Gertsamtkunstwerk

Knee-jerk Howard

Howard urges limits on 'too easy' abortions

On the face of it, what Michael Howard says is not entirely unreasonable.

And he pledged to vote to cut the legal time limit for late abortions from 24 weeks - where it currently stands except in cases of serious handicap or risk to the mother's life - to 20 weeks

There are many examples of babies born at twenty-odd weeks surviving, although the proportion is still low, and many that do survive only do so with profound multiple disabilities.

But I doubt for a moment that that is really what is on Howard's mind. Once again, it's a headline grabbing attempt to solidify the reactionary vote of Middle England, whilst not alienating the majority of voters.

The article states that 0.6% of abortions are carried out between 22 and 24 weeks. That's a very tiny number ; I am sure that if they were examined on a case by case basis, there would be overwhelmingly compelling reasons for most of them.

I am Pro-Choice and feel uneasy about abortion. I'm all for greater efforts to prevent.

Someone I know had a split condom incident last year, and, sensibly, decided to seek the Morning After Pill. She walked into Boots the Chemist and asked for it, only to be refused, and lectured - can you believe it - lectured - in full view and hearing of random strangers at the Pharmacy counter of a large Boots the Chemist. She eventually got one from an independent pharmacist (yay to independent pharmacists - the one near me has a very big sign in the window stating that Emergency Contraception is available here, shouldn't those bigoted Boots the Chemist who refuse to sell it also carry big signs saying "Reactionary Bigots working here won't sell the Morning After Pill")

This woman is approaching forty, experienced in life, intelligent, articulate, educated and confident, but she found it a humiliating experience.

I would imagine that a woman of half her age and quarter her confidence would have been so intimidated by the experience that she would have just given up. But Michael 'Headline Grabbing' Howard can't or won't address the real issues when he can savour a populist headline instead.

To buy it over the counter costs about £25. I was staggered - of course, it's also available from GPs, but just hope your split condom moment doesn't come at the start of a long Bank Holiday weekend.

Update: Monday's Mirror says what I said, only much much better.

Harry Potter for Chancellor?

Ooh, there's nothing to beat pre-Election Cabinet Reshuffle speculation LABOUR whizz kid David Miliband last night emerged as the hot new favourite to succeed Gordon Brown as Chancellor.

I don't know, it's difficult enough to cope with the Education Secretary being my age, but to have a Chancellor less than three years my senior is even more a sign of my ageing.

But I don't think he looks like Harry Potter  - just a geek, but there's nothing wrong with that. Obviously, one to watch during the upcoming campaign...

Evil woman kidnapper made me a vice slave

Runs the headline in the News Of the World

I do not know what to make of this story at all. Remind myself, never blame the victim.

But it just doesn't seem to add up. Okay, she was unwise to go back to their house initially. But we have all probably acted unwisely from time to time. She was drugged and raped. Horrible. Helpless.

When Jenny...woke the next morning she was told she was going to London. First they stopped at her flat to collect her things and then threatened to hurt her and her family if she tried to escape. "My son was staying with my mother at the time. But I knew he would be there if they came back to get me. My greatest fear was what they would do to my son." She was taken to a flat behind Victoria Station in London and in the next four days was kept drugged and forced to work as a prostitute. Jenny said: "They would find the punters for me.

I'm sorry but this makes no sense whatsoever. It seems that she just meekly complied, okay to protect her son, but was he really in any danger - he was at her mother's? If she really feared for her life, couldn't she have gone to her mother's, couldn't she have gone to the police? After all she had been drugged and raped, and she feared for her life and that of her son.

I will accept however that she believed that she and her son were in danger and that was why she complied.

But to me the clincher is

Jenny is epileptic and, with no medication, twice ended up in hospital during the four days after suffering serious fits.

I do not believe in blaming the victim; how can I possibly begin to imagine what she went through. But there is a concept in English Law of contributory negligence. it was discredited twenty years ago when some evil arsehole judge found a rapist not guilty on the basis that the woman was wearing a mini-skirt and thus was asking to be raped - contributory negligence.

Couldn't she have appealed to the medical staff? Couldn't she have tried to explain what was happening? I just don't understand it.
In my view, that couple should rot in hell for the initial drugging and raping. Whatever happened later, I do feel that there was a very large degree of contributory negligence. Nevertheless, it still makes them evil.

And I can't decide whether a little part of me believes that a little part of her went along willingly, or whether I just want to bang my head against the wall in exasperation that a woman of 38 in the 21st century can be so lacking in autonomy.

Out and about in Westminster Village

Jimmy and I were due to go to the Barbican last night - and we did, a review will come later.

I find certain aspects of my other half to be exasperating. He knows every backstreet short cut and turning in Central and South London for driving, and he recognises the advantage of using public transport, especially into the Central area, and especially where alcohol is concerned (and you know us, it ususally is...), but he is convinced he lacks the confidence to self-navigate around Transport for London.

If he were normal, I would have said 'meet me at the Barbican at 7pm'. If he had been vaguely normal, could have said - get the 133 to the Barbican, you'll have to guess what bus stop to get off at but it's not that far to walk. If he was approaching normal, I would definitely have said "Do come to my new office, the directions are blah-de-blah." I thought of Victoria, but how do you get to the Barbican from Victoria. Actually, I have had a helpful exchange of emails with TfL about this:

Me: I have just asked the Journey Planner to take me from Victoria to Barbican on Friday, arriving at 7pm. The answer is to travel via Kings Cross, which would be nice to avoid, if possible, because there are many announcements saying "Avoid Kings Cross". It struck me that there is no 'search option' to avoid somewhere, such as Kings Cross in the rush hour.

TfL: Thank you for your email.

You raise a valid point. At present, there is no 'avoiding...' function within Journey Planner, but I will be happy to pass your feedback on to the relevant staff for their consideration for the future.

Thank you for your suggestion.

Regards,

Transport for London

I scrunched my forehead and stuck a pen in mouth and came up with a genius solution. He gets the 159:

"You go over Westminster Bridge, past St Thomas's - you know St Thomas's - then the bus goes past the Houses of Parliament - you know the Houses of Parliament? - then it goes round Parliament Square and you get off at the first bus stop after Parliament Square and you cross over Whitehall. The Red Lion is more or less opposite the Treasury, indeed it is a Treasury local."

"I'm confused about Parliament Square..."

"Basically, it's a big roundabout, so the bus has to go round it to do a right into Whitehall."

"I get it."

So I had to find my way to Whitehall. Not difficult but I wasn't sure of the quickest route. I ended up discovering a part of hidden London that I had no idea existed. How many years have I worked in Westminster Village? Of course I've heard of Dean's Yard. But I have never previously walked through it. It's a beautiful little oasis within the precincts of Westminster Abbey. I shall return.

