Gertsamtkunstwerk

When did your love for opera start ?

a) Before I was born
b) when I was small
c) when I fell in lust with an opera singer on the Parkinson show
d) Three Tenors concert 1990

No, Zoe, you got it all wrong. I don't love opera, I just go for the stalking...!

My father was very into opera, and my parents' first date was a trip to Rosenkavalier when the Royal Opera was on tour in Manchester about ten years before I was born.

We didn't have telly when I was little; we had radio, and the radio was often on, on Radio 3, as I sat immobile and engossed in my books as a small child.

Then we got telly and one Christmas just before I became a teenager (but was most definitely a teenager in moodiness!) I was forced to watch telly en famille. Crappy middle-England middle-class middle-age light entertainment telly. Parkinson. None of the guests was interesting. I'm not sure I'd even heard of them. Time to go to my room. But oh no, it's Christmas, let's play happy families zombied out in front of the TV. The TV that for all the rest of the year - Songs of Praise excepted - was a Bad Thing. But because we were playing Happy Families, I had to watch 'some boring opera singer' on Parkinson.

Almost thirteen, bursting with hormones, vulnerable to teenage crushes.

"Cor, he's a bit fit!" I thought. Then he sang. That was it. Love at first sight. And I insisted on watching him in Les Contes D'Hoffman a few days later on BBC2.

But you have to remember that in the Eighties, and even into the Nineties, records and then CDs cost a fortune. Probably more, in cash terms, than they do nowadays. Only four TV channels, no video (until 1990). It's hard to maintain a crush when the crush object is only on TV once or twice a year, when recordings are beyond the reach of pocket money or student grant. It's hard to be an opera fan in Manchester (in those days: it's improved with the opening of the Lowry Centre at Salford Quays). My mate did Music A-Level, and commented that it's all very well studying opera in a dry academic way, but not much use when you don't have the records at home because you can't afford them.

And then there's time. When you work full-time and combine it first with studying for a professional qualification and then with being a Lambeth councillor. And when you work for an employer that expects you to drop everything to go off on a week's audit at little notice. And money. When you are constantly in debt thanks to the 29.5% interest imposed on "Graduation Loans" - £150 a month to pay back my loan, when my starting salary in 1989 was £9,250. When your disposable income is spent on meeting up with friends - before they had babies or moved to far-flung places. When you really don't feel comfortable going places alone, and it's impossible to organise friends to do stuff, other than meet up for drinks or come round for dinner. And when the lazy media portray opera as expensive. But I retained my adoration for that gorgeous singer I had first encountered on Parkinson in December 1980, even though, inevitably, over time, one's fervour rises and falls.

I did start collecting operatic CDs and the occasional video in the early 90s, but the bulk of my collection was compilations and highlights. Being a councillor, as well as a full time accountant, left little headspace for intellectual pursuits. More soap opera than opera. Then I consciously downsized my lifestyle, which made me happier (Eight years on I no longer wake up in a cold sweat from bad dreams of the NAO. Woot! Yay!). Happier and less stressed but considerably poorer. And I actually went about two years when I barely played any music at all. Except compilations, classical and pop, possibly because they required little thought.

Then one day, I had had a bit of a bad morning at work. nothing major, but I decided I needed "Retail therapy". Only, I took myself off to WH Smith in Victoria Station instead and miserably perused their dismal collection of CDs for sale. Just one leapt off the shelf and demanded I took it home.

And I kept listening to it over and again, and realising how much I loved his voice. And I realised I needed a) digital TV (mainly for Artsworld) and b) a DVD player. I then realised that it's not so difficult to get tickets for Covent Garden (especially after they went online in 2003). And that tickets are not expensive, not if you've got some disposable income

But the only reason I love opera is because I have been consumed by lust for Plácido Domingo for twenty five years. And I discovered that by writing frequently about him on this blog, I get a great many visitors from all over the world who check back regularly, so I feel obliged (a very pleasant obligation) to continue writing about him. And the only reason I went to see him seven times, and assiduously stalked him, was for the blog. Honest.

Q from Zed

Are there any tenors you wouldn't stalk?

