The River Cottage Diaries

Don't put your daughter on the stage, Mrs Worthington

2012-02-27T12:59:00.002Z

As I write this it is Oscar night and Hollywood royalty will be out in force. The Artist is widely tipped to do well and by the time you read this you'll know if it did well or not. I haven't seen it myself; reports from friends have been mixed so I'll wait for it to come out on DVD. I also have issue with it being called a French film. Inception had more British crew than The Artist had French but no-one called that a British movie. I think it's just a marketing ploy really and would explain the director's reticence to be the poster boy for French film making. If it does get Best Picture, it will be the first silent film to win since the very first Oscars. If Jean Dujardin wins Best Actor, he'll be the first French man ever to win. And I like him so I hope he does.

It's quite likely that The Artist will win though because, not only is it about Hollywood, but it's actually shot there too. Not so unusual you might think but you'd be wrong. Last year, only two big budget films (that's films with budgets over $75 million) were filmed in Hollywood. Yes, just two. Ten years ago, the number ran to hundreds. So what's changed?

Well, it's the unions. They have long exerted a stranglehold on filming in Hollywood and not just in Hollywood, the situation in Ireland is similar. The Husband used to work in Ireland all the time. He's not worked there for quite a few years now because the Irish unions have strict quotas of 'foreigners' who are allowed to work on films there. In the old days, a canny producer would drag a couple of guys off the street to sweep up the stages but they can't get away with it now.

One the one hand it's good to ensure that your own people are looked after. On the other hand, it's killing their industry slowly because they don't have the crews with the right experience. As a result, more than one production has folded or decided not to return because the lack of experience in key areas, particular in the Art Department, has led to a poor quality end result.

The last production which the husband worked on in Ireland was taken over for the subsequent series by someone who had worked as his work experience assistant as the unions refused to sanction his employment. It was a disaster. He ended up fielding dozens of calls every day as his replacement struggled to do the job. It was unfair on him and unfair on her. The end result was atrocious, the lead actor refused to return for a further series and it was shelved.

In Hollywood, the state government has taken away many of the tax breaks and together with the over-zealous unionisation of the industry, production in Hollywood itself has reduced dramatically. Producers prefer to film elsewhere; other states, the UK, Eastern Europe.

The flip side of this particular coin is that producers are now filming out of the reach of the unions on contracts that would make your eyes water. I thought I'd share a few of the highlights of The Husband's contract on a $100million Hollywood movie he worked on last year.

1. You are contracted to work any hours which are required by the production

2. You are entitled to one rest day at the company's discretiion

3. You have no entitlement to any holiday or holiday pay

4. Your contract may be terminated by the company at any time with one days' notice

5. You have sold your body and soul to us to do with what we will (OK, I made that one up but it would probably fit in quite nicely with the sentiment of the rest of the contract.)

And this was in an EU country!

In the UK, the film and TV unions have been pretty much emasculated. When The Husband first joined, you had to be proposed and seconded by a current member in order to be accepted. It was almost as hard as Equity to get membership. They have worked hard to promote the industry, keep pay rates set at decent levels and name and shame those who use and abuse their members. But in an industry with the 'glamourous' tag, and hordes of eager youngsters willing to sell a kidney for a work placement, it's fighting a losing battle. Now, membership is easy to come by but then hardly anyone joins. That way they can undercut the union pay rates. All good news for producers, less so for their crews.

And with productions being more and more judged on their ability to bring the job in under budget rather than produce quality work, it's difficult to know where it will all end. The Husband is working on a fantastic series at the moment. It's been a while since he's been so excited about a project. Four weeks in, and his budget is shaved on a weekly basis until what is left is just a pale imitation of what it could have been while the producer literally jumps up and down squealing in production meetings when something comes in under budget. He's considering a capital offence!

So what's the answer? Where is the middle ground between unions legislating their industry out of existence and producers handing out contracts that probably violate just about every employment law going. Damned if I know.

Happy Valentine's Day... or as I like to call it, Tuesday

2012-02-14T20:40:00.002Z

No sooner was Christmas over than the shops were going into a pink, fluffy, heart shaped frenzy over the next opportunity to part the public from their hard earned cash - Valentine's Day, named for a saint who's head is now kept in a church in Winchester. Maybe he lost his head for love. Well, actually he didn't. There is no romantic link to St Valentine at all. We have Geoffrey Chaucer to thank for that. Cheers Geoff!

Now, it's just become another excuse for florists to rack up their prices and manufacturers to think of ever more creative ways to 'St Valentine' their products. It's also a day where teenage angst reaches fever pitch. Will they or won't they get a card? If they do, who sent it? Was it a secret admirer? A boyfriend? Their mother? Apparently 8 million Americans send themselves Valentine's cards. It's also a day when people are pressed into making declarations of love that they may or may not feel able to carry through. Excited partners receive cards expressing undying love and devotion because there's no card saying 'Be Mine... for the moment anyway' or 'To the One I Quite Like But It's a Bit Early to Talk about Love'.

The Husband and I don't 'do' Valentine's Day. We used to in the early days. I still remember driving across London, from my home in Putney to his in Ealing, clutching a box of heart shaped cookies I'd made for him - and bearing in mind that I'm to baking what Jeremy Clarkson is to international diplomacy - this was a serious declaration of love. And not least because I had to be up at 5am to get them onto his doorstep by 7am when he left for work.

On the way home it started to rain; not just a shower but driving, torrential, sideways rain. When he left the house he trod on the box, which was by then soggy and the cookies bloated with water. He wasn't even entirely sure what they were. So much for that.

A few years followed with a dozen red roses arriving at the office, which I usually went on to kill because I forgot to replenish the water. Then he went away filming and forgot to send me a card. I had, of course, sent him one. I was upset and the next year I didn't send him one. He sent one to me though, so he was upset. In the end we agreed that we just wouldn't bother. We didn't need a fluffy toy or a soppy card one day a year to know that we loved each other.

So today was spent up in London worshipping at the shrine to Mammon that is Westfield Stratford City.Actually, the Girl is going to stay with her best friend from France who now lives in Essex and this was midway between us both. It was like one of the rings of hell in Dante's Inferno and I left vowing never to go again unless they opened it up just for me and me alone.

Happy Valentine's Day, or as I like to call it, Tuesday. Have a nice time however you decide to celebrate it... or not

Lost for a present for your loved one? How about this
anatomically correct beating heart... seriously!

Fabio Capello, a man of few words .....well 100 at least

2012-02-09T19:35:00.000Z

.Well, I'm sure you were all saddened to see Fabio resign...No? Me neither.

In homage to the man who is to the English language what Shakespeare was to Serbo-Croat, here's my blogpost from last year about Ab Fab Fab.........

The British are often chastised for being poor linguists, too lazy to learn another language. It seems this is not just an Anglo-Saxon trend.

I read in The Times today that the totally unintelligible Fabio Capello, he of the pitchside interviews that leave you going 'Huh?', believes his poor grasp of the English language doesn't prevent him from being an effective Manager of the England team.

I guess those who watched the comprehensive drubbing of our pathetic national team in the World Cup might beg to differ but never mind Mr C.

Fab Fab believes that he only needs 100 words in order to be able to communicate with his team. Personally, I'm not sure that the entire team has a vocabulary of more than 100 words combined but perhaps I'm being a bit harsh. The rest he makes up with elaborate hand gestures which generally involve pointing at the goal, jumping up and down and going purple in the face. It's nice to know that he's paid £4 million a year for this.

So, here is my suggestion for the 100 words that he needs to manage the team. Feel free to add your own.

Poor, passing, missed, penalties, bend, it, like, fashion, icon, in, his, own, mind, at, least, superinjunction, sorry, mate, I, schtupped, your, girlfriend, Wayne, Rooney, Shrek, Ashley, oops, gun, went, off, by, accident, never, mind, only, work, experience, offshore, bank, account, not, tax, evasion, avoidance, two, percent, what, is, the, problem, roasting, young, tarts, drinking, driving, get, off, prison, sentence, failed, World, cup, bid, are, you, blind, ref, team, resembles, Pugh, Pugh (OK, I know I'm repeating myself but I'll give you an extra word at the end), Barney, McGrew, Cuthbert, Dibble, Grub, clowns, drunken, nightclub, shenanigans, inept, captaincy, tuhbehonest, training, one, hour, each, day, Hello, big, cheque, obscene, chavvy, wedding, Teletubbies, more, talent, my, Hummer, bigger, your Ferrari

Have I missed anything? Football fans will, no doubt, be delighted to know that each word in Don Capello's small English vocabulary is worth a cool £40,000.

In France I couldn't have got a job as a cleaner without a better grasp of French that the Inarticulate Italian has of English but that seems to be no barrier to success in the UK. Ain't equality a wonderful thing!

Oh Fab, I couldn't have put it better myself!

TOOT, TOOT! In which I blow my own trumpet..

2012-02-07T08:43:00.001Z

For the past year of so I've been slogging on with a novel about a young woman who moves to France. Unashamed chick lit rather than the next great British novel. I posted the first 6 chapters on Authonomy in mid-November where it went into the rankings at over 5000 and today I have reached the heady heights of the top rated Chick Lit book on the site this week and No. 21 across all genres. I'm very excited.

For anyone who doesn't know about Authonomy, it's run by Harper MacMillan and is a writing community where we can all share our work. It is peer reviewed, rated from 1 to 6 stars, and each month, the five highest rated books across all genres make 'The Editor's Desk' and are critiqued by Harper MacMillan's editors. Many new authors have found agents and publishers through Authonomy and we all live in hope.

If anyone is on Authonomy, get in touch and I'll gladly read your books.

The one in which I discover that life drawing is another skill I have yet to acquire

2012-02-03T19:58:00.000Z

At my WI we like to liven things up a bit, teach our members new skills that they might otherwise not learn. Not for us a dry talk on the lesser spotted bastard of Salisbury Plain (or should that read 'bustard'?) or 101 ways with Great Aunt Matilda's hat. So for our first meeting of the new year we decided to have a go at Life Drawing, a new artistic endeavour for most of us and to be honest, the only way we could think of to get a naked man to come to our meeting. Strangely enough, the idea of a naked woman was never even suggested.

An art teacher was sourced and booked. She offered us her models who we managed to ascertain was about 60 and had a beard. Now, I've nothing against beards but if I was going to turn out on a winter's night it would need to be for something slightly more aethetically pleasing than a hirsute pensioner so we set about finding our own model. The advantage of living in (or at least near) a garrison town is that we have more than our fair share of fit young men and so it was in that direction that we cast our net. A well placed word in the ear of one of the commanding officers and two suitable candidates were procured. I suggested a panel interview so we could assess their relative 'merits' but this was deemed a bit too pervy, so in the end we relied on the wisdom of our Prez to decide which one we chose.

In the end we went for the lovely Graham, a tall, very game Scottish soldier who had 'a lovely body to draw' according to someone who actually went for the art... go figure! Originally we'd discussed only partial nudity, we'd let him keep his boxers on, but then, thinking it would probably be better for drawing (yeah really!) we decided on full nudity. The news was broken to Graham. We hoped that, having faced the Taliban, albeit fully clothed, the prospect of getting his kecks off in front of a full village hall of women would be only marginally more frightening. I did also check that he understood that we are a young WI so it wouldn't be a room full of matronly women but more likely of a similar age to him Ok, well I might be flattering myself a bit there.

The evening arrived. It was the coldest night of the year, well below freezing but, dear Reader, if you want a sure fire way to get women away from the TV and the central heating on a winter's night, the answer is, sadly, a naked man. There were twice as many people at the meeting as we would normally have.

We set a 'stage' up for Graham who hung around nervously watching us all file in. We plied the women with alcohol but not, sadly, poor Graham, who's the only one who probably needed a stiff drink. He seemed to be edging closer to the door. I warned The Prez that he might bolt. Maybe the taliban was preferable? Our art teacher suggested that he was already naked when everyone arrived to avoid a 'ta dah' moment when he took his dressing gown off but, to be honest, a naked man lounging around while we were all signing in and buying raffle tickets would probably have been even more weird than it eventually was.

I think it's fair to say that he was probably the first naked man I've seen since meeting The Husband over 20 years ago, well, apart from one ill-fated Hen Night at a rugby club where a male stripper left me with a mild case of PTSD. I don't know what I expected, I don't know what he expected. I thought he'd be lying around, artfully draped in the white linen sheet I'd bought along. What I didn't expect was to turn round from fiddling (quiet at the back!) with the heater we'd brought along to keep him warm, to find him standing there, stark naked in a Usain Bolt-esque pose. And my goodness, he had an extremely large............. tattoo on his back! I sort of squeaked and jumped. I guess you can take the girl out of Tunbridge Wells but you can't take Tunbridge Wells out of the girl.

He had to hold the pose for 10 minutes then change to another one while we tried out different, and in my case equally useless, drawing styles. I was only glad that I was sitting to one side so I didn't have to study his manhood in order to recreate it on the page. That said though, I think he'd be delighted at the proportions bestowed upon him by some of our artists. Mind you, this was before we'd been taught how to measure properly.

There was a little bit of sniggering from some people - you know who you are - and whether or not we created anything of any worth is debatable, but we had a great evening. Graham was a real sport, Mrs Graham was very good to lend us her naked husband for an evening and God knows what will happen the next time any of us run into him in Morrisons. And quite what the village hall committee would make of a naked man sitting on their prized fabric chairs, who knows, but now at least we now all know what a Scotsman keeps up his kilt.

Bringing up Bébé

2012-01-30T12:35:00.000Z

The whole question of children and child rearing has been very much on the agenda in the past weeks. Firstly, the press has leaped on the new book 'French Children Don't Throw Food' by Pamela Druckerman, a middle class American living in a middle class suburb of Paris, whose limited experience of French children seems to have made her some sort of childcare expert. Of course, anyone who has actually brought their children up in France, i.e. outside Paris, knows that French children do throw food, and quite regularly, as long as maman isn't looking.

The pertinent points of the book are don't breastfeed as formula will help bébé sleep through the night, ignore your children and let them amuse themselves, that way they learn to be patient, don't bother to teach them to read, that's what school is for, stick them in a creche from birth and give them a good slap if they misbehave. There, I've saved you £15! For a very amusing précis of the book read this. Of course, it all sounds deliciously 1950s but then, that's what most British expats say they love about the country. It's like Britain in the 1950s - racist, intolerant, sexist, polio-ridden? Oh, apparently that's not what they mean.

Strangely enough, Ms Druckerman chose a different title for the book in the US. It's called Bringing Up Bébé probably because The Satanic Seed of Cheese-Eating Surrender Monkeys Don't Throw Food wouldn't fit on the front cover. And strangely enough, the book doesn't seem to have been released in French. I wonder why? It's interesting how book titles get changed. That other tome which has been widely used to batter British women over the head, French Women Don't Get Fat, is actually called Those French Women Who Don't Get Fat. Puts a slightly different angle on the whole premise doesn't it.

To be honest, having lived in France for 5 years, and seen that French children are, sadly, exactly the same as any other and they do throw food, I'd say don't waste your money on Ms Druckerman or her book. There's a reason why on Air France flights, the seats around people with babies and toddlers are designated 'low comfort' and are allocated last. And as someone wryly observed, 'the only trouble with French children is that they grow up into French adults'.

Earlier on in the week, ex-Apprentice, Katie Hopkins, caused outrage among the mummy mafia in a debate with Katie O'Donovan from Mumsnet on BBC breakfast. The subject was whether or not babies should have to pay for tickets to the Olympics. What they were saying aside, it was hilarious. Katie Hopkins is always controversial, it's how she's made her name, and, although I don't often agree with her, she does make me laugh. She argued that babies shouldn't be at the Olympics anyway and that why should her Olympic experience be ruined by someone else's screaming baby? Sadly for Mumsnet, I can't actually remember what the other Katie did - or said. So does Katie Hopkins have a point?

To me, the idea of sitting in a crowded stadium somewhere in the a**e end of Old London town would be as much pleasure as a root canal filling without anaesthetic. I hate crowds, hate public transport and have a very low tolerance threshold for the public in general so the whole discussion was a bit moot anyway. Looking at what was being said on Twitter, people were generally split 50:50 between those who felt that babies, and indeed small children, shouldn't be allowed at the Olympics anyway and those who encouraged every mother and breastfeeding mother in particular to go and grab the seat next to Katie Hopkins. An athlete made an interesting point. Some of the events rely on complete silence for the start and a crying baby or stroppy toddler could be very distracting. As this athlete said, when they've trained for years to get to the Olympics, should they have to risk all their hard work because someone's child misbehaves.

Very few made the point that perhaps an Olympic event is not the best place for a baby or a toddler anyway. I would certainly never have taken mine. They'd have been bored rigid sitting watching people swim up and down a pool or run round and round a track and I would enjoy it far more without constantly fretting over a cranky child.

I don't subscribe to the idea that children should be seen and not heard but I do believe they should know how to behave in public. It's not society's job to fit round my children, it's my children's job to fit into society, to know what is and isn't acceptable and to understand that the world doesn't revolve around them and they must respect other people's feelings. I never subscribed to the 'enfant roi' school of child-rearing and I think, by and large, mine have turned out pretty well. They never had tantrums, were never allowed to scream and carry on in supermarkets, had to sit at the table at restaurants and went to bed at set times so that my evening was child-free. I'm not saying it's the right way, just that it was the right way for me. I'm not particularly maternal and have a very low threshold for misbehaving children, my own included, so if the whole motherhood thing was going to work for me and they were going to make their next birthdays, then they had to learn to fit into my life rather than the other way round.

A café in North London, fed up with the poor behaviour of some children while the mothers and nannies sat around swigging on their lattes, recently told them that they would be banned if their offsprings' behaviour didn't improve. They were incensed. But why should other patrons have their quiet enjoyment spoiled by misbehaving children climbing all over the furniture. Why should they have to listen to cranky children whining? Why do some mothers think it's acceptable to let their child's whining continue unabated just because they are immune to it? I've even seen women changing babies on the tables of cafés. They may think that little Daisy's s**t doesn't stink, but I can assure you it does! And it's unhygienic to boot.

When we moved to France we soon realised what a poor image British children have in France. It was immediately assumed that ours would have no table manners, would expect to be waited on hand and foot and entertained continuously. I'd like to think we put them right a little bit on that. I don't think their reputation is really deserved but so often I'd see British families on holiday with their children running riot and the parents too lazy to do anything.

Which brings me back to the Olympics. Should it be a baby-free/toddler-free zone? Is it a suitable environment to take a baby or a toddler to? Should some sports be child-free because of the risk of distracting the athletes who've trained for years to get there? If you had tickets and a baby or toddler would you take them? What say you?

Please Help Julie Chambers...