I got to the Red Lion and himself was moaning that it was crowded. I did point out it's Friday, it's six o'clock. Then, when he went to Gents, he discovered a cellar bar that was half empty, so we whiled away the time there. Actually, too much time, so we had to get a taxi (for my piece of mind).

Whlst we were in there Ben Bradshaw popped his head round the door looking for someone. He's currently a minister at DEFRA, but you'll have to take my word for it because their website is currently down, it seems.

In those few brief moments he struck me as being exceptionally good looking - which is not exactly news to me, by the way. I reflected on the fact that the two most handsome Government Ministers, probably the two best looking ever, are both gay, and, as it happens the first two MPs to be first-time elected as out gay. Not that looks or sexual orientation matter, the only thing that matters is "Blairite or Brownite?" and I think Ben is ultra-Blairite.

Wigan Athletic

They are at the top of the Championship, poised to be promoted to the Premiership. They have never played in the Premiership, nor the 'old' First Division.

I am creating this entry in order to allow a bit of guest blogging direct from the borough of Wigan...

A few thoughts on photography

From time to time I get a few queries about my photographs, my camera and techniques.

I don't really know what I'm doing, having never studied photography, or Art, for that matter, so everything I do is trial and error.

I have always enjoyed photography and since going digital four years ago I have found the wherewithal to expand that enjoyment. The start-up costs of digital are much greater than film, but the incremental costs are negligible. With film, every shot taken costs money, for replacing the film and for D&P. Both times I visited Niagara Falls, I thought I had gone OTT by shooting an entire roll of 36 exposures. A three week holiday in the US came to five and a half films. In contrast, I feel that the thirty seven shots I took in Dublin on Wednesday were a meagre return; I took the equivalent of 5½ on what was basically a beach holiday in Egypt.

The downside of this is in general a lot of crap and repetitiveness, the upside is the confidence to take shots that I suspect will not turn out, but sometimes produce miraculous results. It also means far more opportunity to record the everyday, which, again, risks being boring, but in time may prove to be fascinating documentary. Going back 50 or 100 years , people generally only took photos of special occasions, in artifically posed groups, with artifical smiles.

The digital revolution has truly democratised photography in a way that few people could have seen as possible - or necessary - ten years ago. The fact that I can publish my photos to the world, hopefully giving pleasure to complete strangers never crossed my mind until very recently.

I was surprised at how many shops are advertising printing straight from memory cards - to me, one of the great things about digital is being able to manipulate the images on the PC. My cousin claims he has no use of photo-editing software, because every photo he takes is perfect. I would suggest he never takes chances!

On the whole I don't do a great deal of editing. I do a lot of slight rotating - I have a tendency to take photos that are not quite perpendicular. I try very hard to correct this by identifying a straight line on the screen, but when I'm pointing-and-shooting I just don't have the luxury of time. When I used film, I tended to have the subject accidentally off-centre, to the left. I also crop pretty freely - eliminating peripheral nonsense can transform a mediocre picture into a very good, or even, great picture.

I use MGI Photosuite, which I have read described as entry level, and I suppose I ought to be past Entry-Level. Indeed I have tried using Photoshop Limited Edition, and my brother-in-law even downloaded me a pirate version of Photoshop. But, although this is said to be the best software, and does contain some amazing special effects, I feel a lot happier with Photosuite.

I generally 'enhance' the photo, which is similar to Photoshop's Auto-levels, and I often sharpen, which makes the edges more precise. Although, with pictures of people, I find 'soften' or 'remove scratches' gives a better effect. The clone tool can be useful, although I use it sparingly - eg one shot taken from a boat was marred by a thin rope bisecting the photo. It's laborious to get it right but on occasion it can transform the shot. It's also useful for zapping annoying people who wander into the edge of the frame.

As for camera, I have a Canon G3, which has been superseded by the G5. It has been described as the best 'amateur level' digital camera and suits my needs perfectly. It has a 4 Megapixel capacity, which is plenty big enough. Some prat was boasting to me the other day that his camera was 5 Megapixels, but I don't see any advantage. I generally shoot at 1600x1200, which comes out at less than 2 megapixels. In certain circumstances - where I suspect I might want to magnify details - typically with 'performance' pictures - I go for 2272 x 1704, which is still less than 4 megs. There is some trade-off even then. If you have shot in portrait mode, Windows shows it in landscape, but if you click rotate it says "Because of the dimensions of this picture, rotating it might permanently reduce its quality." Under those circumstances I rotate in Photosuite. I find that at 2272, the photo tends to appear more grainy than at 1600.

About 18 months ago Marcie asked for my thoughts comparing my G3 with a Nikon I had on loan after I dropped my G3 (...!). I wrote:

I have a Canon G3 - which I luv, and call 'My Baby'. I had loan of a Nikon Coolpix 5000. The spec of the G3 is better (eg 4x optical zoom, up to 14x digital as compared to 3x up to 7x on the Nikon), and I find the controls more me. The minus points are an ultra-sensitive on switch, and rather too many different menus. The Nikon is lighter and probably better suited to my very small hands (I can't stretch an octave on a piano), also arguably, slightly more stylish looking in black than the rather clunky silver of the G3.

What I like about the G3 is that there is an easy-to-use dial that
switches between Movie-Nightsight-landscape-portrait-fully auto
-programmable-Aperture priority - Shutter priority -stitch assist. These modes combine the ease of point-and-shoot with a little bit more customability. Whereas, the Nikon requires selecting one of three custom settings from the menu and doesn't have stitch assist.

The manual focus is more intutive on the Nikon, and it has a function
where you can take three consecutive shots at -1, 0, +1 exposure
compensation. On the down side, it has something weird where the macro has to be taken with shutter delay (which, apparently, is good practice, but...). The Nikon's manual is much more helpful.

The Canon comes with a remote control, which has its uses...

A major plus point with the Canon is that the battery doesn't have to be exhausted to be recharged, whereas with the Nikon it does. The Nikon battery is recharged in a separate charger, whereas the Canon has to be done from within the camera. The Canon battery life is longer, anyway.

In the UK, the Canon retails at about £100 (about $150) more than the Nikon.

Lyle has recently posted on Digital SLRs, but I have never been interested in SLR, partly because the ones I have tried have alwas seemed too heavy.

As for taking performance photos, it can be a bit hit-and-miss. The first thing to consider is that, strictly speaking, it is forbidden in many venues. I have heard stories of perpetrators being ejected or their cameras, or film, being confiscated. If you took and published photos for commercial gain, the venue or the promoters would be within their rights to sue.

