Day 15, in which we consider an investment

There's a ruin of a chateau not far from where we're staying.

We'd seen it from the road and thought (as my Dad would have said) it had "potential".  We drove along a few lanes and trudged along an overgrown path to take a closer look.  It's perfect.  Granted it would probably have cost at least a million and probably three times that to restore and return to holiday home condition avec le piscine.  This, not insignificant, financial hurdle hasn't prevented us from consistently and constantly referring to it as our future holiday home.  We've toyed with renaming it from Chateau Longas to Chateau Cardus (there's a wine called Chateau Cardus from a vineyard west of Bordeaux) or Dave's favourite: Chateau David.

The trouble with all of this is that we've already invested in a raft of holiday homes by investing in Holiday Property Bond.  I don't want you thinking that this whole series of holiday blogs has led up to a sales pitch because that wasn't my intention.  I wanted to blog about our accommodation, not because I want to brag, but because the type of accommodation we have is a little different from the norm and requires an explanation.  Tomorrow's blog may well be an honest appraisal of our holiday transport.  I haven't decided yet.

I've spoken to some people about Holiday Property Bond (HPB) and the first thing I say is "It isn't timeshare" because it isn't.

Firstly I must explain that I'm not a financial advisor, nor am I on commission, but I am a "customer", "owner", "investor".

The way I think about HPB is like a syndicate or co-operative who have pooled resources to invest in holiday properties in the UK and rest of Europe.  This means that everyone who has invested in the Bond owns a little bit of the whole property portfolio.  It is an investment and I can choose to cash it in, at which time it may have lost or gained in value.  Equally I can ensure my children, and grandchildren inherit my investment, if I choose to keep it.  I invested a sum that had been left to me by my Auntie Margery because she loved travelling and it seemed to be an appropriate use of the money.

My investment entitles me to points and points can be spent to book properties that are a part of the portfolio.  So, for example, a £10,000 investment might be the equivalent of 10,000 points which will book two weeks in a two bed cottage in Constant in the Dordogne.  The properties require maintenance and there is a maintenance charge for the period of the booking.

Normally when one books accommodation the cost is seasonal and rises dramatically during the school holidays.  Because the HPB maintenance charge is just that, for maintenance, it remains constant throughout the year and is significantly lower than a high season charge for similar accommodation.  The thing that is used to even out demand and supply is the number of points required to make the booking.

HPB sites usually have at least one pool and sometimes the larger properties will have their own pool.  There is usually a games room, DVD library, a clubhouse with games library, children's play area, tennis courts, a reception office and often an onsite shop and/or restaurant.  We've also found giant chess/chequers, mini golf, boules, bowls, WiFi, onsite PC, bar, croquet, gym, sauna, steam room.  It's all very middle class.

The self-catering properties are generally of a good standard and you know what you are getting before you arrive.  When travelling with young children we arrived to find our property didn't have a stairgate.  We asked if it was possible to install one and it happened, within hours of our request.

We have now stayed in properties in Spain, Portugal, La Gomera, Anglesey, Brittany, Dordogne, near Paris, Madeira and Turkey.  Sometimes the HPB development is wholly built and designed for HPB whereas at other times HPB has bought part of a bigger development.  In our experience the bespoke developments are better.

There is a downside to the arrangement and that is that if you want to get the pick of the properties in peak season you can't book at the last minute.  You do need to plan ahead.  But this downside also has an upside.  There is a points free booking system, 28 days before departure for UK properties and 56 days before an overseas departure  This means that if you aren't tied to school holidays you can often pick up a holiday at short notice without dipping into precious points.

If you decide you don't need points for a year you can elect, in advance, to take a return on your investment instead, about 2.5% I think.  And your investment can be used to book a holiday for anyone.

I think I've covered the main points but if you have questions I can try and answer them, or you can look for information yourself, if you're interested (HPB do tenancy propoerties too but that's too much to digest).  It's worked for us and could work for you too.

Day 14, in which the end is nigh

Tomorrow is our last full day here.  This is so far past holiday hump day that we're at the bottom of the slippery slope.  This is the sort of time that I start thinking about the return to home.  It's when the holiday stops being pure holiday.

I've already been online to sort the shopping out for the evening that we arrive home.

I'm mentally going through the things we need to have sorted before school and work start again.  It's not a very long list but I wish I'd sorted more out before now.

I had intended to keep an eye on work e-mails and I was for the first couple of days.  Luckily I did some pre-holiday preparation to ensure my e-mail inbox could cope with the vacation onslaught.  I picked up the 2,000 plus e-mails in the inbox and filed them all into an offline folder called "Pre holiday e-mails".  Some of you are wondering how my e-mail could be so out of control.

Well it all started when I returned from a week away earlier in the year.  I'd cleared down my inbox to make space for incoming e-mail missiles that would appear in my absence, but when I returned from the week away I couldn't send e-mails, or receive them.  I was completely work-handicapped.  I couldn't do anything and I didn't know which e-mails I hadn't been able to receive.   I called the IT Helpdesk and once I'd got through the queue and spelled my surname using the phonetic alphabet and confirmed my desk location I explained I needed a bigger inbox capacity.  It wasn't the first time I'd had this conversation so I knew they could fix this problem.

My argument went something like "I can't work under these conditions" and yes I think I probably used those exact words.  I know that right now you're thinking that my working conditions are pretty cushty and you'd be right, they are, but everything is relative.  I have the slowest laptop in the world, which nobody believes until they actually watch my machine change screen pixel by pixel, and to be hamstrung by a daft megabyte limit is just adding insult to injury.  Anyway the rather bemused gentleman in Manila who was at the other end of the phone explained that I already had a substantial e-mail capacity.  My retort probably used words like "multi-media", "large", "files", "part-time", "can't", "work", "under", "these" and "conditions".  If he hadn't acquiesced to my request then I would probably have resorted to tears, not as some pathetic female manipulation but just because I would have been exhausted with the frustration of the whole situation.  Waterworks were unnecessary though and I got what I wanted.

So my inbox doesn't need clearing to zero every week and regular deleting and filing of the stuff I get time to look at is normally enough.  Every month I have a clearout of the oldest stuff and that gets me through.  Holidays though are an additional strain, hence the extra preparation and hence the intent to manage things through the holiday.

It didn't last more than a couple of days so the stress of e-mail hell is starting to seep into my consciousness.

Obviously I'm doing my best to push work away so that I can continue to be in holiday mode but I know the end is nigh.

Day 13, in which we count wild things

I haven't gone looking for wildlife this holiday, but I've stumbled across quite a bit.

Everyone expects little lizards to climb walls in Europe and I've seen plenty of them, but I've also seen things I didn't expect.

While driving along the local lanes we've seen red squirrels.

While paddling in the Dordogne at Beynac to cool down a viperine snake swam past.  I wasn't sure I'd ever been in water when a snake had been in the same vicinity.  Now granted it was small and, having done my research, I now know it wasn't venomous but I didn't know that at the time.  I just stayed where I was and called to Dave, Hannah and Ethan to come and have a look.

While waiting for the boys stood next to a pond yesterday we saw two European water voles and whilst they are sometimes called water rates they are much cuter than rats.  They are chubbier and have smaller ears and tails.

And today there were hundreds of swifts flying balletically next to out holiday house.  They were swooping and diving and catching insects on the wing and they were incredibly beautiful.

The highlight though might have been the sight when I was watching the swifts.  I heard a rush of air and then I saw it; a peregrine falcon at the end of a steep dive aiming for one of the super fast swifts.  It failed and stumbled out of its dive to gradually regain height and disappear from view but it all happened within 20 metres of me.  Stunning.

 

 

Day 12, in which we were utter tourists

This morning sort of dissolved in the way that soluble aspirin does; one minute it's there and the next it's gone.

After lunch we went to one of the most popular tourist destinations in the area: La Roque Saint-Christophe.  It's basically a big rock.  It's not the first time I've visited a big rock.  I mean there are the mountains on which I've skied (badly), there's Ayer's rock (or Uluru), there's Snowdon, Dartmoor, Mount St Helens, Yosemite, Badlands National Park, Hawaiian volcanoes... you get my drift.

This rock was quite cool.

The Dordogne has carved the rock around it and this has resulted in huge rock overhangs which previous generations have used for shelter including constructing houses using the natural shelter provided by the rock.  But at this big rock had a ledge that was about 80 metres up from the ground and this one has been used as shelter too.

55,000 years ago the first Neanderthals used the space and the dwellings morphed over time.

The displays we saw showed how the space might have been used by Neanderthals and also by more recent occupants from medieval times.

The displays were interesting but the views were very pretty.

We drove though Les Eyzies, stopping for a touristy ice cream and then we took the scenic SatMum route home for some pool and sunshine time.

