I need it

Conversation in the back of my car tonight.

“Hannah, do you know what I’m saving up for?”

“No, what?”

“An Xbox 360”

At this point I interject “Why on earth do you want an Xbox 360?  You’ve got a Wii and a DSi.  When would you play with an Xbox 360?”

“It would stop the other boys picking on me for not having an Xbox 360” and at this I shut up, but am saved by Hannah.

“You just need to ignore those people Ethan” and Hannah went on to demonstrate a wonderful understanding of how to deal with bullies.  And then she went all philosophical.

“And anyway, you don’t need an Xbox 360 you just want an Xbox 360.  There’s a difference between things you need and things you want.”

They then devised a game in which I suggested something and they said whether it was a need or a want.  Here are some of the results:

• Kitten: want
• Lawnmower: want
• Shoes: want
• Glasses: need
• Pants: need
• Haircut: want

I disagreed with lawnmower and shoes. 

The children argued we could just let the grass grow but I said that would make the lawn unusable as a lawn.  Hannah then said “Well you could use scissors” so my very adult response was “Well then you’d need scissors!”

The argument against shoes was that you could use flip flops.  I said that might not be great if it was snowing and they conceded that shoes were a need.  Frankly I thought they could have progressed the want argument by suggesting that flip flops and wellies could serve all footwear needs but as I’d won the argument I didn’t push it further.

The whole discussion was quite reassuring.  No parent wants a spoilt brat and it was great to hear that my children understand the difference between need and want.

I did caveat the conversation by saying that “Mummy needs an iPhone.”

Good memory, bad memory

I am really badly rubbish at remembering the things I’ve remembered.  I know that doesn’t make sense to you, but it makes perfect sense to me.  Allow me to explain.

Say one of my friends has a birthday on June 8th.  It might be written on the calendar or I might just have it lodged in my brain.  I may have a special way of remembering the date.  For June 8th it would be easy to remember because it was my mum’s birthday and also the date of my dad’s second wedding, just six months after mum died.  But anyway…

So I will have stored that Susan (chosen from my random name generator) has her birthday on June 8th, the same day as an important day in my life.

At the end of May I will think “I must buy my friend Susan a birthday card.  I mustn’t forget.” and then I promptly forget until June 8th or sometimes June 9th.

So on June 8th or 9th I will think “Bugger.  I forgot Susan’s birthday.  Doh!  I must buy a card and post it today.” and then that doesn’t happen. 

On about June 15th I’ll think “Oh shit.  I’m so useless and forgetful and Susan will think I’m a right arse.  Is it worth sending a card or does that just remind Susan that I am useless and forgetful?  I ought to send a card.  I’ll sort it tomorrow.”

Then it just goes from embarrassing to really embarrassing and I honestly don’t know what to do for the best.  Advice?

Favourite buttock

My favourite bit of Tuesday evenings happens during my regular yoga class.  It’s normally when we’re in the shivasna pose (lying down).

Our yoga teacher says “Make sure you’re evenly balanced.  Check you’re not favouring one buttock over the other.”

I find it difficult not to giggle.  Doesn’t everyone have a favourite buttock?

Chat assistants

I’ve just been perusing UK mobile sites.  My contract is due to expire in January and I would quite like an iPhone4.

While I was on the T-Mobile site I encountered a pop-up offering help from an assistant who’d be happy to help, via online chat. 

I’ve encountered a few of these with varying levels of quality.  Some have computers powering the responses, and some have real people in a call centre.  I consider it to be a really valuable sales tool for a company if budgets allow.  It’s particularly useful if the product or purchase method are complex, as is the case for mobile phones, and cars. 

The best I’ve encountered was a few years ago on the Mazda North American site.  They used real people who were employees of Mazda.  They weren’t agency call centre staff, and I think the pride in the company really came across.  That could be because they were employees or it could just be that they were American and therefore just generally more positive.  Either way they were helpful and knowledgeable.  It wasn’t a true test because I wasn’t a real American customer in market for an American car but it set my own personal benchmark for evaluating this service.

Tonight’s T-Mobile experience was at the other end of the scale.

“Samantha” started by introducing herself and enquiring after my health.  I explained that we were near contract end with O2 and we were previous T-Mobile customers looking to return but that there didn’t seem to be a great deal on offer.

I’ve encountered “Samantha” on a BT site so I was thinking I was talking to a computer.

“Samantha” replied, with poor grammar, that she was “off” and it seemed strange that a conversation had been initiated if her shift had finished.

I sent back “what?” because the reply didn’t seem to make sense and I received a further poorly constructed sentence that I understood to mean “Samantha” could only tell me about the offers on the website.

I closed the conversation and then up popped a satisfaction questionnaire including views on the chat assistant.  I completed it with the conclusion that the grammar was so poor that there was a real person at the other end of the chat and that real person was probably based offshore.

Frankly if you’re going do online chat then it needs to serve a purpose and it needs to add to the customer experience.  Done poorly, it damages your brand.

Taking it further

I’ve been thinking about yesterday’s blog and I have a further thought.

There are plenty of people that have neither the time, a sewing machine or a local haberdashery and fabric shop that are required to knock up a costume for historical days at school.

I should point out that Hannah’s Ancient Egyptian outfit comprises old curtain cut offs, a freshly purchased cord curtain tie-back and a pillow case retrieved from the loft but bought years ago in the States.  I still need some fabric stiffener stuff and I have no clue about where I should buy that.

For the Nativity last year, when Hannah was an angel, I cheated and bought from Tesco.  For £8 I bought a white dress with gold sparkles and stars which came with wings, a halo and absolutely zero effort.  The biggest value item on that list is the zero effort.  If I calculate how much my time is worth, then the Ancient Egyptian outfit which has used offcuts turns out to have been far more expensive.

All of the big players: Tesco, Sainsbury, Marks and Spencer, Asda, etc. are all on the ball for Nativity and are making a killing from people like me.  We’re happy to spend a small sum to save the hours involved with trial, error, fabric and thread. 

Why aren’t these companies looking at the National curriculum and realising a massive opportunity?  I could buy on Amazon or eBay and buy something of unknown quality for an inflated price but I’d rather buy from a supplier I trust where I can see the goods before parting with my cash.

So come on Marks and Sparks, Sainsbury, Tesco and Asda, step up to the plate and meet your customer demand.  You’ll make a killing by doing Ancient Egyptian, Victorian, Roman and Greek outfits.

Dear Weasel

This perhaps should be titled Dear Mr Gove but I really can’t stand the odious Michael Gove; I recoil at the thought of him.  But Gove has to be the addressee as he is the current Secretary of State for Education.

I have just spent a few hours trying to come up with a simple tunic that can be adapted to look vaguely Ancient Egyptian.  I did this because Hannah has to turn up to school dressed as an Ancient Egyptian.  I’ll be shopping for curtain tie back cord which will serve as a belt and, at the moment I have no idea how I’ll manage the colourful neck collar thingamabob.

I am not very creative and I don’t instinctively know how to make things like this.  I usually spend hours online looking for hints and tips and racking my brain for solutions that will be effective but with the minimum of effort.  I don’t expect someone to do this for me but I think it’s reasonable, given that the stuff I need to create is part of the national curriculum, that the Government provide some ideas.

A nice set of patterns with easy instructions on the Department for Children, Schools and Families website, together with supplier details would be great.  Throw in a hefty dose of optimisation for search and I’ll be a happy bunny.  And so would Hannah, because when she turns up in my creative effort she’ll look like an Ancient Egyptian loser.  And that’s not fair on her.

Mark’s lemon and poppy seed cake

Mark kindly baked this cake for my Macmillan Coffee Morning.  (Total raised to date £220).  I recognised the recipe and, because it was such a hit, am sharing it.  I haven’t made it myself yet.

You will need a 24cm ring mould, greased & dusted with flour

Ingredients
85g unsalted butter at room temperature
245g caster sugar
grated zest of 1 1/2 unwaxed lemons
15g poppy seeds (plus extra to decorate)
165ml whole milk
235g plain flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
pinch of salt
3 egg whites

Lemon Syrup
Juice and zest of 1 lemon
50g caster sugar

Lemon Glaze
Juice of 1 lemon
250g icing sugar

Firstly preheat your oven to 170c, gas mark 3.

Beat together the butter, caster sugar, poppy seeds and lemon zest in a large bowl.
Slowly add the milk in stages and beat well (don’t worry if it looks slightly split at this stage).
In a separate bowl sieve the flour, baking powder and salt.
Add this to the butter mixture in 3 additions, beating well after each addition.
In a separate bowl beat the egg whites until they form stiff peaks.
Fold this gently into the cake mixture using a metal spoon.  Don’t overmix.
Pour into mould and bake for 30 - 35 mins until the sponge bounces back when gently pressed.
Whilst the cake is cooking make the lemon syrup by mixing the sugar, lemon zest and juice in a saucepan and gently boiling it until it has reduced by half and a thin syrup has formed.
When the cake is cooked remove from the oven and spoon over the lemon syrup whilst the cake is still in the tin and still warm.  Leave to cool slightly in tin before turning out onto cooling rack to cool completely.
Make the icing while the cake is cooling by mixing the icing sugar and lemon juice together until thick, smooth but still pourable.
Once the cake has cooled, spoon over the glaze and let it run down the sides of the cake.  Sprinkle with a few poppy seeds.
Enjoy!