There are some basic rules to follow, a mixture of common sense and good manners. It's best to smuggle the camera in the inner compartment of a handbag - don't make it too obvious or some jobsworth will stop you. Don't use flash when the performance is under way - it can be very distracting to the performers and also to other members of the audience. There are occasions when it seems okay, but I would err on the side of caution. Having paid good money to see specific performers I wouldn't want them distracted, and being that they are people I like, I would be mortified at the thought that they might be cursing that awful woman with her camera.

I was at once in the stalls at the RFH and someone was using flash from the circle, which distracted me. At the interval an announcement came not to use flash photography. This was greeted with very loud and enthusiastic applause. It is very rare nowadays to go to a concert where flashes don't go off at applause time, and I'm sure that most performers regard that as an alternative but valid form of applause.

To get the best pictures requires practice - don't wait until you see your favourite, but practice on others first. I have found that the two most important factors are to have a wide aperture and a fast ISO, the wider and faster the better. If I set the aperture at f2, and then zoom into about 5 or 7x, the camera forces the f number up. Looking at the photos I took on Wednesday, the f numbers are hovering around the f3 mark, the shutter speed was decided by the camera (but I could have set it independently) at between 1/50 and 1/200. I generally don't force the digtial zoom beyond about 7 because I usually entirely misfocus beyond there. The other thing to remember if you want accurately to record the data of your photos is not to have the camera set to Egyptian Standard Time...!

And finally, when taking photos of your hero it can be very disconcerting when he spots you and decides to flirt with you. All semblance of trying to be a serious photographer disappears and you are left a trembling wreck...(thank you, Señor Domingo - not that I'm complaining...!)

The sayings of Helen

I made some reference below to the phraseology of my friend Helen-in-Glasgow (not to be confused with Helen in Essex, even though Helen-in-Glasgow is actually from Essex)

The 'And to think some women never have an orgasm' is one of them, but some of the other good ones include (deservedly) naming her ex-stepmother 'The Bitch Queen from Hell'. On one Girls' Holiday, she came up with titles for two potentially best selling books, 100 Places to Park Your Tractor in Ireland, and 100 Places To Park Your Roadblock in Belfast.

On another holiday we noticed that there was a pattern to the names of houses we were passing - Ocean View, Atlantic View, Mountain View, Meadow View, Castle View. She reasoned that the ultimate place would have to be "View View..." Still, she never spotted the one round the corner from me - "Prison View." I can't remember who Iwas canvassing with when we found this but we had to take five to compose ourselves.

She had a gentleman friend she referred to as the Serial Legover.

Once when we were in our Bridget Jones phase, and lamenting the lack of men in our respective lives, I bravely suggested that neither of us actually needed men. She suggested that they were useful for changing lightbulbs. I said, "What! Can't you change a lightbulb?" Her reply, "Yes, but it's a woman's right to choose..."

There are many more, that I'm sure will occur to me.

Plácido Domingo at The Point

I sent a txt to my sister saying, "Oh my god! And to think that some women never have an orgasm!"

At least, I hoped I sent it to my sister. At the time I was floating down the banks of the Liffy high on elation and post-orgasmic bliss.

It's actually a direct quote from my friend Helen-in-Glasgow after we had seen Jason Donovan in Joseph. At the time, and afterwards, I have regarded it as superbly crafted hyperbole from the supreme phraseologist. After all, all that Cosmo advice on the Big O never mentioned being in the audience for a musical performance.

Note to editor of Cosmo

Last night, I used the phrase on the woman next-but-one to me, and she assumed I was joking. Although she did say "If that won't make it happen, nothing will..." 'That' being, as far as I'm concerned, very specifically, Plácido Domingo singing 'Un baccio' from Gia nella notte densa from Otello. Mind you, there had been plenty of foreplay...

I've been twittering on for a while about this concert. To understand why I have never seen him live would need a very long and boring explanation of my entire adult life before blogging.

So you can only imagine the mixture of very deep excitement mixed with increasingly highly-strung nervousness I have been experiencing. I did say to some people, "I'm nervous that I might not enjoy it..." They thought I was joking; I wasn't. It's one thing seeing/hearing someone on TV, video, CD etc and another seeing someone live. Especially someone who, at 64, is past his prime and beginning to show his age. And many years ago I learnt that the more you build yourself up, the harder is it for your high expectations to be met. Anticipating something with neutral caution can lead to unexpected pleasures.

In summary, high expectations met, exceeded and then some...

As I predicted, although the concert was billed to start at 7.45 it didn't start until after 8. Security was quite overt (although no bag searches) - Mary McAleese was supposed to be in attendance, but apparently she cancelled at the last minute, due to illness.

As the programme billed it "Plácido Domingo in Concert. With Ana Maria Martinez and the RTÉ Concert Orchestra conducted by Eugene Kohn"

The concert started with an indifferent almost insipid Rákóczy March (Berlioz), but I wasn't really paying attention. I was mentally focusing on the fact that within minutes I would see .... him...

And then he walked on. My initial reaction surprised me in being so low key. His first aria was Tout est bien fini...O souverain, which by delightful serendipity, was the last piece I heard on CD before leaving my hotel, and was, thus, my earworm as I trogged down the Quays. So beautiful! Well, except for a couple of flubs from the brass.

I just sat back, opened my ears, my eyes, my pores and drank it all in, just revelling in being in such close proximity to my hero. Physically, he's gorgeous. He's beginning to show the signs of ageing, especially on his hands, but he bounds round the stage with the energy and litheness of a man half his age. And I had never realised what a physically imposing presence he is. Much taller in real life than on TV, muscular, broad conductor's shoulders. And just oozing red-blooded macho sexuality. This was particularly noticeable in the duets, and most especially in Tonight, when I found his sheer physicality overwhelming.

Even though he's the greatest singer ever, and a very good actor, and very very very physically attractive, this is all wrapped up in bundles of personality and charisma, and he is a natural performer, seeming to get injections of adrenaline from the audience.

Caroline at work was winding me up saying she thought I was going to see McFly and my sister was insisting I was off to see Ronan Keating, but all I will say to them is 'what on earth would I want with some insipid zygotic boyband?'...

His second aria was Winterstürme. In general, when you go to a populist aria concert, designed to appeal to a wide audience, you don't really expect to hear Wagner - you don't tend to get Wagner on aria albums, and he didn't really write 'numbers' like Mozart, Verdi, Puccini etc. It takes chutzpah, or sheer superstardom, to do it. What a man! By chance, I was among a random group of women who are both Plácido groupies and Wagnerians, so we were applauding fairly enthusiastically. I think he noticed...!

Back in my hotel room I had been listening to Cilea's Lamento di Federico, and reflecting, not only on how much I like this aria regardless of who (good) is singing it, but also how much I particularly like Plácido singing it, so I was delighted to see it on the programme. And I was not disappointed!