2012-01-24T13:11:00.000Z

'Who's Julie Chambers? ' you're probably asking yourself. There's a strong chance you don't know who Julie Chambers is but if you are on Facebook or Twitter there's a fair chance you've come across her daughter, Zoe. There's a chance that you may even have donated money on a Facebook page to help Zoe get a heart transplant. The only trouble is that Zoe, sadly, died 3 years ago. In her short life, she suffered 6 major heart attacks and eventually, after being moved to the top of the European transplant list, a new heart was found but a viral infection a year later proved too much for her and she died at the age of 2.

A Jamaican conman by the name of Garen Thoms has taken a photo of Zoe from the newspapers and set up a Facebook page asking people to donate money towards a heart transplant. Needless to say, the money goes straight to him.

Can you imagine how that must feel for Julie Chambers? Not only has she lost her daughter but now her image is being used to con people. Julie can do nothing about it because she, personally, has not been defrauded.

And it's not the only one. Another one I received recently promised life saving heart surgery for a boy if enough people liked the Facebook page. Don't people think? Would any medical professional withhold life saving surgery until a social networking page had been viewed enough times? The boy in that photo is a surviver of Chernobyl and is photographed after having had heart surgery paid for by an international charity. The photo has been used without the permission of his family.

So how can you help Julie Chambers? She has asked Facebook to remove her daughter's photo from the site but they have done nothing (Respect, Mark Zuckerberg!) so she has linked up with Hoax Slayer to publicise her story and asking anyone who has put the photo on their own wall to please delete it. So if you have, or know anyone who has, please make sure you do.

You can find a link to Hoax Slayer's page here and Julie's story here

If you have put any other photos of sick children on your Wall please delete those too. The chances are they are being used without the permission of the family. And don't send on these hoaxes and scams to other people.

One of my pet hates is Facebook hoaxes and those righteously indignant 'Please forward this e-mail to everyone in the known universe to right some terrible social wrong' (which probably hasn't happened in the first place0. You know the sort, 'Hover over my name... blah, blah, blah'. People just pass them on without a second thought. I know I drive my friends mad by always challenging them and posting links to show that it's all a load of rubbish but maybe I'm just more cynical (or less gullible). If someone sends me a 'story' about how some good old British men have been sent to prison for painting a poppy on a mosque wall while some nasty old Muslim defaced a war memorial and only got a slapped wrist I want to know the story behind it. That particular one turned out to be a story which originated from the English Defence League and the poor old British men turned out to be members of several hardcore racist groups and had a history of sustained attacks on Muslims and their property. Puts a whole different slant on it doesn't it. I'm glad to say it's passed on to at least one of my children.. The Boy's girlfriend sent him a video about a dolphin cull. The first thing he did was check it out online. It turns out the video footage has been largely faked.

One friend recently said 'but it doesn't hurt'. Well maybe not, but equally it lulls people into a false sense of security. They think if they follow the instructions their account is safe from hackers/aliens/Justin Bieber but often these hoaxes are started by scammers and will actually make your account less secure It takes a few minutes to check them out on http://www.hoaxslayer.com, www.snopes.com, http://www.thatsnonsense.com, better still, join their Facebook pages then you'll get details of all the latest hoaxes and scams before they land on your Wall. It may stop the sort of heartache and distress that has been caused to Julie Chambers.

The New Years (Dis)Honours List or How to Get a Knighthood Without Really Trying...

2012-01-21T13:18:00.000Z

Well, another Honours List is published and yet again, amazingly I know, my name hasn't appeared on it. According to the you.gov website, the majority of honours went to 'ordinary' people which may explain it. I'm obviously not ordinary enough.

Clearly having too much time on my hands, I've actually read through the full list and it does, indeed, contain the names of many ordinary people who have done extraordinary things but equally, it seems the quickest way to a knighthood these days is to be a civil servant, party lackey or donor or work in the city. David Cameron's idea of The Big Society, you know, the one where we all work for nothing to ensure the continuation of public services that the government should be paying for, seems to mean Big Wallets and Big Bungs. Of course, any suggestion that our Dear Leader(s) has used the Honours List to scratch the backs of the party faithful would be horribly disingenuous, but since the Coalition came to power, the number of w bankers and city boys who have been honoured has risen to about a third from just handful previously.

So here is my own personal list of the Undeservingly Honoured:

Andrew Witty - The Chief Executive of GlaxoSmithKline, which agreed last year to pay a record $53bn fine in the US. This was in relation to charges that GSK have defrauded the US health system, Medicaid, by overcharging, paying doctors 'advisory fees' to ensure they recommended GSK drugs, tried to persuade doctors to prescribe drugs that were not approved by the regulators for certain conditions such as anti-depressants as slimming aids and marketed drugs which had known, dangerous side effects.

Paul Ruddock - wait a minute, I hear you say, Mr Ruddock is an expert on medieval art, chairman of the V&A and on the board of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Surely he should be honoured for his services to the art world? But this same Mr Ruddock made his money from hedge funds and short selling and he personally profited from the collapse of Northern Rock, which you and me, but probably not him, have had to pay to bail out. Oh, and he also donated $500,000 to the Conservative Party but that's probably just a coincidence right?

John Buchanan - Chairman of Vodafone and the man who has overseen the disappearance of billions of pounds of profit, money that belonged by rights to the country, into a tangled network of offshore avoidance schemes. A rough estimate of the amount lost to the nation's coffers is £25 million but that doesn't include the lastest 'scam' uncovered by Private Eye (simply the best £1.50 you can spend) which looks to be every bit as big. Fortunately for 'Sir' John, his very cosy relationship with Dave Hartnett, who sounds like a secondary school history teacher but really is Britain's top tax man (honoured with a CB in 2003), meant that he could persuade HMRC, over a very expensive lunch or two, to look the other way. If you're with Vodafone, leave now, vote with your feet, don't let Vodafone get away with it again

James Lupton - one of the elite group of Conservatives who got to have dinner with Dave in return for a £50,000 donation to Tory funds. He liked it so much that he donated £105,000 and got a CBE for his troubles. He could have had lunch with me for a fraction of that and I'd have been a damn sight more entertaining!

Ruby Macgregor-Smith - never heard of her? Me neither, but as the boss of Mitie, an outsourcing company, she signed a business leaders' letter backing Herr Chancellor George Osbourne's austerity programme. The letter promised that the private sector could provide employment for all the redundant public sector workers, a claim that has subsequently proved to resemble the contents of my septic tank. A DBE for you, my girl!

Jamie Bowden - one of the 'extraordinary people' in the public sector who were honoured, Mr Bowden, our man in Bahrain, became and apologist for the Bahraini government's brutal crackdown on dissidents during the Arab Spring uprising. In a newletter to local businessmen he commented that 'It was a great relief to all of us when the government was able to re-establish order on the streets', scant relief to the families of the hundreds of protestors who were killed or arrested and tortured by the state. Mr Bowden also welcomed the use of Saudi tanks against protesters in order to stop those naughty little A-rabs getting above themselves. Don't they know that Western democracy is the only way forward? How about a CMG for your troubles?

Andrew Tyler - Chief Operating Officer at the MoD's purchasing organistion and the MoD's second highest earner, he was responsible for procuring the kit for our boys in Afghanistan between 2006 and 2011. His procurement skills were such that he was brought in front of the public accounts committee to answer questions on some of his more 'inspired' procurement decision.... like refuelling planes which can't fly in combat zones and the multi-billion pound delay to aircraft carriers. As he quietly slipped off back into the private sector with a CBE in his back pocket to try out his exemplary procurement skills there, he commented that the MoD procurement unit was ''the most efficient and effective defence acquisition organisation in the world'. Oh really!

Helena Bonham-Carter - she's a bloody actress, for God's sake!

and finally...

Peter Bazalgette - From his early days at Auntie Beeb, 'Baz' as he's known to his friends, rose through the ranks to the heady heights of Chairman of Endemol UK. Sir Peter was knighted for his 'services to broadcasting'. These 'services' include bringing into our homes such pinnacles of broadcasting achievement as Big Brother, which gave us the universal delights of Jade Goody and Deal or No Deal, possibly the most pointless show on television. Although we can't actually blame him for creating them; we have the Dutch (BB) and the French (Deal or No Deal) to blame for that, he was instrumental in turning them into the global formats they now are. Baz is a scion of Sir Joseph Bazalgette, the man who invented sewers in Victorian times and who was knighted for his system that removed sewage from every home in the capital. How ironic is it then, that two generations later, his great grandson is honoured for bringing a pile of shit right back into our homes!

The one in which I take up Zumba

2012-01-15T16:18:00.000Z

Well, you know what they say, New Year, new you, so in the spirit of things I decided that now was the right time to start a new exercise routine. I'm not really one for the gym. I don't get the point of pounding the rubber on a running machine - all that sweat and you don't even get anywhere - and spinning just mystifies me. Why on earth does anyone want to sit on a static bike, pedal like buggery and pay someone for the privilege. Why not just get on a real, moving bike and pedal through the countryside for free? Likewise rowing machines. Just get down to a rowing club and do the real thing.

As a former student of the Legat School of Russian Ballet until just shy of my 23rd birthday, I do like to have a bit of a dance so zumba classes seemed like a good bet. I looked into classes for months but they were always on days or evening when I have other commitments so I was delighted (sort of) to discover almost by accident that the mother of one the The Girl's friends does zumba classes in the next village - and on a night when I am free. (Damn!) I mentioned it to my friend, neighbour and fellow blogger, A Modern Military Mother, whose brain is so addled by her New Year detox regime that she agreed straight away to be my fellow-in-public-humiliation.

So the allotted evening came and clad in suitable sporty attire (her) and a pair of 'Chav Mum' sweatpants, as my dear children so charmingly call them, a totally unsuitable top, The Boy's size 11 sports socks and trainers that are a size too small (me) we set off for the Social Club in the next village.

Once we had eventually found the class, I discovered to my horror that it was full of people I knew. That really wasn't in the plan at all. I don't mind making a tit of myself in front of strangers but shaking my booty in front of people I knew was not what I had planned. Still, it was too late to back out now.

The warm up started, so far so good. AMMM and I kept pace quite well, managed not to stand on anyone's toes or knock them off their feet with our exuberant moves and were only slightly out of breath. But then we moved onto the real thing.

The Teacher showed us the moves, which were fine in semi-slow motion but as soon as the music went on and we realised the pace of the dances, all was pretty much lost. If we finished a sequence of moves facing the right way it was a bonus. At the end of the first dance AMMM sidled over to me and asked if it was nearly over. We'd managed 15 minutes. 'I need water', she croaked. We looked at each other. Neither of us had even thought to bring any. Fortunately a friend came to the rescue and offered me some of hers. The urge to drain the bottle was nearly overpowering but I sipped it delicately to take the edge off my thirst.

The Teacher showed us the next routine, exhorting us to be 'sexy'. OK to say if you have a pert bum and a body where nothing wobbles, but when shaking your booty looks like a tsunami in slow motion, sexy it isn't!

As the class progressed, so did the complication level of the routines. By now my main concern was not causing anyone else a serious injury and I thanked god that we were in a social club and not an exercise studio with, horror, mirrors. I could imagine I looked like Beyonce even if the reality was more James Corden. At one point I caught sight of myself in one of the windows. It wasn't pretty!

To say I checked my watch every few minutes was no exaggeration but we made it to the end. The Teacher had worked up a slight sheen. I was leaking from every pore and my face was a mottled scarlet colour but, oh my goodness, was it fun! So much fun that we'll be back next week, a bit more prepared but ready to Zumba - and with a good supply of water

This is how I imagine I look....

This is probably nearer the reality!

The one in which I cock up Communion and invade a private space

2012-01-06T14:10:00.002Z

Happy New Year everybody! I hope it brings to you and yours everything that you deserve and a bit more besides. Well, since we last spoke my blog and I have both celebrated a birthday. Bloggie is a year old and I am somewhat older, but that's all you'll get out of me!

I had hoped to post earlier on in 2012 but Mr Blogger had other ideas and after spending days (well, hours at least) writing a round of the weird and wacky in 2011, at the very last moment, Mr Blogger suffered an unexplained dose of festive fallout and deleted the whole bloody thing. So much for Auto Save! So I will rewrite it when I have a minute but in the meantime I wanted to post something.

As you will know, dear reader, we recently moved to a lovely little village a bit further down the Wylye Valley from where we were before. It's a great place and rarely a day goes past when I don't wonder if I'm not living in a Harry Enfield sketch, there are so many interesting characters. And for such a tiny village it has a ridiculous number of writers, artists, sculptors and musicians too. It's also unusual as it is quite feudal. One half of the village is pretty much owned by one family who have lived here since the 14th Century while the other end is owned by the nouvelle arrivistes who came with shedloads of money in the 1950s. One family has history, the other has money.

My mother always told me 'never underestimate how important it is to be seen at church in a village' so come Christmas Day we decided to go, partly because I do like churches (the buildings that is) and partly to offer moral support to a friend, a professional musician, who had been gently press-ganged into playing the organ for the family service.

He's a stauch atheist and not great lover of organised religion but he decided to take one for the team and, providing he didn't have to play any happy clappy modern stuff, he agreed to do it. He had threatened a bit of Van Halen as we arrived but in the end opted for something a little more traditional.

We've never been inside the church although I've visited the graveyard several times. I'm a bit of a graveyard groupie myself. I love wandering around, reading the headstones and seeing who's buried there. I'm particularly curious about a stone that lays just in front of the entrance to the church. Under it reposes the body of one of the servants from 'the Big 'Ouse' who requested that her mortal remains be buried there according to the inscription. I wonder why? Was it because she felt treated like a doormat in life so she thought she might as well carry it on into the hereafter or was it because she was an awkward old bird and knows how superstitious some people (like me) are of walking over graves, so she had herself put in the most inconvenient spot. Maybe her favourite expression was 'over my dead body' and now we really are.

Anyway, we arrived at the church, which is almost next door, at the same time as 'The Family with History', who are lovely people that we have met socially several times. We exchanged Christmas greetings and followed them into the church. Having not been inside before we just followed them. To my embarrassment we ended up sitting in a private section of the church which is just reserved for 'The Families of the Village'. In the olden days we'd probably have ended up in the stocks. With other family members pouring in behind us it was impossible to turn round and go out again we had no choice but to slip into a pew at the back, having been told by a member of 'The Family with Money' that he wanted the whole of the pew in front of us for his mother. Probably didn't want to catch rickets from us or something. I suggested to The Husband that we sneak out but he told me in no uncertain terms that this was a Church and we had every right to be there. He's never been much of a lover of tradition, bless him. So we brazened it out, even though the sign of peace didn't quite make it to our pew!

As Communion was being offered (and I was feeling a little peckish at the time) I decided to go up and take it. I have a very mixed religious heritage and although I was baptised by an Anglican Bishop in Iran, my formative years were at a Free Church. I was even a Covenanter, which was a youth group for young Free Church goers although that was mainly because I was shit-hot at the weekly Bible Quiz! Nothing like a bit of Holy Competition.

So I took my place in line and waited.. Eventually my turn came and I knelt down in a space at the altar, head slightly tilted back, eyes cast down waiting for the body of Christ. Reverend Mary, who was offering Communion looked down at me. 'Just a blessing, dear?' she enquired gently. 'No', I said, 'Communion please', tilting my head back, tongue out slightly. She looked at me and I looked at her. What was I supposed to do? Point to my mouth and say 'gimme the Body!'

Eventually she popped the holy wafer in my mouth and I waited for a bit of 'The Blood' to come my way. It was only then that I noticed all the others had their hands cupped in front of them and their heads bowed and she was putting the wafer in their hands. Clearly Communion was handled slightly differently here. As I had my sip of communion wine Reverend Mary leaned down and said kindly, 'Here, we take it in the hand, not in the mouth'. Well the body of Christ was very nearly snorted out of my nose! I'm all for a bit of double entendre but she surely had to realise what she had said. I smiled as best I could and hurried away from the altar, trying desperately not to choke. As the service was just about over I slipped out of the church and waited until The Husband came and found me leaning on a headstone, hysterical with laughter.

There's a fair chance we may not be invited back!

We wish you a Merry Christmas.....

2011-12-25T00:00:00.002Z

Well, it's nearly midnight on Christmas Eve so time to turn in before Santa arrives. It's been a hectic run up to Christmas and not without it's drama.... well it wouldn't be Christmas in our family if it all went smoothly, so I just want to take a moment to wish each and every one of you a very Merry Christmas and a Happy, Healthy and Prosperous New Year.

xxx

A Stylish Mum? Moi?

2011-12-20T10:31:00.000Z

Yesterday I received an e-mail from Mint Velvet, an online fashion retailer, telling me about an exciting new feature on their website, Mums in Style, and asked me if I'd like to join.

Apparently it's for women 'who believe that being a mum doesn't mean you have to sacrifice style and plays (sic) homage to those mums who arrive at the school gate looking effortlessly cool (even if they've been knee deep in Marmite, unfinished homework and floods of tears 5 minutes earlier).'

At the bottom of the e-mail are photos of ubercool, stylish mums showing off their effortless coolness.

My own particular style as I read the e-mail was a pair of jean, a pyjama top and a shower cap... but it was effortless though possibly not that cool.

As far as arriving at the school gate, in the days when I did, it was often in my pyjamas, wearing the Marmite down my front and the tears were usually mine.

I don't personally subscribe to the Yummy Mummy idea, god knows, just being a parent these days is hard enough without setting yourself impossible goals of lipstick and mascara but I must say Mint Velvet does have a few nice threads which, were I to want to try and transform my own very personal and slightly crumpled style into something more upmarket, would no doubt help me on my road to being a schoolgate fashion icon.

To be honest, I think the best thing that any parent can ask for is to get through the day with the same number of children as they started off with, never mind all the alphamummy- induced competitiveness that seems rife these days. Why do you have to be a stylish mum? Can't you just be a mum? When your kids grow up do you really want them to say 'my childhood was crap but at least my mother always looked good'?

When we took our recent extended family holiday (from hell - ooops, did I really say that?) we accidentally found ourselves on 'Boden' beach, stuffed full of husbands barking wankspeak down their mobile phones while their gym-toned wives urged their high-achieving offspring, Xander and Allegra, to build a better sandcastle than that family a bit further down the beach before they headed off to do a bit more revision for their SATs (which they'd be taking in a few years timne). Mummy could then dash off and take in a quick spinning class - am I the only one who doesn't get spinning? Why on earth would you sit on a stationary bike and peddle like buggery rather get on a proper bike and go for a nice ride in the country? Meanwhile Daddy would set up yet another hedge fund and teach Xander the ins and outs of the stock market using the new LeapPad 'How to Fleeced the Taxpayer' game.