Isn't that the kind of thing holidays should be about?

Day 11, in which we revert to SatMum

The plan was to drive to Sarlat.  Now there's a quick way to do that (SatNav) or there's a slow way to do that (old school following maps).  Now when I visited the Dordogne with my parents we always had SatMum sat in the passenger seat with a Michelin map on her lap. We tried to recreate that today.

We had seen some beautiful towns on the banks of the Dordogne that were begging to be explored and we thought we could get to Sarlat via some of these picturesque tourist magnets.  In addition to these towns we wanted to travel along some specific roads which we knew to be scenic, because we'd bought ourselves a Michelin map.

I could have attempted to programme the SatNav with Sarlat as the final destination with numerous waypoints but it seemed easier to use the map.  So that's what we did.  We made the scenic drives and we made it to Beynac.  Beynac was sunny and steep and Hannah and Ethan were a bit hot and bothered so we cut the road trip short and headed straight for Sarlat and ice cream.

Walking around Sarlat had only one thing going for it as far as the children were concerned: ice cream.  After the ice cream we had trouble keeping their attention so we whizzed around the rest of the beautful, historic Sarlat and then programmed the SatNav for home sweet home, or holiday accommodation sweet holiday accommodation.

So, for part of the day at least, we recreated SatMum.

Day 10, in which we like what we don't have

Is it just me that likes looking around French hypermarkets?

I know what I'll find if I wander around a UK supermarket which is why I try to avoid the experience.  It's dull, boring and predictable.

French hypermarkets on the other hand are a wonderland of the new and interesting.

The food is an obvious difference, although for the life of me I couldn't find sour cream when I was looking.  But for me it's all the other stuff.

We're looking for a fuse (mini 20A) for the car, see Day 1 and a French hypermarket is just the kind of place that would have something like that.  Granted in the ones we've been in so far, that part of the display has been out of stock but we live in hope.

Today I saw a baguette cutting breadboard.  It was a slotted breadboard with a hinged, permanently attached bread knife.  Completely ridiculous, but amazing.

There were lovely china "things" which were the shape of a six inch high tumbler and which were intended for hot drinks I think even though they didn't have handles.  I thought they would be perfect for ice cream sundaes.

There was bag I could easily have bought, a jug that I could have slipped into the trolley, some table linen that I could have taken home and a bowl that would have been great to take camping.

There were many aisles I didn't get to explore because as soon as I suggest I want to wander and browse, Dave's eyes roll and I know he doesn't approve.  It's just not his thing so I just get away with a brief glimpse in the time it takes for Dave to get through the checkout.  It simply isn't long enough.

Day 9, in which the British really shouldn't

Today we took charge, as promised, and we took les enfants canoeing along the Dordogne.  We'd found a place that bussed us 14 km up river and gave us until 7pm to find our way back to the car.  We figured the 11:30 departure should give us plenty of time.

We hadn't figured on two children that can't manage a canoe paddle to save their respective lives.  Gah!  Two canoes may not have been the smartest choice and next time Dave and I are sharing a canoe and the kids can make their own way.

I jest, sort of, although it did take us until 5pm and we were the last of our group to make it.  I guess that means there might have been people who didn't make it, but who am I kidding?

Canoeing is a fabulous, relaxing way to see the country, and the views from the river were outstanding, not to mention the non-stop sunshine.

The only fly in the canoeing ointment, apart from the delightful damselflies that accompanied us, was an international incident.

There is a lot of macho bravado on the river.  There are men who "own" the paddle and who are "in charge" of the canoe ensuring their ladies are safe and reach their destination unharmed, there is the horseplay of young men tipping canoes over and generally larking around, and there is the football hooligan who is seemingly lost.

We came across a few canoes exchanging insults.  Effectively there were canoes containing British hooligans who were goading a group of French young men.  There were insults flying in French and English and the English guys were timing their insults such that they thought they could paddle their way out of danger if necessary.  I know this because I heard them discussing their escape strategy.

It escalated to the point when one English lad shouted up river to the French group "Come and 'av a go if you think you're 'ard enough!"

The French decided the English boys, with their all too obvious insecurities, weren't worth the trip.

I was embarrassed for our nation.

Day 8, in which we got it very wrong

Today we let the children run the show.

Hannah came with me to the bakery van and she asked for the pain au chocolat, pain au raisin, croissant and baguette.  It went a bit pear-shaped when there wasn't enough pain au raisin but we coped.

We encouraged the children to browse a leaflet promoting the various activities in the area designed to attract tourists.  We asked them which attractions they wanted to visit.

One of the places they chose was Les Jardins De L'Imaginaire, which seemed like a good choice.  The main image was of an area full of fountains emerging from the ground and the description was of six hectares of beautiful gardens and fountains.  Show me a child that doesn't like running around a garden and playing in fountains.

It was only open for a few hours in the morning and a few in the afternoon with a long siesta in between.  I guessed it was about an hour away so we planned to leave at one o'clock to arrive at two.

We loaded just one of the SatNavs with the postcode and I picked one of the random streets attached to that postcode as I couldn't find the exact one mentioned in the literature.

45 minutes later we arrived at the destination, except it wasn't.  We'd reached the autoroute which was the random road I'd selected earlier.  We pulled over and considered our position.  We used the internet and maps on our phones to find we were actually a further 45 minutes from our intended destination.

When we arrived we discovered we could only enter the gardens by joining a guided tour, in French.  We paid up and were presented with a English printout of the tour.  The children were unimpressed.

It was dull.  The gardens were OK but I couldn't help feeling that if the Royal Horticultural Society got their hands on it then it would be much much better.  We eventually, after much "I'm bored", "I'm thirsty" and "I'm hungry" noises (from Hannah but mainly Ethan), arrived at the fountain in the picture.  It wasn't a fountain for play.  It was just one stopping point on the guided tour.

Ethan and Hannah tried to enjoy the fountain but I knew we were simply annoying people who wanted to take arty photos with their large-lensed cameras.

We left as soon as was decently appropriate.  Tomorrow the adults are in charge.

Day 7, in which we learn about the hittopotamus

At dinner Ethan launched into his routine of "Did you know..." and today it was the little known fact that "...hedgehogs can have up to five million spines?"

No I hadn't known that.

Earlier in the day I'd received a text in which someone told me they'd sorted out Tom's birthday party and could I hold the date.  I have no idea who texted me and I had no idea which Tom was having the party.  I consulted the children to see f they could shed light on the situation.

Ethan named the two Tommy's in his class with their exact birthdays.  How did he remember that?

I told Ethan he must have a huge memory, a huge hippocampus and there then followed a discussion about the difference between a hippopotamus, a hippocampus and a hittopotamus (what Ethan used to call a hippopotamus and, if I'm honest, still does).

We talked about London cabbies and their extraordinary memories because they need to learn the Knowledge and experiments have shown this results in enlarged hippocampi (plural of hippocampus?)

Dave piped up about the Dichotomous which is a large, two-headed, plant-eating mammal that lives in water, and to round things off I told him about the Monotonous which is a large, boring, plant-eating mammal that lives in water.

Day 6, in which Ethan is funny

This was the day that Dave and I relived a part of our childhoods.

We'd both holidayed in the Dordogne as children and both remember visiting caves in the area, none more impressive than Le Gouffre de Padirac near Rocamadour.

It was ideal cave visiting weather: wet and cold-ish.  We set off on a two hour journey with children plugged into Wallace and Gromit and The Curse of the Were Rabbit via the DVD players.

The SatNavs (always used in pairs) made for an interesting journey.  Even when we were passing signs clearly indicating Le Gouffre de Padirac we followed the SatNav and whilst the roads we took weren't exactly farm tracks, they proved to be an excellent route to test suspension ride quality.

The caves were perhaps more impressive than I remember, but being there triggered a few things I'd forgotten. Like my Dad's vertigo which he struggled to overcome as we climbed the steps towards the top of the steepest and highest cliff face within the cave.  I didn't remember the boat ride being as long as it was and I'm pretty sure the souvenir photo didn't feature when I was last there.

When we emerged into the daylight the rain was still there.  We ate lunch and headed home, children watching Wallace and Gromit on the return journey too.

Hunger was on our minds when we returned and I knew that we'd booked an archery session which would delay the evening meal so I opened a family-sized bag of bolognese flavoured crisps.  Not the nicest flavour I've ever tasted but Ethan was a fan.

He said they were better than ready salted, better than salt 'n' vinegar and better than porn and cocktails.

