I was out for dinner last night locally, where a certain famous Island Scot was regalling us with tales of yesteryear.
Whilst in the Navy in the 50s for his National Service, he had served on a ship as an officer which was stationed in Malta. With leave owing he decided to take a trip to Rome, and was making plans when the ship's Catholic priest stopped him and asked if he would make up the numbers for a visit to the Pope ( then Pius XII). Apparently this particular priest had a slot booked every year but needed to produce a certain number to maintain it, and he was short a few bodies that particular year.
Despite being firmly Calvinist, the Islander agreed, as it would mean a free trip and visit to St. Peter's.
He duly attended, kissed the ring and received a medallion, which he has used ever after to gain advantage when the chance arose. He mentioned particularly the Maltese jollyboat sailors, who would wait for him ignoring Admirals and the like.
However, when he got back to his ship, he was promptly arrested and hauled before a Board of Enquiry full of gentlemen sporting acres of scrambled egg.
An officious little tit ( the Islander's words) had reported him for meeting a Head of State in incorrect dress. At the time ( and to this day for all I know) Naval Officers, when meeting Heads of State MUST wear their full dress uniforms. The Islander, of course, was wearing his kilt, as you do. It's truly amazing the offers you get and the general bonhommie this engenders - you only need to ask the Tartan Army.
The Admiral in charge asked the Islander how he wanted to plead. " Guilty with extentuating circumstances". The Admiral eyed him speculatively. " I don't know that I want to hear this... but (sigh) I suppose I must."
"Well, Sir, as I am not a Catholic I decided the Pope would look more favourably on me in a kilt. And, Sir, it was a very hot day, so I wanted to let my tadger..." " ENOUGH," said the Admiral." Case dismissed"
One of his shipmates was a mere AB, but from a very very grand Scottish family. The AB was offered a commission, but much preferred to have no responsibility. Unfortunately, his father died during this posting, and the AB was obliged to make arrangements to return his father's Order of the Thistle to the Queen.
He made an appointment with the Captain.
" Yes AB, what do you want"
" Please Sir, permission to visit the Queen." The Captain opined he had thirty seconds to explain himself and it better be good.
The AB explained as rapidly as possible.
" Hm" said the Captain." So what do I have to call you now?"
" Your Grace, Sir"
Friday, November 30, 2007
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Credit crunch and tax receipts
The one thing noone has so far mentioned is the lack of tax that every bank and financial institution will be paying over the next 12 months.
Collectively, the Banks in the UK pay about 25% of all company taxes. On present form, much of this will be wiped out by the CDOs, SIVs and God knows what else that has been bundled out of sight. This has to happen every now and again so the banks can have massive rights issues ( question: if they are doing well, what do they need more money for?) and so that they can then report growing profits for several years until the next disaster they think of. Even the bonuses that drive quite significant parts of the UK economy will be short this year - less tax again and less free cash spilling about.
If - as is reported today - RBS really does write off £12BILLION, Mr. Darling ( or whoever it is next year) might even have to pay them money back.
And where would the shortfall come from?
I don't really need to answer that, do I?
Collectively, the Banks in the UK pay about 25% of all company taxes. On present form, much of this will be wiped out by the CDOs, SIVs and God knows what else that has been bundled out of sight. This has to happen every now and again so the banks can have massive rights issues ( question: if they are doing well, what do they need more money for?) and so that they can then report growing profits for several years until the next disaster they think of. Even the bonuses that drive quite significant parts of the UK economy will be short this year - less tax again and less free cash spilling about.
If - as is reported today - RBS really does write off £12BILLION, Mr. Darling ( or whoever it is next year) might even have to pay them money back.
And where would the shortfall come from?
I don't really need to answer that, do I?
2014 Commonwealth Games
Mr.Jock has a nice joke about the games.
"As you all know, Glasgow was chosen, ooh, ages ago, to hold the 2014 Commonwealth Games, but it’s taken today until I received the first e-mail about it:
“In a competition between a major cosmopolitan city and a dangerous slum in a third world country, how much did the Glaswegians have to bribe the officials to stop the major cosmpolitan city getting it?”
OOOh, catty.
"As you all know, Glasgow was chosen, ooh, ages ago, to hold the 2014 Commonwealth Games, but it’s taken today until I received the first e-mail about it:
“In a competition between a major cosmopolitan city and a dangerous slum in a third world country, how much did the Glaswegians have to bribe the officials to stop the major cosmpolitan city getting it?”
OOOh, catty.
You're happier once you get past your 41st Birthday
S & M has a very nice piece today about how men are apparently happier after turning 41. Noone is totally sure why this should be, but perhaps it's to do with men maturing later than ladies. They remain little boys until they become 40 odd, then grow up and accept life rather than being petulant about it.
Cavalier King Charles's for example don't have any brain cells until they are more than 5 years old - roughly equivalent to 40 in human terms. Maybe men are the same.
Whilst I was reading the post I was reminded of a tale on one of the talking book tapes that were endlessly listened to in the car on long journeys when the Ms. Lears were small.
It concerned Neville Toogood. He was so good he started to grow wings and a halo, and to turn into a little angel. Unsurprisingly, he didn't fancy that so started to behave very badly until they wore off - and then discovered he really really enjoyed being naughty, so continued to put frogs in beds and call his teacher a " silly old boot".
Well, Neville woke up one morning to find two little humps starting on his forehead, and the beginnings of a little tail. Oh no! Neville was turning into a little devil!
So he apologised to his teacher, removed the frogs and the lumps went away. And he remained good. Except, to be on the safe side, he sometimes brushed his teeth the wrong way.
I'm a bit like that with alcohol. I don't drink in this country.
But to be on the safe side, and avoid a halo, I drink when I'm abroad.
Cavalier King Charles's for example don't have any brain cells until they are more than 5 years old - roughly equivalent to 40 in human terms. Maybe men are the same.
Whilst I was reading the post I was reminded of a tale on one of the talking book tapes that were endlessly listened to in the car on long journeys when the Ms. Lears were small.
It concerned Neville Toogood. He was so good he started to grow wings and a halo, and to turn into a little angel. Unsurprisingly, he didn't fancy that so started to behave very badly until they wore off - and then discovered he really really enjoyed being naughty, so continued to put frogs in beds and call his teacher a " silly old boot".
Well, Neville woke up one morning to find two little humps starting on his forehead, and the beginnings of a little tail. Oh no! Neville was turning into a little devil!