A little bit of competitiveness is a good thing and should be encouraged but the lengths that some people go to these days to try and assert their superiority over their fellow man is really quite ridiculous. It's time we were all just ourselves. There are far bigger problems in the world than whether or not Fellatia's mother turned up without the full slap on and wearing M&S rather than Joseph.

my a**e!

NB. This is not a sponsored post. I haven't received any payment from Mint Velvet - but I think I probably should!

Its to EuroPanto Time!

2011-12-18T12:15:00.000Z

Stuck for some entertainment this festive season? Well thank goodness for the EuroPanto which is playing out right now on our television screens. Instead of forking out to watch jaded has-beens prance around the stage in outrageous costumes, you can sit the children down in front of the television with a giant bowl of pop corn for a spot of cross channel willy waving (figuratively speaking of course) in our very own 'CindEurella' starring David Cameron as the baby faced Obstinatia, Nicholas Sarkozy as the poison dwarf Arrogantia, the two Ugly Sisters, Angela Merkel as Knöpfe (that's Buttons in German, I'm such a polyglot!), the single currency as 'CindEurella' and the entire Eurozone as Baron Hardup.

To a cry of 'It's behind ours' (your economy that is) watch Arrogantia and his chums Noyer (which means to drown in French, and I bet Obstinatia wishes he would) and Baroin point their fingers and shout 'Oh no we didn't' (try to talk down your economy) while Obstinatia and his poodle, Cleggy retort 'Oh yes you did' (try to get Fitches to downgrade us instead of you).

Meanwhile Knöpfe is running around like a madwoman trying to prevent CindEurella falling off a cliff and taking the wicked Baron Hardup with her.

And if the kids get bored of that, goodness knows this Panto has already run and run, you can always entertain them with the comments pages of most national newspapers where Arrogantia's serfs are claiming that in any case their cheese is better, while Obstinatia's are pointing out that they may have 400 cheeses but all of them are brie and in the great scheme of things does it really matter?

Seriously though, the behaviour of Sarko, Baroin and Noyer has, in my opinion, brought French politics to a new low, if that's possible after Chirac was found guilty this week of embezzlement and only escaped jail because of his mental condition - that'll be all that unpasteurised cheese he's eaten no doubt.

They have acted like a bunch of petulant kids who's party has been spoiled because one kid didn't want to come. Whether or not he was right to stay away from the party only time will tell. However, France has massive problems to face with most of it's major banks having their ratings downgraded and the country's economy put on negative watch but, in true Gallic style, is refusing to see the bigger picture and instead trying the 'My economy is better than your economy' style of playground politics favoured by the average 5 year old. And accusing Fitches of 'an Anglo Saxon conspiracy'? Don't they know it's a French owned company?

I'm no fan of British politicians by my answer to M. Baroin's claim that he'd rather be French than English would be so am I. We've got enough idiots in our own government without you. Merci.

My two favourite quotes of the week: 'The UK is isolated in the same way that someone who missed the Titanic is isolated' and 'Economists forecast fifteen of the last five recessions'.

"Oh do shut up you ridiculous little man"

"Well mah economee ees beeger than yoz.. oh no, wait a minute... Merde!"

What's in a name.... Part Deux

2011-12-08T11:56:00.001Z

Today, the school published the list of students receiving awards at the end of term awards ceremony. Naturally, The Boy and The Girl are both on the list – well they take after their mother of course!

But more interesting than reading who won what, is who’s called what. A name is such an important thing and the odd poorly thought out name combination can lead to years of schoolyard-hell as my old friend Valerie Davies found out when she spent her formative years with VD beautifully chain stitched to her PE kit, much to the amusement of her classmates and visiting netball teams.

Another friend’s brother is called Piran, a Cornish name, St Piran being, apparently, the patron saint of tin miners. He said it ruined his life as he spent his entire time listening to people say ‘what?’, then having to spell it, explain its origins and so on. He now calls himself Pete.

Although the huge majority of names on the awards list were perfectly normal it did throw up a few interesting ones, some of which were a reminder of what was on the tv or in the pop charts in the late 80s and early 90s, some of which use a bit of ‘individual’ spelling, one of my pet hates. I mean, why Izzabelle and not Isabel, or Rebekka instead of Rebecca or Aleksandra instead of Alexandra? There was even an Indya for heaven’s sake. The name only has five letters. Is it really necessary to change one?

There were two Summers, one Summer-Louise and one Hollee-Summer (thus incorporating two of my pet hates, misspelling and seasons), three Nikitas (Elton John or the film, take your pick), a smattering of Tiegans (Dr Who) and two Crystals (Dallas maybe? Or Crystal Gayle?). There was one Giverny (I’d like to think Monet’s Garden but more likely the song by Chris Rea) and one Robson (Green maybe? He was pretty big in the 90s).

Our proximity to Wales provided two Anghareds (a name I love to be fair), a Rhydian (most likely not after the former X Factor contestant) and then there’s Deanna with a TRIPLE barrelled surname (possibly veh, veh posh but more likely her mother is unsure of her parentage so is covering all bases). On the ‘I made this up’ front is Taya, Sharra, Kahlan (from the Terry Goodking fantasy series maybe?), Tanisha (clearly from the West Wiltshire ghetto), a Sanchia (although there is a sleb journo called Sanchia too) and my personal favourites, Zoeena and Poppyella! There are the twins, Cima and Rima (why?) a boy called Izzy – not short for anything – Mica-Louise (maybe after Mica Paris who was having a bit of success in the 90s) and Finian (who may or may not have a rainbow).

I’m a lover of some older traditional names but Euphemia is possibly a step too far, Mahalia’s parents were probably left wing hippies who spent too much time bemoaning the departure of the Grateful Dead whilst smoking weed and banging on about human rights and poor Honeysuckle, god, how do you live with a name like that?

For pure chavness there are Sade-Tia (I went to a Sade concert and she was shite), Eboni (who isn’t black) and Siantelle (possibly a chav of welsh origins). To be honest, they could all have doctorates from Oxford but their names will shut more doors than they open.

But my absolute favourite of favourites is Regyqueen. Yes dear reader, I have found someone called Regyqueen but to be fair, he/she has a very foreign sounding surname so I’ll let him/her off.

So, if you are having a baby soon, or know someone who is, tell them that it may seem like a good idea to name your child after a singer/soapstar/reality tv star/season/plant/tree/from the combination of 5 consonants and 3 vowels from last week’s edition of Countdown, but the poor bugger has to carry that around for the rest of their lives and if it makes people groan, assume a poor level of literacy, snigger or just plain laugh out loud, well, it’s just not that fair.

Dear IT Department................

2011-12-04T17:52:00.001Z

Firstly, can I just say thank you for the new art installation that has been sitting in my office for about 3 weeks now. What? It's not an art installation? It's the new printer is it?

Thank you also for your e-mails explaining that it was sitting there awaiting 'remote installation', although I was a bit unclear how you were going to remotely unplug the old one, wheel it out of the way, schlep over the new one and plug it in but hey, what do I know.

So imagine my excitement when I went into my office on Monday to find that you had done just that, although I'm not entirely sure that you really did do it all remotely, you little tinkers. In the spirit of 'remote IT' you kindly sent me an e-mail explaining that I could learn how to use this new piece of kit online. There was a step by step guide, complete with screenshots, which told me everything except how to turn the damn thing on. Call me old fashioned but I prefer to learn about new technology from a human being. Makes it so much easier when the inevitable questions arise.

I was also delighted to hear that I could now print out my documents at any hub in the county. Marvellous! Except that I don't go to any of the other hubs so this wonderful new benefit really wasn't much of one, all said and done. But still, you have reliably informed me that this new printer will save me time and my employer money and represents a new era of IT networking. Fabulous!

I was slightly less excited about the fact that I now hav to type in a pin number in order to get said printer to print my documents. This pin number must 'be kept secret and not divulged to any other staff member'. Well quite right! Just imagine the anarchy that could be wrought if anyone else has access to my pin number for the printer. It really doesn't bear thinking about. People could be photocopying their arses willy nilly on MY account. I'm delighted that I now have yet another secret code I have to remember on top of all the other ones I already have remember for my laptop/email account/online timesheets/procurement system/database/evidence room/office door. Is sticking it up on the office noticeboard secret enough? You see, the thing is I have such a bad memory for numbers.

So, I duly typed up a whole load of letters to those naughty lorry drivers who keep driving their big heavy lorries over the little Town Bridge (yes dear reader, I have progressed from counting sheep and cows to lorries. There really is no stopping me). It is nothing too difficult, one letter on headed paper, one on plain paper. Simples. I follow the instructions on the internet to the letter, if you'll excuse the pun. I even remember to change it from duplex to simplex. It printed out one letter on headed paper. I waited for the second one on plain paper.... and waited.... and waited. Oh well, never mind. I'll just print out another one on plain paper. That should be easy because that is the default setting. TA DA! It printed out another copy on headed paper. So I go back to the beginning, for surely I must just have done something wrong.

Step 1. Select Paper Option. Check,

Step 2. Ensure 'automatic selection' is shown in the first window. Check.

Step 3. Select 'simplex'. Check.

Step 4. Press 'Print'. Check.

Nip over to printer, type in pin number, press 'login', select 'secure print', select my document, press 'secure print and delete' - is i't just me or does this actually take twice as long as the old printer - and VOILA! It prints out on headed paper again.

I call one of my colleagues who checks me through each step in case of a blonde moment but he concurs that everything is as it should be. He suggests we select 'plain paper 80gsm' instead of 'automatic selection'. I press 'print', nip over to the printer, type in my pin number, press 'login', select 'secure print', select my document, press 'secure print and delete' and wait with baited breath. It whirrs and chunders then beepsand flashed a red light at me. Now I don't know much about modern technology but I do know that red lights and printers are never a good sign. It asks me to 'load paper'. Phew, that was all it was. I check the paper drawers but they were all full. Hmmm. So I opt for my usual method of troubleshooting which involves pressing every button as fast as possible in the hope of tricking it into believing that nothing was wrong. It doesn't work but I do discover that it now wants me to load paper in the manual paper feed on the side. I mean, why? I didn't even know it had a feed on the side so why would I ask it to print out from there? I so load the paper as instructed and the red light goes off. Hurrah! I press 'print' again and it prints out my letter. On headed paper. I use a very rude word.

So back to Steve in IT. I describe my problem in detail and even send him a few of my own screenshots - two can play at that game. He replies straightway.

Problems like this, he tells me, are notoriously difficult to sort out. It's really a question of trial and error. Well that bit was true, it was a trial and there were lots of errors. But, he continues, 'what I think you have to do is.....' You know when somebody in IT says what he 'thinks' you have to do, that you are in trouble.

Neither of his suggestions work and by this time is was 4.30pm. The chances of finding any meaningful answer to anything at work after 4.30pm is unlikely such are the demands of working in the public sector.

So, dear IT department. I lost approximately 2 hours doing battle with your new sooper-dooper all singing-all dancing labour and time saving printer.

Please may I have my old one back? I miss the comforting whirr of the toner cartridge squeezing the last bit of toner out. I miss the paper jams and the slight smell of burning that used to waft from it.

Thank you

All together... in UNISON... or maybe not!

2011-12-01T23:10:00.000Z

Firstly I should put my cards on the table and say to those who don't already know that I am a <<whispers>> public sector worker. Yesterday many public sector workers went on strike over reforms to their pensions which they feel are unfair. It was either 'a damp squib' if you believe the Government or the biggest public sector strike since yesterday/the 1920s/dinosaurs walked the earth, if you believe UNISON. Personally I'm not particularly minded to believe either of them.

Fortunately, I don't work on a Wednesday so the awkward question of whether to strike or not didn't rear its head. Even if it had, I would have chosen to work as normal. I don't agree with striking. I don't think it really achieves much. While I'm not quite up there with Jeremy Clarkson,slightly ironic considering the majority of his salary is paid by the taxpayer, I do think that there are better ways to try and resolve disputes. To be honest, I'm more aligned with Eleanor Smith, the vice-president of UNISON and a theatre nurse at Birmingham Women's Hospital,who told the press, rather unwisely I would have thought, that she only joined the NHS for the pension. A case study in how to alienate the public perhaps? I also wonder what she would have made of our own UNISON rep who actually went to work because striking would affect his final salary pension when he retires in a couple of years. How's that for solidarity with your fellow workers!

The Boy went shopping in Bath with his friends and was surprised to see many, many of his teachers, supposedly on strike, were enjoying an extra day of Christmas shopping. Surely they should have been manning the picket lines, or lobbying their MPs. At work, the picket line had disappeared by lunchtime.

I'm not sure how many people in the public sector actually realise how much the private sector is suffering. My brother is now entering his third year without a pay rise. The Husband is now working for around £600-800 a month less than he was two years ago. My dad has seen his pension cut by nearly 70% in the past two years. He was told it was either that or the pension fund would collapse. He's accepted the hit because he hopes that it will get better in the future. He can't go on strike because, after all, who'd care? Meanwhile my colleagues gripe about losing their very generous petrol allowance.

Only something like 35% of the private sector even have pensions, compared to around 82% in the public sector. Many private sector companies have no pension schemes and the returns on private pensions are so dire that those that can actually afford them will have to work well beyond the public sector retirement age of 65 just to be able to afford to retire. The Office for Fiscal Studies estimates that a private sector worker would have to pay between 15% and 40% of their monthly salary into a pension to get the same return as an average public sector one.

It's a difficult world we are living in today and everyone is suffering both in the public and the private sector. While I do blame the banks to a great extent for the mess we find ourselves in now, most of us also played our part in the financial crisis by maxing out our credit cards and buying houses we couldn't really afford. It's now time for everyone to pull together, to take one for the team, to do everything we can to dig out way out of this mess. And that's not going to happen while people are still demanding benefits that others can't afford or expecting to retire earlier on a pension that is funded by people who can't afford to retire themselves.

What has happened to that old Blitz spirit that the British used to be so renowned for? Everyone seems so self-centred, not interested in the bigger picture or the greater good, just in what they can get out of it. If we all pull together, act a bit more selflessly and a bit less selfishly, then things might just improve in the future for everyone.

Quandries, quandries....

2011-11-28T17:17:00.001Z

Well, it only seems like yesterday that we were angsting over schools for The Boy and packing him off in his purple blazer and cap to his first day at Big School and now, hardly a moment later, we are looking at Sixth Forms. I really don't know where the last 10 years have gone.

We are so lucky to have a choice of two very different schools for Sixth Form. Both are rated as outstanding, one a grammar, one the comprehensive he currently attends, a school that I am passionate about. The Boy is considering medicine and feels that he would stand a better chance of getting into medical school from a grammar rather than the local comp. A sad reflection on the private/grammar/state divide in the UK but unfortunately quite likely true.

The Boys Grammar is very highly ranked in the league tables, very academic and well resourced, offers 30 different academic A levels and would, I know, push The Boy hard, which he needs. He's a typical teenage boy, struggling to find the balance between schoolwork and his addiction to his social life but who manages to get top marks by doing very little and I want him to be the best that he can be, not the best that he can be bothered to be. Boys from the Grammar go on to the Russell Group universities. It's made very clear in the prospectus that those are the only universities they rate and consider suitable for their Old Wordsworthians. And they wear suits in the Sixth Form, which, surprisingly, The Boy is very keen on. The headmaster was impressive and I left his address feeling that this was probably the right place for The Boy, there was a strong sense of tradition which I love (I'm from Tunbridge Wells for God's sake, it's in the water!) and it reminded me very much of my old Grammar school which I loved and which did it's best for me. I loved the idea of the Mentoring system there, where a member of staff mentors them all the way through Sixth Form but.... I wasn't sure about some of the teachers.

The Boy wants to do Chemistry so we made our way to the lab to meet the Head of Department. The room was packed as you'd expect from a) a boy's school and b) a school with an excellent record in the sciences. I then listened to him bang on for 10 minutes about how hard it was, how his A* students struggled with it and how you shouldn't do it unless you were really, really clever. Within minutes the room had practically emptied. He wasn't welcoming or particularly interested in The Boy or his friend and made no attempt to discuss the syllabus or, indeed, anything else with us. We later discovered that more students take Chemistry than any other A level and clearly he was doing his best to try and cull the numbers a bit for next year. The Boy said he didn't think he would do Chemistry after all.

We went to Physics where they said it was expected that you would do Maths A level as well, which he doesn't want to do but Biology went better. We spoke to a current student who raved about it and we left feeling a bit more positive. In French we explained that he had spent half of his school life in France. She asked if he could write French. I reiterated that he had been in the French public school system, not an international school as she has clearly assumed. Meanwhile the boy chatted happily with the French assistant who was from Normandy. The language department is excellent with over 30 boys studying French plus the option to study Spanish, Russian and Mandarin. There is a comprehensive programme of trips and exchanges as well.

The Boy left the Grammar feeling very good about it and determined to apply, although he had changed his plan to do Chemistry, Biology, Physics and French to Biology, Geology, English Language and French. It would mean a longer school day, a more complicated journey to school and leaving his very close group of friends, although four of them were also applying.

Then last week we went to the Open Evening for the Sixth Form at his current school. People who read my old French blog will know that one of the reasons we moved back from France was because of my reservations about the school system there. From the moment we walked into the school we knew we had made the right decision. Everything about it felt right. So I really wanted them to step up to the plate for the Sixth Form.

As it turned out, they didn't. The head of Sixth Form was a bit uninspiring and the brief talk by one of the head students saying that he managed to hold down a part time job and still go out partying was not what I really wanted The Boy to hear. The Head didn't make an appearance which was, I thought, a big mistake.The next disappointment was to find that both Chemistry and French were in the same pool which meant that he would not be able to do both. On the positive side it was standing room only in the hall so clearly a lot of people rate the Sixth Form but I left to meet the subject teachers with a sinking feeling that this school that I love so much was going to let us down. That would, though, make our decision much easier.

First stop was the French department where they get excellent results, though they only have a very small number taking the subject. On the one hand this is good but on the other it can be quite difficult getting inspiration from such a small group. There was no French assistant and only a day trip to Paris rather than a week long exchange but then The Boy lived in France for 5 years so really there's not much he doesn't know about French culture and family life. We talked about the clash with Chemistry and were advised to speak to the head of French for advice.

Next stop was Geography. The Boy has the most amazing Geography teacher. He's very unteacher-like and I'm fairly sure that in our last Parent Teacher meeting he used the 'f' word but it was so quick and so unexpected that The Husband and I were never quite sure if we'd heard him right. But what he lacks in the Queen's English he makes up for in passion for his subject - not to mention the blind adoration of his students. To watch him in full flow during his presentation on A Level geography was magnificent. I wanted to sign up for it! He knows that The Boy is thinking of another Sixth Form but had already said that even if he left he was welcome to come on the field trip to Iceland next year. We went to speak to him after his presentation and I jokingly asked him if he wanted to have The Boy in his class. His reply stunned me (proud mummy moment coming up......) He said, in front of the other parents and students, 'if he leaves it will be a tragedy for this school'. I looked at him blankly while The Boy went scarlet and studied his shoes. 'I mean it', he continued 'he will be a huge, huge loss. He's student leader material, he's got an amazing brain, he gets his head round complex issues easily, if there's a difficult question I know his hand will be up first. Really, we don't want to lose him'. 'Um, it's not definite he's going to leave yet', I said meekly.