The first half finished with Gia nelle notte densa, in my opinion, Verdi's greatest love duet, and one of the 3 greatest. As a side point I have to say this was Ana Maria's weakest moment. She has a lovely voice, and I'd pay good money to see her again, but not as Desdemona...Still she was good enough to be there supporting Otello. And that's where this post started... I have to accept that I will never see/hear Plácido perform Otello live. What a cause of regret, especially having heard him sing this and having had such a visceral physical reaction.

It was a well constructed programme, with the first half being the serious opera stuff, and the second half being operetta, musicals, and zarzuela, and the encores being fun, audience participation...

The encores included a waltz from a Viennese operetta that I know very well, and know is on the CD that I inadvertently left in my desk on Tuesday evening - he got us all singing along. He sang a Spanish song, that I know vaguely, but can't remember what it's called. I think it was before this that he went off to the side of the stage and someone called him to come back, so he signalled to this person he was going to get some water, in a way that was really engaging with this person.

Ana Maria did an encore, and he came back on the stage to applaud her, then he went off again. I wailed - quite quietly, I hasten to add - 'come back, oh please come back, Plácido'. Then the orchestra began to play and I thought, oh the orchestra are doing an encore. I recognised the tune, and thought 'this isn't an orchestra piece', and thought some more 'this definitely isn't an orchestral piece'. Then the conductor looked round, expecting to see a singer on stage, but there was none, so the conductor stopped the orchestra and summoned Plácido from the wings. He sauntered on and addressed the audience, claiming that he didn't know the song, did we know what it was called. So we called out "Granada" and he pretended he was glad we had reminded him, and he sang it, although not without interrupting himself with laughing, and then he had a wander round the orchestra, encouraging various different sections in their bits, like he was a conductor...(!)

In recognition that they were in Ireland, they sang another song - he apologised beforehand that he realised that the audience would know it much better than the singers - She Moved Through The Fair. I can only say that they probably spent just five minutes rehearsing it...But it was good fun!

During the Luisa Fernando duet I thought I would take a photo of him whilst Ana Maria was singing. Now I know what you'll think when you read this, but:

• I am not a delusional fantastist. I am rationale and logical, and paid and trained to be sceptical
• I know there was an audience of about 5000, but I was in the sixth row which is pretty near the front
• I know that when people in general are on stage in front of a massive audience they tend to focus on individuals in the audience
• I know that Plácido has the ability to make every member of the audience believe he is singing just to them
• I was wielding a camera that cannot be described as subtle or discrete, next-but-one to someone else wielding an unsubtle indiscreet camera

I was just about to press the button when I realised he was looking at me, half flirting/teasing, half playing to the camera. For a infinitisemal split second my thought was 'Don't flirt with me, mate...' then 'Oh. my. god!' and I went all flustered and girly and drooling.

I'm back home now, and Jimmy is predicting that I might come down one day; my sister txted me 'hope u have calmed down'

Maybe I would be a bit down, a bit 'nothing good's ever going to happen again', except for the fact that I can see the folder that holds, amongst other tickets, the ones I have for Die Walküre in July. And I had literally been in the house five minutes when some post came through the door, I think by the hand of a neighbour, judging by the half-opened state of one of the envelopes (a newsletter I keep receiving as a result of sponsoring someone in a blogathon). But also in the post was an envelope from Germany - two tickets to see Plácido at the Waldbuhne in Berlin in August. As the woman next-but-one said, he's going to retire in 2008, so we might as well spend all our money on seeing him between now and then.

This is a heavily censored version of what sits on my PC - passworded, BTW, so, sister of mine, don't even think...

The Perfect Day

That was yesterday.

I was pretty stressed out on Tuesday night, and then just when I was about to go bed, the police helicopter decided to park itself in the skies above my head. (Rumour has it they shot someone, a friend of Jimmy's, in the leg during a drugs raid in a house where this guy lets rooms).

I got himself to wake me when he went out at five, I eventually got up at about half past, and headed out via Victoria to arrive at Gatwick at 8. The check-in desk wasn't open, but it was by the time I'd got a coffee.

I was a bit nervous about my carry-on bag, because I figured it weighed more than the 10kg they allow, but it suddenly struck me. If you have no luggage to check in they actually aren't that bothered about the weight of carry on, as long as the size is standard.

I hate Gatwick South Terminal, and nothing will make me like it, but it is the terminal for cheap flights. If spending an hour in Chavland is the price to pay for cheap flights, I’ll live with it.

We were not waiting long at the Departure Gate, and the plane was less than full. All those who insist on sitting in the first few rows were squashed together, but where I was, still in front of the wing, one out of three seats was empty. The landing was sufficiently bumpy not to hurt my ears - I had a minor panic at the thought of having aeroplane ears in the evening; we arrived on time and disembarked quickly, I was able to withdraw money from the cash machine, and whilst I was having my cigarette I sussed out the bus situation. I got a €6* ticket that also allowed unlimited travel on Dublin Bus and Luas.

The bus to the city centre took little over half an hour, and then it was four stops on the tram to Smithfield. Now, that is a weird place. Part semi-derelict slum, part yuppie flats, part enormous building site. As I strolled in the sunshine, perhaps the first hint of Spring, I couldn't help thinking - everything has gone so smoothly so far, something horrible is bound to go wrong. I had seen one magpie in Drumcondra, and I started panicking, then I remembered that Irish superstitions are the opposite of English ones, then I remembered that that was just black cats, so I panicked again, then the bus pulled forward and I realised there were, in fact, two magpies.

I walked up to Chief O'Neill's, which looked rather new, clean, and nice. The sound of Mozart drifted from the bar/carvery, and I announced myself at Reception. In grave tones and with a sombre face, the receptionist said "You've been upgraded to a suite."

"Can life get any better?" I asked myself?

I went up to the suite and frankly, it was lovely. I took photos, but I'm pretty exhausted on the photo-editing front now, so those will have to wait. Actually, it was a bit gimmicky, and I would probably have got a bit fed up after a few nights, but what the heck. And then I saw the button labelled "Jacuzzi on/off". Oh yes! I exclaimed, excitedly.

I set off an a wild goose chase for corned beef and white pudding, but having no luck, I returned to the hotel for a late lunch, and relaxed in my room for a while, including having a much needed snooze. There was a CD player in the room. Actually, not that great a CD player, but you know, better than having my Walkman plugged into my ears. Any guesses at what CDs I played as I got ready?

I had planned on leaving at six, but by half five I was ready and raring to go. On the tram I received a call from Jimmy. He'd had a few, one or two, and one for the road, and decided to go into jealousy mode - understandable since I was due to be spending the evening with the person known as my 'other man'. He instructed me not to be having thoughts of other men. I reassured him that I would never have thoughts of other men, and "I love you." The twenty something woman opposite me had a giggling fit and the forty something man next to her said, "I bet you say that to all the boys." It must have been something in my tone...