So he apologised to his teacher, removed the frogs and the lumps went away. And he remained good. Except, to be on the safe side, he sometimes brushed his teeth the wrong way.
I'm a bit like that with alcohol. I don't drink in this country.
But to be on the safe side, and avoid a halo, I drink when I'm abroad.
From Money Week
"Prize for funniest letter of the week has to go to Meg Hillier MP, who writes indignantly in this morning's FT, responding to an editorial on ID cards: Sir, I was bemused by your call for the National Identity Scheme to be abandoned. Among other things, her letter notes that "the rising threat of identity fraud cannot go unchallenged."
Has she been asleep for the past week? Or perhaps on a jaunt to the Antarctic? Because of course, anyone who was actually aware of the fact that the government has just lost half the population's intimate financial details, could never have the audacity or the arrogance to complain about press scepticism over ID cards. "
Oh dear me, no.
Has she been asleep for the past week? Or perhaps on a jaunt to the Antarctic? Because of course, anyone who was actually aware of the fact that the government has just lost half the population's intimate financial details, could never have the audacity or the arrogance to complain about press scepticism over ID cards. "
Oh dear me, no.
From Money Week - delayed
"Prize for funniest letter of the week has to go to Meg Hillier MP, who writes indignantly in this morning's FT, responding to an editorial on ID cards: Sir, I was bemused by your call for the National Identity Scheme to be abandoned. Among other things, her letter notes that "the rising threat of identity fraud cannot go unchallenged."
Has she been asleep for the past week? Or perhaps on a jaunt to the Antarctic? Because of course, anyone who was actually aware of the fact that the government has just lost half the population's intimate financial details, could never have the audacity or the arrogance to complain about press scepticism over ID cards. "
Oh dear me, no.
Has she been asleep for the past week? Or perhaps on a jaunt to the Antarctic? Because of course, anyone who was actually aware of the fact that the government has just lost half the population's intimate financial details, could never have the audacity or the arrogance to complain about press scepticism over ID cards. "
Oh dear me, no.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Usefulness
We spend much of our lives trying to be useful - at least I do. I have no illusions about how useLESS I am at eg DIY. I'm not a bad cook, though, and, although not useful about the house ( called out the washine machine engineer once - he fixed it by turning on the electricity) I like to feel useful. I'm not bad at turning off lights. I'm quite good at recycling. I offer to nip down the road to get whatever is missing from the recipe - and I'm sure there are many other things, of greater or lesser moment, for which I am useful.
One likes to think that others regard one as " useful" - as in, " He's a useful chap to know". I daresay David Abrahams/Martin thought of himself similarly.
But I have few illusions about myself, and so it was with some trepidation that I set out to list my usefulness to Mrs. Lear.
Was it the cooking that came top of the list? No.
Or taking the dog for a walk at the weekends? No.
Perhaps being affable to people that I dislike? Unfortunately, not one of my attributes.
My final conclusion was that my greatest usefulness was related to my Virgoan obsessive nature.
Mrs. Lear is not very good with toothpaste. She leaves the top off ( grounds for divorce in some households) and bits hanging out the end. And lumps in the sink. And a squidgy tube, squeezed with no regard to order, so that the paste is usually at the wrong end as it has all been taken from the top.
So every morning I carefully clean up the top of the tube, put the top back on, squeeze the paste to the top, then perfectly fold over the end to produce a perfectly filled, but somewhat shorter, toothpaste tube. As with all usefulness, this is not done for praise or plaudit, merely for the satisfaction of being useful. I retire from the bathroom unobtrusively, a faint smile of satisfaction playing around my mouth.
Or perhaps I am just an obsessive, pernickity freak.
Bit like Gordon Brown, Really.
One likes to think that others regard one as " useful" - as in, " He's a useful chap to know". I daresay David Abrahams/Martin thought of himself similarly.
But I have few illusions about myself, and so it was with some trepidation that I set out to list my usefulness to Mrs. Lear.
Was it the cooking that came top of the list? No.
Or taking the dog for a walk at the weekends? No.
Perhaps being affable to people that I dislike? Unfortunately, not one of my attributes.
My final conclusion was that my greatest usefulness was related to my Virgoan obsessive nature.
Mrs. Lear is not very good with toothpaste. She leaves the top off ( grounds for divorce in some households) and bits hanging out the end. And lumps in the sink. And a squidgy tube, squeezed with no regard to order, so that the paste is usually at the wrong end as it has all been taken from the top.
So every morning I carefully clean up the top of the tube, put the top back on, squeeze the paste to the top, then perfectly fold over the end to produce a perfectly filled, but somewhat shorter, toothpaste tube. As with all usefulness, this is not done for praise or plaudit, merely for the satisfaction of being useful. I retire from the bathroom unobtrusively, a faint smile of satisfaction playing around my mouth.
Or perhaps I am just an obsessive, pernickity freak.
Bit like Gordon Brown, Really.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Cranford
I love Cranford. It has many delightful moments, but none more so than the cow that need to be clothed. Her owner bought yards of grey flannel - and made her the most enormous part of pyjamas - with outsize buttons. Wonderful.
A miracle...
Something quite extraordinary happened the other day. I would go so far as to say it was a miracle. Not a major one, just a small one - perhaps performed by one of the smaller gods of Discworld.
Actually, perhaps miracles are just chance as defined by chaos theory - remember the monkeys typing Shakespeare? Well, why shouldn't a miracle just be all the things that need to happen falling into line in the right order. That's probably how we got here in the first place - pure chance.
The one thing I DO know about miracles. The moment you start analysing them, they are no longer miracles. If you ask why or how or what, the miracle is gone.
So if something happens, accept it.
You never know, it might be a miracle.
Actually, perhaps miracles are just chance as defined by chaos theory - remember the monkeys typing Shakespeare? Well, why shouldn't a miracle just be all the things that need to happen falling into line in the right order. That's probably how we got here in the first place - pure chance.
The one thing I DO know about miracles. The moment you start analysing them, they are no longer miracles. If you ask why or how or what, the miracle is gone.
So if something happens, accept it.
You never know, it might be a miracle.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Sunday..
.. was rather a pleasant day. We set off early to go to Lower Largo in Fife, to visit some friends who were holidaying there. We had a walk along the beach and then repaired to a restaurant at St.Monans that wins rosettes every year and has come 6th in the UK for fish restaurants.
I was a touch disappointed I have to say, but had the price been about half, I probably would not have been.