On then to Chemistry where we were greeted by a young, enthusiastic teacher who clearly loved her subject. Yes, it was hard, she told him but she didn't try to put him off. She asked what grade he was predicted and said that he'd be fine as long as he was prepared to put in the work. The Biology teacher was the same.

On our way out, we were told that the Head of French was looking for us. We tracked her down in the French room. She told us that as The Boy already spoke French he and another girl (also educated in France and who's choice of Philosophy A level also clashed with French) could 'self learn' for the A level. As he would only be taking three other timetabled A levels he would have 10 free periods a week so the five of these that would normally be devoted to his fourth A level would be spent with the other girl in the library working independently or in the classroom where the French staff would put on extra lessons for them to go over the A level topics and help develop their essay writing. The Girl, who is currently doing her AS in French (in year 9) could join them to complete her A2 as once she starts her GCSE options next year she may not be able to continue having French with the Sixth Form as she does now. 'So he can still do chemistry?' I asked. Yes he could. So once again, the school has gone out of it's way to accommodate my bilingual children.

In recent years they have started to address the problems of getting comprehensive students into top universities and now have a staff member who works just with the top students on applications for the Oxbridge and the best of the rest. They've introduced Critical Thinking as this is now a requirement by many of them as well as interview techniques and how to write a shit-hot Personal Statement.

But this, of course, has left us in a quandry. The Boy originally was definite about wanting to go to the Grammar school but now he has extra big love for his geography teacher and is feeling more confident about doing chemistry. He's torn and so are we. On the one hand we have tradition, a school that will ease his passage into a good university, in the top 40 state schools in the country and a very academic outlook. On the other we have a school that is not so academic, in the top 200 but that is bending over backwards to facililitate him and clearly rates him as a student. What to do?

We'll Meat Again.....

2011-11-20T13:49:00.001Z

And so it was, a few months ago, that The Girl uttered those words that every mother fears, well, every mother as disorganised as me at least. 'Mum, I'm becoming a vegetarian'.

My first thought wasn't 'well I'm proud to have a daughter who knows her own mind and isn't afraid to stand up for what she believes in'. No, it was more along the lines of 'Damn, two lots of cooking'. I struggle to come up with exciting wholesome non-vegetarian food, now I'll have to throw some vegetarian meals into the mix.

Now I should say at this point that I have previous in the vegetarian stakes (steaks...tee hee) as I myself was vegetarian for 9 years. My own foray into a meat-free world came about as a result of an unfortunate experience with zebra in Africa.

I was on holiday in Kenya with some girlfriends and our guide suggested an evening at 'Carnivore', strap line, 'A Beast of a Feast', in which you get to feast on all sorts of beasts that you probably wouldn't find on the meat counter of Morrisons. It is a vegetarian's hell, with a huge barbecue pit with assorted wild and not so wild animal parts cooking over an open fire. The meat is on huge skewers, rather like spears and the waiters walk around and hack large chunks off on your plate. I was never a huge meat eater and started to feel slightly queasy at the sheer, well, meatiness of it all. I stuck to the more familiar meats but was then, as a result of an ethical argument about why I would eat cow but not zebra, I was challenged to try some zebra. I always steered clear of eating animals that I felt an emotional attachment to and having been brought up around horses I could never eat anything equine or equine-like and a zebra was like a stripy horse wasn't it? Anyway, I relented and agreed to try zebra.

Eating the sole of my shoe after a long walk through cow dung would have been a more pleasant experience. It was tough and strong tasting and with every chew all I could imagine was a baby zebra galloping around the plains calling for it's mother, whose rump was now on my plate. I chewed and chewed but I couldn't swallow it and from then on, just the sight of meat made me nauseous.

I ate your mother

My mother was suitably horrified but I had, at least, had the decency to leave home before making this momentous decision not to eat meat. I can still remember my first vegetarian Christmas and the delicious nut roast that Mum make. By 6pm I was poleaxed by the worst case of wind in the Northern Hemisphere and had to retire to a bed with a hot water bottle where I farted the night away. And, of course, my sister's wedding where the hotel's idea of 'vegetarian' was salmon. Err, point of order sir, salmon counts as meat in the vegetarian world. The guest book still bears the immortal word of my friend Gerard, who partnered me to the wedding 'I hope your sister's vegetarianism gets better soon'. And it did eventually.

When I was pregnant with The Boy I had a serious craving. Not coal, not lemons or ice cream but Iceland frozen shepherds pies.... oh, and Doritos. Every day saw me skulking guiltily around the freezers loading up my basket with enough shepherds pies to keep me going through the day. I craved them for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and several times in between. Honestly, after 9 years of being vegetarian what a godawful thing to break my vegetarian vows on.

But back to The Girl. The whole vegetarian thing came right out of left field. We'd always joked that a little carnivore like her would never become vegetarian. She'd never much liked the butchery section of the supermarkets and she couldn't walk into a butchers because the smell made her feel sick but as her idea of 'Five a Day' would be a carrot and 4 tins of sweetcorn. Vegetables were just not her thing.

I tried to be supportive... well, actually I didn't. I told her that she barely ate vegetables and that she would either live on cheese and get fat or starve to death. She told me she was prepared to still eat fish so I pointed out that fish feel pain too. Big mistake. 'OK' she said, 'I won't eat fish either then'. Damn, damn, damn. I tried to get to the bottom of her change of heart. Was it ethical? She told me she didn't like the idea of animals being killed for food. I told her that abattoirs were very closely regulated, that vets were on hand to ensure that they animals didn't suffer, that if we didn't eat them we'd still have to kill them anyway as there isn't enough room for us all and wasn't it better that they were killed for food rather than just killed but she wasn't moved. I resorted to whining about how difficult this would make my life, having to think of two different meals every day. She offered to cook her own food. I felt guilty.

The Boy was equally dismissive. 'I give you two weeks' he said before listing all the things that she wouldn't be able to eat, jelly, haribo sweets, beef gravy, a nice juicy steak.....

I decided that the fairest thing would be for us to all eat vegetarian at least twice a week. This went down like a pork chop in a synagogue with The Boy, a compulsive fitness freak who also feels that anything that doesn't require cutting with a steak knife is not real food. He complained that being 'forced' to eat vegetarian food would have an adverse effect on his physical fitness. So far this whole vegetarian thing was a minefield!

Now, two months into the vegetarian adventure, The Girl shows every sign of keeping it up. She checks labels religiously for signs of gelatin, has restricted herself to the one type of Haribos that is veggie-friendly and, alarmingly, has started reading the blog of a teenage vegan. God forbid she goes that far. On the plus side though, she has embraced vegetables that she wouldn't touch before and is finding out that courgettes are cool and aubergines are awesome - and also that Jaffa cakes don't contain gelatin.. Brussell sprouts are still a step too far though.

Lest we forget our UNarmed forces

2011-11-13T20:40:00.005Z

Today is Remembrance Sunday, the day we remember those who have given their lives to protect our country and our freedom. It is right and proper that we should remember them. But what about our UNarmed forces, the men of the Merchant Navy, for example, shouldn't we remember them too? Yet they rarely get a mention.

My dad was in the Merchant Navy. He joined because he was too young to go into the Royal Navy. He was just shy of his 16th birthday in the last years of the war but he wanted to do his part.

The UK needed one million tonnes a week of imported goods in order to continue to fight and for the survival of its population, most of it coming from North America. It was the men of the Merchant Navy, mostly in unarmed ships, whose job it was to keep the supply lines open in the face of continuous U Boat and air attacks from Germany and naval attacks from Italy. They were supported by the Royal Navy and the Royal and Canadian Air Forces. It was the longest running military campaign in World War II, reaching its peak between 1942 and 1945. In the early years of the war, merchant ships were being sunk faster than shipyards could turn them out.

My dad was on the convoys. His ship was sunk by a German U Boat, something I only found out a couple of years ago. He still prefers not to talk about the horror of it. The chances of rescue for merchant seamen was slim When a ship was lost, less than half of the men were likely to survive. Before the advent of the small rescue ships which accompanied the convoys in later years - when they were available - merchant seamen who survived the initial torpedos and the burning oil in the sea and managed to get to a lifeboat were often just abandoned because it was simply too dangerous to stop and rescue them. They then faced a slow, horrible death from exposure and starvation. Even if they were lucky enough to have a rescue ship accompanying the convoy, the fact that it had to stop dead in the water to pick them up meant it was a sitting target for the U Boats and the Luftwaffe. My dad was, thankfully, one of the lucky ones.

He also saw action in the Pacific and Burma and was awarded the Atlantic, Burma and Pacific Stars.

Burma Star with Pacific bar

By the end of the war 3,500 merchant vessels had been sunk on the Atlantic Convoys alone, compared to 175 Royal Navy ships. The total loss of life in the Merchant Navy during World War II was over 50,000.

Winston Churchill later said "The Battle of the Atlantic was the dominating factor all through the war. Never for one moment could we forget that everything happening elsewhere, on land, at sea or in the air depended ultimately on its outcome".

Without the brave civilian sailors of the Merchant Navy, the war might have ended differently.

And it was after the war that they realised that their civilian status meant that even though they had faced the same risks as their military counterparts they would be treated very differently. Priority for university places and apprenticeships went to the men and women who had served in the military. My dad longed to study medicine but there were no places available for him as he wasn't considered, despite his medals, to have been 'under command' in the war.

The insult continued with the Remembrance Day service at the Cenotaph. The men of the Merchant Navy were not invited to attend, nor allowed to join the march past. My dad watched it religiously on television and every year he commented on the lack of representation of the Merchant Navy. In 1999, after years of lobbying, they were finally allowed to take part, almost 60 years to the day after the first Merchant vessel, the Athenia, was lost in World War II.

So on Remembrance Sunday, with all the talk of remembering our 'armed forces', just for a moment remember the unarmed forces who played such a vital part in the war.

Is there anybody out there....?

2011-11-04T22:11:00.000Z

Hello, hellooooooo blogworld, is there anybody still out there? If there was a 'Crap Blogger' award I'd be giving it to myself for my monstrous lack of blog posts over the past few weeks but I have a good reason. You see, I've moved. Yes, dear reader, my blog is now officially misleading as it is no longer the diary of the the incumbent of River Cottage, and me working for Trading Standards too!

I've moved a little bit further down the Wylye Valley to a lovely little village where my neighbour is my blogging pal and community chook keeper, A Modern Military Mother.

So, do I change the name of my blog or do I continue to shamelessly piggy back off the good name of a certain slebrity chef and forager of hedgerows? Let this be a warning to new bloggers, go for a generic name.

In the meantime, here's a post I did earlier for the Huffers. Needless to say, the world didn't end.

Normal service will be resumed soon

Death of a Despot... but do we really need to see it?

2011-10-21T11:14:00.000+01:00

The world is rejoicing the death of a despot - or is it just that they now have a better chance of getting their hands on Libyan oil - but is is really necessary to show his dead body on TV and before the watershed to boot.

Yes, he was clearly an evil or possibly just a deranged man but it doesn't make me feel any better to see him with a bullet hole in his head. I'm not sure I even really wanted to see him begging for his life when he was captured. What can be gained from this?

I know some people argue that we need proof of death to escape the rumour and conjecture that, say, surrounded the death of Hitler, with conspiracy theorists arguing for years after 'that Berlin bunker' that he was alive and living in South America/Darkest Africa/Mars and I know that this isn't necessarily something new with pictures of dead despots going back as far as Mussolini probably further, but surely the 'proof' only needs to be shown to heads of state, not the general public. The same media that blames, loudly and often, violent video games for a rise in real-life violence, seems not to show the same calls for restraint when it comes to seeing real-life death played out through their own broadcasts or newspapers. The photos on the Daily Mirror website were particularly disgusting, showing Gaddafi's bloodied body, bullet wounds very evident, laid out in Misrata.

I found the death of Osama bin Laden, played out like some sort of freakish reality show for the US government with cameras on hand to witness their every 'oooh', 'aaaahh' and 'boy that had to hurt' to be slightly distasteful but it does beg the question, where will voyeuristic television take us next? Helmetcam? Bulletcam?Executioner's Chaircam?

To be honest, I find 'The Only Way is Essex' pushes the boundaries of what is decent and acceptable quite far enough, but dead dictators. No thanks!

The Rugby World Cup Zola Budd - You play for WHICH team?' Award

2011-10-19T16:01:00.003+01:00

In rugby, as in many other sports, players for national teams may have a fairly tenuous link to their adopted country. Readers of my age will remember the Zola Budd debacle, when the barefoot South African teenager was fast tracked to a British passport so she could compete for Great Britain in the Los Angeles Olympics in 1984. As with so many schemes masterminded by The Daily Mail (yes, causing trouble even in those days) it was a disaster and after tripping and taking out America's Darling, Mary Decker, she scuttled off back to South Africa which was, really, her home. Her British passport has probably only been useful for jumping the immigration queues at Gatwick. So here are my nominations for the players who really sound like they should be playing for another team.

1. Making his second appearance in my RWC awards is Toby Faletau who plays for ....... Wales

2. Then just to confuse you, Simon Danielli

3.... and Nick de Luca

...... play for Scotland

4. While Luke McClean who sounds like he should play for Scotland......

..... actually plays for Italy (and was born in Australia)

5. Adam Byrnes sounds like he should play for Ireland but.....

..... he plays for Russia. (Although he made his name playing in Ireland and Australia, he declared for Russia on the grounds that his maternal grandmother is Russian)

6. Does Paul Williams play for Wales? No....

..... he plays for Samoa. (His father is an ex-All Black and his brother plays for Clermont in France but after a successful career in New Zealand he declared himself for Samoa internationally)

7. Shaun Webb

8. James Arlidge

9. And Luke Thompson

.... sound like they should play for England but they actually play for ...... Japan! As do Michael Veitch, Bryce Robins and Ryan Nicholas. Both Luke Thompson and Shaun Webb got Japanese citizenship on residency grounds a mere month before the start of the World Cup.. and there's me thinking that their great grannies were Japanese!

10. And finally, at Number 10, everybody's favourite Man Overboard, Manu Tuilagi, who could play for Samoa ....

...... but, as most of us know, Manu plays for England. His is probably one of the most tenuous links to the nationality of the country he plays for as he was, until last year, an illegal immigrant. But hey, if you're an illegal with a talent, who cares? Not the UK government it would appear.

The Rugby World Cup Donald Trump Bad Hair Award

2011-10-15T21:35:00.000+01:00

I had intended to post this last weekend but the shock exit of England against a French team that, the week before would have struggled in an under 8s tag team, has left me a bit flat. But never mind, this is rugby. We have to man up and support the ~~French~~ ~~Welsh~~ ~~French~~ oh, who bloody cares.

But as a bit of light relief from the excitement and pressure of the semi-finals , I am giving you my nominations for the very special 'Donald Trump Bad Hair' award.

In no particular order.....

1. M'a Nonu - The All Blacks

Looking bizarrely as if he's dreadlocked his ear hair, M'a is more NoNo than Nonu

2. Berrick Barnes

Staying downunder, my next nominee is Jedward-in-Training Berrick Barnes. (How long is that man's neck?)

3. Zane Kirchner - Bokke

Zane is shocked to discover just how daft his hair is....

4. Jerry Flannery - Ireland

Hailing from the West of Ireland, a place we all love. It's just like England 40 years ago.... .including the hair styles apparently

5. Toby Faletau - Wales

Toby from Tonga (that well known suburb of Cardiff) loves his big hair. Not sure I do though

6. Martin Castrogiovanni - Italy

Very nearly a contender for the Facial Hair of Shame award, no bad hair award would be complete without the hirsute Mr Castrogiovanni's barnet, which would only be collar length if he actually had a neck

7. Eric Fry - USA

Just when you thought the Bobby Charlton comb-over was dead and gone, along comes Eric to bring it to the next generation

8. Ippei Asada - Japan

Poor Ippei looks as if his hair has been stuck on as an afterthought, or possibly cut out of a magazine and popped on a photo of him

9. Census Johnston - Samoa

The South Seas Island teams provided rich pickings for the bad hair awards but one of my favourites is Census Johnston - and what a faaabulous name too! It might have looked OK on Michael Bolton in the 19802 but come on Census, this is the 21st Century

10. Andrey Garbuzov - Russia

Showing off the Boris Karloff look to it's greatest effect, Andrey is something of a trend setter in Krasnoyarsk. (That's in Siberia in case you were wondering)

So, who get's you vote?

PS. Dear IRB, it's me again, using you photos without permission. Just a little reminder that my penalty is to have the All Blacks go a Haka in my lounge. Don't forget now......... please

EDF.. Extemely Dimwitted Fools!

2011-10-06T22:43:00.001+01:00

People often say to me 'Oh, you must miss living in France'. Well I don't. The cheap wine and summer sunshine was never quite enough to make up for hair-wrenching frustration that is dealing with just about any French company or institution. Their job application forms must surely have a box to tick whereby you have to confirm that you will never, at any time, show any ability towards independent thought and joined up thinking.

Take EDF for example. I'm trying to change the electricity account at our house in France back into my own name. There appears to be no number to call from outside France so I've tried to do it online.

I typed in my name and address. It wouldn't accept my postcode because French postcodes only have numbers but I've got round that in the past by putting in a line of zeros then adding the postcode to one of the fields that allows numbers and letters. No problem.

I put in the address of the property. No problem there. I even managed to find the Point de Livraison which is absolutely vital to identifying your property correctly (apparently). I put in the name of our former tenants. Still going swimingly. The only teeny weeny problem came when it asked for a meter reading. The outgoing tenants, not content with not paying rent for the past 5 months and trashing the house, refuse to let me have the meter readings, so I left if blank.

EDF emailed me. (I've translated it into English for ease)

"Madame, thank you for registering your new account online. However, before we can create it, we need to have a meter reading'

I e-mailed them back

"Monsieur/Madame, thank you for your e-mail. You will see from my application that I live in England so unfortunately I can't supply a meter reading. Please could you arrange to one of your meter readers to visit the property and take a reading. Cordialement"

They e-mailed again

"Madame, thank you for your e-mail. However. before we can set up your account we need to have a meter reading. Please supply one"

Hmmm. I e-mailed back

"Monsieur/Madame. I'm afraid that I live in England and as the house is in France I can't supply a meter reading. Please arrange to have the meter read. Cordialement"

Another reply landed in my inbox

"Madame, thank you for your e-mail. Please supply the exact address of your future home as well as the name of the former tenants. Please note that we cannot set up your account till you have supplied us with a meter reading"

By now I was feeling slightly less cordial

"Monsieur/Madame, thank you for your e-mail. I have already supplied the address of my house in France. It was a mandatory field in the online registration form. Likewise, I have already supplied the name of my former tenants, that was also a mandatory field on the online registration form. Unfortunately I am still in the UK and my house is still in France so it is not feasible for me to supply you with a meter reading. Cordialement"

Bing, you have a new message......