Andrea Senzatalento, obviously, even though he is the World's Greatest Tenor - incidentally, ignore the review that says

I wasn't sure at first if I was going to like Andrea Bocelli's voice - because I really love classical music and so many people say he isnt a "proper" opera singer. But my friend Steve from Essex is a big fan and kept telling me how I should listen to some of his albums, especially the Verdi arias one. I'm so glad that I followed his advice because since I discovered Andrea then my life hasn't been the same. Mr Bocelli is truly the greatest tenor alive today and sings with such passion and flawless technique that it brings tears to my eyes, especially his beautiful high notes. He really reminds me of a younger version of Placido Domingo and I just wish he would sing more opera. Viva Bocelli !

- it was written by a mad Essex woman...I did try and correct this appalling review, but for some reason - perhaps my total drunkennness - Amazon rejected all five of my reviews under five different aliases. Nor would I stalk Russell Evenlesstalentoson

And stalking isn't just about tenors. Baritones also sing...(Mr Finley, you will be in my sights on Tuesday and Thursday). And there is the problem of tenors moving into the baritone repertoire. But sadly, not as Don Giovanni* And there was my rash promise to ask soprano Angela Gheorghiu for a kiss...my deadline approaches tomorrow. I don't think my tongues-with-Warbling-Barbie will ever have the opportunity to come to fruition.

Actually, my record of tenor-stalking isn't very impressive. I only started less than a year ago, and so far I have notched up Plácido, Rolando, and the-jury-is-still-out-on-Vittorio-Grigolo. Maybe I'll do Marcelo Alvarez tomorrow, but I don't want Jimmy throwing another hissy fit after self-banishment to pub... And I've got Juan Diego Florez lined up for next month, and Jonas Kaufmann in December...if he doesn't cancel on me, again. I'm actually more prolific with baritones. But, on the whole, they're simply not as sexy as tenors.

The only trouble with hanging out groupie-like outside the Stage Door is the other Groupies. Most are perfectly fine, and I am sure that most of the rest who show scary-stalker-signs are only projecting one tiny aspect of their characters. And it's wrong to judge on superficial fleeting impressions. And who am I to judge, anyway? But I do worry about the people who insist on telling their entire life-story to the stars - as if they give a shit. A star appearing at a Stage Door is basically another aspect of performance. Although I am sure that many enjoy the adrenaline of adoration, and I know that many seem sincere in their warmth and friendliness, and Dmitri Hvorostovsky is sincere, at the end of the day, it's just another city, another set of fans; at midnight we go back home and they go back to their hotels, or home. I'm sure fans only matter to stars in the general and aggregate, not as individuals. And it would be very scary were it otherwise. It's showbiz.

Thanks Scary

*In Italia seicento e quaranta;
In Almagna duecento e trentuna;
Cento in Francia, in Turchia novantuna;
Ma in Ispagna son gia' mille e tre.

The Aardvark. Why?

I could write something grave and political but that would be straying well into P45 country.

I'm not sure I would recognise an aardvark if I saw one on Brixton High Street*. But Google has 30,700 images, so I imagine that's where they all hide.

I think the aardvark exists purely as an alphabetical convenience. It's the first real word in my dictionary...in checking that I managed to knock over Fowler which knocked the speaker off the desk. There could have been a tale of woe involving coffee and electricity. But there wasn't.

I campaigned in a Local Election in 1986. It was both a routine once-every-four-years and a by-election, in one of the most interesting wards in the country (it tends to dictate control of Trafford Council, if the Tories can't control Trafford Council, they're in deep shit). We won one, and took minority control of the council, but in failing to win the second we failed to take overall control. Psephological analysis showed the tendency of voters to pick candidates higher up the list alphabetically** Jim M was not happy, and decided to change his name by deed poll to Seamus Aardvark...the Seamus would capitalise on the Catholic vote.

It almost always holds true, that alphabetical thing (unless your name happens to be Abu-Bakr or Anyanwu, as we discovered in Lambeth in 1994). Undeterred the next by-election was successfully won by Messrs Abu-Bakr and Adams. Being Curtis, I thought I would benefit from the alphabetical effect. My opponents included Baker, Baron, Binder. One running mate was Cattermole. Heck, I still polled the second highest number of votes in the entire Borough. Donkey in a red rosette, you see.