I got to Custom House Quay and walked down the quays. And walked. And walked. And walked. And walked. And walked. For over half an hour. But there's only two ways to get to The Point. Walk or drive. So I walked, relieved to have broken in my brand new dainty Doc Martens (I kid you not...)

And then I joined the queue to get in. Which, actually moved quite quickly once the doors opened, at half six. First stop, buy a programme. (Very very nice, full of lovely photos...) Second stop, order interval drink, third stop get pre-performance drink.

Actually, I felt slightly squiffy (it only dawned on me today that my double was in fact 70ml...) and was rather relieved to be able to pass through the Smoking Exit (getting my ticket stamped to allow re-admission). That is where I was accosted by the Irish Independent journalist. I was reasonably pleased with what she wrote. Although the quote wasn't actually a quote, every word she wrote was a fair reflection of what I said, although I did say a lot more. I'm not quite sure how many times I said, "But I'm not obsessed..."

I then got chatting with a really nice woman who'd come up from Cork. Turns out she's a Manchester United fan, so we were commiserating each other on Tuesday's result (and wondering how Real Madrid were going to get on - they lost, by the way, oops). Then, it turns out, she's Roy Keane's cousin. We chatted some more and established that we were both opera fans, not just of nice singers who sing nice songs. Then she said, "All the Keanes are opera fans." So I said, "Even Roy?" To which she said yes; I suggested that that didn't really fit in with his image, and she gave an amused smile. So don't be surprised to find references in the future on this ere blog to 'Opera-Loving Roy Keane...'

I went inside and found my seat. The woman in front and the woman next but one (we were separated by her long-suffering sister) were chatting about Walküre, and the press coverage of the new production. We soon established that we were all properly opera fans, not just Plácido fans. We liked the look of the programme, all sharing a disdain for certain singers who just do crossover. We all agreed we wouldn't pay money to hear Pavarotti, let alone see him. The woman next-but-one, I think she was called Mary, explained to me a little about the venue. She wasn't the first person who had told me it's an awful venue, and I soon worked that one out for myself, but she said that the seats we were in were the best. It's like a barn, well, I suspect it's an old warehouse on the docks quays. With a capacity of 5000 on just two levels, you can imagine how far back it stretches. That's approaching Albert Hall capacity but without the tiers and tiers. But I think it's the only big venue in Ireland. Mary commented that the further back you go the more reliant you are on amplification, and we didn't want to hear Plácido amplified.

I asked her how strictly the venue applied the strictly no photography rule. We got chatting, and I saw after the interval she produced a camera actually more unwieldy and obvious even than mine. Talking of photography, I had checked on Tuesday the data for some of the better 'performance' pictures I have taken, and reminded myself - get the f number down as low as poss, opening the aperture. When I was in my hotel room, checking my camera I spotted this little sign on the screen 'ISO' and I remembered 'just in time' the other important factor - up the ISO. Mine usually sits on 'Auto' and generally comes out at 50, but from somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I remembered to put it up to 400. Sometimes I really have to believe there is a greater power, the god of photography. St Veronica is the patron saint of photographers...

After the interval somebody approached me and said "Are you Gert from madmusings?" So a big hello to Gabriella! Sorry I ended up rushing off at the end, I just wanted to get out, and get back to my hotel. I was thinking of that long walk back along the quays.

When I did eventually get back to the hotel, I went to he bar and asked if I could have a half bottle of wine to take to my room. When he asked me what I wanted I said, "White - well, it depends on what you've got..." He came back and said "I'm afraid the only white we have in a half bottle is this, which is rather expensive..." It was Chablis for €12. That didn't strike me as outrageous, so I said

"That would be the perfect end to a perfect day..."

Actually, the perfect end was lying in the jacuzzi, sipping Chablis, and listening to a Plácido Domingo CD. There is only one listening experience better than a Plácido Domingo CD...

I did run around the room and jump up and down a few times in hyper hyper hyper excitement. I'm still pretty hyper, you know...

I could moan about The Point as a venue, but I feel so good, I'm not going to...

* d'you like my HTML - I worked this one out intuitively

Another photo

Well, it's been a while since I posted anything about what I did last night...

From the Irish Independent

14-year wait ends for night at the opera with Placido

Free Registration required...

WTH, read it below. And, seriously, I mean, read it. This article is not really about Plácido at all...

A photo...

Taken last night, by me, on my camera...

There'll be more...

Awesome

I have just (about an hour ago!) got back from the most perfect day imaginable in Dublin yesterday.

I have a very very long - or maybe a number of long-ish - posts in draft, and a few reasonably okay photos to edit.

All I can say for now is...wow!

March 9

By special request, the so-called Aquarius Project makes a special Pisces return to celebrate the birthday of my favourite niece, Eleanor Mary born in 1999 (budget day; I went to a pub quiz and saw Screaming Lord Sutch with a budgie on his shoulder)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY ELEANOR

Celebrity birthdays include:

1454 Amerigo Vespucci. Had some continents named after him (north, Central and South Vespugha)

1829 Modest Mussorgsky, composer and habitual drunkard. Wrote night on a bare mountain and Pictures At An Exhibition

1881 Ernest Bevin, former Foreign Secretary

1890 Vyacheslav Mikhailovich Molotov, Soviet Foreign Minister. My Soviet and East European lecturer sat in Moscow Central library on the same table as Molotov who was writing his memoirs. When Molotov went off to the Gents, Tony sneaked a look. He said they were very boring...

1892   Vita Sackville-West, novelist and poet. Grandma could tell you things about her. I couldn't.

1910 Samuel Barber, composer - Adagio for Strings. He wrote a nine minute opera called A Hand of Bridge with a character called Geraldine

1934 Yuri Gagarin, Russian cosmonaut, first man in space

1936 Glenda Jackson, great actress, now MP for Hampstead and Highgate

1954, Bobby Sands, IRA hunger striker

1959 oh heck, I don't believe this... Barbie. Doll.

1964 Juliette Binoche, actress

1975 Juan Sebastian Veron, ex-Manchester United player

Update: How could I forget...

1965 Diamond Geezer and

1935 Diamond Geezer's Mum

Very very excited but even more hassled...

I've removed that clunky javascript counter, because - THIS TIME TOMORROW....!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I'm trying to multi-task. Football, dinner, packing. It suddenly struck me I ought to pack my passport.

About half an hour later, my concert ticket...

It's not that difficult to pack for one night away. Usual stuff I normally carry, paperwork, gadgets (oh, that's usual stuff...), teddy bear, basic toiletries, make-up, change of clothes. What else matters?

Alarms set, partner asked to wake me when he goes out at five. Ouch ouch ouch!