"Madame, thank you for supplying the requested information. However, please note that we cannot set up your account until you have supplied us with a meter reading" (their bold). If you would like to discuss this with us please telephone on the number on the reverse of your bill.

So I replied again...

"Monsieur/Madame, thank you for your e-mail. There is absolutely no point in requesting a meter reading, even in bold letters. It will not alter the fact that I am in England and my house (and it's electricity meter) are in France. In between us is a small sea (La Manche) and a large landmass (La France), therefore I cannot supply one. Please would you arrange for the meter to be read. I am unable to call you on the number on the reverse of my bill as I do not have a bill. I do not have a bill as I am not yet a customer. That is what I'm trying to sort out now"

And guess what they said...

"Madame, we are unable to open an account without a meter reading. Please supply us with an up to date meter reading otherwise we will have to arrange for an operative to visit the property and read the meter"

Hoo - Bloody - Ray!

The Rugby World Cup Facial Hair of Shame Award

2011-10-01T12:28:00.002+01:00

Facial hair seems to be in abundance in this year's Rugby World Cup with everything from the 'I model myself on George Michael' look to 'Amish is cool'. Here are my nominations for the RWC Facial Hair of Shame Award. Who do you think should get it?

1. Lionel Nallet - France

First on my list is 'Les Bleus' Lionel Nallet. Not exactly off the pages of French Vogue is he? He's a bit more 'Homeless People 'r' Us.

2. Maxime Medard - France

What's this? Another 'Bleu'? This time it's Maxime Medard. I like retro, sometimes retro is good, but Medard's 70s style mutton chops are just crying out for a razor

3. Dan Cole - England

Ginger beards are just a great big no-no. Nuff said.

4. Adam Jones - Wales

Just wrong. Wrong on so many fronts

5. Cornelius Van Zyl - Italy (yes, Italy)

Sporting a fine 'Italian' name and a patchy, straggly beard, Cornelius is one of many from the Italian team who could have made the list

6. Natani Edward Talei - Fiji

I mean, really, is it worth it?

7. Adam Kleeburger - Canada

From one extreme to the other, Adam's 'Amish is The New Black' beard is so impressive it's even been trending on Twitter. Sadly, for his legions of beard fans he plans to shave it off after the Rugby World Cup.

8. Pat Danahy - USA

Although it may look like a fake, stuck on beard, I am reliably informed that it is, in fact, real

9. Vladimir Botvinnikov - Russia

There's no hiding that Brucie chin on our Vlad

10. Jebb Sinclair - Canada

For the final candidate we are back to Canada, to Jebb Sinclair, seen here sporting 'My Mom and Dad are Cousins' look

So, who gets your vote?

Coming soon... The Rugby World Cup Donald Trump Bad Hair Day Award and the Rugby World Cup Most Messed Up Face Award

P.S Thanks to the RWC Official Site for the photos. I've probably breached your copyright but if that's the case please send the All Blacks to do a Haka in my lounge. I promise to be very frightened....

Those three words I love to hate....

2011-09-30T13:21:00.006+01:00

Which three words? You can read my latest blog on the Huffington Post here

Rugby's Top Totty - World Cup Edition

2011-09-17T19:19:00.002+01:00

As a long time follower of the game with the odd-shaped ball, it comes as no surprise that in a recent survey by the dating site Zoosk, rugby players were voted the sexiest hunks. What was slightly surprising though was that this appears not to have been reported outside of India. No doubt a conspiracy by the ones who play with the round ball. For me, of course, it's all about the ~~thighs~~ game but for those of you who prefer to just enjoy the legs and bums, here is my Rugby World Cup Top Totty.

In no particular order

1. Ben Foden

Ben is the nearest rugby has to a footballer. A former Pop Idol auditionee, now married to one fifth of the girl band, The Saturdays, Ben is a bit of alright, even if he can't seem to keep his jeans up - I recommend a nice piece of string, Ben

2. Dan Carter

A regular on any list of rugby totty, Good body, slightly overexposed but hey, who cares. We know what's in his boxers thanks to his ad campaign for Jockey underwear. Oh, and probably the best player in the world

3. Ben Youngs

One of the better things to come out of Norfolk. Cute, boyish good looks, too young for me really to be commenting on without it being a bit creepy! Couldn't find a single photo of him in his undies... Damn!

4. Gonzalo Tiesi

The now-injured and out of the World Cup Argentinian Centre and Dieux du Stade's Mr December is just a bit of alright really. Phenomenal bum too, but then I only watch for the game.....

5. James Haskell

I have a soft spot for English lock forward James Haskell, who as Mr August in the Dieux du Stade calendar shows that he really had the most perfectly shaped ~~thighs~~ ~~abs~~ ball

6. Francois Steyn

The rather preposterously named Francois Phillipus Lodewyk Steyn is the wunderkind of the Bokke and despite a liking for sporting rather suspect facial hair, he easily makes the list

7. Mike Phillips

The enfant terrible of Welsh Rugby and one half (with Duffy) of the second biggest slebrity couple in Wales, Mike nearly didn't make it to the World Cup having been thrown out of the team because of his 'anger management' issues. Allowed back in after promising to go into therapy. Hang on a minute, I'm sure I had an O' level in counselling rugby players with issues

8. Jonny Wilkson OBE

'There is a god and Jonny is his name' was a familiar banner around rugby grounds after his last second drop goal to win the 2003 World Cup. Quintessentially English, even if he does play rugby in France but a tendancy to break rather easily

9. Richie McCaw

All Blacks openside flanker, captain and all round top totty. I like a man with a nice Haka

10. Todd Clever

Despite a penchant for Michael Boltonesque locks, US captain Todd Clever is a bit of alright in a rugged sort of way. You could imagine him wrestling a bison, or is it just me. Just me then...

Enjoy!

Cry God for Rugby, England and St George

2011-09-09T12:29:00.003+01:00

Today heralds the start of my favourite times of the year - well, four years really. It's the rugby World Cup, a regular feast of ~~muscular thighs and tight butts~~ top level sport. My interest in rugby started when I was in my teens and my boyfriend du jour played both school and county rugby. At first I had no idea what the attraction was of this game that looked like something you might come across on any city street at pub kick out time on a weekend. Piles of men jumping on each other, pushing and knocking each other down but the more I watched, the more my interest grew. First it was the bums and thighs but eventually it was the game itself.

Long time readers will know that I went to the very first World Cup in Australia and New Zealand in 1987. In those days it was a rather small, provincial affair held at local grounds to an audience in the hundreds rather than the thousands. We hung out with the teams after the matches and most of them still had a day job. The days of rugby being a professional sport were just a distant dream.

I followed it in the Middle East where it was played on pitches that were more sand than grass and where I had the distinction of being one of few women ever to be tackled by an All Black when he slid across the try line into myself and a friend leaving a trail of stud marks across our shins but fortunately didn't spill our beer. This was followed by being hoisted on the shoulders of Murray Mexted for a manic dance to Jeff Beck's old school disco classic 'Hi Ho Silver Lining'. The fact that my head was making regular and solid contact with the ceiling as he jumped around may account for a lot which has happened since.

I also had my own (very) brief flirtation with women's rugby, much to the horror of my male rugby playing friends. It lasted but a few weeks when our coach got fed up with us taking half an hour to bind on for a scrum as putting our hands between the legs of our fellow team mates didn't come naturally and had to be precursed with countless apologies for touching bits we had no wish to touch. We also lacked the killer instinct of some of the other women's teams who all had nicknames like Ace and Crusher, while ours would more likely have been Mimsy or Fluffy.

For the next 6 weeks the top rugby playing nations in the world will play the glorious game, off the field, fans will mingle together gently joshing each other and sharing pints in pubs downunder. It's so unlike football. So for those of you not familiar with the game with the odd shaped ball, here is my Girlie's Guide to The Rugby World Cup so you can enjoy it yourself.

Firstly, the game. It's an old but true saying that Rugby is a hooligan's game played by gentlemen, as oppposed to football which is a gentleman's game played by hooligans. It might look like a punch on a Saturday night but once you understand what is going on it all becomes clear.... apparently!

Rugby owes it’s existence to us, the English, or at least to a certain Englishman, William Webb Ellis who invented the game in Rugby – how’s that for a coincidence! What? Oh, I see, that’s why it’s called rugby is it? Well thank goodness he wasn’t in Pratts Bottom or Piddle Trenthide. Bored during a game of football – that’s the one played by the big girl’s blouses with the round ball – he picked up the ball and ran off with it. Many a child has been chastised for doing just that in a fit of pique but good old Will got credited with a creating whole new sport and had a trophy named after him.

It’s played on a field or pitch that has two things like giant Hs at either end. Blimey, you hear people say, how wide is that goal mouth? But no, in rugby it’s not just a case of booting it past the goalie, the player has to actually kick it over the bar and between the two uprights. Easy peasy? You try it.

The object of the game is for one team to run with the ball and try to put it down on the ground over the try line (that’s the line that the posts are on) with as much flair and swan diving as possible. This is called a Try. Why it’s called a try when you haven’t tried, you’ve succeeded, is anyone’s guess. A try is worth 5 points. To make things more interesting the ball can only be passed sideways or backwards, never forwards unless you are the All Blacks of course, who seem to manage to get away with it.

If your team scores a try, then you have the chance to convert it, though into what is never clear. The kicker will try to kick the ball between the uprights. This is called a Conversion and is worth 2 points.

You can also score penalties by making it look like the opposing team has done something wrong in front of the referee. A penalty is worth 3 points.

Then there is a drop goal. A drop goal can be described in two words. Jonny Wilkinson. Many England fans still bask in delight of Jonny’s last minute drop goal (you basically drop the ball and try to kick it over through the posts) which bought the World Cup home to England in 2003. Yes, I know it was 8 years ago but we have long memories in rugby and I actually ran down our road draped in an England flag screaming madly. A drop goal is worth 3 points

The opposition must stop the team scoring a try. They do this by diving at their legs/shoulders/necks/manly bit and hanging on tight. If all else fails they might try to stick out a boot and trip them although this is not strictly legal. Sometime lots of players cuddle up and hide the ball from the other players. They will then try to push or drive the player holding the ball towards the try line. Often they fall over and lots of other players jump on top of them. This is the point where they wives and girlfriends hide behind their handbags.

These jumbled piles of bodies can be either ruck or a maul. In a ruck, the ball is on the ground and players are not allowed to handle it. Instead they must try and ‘ruck’ the ball out with their feet. They can also use their feet to try and ruck the players out... with those nasty metal studs and all. Nasty. In a maul, the ball is held off the ground and everyone must try and stay on their feet. That’s their own feet, not somebody else’s.

Ruck? Maul? Or just a game of Ultimate Twister

You might also see a lineout. This is when some of the players from each team stand in a line at ight angles to the touch line. A player with no neck will shout a bunch of unintelligible instructions then he’ll throw the ball and somebody will jump for the ball while his team mates try to give him a wedgie. No wonder he can jump so high!

Then there is the scrum, where the two props, a hooker (no not that sort) the second row and the number 8 players on each team lock arms and other assorted body parts, in a way which would most likely be illegal in some countries. When the referee says crouch, they kneel down. He will then say ‘touch’ and the four props will poke each other’s shoulders. The referee then says ‘pause’, in theory so he can inspect the scrum formation, and finally ‘engage’, when the two front rows push together with much grunting. Both teams push against each other while the scrum half of the team that has possession of the ball feeds the ball into the space in the middle of the scrum. The hooker then has to try and hook the ball back through the scrum with his feet until it pops out of the back, preferably into the hands of the scrum half.

Hang on boys!

The positions in rugby all have their own purpose. There are eight players on each team who are called forwards. Their job is to push, shove and generally manhandle the opposition and create gaps for the glory boys to run through. Occasionally they do actually go forward. Even more occasionally, they score a try.

The other players in the team are called backs, who’s main job it is to go forward with the with the minimum amount of stumbling, fumbling and falling over at least until they get to the try line where generally they all fall over.

The Fullback...

He’s the one generally hanging around at the other end of the field. He is the last line of defence and is always blamed when the opposition score.

The Wingers...

There is one on each side of the field. They are usually pretty quick on their feet. They are the glory boys to whom everyone tries to get the ball so they can do what they do best, which is ~~pulling a hamstring just before the try line~~ scoring tries.

The Center...

Two again, the outside centre who usually hangs around the fly half (see below) and the inside centre who usually stands inside the outside centre (got that?) When attacking, they are the ones who run quickly toward the nearest opponent and collapse into their arms. They have an uncanny knack of tripping over themselves or being flattened by opposition players whom they were trying to run through.

The Fly Half...

The fly half is generally the first person to receive the ball from the scrum half after a breakdown of plan so he needs to be decisive and a clear thinker so his first action is generally just kick the ball anywhere. Kicking is his thing, grub kicks, up and unders and chips (not with fish). His also there to provide a soft landing for the opposing front row

The Scrum Half...

Often one of the smaller players in the team and often with something of a Napoleon complex. He spends the whole game trying to keep out of the reach of opposing forwards. Usually becomes cocky in the last fifteen minutes of the game and gets thumped. Mouthy

The Front Row...

Made up of the props, chunky muscular men with no neck, and the hooker who, despite the name is not the team biatch. Mean and moody. Often their game is played in one part of the field, without the ball, while the rest proceed elsewhere. Generally look a bit unfit and after 15 minutes they are always completely shagged out. Often they have a slightly pained expression cause by a bit of overenthusiastic binding on by the second row (see scrum above)

The Second Row...

Big buggers, they are generally the tallest players in the team and push against the front row in the scrum. May spend much of the match resting their head between two well cushioned thighs, clutching on to each others love handles. The rest of the match may be spent comfortably tucked up under a pile of bodies in a ruck or maul. Good catchers, they are often the one getting the wedgie in the lineout (see above). Usually distinguishable by a magnificent pair of cauliflower ears and a nose the shape of South America.

Meet Peter Buxon, Gloucester
Second Row

The Number 8

The Number 8 is the only position with no specific name. They bind onto the back of the scrum to provide extra weight and may also act as another jumper or lifter in the lineout. The main goal of the Number 8 is to complete the game with their hair still in place. They are also apt to remember plays in which they were involved, even though no one else who played in the same game has the faintest recollection of their participation. Some are known to shave their legs and the soles of their feet.

The Referee...

Easily identifiable as the one on the pitch in a different coloured jersey. May occasionally and inadvertently take part in play if they don’t move quick enough. The Ref should always be referred to as Sir or Your Majesty and should, according to the crowd, have gone to Specsavers.

Coming next, Top Rugby Totty……

Huffing and Puffing...

2011-09-08T11:42:00.000+01:00

I'm now blogging at The Huffington Post

You can read my latest blogpost here

http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/melanie-jones/youll-always-be-my-little_b_938805.html

Please feel free to comment on it on the site... please

My Big Fat Family Holiday - I survived!

2011-09-01T10:35:00.001+01:00

Well, the big fat family holiday is over and we are all back in our respective homes in Kent, Sussex and Wiltshire. This is the first time I've ever holidayed in the UK, not entirely surprising for someone who had visited Australia before she ever went to Scotland. It's the first time I've been on holiday with my extended family. Would I do it again? You bet I would/wouldn't* (delete as applicable)

For reasons best known to myself, I had pictured sitting in the acre and a half of gardens at the barn in the summer sunshine, a good book in one hand and an elderflower presse in the other while the children browned themselves gently on the beach. The reality was far less pleasant. The West Country could easily have been renamed the Wettest Country with days of torrential rain and temperatures hardly out of single figures. The 'narrow lanes' in the brochure proved to be a spaghetti bowl of windy, narrow byways with 8 foot high hedges on either side blocking out the views of the beautiful Devon countryside, light, oxygen, sanity....... The barn was at the end of a particularly tortuous 5 mile one. We all cheered when we pulled out of that lane for the last time. The road down to the beach required crampons and abseiling equipment.

Moira had spent the week babbling away happily, oblivious to the fact that she was directing us down cart tracks and no through roads. She suffered daily abuse but it didn't seem to dent her enthusiasm.

We visited the South Devon Chilli Farm to sample the Bhut Jolokia, one of the hottest chillis in the world. It was an experience akin to ironing your tongue. On the first and last days we did get onto the beach at Slapton Sands (no sand) and Blackpool Sands (no sand) a lovely beach that was just a little too Boden Mummy meets Organic Mummy for my liking. The children all seemed to be called Raphael and Xavier or Kitty and Tilly (or anything else ending in a 'y'), the mummies were all toned and missing their daily workout at the gym back home in Richmond, the dads fortunately couldn't get signals on their mobile phones so we were at least spared the loud twatcalls to the office. It did have a lovely beach cafe selling organic food but by the time you'd paid the £6 parking fee - yes Dear Reader, £6. They didn't mention that little surprise in the tourist guides - there wasn't much left over. We had only gone for lunch but having forked out £12 between us just to park I insisted we stayed there till sundown among the squalling children and fractious parents.

I took The Boy and The Girl to Exeter for the day which was much more their thing to be honest. We live in the country so we don't really need to holiday there as well. We munched delicious nachos in the sunshine at Giraffe, casually wondering about the man with the red hair who was wearing a ball gown, before they bankrupted me in Jack Wills. I loved Exeter. It has a nice vibe. I told The Boy he may go to University there.

Top holiday moments were both thanks to my parents. "So what are these jalapeno things?" said my mother as she put a forkful in her mouth - I've never known her speechless for so long - and the moment when my dad's false teeth fell out in the middle of dinner in a restaurant was not to be missed.

My top tips for family holiday survival in no particular order are:

1. You're staycationing. It's not a hot country. Take a coat

2. No dogs, not even well behaved ones like my sister's. Dogs bark. They bark especially at 5am every morning and wake you up. They don't however, wake up their owners

3. Jump leads are good - unless you carry distress flares of course. That way, if you have an unexpected flat battery you don't have to try and direct the breakdown services to an unknown location somewhere in South Devon. Imagine the scenario......

"This is ABC Breakdown, how may we help?"

"Er, I have a flat battery"

"OK, that's no problem we'll send someone to you as soon as possible. Where are you?"

"Devon"

"Could you be a little more precise?"

"South Devon?"

"What is your nearest town?" Dartmouth, it's about 10 miles away"

"Village then?"