D'you think they'd vote for an aardvark in a red rosette?

What brought this on? - thanks Damian

*I'm not sure where Brixton High street is. It's an expression beloved by the meejah, but not by any cartographers. I expect they mean Brixton Road. But too prosaic for a sensationalist web of lies

** Electoral Reform - list candidates in random, not alphabetical, order?

Boredom, questions

I've done this before when in need of intellectual stimulation. Asked you to ask me questions.

This time it's different

Rather than spreading it out over weeks it's gonna happen tomorrow, Friday.

One question each. I'm not limiting thenumber of people, but but the lower down the queue the smaller the chance of being answered.

They can be quite personal. But bear in mind that people I know in RL read this...

My earliest memory

Misty asks what my earliest memory is.

Simple!

Or is it?

I think I was in my teens when I realised that most of my clearest early memories are ones captured by photographs, typically of holidays, days out and family gatherings. I suspect that these photos are a key to how memory works - by looking again and again at the photos, they reinforce a memory which, due to the superficial nature, would otherwise be eroded. No doubt neurologists, psychiatrists and maybe even psychologists would be able to talk at length about hard wiring.

Most of the rest of my memories are of trivial events, usually that took place in very familiar surroundings. I have no memories of my grandmother, who died when I was two, but I do remember going round to my Grandad's, before he moved on remarriage when I was four. I recall asking "Any Mm-mms?" which was the code my parents used for sweets, not imagining, of course, I would associate it with sweets. And, of course, Grandad was a little bit more forthcoming with sweets than the parents were.

I have some haphazard early memories - being in the bath with my rubber tortoise; one Christmas it was very snowy on the way to Church so my sister was put into my pram - I must have been very young, because she's three-and-a-half years older than me. I remember the road where we lived being resurfaced. This might have been in the Sixties, and I don't think it's been done since. ButI have loved the smell of asphalt ever since. I remember when the gas fire was fitted in the sitting room (although bizarrely, I don't actually remember there being a coal fire there); this sticks in my mind because one of the fitters was black, and I had never seen a black person before, certainly not close to, so I wanted to touch his hand, and I remember him being very patient and charming.

I remember a bird in my bedroom which really scared me, so I spent the night in my parents bed. I've never really liked birds indoors since.

I suspect that these all occurred before the age of four - I have much clearer memories from then on. I do distinctly remember cutting the hair on my sister's dolls (okay, I'll admit - but she does have a bit of a chip on her shoulder about it); that must have been after I was four because it was inspired by a doll I got for my fourth birthday whose hair is adjustable by a belly button and a screw in her back. I think the crayoned ticks in the Ladybird books just appeared as if by magic...

I don't recall out of the backdoor onto the concrete step but I do have the scar on my chin to prove it.

I was undoubtedly a very sweet, very loveable toddler...

Photos

Mr D asks: Of all the photos you've taken, Gert, which one gives you most pleasure to look at again and again?

It's a difficult one! What are photos for ? Are they bring back memories? To document an event? Artistic expression?

And memories! If you want to remember a person is it better to have a portrait shot of them or a photo of somewhere you went together and contains pleasant memories?

Two of my favourite photos I do not possess in hard form, only on a video tape that my brother-in-law spent hours compiling of childhood photos, which was a brilliant thing to do. I'm still waiting for him to repeat the exercise with scanner and PC...

One is of a sailing dinghy off Aberystwyth in 1974, the first 'proper' photo I actually took, when, although I did not know the language, I knew it was important to frame the shot correctly. I even rested the camera on the wall because it was too heavy for my six-year-old hands.

Another photo dates from 1977 and is a shot of Lincoln Cathedral taken from the castle. My father took it, but under strict and precise instructions from me  - I think he was concerned I might drop the camera over the parapet. Me? Little brother, possibly, camera never!

