outrageous thing I have read in a newspaper in a very long time.

Royal baby distracts attention

I was just saying to Jimmy last night as we watched the news, the arrival of Edward's baby will divert attention from Blowjobgate. And lo and behold...Royal baby girl doing 'fine'

If you hear reports tomorrow about a 35-year-old Civil Servant arrested at St George's, just remember, I was doing it for the Blog...

Lazing around

I would like to thank each and every one of you for your kind messages. This is one of the most wonderful things about blogging, that the lovely messages from people in the blogosphere, friends, acquaintances and lurkers say some wonderfully supportive things. It's so easy to focus on the bad people that exist, but the wonderful comments you have left, as well as the nice comments from friends and acquaintances in the pub (I decided to venture out yesterday afternoon, on the basis that if you fall off the bike you have to get back on). Most people, most of the time, actually want to be decent and kind; sometimes we blunder, or are pre-occupied, but most people are fundamentally decent.

Thank you for telling me this loud and clear.

I have spent most of the weekend lounging on the sofa, being waited on by my gorgeous selfless fiancé, Jimmy.

We watched two films yesterday: The Royal Tennenbaums and Once Upon a Time in America - Sky Movies and BBC4. Excellent therapy, both of them five stars in the Radio Times. Today was England v Wales and Liverpool v Manchester United, two nailbiting encounters of the Whites v Reds, where the Whites eventually triumphed but not without a few heartstopping moments.

I was chatting with Lil Bro, who is in New Zealand.. He asked around about five-a-side football and drew only blank stares. He could play Touch Rugby (which is Rugby without the tackles) but reckons it's too dangerous. New Zealand is a nation of four million, who are totally rugby obsessed. Their cricket team is involved in a Tri-Nation at the moment but it is getting no Press coverage, and they don't even have professional football. He did acknowledge that they do do singers: the National Museum has an exhibition on Kiri Te Kanawa's dresses but not being especially on the look out for teenage singing sensations, Hayley Westenra hasn't really grazed his consciousness.

Tonight it's Panorama vs Prime Suspect

The great leveller

In hospital Accident and Emergency Departments, you see all sorts of human life. Of course, the majority sit there quietly, anxiously, in pain perhaps, waiting, waiting, waiting. In a place like Tooting, you get a real socio-economic and ethnic mix, people whose lives probably don't cross otherwise.

A woman arrived, and greeted a friend. The friend was in for an ECG, the first woman was waiting for her partner "who's come off his bike - again...". It seems that his motorbike had ended up under a car, and as various friends of both patients arrived, they discussed whether or not the car driver was in the slightest bit concerned that he had knocked over a biker. The conclusion "Probably not".

Jimmy went out for a cigarette; when he returned he remarked on a group I had seen going out. One of the women was having a stroke and was waiting to be admitted, meanwhile, she had her left arm paralysing as she desperately smoked the last (but one) fag of a condemned woman. We concluded that that would be me in X years time. Incidentally, smoking is banned in the (open air) carpark at St George's, except in designated smoking booths. Like anyone pays attention...

A young man asked for a cigarette. I couldn't work out where mine were, so I said my boyfriend's outside, he'll give you one, which he did, but the young man wandered back into the waiting area and through into 'majors' with a lit cigarette. He was looking for his cab, which arrived and he got in the cab smoking, and had to throw it out the window. (I would have politely asked the cabbie to wait one minute whilst I finished).

A group arrived. Mother my age, daughter about fourteen, two boys aged maybe five and six. The boys proceeded to run round the waiting area, absolutely no control. Later the girl was outside smoking.

When I was waiting to be seen by the doctor, I needed a new dressing. A woman was brought in. I heard the paramedic briefing the nurse. She was 80, and had fallen the previous day, gone to her GP, who had said that if she got worse she should call the ambulance. The paramedic said that she had the best pace and steadiness he had seen in an 80 year old. She had her daughter and grandson with her. Actually, I was surprised, the daughter only looked mid-thirties. The boy was about ten. He sat quietly, behaving, and even when he went outside, presumably through boredom, he stood quietly, huddled in his anorak.

A woman with a tiny baby (too tiny to support her own head) were called in to see nurse. The woman spent ages gesturing. Eventually the young man she was with stood up and ambled over. I assumed he was the father. He looked on another planet and clearly unconcerned about his partner, and seemingly not bothered to hold the child.