Lower Largo is the village where Alexander Selkitk, the model for Robinson Crusoe, was born, and there is a suitably Victorian statue of him in the main street. The local Minister, in full black regalia, walked towards us as we made for home, mocking our non-attendance at the Kirk.
Before going to the restaurant, I used our friend's loo, and was interested in the positioning of the loopaper.
You, dear reader, will remember the Little Endians and the Big Endians of Gulliver's Travels. They were the two political parties in that land. In many ways, that would seem to me to be an adequate differentiation, but loopaper is even more contentious. Do you mount the loopaper with the unrolling towards the wall, so you have to scramble at the wall and jerk it with potentially disatrous consequences, or over the front of the roll - when an easy pull and a gentle tear works wonders? You might gather I am in the latter Political party.
Anyway, after lunch, we hot-footed it towards Edinburgh, where there was a viewing of pictures to be sold there on Wednesday.
I am particularly fond of a dead Scottish artist called Donald Bain. He painted with J D Ferguson, one of the acknowledged masters of Scottish painting, and spent much time in France. Unfortunately, as with so many Scots of talent, the drink got him, and he died at a young age over 20 years ago. His best paintings and drawings are wonderful explosions of colour and joie de vivre.
There are three for sale in this particular auction. One is rather traditional, but has lots of problems with cracking paint. One is quite nice - saying which instantly condemns it.
The third is a fantastic painting of Montmartre in Paris, which from a distance is utterly compelling. Closer to, it lacks a bit of precision and form.
As a result, I am in two minds about bidding for it.
If it does well, my existing paintings are worth more. If it doesn't I should buy it.
BUT - and here's the but - that is not the right way to buy a painting. You should buy it with a piece of yourself, with love. You should have to go without to reinforce that passion, whether it be money or the regard of others. Our lives have become incredibly bland and risk-averted by the ubiquitous ElfnSafety. Passion and commitment have lip-service paid to them, but in reality, you are regarded as a bit of a loose cannon if you display either.
I'll get back to you on that.
PS Today's anagram - DEBIT CARD = BAD CREDIT
I was a touch disappointed I have to say, but had the price been about half, I probably would not have been.
Lower Largo is the village where Alexander Selkitk, the model for Robinson Crusoe, was born, and there is a suitably Victorian statue of him in the main street. The local Minister, in full black regalia, walked towards us as we made for home, mocking our non-attendance at the Kirk.
Before going to the restaurant, I used our friend's loo, and was interested in the positioning of the loopaper.
You, dear reader, will remember the Little Endians and the Big Endians of Gulliver's Travels. They were the two political parties in that land. In many ways, that would seem to me to be an adequate differentiation, but loopaper is even more contentious. Do you mount the loopaper with the unrolling towards the wall, so you have to scramble at the wall and jerk it with potentially disatrous consequences, or over the front of the roll - when an easy pull and a gentle tear works wonders? You might gather I am in the latter Political party.
Anyway, after lunch, we hot-footed it towards Edinburgh, where there was a viewing of pictures to be sold there on Wednesday.
I am particularly fond of a dead Scottish artist called Donald Bain. He painted with J D Ferguson, one of the acknowledged masters of Scottish painting, and spent much time in France. Unfortunately, as with so many Scots of talent, the drink got him, and he died at a young age over 20 years ago. His best paintings and drawings are wonderful explosions of colour and joie de vivre.
There are three for sale in this particular auction. One is rather traditional, but has lots of problems with cracking paint. One is quite nice - saying which instantly condemns it.
The third is a fantastic painting of Montmartre in Paris, which from a distance is utterly compelling. Closer to, it lacks a bit of precision and form.
As a result, I am in two minds about bidding for it.
If it does well, my existing paintings are worth more. If it doesn't I should buy it.
BUT - and here's the but - that is not the right way to buy a painting. You should buy it with a piece of yourself, with love. You should have to go without to reinforce that passion, whether it be money or the regard of others. Our lives have become incredibly bland and risk-averted by the ubiquitous ElfnSafety. Passion and commitment have lip-service paid to them, but in reality, you are regarded as a bit of a loose cannon if you display either.
I'll get back to you on that.
PS Today's anagram - DEBIT CARD = BAD CREDIT
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Friday, November 23, 2007
Climate change? Pip has it sorted....
... in the Archers. Now that Pip has taken up the cudgels, swathes of middle England will start putting in low-energy light bulbs, recycling their waste and stop flying to....well I was going to say Benidorm, but I don't think middle England goes there anymore.
But seriously, this programme sets the agenda for life in the UK now. Not the Government - the Archers.
Why do I say that?
Because David Archer promoted killing badgers because of TB long before it was fashionable - maybe he made it fashionable.
Because... oh there's too much to mention.
But now, Pip is seriously worried and good old David has given farmers the lead they need
" We have fields down to clover, which reduces the fertilisers we need to import and put down ( Tick) We keep the cattle out on the fields longer so that's less manufactured feed ( Tick)... " Anyway, farmers all over the country will be rushing off to plant hedgerows and clover and goodness knows all what, because ITS THE RIGHT THING TO DO - David Archer says so.
And it'll please Pip.
But seriously, this programme sets the agenda for life in the UK now. Not the Government - the Archers.
Why do I say that?
Because David Archer promoted killing badgers because of TB long before it was fashionable - maybe he made it fashionable.
Because... oh there's too much to mention.
But now, Pip is seriously worried and good old David has given farmers the lead they need
" We have fields down to clover, which reduces the fertilisers we need to import and put down ( Tick) We keep the cattle out on the fields longer so that's less manufactured feed ( Tick)... " Anyway, farmers all over the country will be rushing off to plant hedgerows and clover and goodness knows all what, because ITS THE RIGHT THING TO DO - David Archer says so.
And it'll please Pip.
Today's anagram
I always like an apposite anagram - it somehow shows that there IS order in the world rather than the chaos that appears to be engulfing everything.
So just so you know, the anagram of ANXIETY is ANY EXIT.
Makes you think, doen't it?
So just so you know, the anagram of ANXIETY is ANY EXIT.
Makes you think, doen't it?
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Online security
Mrs. Lear is somewhat exercised about the new security procedures she has to go through for her online banking.
Quite apart from mother's maiden name, post code and other stuff like that, there are now subjective questions.
The one most vexing her is " What is your favourite colour?"
Now this will show you Mrs. Lear's excellence. A bloke ( ok me) would say " Blue"
" But" said Mrs.Lear to me last night " how do you know it will still be blue in two or three months time?"
Now I had never thought about this. My favourite colour is blue. It always has been. I'm a boy - it's blue. It always will be.