My back room, where I sit now, is full of photos of people. Dominating are photos of No 1 Nephew and Favourite Niece. Lack of photos of Younger Nephew must be remedied forthwith, but are an unintended consequence of him being a product of the 21st Century. In the 1990s people used to post photos through the Royal Mail. This just doesn't happen nowadays. Photos are sent more frequently, but digitally, and there isn't the imperative to print them off, because they are stored for all eternity on PC.

There is also a photo I took of my father at Christmas 1987, not long before he died, and it's a photo I especially like. Very personal reasons, of course.

Throughout my adult life I have taken all sorts of photos of all sorts of people and places. I particularly like half a dozen or so of the fifty plus I shot on film of Niagara Falls (imagine if I went there with a digi camera!). I do like looking back at pictures of people, although it always intrigues me that so many of us - and this  has been the case for a century and a half - only take pictures of the good times, the smiles, the jolliness, so we and posterity remember people like that. We don't record the misery, the pain, the anger. Which, perhaps, is no bad thing, but does not give an accurate portrayal of life.

One of my most favourite pictures taken on film does not come out well when scanned

                                                                     

The simple answer is I don't really know. Just looking at my photoblog, which only covers photos taken since March 2001, there are photos I like because of the memories of a holiday. There are photos I like because I made the mundane interesting. There are photos I like because I got lucky.

I can't really answer, which is why I'm going through slowly and highlighting a selection of favourites. As it happens, this photo below has particularly appealed to me recently, and it's chronologically due to be highlighted. This was taken on the footferry between Harwich and Shotley.

What the Sun said...

asks Scaryduck

...I really can't remember, because I was boycotting Murdoch newspapers at the time, so couldn't bring myself to buy a copy for the archives. Various copies were pinned up on the JCR door, in the bar - a Willobite and an ex-Willobite being slagged off in a Sun editorial! Didn't happen every day in Willoughby Hall. In fact, it only happened once in my entire time at Nott'm.

It was something about "irresponsibility" and how, unlike those Nottingham University students, Mr Powell was in favour of free speech. They also accused us of setting off the fire alarms as well as shouting; it's only just occurred to me that, as well as not being true, it was logistically unfeasible.

It was a big day on campus. Perhaps the biggest ever. But, rather than try to rely on memory of half a lifetime ago, I have gone back to the Paper Diary of the time. November 1986

Me in November 1986

For a few days I was very famous, and  for the remainder of my University career I had a residual fame, and did not need to prove my credentials - which was not altogether a good thing...

And yet, the next week, it was the great Willoughby Food Poisoning and your intrepid Campus Reporter was reduced to phoning the Health Centre to determine how many had been kept in overnight.

Operaphile

Clair asks What is it about opera that you love so much? and Mike asks I can't get beyond those ridiculous artificial warbly voices. (To my mind, at least.) Assuming there is one (and I understand from yours and many other people's reactions that there must be), how do you begin to access the emotional dimension?

(And it's not too late to ask your own question)

General observations. I think that music is something intrinsic to all human beings. No, that's wrong, it's not what I think, it's something that has been demonstrated over and over again, by studying primitive tribes and new-born/unborn babies. More so than words, more so than visual stimulus, second only to touch.

I'm also making the assumption that people who read this blog are into a diversity of Arts - I know Mike's a bit of a Drama Queen, for example. I'm assuming that most people listen to art music, or read literature, or appreciate Fine Art, or enjoy drama over-and-above TV soaps. The extent to which they actively enjoy is a product of time, money, arse-into-gear round tuit  as much as rational thought.

I will also add that, with so many interests in life, there's a virtuous circle. If you like something and take some time to find out more, it enhances the enjoyment, which drives you to find out more. I  sometimes wonder why I don't make much of an effort to go to straight plays or ballets, and usually get bored very quickly in Art Galleries. I also think, with a lot of things, we may not be into them because we haven't been exposed to them at a time when we might be the most receptive to new influences. I'm thinking mainly of childhood, but also in adulthood, there are times - start or end of a relationship, times when we are disillusioned with life etc when we are open to new experiences. Most of the rest of the time we plod on with the familiar.