 

Day 5, in which Ethan was bored

As threatened, today was the day for exploring Bergerac.
For the record, it was quicker and easier to get to the Carrefour in Bergerac that it was to get to the one we went to on Day Three.  Not that we bothered to enter, but we passed it, twice.
Dave, being Dave, had printed off a list of walks in the local area before we left home.  One of these walks was around Bergerac.  So we used the trusty SatNavs (they should always be used in pairs) and they plonked us right near the old town.
Time to crack open the pain au chocolat from the bakery van.
We put Hannah in charge of navigating because she's good at it and Ethan wasn't interested.  And Ethan's lack of interest spilled out over everything for the rest of the morning.
He was bored.  Bergerac was boring.  The wine museum was boring.  The market was boring.  The churches were boring.  I was boring.
When it was time to stop and eat our lunch it was a blessed relief from the constant boredom spout that was my son.
I know you're thinking that there's some bad parenting going on here.  There must be a way to engage a small child and make a leisurely amble around an historic town interesting.  I tried, I really did.  When we got to the market we talked about the big fish on display and whether this was the biggest fish he'd ever seen.  Along the river bank we looked for boats and fish and rats (yes, there was a rat - what could be more exciting than a rat?  Was it a water rat or just a dirty rat?).  We looked for woodworm in the beams on the old buildings and talked about how how some of the new buildings were being built in the style of the old buildings.  We talked about cars and statues, dog poo and ice cream.  It was all boring.
So after lunch, eaten in sight of a crêperie and ice cream parlour (not sure what the french term for one of those is),  Ethan wanted an ice cream, or crêpe.  I wasn't sure that such an objectionable child was eligible for such a treat.  It was then that Ethan promised that if he were allowed such a treat he wouldn't be bored for the whole of the holiday.
We succumbed to ice cream because French ice cream is really quite nice.  But Ethan's was a hollow promise that lasted but a few hours.
Back at the ranch his mood improved while he was splashing around in the pool, but then he got cold (we didn't understand this as we were baking in the 30˚C plus heat).  And whilst he was recovering under a towel by the poolside, he declared he was "More bored than a bored person in Boredland."
I am clearly a failed mother, and boring to boot.

Day 4, in which we got our arses whooped

And the heavens opened.  It started with a bit of thunder and lightening and then came and went during the day.  It mainly went but when it came we were glad we stayed in.

We could have got up early and visited some impressive local caves or made it into Bergerac for a damp walk around the market, but we opted for less energetic activities, save for a late splash around in a pool.

After the obligatory visit to the bakery van, in time for pain au chocolat this time, we taught Hannah how to play cribbage.  We considered this a great bit of holiday homework.  To play well it is necessary to have grasp of probabilities, hone observational skills and be quick with mental arithmetic.

The first game was played with cards visible to aid learning.  This was won by Hannah.

Ethan had been observing the cribbage training and joined the next game, played with cards visible, and won by Ethan.

There were a few games that followed and, whilst Dave and I escaped complete humiliation by winning occasionally, we still had our arses whooped.

To further the children's tuition in educational gaming, we then moved on to Yahtzee, which also relies a knowledge of probabilities and quick mental arithmetic.  They beat us at that too.

I think we might treat them to a tour of Bergerac tomorrow

 

Day 3, in which we eventually had our daily pain au chocolat

The children woke at 7:30 which would normally be fine but this place is in the middle of nowhere.

The previous night I had looked across the fields and trees for a sign of civilisation.  I spotted two lights in the distance, close to the horizon.  In such peace and tranquility children can sound like a group of hyenas, and ours do, especially Ethan.  Dave tried gently to ask Ethan to use his quiet voice whereas I veer towards the "Shhhh!".  Neither has any impact for more than five seconds.

So at 7:30am I'm very conscious that the only noises I can hear come from my overly loud children.

We readied ourselves for a trip to the bakery van and, on the walk through the village, I prepare Ethan and Hannah to ask for "deux baguette et quatre pain au chocolat" and to say good morning with "Bonjour Madame." and to say thankyou with either a "Merci Madame" or a "Merci beaucoup".

She had no pain au chocolat.  We hadn't arrived in time.  We'd failed.  Brunch or "coffee time" as it's known in our house, was doomed.  The only thing that could save us was a trip to the shops.

The lady at reception, when asked, had explained that the best supermarket to head for was in Bergerac.  Being independent British people armed with technology we knew better.  Had I not specifically downloaded all Carrefour locations into my TomTom? It was obvious to one and all that we were equipped for this challenge.

I asked the in-car SatNav where the nearest Shopping Centre was.  I asked the TomTom where the nearest Carrefour was.  They agreed.  Off we went.

Except we didn't go anywhere near Bergerac.  In fact we went in the opposite direction.  For 46 kilometres.  Is anywhere in France further than 46 kilometres from the nearest Carrefour?  Really?

Once committed we couldn't admit that the lady, who lived locally and knew the area well, knew better than our technology, so we forged on knowing secretly that we were making a mistake.

Eventually we arrived, we shopped, we bought pain au chocolat and we ate pain au chocolat.  We have an inkling there may be a better way.  We might freestyle it next time and follow the signs saying Bergerac.

Day 2, in which we were not caught speeding

We had a leisurely start on Day 2 but at least we had in-car entertainment for the children because of our diligent efforts on Day 1.

The journey ahead of us was only about five hours plus stops but it's always nice to arrive early.

On a previous trip to France (skiing in Morzine) we'd been stopped for speeding.  I wasn't driving.

Being stopped by the French Gendarmerie was an unpleasant experience as we were escorted to an autoroute exit and Dave was extracted from the car and disappeared. For ages.  To be honest I thought they might be taking the opportunity for a bit of police brutality but actually they just wanted to hammer his credit card.

So Dave was sticking to the speed limit, or close to it.

On Day 1 I'd come up with a little ditty to keep Dave under the speed limit.  Every time I thought he was straying above the speed limit I'd say "Be bar be bar, nick nick nick." which I know sounds really stupid. Well let's dissect it.  The "Be bar be bar" bit it is my pathetic police car impression that Dave ridicules and the "Nick nick nick" bit is my little reminder that if he continues he'll be nicked.

Dave obviously has visual access to a speedometer because we didn't disconnect the speedo on Day 1.  We also have the satnav plugged in (yes, as well as the in-car nav) and the satnav shows the real speed of the car (I should put a disclaimer in here because it might not be 100% accurate) because it uses satellites.  And the satnav highlights the speed in red if it decides you're travelling too far over the speed limit.  This relies on it storing the right speed limit data but I had just updated map information so it was sort of accurate.

Well Ethan was looking out for the red speed and every time he saw it he said (in a loud and annoying voice) "Be bar be bar nick nick nick."  And he said it again, and again, and again.  Dave asked Ethan how long he wanted the journey to be and I know what you're thinking.  You're thinking that Dave said that because if Dave slowed down the journey would last longer but no....he was hinting that if Ethan carried on he'd be walking.

"Be bar be bar, nick nick nick."

Day 1, in which I am a genius

Day 1 looked promising.

We were out of bed, showered and breakfasted and we'd packing things in the car before I'd even remembered the first thing I'd forgotten.

Then I remembered Ethan hadn't written a Thank you card for his great Granny's birthday present, I remembered he hadn't done the one piece of homework he'd been given over the holidays (drawing a picture of our house), and I remembered I was going to try and find some architectural drawings, sign a contract and write a cheque.  It was all going so well.

One by one the items on the to-do list were eliminated (although frankly Ethan's effort at drawing our house was extremely pathetic and didn't even have a front door, but I was past caring) and we left on time, or would have done were it not for the fly in the ointment.

In preparation for driving across France (which, if you've not done it, is a long way) I'd bought a super duper DVD thing that attached to headrests and allows children to watch different DVDs.

We had one of these previously but it only played one DVD across two screens and we found the age and gender difference meant there were only two films Hannah and Ethan could ever agree on.  Then I mashed one of the leads in a Galaxy front seat height mechanism which was kindly replaced by Mr Argos without charge.  After some sterling service the 12V power lead lost it's metal end which, for the technically-minded among you, signals a problem as it's the metal bit that carries the electricity.   It still worked when plugged into the mains however which was a boon when Ford started producing cars with 3-pin sockets for rear seat passengers.  But eventually the discs stopped playing and we figured the player was destined for the great scrapheap in the sky, or at least the tip on Coxtie Green Road.

I'd tested the super duper player before our departure day because I knew there would be nothing more frustrating than the cries from the second row of seat "Mum, it won't play." or "Mum, how do I turn it on?" or "I can't hear anything." etc.  I knew how to attach it to the headrests using the stanchion mounts (even though I have no idea what stanchion means).  I could insert discs, get the audio coming through on the infra red speakers and adjust volume, pause the disc and anything else you could mention.  So it was a surprise on D-Day when it didn't work.

I married an engineer and, whilst I'm not an engineer, I do have a mind that works in a similar way.  We started the diagnosis and quickly hit upon issue with the 12V socket and suspected a fuse malfunction.