But Mrs. Lear makes the valid point that if a woman's favourite colour never changed, there would be no fashion industry, and we would never have had the endless avocado bathroom suites all those years ago.
There would be no autumn colours for ladies to adopt, or spring, or summer.
So I suggested that she could put in whatever the present colour was and thereafter change it when the mood took her.
Except there wasn't a way of doing that on the form. You could change addresses, phone numbers and all sorts of stuff - but not your favourite colour.
" So how am I supposed to remember my favourite colour?" I suggested she put it in her mobile phone under Coulour ( last name) Other Colour ( first name) and then a fictitious number.
"I'll just write it down" Which she did.
Unfortunately, the next question was " Favourite book". Sigh.
It's going to take a very long time to fill in this form I can see.
Quite apart from mother's maiden name, post code and other stuff like that, there are now subjective questions.
The one most vexing her is " What is your favourite colour?"
Now this will show you Mrs. Lear's excellence. A bloke ( ok me) would say " Blue"
" But" said Mrs.Lear to me last night " how do you know it will still be blue in two or three months time?"
Now I had never thought about this. My favourite colour is blue. It always has been. I'm a boy - it's blue. It always will be.
But Mrs. Lear makes the valid point that if a woman's favourite colour never changed, there would be no fashion industry, and we would never have had the endless avocado bathroom suites all those years ago.
There would be no autumn colours for ladies to adopt, or spring, or summer.
So I suggested that she could put in whatever the present colour was and thereafter change it when the mood took her.
Except there wasn't a way of doing that on the form. You could change addresses, phone numbers and all sorts of stuff - but not your favourite colour.
" So how am I supposed to remember my favourite colour?" I suggested she put it in her mobile phone under Coulour ( last name) Other Colour ( first name) and then a fictitious number.
"I'll just write it down" Which she did.
Unfortunately, the next question was " Favourite book". Sigh.
It's going to take a very long time to fill in this form I can see.
What do you remember about being in Love?
Perhaps this heading is misleading - I really mean Being in love for the first time.
I only ask because a colleague asked me the other day if I could remember that time ( Cheek)
Anyway, as all the rage is memes, here are 5 things I remember about being in love for the first time.
1) It was almost impossible to hang up the phone. " You hang up first" " No you" " Goodnight darling" " Goodnight darling - you hang up" " No you hang up first."
2) You walk around with a dull ache in the pit of your stomache all day, and when you finally meet up with your beloved, the ache does a somersault and kicks you hard.
3) You suddenly smile for no apparent reason.
4) You no longer go out with the boys, and even go out in COUPLES - or just the two of you.
5) You suddenly feel life has a point and a purpose.
I don't know if anyone else has similar memories. Mine are of course from very long ago, and young people may have completely different views.
What I do think is nice is that - apart from hanging up the phone without a problem - being in love would seem to me to still consist of at least numbers 3,4 & 5 throughout life.
But at my age, number 2 is usually something you ate.
I only ask because a colleague asked me the other day if I could remember that time ( Cheek)
Anyway, as all the rage is memes, here are 5 things I remember about being in love for the first time.
1) It was almost impossible to hang up the phone. " You hang up first" " No you" " Goodnight darling" " Goodnight darling - you hang up" " No you hang up first."
2) You walk around with a dull ache in the pit of your stomache all day, and when you finally meet up with your beloved, the ache does a somersault and kicks you hard.
3) You suddenly smile for no apparent reason.
4) You no longer go out with the boys, and even go out in COUPLES - or just the two of you.
5) You suddenly feel life has a point and a purpose.
I don't know if anyone else has similar memories. Mine are of course from very long ago, and young people may have completely different views.
What I do think is nice is that - apart from hanging up the phone without a problem - being in love would seem to me to still consist of at least numbers 3,4 & 5 throughout life.
But at my age, number 2 is usually something you ate.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
ID cards a must
Oh really? And will the security be as good as the 15 million records that have disappeared - and noone knows where they are? Oh, and the other 30 odd thousand that were lost in transit last week.
And as it's been known about for more than two weeks, it wouldn't be being mentioned now to divert attention from Northern Rock, would it?
How I despise this government.
And as it's been known about for more than two weeks, it wouldn't be being mentioned now to divert attention from Northern Rock, would it?
How I despise this government.
Sickening
I was in the Glasgow Royal College of Surgeons last night for a talk given by Doug Scott, the climber, who was certainly the 50th person to climb Eversest and possibly the first Englishman. The first Scotsman was definitely Dougal Haston, who was with him and was the 51st up there.
The talk was about a subsequent trip to climb the Ogre, and all the problems they encountered. Basically, as they came down, one had two broken legs and the other no ribcage left. Oh, and no food either.
Quite apart from the interest and the amazing pictures, Doug now does his lectures for his charity which is trying to help with education and doctoring in Nepal, and the proceeds of the talk were being split between his charity and Surgery in Nepal ( another charity).
Now you can argue that one shouldn't leave money lying about anywhere. But in the RCS, with security doors and a doorman, it should be reasonably safe. Especially hidden.
It wasn't.
All the money paid by those who paid at the door was stolen during the talk. Fortunately, it was probably only £100 or so but the fact remains it was lifted.
Sickening.
The talk was about a subsequent trip to climb the Ogre, and all the problems they encountered. Basically, as they came down, one had two broken legs and the other no ribcage left. Oh, and no food either.
Quite apart from the interest and the amazing pictures, Doug now does his lectures for his charity which is trying to help with education and doctoring in Nepal, and the proceeds of the talk were being split between his charity and Surgery in Nepal ( another charity).
Now you can argue that one shouldn't leave money lying about anywhere. But in the RCS, with security doors and a doorman, it should be reasonably safe. Especially hidden.
It wasn't.
All the money paid by those who paid at the door was stolen during the talk. Fortunately, it was probably only £100 or so but the fact remains it was lifted.
Sickening.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Lunnun Tahn
I'm always astonished at the Big Smoke. There are always things going on or complete seizure, and I love the contra indications all over the place. Like the beggar sleeping in the arcade at the Ritz. Did he tell his mates he slept at the Ritz?
Then there's the tin of beans being confiscated at Luton. Why? Clearly a bomb.
Serious teas in serious hotels are a joy - most places you have to reserve nowadays. In the past, THE place was the Basil - best value meal in town, and in such an eccentric surrounding. Sadly no longer with us.
But the greatest joy was our somewhat recherche hotel-type establishment - now entirely run by delightful Polish girls - and one young man who could be anything except British. He's probably Polish.
