The wedding

I had a wonderful day yesterday. The daylight hours were spent walking the hills and valleys around Nemsa ( that's Romania if you have not been paying attention). It was cold but the sun shone and there were still some flowers and butterflies around, so it was a wonderfully uplifting experience.
But oh dear. During the course of the afternoon one of the locals came galloping up ( literally) to our little group . The Mayor's best friend's daughter was getting married that evening and Alin and I were invited. I carefully explained I had nothing to wear that was suitable, but nothing would do but we were to be there for 6pm.
True to form we were about an hour and a half late. But then so was everyone else. About 200 of us sat down to an excellent meal and the serious drinking started.
About 10pm - I suppose as an effort on these occassions to bring a semblance of order and sobriety - we were served soup - think chicken noodle soup.
I'm told that Romanian weddings can go on all night and most of the next day. On last night's evidence I can well believe it. At one point the bride is kidnapped and she has to be ransomed. They have a very good system here which is that although the initial costs are borne by the parents of bride AND groom, everyone gives an envelope during the course of the evening. Each couple ( ordinary guests) gives about GBP60. The best man about GBP 100. The net result is that there is usually a reasonable amount left over for the happy couple.
The whole atmosphere was crackling with testosterone on the part of the young men there. Clearly Romania works on the Italian principle that the men stick together and get drunk and the women stick together and dance. Very occasionally, one of the sharply dressed young men would formally ask the girl if his choice to dance with him as opposed to her friends. This led to much nudging and pointing and nodding of older heads - the poor couple were clearly already married, having children and in their dotage before a few minutes conversation were up. Their parentage and lineage was discussed. Where they a suitable match? Would the children be well behaved?
On that point, there were large numbers of younger children there, all behaving impeccably. They operated on the same principle as their elders - the boys talked to each other and the girls discussed the boys.
And overall, the noise of the disco was so high that when we finally left around 1am neither Alin nor I could do anything other than croak.
Some time ago I had given one of my copper bracelets ( for rheumatism) to Madame Elena, who runs the local pensione. It had clearly worked for her and she had extolled it's virtue to her friend the Mayor's wife. Sigh. So naturally nothing would do but that SHE would have one as well, so as of now I am minus two bracelets. In future I shall bring a supply with me.
I finally got to bed about 2:30 having drunk copious quantities of water.
But my abiding memory was of a very old lady with a wonderful wrinkled face and careworn hands. She sat at the end of our table. During the course of the evening, people were coming up to her at regular intervals. Finally the bride and groom came to her. They both kissed her on each cheek, and then she placed her hands on their heads and blessed them.
It transpired she was the oldest female person present. By tradition she blesses the union, and gives the happy couple a little homily. The respect shown to her was marvellous to see.
We could learn about that in our own society.

Big incentives lead to poor performance

The Yerkes-Dobson effect, according to Stumbling and Mumbling, takes the position that big incentives lead to poor performance.
Clearly Stan O'Neal at Merrill's has suffered from this - give someone a $160m pay-off. He only managed to lose $8billion, but the incentives at Northern Rock clearly led to it's demise demise. £30 odd billion and counting.
But probably the most notable area of the truism is on the football field.
Some years ago, Glasgow Rangers had a star-studded team of international players, all on huge bonuses to win. Celtic had a team of young hopefuls who had been brought up in their own programme. Who won? Celtic.
Now arguably the manager has a great deal to do with this - why are Man U perennially successful and why is Martin O'Neill destined to lead them to even greater heights after Fergie goes? That said, the Celtic side of 1988 ( it's 100th year) under a manager of no great ability ( Billy O'Neill) won everything. Why?
O'Neill was only there the one year. But he had been a great Celtic player, one of the Lisbon Lions. What he instilled into the players was the guts and determination to play " for the jersey". No other manager could have done that in quite the same way. Time and again during the season it looked as if they couldn't make it. Time and again, they upped their performance to make it happen.
Why is Stephen Gerrard such an inspiration? He IS Liverpool. He plays " for the jersey"
So the next time you are thinking about " incentivising" your crew, think about getting them to play " for the jersey" and for the love of it.
They'll do much better than their highly paid opponents.
Then take them out for a Chinese meal afterwards as a reward.

Age...

...wrinkles the body. I don't think anyone could argue the opposite. Of course, plastic surgery now can do away with quite a lot, but I have to say that, personally, I find natural more attractive than false.
But why, you may ask, has age reared it's head today? Am I feeling achey and painy? Am I more forgetful than usual?
No.
Quite the opposite. I have always been what one might define as " feisty, " and quite " light blue touch paper and stand back." Recently, though, I have found myself being more emollient and, perhaps, less driven and more kindly, and more accommodating.
But all that changed today when the Architect asked us to take down a partition because he wanted the door moved to the other side.
Jimmy the Joiner went balistic. The Electrician went balistic. The Plasterer went balistic. The Painter went balistic.
I went super-balistic.
I don't think the Architect will ever ask us to do anything ever again.
As General Douglas MacArthur had it: "Age wrinkles the body, but quitting wrinkles the soul."
I'm bloody certain that ain't happening to me - ever.

A new .. er.. appendage

A man suffers an industrial accident, which removes his, er, penis.
Once out of danger, he is visited by a doctor and a lawyer.
The doctor tells him the bad news is they can't use his old penis - it is too far gone to be of any use.
But the lawyer tells him that, as it was an industrial accident, the first part of the good news is that he can get £9,000 compensation.
And the doctor then tells him the second part of the good news is, he can rebuild a brand new penis for him at £1000 per inch - so 6 inches = £6,000, 9 inches = £9,000 and so on.
The victim says he will have to speak to his wife, and would they come back the next day to discuss matters.
So next day, the doctor and lawyer reappear.
" Well," says the doctor," Now you've talked it over with your wife, what have you decided?"
" We're going to get a new kitchen."
Quite right too.

Drink

I am TT in this country. Most people who know me are very good about it and very few of them even ask me to break that taboo. There's the odd occasion with new people when there has to be some explanation, but in general it's OK.
So the other day we were at a friend's house, and I was offered a soft drink as usual.
One of the other guests siddled up to me ( someone I don't know) and said
" Ah, doctor's orders eh?"
" No" I explained, " I just don't drink in this country."
" Seriously?"
" Yes, seriously". He appeared somewhat shocked, and continued to drink 2 to 1 for everybody else.
After a while, he started picking up a bottle and walking round, topping up other guests - and himself. He was clearly enjoying himself.
He got to me.
" You'll have a wee glass of wine, surely."
" No thank you," I said somewhat coldly, " I told you - I don't drink in this country."
" Oh go on - be a man!"
Now I really really hate that. As I have yet to have the operation, I can assure you that I remain, as we speak, of the male persuasion.
Fortunately the host was hovering, because he knows I can get very abusive and rude to drunk fools who annoy me ( actually, to anyone who annoys me, but that's the grumpy old man syndrome) and grabbed the bottle and pulled the moron away.
Well, fair enough. It didn't spoil my evening - I wasn't enjoying it much anyway, I'm not good at talking drivel with a room full of dead people - but it did make me think about alcohol once more.
It is a very dangerous thing. It clearly has a large proportion of the youth of this country in its grip, not to mention many others. The problem is it has become relatively so cheap. When I was at University, I could stretch to the odd pint of beer or lager, or even a bottle or two of plonk, but shorts and bottles of spirits were quite definitely out of my reach. My nephew, now 15, regularly goes to parties where his peers have bought bottles of vodka. At that age, apart from the fact I wasn't especially bothered with alcohol, I had better things to spend my money on.
My father had a rule. From when I was 16, any of my friends who came to the house could have a glass of wine or a beer - one or the other, and only one. Under 21 that was the rule. Anyone, even a 20 year old, asking for a gin and tonic or a whisky was firmly told no. Over 21, not a problem. But it was in the open. Noone had to hide it and, interestingly, my friend's parents round about adopted the same rule to a greater or lesser extent. Of course, in those days, parents actually took responsibility for their children in a way that is largely non-existent now.
In my own case, I have never had to make the point. Although the youngest Ms. Lear does like a drink, it doesn't appear to be a big problem - the other two hardly bother.
Anyone who comes to the house can have whatever they want and as much as they want.
But if at some point they refuse a top up, they do NOT get offered any more.People may have good intentions, but the road to Hell is paved with them.
Better leading not into temptation.

Anger and Annoyance

Is it the time of year or is it old age?
I can't help but feel annoyance in particular is an old age thing. Grumpy old men and women abound - it's easy to see why people go off each other when you see the looks and remarks adressed to one another in the street or shops.
I'm sure a lot of it has to do with things that now irritate, which twenty or thirty ( or forty!) years ago didn't bother you in the least. It didn't bother me that there was little of interest on the television. There is now so little worth watching ( HIGNFY, The Sopranos and the recent programme about India spring to mind) that I now get positively vicious if something is suggested that might interfere.
Tomorrow night is a case in point. It's the last episode EVER of the Sopranos. I am seriously worried about Tony. I have long felt that AJ ( his son) is eventually going to either kill his dad or become the next Godfather.
There was a suggestion that someone would need collecting from the station at 11pm tomorrow night. I responded so ungraciously that I doubt they will bother to come.
And don't tell me I could record it. That pisses me off even more.

A New Toilet experience...

After my somewhat truncated loo the other day, I have been looking out for loos of various sorts - strange but true.
I was in Wigan again ( thankfully I avoided the establishment previously entered) and on the way back I decided to visit the loo at the station. Although I was somewhat in trepidation, I decided it would be better than the loos on the Virgin train, which have the most sickly smell. I will only raise the loo seat with several layers of tissuepaper in my hands.
Anyway, I made my way through the old-style door into a beautifully kitted out gents.
As I made ready at the bowl, my glance fell on a notice at eye level.
" Bloe- A new Toilet experience.
*Energy Saving
*water reducing
*natural perfuming
*environmentally beneficial cleaning."
And it really was extremely clean and tidy and worked properly.
The only draw-back was the blue light. I could hardly see a thing.
I am reliably informed that this is to stop junkies shooting up.

Chums.