While we were waiting for our cab, there was a couple sat opposite us, the man using his phone. I initially wondered what part of "Switch off mobile phones" he didn't understand. But I forgave him; the woman who was, maybe, Polish or Czech, had had a panic attack on a bus. It became clear he was a stranger and had accompanied her to hospital and was ringing her friends to get one to come down, making sure they knew how to find the hospital, and was trying to reassure the young woman.

Another woman started yelling and shouting about Equal Opportunities and Tony Blair; she had come for an injection and she wasn't going to be treated like this. Security appeared and chatted to her in a non-confrontational way; she asked whether he was the 999. Sniggers all round the waiting room. I exchanged smiles with the man with a nasty eye injury and frequent winces of pain. Katerina said calmly but firmly to injection woman "I've had a panic attack and if you carry on shouting, I'll have another one, so please don't shout." We exchanged smiles. The security guard explained to injection woman that she should be patient and wait quietly like everyone else.

It was a quiet night, 1.5 hours waiting for minors, which was shutting at midnight.

What a Charlie...

I can't pretend to have been following the story in great detail, but I initially heard that it was about 'a senior royal' and a royal servant, the latter being down on his knees in an act of homage to the Crown Jewels. I assumed it was Edward and thought 'so what'; I read somewhere in the blogosphere that it was Andrew and was surprised, thinking - Randy Andy chases fillies, surely. But talking to a friend on Thursday, and he had heard at dinner on Wednesday it was Andrew, and in response to my expression of surprise, suggested that Andrew has experience. I was really really quite surprised that it is now being said it is being said that it is Charlie. Jimmy reckons that the Charlie denials are a smokescreen - distracting from the actual real rumour.

I'm a great believer that whatever consenting adults do in private is of no public concern. I also know what sells newspapers. I'm tempted to castigate the Royal Family for hypocrisy, but I reckon - without having really studied the matter- they are generally reasonably tolerant of homosexuality.

However, if there is any truth in the rumours, which is doubtful, it would be very awkward when Charlie becomes head of the publicly homophobic Church of England.

Shameless steal from The Drudge Report which doesn't seem to like deep linking.

How it happened

There I was in the pub.  It wasn't the intention to go in the Hand. We were going to go to the Prince of Wales, before going to the Prison Social Club for a benefit night for a prison officer that Jimmy's known thirty years and is dying of cancer. We were supposed to be going with John and Jackie. Walked past the Hand, and John's in there. No Jackie. He's been working away and she's found a hairband in his laundry and thinks he's playing away. He's protesting his innocence. I'm having a laugh with the other John, who has been trying to pull whilst working away and has found no one to pull.

There's a minor commotion further down the bar. Nothing major.  Just a shuffle. And the sound of fizzle. And some light. And it fucking hurts and I'm lying on the floor screaming and crying and a woman I don't know is pouring water onto me, holding my hand, telling to me to take deep breaths.  She's a first aider.  And then within five minutes the police arrive, and a couple of minutes later the ambulance. And I'm at St George's in Tooting.

I'm a veteran of A&E. In my time I've done: Altrincham General 4 or 5 times, Trafford General (when it was Park) twice, Wythenshawe, QMC Nottingham A&E referral, Southend General, Kings, George's twice before, St Thomas's, Oban General. In all those times I have never had reason to complain about the professionalism and attitude of the staff.

Yet last night was a whole new experience. Previously, all my admissions were to a large extent my own fault. Accidents, yes, but self-inflicted. Last night, I sensed something more than mere professional sympathy. I was the 'firework woman'.  It was clear to me that the staff felt an anger, because all I was doing was having a drink with friends in my local pub at eight o'clock on a Friday evening. It's my birth right. Basically, I'm the victim of an assault.

I'm really pissed off and angry, and a bit upset. I'm not even thinking about scarring. Maybe it would have been worse if I had taken my coat off - I'd only just arrived. Two sips of gin. It could have got me, or someone, in the face, or the eye. If it had got one of the old blokes with heart trouble, it could have killed them. The Ambulance said St George's might want to transfer me to Chelsea and Westminster; they didn't. Which is good, I assume.

Oh, and my coat and top are ruined, and my bra is no longer sexy.

And of course, I took a photo. I am going to take one of the burn when I change my dressing, but I won't inflict it on you. This ain't a great photo or a great portrait, but that's not the point...

 

clarification: The consensus seems to be that the firework was thrown in by two boys of about 12 wearing dark clothing. The police say it is unlikely that the CCTV will have picked up much detail in the dark...

Ban fireworks!