Local politics

This week’s Brentwood Gazette front page story is about the fate of the town hall.

Our town hall was built in 1957.  There’s a picture of it up there….look.  Looks quite imposing doesn’t it?

Well apparently it’s not fit for purpose.

Apparently it’s worth £5 million but costs £500K a year to run the 56,000sq. ft.of office space.  To fix the leaking roof would cost £750K and apparently staff are largely rattling about in dark and dingy corridors.

The options to fix this “problem” are:

• selling the town hall to developers and buying or renting at another location in town
• knocking down and redeveloping the existing site
• undertake major repairs and refurbishments to the current building

Selling the location to a developer won’t be a problem as this Tory council have a history if over-sized developments being passed be the planning department.  But buying or renting a place that can accommodate council staff in a location that can be accessed easily by Brentwood residents will be a challenge.

Knocking down and rebuilding so that we have a bland building that might last for 50 years seems to be a waste of inconvenience and investment.

The final option to me just begs the question: Why didn’t the council conduct ongoing maintenance?  How is it that we have a council office with a leaking roof?  Why haven’t efficiency issues been sorted before now?

Oh, and the roof costing £750K to fix….this is explained by the fact that our council has a history of awarding contracts to one contractor, usually the only one asked to bid, and usually Halladale, although naturally I’m not suggesting any bribery or favouritism…

The man with the blue umbrella

I'm typing this on the train feeling both relieved and just a little bit silly.
I walk through fields and woods on my way to the station even if, as today, the weather isn't perfect.
I'm used to meeting the occasional dog walker and being annoyed with those who don't clear up after their animals (yes bins are provided) and those who can't control their dogs leaving me covered in muddy paw prints and dog slobber.
What I'm not used to is company.
This morning soon after I joined the footpath I was aware someone was behind me.
A man, perhaps on his forties dressed for office work and carrying a blue golf umbrella. I picked up my pace and walked as fast as I could without running.
He kept pace with me and mind started exploring possibilities.
I'd not seen this guy before but I was travelling at the same time as usual. Most people wouldn't choose my route or my station because there is a station that's closer and there are routes that are less muddy/doggified.
What was his motive? Rape? Murder? Mugging?
I discounted mugging because he was in a suit. I discounted rape because he was wearing a suit and it was raining. I discounted murder because that was just my imagination running away with itself.
But there was a mugging on that pathway last year so I kept up my pace.
And for the rest of the walk along the path I had a mental battle between my rational brain which was telling me not to be ridiculous and my imagination which saw me raped and left for dead in the woods by the man with the blue umbrella.

Hurrah!

You know that thing I lost.  You know…that thing.  No not my mind, the rucksack.

We have had a call from Liverpool Street and hurrah they think they’ve found it!  This means it didn’t escape into the clutches of nasty national rail lost property but has instead somehow found its way to friendly Liverpool Street, which, let’s not forget, is a completely separate company.

This means our bag is not in Norwich or Cambridge but in dear old Liverpool Street where I shall be just tomorrow morning.  How fortunate.

The price we pay?  Well a fiver apparently, and the loss of the packed lunch.  As I said to Dave, “Does that include the fridge cake AND the Marmite crisps?”

So to whoever found it and handed it in to a sensible station, I thank you from the heart of my bottom.

Phone rant

We have a British Gas contract thingy for our central heating system.  I know you’re thinking I’m pissing money down the drain but I can guarantee our system will fail at least once a year and because British Gas are so rubbish that usually results in about four or five visits.  I’ve blogged about British Gas before here.
I have yet another example of the ineptitude of privatised business and this time it’s British Gas.
I received a postcard reminding me it was time for the annual boiler service.  This usually means giving over 30 minutes of my life to phone, wait and book either a morning or afternoon appointment, Monday to Friday, with no allowance for the school run.  But this postcard was different; it promised more.  It offered the opportunity of booking online, and the chance to book a two hour time slot.  The alternative was to phone and have the traditional half day slot.
I leapt into action.  Or perhaps more accurately a few days later I reached for the laptop and tried the booking url.  I plugged in my postcode expectantly only to be confronted with an error message that told me that there were no appointments available.  I hadn’t even selected a date, there were no appointments at all.  I figured I was actually seeing an error message and tried a couple of different browsers just in case but each time I got the same answer.
The postcard had a telephone number on it, but having 30 minutes free for a phone call during an extended working day just isn’t something that fits easily into my life.  I left it until British Gas wrote and reminded me that I needed an appointment.
I tried the url again, hit the same failure and dialled the number and this is a precis of the call I made last week.
“Hi.  Thank you so much for writing to me an reminding me I need to book a boiler service.  And thank you so much for offering two hour time slot via your online booking system.  I’ve tried the online system and I’m getting an error message telling me no appointments are available.”
“Yeah.  We’ve had quite a few people telling us that.”
“Er right, OK. Well you’ve kindly written to me reminding me again and I still can’t get the website to work.  I have have phoned you but I would much rather have a two hour slot rather than a half day slot.”
“I’ll have a look.  What’s you’re postcode?”
We exchanged details and then he said “Yeah.  No it’s booked for the next 54 days which is why it isn’t showing anything in the online system.”
“Really, you’re booked for the next 54 days solid? And why isn’t the system showing anything beyond 54 days?”
“It only goes as far as 54 days”
“But that’s clearly not enough.  You told me earlier people have been complaining the system is giving them this error message.  Why hasn’t someone fixed the system?”
“Well it’s the Planning Department.  There have been a lot of calls recently so the Planning Department have block booked the next couple of months so that we can cope with the number of calls.”
“And you’re also encouraging people to enter into a process you know is flawed and won’t work.  Maybe the Planning Department should talk to the department that send out the service reminder cards.  Could you do me a favour?  Could you maybe suggest to someone that this whole set up needs looking at because you’re frustrating a whole bunch of customers”
“I can send an e-mail to the Planning Department.”
“Have you done this previously when other people have complained?”
“Yes.”
“Well it clearly didn’t work because the system is still broken.  Don’t bother.  I’ll e-mail the CEO.”
And we then went on to book an appointment on November 19th.  Utterly, utterly ridiculous.  And this blog post will form part of the e-mail I will send to the CEO, because somebody needs to listen, and that somebody isn’t the British Gas Planning Department.

Lost

I remember leaving a laptop on a train.  I went to the train station and asked if it had been handed in.  After a few phone calls we discovered it had surfaced at Southend and it was popped back on a train to Brentwood and I had it back in my possession by the end of the day.

It was a simple process that relied on human beings to care and be bothered, and it worked.

Yesterday, about 10 minutes after getting off the train at Liverpool Street we realised we’d left a rucksack on the train.  I continued on the tube to Tottenham Court Road while Dave got out at Chancery Lane and went back to Liverpool Street.

When Dave arrived at Liverpool Street he found staff who were helpful.  They advised that the train was no longer in the station but that it might have been headed to Southend and they’d ask staff to look for it at Southend.  Nothing had been found by Liverpool Street cleaning staff.

When I emerged at Tottenham Court Road I thought I’d try the telephone to see what I could achieve.  On the National Rail website was a general enquiries number which I called.  None of the automated options seemed applicable to I chose the catch all “If your call is about anything else, please stay on the line.” After 15 minutes someone answered, told me he could give me the number for Liverpool Street but couldn’t help in any other way because I’d called an emergency line.  I told him it wasn’t a very good emergency line if they kept people on hold for 15 minutes. 

Dave phoned, explained what he’d done and I thought there was no point in my pursuing the telephone route.

Today I thought I’d try again.  I found another number for National Rail and spoke to someone in Newcastle and I entered into the ridiculous world of a fragmented rail network.

Newcastle lost property woman said she couldn’t tell me whether anything had been handed into Liverpool Street because Liverpool Street was a separate company and they “didn’t talk.” 

I said “But you’re the Central person co-ordinating lost property.  That’s ridiculous.” 

“But they’re a separate company” she replied.

“But don’t you see how ridiculous that sounds and how unhelpful that is as far as the customer is concerned?” I asked.

“We don’t have the time or the resources…”

I was past listening.  A lost property service that doesn’t have the time and resource to do what a customer would expect of a lost property service.

“…Do you want to leave your details?”

I left my details and asked “What happens if my bag is found?”

She explained “The two lost property offices for East Anglia aren’t open until Monday so if something is handed in it will be sent to one of the regional lost property offices".”

“Where are the two regional lost property offices?”

“Norwich and Cambridge”

“So my bag, which may be handed in at Brentwood will get sent to either Norwich or Cambridge?  How do I get it back?"

“That’s between you and the lost property office.”

“So I might need to drive to Norwich to retrieve a bag which could have been handed into a station less than a couple of miles from my home?”

“Yes.”

Arghhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!  The world’s gone mad.

Popular vote

I hosted a coffee morning in aid of Macmillan this morning.  I know, I know, I’ve already bored you incessantly in my desire to raise funds.

If I’m honest it was a bit of a faff.  It meant shopping and baking and stuff but the main pain was tidying and cleaning the house.  However (big however) it was lovely to have a house full of people enjoying one another’s company but (very big but) it was wonderful on a Friday evening to have a tidy and clean (ish) house.  It was also lovely to raise money for a wonderful cause.