"Well I think I passed a signpost a while back saying 'You are entering Little Aresendofnowhere, please drive carefully' a while back"

"OK, can you give me a landmark"

"Can you give me a laddder?"

"Sorry?"

"Hedges, lots and lots of hedges. That's all I can see"

"OK, is there anything behind the hedges that might make it easier to find you?"

"Damned if I know. They are all about 8 feet high."

4. All snorers should be forced to share a room, preferably in another holiday cottage a few miles away

5. No dogs

6. Take a map. Do no, repeat not, rely on Satellite Navigation. Sometimes progress isn't all it's cracked up to be

7. Lush green countryside means one thing. Rain. Do not leave your vast collection of sudden unexpected rainshower-bought umbrellas at home resulting in the purchase of yet another (very expensive) umbrella

8. Did I say no dogs?

9. When renting a holiday cottage in Devon bear in mind that 'narrow lanes' actually means virtually impassible in the normal world. Taking your car for a few practice laps round the maze at Hampton Court Palace is adviseable just to get you acclimatised. Also, bear in mind that driving speed is directly proportional to the width of the road. The narrower it is, the faster they drive. An adrenalin injection is also adviseable to restart your heart after a Range Rover Sport narrowly avoids parking on your bonnet

10. Don't forget to pack your sense of humour. You'll need it.

Our next trip (now already taken place due to Delayed Blogging Syndrome) is to visit The Husband in Bulgaria, where he has sold his soul to Hollyweird. Watch this space......

My Big Fat Family Holiday

2011-08-14T08:07:00.002+01:00

I'm somewhere in Devon, I couldn't tell you where. I'm in a barn (a converted one) with 6 adults, 5 teenagers, 3 dogs and lots of laminate flooring. Dogs and laminate flooring do not go together. The constant tapping of claws on floors is driving me slowly mad. But in the depths of the South Hams, no-one can hear you scream.......

We set off from Wiltshire two hours late in a hail of shouting and recriminations at The Boy and The Girl. Both had failed miserably to do the jobs I had asked them to do. The Boy was glowering and The Girl was firmly attached to her iPod with a Whatever look on her face. The Husband, conveniently away filming in Bulgaria until Christmas, phoned to wish us Bon Voyage, knowing full well that this, our first holiday with my extended family, would likely be holiday hell rather than holiday heaven.

Moira, the SatNav, was chatting away gaily, which was just as well, as The Children certainly weren't. I'm rubbish at long journeys. Within an hour my eyes start to feel heavy and the only known remedy is a Starbucks skinny latte, or, at a push one from Costa. But the road to Devon is just that, a road. Not a motorway, most of the time not even a dual carriageway, and not so much as a Wild Bean Cafe. Eventually Moira told me that I would be turning left onto the M5. Hallelujah! There was bound to be a service station. Sure enough, Exeter Services appeared on the roadsigns. We turned off. We were halfway back to Wiltshire by the time we found it. Moira was very upset that we had deviated from her chosen route.

The service station was heaving. You could tell it was practically the only one between Exeter and the rest of the known world. It was like a French service station at midday. The man at Costa was overwhelmed. 45 minutes later I was the proud imbiber of a lukewarm, bitter latte and a hot chocolate with marshmallows and cream that refused to be whipped - I know the feeling!

We set off again on the last leg of our journey. Moira was anything if not confident and cheefully instructed us to 'Turn Right on Blackwell Road'. Road was somewhat over-egging the pudding. Small, narrow lane with grass growing up the middle was a bit more like it. We followed the road, as instructed. It was one car wide with high hedges on both sides. 'Follow Blackwell Road for two miles', Moira told us. Blackwell Road got narrower, the hedges got higher and we ran over a squashed chicken.

"Mum, was that a...." asked The Boy. "Yes".

'Turn right on road' shrilled Moira. You know you are in trouble when the road doesn't even have a name. By now the hedges were touching both sides of the car. 'Turn left on road'. That'll be down the one signposted 'Unsuitable for Motor Vehicles' will it Moira, you cow! By now The Children were starting to take a bit of notice. "Where are we Mum?" asked The Girl. Damned if I know, I thought. We turned left up a narrow lane which seemed devoid of road surface. 'Continue off road', said Moira cheerfully. Now if I'd been in the Disco, I might have, but the low slung Audi is not exactly built for off-roading. Vorsprung Durch Technik it might be but the Technik hasn't quite stretched to 4 wheel drive and hydraulic jacks to lift it up over the potholes. I decided to reverse back into a farm gate we had passed. Backwards, round a bend on a narrow lane would appear not to be my forte. Never mind. I'm sure the scratches will polish out.

I reached the gate and reversed in. There was an almighty crunch as I grounded the car on a lump of tarmac. There's no tarmac on the road but there's a big pile of it in the gateway to a field. Go figure! I told The Boy to take off his flaming headphones and help me navigate. Moira was just intent on sending us round in a circle and back to where we were. We decided to outfox her by setting off in the opposite direction, trying to navigate back to where we had turned off the main road, defying the instructions sent to us by the owners. Why is it that we always think the SatNav knows best?

Wherever we turned, it led to another tiny, narrow lane. We passed a tractor with a hen sitting in the driving seat. It watched us with black beady eyes as we drove past.... and then when we went past again.... and then again the third time. In 45 minutes we hadn't seen a single living soul except for the hen and a rabbit. "We could get lost here and no-one would ever know" said The Girl helpfully. The Boy starting humming the theme from 'Deliverance'. The chicken watched us go by again. The instructions said we needed to take the second turning on the left. There was no turning on the left, or the right for that matter.

Eventually we found the main road. Moira told me to go left 'Eff Off, Moira, I'm going right'. The Boy sighed. "It's the wrong way Mum". I don't care. At least the road is big enough that you can fit two cars side by side on it. Eventually we reached the sea. The barn is most definitely inland. Moira suggested turning up a road that was half the width of a suburban driveway. I declined her invitation.

Eventually we ended up back on the same road we'd started on. The idea of spending a week in the car lost in the lanes of the South Hams of Devon was starting to look a distinct possibility. The Boy snatched Moira from her holder. "Right, I'll sort it out" he said punching away at Moira's screen. "Turn down here" he told me. "But we've already been down here god knows how many times. Look, there's the bloody chicken again!" "Actually it's a different one" came a voice from the back seat. "Trust me" The Boy told me calmly. We set off down a lane which we could have already driven down several times for all I knew. Eventually we came to a sign that said 'Private Property'. I stopped the car. "Keep going" said The Boy. "But it's someone's house." "Just drive Mum, we can get out the other side". Don't you just hate it when your kids are right.

My phone rang. Thank God that at least I had a signal. Maybe they could send us a police helicopter to guide us out of this maze of identical looking lanes. It was my brother. "Where are you... and where is this bloody place we are supposed to be staying?" "No idea to both" I told him. We rounded a corner to find him and his two children parked in the gateway to a field. "The Boy says it's the other was so you'll have to turn round". A 35 point turn later and we were all heading in the right direction. Half a mile further on it started to look familiar. Google Street View familiar that is. The Boy smiled smugly. We were here. 2 hours late and nearly out of petrol but we were here. The Big Fat Family Holiday could begin.

It's the Devon Flag in case you were wondering

What next?

2011-08-11T16:01:00.000+01:00

I've done a lot of shouting at the television recently. I'm probably not the only one. Shouting at the mindless yobs who have burned and looted parts of the country. Shouting at the idiot parents who try to excuse it by saying their kids have nothing to do or, faced with compelling evidence that their offspring have, in fact, gone on a looting spree in JD Sports, still refuse to accept it. Shouting at the Birmingham Chav do told us 'if they respe't us, we'll respe't them' - in your dreams, love. Shouting at the liberals who are trying to excuse it with claims of social inequality - some of those already convicted included a teaching assistant, a graphic designer, a web developer, a social worker, a postman and the daughter of a Kent millionaire. If that were the case then countries with real social inequality would be a state of almost constant unrest.

In the UK people who are unemployed are given cheap or free housing, money to live on, free healthcare, free dental care, free prescriptions, free school meals, free or heavily subsidised further education. What more should we give them? And in return for what? For nothing. For turning up once a fortnight at the Job Centre. If you teach people that they can take without any sort of social responsibility then it's no surprise that they grow up with a sense of entitlement that they don't deserve.

I think the blame lies in many areas. I blame the media (of course). Even the most ordinary girl's magazines show clothes and accessories that are often way out of reach of many people. The myriad slebrity magazines that clog up the newsagents' shelves have pages and pages of supposedly aspirational characters blinged up in expensive designerwear, role models are WAGs and popstars often of low/no talent. TV talent shows catapult people to instant fame without the need for the years of hard slog that many really talented people have to put in. But ask yourself this. If they were really, genuinely talented, would they need a talent show? The over-riding message is that you don't need to have any great gift to get rich. You don't need to work hard and if it doesn't just fall in your lap well then it's someone else's fault.

I also blame the government for being complicit in giving people a sense of entitlement that they often don't deserve. They dole out money to people with no requirement for something in return. Benefit claimants talk about being 'paid' as if unemployment is actually a job. Pay is something you receive for goods or services, unemployed people provide neither. Benefits should come with some sort of social responsibility attached, be it cleaning graffitti or visiting the elderly. Something to give them a reason to get up in the morning and possibly a sense of belonging to a community.

I blame Job Centres. They aren't Job Centres, they are Benefit Processing Offices. They have no interest in helping their clients find work. For the most part they seem to be manned by people with only a little bit more enthusiasm for work than the people on the other side of the desk. Their job is to process paperwork, usually with as little grace and politeness as possible. They should be taken out of Government control and handed over to organisations that might actually want to do something to make a change. When I walk past our local Job Centre, I'm hard pushed to imagine what sort of job half the young men, unwashed, tattooed, pierced sitting on the wall chain-smoking, could possibly do. There should be a holistic approach to finding them work, starting with the need for a good bath and clean clothes. They should be out doing community work so that they don't spend their days lazing in bed or playing video games. Is it any surprise that often when they get a job but can't be arsed to get out of bed to go to it. If you've spent the last six months in your pit until midday, it's hardly surprising.

And video games. As Steve at Bloggertropolis noted, a generation bought up on violent video games might just lose the ability to distinguish between reality and virtual reality. There is no need for Grand Theft Auto in civilised society.

Poor parenting and the breakdown of the traditional family undoubtedly plays some part as does political correctness and the liberal intelligentsia, all of which have undermined our society in different ways. Parents who claim that their children, up in court on looting and disorder charges, are 'good kids' are doing them a huge disservice. They aren't good kids. They are criminals.

I don't blame education although the school which employed Alexis Bailey as a teaching mentor, despite convictions for criminal damage, should be asking itself some questions today. In our country we have a great education system, trust me, I've experienced another one so I can draw comparisons. It's free and it offers the kind of support to disadvantaged students that you just don't find in many other countries. But after that, it is down to the individual. They can choose to learn, to better themselves, to prepare themselves for working life. Or they can chose not to. Perhaps we need to make it more difficult to follow the second path.

I also don't blame the police. They are damned if they do and damned if they don't. After the kettling of the student riots, liberal journalists took pen to paper to roundly criticise their heavy handed policing. As the police were hopelessly outnumbered by rioters, they had little choice but to stand back. The right wing press were immediately on their case. In Manchester last night, the police went in a little bit more decisively. By the morning, the BBC were showing clips from YouTube suggesting that the police were being a little bit too decisive. As a country we need to decide where we stand on this. In France, the CRS, their version of the riot police, go in hard. They get results. Do we want effective policing or do we want lawlessness and disorder?

But I've also been cheering at the TV a lot. At the quiet dignity of the Reeves family who saw their 100 year old business, which survived the Great Depression and two World Wars, razed to the ground by their own countrymen. At the restraint of the father of Haroon Jehan who called for restraint, despite having lost his son to a hit and run driver. At the Kurdish community in North London who outnumbered the rioters 3 to 1 and drove them off the streets and away from their businesses. At the armies of people who turned up in London to help with the clean up, at Homebase for giving away free brooms and dustpans and brushes to anyone who joined the clean up crews. At the revulsion shown by so many young people at the actions of their generation.

What happens next is up to us all. We can get lost in a mire of infighting, blame and counter-blame and political grandstanding. We can throw more money at the jobless and less money at the police. We can say it's down to social inequality.

Or alternatively we can take a long, hard look at ourselves. Ask some hard questions and take some tough decisions about certain parts of our society. Is it down to government cuts, immigration and jobs or is it about greed and consumerism? Should our society be more about human rights and less about personal responsibility? Should people get something for nothing or should everything come with some sort of personal and moral price tag? Who do we help next? The poor disadvantaged looter who fights social injustice by stealing a plasma TV from Curry's or the people who lost their homes, their possessions, their livelihoods and even the children at the hands of their neighbours.

Good things can come out of this. It could be a defining moment in our recent history. But it's up to us to use it to create the sort of society we want and not allow those with their own agendas to take the lead.

We're all going on a summer holiday

2011-08-08T23:07:00.003+01:00

.... well actually we've been but Sir Cliff hasn't conveniently sung a song about returning from your anuual sejourn in foreign climes. Well I'm sure, dear Reader, you have been wondering at the reason for my cyber silence for over 2 weeks (what do you mean you hadn't even noticed?). It was that time of the year when we decamp to France so The Girl can do her High Security Music Camp. It works like this. I pay 500 euros and she spends a week in France putting on a musical from scratch, sleeping in a dodgy tent, being fed on cheap food. But she loves it and I love her so I cough up. It also gives us a chance to catch up with our lovely friends w1.hich is a definite plus even though they are now spread a bit further and wider than before.

People talk about the difference in culture between the French and the English, usually by comparing French High Society to Chavs but let's not go there, but for me, the difference was slightly more basic, lavatorial even.

1. The toilets have no toilet seats. What in God's name happens to them all? They start off with them but within weeks they are gone. It's as bigger mystery as the whereabouts of the Scarlet Pimpernel. Is there a Phantom Potty Seat Pincher? Is it really true the French women don't get fat so the ones that appear to be just have a stolen toilet seat shoved up their dress? If anyone has any ideas please do let me know

2. The toilets have no toilet paper. The schedule on the wall clearly shows that the toilets were cleaned half and hour ago so where has all the toilet paper gone? The same way as the seats maybe? All I know is there is nothing worse, when you are already suffering screaming thigh muscles from hoving above the seatless porcelain pan, to discover the toilet roll holder is empty and you now have to try and scrabble around in your bag for a suitable replacement, the bag which is of course on your knee because...

3. The toilets have nowhere to hang up your bag. I absolutely refuse to put my bag down on a toilet floor. Think about it. It's not the cleanest of places, particularly in France (and some other countries to be fair) but with nowhere to hang your bag you put it down on the floor, then later at home, you put your bag down on the table, then you eat lunch and voila! E-coli

4. The hand driers don't work. If I had a euro for every time I've been in a French toilet and found the hand drier to be Hors Service, I'd be living in a mansion in the country. I do have a sneaking suspicion that it's because post-lavatorial handwashing in France is an optional rather than a mandatory procedure. Just remember that when you go to the supermarket

5. O.M.G! Shock... Horror.. sometimes you don't even have a toilet pan. Has somebody stolen that too? The so-called Turkish Toilet (or squatty potty as I like to call it) is supposed to be more hygienic but that's not a theory that has been borne out by my own experiences. I had the unpleasant experience of going into a toilet in Agen, a relatively bourgeoise town, to find the filthiest toilet I have ever seen. I instantly lost the desire to pee and headed for the door. The handle was sticky. With what I can only guess. Never mind, I could always wash my hands.... except that I couldn't because there was no sink.

I could possibly be accused of having something of a fixation on Squatty Potties, having blogged about them before but that's only because they are so universally awful.

But on to nicer things - well not the weather because that was awful for most of the time, I mean, 14 degrees in July? - it was lovely to see some of our dear friends, now all spread a bit far and wide sadly which meant we just couldn't fit everyone in. It was less of a pleasure to run into the founder members of the local Coven of Sour Old Hags at the village cafe. They had already heard of my arrival ("What? Daily Mail Wylye Girl". Sometimes don't you just wish for a little bit of dementia). They were huddled round a cauldron bubbling over with oeil de gecko and foie de grenouille or I suppose it could just have been a table, with faces like slapped culs - I am so bilingual! There was an almost audible intake of breath at my audacity then they were desperately disappointed when Monsieur M, who for reasons known best to himself was sitting with them, leapt up to give me a kiss and have a long chat. I wished them a cheery good morning. They glared at me with mouths turned down like so many dead trouts and stayed silent. No wonder their poor husbands were sitting inside nursing alcoholic drinks when the sun was barely over the yard arm.

We stayed with lovely friends who, bless them, had postponed leaving on their holidays for a day so we could spend time together. As ever the welcome was warm and the conversation lively. They let us have use of their house while they were away in return for catsitting the oldest Persian cat in France, at an impressive 21 years old, although as she has a UK passport the French were recognise her claim. I won't lie and say I wasn't concerned that she might chose my watch to shuffle this mortal coil and on more than one occasion I stood over her to check she was still with us but I'm happy to say that she survived our tender loving care. All I can say is I hope that I am that sprightly at 92+ (I can't give you her exact age because the Purina 'How Old is Your Cat' calculator only goes up to 19.

The following day we delivered The Daughter to High Security Summer Music Camp, where, for a significant sum of money, she stays in a municipal campsite in a dodgy plastic tent that resembles a Turkish Bath in the daytime and a fridge during the night, and puts on a musical from scratch, including props and scenery, in a week. She loves it and we love her so we stump up the cash and off she goes. It attract students from all around the world, many of whom are at drama school and the standards are high. This year was the 10th Anniversary so they were putting on a cabaret, with songs from the last 10 years' productions and a gala dinner, but more of that later.

On Monday we went to Agen so I could buy some linen curtains. We stupidly thought we would get something to eat in the evening. In a reasonable sized French town, in the peak tourist season. You'd think wouldn't you. But no. Apart from the Station Buffet as recommended, bizarrely, by Rick Stein, everywhere was closed. I keep thinking that there must be another buffet in another station because it's average at best and in the evening it is THE place to go to find a lady of the night. It's distinctly seedy. After two hours of looking we had lost our appetites and in the end we went home for sausage sandwiches.

Next stop Albi. We jumped into our very nice Citroen C5, a free upgrade from Avis, thank you very much, and headed off to some other friends who live there. They are guardians of a very lovely property which belongs to....we I couldn't possibly say but it's for sale if you've got 1.5 million euros stuffed down the back of your sofa.