Anyway,having stayed there a time or two we are reasonably well known. Unfortunately, as I am a clumsy old git, I managed to knock the ceramic pot off the shelf in the bathroom onto the top of the cistern, and broke the corner off it. That's the corner of the cistern. And a big crack across the rest of it.
Sighing to myself, I made my way to reception and opened with: "I have a sin to confess". Miss Poland's cheery grin disappeared and her brow's knitted. I explained what had happened. Her face cleared, and the smile came back." Is that all? I was thinking you didn't love us any more. As long as you love us then everything is OK."
And the breakage wasn't even on the bill.
Then there's the tin of beans being confiscated at Luton. Why? Clearly a bomb.
Serious teas in serious hotels are a joy - most places you have to reserve nowadays. In the past, THE place was the Basil - best value meal in town, and in such an eccentric surrounding. Sadly no longer with us.
But the greatest joy was our somewhat recherche hotel-type establishment - now entirely run by delightful Polish girls - and one young man who could be anything except British. He's probably Polish.
Anyway,having stayed there a time or two we are reasonably well known. Unfortunately, as I am a clumsy old git, I managed to knock the ceramic pot off the shelf in the bathroom onto the top of the cistern, and broke the corner off it. That's the corner of the cistern. And a big crack across the rest of it.
Sighing to myself, I made my way to reception and opened with: "I have a sin to confess". Miss Poland's cheery grin disappeared and her brow's knitted. I explained what had happened. Her face cleared, and the smile came back." Is that all? I was thinking you didn't love us any more. As long as you love us then everything is OK."
And the breakage wasn't even on the bill.
Friday, November 16, 2007
50p.
Today marks a remarkable milestone.
Over the last month or two, for reasons beyond my understanding, I have been coming across coins on escalators and travelators.
You probably know if you drop a coin on these things they get carried to the end, and the forks there pick them up, just onto the fixed bit.
The trick is to kick them forward - not always easy - but having done so it is then not a problem to pick them up.
So over the last few months, up to today, I had collected 48p. Mostly 1ps and 2ps but the odd 5p, and once, even a 10p. The saddest thing of all, of course, is that I have been adding them up.
So imagine my joy today when, as I came up the Euston escalator, I spied a 2p. nestling on the forks. A swift kick, stoop, and it was mine. 50p.!
The problem with all milestones is there is always another one.
But that's seriously SERIOUSLY too sad.
Over the last month or two, for reasons beyond my understanding, I have been coming across coins on escalators and travelators.
You probably know if you drop a coin on these things they get carried to the end, and the forks there pick them up, just onto the fixed bit.
The trick is to kick them forward - not always easy - but having done so it is then not a problem to pick them up.
So over the last few months, up to today, I had collected 48p. Mostly 1ps and 2ps but the odd 5p, and once, even a 10p. The saddest thing of all, of course, is that I have been adding them up.
So imagine my joy today when, as I came up the Euston escalator, I spied a 2p. nestling on the forks. A swift kick, stoop, and it was mine. 50p.!
The problem with all milestones is there is always another one.
But that's seriously SERIOUSLY too sad.
Or Anywhere.
Whilst on the Piccadilly line today, the train stopped for a long period. Finally a voice crackled.
" Problem at Holborn - will keep you advised". About ten minutes later:
" Ladees end Gennelmen - Oim delighted to siy the problem has been sawted. This train will shortly depart. " Pause." It will shortly depart for all stations all the way ." Pause" All the way to er, wherever"
And I thought the tubes only went along one line.
" Problem at Holborn - will keep you advised". About ten minutes later:
" Ladees end Gennelmen - Oim delighted to siy the problem has been sawted. This train will shortly depart. " Pause." It will shortly depart for all stations all the way ." Pause" All the way to er, wherever"
And I thought the tubes only went along one line.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Twinkly Little Stars
As I was making my way around London town this morning, I was able to see the top of the London Eye.
I couldn't actually see the wheel, but I could see the sun glinting diamond-white on it's pods. It was truly magical and lifted my spirits.
As I was getting off the tube, there was a double crocodile of small children and their minders waiting to get on. Their grins and suppressed ( barely) excitement was infectious. I turned to watch them getting on the tube. They whooped with glee as they jumped across the gap, all holding best friends hands, huddled together in the centre of the carriage and looked upwards at their minders as instructions were given. It was clearly a big adventure.
I wish we grumpy oldies still had that excitement.
I couldn't actually see the wheel, but I could see the sun glinting diamond-white on it's pods. It was truly magical and lifted my spirits.
As I was getting off the tube, there was a double crocodile of small children and their minders waiting to get on. Their grins and suppressed ( barely) excitement was infectious. I turned to watch them getting on the tube. They whooped with glee as they jumped across the gap, all holding best friends hands, huddled together in the centre of the carriage and looked upwards at their minders as instructions were given. It was clearly a big adventure.
I wish we grumpy oldies still had that excitement.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Making money
I'm reading Terry Pratchett's latest called " Making money". I know it's not as high-brow as what you, dear reader, scan on a daily basis, but every now and again he has an insight that makes me laugh out-loud - much to the annoyance of Mrs. Lear.
Anyway, the premise of this particular book is that a conman controls a bank on Ankh-Morpork and how he turns it into an engine for growth in the community.
My point today is that Banking - ALL Banking - is founded only on trust. When it goes, no bank is safe. You only need to think of Northern Rock, and more recently the problems RBS and Barclays are having.
In the book, the conman tries to get traders to accept his new paper money. He doesn't have a problem with this. The difficulty he has is persuading them that the gold ( known as specie) and coins are no longer needed. The following exchange takes place:
" But you don't need the gold as long as you all accept the paper!"
" Absolutely, sir. Just so long as the gold is somewhere"
There lies the rub. As long as people know and believe the gold is there, there's no problem. As soon as they think it's gone, they panic.
All banks started out issuing their own bits of paper. In Scotland, the RBS, in ancient times, used to take in lots of notes of the Bank of Scotland, then demand specie for them. Of course, BOS did the same thing to RBS, and eventually they reached an understanding. Of course, it's more profitable to fleece the customers than to do each other down. Never let it be said that Bankers are not greedy.
Anyway, the trust is still there. At the moment. Battered. Shaken. Having lots of meetings and soothing words.
But if there's another lurch, head for the hills.
Because the Trust will be gone.
Anyway, the premise of this particular book is that a conman controls a bank on Ankh-Morpork and how he turns it into an engine for growth in the community.