Anyway we had a number of bakes (too many if truth be told, having invited approx. 600 people I over-catered for the 15 ish that turned up).  In addition to my over-baking there was an addition from Mark, a very welcome addition (and very tasty).

The bakes on offer were:

• Red velvet cupcakes
• Lemon cupcakes
• Easy chocolate cake
• Banana and choc chip muffins
• Fridge cake aka tiffin
• Chocolate brownie cake
• Lemon and poppyseed cake (from Mark)

I have recipes for all and am happy to share.  A couple of these recipes can already be found on this blog but I’m happy to share again.

If you ask for a recipe, I’ll share.  The more requests a recipe gets, the quicker the sharing.

Inner peace

Thank you to Barbara who helped me with this one.

I've found inner peace.  I'm passing this on as it worked for me.

The way to do this is to finish the things you start. I looked around the house today and I saw all the things I had failed to finish; so I finished them. The vodka, the gin, the Archers, the chocolate, the ice cream, the crisps, the cake, the Prozac and the ...Valium.  You have no idea how peaceful I feel now!

Please pass this on to anyone you think might need a bit of peace in their life..:)

Lesbian lover wanted

I’ve got a Costco card and it’s due to run out in the next couple of months.

The Costco card allows you to shop in the store and a holder can have a partner on the card who can have their own card.  A couple of years ago I applied for the card with my lesbian lover.

My lesbian lover isn’t actually my lesbian lover, she’s Mel and Mel is married and not, as far as I know, a lesbian.  But the lesbian couple must be the image we portrayed if we applied as main card holder and partner.  Nobody asked questions and our application was processed without any fuss.

I’ve had a “change in circumstances” since I renewed the card last year.  Mel no longer wants anything to do with me.  It seems to be a simple case of a collapsed friendship but I haven’t been party to the details. 

Either way, when I apply for a new card in a couple of months, I’ll have a vacancy.  Applications via Twitter, Facebook, text, phone, or blog comment.

Social Networking Tart

Thresholds is what this is all about.

It started with MySpace.  I befriended some friends and some randoms too but the randoms weren’t just randoms because there was a tenuous link.  There were perhaps two degrees of separation.

I moved to Facebook and dropped MySpace like the loser that it was.  On Facebook I befriended friends, and people I knew and, very occasionally, people I came to know through other friends.  I drew a line, and there were, and are, some people that can’t join that party.  I understand why people are setting up more than one Facebook account and it’s mainly because of the ability friends have to post to my wall.

Then there was Twitter where friends are just people in a list and it’s a free-for-all, and then I had a freak out moment and protected my tweets.  I don’t think this has made a blind bit of difference to my Twitterverse but I’m still testing this water and I may revert.

The penultimate guest at my party was LinkedIn.  I don’t have any emotional bond with LinkedIn and when I started with it I applied the “have I worked with this person?” rule.  And then I thought “who cares” and moved to “do I know this person, work or not?” And I’ve now reached the “Invitation. Accept.”  I think there are still names I’ll ignore but I’m a LinkedIn tart and I really don’t care who you are.  If it floats your boat to build a massive network of people you don’t know then why shouldn’t I help you.

The latecomer was Foursquare.  And I really don’t care about anything on Foursquare.  At all.

Nomination for the election of parent governor*

I don’t really understand this process.  I seem to be nominating myself, which is slightly strange as I’m sure to exhibit some sort of bias.  This isn’t because I couldn’t find another nominee but the process doesn’t seem to require any popular support as a ticket of entry.

I have had help with my “…information about him/herself to go out with the ballot papers. Max 100 words.”  Simon shared his 100 words and I stole quite a few.  Clearly I didn’t steal the bits where I mention I’m a mum.  Simon isn’t like that, but then I think we’ve only met once.

I thought it would be useful for future parent governor nominees if they too could have words to use as their own.  So I am sharing my 99 words.

I'm a mum, who works part-time, with experience in marketing, sales and as a volunteer in a local adult education college. I want to offer this experience to the school.

My daughter Hannah is in Year 4; my son Ethan is in Year 2. I want to play a part in helping this excellent school maintain its hard-earned reputation.

I am constantly amazed by the new things Hannah and Ethan return home from school to tell us. I want to support this wonderful learning environment and ensure we, as parents, continue to be amazed with what our children learn.

None of it is false and I’ve kept the hyperbole to a minimum; having a limit of 100 words helps here.

If you are thinking of nominating yourself then it’s worth checking the school and Ofsted websites and make sure you read the latest Ofsted report.  There’s no point wading in with the above text if the school you’re interested in achieved a poor Ofsted rating.

I think that’s it.  My husband thinks he’ll vote for me; he says at least he knows what he’s getting.  He’s also kindly told me not to be disappointed.  The most that will happen is a tinge of wounded pride; it’s happened before and it’ll happen again.

 

*Alternative title “Experimenting with semicolons”

Down with the kids

I needed to go into town today to post something and I also needed to go to the farm shop.  I was feeling environmentally considerate and fetched the bike from the garage.  I told Hannah and Ethan where I was going, and how, and Hannah wanted to join me.

Having fetched Hannah’s bike, bike helmets, a rucksack and a CamelBak for Hannah, we were off.

Five yards beyond the back gate I realised Hannah had a puncture.

We retraced our cycle tracks back to the garden and we reconsidered.  Fixing the puncture wasn’t an option because this one had already been examined by the master of bicycle maintenance and had been deemed to be very slow puncture.  We thought we might just be able to inflate and go and it would hold, instead we had bulging inner tube issues.  I know, too much detail.

After a quick chat Hannah and I decided we’d take scooters.  She’d take hers, and I’d borrow Ethan’s.  I know, I’m 42 what the hell was I thinking?

Into town and I was keeping up with Hannah.  The advantage of being an adult is increased momentum.  I was fully aware that I was being laughed at.  I mean it’s fairly obvious when people point at you whilst they’re in hysterics.  Being 42 I was too old to care.

We made it to the farm shop, all downhill, and started the return journey and trying to gain altitude, and therefore potential energy (what goes up must come down), made our legs ache.  At this point I had two heavily laden jute bags hanging from the scooter handles.  This gave me even more momentum but adversely affected scooter handling.

Something funny happened as we crossed the road.  Funny peculiar.  I don’t know whether I fell off the scooter or tripped over the scooter but the net result was me sprawled in the road, bags, scooter and limbs everywhere.  Hannah was lovely and very concerned but nobody else batted an eyelid.  My ego was more battered than my body and we made it home without further incident.

Hannah rang the bell and Dave answered.  Hannah was describing our adventures and Dave realised I’d taken the scooter out.  Dave asked Hannah “Mummy went on a scooter too?” and then couldn’t stop laughing except for the time it takes to say “Oh Hannah, I wish you’d had a camera.”

You can’t beat a bit of spousal support when you’re trying, and succeeding, to get down with the kids.

Elixir of youth

I’ve been catching a programme on the Beeb called The Young Ones.  It doesn’t star Rik, Adrian, Mike and Nigel but a slightly different cast. 

Six well-loved celebrities in their 70s and 80s - Liz Smith, Lionel Blair, Dickie Bird, Sylvia Syms, Derek Jameson and Kenneth Kendall - have agreed to spend one week living as though it were their heyday - 1975 - to see if re-living your youth can make you young again.  This is a repeat of a previously successful experiment.

It is a wonderfully endearing show.  The celebrities are interesting and they each have their own particular issues. 

• Liz had three strokes just over a year ago and is, physically, the least capable.
• Lionel believes he is as fit as a fiddle but tests done by the programme team shows he has aged just as much as the others on the show.
• Dickie is one of the fittest but feels his memory lets him down.
• Sylivia finds physical exertion tiring and always feels exhausted.
• Derek struggles with a lack flexibility and strength.
• Kenneth finds physical activity difficult and worries about his lack of balance.

The main way that the show tries to help people to regain their youth is by placing them in a 70s environment and putting them through experiences that enable them to live through part of their life as it was in the 70s.

The programme demonstrates that this approach works.  The main learning, for me, is that life should have obstacles, and shouldn’t be easy.  A life that presents mental and physical challenges is a healthy long life. 

If I’m being honest

The Pope is over for a visit, which is nice.  Or not.

There’s a lot of controversy about the visit and I have my own views.  I agree with Stephen Fry that the concept of this being a state visit is preposterous.  As an atheist I have a bit of an issue about tax payers money being used for the event but I can probably overcome those objections if I think about the waste that I know is an inherent fact of government spending.

I don’t really care whether the Pope travels to the UK or not.  From what I’ve seen and heard I don’t think he and I would get on, but fortunately for me and him, I think it’s unlikely we’ll meet.

I have, however taken some delight in the discussions I’ve heard from the pro and anti Pope camps.

There are people that want to raise the child abuse scandal that has more than touched the Pope (no pun intended).   There are those that insist on referring back to the Pope’s Nazi Youth past.  But those aren’t my favourites.