Questions

I did this back in July 2003 which is a very long time ago. I asked people to leave me questions in my comments box. I'd like you to do the same again...

I would prefer the questions to be ones that I can actually answer, and , preferably, about me. You can be as personal, nosey and intimate as you like, although I won't guarantee that I will give a detailed, candid answer to very intimate question. But I won't lie.

I shall answer them gradually over the next few weeks. No limit to the number of questions any person can ask, although if someone poses twenty they're likely to get shorter answers than someone who asks just one.

And no limit to the number of people who can ask questions, although tail-enders might not get an answer, or might have to wait a while.

I won't answer the question "What is your opinion of me?"

General Knowledge Quiz

Ask me a General Knowledge question - and I mean General Knowledge, not A-Level Quantum Mechanics.

I promise there will be no use of search engines or reference books or materials. (Or if I do, for the sake of completeness I'll be honest and state clearly I didn't know and I resorted to Google)

It's not to prove to you that I know stuff, but to test myself and find out what other people regard as General Knowledge.

(Don't forget - in an attempt to block stomach-churningly violent and illegal spam I now approve comments before they are published, but for the time being the longest delay will be overnight).

My favourite things

Jon asks

"What's your most precious possession? The single possession that would be the last thing you would sell when you were down to your last penny?

Another question that seems simple, but is actually very difficult. It's different from the 'what would you save in a fire?' because the stock answers, and ones I would probably give, are my photograph collection and Albert my teddy bear. Neither of which has any market value.

I think I would sell my body before I sold material possessions. The thought did cross my mind once when the bills were piling up, but I figured I wouldn't get a decent price for it. Besides, if I was that desperate, but also physically okay, I could get a job, any job, to keep the wolf from the door.

I'm also tempted to say 'my soul' but being abstract, I couldn't actually sell it. Besides, I have a list of blogreaders who would contend I already have!

Best years of our lives (makes me wanna dance)

Karen asks:

Which has been the best year of your life so far?

I went through every year of my life. Obviously, I can't remember 1968 and 1969 (as they say, if you can remember the Sixties, you weren't there). I suppose up until 1974 all years were good years because my greatest problem in life was people who insisted on reading their reading books out loud. Then I learnt to be embarrassed and that changed my life.

Schooldays are supposed to be the best days of your life. I don't really buy that. It' easy to look back and remember only the good times - those long summer holidays when the sun always shone, the days when pop music was listenable-to, and there were no problems.

It's easy to forget the more difficult times because they seem trivial now. How easily small children 'break friends' with someone because they don't have the ability to put a small disagreement into perspective. It's easy to forget all the things that I didn't do, and wanted to, because I lacked defiance. My teenage ambitions included to be a lawyer, or to be a journalist. I didn't pursue the former because said it was boring, the latter because people said you would have to produce an amazing portfolio even to get noticed. Perhaps I never really wanted them.

I remember the anx and pain of falling in love for the first time. I was too embarrassed to be forward, I didn't even know what words to use. I didn't know how to flirt, how to sound him out. He was even shyer and more inexperienced than me. And it hurt like hell when I thought he wasn't noticing. Took me a long time to grow out of that.

Mr Barlow nearly got away with it

Long long time ago (I can still remember...) I asked you to ask me questions. I answered some of them. Then I went on holiday.

I have spent the best part of two months trying to come up with answers of any sort to those posed by Nick. He actually set these at 2:05 am and, therefore, I would like to blame alcohol. But I know that Nick works nightshifts.

What's the answer to this question?

Thankfully, I remembered the tagline to Trish's comment box, googled and found:

A good question is never answered. It is not a bolt to be tightened into place but a seed to be planted and to bear more seed toward the hope of greening the landscape of idea.

by someone called John Anthony Ciardi, who has come up with some other phrases worth spending a moment or two contemplating.

And, the old favourite: what's the difference between a duck?

I don't understand the question, so, again, I googled, and found plenty of pages that came up with nonsensical answers to a nonsensical question. However, I also found a page of corny duck jokes, which I enjoyed.

The next two questions are far more sensible, and I shall spend the rest of the day crafting answers.