I had an excellent lunch of lamb stew today in one of my favourite lunchtime haunts, accompanied by the Director. He is a man in his 70s, of upstanding and somewhat old-fashioned bent, who nevertheless has a twinkle in his eye.
After an absence of some 25 years, he and his wife have taken up tennis again, in order to "get-in" with the social set in Ayrshire. All the players are somewhat elderly. The matches are keenly fought, if played at a slower pace than say Wimbledon. The group moves round a variety of homes in Ayrshire, all of which have tennis courts.
The other week, at one such venue, one of the Older Members enquired, in general terms, whether the Director would be available the following week.
" Steady on," said the Hostess, " The Director is only a reserve.He's not a chum!"
My friend was somewhat dis-chuffed at this, but waited for the phone call, each week for the following three weeks, which duly came.
After the three weeks were up, the Older member took him aside.
" I think" he said "you can now consider yourself a chum. Don't forget to turn up next week."
And he didn't.

The Third Godfather

Whilst writing the previous blog mentioning my Godfathers, I was reminded of another story which involved two of them.
GF3 was an American who had had a very smart American car ( beautiful maroon colour) shipped over to the UK. However, he was then sent off to India, and the car was left in my father's care.
Now GF1, he of the eventual British Leyland persuasion, longed to get his hands on this car to take it apart and make it divulge all the secrets of American manufacturers.
The car was parked at the works of OKL's screw manufacturers. One day, two men turned up in suits and bowler hats, as one did at the time, with several bits of official looking paper, demanded the keys and said they were impounding the car as the correct import duty had not been paid. Somewhat bemused by this, and as there was no email, fax, or even meaningful telephone service to India at the time, my father handed it over, getting a proper receipt. He immediately sent off telegrams and all sorts to get an answer from GF3.
As you can imagine, it took more than a week for a definitive answer to come back - no duty was payable according to the American Embassy, as the car was going to be re-exported.
How to get the car back? Phoned the number on the forms - zilch.
Just as OKL was beginning to panic, the car reappeared in the yard, with the same two men, who handed it back and said it had all been a terrible mistake, so sorry, blah, blah ,blah, and off they toddled.
The car was taken out every couple of weeks and carefully driven around. It was lovingly cared for and washed and polished by the mechanic.
Until one day, whilst polishing, a bit of the paint came off. Great perturbation. It was decided to leave it and report to GF3. GF3 expressed astonishment.
The next time the car was washed, a lot more paint fell off.
I won't bore you with the rest of the details, but OKL decided the best thing to do was call in GF1 and try to get it resprayed before GF3 came back.
GF1 looked a bit sheepish.
" Er, we did that already"
Then of course it all came out. He had had the car high-jacked, taken to pieces and put back together, and they were driving it along the measured mile near the Blue Boar garage when it crashed.
And they fixed it, and resprayed it.
Except the American standards at the time were superior to those of the UK, and the paint didn't take properly.
So GF1 and OKL got it resprayed again and left it severely alone until GF3 collected it.
Some months later he called to say the paint was peeling off.

Political skullduggery

Guido has a very good thing about the Yates enquiry which starts this afternoon - if various things happen, the Chairman has been nobbled.
The record of this Government is such that I simply don't believe there wasn't SOME funny business, but I read an interesting thing the other day:
"The people can be lied to, but they cannot be fooled"
Flash should have thought of that before he flew off to Basra.

Toooo kind

A friend has no internetwebthingy ability. This extends to his emails being opened and printed out by his secretary and the replies dictated to her, and then typed by her.
As a result I print out the blog every now and again and send him a copy.
I used to write to him direct, but as most of what I want to say is on the blog, it's much simpler just to print it out.
He is always very kind about what I write.
The only problem is that he tends to misunderstand some of my points. So, for example, he thinks Romania is utterly corrupt, that it is totally impossible to do business there, and clearly bad for my health ( I think he means the drink). He did say, how do you manage to get anything done?
I started to explain to him, but a thought struck me and I told him to read it on the blog next time round.
Many years ago, Old King Lear was having dinner with two of my Godfathers. Now you may wonder why I had two Godfathers - actually I had three. It was a business thing. One was the boss of what became British Leyland and the other was the boss of the company OKL worked for. OKL was what used to be called the Sales Director - I've no idea if such a position even exists any more. It probably has " interface" and " solutions" in it somewhere.
Anyway, the company OKL worked for made screws - fasteners for metal. The reason for the dinner was to sign the deal for umpteen million of the little blighters to be put into invarious British cars.
Now GF1 was quite a bon viveur. He had laid on what one could only describe as a viciously enormous dinner, accompanied by gigantic amounts of alcohol, and all three had stuffed themselves, and drunk well but perhaps not wisely. By the end of the meal, all three were virtually immobilised.
Just at that point, the person serving the meal brought a plate of exceptional cheeses. All three shook their heads.
GF1 raised himself a little ; " But I had it brought over specially from France! You must eat it!"
At which point, GF2 leant over to my father and hissed in his ear: " Eat the bloody cheese and get the order!"
And that's how I do business in Romania.

It's a Miracle!

We had some friends in for a drink on Saturday night.
One of them opted for a glass of white wine.
I opened the fridge and extracted a bottle of Fairtrade Pinot Grigio from Argentina, courtesy of M&S. It's a screw top. I cracked the seal.
We have several more bottles of it.
I poured a generous glass ( never let it be said we Scots are not generous - apart from the Aberdonians and the people formerly known as "living" in Edinburgh)
My friend looked at the glass.
" That's not Pinot Grigio."
I looked at the bottle.
" Yes it is. It's from Argentina."
He took a sip. And spat it out in the sink.
" It's water. And old water at that."
I swigged the bottle. And spat it out.
" It's water!"
So was the next bottle.
At that point we gave up and he had a beer instead.
Move on 48 hrs.
I had got a bottle of Irish water from M&S in Euston the other day. I opened it today, and took a swig. And spat it out. It was very old and dusty. I remarked on this.
" Ah, " my friend said. " It's clearly Pinot Grigio."

EU Treaty/Constitution

So Flash is going to have a line by line discussion in the HoC on the " new" Treaty. This is going to destroy his Government utterly, as Maastricht did John Major's. I'm delighted he knows nothing and has learned nothing and that he will soon be consigned to the dustbin where he belongs.

Roundup.

The Gurka's motto is " Better to die than live a coward". Can't help but think Flash doesn't live by that one.
" The true wealth of Britain is the British Character." Sadly, I fear it is now lacking. And every other form of wealth is being pulled into the NuLabour maul.
Mark Mardell has an excellent piece on the Finns, and their continuing outperformance in many walks of life and sport. Strangely, the Finns put it down to their education system, which basically does not allow you to progress upwards until you have achieved satisfactory results in ALL subjects, and in their belief in strong family ties ( mind you, if you speak Finnish there aren't that many others who you CAN communicate with). Can't see Flash countenacing anything so outrageous as something like that.

Poirot's eggs

I had forgotten this but saw the Poirot episode again at the weekend in which it occurred.
Poirot, Hastings and Miss Lemon are taking breakfast somewhere on the south coast. Two boiled eggs are placed in front of Hercule.
He carefully tucks his napkin into the space between his shirt and his throat, puts on his pince-nez, and surveys the eggs.
" I cannot eat these eggs. They are of a completely different size."
Excellent attention to detail.

The Mudlark

This is the title of an old film, which, amongst others, starred Alec Guinness as Disraeli.
It is the story of an orphan boy who finds a cameo in the mud of the Thames mud of Queen Victoria, and he decides to see her, give his respects and try to get her to come out of mourning and show herself to her subjects again.
He has various adventures and eventually meets the Queen, and she emerges into the adulation of her later years.
But there are three wonderful parts of this story.
The first is Disraeli in the House of Commons, lambasting the august members for failing the child. Our own present leaders could quite properly be so castigated.
The second is spoken by a minor character. When discussing a course of action, the character says " He is an old and wily politician - he knows nothing can be gained with a minuet." Too true. If only the present crop would be committed and say so.
Finally, the John Brown character, played by a famous Scots actor whose name escapes me but has Finlay in it, quotes the second Book of Kings. " Is it well with the Child?"
The whole thrust of the arguement was that we need to take care of our children. We need to stop child killing child. We need to make sure they are in a stable home environment. We need to give them parameters beyond which we do NOT allow them to go. There was an excellent piece on Radio 4 about young offenders being subjected to a proper programme of discipline ( not full of catchy phrases) and relying on - as the programme director described it - large men with testicular authority.
Above all, for God's sake, let's stop the nonsense that means that 50% - I'll repeat that - 50% cannot pass GCSEs in Reading Writing and Arithmetic. I don't care which party does it. I don't care HOW they do it.
But by God I want them to do it.

The crutch in the park

Now those of you who follow this blog will know that Saturday and Sunday mornings are my time for taking the Dog for it's morning walk in the park. I was particularly early this morning as I had to let some steel erectors into a building we are doing up at 07:30 am, and took the Dog with me. Needless to say the steel didn't fit, and when I went back, it was only because I can read drawings that they managed to understand which way round it went. Did help a bit.
Anyway, the Dog and I set off round the park this morning, and the first thing I see beside the swing park is a crutch. Just one, full size crutch, lying abandoned in the grass.
Being of an eccentric bent, I imagined all sorts of scenarios, from miraculous cure to theft and abandonment, but I was definitely not prepared for the next thing that happened.
Round the corner came a lady leading a rather elderly Golden Retriever. The Dog clearly didn't know them, so they only got the " 'Morning" grade III greeting.
But I did notice as they passed that the retriever had one of it's paws in a sort of split and black plastic shoe - very natty - and that it favoured this paw.
I was most taken with the shoe, and turned to watch them walk away.
As they passed the crutch, the dog bent down and picked it up in it's mouth, and carried on, limping.
So now you know. Vets are not only sorting out animals, they are increasing their mobility.
With crutches.

The smallest room in the house

I'm in London for the ( half) day and stayed last night in the cheapest hotel in central London. I've stayed there before - when I'm on my own the lower the cost the more I like it. Rather like the old days when one spent hours wandering around French towns finding the cheapest plonk - I think the besy we ever did was about 20p per litre. The sensible thing to do would have been to spend the same on a bottle there as we did at home, and we would have had some fantastic wines, but, of course, as you know, wisdom comes with age.
Anyway, there I am in my room last night ( double bed, can just about walk round it sideways) and I decided to go to the loo. There was a door in the wall. I opened it.
Immediately in front of me was a washhandbasin, about 6inches by 4. On the left, with 2 inches between the wall and the loo-seat, was the loo. To the right was the shower.
Now I immediately worked out I would have to sit sideways on the loo. I need hardly mention the various difficulties this resulted in.
What I didn't appreciate then was that the size of the shower was commensurate with the WHB. When I got into it this morning, every time I moved I changed the setting on the taps. There was just enough room for my feet in the tray, and the curtain billowed out over the floor, although it was extra long so the bottom was still in the tray and catching the water.
I did a rough measure.
52 inches by 32.
No wonder it's the cheapest in Lo0ndon.
But I tell you what, I slept really well.