I love hearing the (obviously) Catholic pro-Pope camp and for me it’s fascinating that often they start sentences with “If I’m going to be honest…” or even better “If I’m going to be completely honest…” and I can’t help but think “But you’re religious.  I expect honesty from you.  Are you telling me you’re usually dishonest but for the purposes of this interview you will actually be honest?”  Amazing.  An unconscious slip perhaps, or maybe there’s more that can be assumed.

Yoga kills

I went to my yoga class last night for the first time in about two months.  There’s always a break for the school holidays and I wasn’t able to make it last week.

I walked to the station this morning, then from the station to the office and back again at the end of the day adding up to about 50 minutes walking.  I didn’t feel too bad while I was walking, but often a long brisk walk on the morning after yoga is a trigger for aches and pains.  This evening though I feel about 80 years old and my poor body is aching.  But this isn’t why yoga kills.

What happens to me would perhaps allow you to draw the conclusion that yoga causes pain but I’m sure your perception of yoga is that it is a life enhancing, life prolonging activity.

Yesterday evening our yoga instructor made an announcement at the start of the class.  During the summer break, two of the class regulars had died.

I didn’t really know Kay but I really liked Graham.  He had back problems and used yoga to try and help maintain flexibility.  He had a back operation last year and had to take a long break from the yoga class while he recovered.  He did return though, even though he was managing bad back pain.  I don’t know how he died, but he will be missed.

And the result of all of this is that I now consider that I spend my Tuesday evenings undertaking a dangerous sport because yoga kills.

Spoilsports

There are some unsavoury characters who have decided my blog is the perfect place to post details of penis exercises, or dodgy pharmaceuticals, or penis extensions or porn sites.
I think this means I'll have to start moderating comments which is really frustrating. I can take abuse about the blog content but spammy crap is unacceptable.

Review queen

I was browsing Amazon, as one does, and reading reviews.
I noticed one of the review was an Amazon Vine review. I did a bit of reading and discovered that people who write lots of useful reviews on Amazon get sent stuff. For free.
I've just written about 30 reviews.

Pack up your troubles…

Hannah told me this evening she’s worried and it makes it difficult for her to sleep.  So what’s she worried about.

She’s worried about bombs and knows that’s because of the stuff she’s been learning about the Blitz.

She’s worried about an asteroid hitting the earth in either 2029 or 2039 because this was stated as a fact during a visit the the Greenwich Observatory.

She’s worried about fire, probably because we’ve discussed what to do in case of a fire at home.

I’ve taken her troubles from her and I promised to put them in the bin so they could be collected by the bin men on Monday.

But I’m now worried that my little girl is worried.

A tweet explained

I tweeted this: “I just read the Metro and completely missed our ad. I had to go back and search for it. #advertisingdoesntwork”

I feel it requires explanation. 

I knew that Wednesdays Metro would contain an advert for an event.  I knew this because I’d sort of been involved but I’d stored it in my subconscious.

On Wednesday morning after my bracing walk to the station I bought my ticket, just missed the 8:13 and waited for the 8:20, Metro in hand.  For the few minutes before the train arrived I opened the Metro and started reading whilst listening to the radio via the phone.  When the train arrived I hopped on, turned the radio off, packed away my headphones and continued reading the Metro, standing all the way because everyone else had taken the seats.

As we neared Liverpool Street I’d read everything I wanted to and then my subconscious whispered in my ear “Did you see the advert?”

I hadn’t. But I couldn’t recall seeing any advert.  I read the paper without registering any of the advertising.  I’d filtered the whole lot out.  I’d managed to do this without even being aware of what I was doing.

When I use the computer and I’m surfing using the Chrome browser I never see advertising.  This time it’s not because of any subconscious activity but because of an active choice.  I’ve installed the Adblocker extension and I love it.  Ad free surfing is a pure pleasure.

When I watch telly, where possible I record and playback skipping the adverts.  If I have to watch adverts I’m usually checking Facebook or Twitter at the same time and not giving the TV my full attention.

When I travel around I seem to be able to screen outdoor advertising from my field of vision.  I know the conscious mind only stores what it considers valuable and for me, advertising rarely falls into that category.

If I listen to commercial radio the adverts are harder to tune out and following that completely scientific analysis, and the fact that I avoid commercial radio because of the advertisements, I decided that #advertisingdoesntwork for me.

I wanted to see the ad in the Metro because it related to work I’ve been doing so I went back through the paper and found it. 

When I reached the office, a colleague who hadn’t known, about the ad placement had spotted the ad unprompted.  So the reason #advertisingdoesntwork is probably me, and not the advertising.  

Private medicine

I went to the doctor.  The doctor said “Go and see a consultant.” I phoned the health insurance people (being a hypochondriac I definitely get my money’s worth) to get authorisation.  I booked a consultant appointment.  I waited (he was on holiday.)  I turned up for the appointment.

Oh my God!

We talked about my job.  We talked about the auto industry.  We talked about Ford’s fortunes and Skoda and VW, and people he knew who had worked for Ford.  We talked about China and it’s potential political and economic threat to our lives.  We discussed China buying Marks and Spencer (I have no idea why we discussed this.  It was his idea not mine).  We discussed China buying Liverpool Football Club. (Have they really?  I had no idea.)  We discussed my children. We talked about my house and the road I live on, the traffic noise, cars driving the wrong way down one way streets. 

At some point in the 40 minutes we spent together we had a purposeful discussion pertaining to my health that probably lasted five minutes.

It’s OK.  I’m not dying.

Vote for me

There’s a vacancy at the Junior School for the role of Parent Governor and I’m tempted to apply.  I’m not particularly well qualified which may be a handicap.

I’m not religious and only go to church when the children nag me.  I have no experience in the education sector apart from the experience of being a pupil.  I have no real spare time as, unlike most of the mums at the school gate, I work.  I struggle to fit my work into my working hours and yet I know that School Governor meetings can intrude into the working day.

On the plus side I am not intimidated by a meeting full of people I don’t know and I won’t be shy about voicing opinions.  I have a lot of experience in the private sector and, having worked in marketing for a huge blue chip company for 19 years, I must have skills that can be of benefit.  I am a geek and a nerd and, whilst this may not be a great social asset, this can have its uses.

So what do you think my chances are, and do you have any advice for the sales pitch that needs to go onto the ballot paper (I’m not allowed to lie)?

More party games

Another party game for you if you’re planning a children’s party (which could also be enjoyed by adults).

You will need:

• A large leakproof container
• Several medium sized semi-opaque/transparent  leakproof containers
• Empty yoghurt cartons/plastic cups
• Metal skewer
• Water
• Marker pen
• Food colouring in a few different colours

This might seem like a strange list.  Seeing the game in action may help.  It may not.  The first part of this video shows the game, the last bit perhaps just gives you another idea for entertaining children on a hot day.

The aim of the game is for teams to move water from one large container to the team container.  The team to move the most water in the time available wins.

There is a catch.  To move the water the players must use plastic cups or old yoghurt pots or similar that have been punctured.  I’ve found the best way to put holes in the plastic is to use an old skewer that’s been heated in a flame (I used the hob).  Hold the skewer with over gloves over a flame and then skewer the cups/pots.

The food colouring is put into the team containers to make seeing the level of the water more obvious.  This is also why the team containers need to be transparent or semi-opaque.  The marker pen is to mark the height that must be achieved first by the winning team.

The number of different items you will need will depend on how many children you have playing the game.

Children will get quite wet playing this game.  There will be lots of screaming and giggling.   Not recommended for playing indoors.

Slow down!

Driving along M11 and we going fast-ish. I spot a police van on a bridge. It's one of the ones marked with "Driving casualties down" and with blacked out windows disguising speed camera equipment.
I say " Slow down. Police van!"
We needed a significant speed reduction and after a couple of seconds we'd dropped just a few miles per hour.
I repeated myself a little louder "SLOW DOWN!" and the reply came back "I don't want to be too obvious." *rolls eyes*

Birthday presents

Dave’s birthday is on the horizon.  We had a chat about what he might want for his birthday and he didn’t want an iPad.  Which sort of left me stumped.

I decided that I should go down the experiences route.  Last year a trial flying lesson went down very well so I started to think along similar lines but veering either towards vintage aircraft or a helicopter.  I know he wants to fly in a Spitfire but I’ve searched and that’s never going to happen.  There’s one plane that’s suitable, it’s at Duxford and doesn’t do pleasure flights (except for Radio 4 presenters).

I couldn’t decide between classic craft or helicopters so I decided that surprises were over-rated and asked Dave what he would prefer.  After much protesting about cost, and when pressed, he came down in favour of helicopters but he also said he might like a family day out at, say, a Duxford airshow.

So, at 11:00pm today we decided that tomorrow we’re off to Duxford.  My treat.  It’s the Battle of Britain Air Show and there will be many Spitfires, the Red Arrows, some Hurricanes, an F16, and on, and on…

Inheritance

We all inherit from our parents.
Physically I've got everything from my mum. Height, weight, hair colour (before the peroxide), body shape, temperament (except I'm less likeable) and the way we looked. Were it not for the 36 year age difference and the fact that my mum is dead, we could pass for sisters.
My inheritance from my dad is different. He liked words and so do I. He like maths and engineering and that's what I enjoyed at school too (maths and physics in my case). But primarily I think his lasting legacy was the inability to throw things away "because they might come in handy." Neither of us come close to Mr Trebus (BBC Life of Grime) but my house is full of things that others would discard without batting an eyelid.
Dad used to keep broken radios in case he needed to mend a radio in the future. I'm not sure it occurred to him he kept broken radios but never fixed one (or at least not to my knowledge).
I have chargers for old mobile phones and computer peripherals that are years old. I'll never use them but I can't bring myself to throw them away. I've got old 35mm cameras (notice the plural). I have a box of darkroom equipment that hasn't been used for over 20 years.
I have loads of tut that I know is just taking up space. When I say I can't help myself, I really can't. It's genetic.