Five minutes late for our self-imposed departure target we headed off, mindful of the need to fix the fuse issue.  Dave drove and I assaulted the Owner's Handbook.

I suggested switching the instrument panel fuse for the faulty one as they shared the same current rating.  Dave thought we might need an instrument panel so I proffered the sunroof as an alternative swap.  The car didn't have a sunroof but I guessed the handbook was referring to the panoramic roof which is nice but not exactly essential. We opted for trying to find a new fuse.

A new fuse could come from a dealership except they all close on Sunday.  A quick tweet asking for advice resulted in several suggestions of Halfords but Dave was on a mission to make it to Eurotunnel.

In the AA shop at Eurotunnel Dave found fuses galore, both full-sized and mini.  At the same time I discovered the S-MAX had a rear power socket and plugged the DVD player into that.

So we had a temporary fix and the materials for a permanent fix. Or so we thought.

We drove to our overnight stop at Orléans and, while I cooked, Dave went to fix the car.  He'd seen and thought he'd bought mini fuses but had instead bought two sets of normal fuses and it was the mini ones he needed.  After much huffing and puffing and maybe a word or two in French, he swapped the sunroof and 12V power socket fuses.  Which I think is what I suggested earlier in the day.

 

 

Watching, listening and learning

We were driving in the car today listening to the news on Radio 4.

We were listening to reports about the riots around the country.  There were words like violence, riots and criminality reaching our ears.  When we reached home Ethan wanted to tell me something.

"Mummy.  You know the riots?"

"Yes."

"You know the criminal stuff?"

"Yes."

"We don't do that do we?  It's something we don't do."

"That's right.  We don't.  And I hope you never will."

Media circus

I'm middle class, middle aged, read the Guardian (online) and watch C4 News.  My views are thus influenced.

I think the riots that have been taking place over the last few days have nothing, or very little, to do with the shooting of Mark Duggan.

Initially, in Tottenham, there was a peaceful protest.  Word spread, and people who weren't happy with police stop and search policy joined the protest but stepped it up a notch with violence and thuggery aimed predominantly at the police.

What happened next was that word spread further.  Something was happening and it was probably more exciting than Saturday night telly.  So people headed out onto the streets and the police represented authority.  Authority, the Government, was what had reduced benefits and screwed up the economy so that getting a job was nigh on impossible.  Making a big fuss about that seemed attractive.

Whilst the violent protests were happening the disaffected realised that they had power and could get away with pretty much anything.  The police were under-resourced, because of the Government cuts, and were outnumbered.  So the looting started.  If you don't have a job and your benefits have been cut then the opportunity to steal the stuff you can't afford to buy might have been tempting.

The media were all over this rioting and the social networking sites were awash with images and video.  Everyone was looking at Tottenham and, let's be honest, people normally don't care about Tottenham at all.  I'm not anti-Tottenham; I could equally say that people don't care about Newton Abbot.  The point was that nobody cared until people were misbehaving.

It's a bit like children being naughty to get attention.  The child that's being naughty (Tottenham) gets all of the attention and the previously good child (Hackney) is jealous.  The good child then resorts to bad behaviour because it knows that being bad results in attention.

So we now have Tottenham, Hackney, Lewisham, Stratford, Catford, Croydon, Bethnal Green, Whitechapel, Enfield, Birmingham and so on, all competing to be on Sky News, BBC News, C4 News, Twitter, Facebook, etc.

And now Cameron is coming back to sort out the naughty children; but every parent knows that this sort of behaviour should have consequences without attention.  We need a metaphorical naughty step.

I'm not retweeting pictures of rioting because this behaviour should not be promoted and given air time.  I honestly believe that media, including social media, is making this situation worse.  But it's the people behind the cameras and the people retweeting the images that are helping to promote the riots.  So stop it.  Please.

The pros and cons of Twitter

Twitter can be great, but today was a day when perhaps I should only have looked at my twitter stream in the morning.

Today was the day we were taking Hannah and Ethan to stay with their aunt and uncle in Surrey.

This morning, as every morning, I turned my phone on to see what was happening in the Twitterverse and saw a handy little bit of information tweeted by @M25_Traffic:

I did some investigating and realised there was no easy way to get through the traffic caused by this closure.  We could have driven through London but I'm sure too many other people would have had that thought so we started to consider alternatives.  Friends (who clearly don't know me well) suggested taking the helicopter but Ethan suggested the train.

I had a look and the journey wasn't too long and the fare wasn't unreasonable.  I wanted to check the online fare would be the same as a fare bought in the station so called National Express and spoke to someone in an Indian call centre who confirmed it would be.  The Indian call centre features further on in the story but probably deserves a blog in its own right.

We drove to the station, parked in the £3.90 car park and bought our train tickets.  The earlier research into fares paid off as I was able to tell the person at the ticket desk that the first fare he quoted was too high and that there was a cheaper alternative.

No sooner had we made it to the right platform it became clear that we weren't going to be able to travel from Shenfield.  There had been a fatality at Brentwood and the location of the fatality was now a crime scene and no trains would be passing through.

This was confirmed by @NRE_NXEA:

We assessed our options and someone at the station suggested driving to West Horndon and catching a train from on the C2C line.

I went back to the ticket desk and asked whether we should get a refund on our tickets and start again, or whether the tickets we had bought would be valid on the C2C line.  I was told that a refund wasn't necessary and our tickets would be valid.

We realised the £3.90 car parking charge wouldn't be refundable which seemed wrong but got in the car and made our way to West Horndon.  En route I called National Express and had the most frustrating conversation with a woman in the same Indian call centre.  I wanted to know whether West Horndon was the most sensible alternative to Shenfield.  She failed to listen and comprehend the situation and she clearly had no idea about the geography of Essex and where Shenfield was in relation to anywhere.  It was when she finally suggested the best alternative was Brentwood (remember, the crime scene, the location of the fatality, all of which had been explained earlier in the call) that I nearly lost my patience.

At West Horndon, forking out more for another car park, we made it onto the right train, and platform.

We made our way with children and umpteen bags (containing amongst other things a Nintendo Wii and two child car seats) to Surrey and arrived in time for lunch.  And then it was time to say goodbye to the children and head back home.

As we travelled back towards Waterloo I checked my Twitter feed and saw this:

This worried me.  We had been told our tickets would be valid on C2C but this tweet said something different.  Our car was parked at a C2C station.  It seemed we had three choices: buy tickets back to West Horndon and the car, travel back to Shenfield and get a taxi to West Horndon to collect the car, or challenge the ticket validity change.

I tweeted back:

Somehow @nationalrailenq had been following events and decided to pitch in with their view

But their response was very similar @NRE_NXEA:

Help how exactly?:

And so it went on.  Now if I hadn't seen the tweet about tickets no longer being accepted on C2C services I would have been none the wiser.  We would have travelled back assuming our tickets were valid and we would have been fine.  So I pretended I hadn't seen the tweet, whilst continuing my dialogue with @NRE_NXEA on Twitter because I could, and it provided amusement for the return journey.

Our tickets weren't challenged, but I did have the evil notion that I should send a tweet like this:

 

The answer

Last week I blogged a blog about a maths problem that had been set for primary school homework.  I asked you how you'd solve the problem.

Here's how I solved it.  I thought like a child, which is how I solve a lot of problems.

A reminder of the problem: How do you work out which two whole numbers between 50 and 70 which, when multiplied together produce 4095?

I thought about what times tables a child should be expected to know at the age of nine and how those tables might relate to the question.

I realised that the number 4095 ended in a five which would mean that one of the numbers I was looking for (between 50 and 70) would have to be divisible by five but, because 4095 ends in a five, it would also have to end in a five.

This meant that one of the multipliers was either 55 or 65.  From here the maximum number of calculations the pupil has to do is two.  I did some long division (actually I cheated and used my calculator because it's decades since I've done any long division) and discovered that the multipliers are 65 and 63.

Ta da!

But I am in awe of the far more impressive calculations that many of you proffered.  I am not worthy (despite still having the scientific calculator that I had at school).  You can all have a sticker.