The way we are

Now here's a thing. Would you bother to steal £22 worth of wood?
Clearly someone has.
To start at the beginning, I went to the depot of a national timber merchant, and bought 2 planks of wood, each 4.7m long. That's about15 plus feet long. Total cost £22. I was told to go round the back and collect them. I drove round, but then common sense prevailed when I noticed that about 10 feet would be hanging out the back of the car.
So I drove back to the job, gave the line to the joiner, and told him to take a saw with him when he went to collect.
This morning, the joiner phones me.
" Somebody collected they planks yesterday"
To cut a long story short, the warehouseman and the security guard both swore blind I had collected the wood, and they even had a car registration to prove it. And a time ; ten past four.
Needless to say it wasn't my car registration.
To cut a long story short, after threatening legal action, the papers and their head-office, grudgingly we were delivered the wood as a " goodwill" gesture - but on a separate line, with the original being retained for " investigation".
Now whatever way you look at this, someone at some point has blagged these two pieces of wood. Maybe it was a stock shortage they were trying to cover. Maybe the whole workforce have a consortium that disappears stuff that's not collected by 4:10 pm. The manager kept saying to me " But noone would steal two pieces of wood" in a sort of " You are clearly an idiot" voice.
But someone somewhere has that wood, and at least two people in the depot are in on it.

So what IS happiness?

I was recommended a book by the Last Unreconstructed Communist.
It is called " Hector's voyage or the search for happiness." by a chap called Francois Lelord. Although that's it's English title, I could only get a copy in French.
It is a delightful tale, all about Hector the psychiatrist, who is sad because he can't bring happiness to his clients. So he sets off around the world, has various adventures, and writes what he learns about happiness in his little notebook, specially bought for purpose.
There are 24 " lessons" in total. But Hector rubbed out number 18, as he didn't want the girl he loved to see it ( it was " Happiness is being able to love several women at once" - Lelord is French after all)
If anyone is interested I will happily send all of them, but the synthesis is, I think, enough.
Lesson 21: Happiness is a way of looking at things.
Lesson 13: Happiness is to feel useful to others.
Lesson 10: Happiness is to have an occupation that you enjoy.
As Hector says to himself, these are good lessons. And enough for him.
And me.

Back from Romania

Got back in last night to the usual guddle. Everyone seems to have thoroughly enjoyed the week and some new potential crossover contacts were made. Most of us remained reasonably sober.
There were some wonderful stories going the rounds. One was from a highly successful lothario, who said that the trick was not to spoil a woman. All you had to do was make her comfortable in your presence. I never found out if he meant in bed or just when together. Another was about British Army manouevres in Germany. Until recently, the way it worked was that every autumn, the tanks rolled - mostly across farmer's fields, through chicken huts, pulverising walls and creating new duck ponds where none had been before. The German farmers, of course, loved it. If they had a wobbly bridge, they would point a tank over it, the bridge would collapse, and the farmer submitted a bill. Apparently, there was a corporal in the pay section who was detailed to collate the bills every day as they came in. Every year, when they got to £20 million,the excercise was officially ended.
But what of the progress out there? Tourism and the ethos of tourism is beginning to take hold. Service is becoming something to be expected in the hotels and guesthouses. Younger people are remaining in situ as they can see that things are improving. Most importantly, the consolidation of the smaller landholdings is continuing and will benefit the communities where it happens.
We are working on a new valley. Once we have consolidated the 64 individual owners, we will be able to form a lake and create a fishery, as well as leisure facilities for tourism. On the adjacent sloping ground, orchards and a forest will grow. There might even be a guesthouse. All in all it should give ongoing work for about 10 or 12 people , with more required at certain times of the year. In a village of roughly 250 souls, that represents a huge benefit.
The Mayor of Mosna - recently voted the best in the whole region - gave an official reception for us, and presented us with Romanian flags. One of the really weird things is that the patron saint of the area is St. Andrew - complete with Scottish blue and white flag , so we all felt as if we had wandered into downtown Murrayfield. The flags were in abundance when we arrived.
Everything in Romania is late. There is always so much discussion about everything. At one point, in a room with lawyers, notary publics, owners and a couple of mayors plus staff, I called a halt to having the translations given to me. The debate was eventually concluded, and I had the conclusion translated - much easier.
They had just had the Cabbage Festival - by all accounts a great success, but it seemed to me that quite a few of the locals were suffering the after effects. The cabbage salad remains one of my favourite dishes, and we ate quite the most delicious tomatoes I have ever tasted sitting in the sun beneath the walls of Biertan citadel.
Capitalism has still to get a grip. Everything still requires dozens of stamps and signatures, but the system is robust and appears to mean that there are few mistakes. One of the pieces of land we wanted to buy had an incorrect name on the title ( you have to produce your identity card every time you do anything and the cross check revealed the discrepancy).
There are two ways to sort this. One is to apply to the land registry to have the title changed to the correct name. This can take up to three years.
The alternative is to get the local mayor to sign an affidavit that the man whose name appears on the title and the man on the ID card are one and the same.
Takes about three minutes.

Globalisation and IKEA

For reasons too tortuous to go into, we rolled up at the Bucharest IKEA this afternoon.
Mrs.Lear was able to go straight to what she wanted as the store is identical to the one in Glasgow - in every way including there being nowhere to park as it was utterly mobbed. And for those of you wondering, the prices meant we were able to get the same sort of stuff as near Sighisoara for abour 40% cheaper, so I guess we won out in the end. More anon.

Negotiation

Mrs. Lear seems to quite like it here, although I have to say having to break off every few hours to meet up with her is putting a strain on the cars and drivers. Yes, drivers. And cars.Too difficult with one of each at the moment.
Today was rather special.
We sat in the sun under the walls of the Citadel of Biertan, and were regaled with stories of good socialism by the Last Unreconstructed Communist. She is the most extraordinary woman who spends her life fighting with all and sundry to improve the lot of others.
Lunch consisted of tomatoes, aubergine paste,cabbage salad, local cheese, a sort of ratatouille, potato salad, all absolutely delicious - and, of course, a schnapps to blow your eyeballs out. Everyone else pretty much chickened out, but I, unfortunately, am not allowed to. I took it like a man. I am supposed to be in training and can only say if I had a glass of the schnapps immediately prior to commencement, I would be past the finishing post before anyone even heard the starter's gun.
We then ( thanks to our driver never drinking) managed to get to a town called Sintoia. It's not that big, but it does have a house that at one time was a local potentate's - so much larger than the usual run of the mill. Think of Russian Steppes and Doctor Zhivago, wooden balconies running the whole length of the house, grapes dangling seductively from an umbral covering - and chickens, ducks, dogs, cats, pigs and sheep all milling around in the courtyard.
The real point is it is actually large enough for us to inhabit. Ok, bit of work needed here and there ( like a couple of bathrooms for a start) but it is a most charming and attractive place.
The sun shone and the bees buzzed and all was well with the world.
And what of the header - Negotiation in case you have forgotten.
Well, Mrs. Lear is insisting - not unreasonably - that my stripped down lean mean lifestyle ( one bed five chairs one spoon) is not really for her. We already have a couple of carpets and a decorative plate ( you may well ask what on earth we need that for, but I don't know the answer). So today, we visited the third and final furniture shop in the area, picked out a few pieces, added them up and suggested a price of 10% off for bulk.
Now The Driver is no mean hand at negotiation. I like to think of myself as quite good too. We've both done a bit in our time. So imagine our astonishment when the vendor wouldn't even take 20p. off. We told him we would have to provide transport, that the furniture had marks ( true) that we were buying quite a lot - not a flicker. So we tried our final strategy. We told him we were going to leave. We are going to leave now. We walked slowly to the car. WE ARE LEAVING NOW! Not a twitch. The car was started. He turned and walked back inside.
"What we gonna do now?" asked The Driver.
We slunk away without purchasing anything. Complete failure.
But at least we hadn't given him the satisfaction of winning the negotiation.
Or had he?

Memories of Romania

I am having a lovely time in Bucharest, not somewhere I have spent time before, courtesy of friends of ours. For free, we are staying in a 5 star hotel with hot and cold running staff, and even our own personal pimp at the door who accosts me everytime I try to cross the road. But he's very nice, and not pushy,even if a bit misguided.
We had a tour through Ceauscescu's People's Palace ( second only in size to the Pentagon, but third in cubic volume behind the Mexican Parliament) - lacks a bit in pzazz but otherwise not bad, if a little austere in an opulent sort of way.
We wandered through the old town, and various other bits, but the thing that jogged my memory was a statue to the last King of Romania, King Carol, I think.
When I was a little Lear, we stayed frequently in the Bellevue Palace Hotel in Berne. Old King Lear had business there, and we frequently accompanied him, especially if it was the skiing season.
In the bar there was an elderly man with walking sticks who was deferred to by all the staff. He was a permanent resident. His name was Charles and he lived there from about 1952 until he died in the early 70's. Because he was always there, my father, always a gregarious soul, frequently had a drink with him.
Charles was a retired agent for a bank-note printer. Most of Europe pre-WW2 had had it's notes printed in London, and Charles secured the orders and lived off the commission. Quite a nice job, but not in the multi-millionaire class.
Until the day, that is, that he met , in a resort in Italy, a stunningly attractive woman. Charles always had an eye for the ladies, and soon seduced her. The lady wailed and cried that she was undone, because her lover, the King of Romania, would no longer want her.
Now Charles, ever the practical, had never managed to sell notes to Romania. So quick as a flash, he persuaded her that there was a way to earn enough never have to sleep with the King again, and the he and she would be able to ride off into the sunset clutching huge bundles of banknotes.
The lady's name was Lupescu. She heard Charles out and readily agreed to the plan, and promptly left for Bucharest to do her bit. Within a week there was a summons to Charles to appear.
I won't bore you with the details, but suffice to say that only about 90% of the notes actually destined for the National Bank of Romania ever got there ( quite apart from the commissions paid to Charles, Lupescu, probably the King etc etc) and Charles and Lupescu led perfectly happy lives for a few years. Charles being very wise had changed all the money into Swiss Francs almost the moment it landed, and so the Communist era in Romania had no effect on his wealth. The only problem was that the bank-note printers and the NBoR suspected that a lot of the money had gone astray, and Charles lost his job - not that it mattered by then.
So Charles lived out the rest of his life seducing various women that passed through Berne and and Bellevue Palace Hotel, dri9nking fine wines and eating fabulous food, and taking the odd drink with old friends.
But whenever Lupescu was mentioned, his eyes would take on a misty glow, and he would sigh gently. " What a woman! Even 10% of the entire circulating currency of Romania was not enough to keep her! She always wanted it all."