Guilt

I'm sitting in the garden, in the sun blogging on my phone.
It's Thursday and normally I'd do some work today (if three and a half hours counts, and those of you who are thinking "No it doesn't", I know who you are). But because this week started in the school holidays I'm working my school holiday hours which is same hours different pattern. Any woman trying to juggle being a part time stay at home mum with a part time job will understand. The rest of the population won't.
I can see from here the list of jobs I could be doing. The garden needs weeding, the gutters need clearing, the ivy needs cutting back and then there's the never ending list of things that need doing inside the house.
I know that there will be very few of these warm sunny days left this year and I know I'll regret not making the most of the last few days of summer. So I'm sitting down and relaxing and blogging and... And I feel guilty. But I'm still sat here. I can live with guilt.

So sweet

Yesterday I gave Ethan the challenge of clearing out of his bedroom the clothes that didn’t fit anymore.  It took a while.

When Ethan finally came downstairs I was delighted.  His arms were laden with clothes.  I imagined the empty space that would have been created and could see how much easier Ethan would find it to keep his clothes tidy.  “Well done Ethan” I said, “Are all of those too small?”

“No.  These are the ones I want to keep.”

There then followed an exchange in which I, belatedly, explained the rules of a wardrobe clearout, namely that the retained clothes stay in the wardrobe.  Ethan then told me that he’d only found one thing that was too small for him and that was his old karate gi and he wanted to keep that.  I knew this wasn’t the case but assumed Ethan’s tolerance for what fits and what doesn’t just needed calibrating.

The next day when I walked into Ethan’s room there was a huge, crumpled, messy mound of clothing in the middle of the floor.  Ethan isn’t very good at clothes folding and putting away so I seized the opportunity to calibrate.  It was then the truth came out.  Ethan had found clothes that didn’t fit him but he hadn’t wanted them to be packed up for the charity shop because, in his words, “I want to keep them for when I get married and I have children.”

So sweet.

Gagging for a drink

We had a day out today and had such a good time we left later than I’d planned to get home.  Normally this wouldn’t be a problem but today Mr Tesco was due to deliver between five o’clock and seven.  We pulled into our road less than five seconds before the Tesco truck.  Phew!

We made it to the front door, via the back door, before the doorbell was pushed.  Mr Tesco advised on product availability and then said “I’ve just seen something, and you’re not going to be happy.”  I enquired further and he said he’d show me later.  Now there may be some of you who are imagining a desperate housewife scenario.  You haven’t seen Mr Tesco but it was Friday evening and Friday evening has to have a particular ingredient: gin.

The problem was that my personal grocery shopper (the people with the massive trolleys) had omitted to remove the security tag from my gin.  Not good.  Not good at all.

I asked Mr Tesco how to remove the tag and he suggested a magnet.  We tried that and it didn’t work so he amended his suggestion to “electro-magnet”.  I’m not even sure he knew what he was talking about but, even though I do have an idea, I was struggling to think of anything in the house that might do the job.  Mr Tesco then asked if I had a hacksaw.  Funnily enough, I do.
Hannah ran and retrieved my toolbox, in which there is a junior hacksaw.

Mr Tesco disappeared through the front door with my gin bottle and my hacksaw.  Our front wall was his workbench and a few minutes later my bottle was free of its tag.  And here it is.  The lines are saw marks.

I have a gin right next to me.  Thank you Mr Tesco.

It’s OK, I’ve stopped being angry

I was angry.  In fact I was furious.  Actually I had reached boiling point but, at the time, I stayed mute.  Those of you who know me will know that’s unusual behaviour for me.

I’m sure all of you have been in this situation, but maybe you aren’t as volatile as me.

We were in the car.  Dave was driving, I was a passenger and the children were sat in the back.  We were joining the A2 and as we sped down the slip road, the driver of the lorry in the inside lane didn’t move over to allow us to join the carriageway.  Dave slowed a little but as our slip road was running out we were still travelling very fast with a huge lorry to our right.

I knew Dave knew what he was doing.  I knew he’d seen the truck and the rational Ann knew there wasn’t a problem.  But there’s another Ann over whom I have no control. 

Subconscious Ann flinched with a sharp intake of breath but I said nothing.

Immediately Dave started at me with “What?! What’s your problem?  I knew the truck was there but I was watching to make sure the guy behind me didn’t hit me and I didn’t hit the truck.  What?!”  This is an approximation of Angry Dave resenting my unconscious reaction.

I said nothing but I was seething.  I was furious.  I was “locked jaw/clamped teeth” angry.  I think you get the picture.

We drove to our destination in silence and when we arrived, and when the children were out of earshot, we had words, and we’re now fine.

But it wasn’t nice.

The wool game

I’ve been meaning to post this for a while, but life got in the way.

This is a party game, but equally could be used to keep any number of children occupied for a while without the need for a party.  It has its origins with my husband and parties that he had as a child.  The game may be older and be a game that was played by my mother-in-law when she was small.

It’s also a very adaptable game.  I describe it using wool but nobody knits these days so, although I have organised this game using wool, I have also substituted ribbon.  I’m sure you can think of other variants too.

Collect scraps of wool in different colours.  Cut each colour into several six inch lengths.  The number of lengths will determine the duration of the game.

Save one length for each of the colours.  Hide the rest of the lengths of wool in the garden, or house, or wherever you’re playing the game.  Give each player one of the lengths that you set aside.  If you weren’t able to collect many different colours or you have a lot of party guests you may want teams to play this game instead of individuals.

Players are then sent off on a treasure hunt to find the remaining pieces of wool that match the one they were given.

Prizes can be given for each piece of wool found (maybe a sweet for each piece) or you could have a slightly bigger prize for the child finding all of their pieces of wool first.  Or you could combine these two so that everyone gets something but there is also a winner.

You can’t beat a good treasure hunt.

A lesson in writing

Hannah has been encouraged to keep a diary over the summer holiday to improve her handwriting and force familiarity with the creative process.
To prove this is not impossible I'll be writing about yesterday.
Friday was the wettest Friday since records began. Perhaps it was wetter than that, wetter than the day after Noah finished building his ark.
We needed a wet weather activity and settled on the grimmest, greyest activity that would match the weather: a slate mine tour.
I can see you're thinking that this was going to be a barrel of laughs.
The journey there was wet, cloudy, grey and twisty-turny. We were clearly very committed to the idea of learning about slate because it took us an hour and a half to get there. The children were blissfully unaware of the times we weren't paying attention to the satnav and had to do a u-turn, because they were watching Shrek 2 on the in-car entertainment system.
By the time we arrived it was lunchtime so we sat in the car, which was parked in a puddle, and ate our packed lunch.
Having driven for 90 minutes we decided the full monty tour was in order and started queueing for the Deep Mine tour.
We donned our attractive hard hats and descended via cable railway into the depths. The tour took us through ten caverns explaining that boys as young as 12 went underground to work by candlelight. We were told about the community and how slate mining fitted into that community.
My favourite cavern was number nine. It was cathedral-like in its dimensions and had its very own lake. Beautiful.
After coming up the cable railway for air, we moved on to the Tramway tour. This took us on some original tramlines down to a couple more caverns (of which there are over 200). The children loved the fairground excitement afforded by the rickety tram journey and we learnt more about the different jobs that were undertaken underground, and later above ground where we saw slate being split and edges neatened. The team were producing thick 10mm slate for a Scottish Heritage project while we were there.
After the grimness of underground life we surfaced for a quick cup of tea and a look around the mock mining village that was created for our education and entertainment. Needless to say the biggest draw was the old fashioned sweet shop but, if we'd had more time, and realised it was there, the pub could have taken more of our time.
The rain was unremitting and our drive back was simply the reverse of our morning trip. We did stop for supplies in Waitrose though (yes, Wales has Waitrose) and bought parental sustenance by way of gin, lime and tonic. Child sustenance took the form of pizza and apple juice.
We returned to base tired but pleased with the day's adventure.

An unaffordable memory

How many of you remember Pick and Park/Pick Your Own from your childhood?  Who doesn’t recall eating more than you took home?  Well I suggest you hang on to those memories before they start fading.

It was a few years ago that I discovered our local Farm Shop.  I’ll allow myself to give them a name check – Calcott Farm Shop in Brentwood.  Over the last few years they seem to have been doing really well, enough to require, and be able to afford, extensions to the building and an increased product range.

For the last couple of years I’ve been recapturing my childhood by taking Hannah, and Ethan fruit picking at Calcott.  We’ve come home with delicious strawberries, the best raspberries in the world ever, gooseberries, blackcurrants and redcurrants.  Calcott call it Pick Your Own but the equivalent from my childhood was Pick and Park.  Pick and Park was literally just that in the seventies.  It’s grown gradually over the years and is now a massive development called Fermoys.  I’ve just checked their website and whilst there’s a mention of their Pick and Park beginnings there’s no mention of being able to pick your own fruit now.  I might know why.