Emergency School Holiday Plan

I normally save this for a point later in the school summer holidays.  It's the "Emergency School Holiday Plan" which should only be deployed in case of emergencies.
Yesterday was the first day of the holidays that I was spending with Hannah and Ethan.
Last Friday didn't count because a) it was an inset day and b) Hannah spent most of the day at the local horse sanctuary having an "experience".  She was mucking out horses, preparing feed, grooming and generally having a good time and learning about horses (and pigs and goats and....because even though it's a horse sanctuary they do other things too.)
Weekends don't count because they don't and because weekends happen all year; school holidays don't.
Monday to Wednesday didn't count because the children were staying with their grandparents.
So yesterday was our first day together.  And I had an appointment with British Gas in the morning and "Fridgeman" in the afternoon.
Our boiler has been kaput for an age and this was the first time I'd been able to get an appointment on a day when I could be at home during the morning or afternoon.  And our fridge went pop earlier this week so Dave arranged for Fridgeman (nice chap from C & M Domestic Appliances) to pop round and fix the fridge (or try to).
This meant we were tied to the house and, after a DVD morning, the children needed a project.  I resorted to the tried and tested plan without any regard for the consequences: Camping in the garden.
I didn't get the big tents out, just the two man tent that Dave and I used to use.  The project involves putting the tent up, making up beds and ensuring the tent is filled with home comforts and then, the final touch, sleeping in the tent overnight.
I now have nowhere to go.  The Emergency Plan has been deployed and there is nothing left.

Maths homework

Yes really.  Maths homework.

I know, I know, 90% of you have switched off now because if there's one thing you weren't good at when you were at school it was Maths, or Math if you're American.  Well imagine you have a nine or ten year old who has come home with homework.  Do you want to know the type of homework that they might receive these days?

Well this homework wasn't received by one of my children but by a friend's.

I got this text "Hi Ann.  I hope you're well. 'Cos you're really good at maths.  How do you work out which two whole numbers between 50 and 70 which, when multiplied together produce 4095?  (Johnny's homework)  Is it a case of trial and error?"

Well firstly can I set the record straight... I used to be better than average at Maths.  I did take two Maths A Levels and even went on to study Maths at University.  The decision to study Maths at University was stupid and I should have listened to my A Level teachers who warned me that it was a stupid decision.

So anyway, can you work it out?  It's from an old SATS paper.

Is this what we expect our nine year olds to be able to do?

Diggerland June 11

Diggerland June 11, a set on Flickr.

Diggerland trip for Hannah's birthday. If you haven't been, you should (Rochester in Kent and elsewhere around the UK).

Confession

It's Saturday evening and if I were religious I might be preparing a confession.

I'm not religious but here's a confession anyway.

To the owner of the Seat parked outside my house, registration number ND07 KUJ, I'm sorry.

I called the police and reported it as abandoned. It was Lesley's fault really.

I'd spotted your car after it had acquired the parking ticket. I noticed that the car stayed there for a few days after the ticket was stuck to the windscreen.

Lesley deliberately bumped into me to discuss the car, suggesting I should report it.

I'm easily led and, after inspecting the car (6 month tax disc expiring at the end of the month and some collision damage on the driver's side), I called the local bobby who was a woman. What's the feminine of bobby or is it just bobby?

Nothing has happened. There's been no activity to slap an offensive "POLICE AWARE" sticker on the vehicle so I assume it's not stolen or abandoned.

And I bumped into Patrick. He'd also reported it, but to the Council, who have equally taken no action. Do the Council call the Police? Who should be notified? Where should nosey neighbours turn when their inner Neighbourhood watch emerges?

Patrick had the best idea. We should phone webuyanycar.com and make a bit of money. Now there's a thought.

Stupid design

I sometimes take pills.

Sometimes they're the compressed powder ones (like Paracetamol or Aspirin), sometimes they are the sugar coated ones (like Ibuprofen) and sometimes they are the caplets (made up word) (like Co-codamol or Fluoxetine).  (Haven't taken Fluoxetine for a while although I keep threatening to.)

The compressed powder tablets are disgusting and dry and have to be taken with water.

The sugar coated ones are yummy but only if quickly swallowed with water because as soon as that sugar coating wears off you're left with the foul taste of the drug.

The plastic caplet things are the worst by far.  In the first instance they are usually huge (except Fluoxetine which was quite modest in size).  The dumb thing about these is that they also need to be taken with water but they float.  They float!!!

You pop a caplet in your mouth and add some water and the damn caplet is floating on top of the water in your mouth and when it's floating it's further away from where it needs to be which is the throat.  All of this means that it's harder to take the medicine to the point that the caplet starts to dissolve.  And that's just gross.  You're left panicking and desperate to swallow the drugs.

Anyway all of this explains why I actually (madness and toothache apart) try and avoid pill popping.

The ultimate strapless bra

Strapless bras are generally useless.  I've lost track of the number I've bought and discarded soon after because they simply don't work.

The first issue is that generally, in order to provide support that isn't there because of the lack of straps, they are very substantial.  This means that a low neckline can't be accommodated.

Some strapless bras are constructed of such heavyweight materials, in an attempt to provide support, that they don't mould to the body and the wearer spends all day hoiking the bra back in place.

Then there are the multiway bras which are the worst of all strapless bras.  As a bra worn with straps they are overly bulky and cumbersome and as a strapless bra they usually lack shape and support.

Wonderbra has the answer and they call it the Ultimate Strapless Bra.

I've used it, more than once, and it is, quite simply, brilliant and well worth the money (about £34).

The first this that impressed me was its ability to stay in place.  All day.  Once it's on, that's it until you, or someone else, decides it needs to come off.  And it's as comfortable as any other bra but so much better than any other strapless bra I have ever bought.

The second thing is that it can be worn with low top.  It sits quite low which means that the dip at the cleavage point is quite low.

The last thing is either a plus point or a negative depending upon your point of view.  It enhances cleavage.  I don't need or want that and I think it makes me look like a matron but there are plenty of cleavage enhancing bras on the market which tells me there's a demand.  As far as I'm concerned it's a disadvantage I'm happy to live with and I know others will see it as a bonus.

A new use for Twitter

Today I took several of Hannah's friends off to Diggerland.

I understand that when someone else is taking your child somewhere there's some nervousness on the part of the parent.  You want to know your child is safe and having fun.

I could have texted parents regularly.  I could have tweeted our progress using my usual Twitter account but the tweets would have been meaningless and overly numerous for people who follow that account.  So I decided to set up an event Twitter account.

The Twitter account @260611 was created for today.  To follow it parents didn't need to set up a Twitter account they could just go straight to twitter.com/260611.

This provided, almost, real time reporting of activity, except where I needed my hands for driving or eating or whatever.

As well as reassurance for parents it provides the children with a record of the day.

The only issue was relying on the 3G network to upload images.  This was suboptimal but not a project killer.  And the next time I need a similar facility I just need to change the account name.

Root canal myth buster

Scary isn't it?  You're recoiling at the thought.  You're perhaps imagining pain travelling like electricity along nerves, causing the worst pain imaginable.

Well I've been there, and I have a few myths to bust.

This morning I went to the dentist with a dental abscess.  I'd obviously googled the condition and after reading the words "can be fatal" and "should see dentist as soon as possible" I was outside the dental surgery at 8:00am this morning to obtain an emergency appointment at 8:50am.

The dentist had a quick look, took three x-rays (that's what the bill said but I swear he only took one), and told me I needed a root canal treatment.

I broke out into a cold sweat and adrenalin coursed through my veins.  The flight response was stronger than the fight response but my body was definitely responding to a threat.

I asked the dentist lots of questions and he told me he was going to drill a hole in the back of the tooth, put some antibiotics in the drilled hole (despite the fact I'd already started a course of antibiotics) and then apply a temporary filling.

I asked if he was going to give me an anaesthetic injection (because those can really hurt) and he said "No" which worried me.  He explained the nerve was dead and I wouldn't feel a thing.

I was unbelievably nervous. Root canal treatment has a bad reputation, but today I discovered that, if the nerve has died, then root canal treatment is painless and really quick.

Granted my body was full of adrenalin and that natural inbuilt pain relief wore off after about an hour, but a dose of Nurofen was all it took to put me back into a pain-free state.

I was at work by 9:20am.  I certainly didn't expect that.

So if your dentist uses the words root canal treatment, don't panic.  It'll be OK*.

 

*providing the nerve is dead

The NHS is sick

On Thursday I needed a doctor's appointment.  I thought I was suffering from Bruxism and was controlling the resultant pain with painkillers which was proving to be a moderately successful strategy.  When I was told my doctor wasn't available until Tuesday I thought I could wait and manage with painkillers until the appointment.

On Saturday I reached a point where the painkillers were no longer working, the pain was intense and I needed help.

It wasn't an emergency because I hadn't broken anything and I wasn't going to die so A&E was out of the question.  I didn't want to trouble an out of hours doctor who might be on call so, in tears, I drove to the local Community Hospital.  There was a sign pointing to the side of the building for the Out of Hours service.  I went though the doors and was met with advice to use antibac gel to keep germs at bay.  There was no gel dispenser to be seen.

The Out of Hours service seemed to be through doors that were locked.  There was a sign on the door stating that it was a wheelchair and ambulance access only and all others were to use the main entrance.  I walked, in tears and in the rain, round to the main entrance to find that was also locked.  A security chap poked his head through a window and when I explained what I was looking for he pointed me in the direction of the doors I'd tried initially.  I walked, frustrated, in tears and in the rain, back to the first set of doors and used the intercom.