And I've got one more blog entry to make before I switch off. Unless United do the improbable. And that will be two.

Call this number...

0800 091 0084 as explained by Inspector Sands of Casino Avenue

I did last night and spoke to Billy Bob of VIP Holidays. For twenty five minutes.

I asked him where he was. First of all, he said Afghanistan, then the West Bank, then the Isle of Man. I said I had been to the West Bank (nearly true -I've seen it sort of) and the Isle of Man. I explained that I found it offensive that his company was cold-calling people, many of whom were part of TPS. He was very patronising and said asked me what makes the world go round. I suggested that just because his company wanted to make a profit, it didn't give them the right to harrass people. He said that he gets six or seven cold calls a day at home, he conceded it was irritating, and that he would never do business with the companies who use that tactic. I explained that where I live it is possible to opt out of cold-calls, except when they are harrassment from overseas. As it happens, I have an answerphone and Caller ID, but disproportionate numbers of elderly or infirm people don't, and harrassment is harrassment.

He told me that everybody wants to come to Florida, and specifically to Orlando, to DisneyWorld (he later said that although he returned to live in Florida in 1980 he hasn't been to Disneyland since 1977.) He said he knew this because everybody who rings him wants to. Duh! I said, those that don't want to don't ring him. He did later concede that mine was not the first call he has got from people in the UK having a go.

I was very polite and a 'nice lady', unlikemost of the others who scream and shout. He asked me whether I was married; I asked what relevance that was; he said that it was important to know because then we'll know if you have kids; I suggested that people have kids outside of marriage; he said that was naughty. He later said that people want to take their family to Disneyland, I asked him what he meant by family, he said a married couple with children, I said family could be an unmarried couple, or a single person with kids, or a lesbian couple with kids, or a load of related adults.

I told him that the best holiday I had ever had was in a country where we stayed in private homes, mixed with the locals, paid local people to take us to places off the beaten track, because it was a very entrepreunerial society. He asked me where it was - I said Cuba, and he said I was a Communist. I said, no, I'm a democratic socialist who believes in a mixed economy, especially one that encourages individual entrepreneurship. He sneered and said "You stayed in Bed and Breakfast?" I said we stayed in private homes. He was floored by that.

I asked him where he would like to visit, he said Hawaii. Oh, the Fiftieth State, I said. What foreign country would you like to visit, and he said he had once helped someone travel to the South Pacific. He then mentioned that he had spent a month in Japan. That's quite a long time, I said, suitably impressed. He was in a hospital, ambulatory, which I misunderstood as he worked on an ambulance. Turns out he was injured in Vietnam and shipped out to Japan. I didn't bite the Vietnam bait, commenting that very many people were sent to Vietnam against their wishes. He said that he enrolled in the Marine Corps straight out of High School, in order to avoid being drafted. I commented that that was a rational decision, although not one that a teenager really has the maturity to make.

I think he was annoyed that I didn't do the whole anti-US rhetoric, mentioning repeatedly that I have relatives in Florida, that I would very much like to visit New York and New Orleans again, but I would far rather go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art than Disneyland, and that I may consider a visit to the States again but in the meantime I have plans to visit three European cities and maybe aftr that Mexico.

Twenty five minutes it was. An 0800 number. They pay for the call.

He did say that the VIP Holidays' marketing company is UK-based...

My new nephew

Email from my brother arrived, enclosing photos. He's gorgeous. The baby, that is, not my brother...

I realise that Ben bears a passing resemblance to Winston Churchill at the moment but I'm sure that will all change once we get his ear pierced and stick a Burberry baseball cap on his head

Excitement

Have I mentioned that I am going to see Plácido in concert in Dublin on Wednesday?

Did I mention I was really excited?

I'm trying not to get over-excited. I'm trying to concentrate on the logistics of the journey, why, ultimately, I hate flying, that in order to get a 10am plane I have to leave the house at 6.30. That I know if I left the house at 6.30 and caught a train I could be in the centre of Paris by the time I'm still stuck at Gatwick Airport.

I'm wondering should I get some Euros from the bank tomorrow or rely on the ATM at the airport.

I'm worrying about the shopping I have to do - corned beef for my sister, white pudding for Jimmy. Me a veggie, too.

I'm focusing on my first glass of Guinness on the banks of the Liffy. I'm fretting about non-smoking pubs. I'm looking forward to seeing purple trams that go 'ding, ding'.

I'm inadvertently having fun making an assorted assortment of people seriously jealous, told I'll be drooling, told I'll go all girlie.

But you know what, I'm so excited I'm trembling with nerves...

And in forty eight hours, it will all be over.

At least I'll have Covent Garden (twice) and Berlin to look forward to...

The Smiths

  Seminal group of the Eighties. And, therefore, in its way, a Singles album has to be super-seminal.

I didn't really know how big The Smiths were until I went to University. When they were together, they had two singles go to number ten, and no further. Ask reached number 8 on its re-release in 1992.

But they were big. Very big. Local band, local heroes where I grew up. I almost knew them.

And then at University my sole claim to 'cool' was my tenuous connections with The Smiths. All the thinking people were into The Smiths. When they appeared on the South Bank Show a crowd gathered in the JCR. Okay, a crowd always gathered for the South Bank Show - it was partly a Sunday night thing - but the crowd for The Smiths was massive.

It's one of these albums that you either know every track on it and can adequately write your own rave review, or else you're just not into them and never will be. I did start a list of all the ones I really like, but it just became a track listing, so I shall just say that I think my favouritest of all is Panic.

One of the things I found fascinating about The Smiths was that immediately prior to them it was usual to have singles of five or six minutes in length, and there was even a belief that 'longer' was 'better' or, at least, better value for money. But The Smiths reinvented the three minute single - and gave them some bloody long titles.

About five years ago there was a series on the telly about the great bands of the Eighties, a sort of Where Are They Now? but cool, with attitude. I found the one on The Smiths painful, hearing about the seemingly unhealbale rift between the two geniuses that are Morrissey and Marr.

This album is on CD. Standard functional packaging. We shall revisit The Smiths when we reach 'S' on the cassettes - actually, ex-vinyl...
(and you thought I only had a Greatest Hits compilation...?)

We are an aunt (again...)

Sister-in-law delivered a boy, Benedict William just under three hours ago.

Some enchanted evening

Another review - and photo from Palm Beach Post

Down the tubas: music is dying in our schools

Serious music is under threat because it isn’t taught, concertgoers are conservative and talented new composers ignored

A thought-provoking piece.

And an interesting companion piece.

I was brought up listening to serious music, studied it seriously at school, ended up with a group of music-loving friends at University (I have a suspicion that they allocated people to my Hall of Residence who had a track record of Performing Arts, although the drama people tended to dominate) and ended up doing my Accountancy Training in an organisation that seemed to recruit more on the basis of having Music O-Level than Maths O-Level.