My point today is that Banking - ALL Banking - is founded only on trust. When it goes, no bank is safe. You only need to think of Northern Rock, and more recently the problems RBS and Barclays are having.
In the book, the conman tries to get traders to accept his new paper money. He doesn't have a problem with this. The difficulty he has is persuading them that the gold ( known as specie) and coins are no longer needed. The following exchange takes place:
" But you don't need the gold as long as you all accept the paper!"
" Absolutely, sir. Just so long as the gold is somewhere"
There lies the rub. As long as people know and believe the gold is there, there's no problem. As soon as they think it's gone, they panic.
All banks started out issuing their own bits of paper. In Scotland, the RBS, in ancient times, used to take in lots of notes of the Bank of Scotland, then demand specie for them. Of course, BOS did the same thing to RBS, and eventually they reached an understanding. Of course, it's more profitable to fleece the customers than to do each other down. Never let it be said that Bankers are not greedy.
Anyway, the trust is still there. At the moment. Battered. Shaken. Having lots of meetings and soothing words.
But if there's another lurch, head for the hills.
Because the Trust will be gone.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Credit Crunch
In case you haven't noticed, the credit crunch that was supposed to be not a problem, is rapidly turning into a problem that just might not get solved.
The difficulty is no-one has the first clue as to a) how much is involved b) who is actually holding the toxic waste and c) er, should we write it down 25% or 55% or er.....
I'm also pretty certain that those who are holding it don't even know how much of a problem they have got. My bet is that over the next few years we will see a leaching-out of the odd billion here, the odd billion there, just as we did with the sovereign debt crisis, the secondary banking crisis, the LTCM crisis, etc etc. Banks always get it wrong. That's what they are there for. And the central banks will keep their eyes averted until it starts to pick up again.
There's one little titbit of information that might interest you.
Ordinary businesses that either make or do things can't afford beautiful new " statement" offices and buildings. Only Banks, Insurance Companies and food retailers can.
It's how they waste money whilst they are getting up a head of steam to blow another $100 billion or so.
To be fair, the food retailers are rather better at not blowing it.
Mervyn may be holding out and so may the ECB - but you can bet, given the excuse, the Fed is delighted.
Remember the twin deficits of the US current account and the Federal Budget? Well, in case you haven't noticed, the first is down 20% this year already. America is effectively exporting it's problems to the rest of us - and forget about China taking up the slack. The key to American wealth is it's flexibility and the love affair that the world has with being in America. China within the next 20 years will stop growing. And who wants to migrate there?
So the printing presses aren't stopping just yet.
Just remember, the danger to your lifestyle is not being poor.
It's not being able to borrow.
The difficulty is no-one has the first clue as to a) how much is involved b) who is actually holding the toxic waste and c) er, should we write it down 25% or 55% or er.....
I'm also pretty certain that those who are holding it don't even know how much of a problem they have got. My bet is that over the next few years we will see a leaching-out of the odd billion here, the odd billion there, just as we did with the sovereign debt crisis, the secondary banking crisis, the LTCM crisis, etc etc. Banks always get it wrong. That's what they are there for. And the central banks will keep their eyes averted until it starts to pick up again.
There's one little titbit of information that might interest you.
Ordinary businesses that either make or do things can't afford beautiful new " statement" offices and buildings. Only Banks, Insurance Companies and food retailers can.
It's how they waste money whilst they are getting up a head of steam to blow another $100 billion or so.
To be fair, the food retailers are rather better at not blowing it.
Mervyn may be holding out and so may the ECB - but you can bet, given the excuse, the Fed is delighted.
Remember the twin deficits of the US current account and the Federal Budget? Well, in case you haven't noticed, the first is down 20% this year already. America is effectively exporting it's problems to the rest of us - and forget about China taking up the slack. The key to American wealth is it's flexibility and the love affair that the world has with being in America. China within the next 20 years will stop growing. And who wants to migrate there?
So the printing presses aren't stopping just yet.
Just remember, the danger to your lifestyle is not being poor.
It's not being able to borrow.
Rumi
I was introduced recently to Rumi, born in 1207 in Afghanistan, by a friend of mine who, having done an Open University course in English some years ago, likes to find "new" books to test me.
Rumi's life was most interesting, but the most important thing about him was his " poetry".
Mostly, it's not poetry, strictly speaking, in the way we think of it, but it has a poetic quality and insight into life which is far beyond what one would expect of a mystic living 800 years ago.
The thing that struck me was that despite all our advances, the human spirit and condition has not changed that much. We are still beset by love and anguish. We need to be loved and to love, and if we are not, we are massively diminished.
I was talking to someone a while ago who told me he had " fallen out of love" about 10 years ago, and had lived with, as he put it, a lump of ice in his heart until recently. Outwardly, I could see no difference in him, but he assured me that inside he was a completely different person - generally more emollient and better able to cope with modern life.
As Rumi had it:
"When you see the lovers
don't pass them by,
sit with them.
The fire of Love warms the world,
but even fire dies
in the company of ashes."
Remember that next time you want to make a harsh retort to your lover.
Rumi's life was most interesting, but the most important thing about him was his " poetry".
Mostly, it's not poetry, strictly speaking, in the way we think of it, but it has a poetic quality and insight into life which is far beyond what one would expect of a mystic living 800 years ago.
The thing that struck me was that despite all our advances, the human spirit and condition has not changed that much. We are still beset by love and anguish. We need to be loved and to love, and if we are not, we are massively diminished.
I was talking to someone a while ago who told me he had " fallen out of love" about 10 years ago, and had lived with, as he put it, a lump of ice in his heart until recently. Outwardly, I could see no difference in him, but he assured me that inside he was a completely different person - generally more emollient and better able to cope with modern life.
As Rumi had it:
"When you see the lovers
don't pass them by,
sit with them.
The fire of Love warms the world,
but even fire dies
in the company of ashes."
Remember that next time you want to make a harsh retort to your lover.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Raising money for a good cause.
By chance I have had an eighteen hour stint of raising money for the Gurkha Welfare Trust.
I had to step in at a late stage for a speech at a fundraiser in Cupar, about 2hrs drive from Glasgow last night.
My speech was somewhat overshadowed by all the people coming in who clearly thought it started at 8pm as oppose to the 7:45 advertised, but in general it went down quite well.
Then we had two hours of the Woodlands Dance Orchestra, which was completely fantastic. They played tunes and sang songs from the 40s and 50s, which, towards the end of the evening, had even the OAPs present literally dancing in the aisles.