I was asked what I wanted and I explained.  I was asked whether I had an appointment and when I said "No." I was told I needed to call my doctor to get an appointment.  He offered to come out and explain.

In tears and very frustrated and called my doctor and handed over my details for an appointment at the Out of Hours doctor based at the Community Hospital.  I was told I'd get a call.

The chap at the hospital came to find me mid call to the Out of Hours service and let me in.  He explained my details needed to come through on the system before I could see the doctor.  I could tell he thought I was a case deserving pity and I heard him talking to someone in an office who needed to know I was already there and in a lot of pain.  He was right, by the way, I was pitiful.

About a minute later my details popped through onto the hospital system and I was in seeing the doctor with the bad body odour.  The BO is immaterial but when you're in pain and want to get better being overpowered by BO isn't great.

He told me he didn't think it was an abscess (which was the result of my own self-diagnosis) but he wrote me a prescription for antibiotics anyway.  He told me I needed to see a dentist.  You see if it was an abscess then I would need to see a dentist but bruxism is caused by mental health factors which can't be fixed by a dentist.  It probably can't be fixed by a doctor either but he has more of a chance of knowing what needs doing.

I asked if there was an out of hours dental service and he laughed and said getting to see a dentist was a nightmare.  He told me that if I turned up at A&E they might have a dentist on duty.  This wasn't overly reassuring.

I left, having had no sight of any antibac gel, with a useless prescription and a growing sense of despair.

I still have pain.  The painkillers are barely touching the surface.

I'm off to see Derren Brown tonight.  You might think I'm mad but distraction is a good cure for pain.  Additionally there is just a tiny bit of me that is hoping that Derren might somehow hypnotise me and make the pain go away.  This may seem like clutching at straws and you'd be right, but sometime straws are the only things left.

Orange and date muffins and indignant rage

I made these the other day because I needed to make something and happened to have both oranges and dates in the house.

I was feeling guilty about not having baked anything for the School Sports Day cake sale so, in the small window of time I have on Thursdays between leaving work and doing the school run, I got baking.
I took these, fresh from the oven to the school office.  I went to the Infant School office first and was met with a blank look.  They weren't expecting any bakes but wanted a quick peek to see what I'd made.  Freshly baked orange and date muffin aroma filled the office and was quickly followed by the request for a sample.  We agreed I ought to check the Junior School office.
As I handed over my wares to the Junior School office they said "Thanks.  If it's rained off can we have these in the staff room?"
What would you have said?  I used a small window of time in a busy week to bake muffins for a cake sale to raise funds for the school and the office staff fancied diverting them to the staffroom.  What I thought and what I said differed.  What I said, through gritted teeth, was "Only if you give some money to charity."
Anyway, Sports Day was rained off but the cake sale went ahead. My indignant rage wasn't required.
But we digress.  Easy peasy orange and date muffins.
Ingredients

• 280g plain flour
• 1 1/2 baking powder
• 1/2 soda bicarbonate
• pinch of salt
• 110g sugar (caster or granulated)
• 1 egg
• 4 tsps of orange rind, roughly what you'd get from two large oranges
• 180ml orange juice (from the grated oranges and topped up with stuff from a carton)
• 90ml corn oil
• 85g chopped dates (I used posh medjool dates but only because they were in the fridge taking up space and needed eating/cooking.  I'm sure any dates would be just fine.)

Optional, but oh so sticky and gooey, glaze

• 85g icing sugar
• 4 tsps orange juice
• 1/4 tsp grated orange rind

Method

• This recipe makes about 11 muffins so pop your muffin cases in your muffin tin and crank the oven up to 160°C.
• In a large bowl stir flour, baking powder soda bicarb, salt and sugar.
• In another bowl, beat egg and add grated rind, juice and oil.
• Pour wet mixture into dry and stir until no dry flour remains.  Add dates in final few strokes.
• Spoon into muffin cases and bake for 20 minutes ish, until they are a lovely golden brown.
• Wile the muffins are baking combine the glaze ingredients and then drizzle over hot muffins when they come out of the oven.
• These muffins freeze well (as I told the lady in the school office.)

Enjoy.

Ginger loaf (with butter icing)

I made this for the first time the other week and it worked first time.  I didn't do the butter icing because it seemed messy and overly complicated for an office bake.  For home consumption where there's time, crockery, cutlery etc and not just cake tins and napkins, then the butter icing might be a nice add.

I have to say it was on a table next to the cherry and pecan muffins and nobody chose the ginger loaf except me.  Their loss.  I thought it was yummy.

Ingredients

• 450g plain flour
• 1 1/2 tsp ground ginger
• 2 tsp baking powder
• 1/2 tsp bicarbonate of soda
• pinch of salt
• 6 fat knobs of stem ginger in syrup, roughly chopped
• 220g soft brown sugar
• 170g unsalted butter
• 350g golden syrup
• 280ml milk
• 1 egg
• (150g unsalted butter at room temperature and 200g icing sugar for butter icing)

Method

• Grease and line two 900g (large) loaf tins.  This means buttering the tins, lining with baking parchment and buttering the baking parchment.  I hate this part of baking but it is worth the effort.
• Preheat fan oven to 160°C.
• Stir flour, ground ginger, baking powder, bicarb and salt.  Add chopped ginger and stir again.
• Tip butter, sugar and golden syrup into a saucepan and warm through.  It helps to chop the butter and you are warming everything through, not cooking it.  You just need to get it to the point where the syrup is running.
• Remove from heat and stir in milk and then lightly beat in the egg.
• Tip this wet mixture into the dry ingredients and beat until well mixed.
• Pour mixture into the two tins and bake for 60-70 minutes until a skewer can be inserted and removed and remain clean.  If, during cooking, you are concerned that the top is getting too brown, then loosely cover with foil.
• If you fancy making butter icing as an accompaniment then beat the butter at room temperature until light and fluffy and then beat in the icing sugar.

 

 

Cherry and Pecan Muffins

Makes 10-12 muffins

Ingredients

• 250g plain flour
• 3 tsps baking powder
• 1/2 tsp salt
• 85g sugar (caster or granulated)
• 1 egg
• 240ml milk
• 90ml corn oil
• 110g chopped glacé cherries
• 60g chopped pecans (you can use walnuts if you want to)

Method

• Put muffin cases in muffin tin
• Preheat oven to 160°C if fan oven.
• In a large bowl stir flour, salt, baking powder and sugar.  You can sift the flour if you really want to (I don't think it makes much of a difference).
• In a separate bowl beat egg with a fork.  Stir in milk, oil and cherries.
• Pour liquid ingredients into dry and stir until just combined.  Add the chopped walnuts during the last few strokes.
• Spoon into muffin cases and pop in the oven for 20 minutes.  Our oven doesn't cook evenly so at 17 minutes I turn the muffin tin through 180 degrees.  At 20 minutes if they look like they need a couple of extra minutes then leave the muffins in for a little longer.
• These muffins freeze well and a 30 second blast of a frozen muffin in the microwave makes it the perfect accompaniment to a cup of coffee.

Windows scam

I received a telephone call from a scam artist yesterday and I thought I'd share the experience because, although I figured out what was going on, I think it would be useful to let you know what to avoid.

The call is from 24seven PC Care who are (NOT) a Microsoft partner.  It's an Indian accent you'll hear and the person who calls you is based in Manchester (NOT).

If you have caller id then the number may show as 0123456789 but when you ask your caller they'll explain that's because they're using VOIP, except they don't call it VOIP because they assume you're an idiot.  I have no idea whether they used VOIP.

Normally with this type of call I string them along for a bit and then end the call.  I did start by doing that but we had just recently bought some Windows software.  Whilst I started as an extreme sceptic I did start to wonder if the call was valid.

My caller had an Indian accent, and because so many companies have call centres in India I wasn't surprised by the accent.  I was surprised when he said he was based in Manchester, and gave me a Manchester telephone number 0161 408 4448.   Clearly an Indian accent in Manchester isn't impossible but this individual was so difficult to understand I was amazed he'd passed any interview for a job in a call centre.  And he said his name was Michael Davies.  Again this isn't impossible for someone in Manchester with a heavy Indian accent, but it is unlikely.

As the call was just a conversation I decided to give the caller the benefit of the doubt to the point of switching on the PC and following some simple instructions.  I knew that nothing I was doing was changing anything on my machine.  I can't recall what I was looking at, it's in a convoluted menu area that you wouldn't normally access.  The point of this exercise was to persuade me that my PC was infected by a virus.

Once I was wondering whether my machine really was infected I was told to go to the following web address: www.24sevenpccare.com.  I didn't, and neither should you.  At this point I said I was going to leave the call and check the credentials of the company and my caller.