But going to concerts etc is a different matter. During my twenties I found that after a hard day in work meetings, often followed by a hard evening in political meetings, the last thing I wanted to do on a night off was sit and listen attentively to anything.

Mind you, I think there's a trend for saying that concert attendances are dying. I'm not convinced, especially when you see the choice avaialable on any given night in London. I suppose there is room for concern at the supposed decline of music in schools, there again, I know someone who teaches at a Bog-standard Urban Comprehensive and says they have an orchestra for each year in the school.

And then there's parents. If parents can't bring their children up to have a rich tapestry of experiences or, alternatively, to make them intellectually curious, well, that's not my problem. Eventually, the winners will be separated from the losers.

There are loads of things that people get into later in life. How many people in their twenties or thirties are interested in gardening except for maintenance or sheeplike erection of decking as the Forces of Capitalism instruct them to do so? On my two visits to Egypt, and from people I know generally, I am struck by how few young people go diving, and I bet most that do weren't brought up to it nor learnt it at school. I never went abroad until I was twenty-one, I never took responsibility for booking a holiday (as opposed to visiting friends) until four years ago.

I did read somewhere recently that the problem with the Youth of Today is their inability to rebel. They apparently lap up all the mass marketed commercial pap without question, desperate to conform. The real rebels are those who see past the cynical capitalist marketing mantras and quietly pursue excellence.

The BBC is ace

The best £2.33 you can spend

Well, not totally ace, but Mary Ann Sieghart sums it up pretty succinctly. Which is impressive for a Murdoch-owned newspaper. BTW, my Sky Package costs over £10 a week. Even the most basic one would cost about £4 a week.

Go figure...

TV Ads

Credits roll for TV ads as viewers skip the message

I am really really surprised that only 2% of households have Sky+. I would love to know the socio-economic breakdown of that.

Over the years from when I first got a video I have been amazed at how many people have been amazed at my style of TV watching. I rarely watch 'what's on' , certainly not in comparison to when I go through the Radio Times, marking what I want to watch, and recording it to be watched when I feel like it.

Last night was very ununusual in that I watched West Wing as broadcast, and then a Canadian murder mystery on UKTV Drama - Inspector Murdoch. That had a lot of ad breaks, which we found exceptionally annoying.

I was trying to persuade yesterday that I am totally impervious to advertising. That's bollocks, of course, but I am almost totally impervious to TV adverts. I had a stupid argument with my patronising bitch of a dentist, sorry, ex-dentist, who would not accept that TV anti-smoking ads are unlikely to make me give up smoking, seeing that I don't watch them. "Most people..." she said. "Fuck off I'm not 'most people' I didn't say. (She also told me that smoking will cause cavities, yeah, no doubt, and I bet I'm her only (ex-)patient without fillings - although I know that can't last for ever. And I asked her what elelments of diet contribute to healthy gums. A balanced diet, she replied. 'Fuck off you ignorant patronising bitch' I didn't say.)

I think it's fair to say that Nicola the humourless condescending bitch of a dentist is pretty high on my list of enemies. Oh why did the lovely lovely lovely Andy have to retire? It certainly wasn't on the money I paid him!

Smug and warm in the office

Well, warm is pushing it a bit, but a bit of foresight on my part last year and the parting with £60 saved me all sorts of discomfort.

Sure, I cursed myself on Friends' deadline day when, despite repeated attempts by my newsagent, the fax wouldn't go through, further attempts at work just met with an engaged tone, panic about a monthly unit meeting that was fortuitously delayed by an hour, and finally, ten minutes before the meeting kicked off, my fax went through.

Then, the agonising wait, the daily inspection of my bank balance, the panic when my employer 'forgot' to pay me - but remedied this on the Friday before Covent Garden processed my request on the Sunday...phew...but not after I had sunk into depression, hearing of various people who had already got, or not got, their tickets.

Then, on Tuesday 'public' booking opened, and led to quite a thread on rmo

So much for the Covent Garden online ticketing system. It crashed in an ugly
heap under the weight of demand the moment booking for Period 4 opened at 10:00, taking the entire ROH site with it. It is still inaccessible. Somebody needs to sign the capex for more capacity or rethink the whole thing...From fiasco to farce. Having finally struggled to its feet for a few minutes, the booking system allocated me excellent seats for Rigoletto, took my credit card details and then suffered a relapse in the middle of authorising the transaction. Needless to say, the site is once again completely inaccessible...After queuing for two hours under the colonnades in this cold weather, I gave up empty handed, as I had to go to work...Yeah, got there in the end. I think I'm going to need a new F5 key on my keyboard now though...You're lucky. I need a new LCD screen. Or at least I will do once I've removed the keyboard from it...

Or, as the Guardian put it

At the Royal Opera House, tickets were going on sale for Richard Wagner's The Valkyrie. This was a special event. Wagner is to opera lovers as Cliff Richard is to sexagenarian dinner ladies, and The Valkyrie is the poppiest of his many pop hits (his Saviour's Day, if you like - only five hours long, and with more incest). Add to this that the hero Siegmund is to be played by Placido Domingo, and you will understand: these tickets were hot...I was there at 6am. The box office opened at 10. There were people queueing before me. I had no thermals, but cut a dash with pyjama bottoms under my jeans and a borrowed Cossack hat. I am no wimp, and have been called brave by dentists, but it really was stark-bollock freezing...In conditions that would have Ranulph Fiennes screaming for nanny, a retired civil servant chatted amiably about Poulenc.

Like I care.

I've got a ticket for two different nights.

Count them. ONE. TWO.

Low key security

Yesterday I stood outside the building (still in Nibelheim) and glanced down the road. There seemed to be a couple of police vans parked outside Westminster Abbey. Must be something going on, I thought.

Didn't think anything more of it until I got home and watched the news. Turns out that Palestinians and Israelis are meeting at QEII together with Condoleezza Rice etc.

I was really surprised at how low key the security was, compared to, say, the State Visit of the President of South Korea.

March 1991

I was twenty-three

Preamble from Tuesday 26 Feb): Stef went into the room of one of the Senior Auditors, who dropped something on the floor (like he had a guilty conscience) & Stef couldn't help noticing what it was - a glossy magazine with pictures of fleshy women - absolutely no doubt that it was a girlie mag. And would you believe who the man in question was - it was Rob. I was really quite shocked when she told me, & so were the other people she told - Nikki, Gaby, Ruth and Helen. I mean, of all the people - if it was almost anyone else, but Robbie Reverend. Dreadful.