I spoke to the staff at Calcott because, despite punnets galore in the shop, there were no strawberries being picked.  In fact picking anything wasn’t an option.

They’ve had to stop the general public picking their own fruit.  The reason given is a sad reflection on the nanny state in which we live.  Health and Safety seems to be the cause, or more precisely “People who can’t take responsibility for their own actions.”

If you pick fruit you may need to reach down low or stretch up high.  You are likely to be walking on uneven ground.    That’s what farms are like.  Calcott strawberry picking though was a breeze as over the last couple of years the plants were grown on beds at hip height.  It seems though that a few people have twisted ankles and claimed and complained.

Fear of insurance claims has prompted thoughts about paved walkways amongst the fruit but the cost is prohibitive.  In addition numbers of customers prepared to get their hands dirty, or at least stained with juice, have been declining.  All in all it just seemed too much like hard work for the owners, for the customers, for everyone.

A culinary challenge

It is a well known fact that I haven’t a creative bone in my body.  I can’t draw for toffee and anything arty just intimidates me because I just can’t do it.  I even struggle with the paint your own pottery places because anything I do could be bettered by a five year old.

So here’s the thing.  The school have thrown down a challenge and I need your help.  The children have gone and got green-fingered and have successfully grown things in the school garden.  So far the produce list looks like this:

• Potatoes
• Red Onions
• Lettuce
• Strawberries
• Broad beans
• Onions
• Radishes
• Carrots
• Beetroot
• Rocket

Having grown this they teachers are obviously thinking “Now what?” and have passed the buck onto parents.  They have devised a competition.  Now I’ve read the rules over and over and nowhere does it say I can’t cheat which is why it’s perfectly acceptable for me to invite you to participate.

I (we) must create a starter and main course from the above ingredients using a maximum of five extra ingredients.  We must write down our two course menu (with recipes) and supply a drawing of what our dishes would look like.

With enough Googling I might be able to find recipes but drawing them is way beyond my capabilities.

Anyway if you fancy having a go, please, please do.  Recipes can be added as comments here and if you can submit a drawing then scanning and loading onto Picasa or Flickr with a link in comments below should work.

It may be worth pointing out here that there is no prize unless having your menu announced in assembly next Tuesday is a proud honour that you consider prize enough.  Suggestions need to be added by Sunday evening to count.

I’m counting on you.

A new approach to speeding

Every now and again I encounter a little bit of genius, and when I do, I try and share it. 

This comes from a friend of a friend’s daughter and it’s something that she experienced today.

This little girl, Abi, and her friends have been outside school today with their police force monitoring traffic speed.  If motorists were doing over 30mph they were pulled over by the police and the children were allowed to tell them how dangerous it is to speed and tell them also about the damage they could do to them or one of their friends by travelling over the speed limit.

Abi said all the drivers were really apologetic and also told the police that it really hit home having the children ask them to slow down.

Imagine how fantastic this would be if you were one of the children.  You’d get to tell grown ups off.  What a perfect day at school and what a brilliant lesson that the children would hopefully take with them into adulthood.

I think that this is truly brilliant.  And I shall be suggesting it to the local schools immediately.

The art of marriage

Amazon made a delivery today.

I love Amazon.  I could, and do, spend a fortune on the site.  Most of the time I’m buying a gadget, something to enhance my life or make my life easier.  It’s usually a purchase that will move me along the technology timeline.

Today's delivery was different though.  I bought something secretly because I knew my husband would not approve.

I bought a lawnmower, but not just any lawnmower.

You see we have a lawnmower.  It’s a Flymo something and it’s rubbish.  It gets clogged with wet grass, the blades refuse to stay sharp, the grass collector lid failed within a month of delivery, one of the power handles has snapped off, it is too heavy to be used by the children and it only has about four cutting height settings.

So I visited Amazon and found this.

It’s a Qualcast Panther 30 and it doesn’t have a plug, or a petrol tank.  It’s the ultimate green lawnmower because it’s powered by you.

Advantages as far as I’m concerned are:

• It cuts rather than tears grass
• I don’t have to faff around with extension leads
• I don’t have to worry about mowing the power lead and thus dying from electrocution
• It’s probably safe enough to be used by the children
• It has infinitely variable cutting height
• It doesn’t cost anything to run
• It takes up hardly any space when stored
• It’s beautifully simple
• It’s cheap
• It’s easy to maintain
• It’s quiet to operate

Dave, on the other hand, holds a different view.  He thinks:

• It doesn’t cut dandelions and tough grass stalks
• It’s too dangerous to be used by the children
• We now have two lawnmowers to store instead of just one
• It’s a waste of money

But that’s what marriage is all about; putting up with one another even though you don’t agree.

Race for Life

This year, on a whim, I agreed to participate in the Cancer Research Race for Life.  I didn’t plan to train and right from the start I told people I would be walking the course.  And everyone told me that was fine because it isn’t a race, it’s an event to raise money.

I did some fund-raising and when the day arrived I did feel bad that I wouldn’t be running, partly because my friends would be running and I’d like to have run with them.

I settled on a fast walk with occasional bursts of jogging.

It was a very hot and muggy day and, even at my relatively leisurely pace, it was uncomfortable.  But I completed it, and that’s the main thing.

But this blog isn’t about the walking and running, it’s about how I felt when I’d finished. 

There were so many people taking part.  So many women wearing pink or fancy dress and most with names of loved ones for whom they were running.  There were people like me who were running for people they had lost to cancer, others who were running for those who were still battling the disease and there were those who were celebrating the survivors, those who had cancer but beat it.

And I found it overwhelming and, as I sit here typing this with my aching legs, I still do.

So I recommend taking part in Race for Life.  By all means use it as a goal for keeping fit or as a means of raising funds for a valuable cause, but most of all do it to think about all those people whose lives are touched by cancer, and just pause for a minute.

And if you’d like to help support the sea of pink clad women who walked or ran today, then click here.

Naughty girl

Hannah has been complaining that her room lets in too much light in the evening, especially as we’ve now got longer daylight hours.

I completely understand.  I find it difficult to sleep in a room that’s not completely dark.  Keeping me in the dark is definitely a good policy.

So it took us a while but, even though her curtains have blackout linings, we eventually got around to buying a blackout blind.

In our experience a blackout blind still doesn’t do the job properly though as light leaks around the edges.  We have a solution and it involves wood, paint and screws to build up the edge of the window frame so that the edge of the blind is encased in a frame.

I did the painting a couple of days ago and Dave completed the job today by fitting the blind and building the frame.

Hannah seemed delighted with her darker room and we were pleased that she was pleased.

An hour and a quarter after Hannah’s bedtime we could hear small sounds coming from Hannah’s room so I decided to investigate.

As I went into Hannah’s room I saw that her new blind was rolled up about 10 inches and her curtain was propped open allowing light in.

I don’t know what she was reading but it was something by Roald Dahl.

I told her in no uncertain terms that she was naughty.  I adjusted curtain and blind, she apologised and I left her to sleep, in the dark.

Secretly though, I like the fact she’s been naughty.  I like the fact she’s sneaking a read after bedtime.  Just don’t tell her.  It would ruin my tough mum image.

I’m having a wobble.  I’m not sure, just yet, how big the wobble is but it’s disconcerting.
My wobbliness concerns education.
I went to a state school, not because I wasn’t academically capable, just because I did, and so did most of the children that grew up in the village.  There was a local-ish grammar school but it would have been two bus rides or a forty minute round trip for my working parents.
There was also a local private/public school but nobody went there.  I mean obviously some children went there but nobody in my childhood social circle.
So I’m a product of the state system.  I don’t have a chip on my shoulder about it and in fact I’m quite proud to have gone through the “Comprehensive System.”
At some point I developed an anti-private school attitude.  I’m not sure when that happened but my views probably crystallised at University.  I decided that public school was just wrong because children were being removed from their parents, and I decided that private schools were wrong because I somehow believed that those who were a product of private schools thought themselves to be better than me.
I didn’t think it was right that money could, or should, be allowed to buy privilege.
My husband went to a private school and he had an interesting experience.  There’s no doubt that his good exam results were better because of the dedication of the teachers.  But then some of the teachers' methods, were suspect.  I won’t bore you with the details but feel free to ask me about the “Dutch Oven”, “Avalanche” and “Pigs in Space.”
My husband’s experience didn’t alter my view.
And then I had children and they are currently going through the State system in a State Primary School.  But as the M&S ads used to say “This isn’t just any Primary School, this is a Church of England Primary School.” 
We’re lucky.  Our local school is a good school in a good neighbourhood with good results.  At the moment it’s all “good.”
As my children get older though my thoughts turn to secondary school.  I judge the local schools by the children I see outside school and most pupils do their school reputation a disservice.  And I remember when I walked around town with my friends and I was probably just as obnoxious, but with less make-up and fewer cigarettes.
I see the children from the local private school and they seem smarter, more polite, less loutish.  I also see the exam results.
I see that Universities are becoming stricter about entry requirements and I see State schools backed into a corner, forced to become Academies. 
I see our education system using business speak, treating children as the raw material to which value must be added.  And I wonder whether a long held principle might just be slipping from my grasp. 