String, stones, scared, trees and blackberries

Richard asks the following.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fish

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pink is my colour

Daisy says "A girlie one from me - where did you get that lovely pink dress, did you buy it for a special occasion and if so, did you enjoy wearing it."

Gratuitous picture

I have to admit it's an M&S special. I basically haven't bought a summer dress for four years and I was conscious that my wardrobe for hot days and meetings was limited to one suit and a few casual t shirts. So I went on a splurge.  However, I am not sure that this dress is entirely suitable for work. Possibly for a day in my own office but not visiting Deputy Directors etc! I have only warn it a couple of times. There will be more.

Potted CV

Alan (No blog, it seems) asks "Should I Stay or Should I Go?" To which I reply 'Huh!'

My period of unemployment/depression taught me a few things. I had hated my prevlous job, working as an Accountant in Social Services in an Inner London Royal Borough. I was bored stupid within six weeks. That should have been the time to go. Instead, I stayed.

Pollyanna can now look back and see it as a positive experience. Mike was one of the very best managers I have ever had. Perhaps his only failing was not to suggest earlier to me that I would be better off elsewhere. Ian turned me from a very good Excel user to an excellent Advanced user. Fiona and Matt were two of the nicest colleagues and soul mates ever, and never made the mistake of assuming that a work friendship should extend outside work.

I was seriously considering packing in accountancy. But bills have to be paid and Pollyanna has to eat, drink and smoke. Fortunately, a job came along that was quite possibly the most enjoyable I have ever had. It was, also, the lowest paid audit job, and insecure. So I moved to my current job.

The questions series - so far. Most of the questions

Queen Pollyanna

Mike asks "Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?"

I'm tempted to say

Caught in a landslide no escape from reality.
Open your eyes, look up to the skies and see
I'm just a poor boy I need no sympathy
Because I'm easy come easy go little high little low
Every way the wind blows doesn't really matter to me.

But that would be just silly.

Sometimes, I wonder, though, if, rather than calling myself Gert I should call myself Pollyanna. Life just does not get me down. Oh sure, I rant and rave about the minor annoyances in life. But for the big things, nah: Sunny, that's me. Life is just groovy. Aren't I just the lucky person? All the bad things out there are vastly exaggerated. Besides, they won't happen to me.

At the turn of the millennium,I was told a week before Christmas that my 6-9 month contract was finished after 6 months. It's really quite difficult to find a new job over Christmas and into January. Doubly so if you don't bother. Never mind the bouncing Direct Debits. Never mind the piling up unopened sinister looking envelopes. Roll up cigarettes are the biz. Spend all day on the internet. Never mind the pay-by-minute.

Of course, in retrospect, I realised I was depressed. Couldn't recognise it. Wouldn't admit it. It's more fun to spend one's time writing crap fiction than job hunting.

Responsibility of Knowledge

Vaughan asks "Why? And if not, why not?"

Which I think is a very good question. One that we should ask ourselves each time we embark on a significant action. By significant I don't mean brushing my teeth, but I do mean anything that may impact upon my life. We do it quickly and instinctively, without articulation, before crossing the road.

Even as I sat down to write this, I wondered whether I should. The answer to 'why' is because I want to. The answer to why not is because there are dishes waiting to be washed.

Even so, the dilemma of 'to blog' or 'to dishwash' is trivia beside the great moral issues. Very few moral decisions are clear-cut, so every action we take - or don't take - should be supported by a questioning of "Why? And if not, why not?"

I will confess to a little naiveté abut the 'rules' regarding whether Civil Servants should talk to the Press. The written rules are clear - no, not unless you are from Press Office or otherwise authorised.

A few months back an article appeared in the Times regarding the culling of Senior Civil Service from my Department. A dozen or so cullees had, in their disgruntlement, leaked to the Press. Only reading commentary recently has it become clear to me that it is routine for Senior Civil Servants to talk unattributably, or 'off the record' to journos. If I did it I would be ritually slaughtered.