The caller then became quite agitated and insisted he was trying to help me.  He told me it was clear I didn't know anything about computers and my computer was dangerously infected.  I told him he was rude and aggressive and that, if the call was legitimate he'd have no problem with me ending the call, checking credentials and calling back.  And then I put the phone down.

And then I googled "24sevenpccare scam" and found a plethora of information.  You can find it too, here.

 

Ryan's Daughter

This isn't a blog about a film starring Robert Mitchum, it's about a different Ryan and his daughter Liberty, son Zachary and wife Stacey. It's about the Welsh dragon Ryan Giggs and the very messy super injunction.

I've been thinking about why Giggs has continued to try and prevent this story entering the public domain and it might be because of his wife.

Imagine what's been going on in the Giggs household.

Ryan knows he's been found out and he knows he needs to tell his wife before she finds out from somewhere else. She can't bear the thought of the loss of face.

She wants to try and preserve the marriage but she can't bear the thought of the tabloid press and gossip magazines splashing this salacious tittle tattle all over their front pages, especially as she and Ryan are trying to patch things up.

Or maybe I'm wrong and Giggs has been so stupid that he's honestly felt that a super injunction can prevent his wife from finding out about his indiscretion.

Charity

My donations to charity fall into several categories: large one-off donations, regular direct debit, sponsorship and small adhoc donations.  I like to choose the charities that will receive my money in my own time and I don't like the so-called chuggers who approach you in the street, tell you about a terrible injustice somewhere in the world, and then ask you to sign up for a direct debit benefiting the charity for whom they work.

I understand why charities want people to sign up for direct debits.  Once you've signed up it's a pretty much guaranteed regular income with no more effort or resource on the part of the charity fundraising department.

But chugging is intrusive and it has a very negative approach that requires that the victim feel guilty.  Giving to charity should be something that is done willingly without coercion and it should be something that makes the giver feel good.  Channel 4's Secret Millionaire programme highlights very well how giving is good for the soul.

Earlier this year I made a large donation to UNICEF.  I'm sure the money will be put to good use.

Today I received a call from UNICEF.  They were grovelingly grateful for my donation which made me feel uncomfortable.  The tone of the conversation was deferential which I don't like.  I prefer conversations that are on an even footing and have balance.

The call then turned into a telephone chugging that involved asking me to sign up for a direct debit after telling me about the paucity of childhood vaccinations in third world countries.

I've signed up to the telephone preference service at home because I don't like uninvited intrusion into my home life.  I despise the High Street chugging activity and was very unimpressed that UNICEF choose to spend money on telephone chugging existing supporters in their own homes.

So UNICEF, if you're listening, please spend time on researching and profiling your supporters because if you carry on approaching supporters inappropriately you will tarnish your brand image which is likely to lead to less support in the future.

Speed Awareness Course - Part 2

The course was scheduled for four and a half hours in Aylesford Rugby Club.

Gratuitous shot of rugby players from Aylesford Rugby Club:

Anyway it's not quite the venue I imagined for a Speed Awareness Course but the venue was as unexpected as the offender list.  Speeders, it seems, are young, old, very old, male, female, white collar, blue collar, unemployed.

So what does a Speed Awareness Course cover?  Well I think that depends on the course provider and the area that the course is in.  So anything you read here applies to rugby clubs in Kent.

The first thing we did was write our names on the tent cards on our table.  The joker on our table wrote his name as "Speedy".  How we laughed.

The second thing we did was a bit of an ice breaker.  In groups we had to identify some road signs.  This served to highlight the general ignorance in the room.  I didn't find my own ignorance too surprising as the Highway Code is a book I haven't opened for a lot of years, and actually I knew more than the rest of my group, but still not enough.

There then followed a similar exercise in which we had to identify the speed limit for different roads without the aid of visual stimulus.  I got into a bit of an argument then because the instructor told us that Transit vans weren't one tonne vans.  I said they were available as one and two tonne vans.  I almost started to go into wheelbase and drive options but realised I was there to learn.  (She was wrong, I think).

The rest of the course is a bit of a blur.  I sort of started to lose interest when they stopped testing us.  We were forced to watch one of those hideous adverts promoting the message "Think! Kill your speed."  There then followed extended over-analysis of the video and some pseudo role play in which we assumed the role of the characters in the film.  I mean I love am dram and did Drama 'O' Level but in a room of adults that don't want to know one another and who only have "being naughty" in common, it's just inappropriate.

I think we were treated to some road casualty stats that I already knew and then we did some defensive driver classroom training which isn't a patch on defensive driver training in a car.

Did I mention I walked out with a new copy of the Highway Code and a pen.  I didn't steal these, they were being given away.  I'm not a criminal.

Speed Awareness Course - Part 1

I took part in the new Ford Focus launch in February.  It took place "oop north" near Rotherham, based at the Magna Science Centre.

The day was structured with classroom sessions around a drive section.  The drive followed a predefined route that was followed with a clever thingy that used GPS and the car's speakers to tell me about the features of the vehicle and give me directions.

Before the drive we were paired up for the drive and received a safety briefing that reminded us not to speed.  We were told there were speed cameras en route and the police had been advised of our route specifically.

I wasn't worried as I had no intention of speeding.

My drive partner drove the first half of the route and after an extended halfway break I took over the driving.  At this point I was having a conversation, driving an unfamiliar car, listening to a description of vehicle features and also driving instructions and directions.  I was of course also paying attention to speed limits.

It was a good day and the new Ford Focus is very impressive.  I think it might be my next car, in Candy Red.

Anyway, two weeks later I received details of a speeding ticket.  I knew it couldn't possibly be mine so I queried the time of the ticket.  It tallied with the time I was driving.  I asked whether there was a photo and was told that there was but it wouldn't show who was driving.

I even went as far as trying to re-drive the route using Google Streetview to spot speed limit signs because I was so convinced I hadn't exceeded the speed limit.  As  didn't know the area well this last desperate attempt proved to be futile as it was too difficult to recall the route and "drive" it online.

Either South Yorkshire Police had screwed up, or I had.  Respect for authority and an acknowledgment of my fallibility meant I completed the paperwork that acknowledged my guilt.  Guilty of travelling at 36mph in a 30mph limit (except I still think it must have been a 40mph limit).

I was offered the option of a Speed Awareness Course at a cost of £80 and no points or I could take the three points and pay a £60 fine.  I opted for the former.

After explaining that a course in Rotherham wasn't that convenient I was offered a course in Kent.  The admin involved in booking the course was quite painful and frustrating.  Despite completing a form with my details and returning it I received a confirmation addressed to the wrong person and with the wrong offence date.  The name was a small mistake, but if you're doing this because of an offence it's important the details are correct.  The offence date error wasn't an error at all, simply the only way the Kent system could process my information.  I was told "not to worry" but I wasn't very comfortable.  In the future would someone understand that the Kent system doesn't work properly and doesn't always have a record of the correct offence date?  After several telephone calls with perhaps the most patronising man ever, I gave up and paid my money.

A few months later I went on the course...

 

Hannah's sandals

This is perhaps not my most inspiring blog title.  Perhaps I could do better, but maybe there's a reason I'm not giving it 100%.  Maybe the subject has drained my imagination.

I bought Hannah some sandals on May 1st and yesterday, May 11th, they broke.  Hannah had to walk from the breakfast club (not at the school) to school wearing sandals that she couldn't do up because the buckle prong had fallen off.  Once at school she then had the foresight to change into her P.E. trainers and spent the rest of the school day wearing them.

Today Hannah was back wearing black shoes to school and this afternoon I traipsed into town with offending sandals.

There was an assistant at the checkout.  Initially she seemed preoccupied because she didn't acknowledge me.  I took the sandals and receipt out of the bag and placed them on the counter.

Eventually I was greeted with eye contact.  There wasn't an "Hello" or "Can I help you?" so I started the conversation with "Hi.  I bought these less than a fortnight ago and they've broken." and was met with a blunt "Well whaddya wanna do?"  I said I'd like a replacement pair as Hannah didn't have any sandals to wear to school.  She said nothing, peered at the receipt and went off to the stock room.

When she returned I discovered I'd have to order a replacement pair.  As she went through the re-ordering process there was a lot of mumbling and grumbling about how slow and unresponsive the system was.  This noise wasn't directed at me but at a colleague, but I couldn't help hear every whinging detail.

She paused to ask me for my address and looked closer at my receipt for some details before giving me the receipt for the order.

I asked for my receipt back and she said "Are you sure?  It's only got shoe cream left on it."  "Actually" I said "there's another pair of sandals on there."  "Oh, really.  I'm sorry, I didn't see that.  Oh well if you want to take that back I'll need your details on here" and she pushed a form under my nose that needed name and address details that I'd already provided for the order.  I pointed out that she already had my details and she said "Well you can always decline but...." and frankly I stopped listening, filled in my details, thanked her and left.