Things that wind me up

This could be a long series of blogs because I seem to spend my life being wound up by things.

I know that the way to managing stress is to control the way I react to things so that they don’t wind me up, but I can’t help myself.

I’m doing an evening class at the moment and this evening I received a copy of my 2.1 Learning Charter.  Apparently I’ve agreed, somewhere, to abide by this charter.

There are things that Adult Community Learning “will make every effort to do” and there are things they “expect from me.”

They expect me to:

1.  Respect the rights of all centre users to be able to work in a co-operative manner and treat everyone with respect regardless of differences in culture, disability, learning difficulties, medical conditions, race, ethnicity, gender, age, sexual orientation, religion or social class.

2. Play an active part in challenging discriminatory behaviour by

• refusing to take part in any unacceptable activity that degrades others, such as bullying, harassment or victimisation in any form and on any grounds, whether it relates to learners or staff.  Any such behaviour will not be tolerated.
• behaving in a way that respects the needs of others to learn teach and work.

3. Comply with Health and Safety regulations

• by behaving in a way which does not put yourself or others in danger
• by not attending classes when under the influence of alcohol or illegal drugs
• by informing your tutor of any adverse impact on your behaviour resulting from prescribed medication
• by helping to keep the buildings clean and tidy

4. Attend your course regularly, make every effort to be on time for your session and bring the necessary equipment or inform your tutor where this is not possible

5. Complete a learning plan and feedback on your progress with your tutor to chart your learning

6. Keep us informed in writing of any changes in your personal details e.g. address especially telephone number and in particular your status where it affects your entitlement to any fees remission you may have been granted.

7. Help us improve our service by giving us feedback in evaluations and satisfaction questionnaires.

                                              ***

I am not going to critique this.  I just wanted to share.  But does that mean I can turn up under the influence of legal drugs?

Actually I can’t resist passing some comment.  What kind of monster do they think I am that they have to get me to agree to this code of conduct?  Do they honestly think I’ll be a a complete bloody idiot?

Why not take it further with expecting me to:

8. Not smear excrement all over the walls.

9. Not bring my pet chinchilla into class

10. Sit quietly and pay attention

11. Not throw paper aeroplanes in class

12. Not speak to anyone in the class in case they have a fear of conversation

13. Do the washing up and get the mop out

14. Not question the tutor’s authority by asking questions

15. Raise a hand to indicate a need to use the toilet.

16. Bring my own refreshments

17. Bring pencils and biros but not fountain pens because ink is dangerous and messy

Make up your own “expectations” and we can build a new list together.

I’ve just written a letter to the school.  Well both schools really as I’ve addressed it to the Heads of the Infant and Junior Schools.
There used to be a school uniform shop in nearby Shenfield.  It closed down and moved to premises that were even closer in Brentwood. 
The clothes were expensive when compared with High Street prices and the quality was poor too.  But there wasn’t a choice.  If you wanted an item bearing the school crest (demanded by the school uniform policy) then you either bought a poor quality expensive item, or went to Marks and Spencer (Or Sainsbury, Tesco or Asda) bought a cheaper item and paid the school uniform shop to embroider the school crest (at a cost of about £5).
Well now the school uniform shop has closed and relocated to an industrial estate in Basildon with opening hours roughly equivalent to office hours plus four hours on Saturday.
For me this is a minor inconvenience. 
Although I work, I don’t work full time, so I could spend 90 minutes of my free time (and about £4 in fuel) driving to buy some uniform.  Of course if I’m having an item embroidered then I’ll need two 90 minute trips (and about £8 in fuel).  There’s always the scenario that what I’ve bought might not fit which might also necessitate more than one trip, but let’s not over-complicate matters.
Imagine I work full time and imagine I don’t have a car, or perhaps I can’t drive.  That makes things a little trickier because as the shop is located at the end of an industrial estate, it isn’t well served by public transport, and yes, I’ve checked.
It’s also OK for me, because I have a computer, so I can order via the website.  Well yes except that there’s a modest charge for delivery and returns are not free.  This financial implication becomes costly if items don’t fit and need returning and re-ordering.  And the website doesn’t cater for the embroidering of items.  I could, at this point, start to regale you with tales of the poor usability of the uniform website, but you’d accuse me of being picky (which I am.)
Imagine I don’t know how to use the web, or don’t have access to the internet, or don’t have the means to buy online with a credit or debit card.
The school hasn’t sat idly by whilst this has happened. 
They have second hand uniform sales (during working hours.)
They have arranged a visit, during the school day on July 6th, enabling parents to buy direct from the school uniform supplier.  This of course doesn’t help with embroidering items, nor does it help if purchased items don’t fit as items will be purchased while the children are in lessons.
So I’ve written a letter, because it’s just one of those things for which the school will assume parents are coping and that there isn’t an issue unless someone raises their hand.
Please Miss.  Please Sir.  It’s not working.

A memo to marketing professionals

There once was a time when direct mail was king.  Then we all started to get too much of it and it became junk mail.

The problem was targeting, or lack of it.  Most of what we received wasn’t relevant to us when we received it, but companies still sent it because occasionally somebody bought a product or two.

Smart companies worked on improving both the content and targeting of direct mail when other companies just widened the net and sent more irrelevant messages to more people at the wrong time. 

Then there was e-mail, which was much cheaper than direct mail.  Smart companies moved their marketing spend to this new channel and probably achieved some great results when only a very few organisations were using e-mail for marketing purposes.

Unfortunately e-mail marketing has become spam.

I receive, on average, 60 marketing related e-mails every day.  It’s noise in the system and my six personal e-mail accounts are just a mess.  One of them has over 7,000 unread items.  I check my personal e-mail once or twice a week and I scan it, I don’t read it.  And when I say I scan it, I scan the subject line and note who e-mails are from.  Only if a message happens to be open in preview might I scan the contents.

If a company wants my attention they really will have to try a little harder.

Inconsiderate Marketing

I received a piece of e-mail marketing today from Gardening Direct.  I have no idea whether I’ve used the company before or whether they’ve bought my contact details from someone.

The subsidiary sending the e-mail was Jersey Bedding Plants and the subject of the e-mail was “Impatiens for less than 6p each!”  For those unfamiliar with the Latin names for plants this can be translated as “Bizzie Lizzies for less than 6p each!”  For those who haven’t a green finger at all on their person this can be translated as “Colourful flowers for less than 6p each!”

I haven’t planted any bedding plants this year and, even though I was tidying up the ridiculous amount of marketing e-mail I receive, I opened the e-mail and became a statistic for “Open rate.”

As I scrolled down the e-mail I saw this:

I was furious.  I was insulted.  I was incandescent with rage.  OK that maybe over-calling it but I do like the word incandescent.

You might wonder why I had such a strong reaction. 

I was annoyed, not because I don’t have a mother, but because Mother’s Day was in MARCH.

How dare they send me a piece of marketing that hasn’t been checked properly?

This isn’t a tiny typo error, it’s a big pink banner!

I wanted to point out the error to someone so I hit reply knowing that the e-mail probably wouldn’t go back to its source.

So I clicked on the big pink banner to see whether it linked to current content or a website error page.  It worked so I found the Contact Us button and wrote another e-mail, this time to an e-mail address that should have worked.  But it didn’t.

So, because Gardening Direct, their subsidiary Jersey Bedding Plants and the company behind the big pink banner, Flying Flowers, have insulted me with their careless marketing, and don’t even have the good grace to allow me to complain via e-mail, their chosen method of communicating with me, I have shared my pain with you.

Rant over.  Thank you.  I feel better now.

How, when, why?

I drove past something that looked very much like this today.

And my first thought was, how do they do that?  I mean is it a blowtorch, a welding thingy, a firework or Semtex?

And my next thought was, when do they do that?  I mean I’m guessing the culprit has been caught by the camera.

If you know the camera flashed and you think that will result in a ticket then do you wait, or do you just get angry and take it out on the camera anyway? 

Do you get the ticket and react or do you contest the ticket and lose your appeal before you resort to vandalism?

And my final thought was, why do they do that?  I mean what does it achieve?

If it’s revenge then it’s short-lived and actually comes back to you because taxes pay for the replacement.  If it’s protection from being caught again then it’s only a temporary solution because at some point it will be fixed.

I did wonder whether people believe that immediate arson would destroy the evidence, which is an interesting thought.  Are they really cameras that store the images in the yellow box or have they developed a system where the images can be transmitted or collected remotely?

If you’ve ever destroyed a Gatso then please tell me how, when and why.

Bovvered

I really shouldn’t bother should I?

This evening my husband asked me “Can I get you anything?”

I was in a grumpy mood.  The day before a holiday, when one is trying to remember to pack everything, holiday clothes don’t fit, the swimsuit has experienced Lycra fail and the travel-sized shampoo and conditioner that were bought specially have magically disappeared, is just a tad stressful.

“Chocolate pudding in a mug, please” was my surly reply.

“Where will I find the recipe?”

“There should be one printed in the binder downstairs.”

A bit later…”No, it’s not there.  Is it on your blog?”