I have often wondered what would happen if I came across something in my work that was going wrong, yet people senior to me were determined to carry on regardless. Going to the Press is a very last resort. In retrospect, there were times, over BSE and Flood Defence, where I thought "Funny, that makes no sense". My inexperience made me think that it was just me that hadn't got it. Years later, I was proved right not to have 'got it'. I should have raised the alert with my immediate management. Unfortunately, I think their incapacity to think laterally would have led them to shoo me away - a trainee questioning fundamental issues is inconvenient to a smooth audit.

I should then have escalated it to Senior Management. That is easier nowadays with the introduction of formal whistleblowing policies. I have never used those whistleblowing channels - it's easier to shrug, moan about incompetence and hope we'll muddle through. At every turn the question is "Where's your evidence?"

Another outlet is one's Constituency MP, or the chair, or a member of the Select Committee for the policy area. If you approach them, you are absolved of responsibility and you have taken it to an appropriate source. They may decide to talk to the Press. Not my problem, not my responsibility.

But if they choose to ignore it, what then? If your immediate management, their management, the organisation's senior management, your constituency MP, the Chair of the Select Committee, all dismiss your concerns, what are you supposed to think? Are they all involved in a conspiracy to cover up? Or have they all used their judgement, borne out of more experience than you, that it really is a big fuss about nothing. Perhaps I would get paranoid. At the very least I would question my own judgement. Maybe I'm the obsessive with green ink. Maybe I'm missing the point that this is normal. But if it's normal, is it acceptable? Suppose I am actually the expert on that subject, that my job is to provide quality advice to ministers on that subject. I provide the advice, but they ignore me.

Surely I then have a moral duty to speak to the Press. Even though, if found out, I'm sacked.

Socks

Graybo asks the impossible:

"Where do odd socks go?
Why do I only get holes in my left sock?
How do I know my left socks from my right ones?
Who is this superhero?"

If I knew the answer to the first one I wouldn't have an artistic clump of socks in my drawer made up of five odd socks. Furthermore, if I buy, say three three-packs, nine pairs in all, with three different designs, how come I lose one from each design, rather than one each from two pairs in a design?

If you have to go into contortions like me to reach your toenails to clip them you will find that one big toe nail (or, in my case second toe, because my second toe is bigger than my big toe) gets trimmed more than the other, meaning it is more likely to get holes in. But you probably don't have to go into contortions because you don't have large boobs. Have you any idea how difficult it is to cut toenails with large boobs?

You know it's your left sock because it has holes in it.

Every time I secretly hoped it would be Henry the Mild Mannered Janitor. Each time it turned out to be Hong Kong Phooey.

It's not too late to ask a question. I'm leaving it open until I feel overwhelmed!

Fluff

Lori says:
Here are some light and fluffy questions for you:

I say - I was looking for fluff, not existentialism (my word of the week)

"What's your favourite film of all time and why?"

I find it difficult to choose between TheSound of Music, The Unbearable Lightness of Being and The Shawshank Redemption - trailer

Each of them is very different. I watched the first as a child, the second when embarked on womanhood, and the third only a couple of years back. One is full of happy happy songs and chaste love scenes, and great scenery. Two is dark and stunningly erotic - I had a big thing about Daniel Day-Lewis at the time and would have had about Juliette Binoche if I had been inclined. The third is set in that most ghastly of institutes, a US prison in the 40s-60s.

What they all share is a triumph of the human spirit in adversity.

The second time I saw The Shawshank Redemption was on a flight. At the breathtakingly beautiful scene with Andy playing the Mozart record, I felt a tension in the plane. There were 12 channels to choose from, but a critical mass was watching that. Palpable.

Jimmy wasn't. He explained 'I never watch a film twice and I refuse to see that four times.'

"Does anything really scare you?" There's nothing that I have an unmanageable phobia about, although plenty of things I'm not keen on - birds indoors, dogs etc. I live in an urban area with a problem with street crime. I walk round with over £1000 of geek gadgetry and jewellery, and sometimes I get sick with fear of being mugged. Even popping out to Happy Shopper for a pint of milk and a packet of fags can send paroxysms of fear coursing through my veins. I rationalise it as similar to the fear of going on a roller coaster. The darkness of the countryside would scare me, too.

My most scary experience, ever, was when I thought our plane was beinghijacked.