I'm not an expert in retail but the minimum I would expect in these circumstances, if I ran Clarks, would be:

• Customers receive a friendly greeting at the beginning of a conversation.
• If nobody is available to help someone looking for assistance then the customer should be told that someone will be available soon.
• If goods are faulty then the first thing that should happen is that the customer should receive an apology. Then the customer should be offered a replacement or, if this is declined, a refund.
• If an order is necessary to provide a replacement then a customer should only have to provide details once.
• As the customer is leaving they should be thanked for taking the time to bring the item into the shop.

I forgive Clarks for the faulty footwear but I don't forgive sloppy, unwelcoming, unfriendly, lazy customer service.

Come on Clarks.  You can do better.

Local Councils and consultations

The Council are conducting a "Neighbourhood Consultation" about the Brentwood Local Plan.  I knew about this because there was a leaflet that came through the door, probably as a local paper insert.

The leaflet didn't look like something from the council, in fact it looked more like it was promoting a party supply shop.

The "party supply shop" leaflet advised that the Council would be holding public consultations in a variety of places, one of which would be Brentwood High Street, on May 7th.

I turned up today expecting to find enthusiastic Council employees eager to solicit the public's views on Planning policy and potential future development.  What I found was somewhat different.

A gazebo over a table was surrounded by "nice young people" who were both nice and young but not directly employed by the Council.  The Consultation appears to have been outsourced to a group who have run consultations elsewhere and so are very versed in planning policy and how to gather opinion.  What they don't know is Brentwood or anything about the particular planning concerns that are relevant to this area.

The method for obtaining opinion varied depending upon the member of the public with whom they were dealing.  People who knew about the process and the current planning policy were invited to write their thoughts on small post-it notes and this was the category into which I seemed to fall.  Other people who just happened to be passing were encouraged to talk with their views being captured by the nice young folk who were writing on small post-it notes.  None of the ideas on the post-it notes were being attributed to any particular individual.  There was no data capture for future follow up.

I decided this was rather inefficient and asked for an e-mail address so I could send in my extensive thoughts on the matter.  The woman I was talking to looked startled by my request and told me she thought she'd seen one somewhere.  There were some leaflets on display and I suggested that an e-mail address might be there and she "didn't think so."  I looked and there was an e-mail address for further information but it was email@brentwood.gov.uk which is an e-mail address for all manner of general enquiries and perhaps not the best for a targeted consultation.  She then mentioned that there were some questionnaires "somewhere" and, sure enough, after a rummage around under the table she found a questionnaire with all of the information I needed.

If you do want to participate in this consultation, and you do want to have your details attributed to your input, then visit www.brentwood.gov.uk/your neighbourhood. For some strange reason this link is configured such that it won't work without the www.  And you can also e-mail planning.policy@brentwood.gov.uk for more copies of questionnaires or to find out more about the consultation.  There's also a telephone number 01277 312610.

You have until July 1st and by completing a questionnaire you could win £50 of shopping vouchers (there are no terms and conditions that explain which shops so it could be for multiple copies of the Mayor's 2011 calendar, who knows.)  There is also no privacy statement on the form despite the collection of personal data, but perhaps I'm expecting too much of our highly paid Council employees and their even more highly paid consultants.  So you need to be prepared for your details to be sold to the highest bidder....probably double glazing and kitchen salespeople.

I encourage you to get involved and not just via the yellow sticky note process because it's your town and you deserve a say*.

 

 

 

*obviously only your town if you live in Brentwood.

What to do?

At the age of 15 I had a bit of advice from my mum.  She told me that I should start applying moisturiser daily to avoid wrinkles.  I ignored that advice until some point in my twenties and am now a wrinkled old hag.  Moral of the story is listen to your mum because she knows what's best for you.

Hannah has fair skin and, just like her mother, that skin is dry.  Hannah has sore patches on her face where the skin is super dry.  Whenever I go near Hannah with a cream to try and make her better she cowers, flinches and resists.

It's like a phobia.

I've tried persuasion and that hasn't worked.  I've tried all sorts of different creams and that hasn't worked.  When I say hasn't worked, the cream has been fine it's just that I still get the objections.  I've resorted to just telling her what's going to happen and ignoring her remonstrations.

I don't like doing this.  I'd much rather have a willing patient.  Does anyone have advice?

WLTM

Today at work I was asked to write a personal ad.  I've not done that before and I cheated.  On this blog and elsewhere on t'internet I use this to describe myself "Average on the surface, just don't scratch the surface." So I used this and appended it with my Twitter account @a4ann.  I thought it might have some stand and might encourage curiosity.  The Twitter acocunt also provided a way for people to find out more about me and served as a response mechanism.

It was interesting to hear other people's attempts and to see how different mine was.

I wondered whether there were some good examples on the net, and of course there are.  I thought I'd share a few.

Imp and angel. Disembodied head in jar, 24, seeks pixie goddess to fiddle with while Rome burns. You bring marshmallows. No. I make joke. You like laugh? I like comebacks and confessions. Send photo of someone else.

Three toed mango peeler searching for wicked lesbian infielder. Like screaming and marking territory with urine? Let's make banana enchiladas together in my bathtub. You bring the salsa.

I like eating mayonnaise and peanut butter sandwiches in the rain, watching Barney Miller reruns, peeing on birds in the park and licking strangers on the subway; you eat beets raw, have climbed Kilimanjaro, and sweat freely and often. Must wear size five shoes.

Small lumpy squid monkey seeks healthy woman with no identifying scars, any age. Must have all limbs. Recommend appreciation of high-pitched, screeching noises. Must like being bored and lonely. Must not touch the squids, EVER. No tongue.

I am spitting kitty. Ftt Fttttttt. I am angry bear. Grrrrr. I am large watermelon seed stuck in your nose. Zermmmmmmmmmm. I am small biting spider in your underwear. Yub yub yub. No mimes.

Bitter, unsuccessful middle aged loser wallowing in an unending sea of inert, drooping loneliness looking for 24 year old needy leech-like hanger-on to abuse with dull stories, tired sex and Herb Alpert albums. Baby, you are my Tijuana Taxi.

Me -- trying to sleep on the bus station bench, pleading with you to give me a cigarette; you -- choking on my odor, tripping over your purse trying to get away; at the last moment, our eyes meeting. Yours were blue. Can I have a dollar?

There is a little place in the jumbled sock drawer of my heart where you match up all the pairs, throw out the ones with holes in them, and buy me some of those neat dressy ones with the weird black and red geometrical designs on them.

Mmmm, Pez! Rabid Wonder Woman fan looking for someone in satin tights, fighting for our rights and the old red, white 'n blue. You look like Linda Carter? Big plus. Know all words to theme song? Marry me.

Angry, simple-minded, balding, partially blind ex-circus flipper boy with a passion for covering lovers in sour cream and gravy seeks exotic, heavily tattooed piercing fanatic, preferably hairy and stinky, either sex, for whippings, bizarre sex and fashion consulting. No freaks.

Morbidly overweight, seriously competitive computer gamer with creative genius wrt online persona... seeking svelte, kinky sex vixen for impossible fantasy roleplay. Some willingness to assist with basic bodily functions required.

Gentle, middle-aged teddy bear with unfortunate flatulence challenge seeking olfaction-impaired ourdoors girl for good times and possible matrimony. Must enjoy open-air activities and prefer spending time alone as a couple. 

Hey you! Yes you, Snootch Mama! Onto the bike, Beeyotch, grab hold (you know where!) and lets rumble on to the log slide of love to ride the ol skin boat to tuna town. Yah, Baby, you've got male!

Ho hum.

You bitch!

Sometimes I post stuff on Twitter and Facebook and it's not true.  For example I give the impression I drink way more than I actually do.  I'm no saint but I'm not the sinner that I portray.

I can hear you saying "She needs to admit she has a problem.  She's in denial."  Well maybe, but only I know the truth.  Let me give you an insight into a little conversation I had this evening.  I'm paraphrasing because I didn't write this down as it happened.

As I'm opening a bar of chocolate I say to Dave "I might just have a glass of wine."

"You bitch! I was trying to be good."

"Well you don't have to have a glass."

"Yeah, like that's going to happen."

"Well I'd be just as happy with a cup of tea."

"Well I'm not opening a bottle, but if you did....  I'm weak."

"I know."

I didn't.  I didn't need a drink, I just thought a drink might be nice or useful.  I didn't need it and was just as happy with my cup of tea.

But what the conversation did do was affect Dave.  He now wanted a glass/bottle of wine and he didn't want to do the work that he'd persuaded himself he would do tonight.