Gordon Brown Trousers

Well, it was always going to happen wasn't it? Flash ( no spin no no) says to the pathetic brown-nosing Andrew Marr, I'm just getting on with the job and these advisers have been pushing this, but really I want to show my vision and on and on crap.
Brown is finished.
Andrew Marr is probably finished - Adam Boulton will certainly stab him the moment he sees him.
Brown gives the lie yet again ( I keep asking myself at what point do the Great British Public actually think this guy's a complete wanker?) to his statement that major matters would be announced through Parliament.
The answer has to be the Iraq trip last week. Even the media noticed that the GBP were enraged by lying about the troop withdrawals and were insensed by the use of our troops as political footballs.
So how does Britain feel having a lying,cowardly freek as an excuse for a Prime Minister?
Oh, sorry, that's the second one in a row.

Off tomorrow

We are off to Romania tomorrow. It will be Mrs.Lear's first trip, so I have told all the people out there to behave and not tell her about what good fun I am when I have had a few drinks.
More importantly, the Dog had to be taken to the kennels today, and, as the eldest Ms. Lear has deigned to join us direct from Blackpool, she was instructed to deliver him to his extremely smart kennels in Ayrshire, near a place called Floak. I'm sure it's a disease of sheep.
Anyway, the kennels is run by a stalwart of the SNP - one of the original founders no less. Ms. Lear, instantly smelling a traitor,was very much in two minds as to whether the Dog ought to be exposed to that kind of political treachery, and very nearly brought him back.
The situation was only saved because the kennel-maid ( who you would have to think of as a Labourite) said to her " OOh, did you see that lovely David Cameron on the telly - he'll get my vote when the time comes!"
When asked why she wasn't voting with her employers, she replied " No, no. They're all headbangers."
So now you know what the SNP are really like.

Yo, Blair!

I just finished reading this book by Geoffrey Whitehead.
I can only call it the most devastating charge sheet, which, very conveniently, confirms everything I have been saying about Bliar and NuLabour. The totalitarian nature of the beast ( very unfavourably compared with Nazism I may say), the lack of real ideology, the total abrogation of policy to " what works" which painfully doesn't, and the stubborn adherence to disater all militate to underline how far we as a country have fallen and been humiliated.
Whitehead says that no lessons were learned from Suez or Germany post WW2 on how to deal with a declaration of war or the aftermath of it. Of course, I would argue that Bliar never learned anything beyond his own overwheening belief in his ability to con everyone - which he very successfully did for a long time.
For much of his premiership, Bliar led the media by the nose - never more so than over Iraq, where the newspapers in particular came out with sentences like " We know Saddam's got WMD. He knows we know. And we're going to get rid of him and them" - complete lies of course, but very flattering even for hardened journos to be personally briefed.
So what have the journalist learned? Well, judging by their behaviour over Flash Gordon's honeymoon, not a lot. They appear to have been happily helping out Flash and his minions - right up to the point where Gordon went to Basra last week, and they suddenly noticed they were being conned again, and the Great British Public weren't having it any more. As Ian Hyslop said on Question Time last night " It's OK, Ruth, to lie to another politician or the public, but it's very very dangerous to lie to a journalist."
Mind you, I haven't noticed any apologies for the media's abject abrogation of an enquiring mind over the last ten years, and particularly over Iraq.
Oh, and by the way, did you know that every single offence is now arrestable? This has been the case since 2006. Even throwing a cigarette out of a car window. Jaywalking. Holding back someone from hitting you. Failing to move out of the way if a policeman wants to get past you, whether in a car or on foot.
So think about that the next time you take your hand off the driving wheel to change gear. Technically, it's an offence not to have both hands on the wheel at all times.
You could be arrested.

Birmingham

I've been here yesterday and today closeted with lawyers and others of a similar bent ( ie accountants) trying to finalise some documents for submission.
Quite apart from lawyers nit-picking ( " It says inter alia don't you think it ought to be inter alios?") it has been perfectly pleasant, apart from still being at it at 2am this morning. It did mean we managed to get it finished around lunchtime today. Now all I have to do is hang around until I can get back to Glasgow.
Anyway, as I always do, I have been chatting to various taxi drivers when there was time, and all of them said house prices were all right. One - who had bought two years ago on a fixed rate - had just got his quote for his new mortgage repayments - it was about £30 more per month than previously. My view would be that this is not the Armaggedon people have been talking about - it's a manageable increase for most people, and, overall, the effect on the economy is not going to be as dire as people have been saying. The reported slowing , or slightly falling, of house prices is entirely to be welcomed and long overdue, but, for the moment at least, it does not look as if it is going to be a rout. I suspect that what one might regard as " the family home" market will be almost unaffected, but all the amateur Rachman's will get their fingers well and truly burned. There are far too many one and two bedroomed flats that have been built, traded and left largely unoccupied. There have been virtually no 3 & 4 bedroomed properties built over the last few years, certainly not enough to satisfy demand.
Oh, and by the way, Rachman was much misunderstood.
The other thing about Birmingham is that it is where I was born. It was at the old maternity hospital in Loveday Street - how appropriate - but even a relatively elderly taxi driver could not remember it. It was pulled down not long after Mother Lear delivered me.
There's a moral somewhere in there.

Email from Romania

"Mr. King,
I am angrys and crosses with the peoples in Nemsa. They are not honourables peoples. You should not be so nice to these peoples. I am going to denounce this one to the Mayor as being a thief and f*** him. Yesterday, he was agreeing with the prices and today he is wanting more. So I am thinking to myself,Well ,I will f*** him. So I did. And you know what? Afterwards he was agreeing. So evrytings is OK.
What you tink?"
I am completely speechless. I had no idea he was so loyal.
I should perhaps not mention that the website for our carhire - translated into English - says " Thank you for coming with ass."

Dealing with Ze Tchermans

The Biogeneticist and I have been dealing with a German, who wanted to buy something of ours ( not parts of me I hasten to add).
Now we all know about Tcherman efficiency. I haven't seen it in action since about 1965.
But boy, have they got their act together ( at least this one did).
He told us exactly what he wanted, exactly what he would pay for it, exactly how he wanted to pay for it and with what documentation.
Now apart from all this being nice and easy to deal with, it also makes him a complete rubbish negotiator.
As every trader knows, you have to get the other side to tell you a price first. And never give a reasonable figure if you want to eventually end up with your shirt intact. And leave everything hanging so that there are bits to negotiate to win a bit more for yourself, or longer to pay, or anything.
He didn't. We asked him to propose a price and he offered us about twice what we had in mind as a final figure.
So we trebled it and came down a bit, saying he had been sensible & reasonable. He promptly agreed to the price we suggested, especially if we could be a little flexible.
I mean, is that a negotiation? I was quite disgusted with the capitulation, and almost felt like giving him a lesson in how it ought to be done.
So we ended up with nearly five ( yes five) times what we wanted.
What a let down.

Roundup

I always seem to learn or hear a few things that ought to be shared, but don't actually fit anywhere.
So I will try to do a roundup of odds and ends every now and then.
1) Incognito is an anagram of cognition
2) " All created things must pass - so strive on" - Buddha
3) In the City there are now many more regulations, but much less understanding and oversight. The lawyers have had and continue to have a field day running rings round regulators.
4) Ladies in the early days of trains were advised to hold pins between their lips to prevent gentlemen kissing them in tunnels.
5) Politeness engenders trust and vice-versa.
6) British Ambassador in Burma - " It's regarded as extremely bad form to shoot people here."
I'll bet.

Who would you prefer?

I was with a somewhat larger than life character for much of Friday ( and most of the early hours of Saturday morning).
For reasons completely beyond me ( except I think he was trying to get the news) he switched on his TV in the middle of somewhat roundabout negotiations.
East Enders and Pat Butcher appeared.
He clicked - Alan Titchmarsh appeared.
Without a pause ,as he continued clicking,he turned to me and said "I think I would rather shag Alan Titchmarsh than Pat Butcher."
I didn't like to tell him she wasn't real....