Just back from spending the evening in St George's A&E being treated for burns to my right shoulder and neck after some fucking scrote child threw a firework into the pub which bounced off the floor and down my coat.

Not nice.

Details later

She who dwells...

I am currently on my first listen to Sinead O'Connor's She Who Dwells, my prize for being horrible to the lovely Stuart. So far so good. I do like Celtic with a hard edge.

I'm just giving it the seep-into-my-system listen at the moment, but on an initial listen I am enjoying it. I am notoriously bad at classifying musical genres (and, to be honest don't like getting too hung up on them, my favourite classifications are: Explains life, Amazing, Brilliant, Good, Pleasant, Not Bad, Not Me, Dull, Crap, Turn that fucking noise off).

However, I have definitely fallen for the Celto-Reggae version of Chiquitita...! It is already brilliant, and has potential for amazing.

And Molly Malone...how to rework a classic/twee folk song and invest it with meaning. Proper review in time.

Blast Amazon. I logged on, Wednesday, to search for a particular book I want, and they were telling me to buy Billy Bragg. I already have it on my Xmas/bday present list, but I noticed that there is a limited edition bonus disc of rarer tracks. Considering I used to live five minutes walk from the A13 it is actually criminal that I don't have this track.

So I got out the Switch card, and it should be delivered by Monday, at the latest.

Yesterday, I suddenly realised that Amazon have no way in hell of knowing that iI am a Bragg fan...!

Ooh, and my Sky Man has arrived, and has to install on my chimney stack which will detract less from my period cottage...

Magyar Magic

A trip to the Fairfield Halls, Croydon's sole contribution to culture - well, apart from the two theatres.

It's probably a bit sad booking a ticket to go to a concert alone. But the fact that my fiance can't have late nights shouldn't stop me.

I had actually found the concert when looking for something completely different. The internet's like that. Turns out it's the opening concert of a whole year of Hungarian culture in Britain, to mark Hungary's accession to the EU in May. The Hungarian Ambassador was in attendance - I sussed that out when I saw a car with registration MAG 1 outside the concert hall. Events will take place in various British cities, so, if you are interested, as a couple of you will be, do check out Magyar Magic.

Also check out the concert programme, which also included as a bonus the tenor Attila Fekete singing three songs by Rachmaninov. As an encore they played Berlioz's Rakoczy March

Initially I was disappointed at having chosen a stalls seat, and one right at the front to boot. When I go to concerts I have to see the percussion. It's just one of my things. And I realised with sinking heart that I couldn't see the percussion.

But not to worry, I had an excellent view of the soloists, and the conductor, and even ended up exchanging looks with a second violinist and a cellist. I was also very close to the leaders (clearly a job share - they swapped seats after the interval), and was flirting with one in the bar in the interval. (It's a sad state of affairs when the leader of the orchestra, with his fiddle, has to come to the bar for an interval smoke...)

More importantly, by being in such a position I really felt that I was in the heart of the orchestra. Still, I'm glad that my seats for the Barbican next week, and in three weeks are in the circle. I really wanted a good seat to hear Murray Perahia.

I enjoyed the concert, without being moved to tears or any such thing. Still, the journey back reminded me why I stopped seeing Croydon as a viable evening venue a long time ago.

He lost that loving feeling

The plummy parodic Radio 4 newsreader announced Righteous Brother Hatfield dies, and made reference to the band's most famous song. Which sounded somewhat strange coming from the mouth of the Radio 4 newsreader. (I'm surprised he didn't say popular beat combo).

My ear worm is now that song. So will yours be. Which is the mark of an absolute classic, because, obviously, they didn't play it on Radio 4. But it's embedded within me.

shome mishtake shurely

In the Champions League, Monaco have beaten Deportivo La Coruna 8-3.

I must be well out of the anorak-loop in European football, because if United had been drawn in that group, I would have pursed my lips anxiously at Deportivo and shrugged at Monaco.

Indeed, Deportivo beat my boys 2-0 less than eight months ago; okay, mainly reserves, as I blogged at the time.

But 8-3 is not the scoreline you expect to see at this level.

Glad to see Arsenal winning a rare European victory. Prolong the agony a bit more...

The postman knocks once

I go out way too late in the morning. Rarely in work in what resembles good time. This morning I was just putting my shoes on when there was a knock on the door. It was the Postman, bearing, not only my New Statesman, but also a
Twunt mug. Yay!

End of an era...