Their charge for 18 musicians plus a sound roadie was miniscule - I'm not sure if it was just because it was a charity do, but at that price I would have them at my house most weeks for an evening's entertainment. Tea or coffee and chockie bickies was 50p. and the seats were £6 - and they raised a huge sum. It was a thoroughly good evening.
Drove home to Glasgow and found the whole house fast asleep about 12:45am, and was up again at 7 to drive to Edinburgh for a 9am start at Sainsbury at Cameron Toll, shaking cans.
On these occassions, the nicest thing is the tales people tell you as they shove money at you.
One lady had nursed Gurkhas in India during the war. Another's uncle had served with Alan Bates ( the Actor) in the 9th Rifles. One said he always supported the Gurkhas because he had met two during the last war who had rescued him from getting a battering - and they were immaculately dressed even although not on parade.
But the nicest tale was from an elderly man who said his fondest memory was serving with Gurkhas in Korea. The whole unit was under heavy pressure, and the radio message to retreat had been crackly.Listening to the order, the senior Gurkha NCO kicked the radio, which finally killed it, and said," Radio not working. We attack!"
Which they did.
The Gurkha motto is " Better to die than live a coward".
They're not too good at defence, I suppose, but by God, I wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of a charge.
I had to step in at a late stage for a speech at a fundraiser in Cupar, about 2hrs drive from Glasgow last night.
My speech was somewhat overshadowed by all the people coming in who clearly thought it started at 8pm as oppose to the 7:45 advertised, but in general it went down quite well.
Then we had two hours of the Woodlands Dance Orchestra, which was completely fantastic. They played tunes and sang songs from the 40s and 50s, which, towards the end of the evening, had even the OAPs present literally dancing in the aisles.
Their charge for 18 musicians plus a sound roadie was miniscule - I'm not sure if it was just because it was a charity do, but at that price I would have them at my house most weeks for an evening's entertainment. Tea or coffee and chockie bickies was 50p. and the seats were £6 - and they raised a huge sum. It was a thoroughly good evening.
Drove home to Glasgow and found the whole house fast asleep about 12:45am, and was up again at 7 to drive to Edinburgh for a 9am start at Sainsbury at Cameron Toll, shaking cans.
On these occassions, the nicest thing is the tales people tell you as they shove money at you.
One lady had nursed Gurkhas in India during the war. Another's uncle had served with Alan Bates ( the Actor) in the 9th Rifles. One said he always supported the Gurkhas because he had met two during the last war who had rescued him from getting a battering - and they were immaculately dressed even although not on parade.
But the nicest tale was from an elderly man who said his fondest memory was serving with Gurkhas in Korea. The whole unit was under heavy pressure, and the radio message to retreat had been crackly.Listening to the order, the senior Gurkha NCO kicked the radio, which finally killed it, and said," Radio not working. We attack!"
Which they did.
The Gurkha motto is " Better to die than live a coward".
They're not too good at defence, I suppose, but by God, I wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of a charge.
Friday, November 09, 2007
Sigh
I regret to say I am back in Glasgow, even although the weather is quite pleasant today. I flew back into Luton on an inaugural flight from Tirgu Mores ( pronounced Toga Moresh) and then a super fast transfer to Milton Keynes and train to Glasgow. If it worked like this every time I would save about 4 hrs each way.
The first problem is that, although it was an inaugural flight, they are shifting it next week to fly into Cluj, which is an hour and 15 minutes further from Sighisoara. Down to approx. 2 hrs 45 mins saved.
Secondly, I caught the bus to MK from Luton Airport the moment I walked towards it. Probably on average another half hour lost.
Thirdly, I bought my ticket at MK and instantly got on the train ( probably 45mins to an hour) - so we're down to 1hr and 20 minutes saved. And the trains were the Pendolinos, which do the trip just under an hour quicker than the Voyagers. Down to 35 minutes
Finally,the train was 20 minutes early.
So with a bit of luck I will be able to do it 15 minutes quicker!
Sigh.
The first problem is that, although it was an inaugural flight, they are shifting it next week to fly into Cluj, which is an hour and 15 minutes further from Sighisoara. Down to approx. 2 hrs 45 mins saved.
Secondly, I caught the bus to MK from Luton Airport the moment I walked towards it. Probably on average another half hour lost.
Thirdly, I bought my ticket at MK and instantly got on the train ( probably 45mins to an hour) - so we're down to 1hr and 20 minutes saved. And the trains were the Pendolinos, which do the trip just under an hour quicker than the Voyagers. Down to 35 minutes
Finally,the train was 20 minutes early.
So with a bit of luck I will be able to do it 15 minutes quicker!
Sigh.
Monday, November 05, 2007
A compliment
Just because I am here and go to all sorts of functions, I am continually being paid compliments,along the lines of `` It is an honour for us to have you here``. I invariably reply it is an honour to be here, but sometimes more is needed. Then I roll out the phrase `` we are all people here together in friendship and amity``, the emphasis being on the fact that we are all just people, whether a minister or teacher or mayor or president..
At the wedding, as I was being introduced to various people, the stock phrases were being trotted out, and I was finally introduced to a middle aged man with a wonderful mustache and dark yet piercing eyes. He was the local King of the Gypsys, whose word in his own community was law.
Now gypsys in Romania are very much second class citizens, although they generally work very hard and have an intelligence and guile beyond many of the Romanian locals. His compliment was slightly different.
`` it is an honour to have one of elevated rank amongst we poor people``
I was somewhat taken aback but replied `` We are all just people``
He look astonished then smiled.
`` We will be friends. Too few realise the truth of your words``
At the wedding, as I was being introduced to various people, the stock phrases were being trotted out, and I was finally introduced to a middle aged man with a wonderful mustache and dark yet piercing eyes. He was the local King of the Gypsys, whose word in his own community was law.
Now gypsys in Romania are very much second class citizens, although they generally work very hard and have an intelligence and guile beyond many of the Romanian locals. His compliment was slightly different.
`` it is an honour to have one of elevated rank amongst we poor people``
I was somewhat taken aback but replied `` We are all just people``
He look astonished then smiled.
`` We will be friends. Too few realise the truth of your words``
Sunday, November 04, 2007
On Budapest and the fate of the Euro
Coming to Romania this time I took the oportunity of a cheapo flight from Prestwick to Budapest, with the rest of the journey being a near-10 hour train ride.
