Cheers, Dad!

Having been summoned to Sussex, I spent the evening with my mum, my first visit for 6 months (she has been regularly down our way) and a lovely time was had over a few G&Ts. I can't believe the wonderful job Network Rail has done on the lineside to get rid of the overgrowth (and consequent rats) at my request.

And I did all the jobs as asked, with the enthusiasm of the teenager I suspect she believes me to be. God does my back hurt now.
We laid (most of) my dad's ashes to rest today. Just my mum, my sisters, me and Hugh the retired vicar. A tiny hole in the ground in the lovely church yard in Ferring. I had the privilege of putting the box in the ground. The vicar said the words, tears were shed, cuddles, handshakes etc.


The rest of the ashes are going to the White Cliffs of Dover in June, so he can watch the ferries coming and going. Cheers Dad. Missing you. The pain will always be there.
For us, life goes on. Off to the pub for lunch, after the brief ceremony. My mother is starting to drive like an old lady: not only were we looking for a pub that didn't exist, but we managed to drive both ways down the A27 twice while looking for it, including doing a u-turn (legal, at a turn back point) which involved pulling out in front of speeding traffic. "No, mum!". "Christ". Much hooting, gesticulating, cutting in by aggrieved drivers. "What?" says mother. We nearly died.
Unbelievably, Bad Sister and I managed to polish off a whole bottle of gin that evening, in celebration, the first opportunity we have had to have a proper wake for dad. Needlesstosay the bottle didn't feature in mum's recycling bin, ahem.

Man About Town

I have a fur hat
It's called a Ushanka
I wear it round town
I look a bit of a ....Russian

International Financial Dealings

As is well known, My Boy is in Venezuela for a year, studying at the Uni (one of them, I dont know which).
Unfortunately, he forgot to tell his bank, which snatched his card in Caracas 6 months ago. By subterfuge and lying, I got him a new one, which I posted to him but of course it never arrived. (My experience of the Venezuelan postal system is that about 33% arrive, the rest are re-directed to a huge hole in the middle of the rainforest).
By further subterfuge and lying (they were beginning to get suspicious by now, especially when I accidentally substituted his sister's birth date for his, *scouse accent: "Is that Jxxxxxx's father?". "No!")I got him a second card but this time retained it and all access codes to his account, telephone or internet or otherwise. Which is lucky because the official exchange rate is appalling (you get an 8 times better rate for US dollars cash than you get from a cash machine), so if he cant use his card, he isnt pouring money down the drain (through no fault of his own).
He has been living by accumulating debt and by working 14 hours a day (teaching english, working at some grim US-sponsored so-called pro-democracy office, and going to uni in the evening).
So now when he needs money, I transfer money from his account to mine (because the bank isn't keen on doing international transfers online or on the phone), then wander down the bank and transfer money from my account to whichever account he owes money to, whether in Spain or the USA. It seems to work.
I am going to see him after Easter, and will be taking some cash.
Once in Venezuela, we are spending some time on the Caribbean coast, time in Caracas, maybe the rainforest and Orinoco River and then a week in Peru on the Inca trail to Machu Picchu. A colleague at work has done the Inca trail (but didnt carry her own stuff: she got Attitude Sickness, we are carrying our own and so may suffer from the other one). I may post some photos.

Professional Incest

My boss resigned 7 months ago. Only now is the Assistant Director looking at placing a job advert for him (and the other Planner who left around the same time). In the mean time, the ship has been meandering (slightly) under the joint leadership of myself and G. That hasn't stopped me winning £4,000,000 to improve a road junction, and to ensure transport schemes worth £5,000,000, through money already won, are constructed, to enable the Council to facilitate the building of 15,000 new houses. So my profile has risen somewhat.
So it was an honour to be asked by the Assistant Director if I would like to be on the interview panel for the 2 posts. Until I pointed out I might actually apply myself and I shouldn't really interview my prospective manager. Or myself. "Oh. That's a point. Full marks and interview points for integrity and initiative!". "Thanks, boss. There is also the point of who will be available for the traditional 'informal chat'?". That'll be me then. Gritted teeth and professionalism, will overcome my own vested interest. It's not right, but there aren't the staff or job knowledge to do otherwise. I think I need to raise my profile just a teeny bit more.

Party

I had a party last night. Most people came who said they would, and I have some lovely, generous, thoughtful friends (and you know who you are), and I am all the richer for knowing them.
Some people stayed a little longer than perhaps was sensible.

Parties cost loads to put on, but at least we wont have to shop this week, as long as we live off cheeses, wine, and salad. However, I draw the line at this

which will be despatched by works courier back to the person that brought them.