I had to watch it. For years it was part of my life. That familiar tune, and the views of the Mersey. Amazing ground breaking TV. I hand you over to my colleague, Diamond Geezer for the authoritative blog on Brookie. I stopped watching it when Anthony Murray started having nightmares about killing Imelda the Bully.

But I switched on for the final episode. Nearly twenty years of my life. From Damon and Debbie, through the Jordaches, right up to 2002.

What an amazing twenty years of telly.

What a cracking ending.

Jimmy Corkhill, we salute you. In our dotage we will say: "They don't make them like Jimmy Corkhill.

Bravo to Dean Sullivan!

You know, there's a little tear behind my eye.

Do they show old Brookie on that there satellite telly what I'm getting this weekend?

Obsessive flibbertijibbet

Last month I published extracts from my teenage diaries. I may well continue from time to time. I did it because Karen started it. Mainly because I could. I don't think I was trying to prove anything. Certainly not to you.

At one stage, maybe in my mid twenties, I had a belief that one's character was an aggregation of random events occurring in childhood. Mainly early childhood. Then I took the reverse view that only very significant events, especially traumatic, really influence the adult who is blessed with free will and an analytical intelligence.

But is the girl the mother of the woman?

My parents often used to dismiss my enthusiasms as 'a phase you're going through'. Maybe they were right about the ponies. Partly right about the ballet (but it was thinking about this that prompted me to identify a potential ballet-attending companion). They didn't have the money for dancing or riding lessons. Dispassionate reporting of facts. No bitterness or resentment.

After about ten years they realised that Manchester United was more than a phase. They definitely encouraged the music, classical music, anyway. Pop was more or less tolerated, it has to be in a household whose children's ages span ten years.

Over the years there have been many enthusiasms. Some go back a long way. Boats have always held a fascination. All the way back to multiple re-readings of the entire Swallows and Amazons series. Not that I've ever really gone boating. My obsessions are shallow. Photography goes back to Colwyn Bay holiday where I instructed my father which photos to take. Matt was a babe in arms. I must have been 7. Or maybe the previous year when I took an ace photo of a sailing dinghy off Aberystwyth.

Sometimes the enthusiasms are beached. As a small child, I read voraciously. I think I have read one book this year. I love cooking, but when do I actually properly cook? When did I last knit? Writing is a constant obsession. I write because I have to.

Reading my 1983 diaries, I went to three concerts in a week. I found myself envying 15-year-old Gert. How ridiculous, I scolded myself. You have disposable income, a Switch card, and an internet connection. Oh, and you live in London, a World City, teeming with culture.

I get obsessions with celebrities. They were embarrassingly obsessive until the age of...oh, I don't know, 31...

Right now, you may have noticed, I'm obsessing about Plácido. I'm sure it will pass. And return. I first fell for his gorgeous voice and charisma back in, I don't know, 79, 80, 81? My liking for Plácido is something that's understood in our family. I am annoyed with myself. All those missed opportunities over the years. Yes, on TV, but also, Covent Garden. Royal Festival Hall. My manor, for God's sake.

In the interim, of course, I was a flibbertigibbet, obsessing on other things. I gave the best years of my life to Lambeth Council. Do I regret it? Maybe I regret the time I could have spent doing else. (Probably in reality just getting drunk, watching mediocre TV and yearning to be a politician). Look through this weblog - or take my word for it, I flit, I float, I fly. Still, I have the rest of my life to flutter between my obsessions.

I wrote the above at lunchtime, on my Palm, on a Park bench (yes, in November...I'm loving it loving it loving it...)

Strictly speaking I should be in the ranks of the highly elevated, a Senior Civil Servant, or a Local Authority Chief Officer, or the equivalent. I'm bright, quick thinking, capable of processing ideas, numerate, empathetic and have reasonably good people skills. I can think strategically and outside the box, and see the Big Picture.

These are all highly valued skills. But eventually people clock onto me - I lack drive, commitment, tenacity, the ability to concentrate, motivation. Besides, name for me one Senior Civil Servant or Local Authority Chief Officer who blogs. I rest my case.

I'm a flibbertijibbet and a will-o'-the wisp, and, to be honest, a little bit of a clown.

Maybe if you understand, you can forgive.

Autumn leaves

...the smell of freshly fallen leaves

The sun beating down and warming the chilled air.

Ducks and geese on the hunt for food from ever-obliging parkistas.

Rats with wings and rats with bushy tails.

