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.