The price of Coffee - you heard it here first

In Luton Airport last night I bought a latte from Pret a Manger ( well- known McDonald's owned business). The board clearly said it was £1.85. I tendered £2 and received 0.25p change.
Now I don't know about you but if this happens to me I always tell the person serving me they have made a mistake.
" Nah" she said. " That's the price from Monday, but there won't be anyone here to change it then."
So there will be hoards of people checking their change today and thinking they have got one over on Pret/McDonald's

Cards

Whilst I was out and about today, I dropped into the little shop that sells Filofax refills.
I know these are incredibly old hat, but it's amazing how useful they are when the systems are down.
Anyway, a family tradtion is that I give Mrs. Lear her new diary every year at Christmas. My mother used to do it. I will admit that whereas there used to be 2 pages per week, its now down to one page per week - no appointments for the Ms. Lears for the last quite-a-few years makes the difference.
The lady in the shop was most helpful, insisting that I should look at the cards ( it is a card shop after all).
Quite apart from the ever-increasing risquee-ness, I am astonished at the ever increasing range. Not just get well, new job, sorry, cards for every conceivable birthday, wedding anniversary, anniversary,moving house and on and on ad nauseum, but even " Congratulations on your first day at school."
Ah, me, how life has degraded.
People in my day ( I'm just saying that so you know how old I am) didn't have any of that kind of nonsense.
To give you an example, a friend of mine, now into what I think should be called the end of the beginning of his life, was despatched from the North of Scotland for his first day at his Boarding School.
His mother, a kindly and generous soul, gave him ten shillings ( that's 50p) to get a taxi to take him from the station in the midlands to his " House". The kindliness and generosity was because otherwise he would have had to drag his trunk and tuck box a couple of miles, which at 13 and a half would be quite a job." And don't you stand any nonsense , " she told him "just tell the driver to take you directly there."
And with that she gave him a manly grasp round the shoulders and marched off to catch up with the guests who had left earlier for the grouse moor.
Young Beanpole ( he was then, he is now somewhat more than merely rotund) duly settled down to read the Hotspur, and arrived at his destination, some 9 or 10 hours later.
Feeling very grown up, he organised his trunk into a taxi, settled himself into the back seat and gave the driver the address of his House.
" Can't do that" said the driver.
Now YB was made of pretty stern stuff, and with his mother's words ringing in his ears, he leant forward and said " Now see here, I don't want any nonsense, I just want you to take me directly there."
Nowadays of course this would almost certainly end up with social-workers being called and ASBOs handed out.
But the Taxi driver was of the old school, who tended to do as he was told, and promptly drove to the address. On arrival, he jumped out of the car, dumped the trunk, took the ten bob from YB, and drove off.
YB looked about him.
There was nothing there.
On looking more closely, he discerned a few smoking embers on the other side of the wall that ran along the pavement.
At that point, he opened his tuck box, took out the ginger pop and ginger bread, sat on the box and started to guzzle. The shades of night started to gather around him.
What had happened was that the House had burned down during the night.
Of course, no-one had thought for one instant to tell the parents. After all, schools and teachers actually were properly in loco parentis. YB was eventually found, still sitting there, about an hour later.
I'm not sure YB even told his mother - she would probably have given him a clip round the ear for making up stories.

There's an old Romanian saying....

... which I suppose is directly related to the Communist years when loo paper was in short supply. I still see tourists, in particular American backpackers, clutching vast quantities of supersoft as they struggle out of Bucharest Airport - which appears to have two names -Henri Coanda and Otopeni.
Anyway, the saying is: " Always keep a lot of toilet paper as you never know when you might be in the shit".
I was reminded of it this morning when I read about Northern Rock and its requirement for £13 odd BILLION over the next 4 months.
That's on top of the £3billion already drawn from Merve the Swerve.
And did you notice that noone drew any of the £10billion Merve had made available? Hardly surprising as it was pitched above the prevailing rate. Banks may need and want the money, but taking it at the rate offered would have started another panic at the tills of whoever took it. Cash-strapped they may be, stupid they are not.
So, for those of you who have been following all this, the sticking-plaster may be in place, but I would keep the loopaper handy.
As an aside, there is a class of yacht on the Clyde called a Piper.
When looking for a name for one some years ago, and in keeping with Scottish tradition, the official, approved and registered name was never mentioned ( cf The Clyde Arc Bridge, unkown except as The Squinty Bridge).
She was always Loo-piper.

Visualisation

I was greatly taken by a programme the other night about shop-lifting.
Well actually, I wasn't, but I was taken by one attempt it made to show how much was stolen.
Apparently, the number 8 most shop-lifted things in the UK are men's shirts. As the voice-over said " Enough men's skirts are stolen every year to clothe a city the size of Glasgow"
I can't help but feel I would have been happier if they had said Liverpool or Swindon, or anywhere.

UNEXPECTEDLY!

I'm sure some of you will remember Polyanna with Hayley Mills and the marvellous portrayal by Karl Malden of the ( initially) straight-laced minister, who, like everyone else in the town, is turned to sweetness and light by little orphan Poly.
The introduction to the minister is the opening of his sermon which starts, in a loud and aggressive voice, " DEATH comes UNEXPECTEDLY!"
Ever since, whenever the word appears, the whole family chants the refrain.
It's a word that appears all over the place. On property notice boards, unexpectedly back on the market. In newspaper headlines, river floods unexpectedly.
But I was unexpectedly taken aback the other day, when an air stewardess announced that one of the luggage bins above my seat had unexpectedly been commandeered, and I had to remove my briefcase.
A man appeared with quite a large bag and placed it in the locker above my head, as I clutched my briefcase - and was then not unexepectedly told to put it on the floor under the seat in front of me.
Quite unexpectedly, half-way through the flight, the stewardess took the bag out, unzipped it, and started to hand round chocolate bars.
I asked her why it had had to be put above me.
She explained that there was no room for it in the galley, and they needed the volume to handle the bars for the flight back too.
And then, unexpectedly, she handed me two more bars - for my trouble.
But I digress.
The conversion of the minister is lovely, but even more so is the finale of it in the church. His sermon finishes with " So let's all just go outside and enjoy this wonderful day of sunshine - and while we're doing it, let's just give a little thought to who's sending it down."
THAT came very unexpectedly to the congregation.

Wigan versus Liverpool

A dear friend has suggested I should try Liverpool - makes Wigan look like Shangri-La

Goodbye in the Park

For extra-ordinary reasons, I was walking the Dog early today in the Park.
Now I have to say I am not a shrinking violet. The Ms. Lears still deride the time when a TV advert asked for the best looking person you know and I replied it was me.
I may be getting older - the silver in the hair is nothing if not attractive - and, OK, I know that when they were making the statues of Buddha they used me as a model ( as in a very expensive small round tummy). As you will have read, The Sailor opined I still had power snoozes, rather than old git's ones.
So imagine my surprise and shock/horror this morning to be approached by a doddery old man with an equally doddery dog, and greeted with, " Ah, you and me -we old folks feel the cold this time of year in our bones."
Well, I don't.
He's definitely off my Christmas card list.

Disappearing education

I know Bliar famously suggested that his priorities were 3 x education, and now Flash has largely said the same thing.
I don't for one moment suggest they are cynically exploiting people's most ardent hopes for their children.
I do have to say, though, that there appears to be a real difference between the aspiration and the delivery. Diktat and dogma never got anyone anywhere, and what is needed is a streaming within each school and level of ability. Whether we get it or not probably depends on whether the Tories win the next election.
When I was last in Romania, I was talking with the Last Unreconstructed Communist. She would probably suggest she was actually a socialist, and intended only good things for pupils. The point she made was that if the teachers are not forthcoming, then education itself will slowly decline. We are already seeing this where some subjects are being dropped by universities for lack of interest, which is having a knock on effect at the lower levels as the teachers are no longer there to teach. Never mind the Polish plumbers, it'll be the Polish Maths teachers pretty soon.
This country has always been bad at denigrating those who are educated, or special or making an upward path. We always denigrate ourselves if we know something. The diffidence with which University professors profess to know nothing about their subjects is wondrous to behold. We are more interested in glorifying the banal and promoting the commonplace types, with whom the majority can identify.
Whatever you may think of America, at least they attempt to be upwardly mobile. That's the American Dream.
What's the UK equivalent?

An Uncle Lear Snooze....

We were at my brother-in-law's, The Submariner, for dinner last night.
The discussion turned ( as it is bound to in a house with a 15 ( The Sailor) and a 10 year old ( The Supermodel)) about how ancient I am.
Apparently, the father of one of the Sailor's school friends arrives to collect him every day at about 2:45 and then snoozes until collection almost an hour later. I opined that I would happily do this any time, as I only need to stop working and narcolepsy sets in.
" Ah, yes, " said the Sailor, " But an Uncle Lear's snooze is a power snooze - not an old git's dribbly snorts."
I didn't have the heart to disabuse him.

Got to go now...

... said a friend in a slurry voice the other evening as I spoke to him on his mobile.
" I've a very difficult bit of walking to do."

One big field

On the train the other day I heard two elderly ladies discussing the view as it staggered past the window.
Somewhat wistfully, the first said, " Ah, I remember doing this trip during the war, and the whole of England was just like one big field, with wonderful hedgerows. One hardly saw a soul, just cows and sheep."
" Oh, yes", said the other. " And there was no chance of being spotted " at it" in a hedgerow."
Whereupon they both burst into hysterical laughter.
Shocking.

Iain Martin in the Sunday Telegraph...

... has a very good article on the Cameroons and their need to think positive. As I've said before, united we stand, divided we fall. I have to say that the present Tory party rather reminds me of a maiden aunt who jumps every time the door bell rings.

Humiliation and Brown's Big Lie.

If you were watching Andrew Marr this morning, you would twice have heard Flash refer to the humiliation of being forced out of the ERM, and David Cameron's part in it. Even Marr, a noted leftie, couldn't help but say, " Yes you've said that already " when it came round the second time.
But was it? Arguably, the idea that it was humiliation was a media fabrication, and, certainly in economic terms, it has been anything but.
The idea that DC had any effect on the thoughts and decision making at the time is ludicrous.He was a very junior player - hardly more than the tea-maker.
But Brown and his minions trot it out, so much so that last week the BBC showed Cameron behind Lamont on the " fateful" day in connection with the Northern Wreck situation. Why? There is absolutely no connection, apart from trying to make political mischief.
Marr, of course, is not an Economist - he is a journalist and a political one at that.
An Economist would have stopped Brown in his tracks. It was political & economic stupidity to go into the ERM at the rate they did. Arguably, that was Mrs. Thatcher's fault, corelating a high exchange rate as a macho stance and a strong Britain. In fact, of course, only very powerful countries with a high degree of discipline can afford high exchange rates. What happens is that your exports are less competitive. However, if you can stand the pain, hold down wages, increase efficiency and so on, within a year or two you are booming along again. This is because, in relative terms, your exports become cheaper as the other countries buying from you lose competitiveness.
This is exactly what happened in Germany throughout the 60s , 70s, 80s and 90s. If you speak to German businessmen, they will tell you that things are permanently dreadful, but they still export more in monetary terms than any other nation on earth ( think about it - how many plastic ducks make up a Mercedes?) and enjoy an exceptional standard of living. But it relies on the self-discipline and self-denial of the nation.
So Kohl, reuniting Germany, screwed them with the Ostmark rate ( "Chancellor, no lower than 3 Ostmark to 1 Deutschmark" " Certainly, Herr Bundesbank" - 5 minutes later anouncing the rate " Our nation will forever remain together as one, at a rate of 1 to 1"), and then Schroder screwed them with the Euro, just when they had clawed their way back.
Now, they've done it again and clawed back their preeminent competitive position. No Germans are asking for a policy that will lower the Euro. But the French, Spanish, Italians,Irish and Belgians are.
So let's look again at what happened after Britain left the ERM. That's when Brown's "unbroken quarter on quarter expansion of the economy" started, and his claiming credit for it is complete nonsense, not only in economic terms, but in factual terms as well. So, far from being a humiliation, it was a masterstroke.
Brown, unfortunately, has been the beneficiary, rather than the Tories.
In Economics, the greatest truth is that promulgated by Keynes.
When accused of arguing the contrary on a position he had previously held, he replied " Why not? What do you do when you're wrong? I change my mind"