We spent a day in Albi. I am in love with Albi. It's a well deserved UNESCO World Heritage Site. Go, go tomorrow. The Cathedrale de Ste Cecile is wonderful, all Gothic austerity on the outside and serious frou-frou on the inside. And the Jardin de la Berbie behind the Musee Toulouse Lautrec is stunning in an very formal and anally retentive way. Photos... photos I hear you cry. Unfortunately they are all on The Husband's laptop which is in Bulgaria. But that's a story for another time. Lunch was a steak which had been briefly shown the pan and which was a bit like sucking an open wound but at least the waiter opened our bottles of water between his thighs with great panache rarely seen outside of Thailand.

After three days of great food, conviviality and lots of Trivial Pursuit we headed back to try and fulfil the long shopping list of clothes The Girl suddenly needed and spend a night with some other friends who live among the vineyards of Cahors. Yet more conviviality and great food. I was asked if I miss living in France. Despite the lovely setting we were in, the answer was still no. I don't miss it. Not one bit.

The following day was show time. The Girl had had to learn 17 song and dance numbers. One of the choreographers had worked on Fame in the West End and had taught her enthusiastic bunch of amateurs the same routines. The show was marvellous, the food less so. If you ever wanted proof that food in France can be complete rubbish, this was it. The starter was tinned peaches stuffed with pate of some sort reposing on a deep bed of grated carrot, very deep. The main course was Mystery Meat cooked with olives and peppers and watery rice. Some thought the meat was pork, others lamb, some even tuna. Most didn't eat it. It had a curious smell of baby's nappies. Hooray for the cheese course, which was at least edible and the tarte tatin, mass produced by still quite tasty.

The Girl was fabulous, making a wonderful Maria in The Sound of Music, a talent she no doubt gets from her mother. It was, no doubt, a very tiring week. The Girl came up to us at the end and promptly burst into tears, half of exhaustion, half of sadness that it was all over for another year. She decided she wanted to stay another night at the campsites so we headed off to our comfortable beds while she headed off to another night being knawed by mosquitos. I've never really understood the French predilection for siting their campsites around lakes.

The following day was the big trek home. The Husband had been working in Manchester so he had flown out of Liverpool while we had flown out of Bristol. We were all flying back to Liverpool then driving back down to Wiltshire. The flights from Bordeaux leave from Le Billi, a poorly air conditioned metal box which is your punishment for flying with a low cost airline. All the flights were delayed. It was distinctly Third World. Eventually we were called for our flight. The departure gate had about 8 seats. We waited... and waited.... and waited some more. Eventually the Captain turned up, which is never a good sign. He had noticed a nick in one of the tyres and needed to get an engineer to come and confirm that it was OK to fly. Thank God it wasn't lunchtime or we'd have had a 2 hour wait. We all sat down on the floor. Within minutes, the two couples in front of us were swapping birth stories. Call me old fashioned but give me a good bit of Southern reserve any day.

Eventually, two hours late, we arrived in Liverpool. You know you're in Liverpool when the woman at Border Control looks like a WAG. Down South they are generally paunchy middle aged men with the pallor of an uncooked sausage. She was all beehived and eyelinered.

So that was it, another year, another trip to France. Next year I fancy Barbados. France was much as I found it last time. It's a shame to see two local boulangeries have now become franchises and the prices are horrendous. We bought a kilo of sausages and a cote de porc in the market and it came to 30 euros! And petrol was far more expensive that I pay here in Wiltshire. I certainly couldn't afford to live there.

Next week we head off to Devon for a holiday with my extended family. We've never done it before and it will either be a huge success or a terrible disaster. Either way, it should provide some good blogging material!

The Seven Links Project

2011-07-17T21:23:00.000+01:00

Perpetua over at Perpetually in Transit invited me to join the Seven Links Project in which I have to link to my favourite posts in certain categories. It's quite nice to look back over the drivel I've written before and marvel at the fact that people still read it. So, here goes.....

My Most Beautiful Post
Hmm, I don't really do beautiful, at least not in the way that some other bloggers do, with lovely photos and gentle writing that makes you feel all calm and chilled out so I'm going to play a bit fast and loose with this category and make it My Post About My Most Beautiful Daughter, Mother's Pride

My Most Popular Post
I had quite a few which tied around the 21 comments mark, clearly all written on days when very little else was going on in the world, but the one I've chosen is Getting One Over on the Crims. I'm including this one as a tribute to the now defunct Crapmobile. Sadly, the crims finally got one over one me. A few days after some local members of the travelling fraternity stopped to enquire after a possible purchase of the Crapmobile, only to baulk at the (very low) price we were asking, I came out to find the window broken and the driver's door jemmied (why not just break the window FFS?). An attempt had been made to hotwire the car (failed) and finally they had tried to drill the ignition barrel. All in vain. The Crapmobile may have been, well, crap but it fought to the bitter end. Sadly, the cost of repairing a car that was worth about 50 quid was too high so we sent the Crapmobile to the Great Scrapyard in the Sky, well, Copheap Lane at least! We received the Certificate of Destruction last week.

My Most Controversial Post
Oh dear, I struggled a bit with this one. Had I been doing this on my old French blog I'd have been spoilt for choice but controversy and me are not exactly regular bedfellows, bit like The Husband really. Our long distance marriage looks set to last until the end of the year. So the nearest I can offer is Which Five Celebrities Would You Most Like to Slap. Hardly controversial unless you happen to like The Kardashians et al. I should also probably include Oh Crap because it got me into very hot water with The Husband, who didn't see the funny side at all!

My Most Helpful Post
Ha! I'm to instructional posts what Cheryl Cole is to quantum physics. I have, in the past shown you, dear reader, how not to make hand tied bouquets and jewellery and how not to do DIY but it did seem that my recent post on the consequences of video piracy was every so slightly educational so my nomination in this category is Don't be a P(i)RAT(e) but I'm going to do that old fast and loose thing again and also include Brizzle: Iss Gurt Lush, Mind. just because I like it

The Post Who's Success Surprises Me
Well, all of them to be honest! I'm always ridiculously grateful that anybody reads anything I write but I was surprised that one of my shortest posts got one of the highest number of comments. It's Five Things I Hope People Say About Me at my Funeral

The Post that I Feel Didn't get the Attention it Deserved
Well, the question is, do any of them deserve any attention? Probably not. Any attention, however small, is appreciated so I've got nothing to offer for this category.... sorry.

The Post that I'm Most Proud Of
I think it's So Long Fat Albert because I got so many nice comments from people outside the blogosphere who's lives have been affected by this graceless decision by the MoD. It also got me an open invitation for a jaunt in Slimline Susie, a light aircraft belonging to a friend of mine who's husband is an ex-Herc pilot. How cool is that!

So, I've now made the Seven Links Project into the Eight Links Project so it just leaves me to pass this on to some other bloggers. Feel free to take up the invitation or not. We all have busy lives so there's no pressure but if you do have time to do it, I'd love to see your seven links

Macy at The View from Macy

Steve at Bloggertropolis

Aunty Gwen at Aunty Gwen's Diary

Jody at About Last Weekend

and finally everybody's favourite Assassin..... of vegetables that is The Vegetable Assassin

I name this child.....

2011-07-14T14:45:00.001+01:00

I waited with bated breath (well actually I didn't because, really I'm not that fussed) to see what Bosh and Pecks would call their latest child. As slebrity parents go, the names they chose for their children are only slighty off left field. No Princess Tiiaammii, Dusti Rain, Jermajesty or Sage Moonblood for them. With the others named after a) place of conception - mine would be called London and Not Entirely Sure - b) shakespearean name - though I doubt for a single nanosecond that that is why the name was chosen - and c) a spanish girl's name... for a boy.

So, based on that I was thinking a) Back Seat of Car/Mattress/Round Tom and Katie's, b) Elbow (from Measure for Measure, keep up now!) or perhaps Goneril, as slebs don't much care if their offspring have the piss taken out of them and c) Jose

But in the end, they eschewed the slebrity penchant for wierd names and just gave their daughter a time. Harper Seven. Say it quickly and it's Half Past Seven. Now for all you people of a North American persuasion, I'm aware that it doesn't work but imagine it said in Pecks flat estuary accent, or Bosh's slightly common Hertfordshire one and it's not a name, it's most definitely a time.

Bosh is said to be delighted with the name chosen by her other slightly oddly named offspring. Apparently it's after a character called 'Harper Finkle' in a Disney show, 'The Wizards of Waverley Place'. Reputedly Pecks has often read these books to himself..... sorry, to his boys, and they've visited to the set. Bosh is apparently delighted that they've chosen an Old English name - like she knew! Oh well, their favourite show could have been Dumbo.

Seven was Peck's number at Man United and England, where he achieved a modicum of success. Note he didn't call his daughter Harper Twenty Three. Number fixations are apparently very common in people suffering from OCD, as apparently Pecks does.

But you can just imagine the conversations when she's older. Half Past Seven's first day at school.

Little Boy: Hello, what's your name?

7.30: Harper Seven

Little Boy: No, what's your name?

30 Minutes Past: Harper Seven

Little Boy: I didn't ask you what the time was. I asked you what your name was

Seven Thirty: It's Harper Seven

Little Boy: It's not half past seven, it's nine o'clock (obviously these are very bright slebrity hothoused children). Oh I give up. I'm going to talk to someone else

If it had been another boy would he have called it Joe 90 I wonder? Is their goldfish called Oceans 11? Did they call their dog Kay 9? Does anybody actually care?

Don't be a P(i)RAT(e).....

2011-07-07T13:03:00.001+01:00

On the news today it was reported that there has been a rise in video and film piracy thanks to the reduction in household incomes and the increased speed of broadband connections which are making illegal downloading easier. A 'pirate' was interviewed. When asked if he was concerned that he was having a direct negative impact on film making and putting people out of work he was unapologetic. 'They get paid enough' he said.

Well buddy, let me just help you out a bit on this one. While it might not affect the producers and directors, further down the production chain it has a dramatic impact. Yes, by and large jobs in film and tv production are well paid... when you're working. When you aren't you don't get anything. Most people in film and tv are on Schedule D tax. If they are out of work, most can't even claim benefits as they are assessed on their previous years accounts so if the previous year was a good one it's just hard luck. No state help for you. What? You paid 40% tax last year? Tough!

Pay and conditions in the film industry have declined dramatically in the last few years. While my work colleagues are all moaning about losing their over-generous car allowances, The Husband is working for the same company he worked for in 2004 for £250 pounds a WEEK less. Holiday pay is now deducted from your paycheck each week then paid back to you at the end of the shoot so in reality you are paying for it yourself, there is no sick pay, maternity pay, and certainly no time off unless it's as a result of death, plague or pestilence. Pensions? Not a hope. Accomodation allowances are rarely paid now. If you work away from home you have to pay for your own accommodation. Try finding reasonably priced accommodation for 3 or 4 months. It's hopeless. Letting agencies don't want to know as it's too short for an assured shorthold tenancy, private landlords are equally wary, which leaves hotels or serviced apartments, all of which are hideously expensive. And if you think they'll do you a good deal for a long let, think again. They know they have you over a barrel. The Husband recently worked on a production where the set designer was living in a caravan in the car park of the TV studios. Oh, yes indeed. It certainly is a glamorous life!

Further down the production chain, the runners and assistants, who previously could have expected to at least be paid their expenses, now often have to work for nothing.

Negotiating a deal with a production company has become a largely pointless exercise. If you don't like their terms and conditions then there is probably a long queue of unemployed people lined up behind you who will. The Husband has been told several times recently 'If you don't like it......'

When there is work, the hours would make the average person feel faintly queasy. The Husband's average day will start at 6am to be on set at 7am and then he'll work through until maybe 9 or 10 at night. If he's actually on set he might get a lunch break, if he's not then he won't. Most filming weeks are now 6 days as the productions need to get the filming done as quickly as possible to keep costs down. The one 'day off' is usually spent dressing sets in preparation for the first day's shooting of the following week. How else can they get it ready? Overtime is not paid. Family life is non-existent. In the 'old days' we would globetrot with him, going away on location for months on end. The production always provide a nice apartment or hotel suite - though he always had to pay extra when we were with him. Holidays were spent in Barbados (although usually on cheapie last minute deals because you can never plan ahead). These days we can't afford to go with him as all accommodation costs must be covered ourselves. This year's holiday will be spent in France trying to get the rent money out of our non-paying tenants.

When The Husband started out, the industry was a closed shop. No Union Membership. No Job. You had to be proposed and seconded by current members or you couldn't get in. While I'm not a wholesale fan of unions, in film and tv they did fight for their members and conditions and pay were far better. Since they have lost their influence, pay has decreased, working days have got longer, deferred payment productions have increased (this is where you work for low/no pay and are paid when the film starts to make money, assuming it ever does). The Husband's pay has not really increased in the past 10 years and in the last few has dropped dramatically.

With the financial crisis, the heart was cut out of UK film and television production funding. Productions closed overnight and work dried up. The Husband, who was used to working 10 out of 12 months at the very minimum suddenly had no work for nearly two years. Two years during which time he had to cash in his pensions, use up all our savings, even sell personal possessions to pay the gas bill. We know other people who were far worse off, who lost their homes and everything they owned. We know of some who took their own lives. I learned to feed my family for a few quid, grew my own vegetables and became fairly proficient at make do and mend. It's alright if you are Kirstie Allsop, doing it for faintly nostaligic reasons, not because you have to, some may say it's character building. I just think is was shit. Meanwhile, Mr Video Pirate thinks they're all well paid fat cats. The truth is that every penny that is taken away from UK film and television production is a penny that is not paid to someone who is, in all likelihood, already struggling to make ends meet. Not the producers. They'll be fine. But the people lower down, the ones just starting out and trying to make a career for themselves. The ones who will have to work well past conventional retirement age just to claw back what they lost in the recession. I've told The Husband that we'll both be working till we are 80 then it's straight off to Dignitas. He laughed. He thought I was joking.....

Film and TV production is now picking up. The Husband has been working flat out since last September on a number of different projects but all up in Manchester, a long way from home in the South West. Still, it gave him the chance to share the Granada TV canteen with the 'guests' of The Jeremy Kyle Show recently. I told him to keep his distance otherwise he might find himself in the comfy chair having a paternity test for some slapper from Scunthorpe. You see what I mean about the glamour!

UK art department crew are the envy of the world. They are, without doubt, the most incredibly talented film and television professionals in the world. They produce top quality films for a fraction of the cost of their US counterparts. We should be celebrating them, not taking their livelihoods away. Times are tough for everyone but please, give them a chance. Don't be a P(i)RAT(e)!

So long Fat Albert.....

2011-07-05T14:14:00.002+01:00

Last week was a historic, and for some an emotional week. Wiltshire was saying goodbye to the fleet of Hercules C130s (or should that be Herculi?) that have been stationed at RAF Lyneham for over 40 years as part of the RAFs Tactical Air Transport force.There can't be many people in the County who haven't, at some time or other, seen one of the Fat Alberts, as they are affectionately known, lumbering across the sky, surprisingly quiet for such a monstrous aircraft.

For the past decade we've all become accustomed to seeing them on the television, discharging their tragic payload of fallen soldiers from Iraq and Afghanistan through the rear door but for the people of Wiltshire they hold a special place in their hearts and their history.

Over the past few years the repatriations to Lyneham, then the sad, slow procession through Wootton Bassett, a town recently and deservedly awarded a Royal Charter for the dignified way in which they have honoured our war dead, have been a disconcerting staple of weekly news bulletins. But not any more.

For reasons that I don't know, the Ministry of Defence has decided to close RAF Lyneham, with the loss of nearly over 2000 service and civilian posts. Those who survive the cuts have been transferred to RAF Brize Norton in Oxfordshire. Alongside all the service personnel who will move across the border are their families. The impact on what is basically a village with an RAF base will be huge. There are question marks over local businesses, over whether the local school will be able to stay open with the loss of so many pupils. The hole in the local economy is estimated at around £90 million pounds.

Times are tough for the MoD, although how much of it is self-inflicted is open to debate, and we all know that savings have to be made but to me, closing a base which has become so much an integral part of our recent military history, just seems a little ungrateful. Repatriations took place to Brize Norton up until 2007 but it was only after the move to Lyneham that the public took it on themselves to turn out to honour the servicemen and women killed in Iraq and Afghanistan and the 'spectacle' of the repatriations to Wootton Bassett began. It's not everyone's cup of tea but I always felt that it must have been some comfort to the families to know that there were so many ordinary people who wanted to show their public support for the price their children had paid for this ridiculous war.

So on Friday, camera in hand, I set off to try and capture my own photograph of the Fat Alberts as they did a low level flypast across the county to say goodbye and thank you to the people who have supported them for so many years. I've always been a bit of an anorak about military planes, maybe it was the result of a childhood spent at the Biggin Hill Air Show or planespotting, and then later on digs for downed WWII aircraft.

They set off from Lyneham at 10.30, taking a slight detour up to Tetbury in Gloucestershire where someone with power and influence had asked them to fly over his house, then on to Avebury, Calne, Devizes, Warminster, Melksham, Trowbridge, Colerne, Wootton Bassett and Malmesbury, before heading over Swindon to Brize. The local radio station had a reporter in the lead Hercules, being flown by the Station Commander, Squadron Leader John Gladstone, who reported minute by minute. A friend of a friend was the air traffic controller who authorised the final take off. What a sad moment that must have been.

Across the county thousands had turned out to wave goodbye. In Wootton Bassett primary school the children stood out in the playground and formed the word 'BYE' in big letters. The airmen were so touched as they flew directly overhead.

No-one was entirely sure which route the Hercs would take so I opted for a high spot just outside town. I guessed roughly what time they would reach us. I was a few moment out as just as I arrived at my vantage point, I spotted them flying low across the town then banking off around Battlesbury Hill. I stopped my car at the side of the road to take a photo but the damned focus on the camera jammed and I missed them. Every lane and every layby had someone parked up, faces turned skywards, watching the Fat Alberts fly overhead. People waved and shouted. I was on my way to a meeting so I turned the car round and cursed my camera, which I flung into the back of the car. I'd hardly gone 200 meters when the Hercs appeared again from the other side of the hill then banked majestically off towards the Somerset Levels. I nearly ran into a hedge as I scrabbled for my phone to take a photo with that. I missed them again but did have the bejesus scared out of me by a low level helicopter that was following the flight a few minutes behind. It was so low I could practically see the whites of the pilot's eyes.

I carried on listening to the broadcast from the sky. The reporter was really struggling to keep his emotions in check and it was difficult not to get drawn in to the emotion of the moment as they headed towards the Oxfordshire border. Rather symbolically, I thought, at the very moment they passed over the border, radio contact was lost and by the time the link was repaired they had already landed at Brize and where preparing for the handover of the standard.

And meanwhile, back in Lynehan, 1300 acres of prime English land sits empty while the MoD decides what to do with it. So long Fat Albert......