It was a beautiful day and I quickly made my way to the Keleti station. Hungary is clearly some way ahead of Romania, but the people did not seem to me to be either as happy or welcoming.
I had some time to wait in the queue for international tickets, largely because there was an earnest young American trying to sort out what seemed to be a round the world train ticket starting from somewhere else. He was travelling with what I assume was his girl-friend, but if so, they were the most serious lovers I have ever come across.
I finally got to buy my ticket. A single and a return were the same price - about GBP 40.
I had time to kill and was delighted to see a row of chess sets with people playing for money.
I used to be quite good. The games could be for any amount, but Eur 1 was a standard bet. After I won two games the person I was playing ( who clearly felt hard done by) refused to play any more. So I gave him his Eur 2 back and added two more. With a big grin he indicated I should play another player. This other was clearly a much better chessplayer, but I managed to win one and draw one before losing one. But they were really good games and all the other boards stopped and watched, and broke into applause at the draw - even if I hate to say so, it was quite an interesting stratagem that my opponent pulled.
There was much back slapping and hand-shakes and I indicated I needed to catch my train.
The trip was fine, but I doubt I will bother to go this way again. It is a long way and not very interesting. Watching the sun go down over the Hungarian plain was fine, as was the moonlight glinting on the Danube later on, and the meal was excellent, but oh dear, it was a long trip.
The most exciting part was when we stopped for the border crossing. Seats were removed in my compartment and lights shone through heating ducts, and I saw odd people being taken off in handcuffs, and barking police dogs take down an escapee. All great fun as long as you were not on the receiving end.
I finally got to Sighisoara about 4am, and my excellent Alin, despite being told not to, was there to pick me up and take me to the flat. By the time I got to sleep it was time to get up and set off for the usual round of meetings.
But the most interesting thing of all was the need to change money into Forints. I was instantly reminded of the old days when travelling through France to Switzerland entailed endless changing of money and the final insult was always the shrapnel of various currencies one had left.
All that has changed with the Euro across most of Europe. We have been very lucky not to be in it, but for the ordinary traveller it has been a boon.
Where things have been different, and why the Euro block is suffering stresses and strains is because of the difference in attitude of the participants.
The Germans were always going to react with discipline and correctness, and stick to the rules they had insisted on as the price for giving up the D-mark. The French, however, regard it with a disdain bred of their belief in their own total superiority. The Italians, of course, paid absolutely no attention to anything and completely ignored what they were supposed to do. The Irish did what they do at every opportunity - opened an Irish Pub everywhere and had a massive party. The Spanish used the cheap money they had never had before to build build build, having no understanding of what this meant.
As a result, I would not be surprised if some or most of the existing participants drop out - politically it will be impossible for the Italians and Irish to impose restraint, which in both cases would lead to a huge downturn.
I would be sad to see a return to the old ways of carrying various currencies as one traipsed around Europe.
Perhaps the Romanian system is best. Everything is quoted in Euros, and if necessary paid for in Euros, but then gets settled in Lei at the prevailing rate of exchange.
Definitely the best of both worlds.
It was a beautiful day and I quickly made my way to the Keleti station. Hungary is clearly some way ahead of Romania, but the people did not seem to me to be either as happy or welcoming.
I had some time to wait in the queue for international tickets, largely because there was an earnest young American trying to sort out what seemed to be a round the world train ticket starting from somewhere else. He was travelling with what I assume was his girl-friend, but if so, they were the most serious lovers I have ever come across.
I finally got to buy my ticket. A single and a return were the same price - about GBP 40.
I had time to kill and was delighted to see a row of chess sets with people playing for money.
I used to be quite good. The games could be for any amount, but Eur 1 was a standard bet. After I won two games the person I was playing ( who clearly felt hard done by) refused to play any more. So I gave him his Eur 2 back and added two more. With a big grin he indicated I should play another player. This other was clearly a much better chessplayer, but I managed to win one and draw one before losing one. But they were really good games and all the other boards stopped and watched, and broke into applause at the draw - even if I hate to say so, it was quite an interesting stratagem that my opponent pulled.
There was much back slapping and hand-shakes and I indicated I needed to catch my train.
The trip was fine, but I doubt I will bother to go this way again. It is a long way and not very interesting. Watching the sun go down over the Hungarian plain was fine, as was the moonlight glinting on the Danube later on, and the meal was excellent, but oh dear, it was a long trip.
The most exciting part was when we stopped for the border crossing. Seats were removed in my compartment and lights shone through heating ducts, and I saw odd people being taken off in handcuffs, and barking police dogs take down an escapee. All great fun as long as you were not on the receiving end.
I finally got to Sighisoara about 4am, and my excellent Alin, despite being told not to, was there to pick me up and take me to the flat. By the time I got to sleep it was time to get up and set off for the usual round of meetings.
But the most interesting thing of all was the need to change money into Forints. I was instantly reminded of the old days when travelling through France to Switzerland entailed endless changing of money and the final insult was always the shrapnel of various currencies one had left.
All that has changed with the Euro across most of Europe. We have been very lucky not to be in it, but for the ordinary traveller it has been a boon.
Where things have been different, and why the Euro block is suffering stresses and strains is because of the difference in attitude of the participants.
The Germans were always going to react with discipline and correctness, and stick to the rules they had insisted on as the price for giving up the D-mark. The French, however, regard it with a disdain bred of their belief in their own total superiority. The Italians, of course, paid absolutely no attention to anything and completely ignored what they were supposed to do. The Irish did what they do at every opportunity - opened an Irish Pub everywhere and had a massive party. The Spanish used the cheap money they had never had before to build build build, having no understanding of what this meant.
As a result, I would not be surprised if some or most of the existing participants drop out - politically it will be impossible for the Italians and Irish to impose restraint, which in both cases would lead to a huge downturn.
I would be sad to see a return to the old ways of carrying various currencies as one traipsed around Europe.
Perhaps the Romanian system is best. Everything is quoted in Euros, and if necessary paid for in Euros, but then gets settled in Lei at the prevailing rate of exchange.
Definitely the best of both worlds.
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
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.
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.
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.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, October 26, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
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.
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.
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.
Monday, October 22, 2007
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."
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.
" 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.
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.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
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.
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.
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.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
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?
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?
Sunday, October 07, 2007
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."
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."
Saturday, October 06, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, October 05, 2007
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, October 01, 2007
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."
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.
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.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
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.
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....
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
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
Thursday, September 27, 2007
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
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.
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
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?
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?
Monday, September 24, 2007
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.
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."
" 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.
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.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
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"
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"
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