The Charles and Camilla Generation

If you've been keeping up, you will know I was at a wedding last weekend in the Cotswolds. It was between a 61 year old man and a 57 year old woman, who have been in love off and on for the best part of 50 years.
Now I hear that this is becoming quite the thing.
A young lady told me that her Grandfather, a scion of a rich family in Scotland, never married until the girl he loved was widowed when she was 65. He promptly married her and left his money to her children when he eventually died, never having had any of his own.
Two of our male friends have recently "got together with" ladies of similar age, in both cases extremely well dressed and on their own for decades.
It raises an interesting point. In the old days, widows tended to remain widows - the men had all died out - but now that seems to be happening less. It's clearly a function of our lasting longer.
It's rather a nice thought. The picture of Charles and Camilla on their trip to the Middle East, walking hand in hand up a slope touched me. They're clearly just a couple of comfy buddies - somewhat pampered, but then some of us are.
Just a sidelight on Camilla. Our daily insists that her name is " Camelia" Oh well, each to their own.
The finest example of a C & M moment was a very old friend of one of my long deceased batty aunts. She owned a major tourist attraction which she had inherited from her husband, whom she had married after he proposed for the 25th time, once every year for 25 years. She, too, was somewhat batty, but had a wicked sense of humour, and particularly liked to tease my aunt who, although great fun, was frequently the butt of family japes.
To cut a long story short, our large and disparate family were holidaying abroad. There were always so many of us that we always had about 4 or 5 cars on any trip for dinner, and on the way back, I, as a small boy, was with my aunt's friend ( Mrs. Tourist Attraction) and another. We were leading the pack home by quite a margin. There had been talk of Mrs. TA's daughter arriving sometime - an oboeist in an orchestra in Roma ( Don't ask).
No sooner did we get back to the villa than Mrs. TA disappeared at a clip. A few moments later, her head popped round the corner of a door and said "When the others get back, tell them my daughter has arrived."
Within 5 or 10 minutes the rest were back, and I duly piped up that Mrs TA's daughter had arrived.
To be fair, everyone had had what used to be called a skinful - no breathalysers in those days, and, in any case, being in France noone paid any attention anyway. Drinks were poured, and my mother tried to persuade me to go to bed, but I was determined to meet Miss Oboeist.
With a crash, the door to where we were all sitting was flung open and an extremely unlikely figure shouted " HERLER".
She was dressed in a kaftan with a large fur hat and a scarf. " I'm Miss Oboeist" and with a manly stride and a firm grip she shook hands with all the people present, who were dumbstruck in the extreme.
" Can't stay, " she shouted, " Got to get to Monaco!" and she disappeared through the front door.
About 10 seconds later, Mrs. TA appeared from the back of the house,saying, " Oh, has she gone? "
In case you haven't guessed, it was Mrs. TA in disguise ( bloody clever too), but the drink, the dim lights and the general astonishment meant that to the day she died my aunt was convinced she had met her friend's daughter.
The only unbeliever was my aunt's husband, a large genial American, who sidled up to me and said " Whatever you do, don't tell your aunt the truth. "
He claimed that he had glimpsed Miss Oboeist's ankle as she rushed out the door, ".. and that, my boy, was no 20 year old's ankle."

Hello in the Park (3)

Being Saturday, it's me and the dog around the park.
All the usual suspects were there ( at least the dog knows who they are).
There is a dilemma, though. The joggers and serious walkers have to be passed several times in the course of the wander along whilst the dog checks the news at every bush and clump.
First time is no problem - the appropriate "Hello" " Good Morning," etc is fine - second time round perhaps " Hi" ( or silence? I never know) Third time is distinctly a grey area. Walk past with eyes down or averted? Surely they don't become invisible just because you have seen them three times?
There's a chap who exercises a whippet by riding his bicycle along the paths at great speed. He can go past 5 or 6 times in the space of one tour by my dog. He is meticulous in stopping to bag and bin, which is really excellent. In fact, most people in the park are pretty good at this.
I came across the foul-mouthed lady again this morning. Her mobile was still clamped to her ear, but she was - how shall I put it? - purring into it rather than shouting. And had a very smiley face.
I can only assume someone other than her husband/partner/significant other was talking to her, as not only did she not reply to my greeting, she ignored me completely.
Still, I expect her other half will be doing the same with Ms. A.N.Other by now anyway.

Go to Wigan - Go Upmarket!

A friend emailed me today to tell me that Wigan was where people from Stoke 0n Trent went when they want to splash out in an upmarket location.
The only thing I know about Stoke on Trent is that last Easter we were in the middle of nowhere in the highlands, when a hotel appeared. Outside it were some pretty flashy cars, beside which were parked small, wife-like/secretary-like runabaouts.
" Hm" mused the Headmaster's Wife. " It would be very easy for anyone to spot these people and know what they were up to" ( taking tea obviously -ed)
Anyway, a general discussion then ensued as to where one would go to be unfaithful. London was suggested ( big place, easy to hide) but rejected as so many people moved throught it all the time that one knew.
Latvia ( soo in, therefore out).
Cardiff ( give us a break).
No, there was only one place in the whole of the UK that could be guaranteed not to attract anyone.
Stoke on Trent. Safe as houses.

Pay it forward

This is the title of a film about a boy who tries to do good things for people and asks them to "pay it forward"
We all say from time to time " How can I ever repay you?". Well, the boy's answer was " Do something good for somebody else".
Needless to say, this being a tearjerker, the boy ends up dead.
But I was reminded of it this morning about the tale of young boy in Greenock, just down the road from Glasgow, who had been murdered - presumably by his contemporaries. By all accounts, he was a " pay it forward" sort of person. This is how far hatred of ourselves and jealousy of one another has taken us.
I don't know that in times past we were necessarily more charitable or helpful, but I'm absolutely sure that as we get older we need to take stock and give back some of what we have had.
I don't just mean money. If everything could be solved with $s or £s, all our problems would long ago have been banished. The inumerable volunteers who keep our charities going give the lie to this.
I am fast approaching the " sans teeth" stage of life and I do my best to be helpful and caring.
So let's all try to make the world a better place.
Phone someone you've been meaning to.
Make a lunch date with someone you really ought to.
Give some of your precious time to a worthwhile cause.
Care for someone.
But above all, whatever it is, do it today.

I had lunch today..

.. in an establishment that I had no idea still existed.
I was in Wigan ( where?) for reasons which are far too boring to even consider, but was taken to lunch at what I can only describe as a Lancastrian roadhouse eatery.
I could describe it in less flattering terms, but this is a family blog.
Starters were orange or apple juice , or, to be fair, soup, but I wouldn't trust it.
On arriving at the carvery ( under the hot lights you know, and all dried out - in fact the cabbage had frizzled) I decided the least awful looking thing was a piece of pork - didn't appear to have a lot of crackling on it, but still. And at the other end of the array of garbage was some cranberry sauce. Strange I thought.
Anyway, the person supposed to carve was not available - so the receptionist said he would.
"I'll have the pork please."
" Don't 'ave no pork - it's lamb, fish or turkey."
Ah, that would explain the cranberry sauce.
Carve is to use too polite a term for what he then did .He hacked it, as it was so dry.
I can't describe how bad it was.
I was ashamed to find that such places could still exist in the UK.

Mrs.Lear the Vigilante

You probably know I have always been enormously proud of Mrs. Lear, ever since our first date when she ate her way through the menu without batting an eyelid.
But today, I think I never felt prouder.
Whilst waiting outside some of our flats for the gas man ( yes, they still don't turn up, and instead of one lot you now have three to deal with), a bottle landed on top of her car.
By chance she happened to be looking in the rearview mirror and saw five boys, aged 10 or 11, sauntering away.
She leapt out the car and shouted at them, whereupon one shot off like a scalded cat, the the other 4 turned to face her.
Now Mrs. Lear is a formidable presence. She isn't that large, or tall, or muscley, but, as Wellington might have said, by God she frightens me.
So four eleven year olds were very soon standing in a line with their backs to the wall.
I won't go into all the details, but she first got them to phone their pal who had shot off ( " Didny ken his mobi nummer" " Either you phone him now or we'll all march to your school round the corner" " How do youse know whit skool werr a'?" " Because you're wearing one of it's sport shirts" ).
Clearly the urgency in his pal's voice persuaded said absconder to return, sheepishly.
" Now, " said Mrs. Lear, " I want an apology from you."
Dragging feet, downcast eyes.
" Come on, I'm going to keep you here until you're late for school, then march you to the headmaster." Ignoring the politically incorrect is one of Mrs. L's most endearing characteristics.
" mumble mumble"
" SPEAK UP BOY!" They had clearly never been spoken to by anyone in such a manner. They all jumped back two feet ( except the wall was behind them, which clearly they had forgotten).
" Sorry missus."
"RIGHT! And don't let me catch you throwing things around again. Cut along now, and don't be late for school."
If only we all had the courage to do it, there wouldn't be a problem anywhere on our streets.
Respect.