"What is your ideal holiday location?"

Somewhere with a variety of good food and wine available. Sea I can swim in. Interesting sites. Although I have been to the States (twice) Egypt, and Cuba, the one that meets the above criteria best was Mojacar in Spain last year, but, pleasant though it was, it lacked a certain je ne sais quoi. Probably overall, I would rate Egypt this year because of the overall combination of so many factors. Ultimately, anywhere with Jimmy. The two countries I would most like to visit are South Africa and Chile, a somewhat ironic change from the boycotting days of my youth.

"Marmite or peanut butter?"

True confession time. Soon after my father died, my mother and I guiltily, but with relief, threw the peanut butter jars out of the kitchen cupboard. We missed him dearly, still do, but the peanut butter.had.to.go.

Marmite. Mmmmmmmmm.

Blogging and meaning

Gordon asks: "Is the meaning of life, really 42?"

I know that the concept comes from Hitchhikers Guide To the Galaxy. I also know that there is supposedly a formula that proves it. No doubt, this will get me thrown out of the Blog Gang, but I never saw the need to 'get' H2G2 when I were lass, and I don't see the need now.

A Darwinian view would be that the meaning of life is to sustain and reproduce the species. The Christian view would be to prepare for one's life in heaven. Although I don't entirely reject either ideology, I think there's more to it.

"Why do you blog?" Having started, on impulse, and continued, because of a month's sick leave, it's a little like asking "Why do you watch TV?"

The simple answer is that I've always written, and blogging is the first real chance I have had to write for public consumption. Every participatory comment left is a small stroke to my self esteem, and proof that I am not alone.

Sometimes it's a chance to work through issues and get advice or a virtual hug; other times it allows me to express a thought.

I couldn't just blogwrite without the complementary blog reading. I read about other people's lives, which are sometimes entertaining, sometimes a reminder to me that I'm lucky. I begin to understand people and I learn more about myself.

Blogging is like a giant bulletin board, but I have a chance to control it. It's like twenty conversations going on at the same time. It parallels real life where I'm having different conversations with different people. It's not a substitute for Real Life, but, in my opinion, the friendships I have with bloggers are no less valid than the ones I have had with colleagues, comrades and neighbours over the years.

Perhaps, blogging really is the meaning of life. As the byline of the currently hiaiting Not So Soft says - Life Unfolding.

It's not too late to ask a question. I'm leaving it open until until I feel overwhelmed!

Hot and sultry

Zoe asks "will the warm weather come back again or is summer over ?"

Summer officially ends around September 23. The five day forecast for London suggests that the weekend will be a scorcher and even hotter in Brussels. I jolly well hope that his is the pattern for the summer, considering that I'm holidaying in Northern Europe.

However, with plenty of evidence of Global Warming, there is a chance that I could one day be living at the top of a perma-piste.

Put very simply, because that's all I understand, the raising of temperatures at the North Pole will make ice caps melt and float into the Gulf Stream, which, instead of heating Britain, will make it bluddy cold.

(Remember, in North American terms, the British Isles has the latitude that lies between Seattle and Anchorage).

Wee sma' hours

Ken asks: "What on earth were you doing awake and computering at 2.21am?"

I had already been to bed and found it impossible to sleep, despite having the sash window entirely open. I am not known for insomnia. High coffee intake aside, I normally fall asleep within minutes of turning the light off, and have been known to sleep through thunder storms (window open) and burglary.

The London Sleep Clinic has had a massive increase in enquiries this week, according to the BBC Regional News programme last night.

Living in a temperate Northern European climate we are not geared up to extremes of temperature. When my Aunt lived on Long Island, NY, she would change her curtains according to the seasons. Many of her friends had carpets they would take up in the summer and lay down in the winter. I know of no air-conditioned house or flat in England. Long time residents of this isle, such as myself, lack the capability to adjust our pace to hot weather. The urban heat is especially oppressive - I know our Moroccan cleaners and some Caribbean-born people are finding it way too hot.

Questions

You could help me solve my writer's block. Leave a question in the comments box, and I shall endeavour to answer it.