“Yes, hang on I’ll print it.”

A little later after the printer failed to engage it’s electronic brain…

“What’s your blog address?  I’ll just look it up.  What is it?” Looking over my shoulder “Ann Cardus dot blogspot dot com.”

“You know what, forget it.  I’ll just have a bottle or two of wine.”

If my husband had a blog I would subscribe to it.  I’d read it.  I’d know where to find it.  I’d know the url.

That’s all I’m saying.

Intelligent cars

I’ve been watching a documentary titled Toyota Total Recall which, despite it’s humorous title, covers a very serious and sticky problem for Toyota (and I’m not just talking gas pedals).

I’ve seen that Toyota initially recalled vehicles because of a floormat issue, then because of a sticky accelerator pedal issue and then on a smaller number of vehicles because of a braking problem.

And then I saw something interesting.  Steve Wozniak of Apple fame was interviewed explaining that he thought that the real issue maybe software or electronics related.  A lawyer representing families of those who died in Toyota accidents seemed to be indicating that he believed this might be the case too.

Then some clever bloke explained in a completely patronising fashion that these days cars are operated by computers and that when you put your foot on the accelerator you’re telling the computer you want to go faster.

So, bearing all of this in mind, I thought I’d share something that happened to me today in my Ford Kuga.

My Kuga has a power start button.  It’s a piece of kit that negates the need to put a key in the ignition.  The car somehow knows the keys are in the vehicle (clever electronics) and to start the car the driver just pushes the power button (for safety reasons the clutch needs to be depressed at the same time).

To turn the car off is even simpler.  Just press the power button – done.

The car started without issue and I started driving to work.  I’m not quite sure why but the radio wasn’t on.  This is unusual for me as I almost always drive listening to the radio.  After negotiating a couple of junctions I thought I needed radio but I was approaching a roundabout so needed to think quickly.

I pushed a button quickly to turn the radio on.  Maybe I didn’t have enough caffeine before I left the house because I actually hit the POWER BUTTON.

Arghhh PANIC!

Except don’t panic because I was driving a Ford, engineered by Ford engineers and, just like a Toyota, it didn’t stop.  But that’s OK because I didn’t want to stop, I just wanted to turn the radio on.  The car knew I was only kidding when I pushed the power button.  It wasn’t clever enough to know that I wanted to turn the radio on but that level of knowledge would be akin to the psychic powers of Derek Akorah (or not, because Akorah is a scam artist).

I realised my mistake and pressed the radio button and everything was tickety boo, fine and dandy.

I’m not sure there’s a moral to this story, except perhaps “Pay attention when you’re in charge of a car” or “If I offer you a lift, be afraid, be very afraid.” 

Euthanasia

A depressing topic for a Saturday afternoon but I’ve been thinking about it, a lot, recently.
Sydney, our family cat isn’t well.  He’s losing weight and he’s increasingly lethargic.  The vet has prescribed steroids and she thinks the problem is a tumour that lines the intestine. 
I can’t talk to Syd to ask him whether he’s in pain.  I can’t ask him whether he’s enjoying life.
My internet research hasn’t really helped me, especially when I read that sometimes a cat will purr not through contentment but because it distracts the cat from the discomfort it’s experiencing.
I could get all sentimental about how Syd has always been there and how he’s been a part of our life for so long but that doesn’t help.  Basically I need to know whether now is the right time to “put him to death” as Ethan puts it.
The advice I’ve received so far is “Don’t leave it too long” which doesn’t really help because I don’t know when “too long” is.
And it’s not really my decision either, it’s a family choice.
The children understand death if it just happens but I think they’ll struggle with making a decision that will bring it forward.
I see my husband getting upset whenever we start to talk about it and I struggle to remain composed too.
I don’t know what to do, or who to ask.

TGIF

I'm on a Eurostar train that smells of fresh fart. I'm in my allocated seat near the window, and to move anywhere I'd have disturb the lady next to me. I'm looking around the crowded carriage trying to figure out who the guilty party is. Not that I will be able to do anything about it but sometimes it's nice to know who to blame for one's discomfort.
There are two men, clearly colleagues, sitting at the opposite window. They've been discussing at length, and at a not inconsiderable volume, the deals that they nearly did, but didn't.
There is a couple nearby in which the man is clearly dominant. He's not just talking to his wife/lover/colleague, he's broadcasting to a wider, disinterested audience.
There's a young guy opposite me whose rucksack is spilling into my space while he reads a book titled Mijn COUNTDOWN. I think he might be a student because he's covering the pages of the book with orange highlighter and pencil. Oh, and he has one of those little triangular beards immediately below his bottom lip. It's less beard, more tuft and I think he thinks it makes him attractive. He's wrong.
I would quite like a cup of tea if it weren't for the fart smell, which is being refreshed quite regularly, and the long walk to the bar, and the fact that the lady sitting in the aisle seat next to me is asleep.
I wonder what I'd be talking about if I had someone who'd enjoyed the same conference as me, sat next to me.
Would we discuss the shared experience and reflect over the last couple of days? Maybe we'd share iPhone applications or talk about what we had planned for the weekend. I wonder if we'd complain about lack of time, resource and corporate will to implement any of the interesting ideas we've seen over the last two days, whilst secretly making plans to leapfrog the competition.
Student boy is eating a floury bread roll with white chocolate which, to my mind, confirms his student status.
The noisy businessmen have tired of one another and have fallen silent avoiding eye contact.
I haven't bought my guilty mother gifts yet. I looked but couldn't find anything. My children didn't want me to do this trip. They didn't want to go to the Breakfast and After School clubs. Ethan kept asking me why I had to go and, when I explained, he told me I should be more assertive with my boss. It's difficult to explain that I did and didn't want to do this trip.
The information gathered is very valuable and I have a long memory for this type of presentation. It does help me with my work and I would like to spend more time learning and understanding.
But I miss home and I feel so guilty about disrupting the weekly routine. My husband has taken some time off, I've missed Hannah's parent's evening at school, and the children have had to spend time in a club that would normally be home time.
So I will probably stop at Bluewater on the way home to buy the guilt gifts. But if I do that I might miss the children before they go to bed. I don't think I can win. It's a lose lose situation all round.
Thank God it's Friday.

Cookies

I’ve just tried this recipe and it was easy and tasty, my favourite kind of recipe.  Oat and Raisin cookies:

Makes variable amount depending on how big you want them to be, but roughly 24 biscuit sized or 12 giant cookie sized cookies.

Ingredients

• 140g unsalted butter at room temperature
• 80g caster or granulated sugar
• 80g soft dark brown sugar
• 1 egg
• 1/4 tsp vanilla extract (not flavouring)
• 190g plain flour
• Pinch of salt
• 1/2 tsp bicarbonate of soda
• 1/2 tsp ground cinnamon
• 60g rolled oats
• 110g raisins

Preheat oven to 170 degrees (150 degrees for fan oven) and line two baking trays with greaseproof paper.

Cream the butter and sugar until light and fluffy.  Add the egg, mix thoroughly and then add vanilla and mix again.

Measure out flour, salt, bicarb, cinnamon, and oats and stir with fork.

Add to butter mixture and mix well then add raisins and mix again.

Roll balls of mixture about 3cm in diameter and place on baking trays.  You need to leave a gap between cookies as they will spread when cooking.  To get an even thickness during the cooking process, lightly flatten the dough balls with the palm of your hand.

Cook for 15 mins or so.  I think it’s best to judge by eye when the cookies are done. 

Leave them to cool on the baking sheets for a while as the cookies will be soft when they come out of the oven and will firm up a little as they cool.

If you want you can finish off the cooling on a wire rack, or if you are as impatient as me you’ll start eating them before they see a wire rack.

If you can resist eating them all, then store in an airtight container and save for later.

Perfect with tea, coffee, hot chocolate, wine, beer, gin…  Enjoy.

Surfing in the bath

I was using Twitter the other day in the bath when I happened to see a tweet by Ed Fraser who describes himself on Twitter as: Senior Programme Editor, Channel 4 News/Online. Covered Iraq, Kosovo, Lebanon, Soham, Tsunami. Seriously Scottish

The tweet that caught my eye was: “Watching #Tsunami live on mac is amazing. Only in the 21st century via http://www.ustream.tv/channel/hitsunami #hitsunami.”

I’d heard about UStream but couldn’t remember seeing it in action so I thought I’d check it out.  It sounded like the sort of tool that might be useful.

I knew Ed was viewing on a Mac but I had an iPhone and they’re both Apple so the experience would be the same - right?

I can’t remember the exact sequence of events but I ended up having to download the UStream Application and creating an account.

I then went back into Twitter and clicked on the link again.  I am not sure exactly what choices I was presented with but remember having to choose between Live and Local.  As it was a live event I wanted to view, I clicked Live.

The next thing I remember was the screen changing to look a little like this:

Remember I’m in the bath.

The next thing I know, the shutter is opening and I can see my bath through the shutter aperture and there a little message saying “Streaming to http:// …”

I didn’t wait to capture the web address, which is just as well.  I think I may have been streaming live images of my bath onto the world wide web.  I think all anyone would have seen would have been bath, water and bubbles.  I hope all that anyone would have seen would have been bath, water and bubbles.