The B of E no longer independant

I won't bore you with this - I'm sure you've all realised what a sea-change has happened in the last couple of weeks. And don't forget, the B of E will now take up to £10billion of " mortgage backed securities" for 3 months from next week from anyone who cares to lob them along Threadneedle Street. That won't be mortgages with less than 25% outstanding being paid by 55 year olds who have been in the same job for 40 years. It will be the 100-110% ones to the likes of Sid Vicious which are already in arrears, and which - ultimately, because of Flash and Darling Darling's utter ignorance and lack of understanding of Economics - will eventually fall on the taxpayers in the UK.
No, what I want to share with you is something that has been niggling in the back of my mind for a week or two, and which suddenly burst forth in full flower as I wrote a cheque this morning . ( Those that know me well will realise this is not something I do either willingly or often). I was, at the same time, looking at a calendar, and noted a date - 18th October.
I have a godson whose birthday this is, and whose father is an IT whizz. He spends his whole time working for banks, being paid the most unbelievable sums of money, because he makes sure the systems ( all a bit creaky now) keep running - and he makes sure the back-up works too.
Anyway, about this time last year, Mr. Itwhizz, his wife and two children were visting us, and we were chatting about what he was up to at that time.
" Ah well, " he said, " I am doing systems for the banks to manage their mortgages in big chunks"
We had a discussion about it, and I eventually asked why the banks were doing this.
" It's because they will all run out of money next year, about August"
I had forgotten this conversation until I saw the October birthdate on my calendar this morning.
In essence, all the banks do mortgages, but actually lending the money, as opposed to taking the fees for arranging them, is not very profitable. In case you don't know, the banks profits come from fees - not actually lending money.
So last year, Mr.Itwhizz was being told by the banks that they would run out of money this year, and therefore needed to offload their mortgages, and needed systems to cope with this.
Makes you think doesn't it?
UPDATE:
Robert Peston, on the BBC website, has a good description of the mayhem at the heart of the BofE, the FSA and the government. One can't help but feel it would never have happened under Steady Eddie

S & M

For those of a sexually curious nature, please don't get excited about the S&M in the blogroll.
This is shorthand for stumblingandmumbling, which is Chris Dillow's excellent, mainly economic musings.
Today, he has an excellent article describing how Main Street USA has actually been cutting back for some months, in anticipation of harder times to come, and what effects this will have longer term. He poses the question, is Main Street a better forecaster than Wall Street?
As we all know, a trend is a trend until it reverses, which the credit markets well and truly have.
But the main point is that in fact the herd is almost always wrong. A self-reinforcing truth is not necessarily true.
Adam Smith ( he of non-Scottish ilk) in his Paper Money book, talked about the fund managers that followed, not the herd, but the opposite - perhaps the runt.
Whenever they got a bit twitchy about the market, they would go to one of the big retail brokerages ( probably Merril) and watch the orders coming in from all over the country from Mr. and Mrs. America.
As long as the preponderance were sell orders, they knew they were right to be buyers.
The point, of course, is that, on average, everything is average. It's a bit like a sailing race when, if everyone goes one way, the line up at the start will almost certainly be the same at the finish. If, on the other hand, Mr. Cleverclogs veers away from the fleet and does his own thing, there is every possibility that he will end up the winner.
Or last.

Toothless in Glasgow

I broke a tooth the other day whilst eating cabbage. That will tell you how rotten the tooth was to start with.
Mrs. Lear informed me I would have to wait three months for an appointment with our unctious dentist, but undeterred I phoned and was slotted in this morning.
Why do dentists insist on talking to you when you can't reply? It would be good to be able to say even just " Shut up", when your mouth is full of cotton wool, local anaesthetic and sucking machines, but it's a touch incomprehensible - a bit like the extremely annoying Virgin ad with the talking dog on Classic FM at the moment.
Anyway, after much description of what he was going to do, he removed the stump and packed the resulting hole with gauze.
Total time: 17 minutes
Time talking: 16minutes and 25 seconds
Time for extraction: 7 seconds
Time for looking at extracted stump:12 seconds
Time for putting extracted tooth on sidetable:16 seconds
Time for raising chair to vertical again ( in silence): 10 seconds.
Total cost ( when the bill comes in) £147.50. What the 50p is for I have no idea.
Once hustled out the door onto the front steps, unable to speak, the next patient was already in the surgery, and another was ascending the steps towards me.
He took one look at my puffed-up cheek and twisted mouth, hesitated, blanched, turned round, and walked away.
At least I've done some good today.

What's being done about something

Well, that headline isn't strictly true. Not very much IS being done, but I suppose something is better than nothing.
Please, before you read the rest of this post, note what I have to say is not racist, merely factual.
Last night, about 350 people in my extremely leafy part of Glasgow turned up to complain to our local Councillor, David Meikle, Nicola Sturgeon, our MSP, and various other political worthies.
Thier complaints were twofold. The first was to do with high powered cars racing around our streets at double, treble, whatever, the speed limit. The second was to do with the general security of people walking in the area.
To take the second concern first. This is to do with 10 and 11 year old white children walking home from school being attacked by several Asian teenagers. This is a daily problem at the moment. When reported, the police in the area have been doing nothing. If these Asians were caught by some bigger white children there would be bloodshed.
The racing cars are entirely driven by young Asian men. Again, despite inumerable reports, the police have done dothing.
The problem is that the minute a policeman asks an Asian a question, he is immediately accused of being racist. Since the stop and search " sus" laws were changed, there has effectively been no control on Asian and black youths' street behaviour. Just remember that almost all muggings and street crimes are carried out by black or Asian youths. That's not racist, it's a fact.
You may have picked up that PC David Copperfield aka Coppers Blog is going to Canada. Why? because he is fed up with spending 80% of his time on risk assessment and form filling. And even when he actually gets to walk a beat and deal with something, the last thing he wants to do is stop and ask any questions, as he then has to fill out a questionnaire with 40 questions.
The basic problem is that the pact between the Police and parents and adults has broken down. Parents are no longer in control of their children and the Police - despite reams of extra laws - actually have no power to deal with them.
The one good thing that came out of last night was a young Asian girl who stood up and said outright that the problems were caused by Asians. Noone else, of course, dared such a statement.
She also made the point that it was up to the politicians to speak to the leaders in the Asian communities to get them to take control of the situation. I personally think that's entirley worthy, but completely wrong. Our laws are enforced ( ha!) by our Police. If another authority is being deferred to, then heaven help us.
Because if the Police don't get a grip, there will be those in the white community who will take the law into their own hands.

A billion, etc etc Part 448

Well by now you may have heard that Alistair Darling AKA Broon's sock puppet has effectively nationalised Northern Rock - and by inference every other bank in the UK.
He has guaranteed NR's deposits - something that completely gives the lie ( as I suggested earlier) to the statement that the BofE and the Government would not bail out imprudent lenders. But if he's done it once, there's no chance if another one ( probably Alliance and Leicester) suffers a run he won't do the same thing.
He has to. Under no circumstance, politically, can Labour be seen to stand by whilst a Bank goes bust.
But the most intriguing thing is, ok,NR had £24 billion of deposits, but it had lent about £100 billion, and has therefore been borrowing about £80billion daily to cover the difference.
So not only will Darling Darling have to payout the £24billion of customers deposits, he will also have to fund the £100 billion of loans.
That'll make the PSBR look a bit iffy.
Watch as interest rates plummet to get everyone out of the quagmire!
See banks forclose on customers!
Notice how lending dries up!
See tax rates soar!
Oh, and forget your credit card.
They're already cutting limits the minute you pay any money onto them.
Blair's Legacy? Brown's Demise.

Thierry Cabanne

A name from my misspent youth in London as a student emerged today.
Thierry Cabanne was the owner of one of the largest brokerage and importers of French Wines. He died yesterday, aged 62.
I knew Thierry 40 years ago. Then he ran a restaurant called The Gasworks.
It sat beside what is now Chelsea Harbour, but then was a gasworks.
By day it was an amazing antiques shop. By night, Thierry and his partner transformed it into a super restaurant. I think the average bill was about £2 per head including wine. I had some amazingly wonderful evenings there, usually staying on to help clear up and cadge a last glass before Thierry closed up.
My fondest memory was of one night when - for reasons I can no longer remember - I had invited Ed " Stewpot" Stewart, the DJ, for dinner, along with his staggeringly beautiful girlfriend.
Ed was telling a story and shook his head to emphasis a point. We all fell about laughing at what we thought was the punchline ..." I've lost my contact lens!"
In fact, Ed had shaken it out into his girlfriend's cleavage. Naturally, we all offered to retrieve it.
But Thierry stepped up. " Non non. Zis is a problem for tact, diplomacy and warm 'ands ...." and promptly dropped an ice cube into the gap.
RIP.

Hello in the Park ( part 2)

I promised I would return to this subject.
What astonished me about the lady in the park was her cheeriness to me once she had slagged off her husband/ partner ( don't you hate that word? makes it sound like a business deal - but then again, maybe it is).
I have been reading a book by a chap called Gerd Giggerenzer, who is head of the Max Planck Institute in Berlin. The book is about going with your gut feeling, rather than the Benjamin Franklin advice to draw up a balance sheet and see which option is better. Apparently, our instincts produce better results, and by a long way.
However, part of his thesis revolves around why some couples live long and happy lives, being nice to each other, whilst others have flaming rows every few minutes. The lady in the park had no reason to be nasty to me, and therefore was perfectly nice. I was clearly being deferential and "nice" as well.
It all depends what happens the first time someone says a cross word.
At the risk of appearing sexist, let us suppose the man, on returning home after working hard, doesn't find his dinner on the table.
Does he a) yell at his wife to get a move on b) sit down with a drink whilst she makes it c) says " Let me give you a hand"
Now on the face of it, option b) looks pretty good, but this can lead to resentment. a) instantly leads to a yelling match, which leads to resentment on both sides. c) on the other hand, leads to the wife feeling guilty she hasn't got the dinner ready, so she is especially nice to him.
In other words, if someone is nasty to you, by being nice back, you make them feel guilty, and they are then nice to you. Far be it from me to draw parallels, but somebody once said something about turning the other cheek.
So the lady in the park was getting her own back on the man for not being nice to her. He, in turn, would almost certainly " pay her back" at the first opportunity, and the vicious circle would lead eventually to divorce etc etc etc.
If on the other hand, she had said, " No worries, darling, just you go and enjoy yourself - I'll sort out ( whatever)" he would feel guilty and would almost certainly do what she wanted next time. Result? Happiness all round.
So the next time a retort leaps to your lips, count to 10 and say nothing.
Or better still, " Sorry."
From 1 Corinthians 13:
"Love is patient; love is kind;love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful;it does not rejoice in wrongdoing,but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things,believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things."