Another day. I really don't know how I managed to get through it. I had so little work to do - but I managed to pad it out. I was sitting in my room when Pat walked in, & wanted to know what had been going on Tuesday when he walked into the big room and Nikki and I fell about laughing. We had actually talking about Rob and the magazine, & had been commenting on the fact that if it had been Pat it wouldn't have been so bad, because he's so open about it anyway. Anyway, Pat wanted to know what we had been saying, so I said that we had just been talking about people in general. He then went on to say that maybe he was putting two and two together and making eight, but he knew that there was a story going round about Rob that was completely untrue and unfair.

And then at lunchtime, Gaby asked me about this, having been told by Stef, who was told by me. Gaby said that she and Pat have fallen out, because she brought the subject up with him, thinking that he had been the supplier, something that he denied, and proceeded to say that if we prevent somebody reading that sort of stuff in the office, it's a form of sexual harrassment. All I can say to that is, would Pat also say that if somebody or somebodies decided to bonk, if somebody objected would that also count as sexual harrassment.

At lunchtime we had a serious drinking session in the Aristocrat. Very pleasant - left the office at quarter past twelve, and it was nearly quarter past two when we returned to the office. I managed to survive until half past four, when I decided to call it a day, & went home.

I watched this morning's Westminster - most of it concentrating on the Gulf, but also talk about the economy, and speculation on a June election, but I would put my money on an October election, although, I also take the view that John Major and Chris Patten might be forced to call a June election - especially seeing as though the media will now have nothing to report on. I'm just trying to remember what sort of things used to make headlines before the Gulf crisis, and it's occasional interruptions such as a change of Prime Minister, an assassination attempt thereupon, and the snow and bomb attacks attempting to make British Rail even more awful. It shall be interesting.

I am now watching What The Papers Say, some wanker from the Sun talking about the 100 hours ground war. Would you believe it but Jean Rook in the Daily Mail has announced that Stormin' Norman Schwartzkopf is an international sex symbol, & how are the women of the world going to surrender him back to Mrs S.

Feeling really tired, I phoned Lucy up to say that I couldn't make it today & I have spent most of the day lazing around, reading the paper mainly. United have Webb, Bruce, Robins, Robson & Phelan injured; Darren Ferguson made his full debut, and Ryan Giggs is sub. They lost two-nil at home to Everton.

I watched the BBC Main News. Hint of a return to normality - they had a film report on both the Ribble Valley byelection, & ritual sex abuse in the Orkneys.

Coalition generals have met with Iraqui generals in the desert. Meanwhile Iran radio (remember Iran? It used to be a pariah state) has reported anti-Saddam protests in three cities, including Basra, Iraq's second city while there are rumours of a Moslem revolution. How long does he have?

Local audits begin again. Mixed feelings - was I or wasn't I looking forward to our visit to Felixstowe. Quite excited at the thought of actually having something to do, but could I cope with the stress of local audit work, and the inconvenience of being off base. Ally called for me at about ten to eight - I was far from ready, but there again, he had stipulated eight o'clock.

The journey to Felixstowe was far from exciting, but it was reasonable. We called off at Ipswich station, ostensibly to pick Mark up, but he didn't get off the train due in at half past nine, & the next was due in at half past ten, which was the time that we had said that we would be at Custom House, so we went off to Felixstowe. I was well impressed by Custom House: a spanking new building, opened, I thimk, in 1987. It is mainly glass & is in a shape reminiscent of a ship. It would look horrendous and arty farty in a town, but on the edge of a Dock Yard, it looked pretty good.

We went inside, & proceeded to spend the next two hours with the Assistant Collectors, two of them. I couldn't help feeling really that Mark (when he arrived) & I were surplus to requirements, it was really Ally, and, when he arrived, Roy from the Reading section who were asking all the important questions.

After lunch we went for a drive round the docks which was pretty good - seems to tbe the best bit of the audit - not very taxing at all. I was quite surprised to see quite how large Felixstowe Docks are - bigger than Liverpool or even Immingham - and just so full - like loads of ships and millions of containers.

We returned to the room in which we were based, & I spent the remainder of the afternoon reading through things. Then we went to the hotel - a little guest house more or less in the centre of Felixstowe. Mind you, having said that, it's not difficult to be in the centre of Felixstowe - it makes Douglas look exciting!

After an hour or so sorting oneself out - actually the room is pretty good. Not en suite, but there is a washbasin - always a good thing - we went out. Our first port of call was a pub called The Grosvenor just across the road from the Guest House. Unfortunately I was unable to drink due to the tablets that I am taking right now. We then went on to an Indian restaurant for a curry & then back to the pub, before heading back to the hotel.

And then I went to bed. Not realy a great deal to say about the day. Just another local audit. I'm pretty demotivated if the truth be told - I don't know the reason why, but I would suspect it's due to the fact that I'm only too aware that I might be moving off pretty soon - obviously it would be nice to know at some stage what lies in store for my future.

Another day on the audit. What is there to say really? No particular highlights of the day, although the evening was a little more exciting. We spent quite a long time in the pub before eating. We had a really decent conversation on a pretty good subject - starting off with the Battle of Agincourt, moving onto the relative merits of Heny VIII & Elizabeth I, and working through to 1688, the so called 'Glorious' Revolution, & whether it would be possible to have a Catholic Prime Minister.

We then hit the town & decided to go to a Greek restaurant - which was rather nice, I have to say. And the best thing was that there was a really dishy Greek waiter. He was absolutely gorgeous, and it was fun to ogle him for the duration of the evening - much to the amusement of the guys. It struck me as quite funny to have got all the way to Felixstowe and fallen in lust with a Greek waiter: obviously, I was fully aware that the minute I walked out of that restaurant I walked out of his life. And no doubt, every evening some woman goes into that restaurant, and falls for him. But as I say, it was fun. It was also quite amusing the way Ally was winding me up about reeling from the lips of the owner, an older man (60ish), who gave me a kiss on the cheek, into the arms of the young waiter who was holding out my coat, & according to Ally, I was hoping for a kiss from him (am I that transparent?)! After the meal we returned to the pub and talked about football.

Domingo's stellar voice near flawless

Says the Palm Beach Post

Placido Domingo opened his Palm Beach Opera gala program at the Kravis Center Sunday with a confession: Because he was suffering from a cold, he feared he would be having an off night.

A little more than two hours later, when he finished what well could have been the most resplendent evening of song this 12-year-old hall has witnessed to date, there was only one thought the capacity crowd could have had. Namely, can you imagine this guy when he's having an on night?...But his steely voice shows no sign of wear and tear...it seems only to gain depth and confidence.

Wed that to the singer's considerable charm - he cozies up to the audience like a refined version of Julio Iglesias - and you have yourself quite an act.

I don't suppose the Palm Beach Post probably gets out much, but still, this just makes me purrrrrrr in anticipation of Dublin, a week tomorrow...