Tourists with cameras

Office workers with poppies and conversational snippets "It's because our management are pathetic" "They videoed you and took you into a room".

I promised Jimmy a glorious autumn. He doubted I could deliver.

And the smell of newly minted golden leaves...

Flash dependent sites

Last week, seemingly apropos of nothing, my niece announced to me, "You know I haven't got Swan Lake Barbie". I asked her why I needed to know that...

Today I had a brainwave and found to my delight that Swan Lake is being performed in Manchester next March. I thought I would click on the English National Ballet's site for more info, and it turns out to be entirely inaccessible from a workplace which is Flash disabled.

Why.do.these.twunts.design.webshites.like.that?

Great tube announcements of our time

"The trine in front is conked aht"

The carriage sniggered. Why there should be sniggering when a London Undergorund driver talks in Lannan is beyond me, but...

and yes, we were stuck in the tunnel, but not for very long...

End or hiatus?

After years of being nagged by my sister and my fiancé I have finally succumbed. Actually, it was the veiled threat that us getting married depends upon it.

Plus the free digibox and dish, and installation for £1.

I have sold my soul to the devil Rupert Murdoch.

Obviously, I'm only getting it for the intellectual channels. And the opportunity to watch Manchester United live without going down the pub.

And I need to get a new TV.

So maybe after Friday there will be a blogging go-slow.

Goddammit, I have held out for years on my proud boast that I only get four-and-a-half channels, all analogue, and not very well, being that I live in a reception blackspot. And my TV was 'refurbished' when I got it in 1995.

I don't even watch bloody TV.

I suppose I'll have to get one with a DVD player.

It is truly the work of the devil.

PS I also have to get a TV that has a depth of less than 43cm, or 17 inch. I'm sorely tempted by plasma, but, considering I don't watch TV, I'm not sure that £3,000 is the correct amount to spend...

Eavesdropping another life

Terry overhears a Pinteresque line.

I had a similar one. "So there was this open phone conversation going on outside the boys' room. Charlie and Lewis were very upset so I took them out on the balcony. The strange thing is there was this black Ford Fiesta hire car patrolling outside the chalet three hours ago. And it turns out that she's his third wife and he's abducted his children before."

Calling Palin fans

Michael Palin is on Parkinson tonight. So is Pavarotti, or Fat Pav, as Huw referred to him in the comments below. How dare the BBC describe Pavorotti as the most popular and distinctive operatic tenor in the world. The word is he can't actually sing these days...

Oh Emma Thompson and Rod Stewart are on as well. I tell you what, that Parky doesn't go for nonentities...

Misplaced bragging?

I want opinions here.

I'm not a linguist. Okay, I have O-levels in 3 languages (French, Latin and Italian) but that does not make me a linguist. I can barely order a beer in French. Scrub that, I make a special point of knowing how to order beer, wine and coffee in whichever language I have to. I absolutely can't do accents. Two of the last three countries I visited are Spanish speaking; we couldn't have survived in Cuba without use of pidgin Spanish (and Jimmy knows dos cervezas, or dos mojitos).

Newspaper-type articles are generally written in simplified language (in English, the Guardian requires a reading age of 14, the Sun 9).

I love reading foreign newspapers. I don't pretend to do a literal translations, but I have Le Figaro, Le Monde, and La Stampa in my Favourites; sometimes I will search out a German newspaper to see what Germany's saying.

Occasionally, I find myself reading Dutch, or a Nordic language and, at least getting the jist. I know when people on Tubes are reading Turkish. On a bus a few years back I sat on a bus reading someone's newspaper and eventually asked him what language it was - it looked like Russian, but wasn't (and was in the Latin, not Cyrillic alphabet) - it was Lithuanian (or Latvian, I forget now...). During the 1980 Moscow Olympics I learnt the Cyrillic alphabet just by watching the TV (Daddy checked it with a Russian speaker at work - I was right). A chance encounter with my dear late cousin and godfather when he returned from Moldova confirmed my ability to read and understand Moldovan.

Is this usual amongst non-linguists? I am really interested in knowing whether I am a freak who has wasted her talents or whether everyone does this and it's so normal nobody bothers mentioning it.

I really quite fancy learning Arabic - it sounds such a beautiful language. When we were out on the boat in Egypt, our wonderful guide was asking the youngsters whether they liked Egyptian pop music. They all had blank faces. I had heard so much I knew I preferred it to what generally counts as Western pop music these days. He got me dancing round the boat. Would you believe that I accidentally wiped the video...?