Bank of England messes up

Well, I'm back from Romania, having attended a wonderful wedding in a place called Sudcombe in the Cotswolds on Saturday. Even if I say so myself I looked exceptionally attractive in my new floral waistcoat. The nibbles were excellent, and it was a bun and run type, where everyone was able to move about amongst their friends. The only drawback is the people drinking around me when I am on the wagon - which I permanently am in the UK. The wedding had a touch of Charles and Camilla- the groom was 61, married before, divorced, the bride a stripling of 57, never married, who has been in love with the groom since she was a little girl. Ah, young love. Or in this case, somewhat geriatric. When the vicar asked then to kneel, they both required helping hands both on the way down and the way up. I'm being a touch catty I suppose.
But I digress.
I don't care how much spin Alistair Darling and Merve the swerve put out - they have completely screwed up.Remeber Merve's " Well noone's asked us for extra liquidity so we haven't provided any." Somewhat economical with the truth there - it emerges representatives from the major high street banks ALL asked for it and were told they would have to make do. See how the BofE secrecy rules help them? The other banks could hardly say the Governor was lying, could they?
From Mervyn's " We won't bail out imprudent lenders," and 24 hours later, " er yes well, criteria justified blah blah." It is entirely clear the bailoutof Northern Rock is a political expedient - not least because Brown's favourite banker ( Wanless) sits on Northern Rocks board and credit committee.
Even worse, it has emerged that Lloyds TSB said they would take them over, provided the BofE gave them the same deal as they were giving Northern Rock, only to be told no no. Except that, er well, er, PLEASE take us over shouts the Chairman, and er, oh, yes, BofE says of course we'll keep the loan in place, justified, criteria, strict guidelines bollocks. And Darling blethers about Cameron and the ERM debacle ( Why? It is completely unconnected and irrelevant). And, of course, Brown has disappeared again - bit dodgy out there at the moment. Such a coward that man. Prime Minister and Leader? More like Walker in Dad's Army.
So this just might be the point where Blair's Legacy has come home to roost.
In the States, Bernanke, despite his seemingly impeccable credentials for just such a moment, dare not keep the Fed rate at it's present level.
Greenspan's gibbering over the last few days has shown just what a rubbish economist and understander of the markets he is. When he was originally being confirmed by the Senate as Chairman of the Fed, one of the Senators brought up his record to date - which included being wrong on every single decision he had ever made in his business life. The Senator sighed " I guess it must be about time for you to get one right."
Unfortunately, he didn't.

Buying a car in Romania

Today I spent practically every waking moment buying a car.
It started at 8am at the dealers, with various experts assuring me the car was suitable. This cost the equivalent of Eur 10 split between various bodies. This is how it works here - a few Lei as the currency here is called works wonders.
Anyway, by 9 oclock when the bank opened we were rolling. The salesman came with me to the bank. The lovely Alexandrinska shoved half a dozen bits of paper in front of my nose, all of which required my signature twice and stamped twice as well. The money was then in escrow.
Next stop was a notary public. We all trooped into his office , various sums changed hands and we were asked to return in an hour. The salesman's job was now finished, until such time as we would hand him the bank receipt for the money transferring, so we took him back to the garage.
Just time for a quick coffee then back to the notary.
There were a total of 22 stamps and signatures.
Next was the bank again, who required to take copies of the copies - only another two stamps and signatures. The money was then transferred and the bank gave us two receipts, with their stamps and signatures.
At this point, we became the legal owners of the vehicle.
For reasons of sheer boredom, I won't go on with the visits to the town hall ( where we found the garage owed the town about Eur 20, and we could not have the relevant paper until this was paid - we paid it), the licence office, the car plates office, the insurance office, the carplates office again and then the garage to collect the car.
Now you might think that the car at this point was taxed, plated and ready to roll. Not a bit of it. The piece de resistance is that the local police have to inspect the car, the papers and as far as I could tell the stamp itself.
There are two ways of doing this.
One is to drive the car on trade plates about 50km to the police station in the regional capital, sit in a queue for a day or two, and finally have a policeman look at the car through a window, stamp the papers and off you go.
The other way is to have a connection. Everything in Romania comes down to a connection.
So a friend of Alin's who has a friend who works in the police station in Targu Mores made a phone call, and, as if by magic, two policemen appeared at the garage, shook everyone by the hand, stamped a paper or two, shook hands again, and drove off.
NOW we can take the car. It's 5pm. Noone has had anything to eat. An arrangement had been made. We triumphantly drove the car to a local restaurant.
There, waiting for us, was every one of the people we had been dealing with all day, including the man from the police station in Targu Mores and the two policemen.
I am assured that otherwise it would take three weeks to buy a car.
It was well worth it.
UPDATE 1: You might think this is all a bit of a joke, but take note: nobody has no car insurance in Romania, nobody has a car which is unsafe on the roads, nobody has not paid their road tax and nobody drives without a driving licence. The checks help with this, but the real stick is every single one of the above offences carries three years inside. So that could be 12 years just for what in UK would probably be a fine of a few hundred pounds.
Oh, and speeding fines and points are on the spot. If you don't have the cash, expect to spend at least a couple of days inside. And don't for one second think you can get away with saying you left either your wallet, driving licence, insurance or granny at home.
Seems to work a treat.
UPDATE 2: A policeman I met at the weekend, when I spoke to him about this, told me that in the UK we would need to build an entire penal colony on the Isle of Wight to lock up all the offenders.

My beautiful new yellow shoes

Well, I have my new shoes.
Now, I know people buy shoes every day, but these are specially special. The only shoes I have bought in the last 5 years are Timberlands. I am a very conservative in my regal clothes. Whatever I wear, I wear my Timberlands. Unless it's a wedding or funeral.
So, when my shoes fell apart - as it happens they were a pair of another brand I had been persuaded to buy, much against my better judgement - I took a strategic decision that for my mountain goat style surveying I would buy a pair of walking boots. Or shoes.
So I kitted myself up with the equivalent of a couple of hundred quid and wandered off to the shoe shop.
Now I have no real idea of how people behave in shoe shops - actually, I think most men have no idea of shopping at all - but I have to say I was somewhat unsure of how to behave. The young lady behind the counter clearly had no real interest in selling me anything, as the shop was heaving with folk. I spotted a pair of boot-like shoes with big sole - they were bright yellow.
To cut a long story short, I decided they were for me. I asked how much they were.
It turned out they were twenty pounds.
That $40 or Eur 30.
Leather uppers, solid composite soles. Sewn in uppers. Fantastic.
So I put my derelict ex-shoes into a bag and walked off to find my driver.
I was clearly visible from 100 yards away with my yellow shoes.
" Mr. King - what you buy?" I should explain that the Romanians do the names the wrong way round, so Alin thinks my name is Lear King.
" OOh, those are Cluzana.VEEERY important shoose"
It turns out that in Ceaucescu's time, these particular shoe/boots were only allowed to the ruling classes, ie his pals. They were simply unavailable in Romania. If you saw a person walking towards you with yellow shoes, you got out of his way. And it was always "his".
So there I was with my beautiful new yellow shoes.
The lady in the Bank said " Bootiful new shoose! Cluzana! I wish for my boyfrien'!"
The first mayor we met today said ( in Romanian) " Cluzana! VEEERRRY important!"
The school director, to whom I was taking books said " Oh my God, Cluzana! Where did you get them!"
And the lady cooking lunch - and, as it eventually turned out, dinner said " Alin. Where you get heem Cluzana?"
So I'm seriously proud of my shoes. I have spent time, money and effort to make these people like and help me.
And all it took was a pair of shoes that cost the equivalent of a couple of pizzas.
The rest of the day passed in a complete haze. We had a very serious meeting with mayors, consultants, secretaries taking notes, builders and translators. Every one of them asked me about my shoes. Everyone of them insisted on having a drink with me " to yore new shoose."
I have no idea what I agreed to, but my driver and translator assured me, " Mr. King, you do verrry good business today.But Mr. King, why you invite all these people for dinner at Christmas?"
Oops.

What's the Romanian for Oh, shit.

I apologise for the somewhat Imtrying to createanimpression heading.
I have, however, had a distinctly painful experience.
I am now in the little flat in Sighisoara which overlooks the town square. The heating works, I have a bed, a blanket ( sheets and pillow too), 5 chairs, 4 mugs, some soap, a coffee pot and a teaspoon. In fact all that one requires to exist happily in a stripped-down lifestyle. I accept I've slightly overdone the chairs but they came as a job lot for Eur 20, so I didn't think I could really say I only needed one. This was all carted into the flat by a taxi-driver - try that in Knightsbridge .They have taxis here which are like pick-up trucks, and people use them all the time to shift stuff about.
The rest will have to await Mrs. Lear's arrival next month. I haven't been married all these years without knowing my limitations.
Anyway, back to the problem. If you've been paying attention, you will know that a lot of my time here is spent wandering about the hills and fields, usually taking in some seriously rocky paths, and gazing contentedly about as the sun glints off trees, streams, sheeps ( as everyone calls them here) and listening to two Romanians planning where to put a tree.
Yesterday, we were somewhere about "The Faraway Tree", probably the best part of 20 minutes walk from the road. The temperature has dropped, as one would expect at 12-15oo ft up, but the sun is still shining merrily.
I tripped.
I got up, dusted myself off, took another step and tripped again.
Now normally, I can stay on my feet pretty well - and no I hadn't been drinking. The first beer yesterday was after 5pm.
I did notice, though, that there appeared to be a sort of dirty banana attached to the bottom of my left shoe. It turned out to be the sole, which had removed itself from the upper.
The only thing to do was rip the remains off - I could hardly trip every other step on the way back.
A little bit of history is required here. When I was 14, I broke my left leg badly,and, despite lots of excellent doctoring, it is marginally shorter than the right. So with the sole off, I was doing a good impression of Long John Silver pretty quickly - and yes I know he only had ONE leg, but he hirpled along, which was what I was doing.
So after walking for oh, 100 yards, my back was killing me. The sole of my left foot was starting to get seriously sore on the stones, and generally I was not in a happy frame of mind.
What to do?
I decided the back was worse than the foot, so I ripped the sole off the RIGHT shoe, which meant I was at least balanced, and made it back to the car on the inners of my shoes. Believe me when I say I don't wish to do this again.
So now you see the reason for the headline.
Strangely, something similar happened once before. My skiboots disintegrated as I walked up some steps, and I spent the rest of the day getting back to the hotel on the inners.
Anyway, we all made it back and some excellent Sarmalya ( cabbage leaves stuffed with meat) and a beer set all to rights.
Now I just have to break in a new pair of Romanian shoes.