Five Fat, Short, Hairy, Mancunian, Ricky Gervase Lookalike, Musical Gnomes

Saw Elbow in Plymouth last night. They were wonderful. I would have put up a video, but Youtube are apparently arguing with the PRS, and Blogger unsurprisingly won't allow me to upload my appalling mobile phone video (*reminds oneself to hold the thing sideways in future to save turning my PC screen 90degrees).All you are going to get is thisTaking photos in a flashing light/heavy contrast/without a flash(cos I am good)/with a new mobile phone/wearing contacts so I can't read anything within 4 feet situation is not an ideal situation for taking concert photos or videos. Everyone was so polite! ("He was first" after waiting 10 minutes at the bar)and middle-aged and middle class.
The hotel M booked was 50 yards from the venue, and pretty smart (I have never stayed in a hotel after a gig before: always the long drive home; last train (last train Plymouth-Teignmouth 7.37pm); stay in a tent), and also 50 yards from the nearby Wetherspoons, where we got into conversation with A Scouser With A Job (inevitably an Evertonian), albeit 300 miles from his home and wife and child. A young man who worked hard with no resentment even when I remarked on the contrast between him and the boozing, drugtaking scousers who populate Torquay
And a first class FEB in the morning.
Arrived very late for work.
And then Management Meeting, which expands, as usual to 2 hours even there were only 6 items on the agenda (Including "3. No Senior Management Meeting this week")

50 Hats On

I was expecting a quiet night in, in preparation for Elbow (I was going to put a Youtube link here, but it all seems to have been messed with by the record company) at Plymouth Pavilions tomorrow night (M just booked the hotel next door today. What a girl!). Imagine my surprise when the doorbell rang and in walked friends bearing gifts of food and wine and sparkly. Then the doorbell went again and 2 more turned up, bearing similar gifts. I popped upstairs to wrestle with the computer and it all went quiet. Back they came carrying a rather nasty 70s duvet cover stuffed with stuff, and all wearing silly hats with numbers on. Oh what fun: 50 carrier bags, all with hand-written labels, and all containing a themed hand-built hat. It took an hour and a half to open every one. The results are on Facebook, but here is a selection.







The work that went into this is stunning, much better than an expensive gift (although an expensive gift would have done just as well). Also. I have no idea why they chose hats. I have been known to wear a dead badger, but this was just silly.
Go home, all of you!

Just Human

Well that's it. 49 years and 364 days and in a matter of hours I am leaving whatever could be described as "youth". I have seen new life, and death, in that time, and enjoyed and suffered whatever life dishes out. I am not sure when you reach the stage that is called "grown up" but it still isn't yet. I still hate going to work, having never discovered a vocation and I wish I had more time to discover the planet and to develop useful skills. I think I make a tolerable "husband", and father, and son, and I suppose that is all I should expect. I wont make my mark on the world that future generations will worship my shrine, but nor will anyone hate me. I have never knowingly extinguished a life (except for that cat I had to kill, quivering after a road crash, although countless insects have no doubt suffered my wrath, and I havent eaten dead animal for 25 years or more) and brought new life into the world.

I have knowledge and experience, but that is useful only to me. My great Aunt is 98 and blind and deaf and is unable to communicate anymore. So ends life, if we are lucky, and my lovely neice tells me I have another 50 years to go, which I dont think she meant in a nice way, little minx.
That's Rock and Roll

Decoration

Paris has whole areas devoted to one product. North of the Boulevard St Germain are whole streets devoted to antique shops, for instance. How they make money, I know not how. One shop we found was devoted entirely to teapots

Other people specialise in graffitiing their own houses (how else would you get up there?)


Or vehicles

I suppose it makes people happy
Of course, other decorations enhance the city in a more conventional way.

Enough, already. Amazing what you can do by putting a decent camera in front of an idiot.

Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover

A long time ago, a relationship was turning sour. One adult in the relationship decided that her daughter's bad behaviour merited the continual getting at of her step daughter, the child of the other adult. Things became so bad that physical violence began occurring between the daughter and the parent, and between the two adults in the relationship. One of the adults remembers a sore and bruised chin after a right hook. The other, possibly relieved at not being strangled.
Completely unrelatedly, one of the adults thought it would be a good idea to attend a demonstration against world poverty in Cologne, at a meeting of world leaders. The place on the coach was obtained, with the active encouragement of the other adult, and the hotel booked. Unfortunately, even as that person departed for the motorway service area to catch the coach, late at night, another row was started between remaining adult and step daughter (this was nearly before mobiles, so this was only established by a late night phone call from a phone box).
When, after the demonstration, 3 days later, the adult returned from foreign parts, it was to discover a house emptied of furniture, occupied only by a daughter, a small son, and a sister of the returnee. Even the mattress on the parental bed was gone, and the sitting material was an old sofa retrieved from the cellar.
The returning adult was shocked beyond belief, especially when it was discovered that so-called friends had helped remove the furniture under the distressed gaze of 2 young children. And of course, emails followed asking for stuff that had been "forgotten".
Obviously, I kept the house which is still worth more than the furniture. The children are adult, and I have no idea where my step daughter or her mother are.

South Side

Paris, south of the river, is a largely tourist free area, the main attractions being between the river and Boulevard St Germain, or to the north. We stayed on the south side for the 3rd time in a row and I would recommend it. There are little secrets here, like Rue Mouffetard and the Butte aux Cailles, even a much altered Roman Amphitheatre.
Of course, one has to see the north side

and see the seedy attractions around Pigalle

But where else in the world would you see a huge tree growing eight floors up?
(Place d'Italie)
I carried out an experiment with the loos:204 metres up,

and 110 metres up.

Imagine that hitting the sewer!