Photo courtesy of www.warminster-web.co.uk

Edit: Just in case you were curious about how they came to be known as 'Fat Alberts', I can now reveal, da NAAAH, thanks to my Rock Choir buddy Liz's husband Jon, an ex Herc pilot, the story behind the name. Back in the days of flared trousers and Farrah Fawcett, the US airforce had a blue Herc that was used as a support plane, and which they nicknamed 'Fat Albert'. When the RAF heard about it they adopted the name for their fleet of Hercs. So there you have it. You never know, it might just win you a Pub Quiz.

The Choir That Rocks - or just jiggles about a bit - Part 2

2011-06-30T16:42:00.004+01:00

Having got over the disappointment of 'The Choir That Rocks' - or as the Daily Mirror calls it, 'The Choir That Sucks', not the Choir itself, just the documentary, and I couldn't really argue with that, I was interested to see if it pulled its socks up for Part 2. They stayed resolutely around its ankles with the odd foray up to just below knee level.

This episode was to feature the Farnham 'Teen' Choir who I had seen perform at Wembley (well, you all know we got there so not much point pretending!). I was knocked out by Rachel O' Brien, who sang 'You've Got the Love' by Florence and the Machine to rapturous applause. That such a great voice could come from a teenager was amazing. So I was a little bit miffed to discover that she's actually 22 and a university graduate. It seemed to be stretching the idea of a 'Teen Choir' just a little bit far. There are lots of new Teen Choirs being set up all across the country. The age range states 11-20. Hmm, so why, I have to ask myself, is someone who is clearly too old for a teen choir taking the starring role in the documentary?

And my dears, the producers must have just about peed their pants when they discovered that not only can the girl sing but she's got a heart condition too! And one, incidentally, that Hugh Bonneville can't seem to get right. He called it Vasovogal Syndrome. It's actually called Vasovagal Synchope, a synchope being a medical name for a faint. It's not, strictly speaking, a heart condition, rather a malfunction in the autonomic part of the nervous system that regulates the flow of blood to the body. It causes a drop in blood pressure and slowing of the heartbeat and then you faint. It's not lifethreatening, just bloody annoying, but the producers, and Rachel herself were not about to let that stand in the way of a bit of dramatic telly.

Most VS sufferers have a trigger that brings on an attack according to a friend who suffers from it. Rachel's was clearly a very rare one as it came on every time a TV camera was pointed at her. We were treated to a 'beauty shot' of 'all the drugs she has to take to control it' but a quick freeze frame revealed that they seemed to be all the same drug, Fludrocortisone, which is prescribed to anyone with what is called orthostatic intolerance (just see how much you're learning!) - basically if you stand upright too long, you faint - and what looked suspiciously like vitamin tablets. I'm not trying to make light of her condition but I can't deny that by the end of it I was mutteringr rather unkindly "Just faint for God's sake and get it over with' every time she fluttered her hand and commented on her heart 'going funny'.

My own choir featured far more so it was fun to see who got a close up and who was going the wrong way in the dance moves (Steve, you know who you are!). The sudden appearance of one of our soloists fronting the Stroud Rock Choir was a bit strange. As far as I know, she only goes to ours. It gave me a creeping sense of unease, that the documentary was not, in fact, being very honest.

This was further compounded by the secondary story of whether or not Rachel would sing well enough for 'The Man from Universal' to be whisked off to record her 'first' solo at the Abbey Road studios and thus realise her dream of becoming a recording star. We all knew she'd do it, she does have a wonderful voice but when I did a quick Google of her to find out her surname, having missed it on the documentary, I discovered that she has already sung solo on Rock Choir's first album. (Track 5 apparently, in case you actually care). So the big 'will she/won't she' get to sing solo was just another bit of not entirely honest telly.

So it's the final instalment tonight, and I think it will be the best one. The whole Wembley thing was absolutely fabulous and I hope the cameras manage to really capture the atmosphere. I'm looking forward to hearing how we all sounded together. When you are sitting in one voice section it's quite difficult to hear what the whole thing sounds like.

The single 'Something Inside So Strong' from the (my!) new album goes on download release at 10pm tonight. It will be available on iTunes for a mere 99p. Please would you buy it and ask all your friends to as well. The live track we recorded at Wembley is Track 20. All the royalties go to Refuge, and goodness knows they could do with it. With a fair wind it might even go to the top of the download charts which would mean I could (almost) honestly put No 1 recording star on my CV, which is in itself as much a work of fiction as this whole documentary thingy.

Apparently Caroline is in discussions with the Olympic Games Committee about Rock Choir performing at the opening ceremony of the 2012 Olympics. That would be pretty amazing. Watch this space!

The Choir That Rocked

2011-06-22T13:13:00.000+01:00

Thursday at just before 9pm saw me hot-footing it from the Parents Forum at school through the driving rain to plonk myself down in front of the TV for the first episode of 'The Choir that Rocks'.

Ten minutes later I was Facebooking all my friends to tell them that we really were all normal, honestly. From the opening credits you'd think that one of the criteria for joining Rock Choir, apart from an inability to sing a note in tune, was to be morbidly obese. I was genuinely worried that what we thought was a serious documentary was actually going to take the mickey out of the Rockettes, some of whom think of it as a virtual religion. Every one they spoke to seemed to be a little bit weird/sad/boss eyed or worse still, a town crier! In front rooms across the land big women with dodgy eyes would be making effigies of the producer. His picture was on the Rock Choir website. They would know where to find him.

I thought of all the lovely ladies I know from my choir, most of them just great fun and very, very funny. They are older than me but they still go to Glastonbury. Rock Choir was starting to look like some sort of community service for the socially inept.

The problem with the documentary is that it's really just about a bunch of very ordinary people getting on together, being nice and doing something fun, sometimes even with their own husbands. There are no drugs, clandestine affairs or meanness. No-one gets vajazzled and there's not a spray tan in sight. Not exactly thrilling television. So the producers have to find a tag. Cue the shot of the rundown council estate with the old sofa almost a little too artistically place in shot while a lady who may or may not actually live on said estate warbles over the top. The message is that even if your life is shite, hey, you can join Rock Choir - if you can afford the £100 a term of course!

Later on, the obligatory cancer survivor is wheeled out to tell how Rock Choir practically cured her. The Guardian commented that there should be an OFCOM ruling that if anyone uses cancer sufferers to spice up a programme one of the production team should undergo a course of chemotherapy. Probably not a bad idea.

We head up North to meet two new choir leaders struggling to get the Rock Choir message across to the good people of Yorkshire who are clearly not getting the point. Too much stout if you ask me! The producers managed to find a man in a pub who clearly wanted to make the most of his 15 minutes of fame. He only really needed the flat cap and whippet to be a true Northern stereotype. "It'll never work" he tells the cameras, almost gleefully and certainly seeing poor Nic Slack's many tumbleweed moments as he tries to inspire his choir of nine, including possibly the only person under 30 in the Northern Hemisphere who had never heard of a flashmob, you might be forgiven for thinking he was right. Even the news that they would be playing Wembley was greeted with silence. Maybe they just hadn't heard of it.

Certainly some people in Rock Choir are discovering the downside of putting yourself in the public arena where you have no creative control and the 'story' is king. Caroline Redman Lusher has been portrayed in some papers as a failed pop star who came up with the idea of Rock Choir to ensure that she would always be able to front a musical act and a control freak who only became animated when she talked about money rather than the very shrewd businesswoman that she is. The underlying 'will they/won't they' Wembley story in which they tried to suggest that poor Caroline faced financial ruin if she didn't pull it off was a little weak and of course you lot all know she did. Our own choir leader having made a throwaway comment about the cost of being separated, arrived to pick up his children from his ex-wife to get the door slammed in his face. 'Too expensive are we?" was the parting shot.

My own feeling and that of the other choir members who I spoke to at Monday's session was that is was just a little dull. It didn't seem to get to the essence of Rock Choir. It doesn't heal the sick or cure the lame and it isn't a panacaea for all society's ills, it's just good fun. But fun doesn't sell.

That said though, there were so many enquiries about joining after the first episode that the website crashed. It has something like 23,000 hits immediately after and the taster session being run by our choir at the weekend has 150 people booked on it, so it must have done something right.

Episode 2 airs on Thursday at 9pm.

Days to remember....

2011-06-15T16:45:00.001+01:00

Today is, apparently, National Elder Abuse Day. I don't know about you but I think that's probably a very badly worded national day. I phoned my parents to abuse them but unfortunately they were out.

Anyone can apply to their government or to the United Nations to have their special day recognised and providing it's not hateful or racist requests are rarely turned down. This has led to a whole raft of bizarre and wacky special days.

Here for your delight and delectation are some real special days

January

Had enough of the coffee machine breaking down? Maybe you've had enough of your neighbour mowing his lawn every Sunday morning. Well January 7th is for you. It's National 'I'm Not Going to Take It Anymore' Day

February:

Stuck in a romantic rut? Just know that he's going to spend Valentine's Day down the pub with his footie mates while you sit at home crying into your low fat/low calorie/low taste hot chocolate. Well get rid of the lowlife on 7th February. It's National 'Dump your Significant Jerk' Day.

March:

Scientists have pondered this for centuries. It's that question that we've all asked ourselves. Well on 3rd March, celebrate! It's National What if Cats and Dogs had Opposable Thumbs Day

April:

Fed up with trying to decide what to wear? Waistband pinching a bit? Or do you just want to have a duvet day but the boardroom beckons? Well, 16th July is National 'Wear Your Pyamas to Work' Day. Wear your PJs with pride!

May:

This brings a national day that is particularly close to my heart. It's National Lost Sock Memorial Day. A day when we all recognise the fact that we have a favourite sock which has lost it's life partner. We wait, we hope, we check down the back of the tumble dryer for the hundredth time but they are gone. On this day, May 9th, we can finally say goodbye. We acknowledge that the sock is lost forever and we throw it's surviving partner in the bin. It's hard but it's necessary...

June:

Does the mere mention of a 'take your son or daughter to work day' bring you out in hives? Do you cringe at the thought of introducing the fruit of your loin to your work colleagues? Don't worry because June 26th is National Please Take My Children to Work Day. You offload your offspring onto some other poor sucker and they get the glory!

July:

You know how it is. You put them in a pot on the windowsill, give them a bit of water once in a while, maybe even a little snifter of Baby Bio but do you ever think about how they feel? I mean really how they feel? Stuck on the window ledge, same old, same old, day in and day out. Don't you often wonder if they are bored? Whether they might like a change of scenery? Well 26th July is their day. It's National Take your Houseplant for a Walk Day. The world over, houseplant lovers will be taking to the streets with their plants, sharing plant care tips, maybe even a bit of clandestine cross pollination. So go on, take your yukka for a yomp, take your aspidistra for an amble. You know you want to.

August:

It's hot and sunny, everything in the garden is blooming but down in the vegetable patch there is an apocalyse in waiting. Why on earth did you plant 10 courgette plants? You've grilled and roasted, you've made soup and muffins and even put some in the freezer but still they just keep coming. They may say that in the UK you are never more than 3 feet from a rat but in August it would be true to say you are rarely more than 3 feet from a courgette, in fact, from lots of courgettes. So make use of August 8th. It's National Sneak a Courgette onto your Neighour's Porch Day. If you wake up to an EU mountain of courgettes on your doorstep you'll know why

September:

On September 19th it's time to splice the mainbrace, put on an eyepatch and get in touch with your inner Jack Sparrow for National Talk Like a Pirate Day. Ahoy me hearties, yo ho ho and a bottle of rum and all that

October:

Who knows what evil lurks there. It's time to be afraid, be very afraid. On 30th October gather round your friends, keep close and open the door.... very..... very carefully. Who knows what ghosts you'll find in the salad crisper on National Haunted Refrigerator Night. Is that The Blob in there? Nah, it's just the remains of the last courgette from National Sneak a Courgette onto your Neighbour's Porch day, godammit!

November:

For November's national day I've hunted high and low until the cows come home. So let's not beat about the bush, at the end of the day it all boils down to this - November 3rd - National Cliche Day. Honest, I'm not yanking your chain. I wouldn't pull your leg about something so serious. You know me, as honest as the day is long.

December:

And finally we arrive at December, the last month of the year. And this particular national day takes place on the last day of the year. It's National No Interruptions Day.

But......

I said NO interruptions!

Oh yes, it really exists!

Share the Lieb

2011-06-13T11:19:00.001+01:00

Many thank yous to Hausfrau for very kindly passing on the Liebster Award to me. It's for those small but perfectly formed blogs with less than 100 followers. In the Blogosphere size really doesn't matter and some of the smaller blogs I read punch well above their weight.

Sharing this award is long overdue but unfortunately I've been suffering from 'Intermittent Gadget Outage' which Blogger assures me is not infectious and I can confirm that it certainly isn't as painful as it sounds. It just means that one of your gadgets, in this case the one which shows your followers - and everyone else's, stops working for no apparent reason. Obviously with this particular gadget outage it has meant that I couldn't actually identify those blogs I follow and enjoy which have less than 100 followers.

Anyway, with a dab of cream here and a few pills there, my Followers gadget has now recovered so, here they are, the winners of my particular Liebster award.....

Macy at The View from Macy

Mother Hen at Mother Hen

Sarah at St Bloggie de Riviere

All blogs I thoroughly enjoy reading, even if I don't always get time to comment

So, to you three, newly inducted into the Liebster Hall of Fame, are asked to pass the award on to three of your favourite small blogs (with a link back to me if you wish). Who knows, this time next year, maybe we'll be hanging with the big boys!

Did you see me? Did you.....?

2011-06-04T18:59:00.000+01:00

Well, here it is, the first TV ads for my Wembley debut. I'm the one in the black t-shirt with the gold star on the front!

And now, the end is near......or is it?

2011-05-30T13:17:00.001+01:00

Well the world didn't end as some batty American preacher predicted so we just have to wait out the Mayans to see whether they were really right or whether they were in terminal calendar ennui by 2012.

Keith at Reluctant Housedad is hosting Kate's Listography this week (well last actually, strictly speaking) and his theme is 'Finals'. If the world was to end what would you be doing? Here are mine.

Final Meal

I'd be sitting at The Cliff restaurant in Barbados looking out over the Caribbean Sea. It is the most sublime setting, cut into rocks overhanging the water, amazing food that you eat in tiny little pieces so it lasts forever. I've been lucky enough to eat there several times and each time it just takes my breath away. Everyone should eat there before they die. Oh, and anything on the menu would do

Final View

From Barbados I'd hot foot it to Kenya to spend my last minutes sitting with my loved ones on the Escarpment overlooking the Great Rift Valley. No photo can really fully do justice to the majesty of the Great Rift Valley. I've been lucky enough to travel all over the world which can give the false impression that the world is really a small place. I remember my first sight of the Great Rift Valley. That's when I understood for the first time how huge it really is.

Final Act

I'd dance and sing loudly as I burn my ironing pile. Simple!

Final Goodbyes

I'd get in touch with all the people I've lost contact with over the years, tell them how sorry I am to be so crap at keeping in touch and let them know how important they have been at various parts of my life

Final Words

Well the end of the world will be lived out through Social Media without a doubt so it would probably be 'how the bloody hell does Twitter work' or, to The Girl, 'Would you forever stop texting....' . Or possibly 'I hope my Mother in Law isn't waiting for us in the hereafter' but it would most likely be something along the lines of 'Oh Crap........Professor Brian was wrong. Never trust a particle physicist with Number 1 Record', although the jury is out as to whether I could actually say 'particle physicist' in the face of my impending demise.

Well you got that a bit wrong, didn't you now?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dl-ai9HuR60

(sorry, Blogger not letting me upload vids)

I'm a twit!

2011-05-28T23:09:00.002+01:00

Well, I've gone and done it. What? I hear you ask, mentally listing any number of faux pas, DIY disasters and general cockups I could have made, based on past experience. Another sewage pipe perhaps? Or maybe I caught the other nipple in a pair of pliers? Flooded the house? Used inappropriate language at inappropriate times? Sold my children on eBay (now that is tempting sometimes)? Set fire to the kitchen maybe?

No, it's none of the above. Always one to embrace new technology a good few years after it's invented, I've joined Twitter. I'm not sure why. In fact, I'm not even sure how to use it and, damn and blast, my Twitter Girl is on a sleepover so she can't even give me a quick tutorial. Still, I remember my first trip down the information superhighway. Got lost somewhere around Watford Gap, Asked Jeeves and eventually found my way around without the aid of a sitemap.

Give me a few years, by which time we'll probably be communicating by telepathetic thought waves, and I'll have cracked it. I've been through all my favourite bloggers and stalked, sorry followed, those who have a Twitter button and I even have my first follower. Thanks Steve! That probably makes me officially the saddest person on Twitter today but we all have to start somewhere. If you've got Twitter and you want to ~~Twat,~~ err, Tweet me my hashtag (oooh, get me eh?) is @MelRiverCottage. I'm hoping to forego the old 'my dog just ate a courgette' type of tweet and fill your days with my usual brand of learned musings and intellectual humour (What? Oh sorry, that wasn't me apparently) and all in less than 140 characters!

Twitter me up!

Just click on that button on the right

Mother's Pride

2011-05-23T12:40:00.000+01:00

Those loyal ~~people with nothing else to do in their life~~ followers of my previous bloggie incarnations will remember that I have talked in the past about The Girl being bullied at school in France. I'm not going to go into details suffice to say that she was subjected to a 6 month campaign of verbal and physical agression and humiliation from a group of girls who were supposed to be her 'best friends'. It turned my outgoing, confident, bright child into a nervous wreck, full of self-doubt and with a very poor image of herself.

When we moved back to the UK she was very, very careful about who she made friends with, starting off with one girl she felt she could trust. I wasn't happy about this 'one friend' policy but in the end she chose the right girl and she remains fiercely loyal to her, only last week taking on one of the nastiest girls in school who was insulting her friend. She may not be particularly streetwise but she has a rapier wit that floors even the toughest adversary.

But that's not what I want to write about. She's always loved singing and has a good voice, although I could never persuade her that she did, so about 6 months ago I suggested that she might like to have singing lessons. I thought it might help her confidence. If you can lay yourself bare by singing to someone, I think you can do just about anything. She refused point blank. I left it for a while but the seed was planted. A short while later she asked if I would look into it. I was recommended a singing teacher by a friend and the moment I contacted her I knew she was just what The Girl needed. She was young and bubbly and she favoured pop songs and songs from the musicals over scales and arpeggios. Even better, she was in the process of doing a Masters in music psychology, her chosen subject, 'the use of singing to build confidence'. How perfect was that?

We arrived for her first lesson with The Girl looking pale and nervous. I didn't stay but left them to it. The Girl and her teacher hit it off straight away. Over the six months she's been taking lessons I've seen her confidence return, her belief in herself grow and her circle of friends increase. She's now firmly part of a group of really lovely girls who I know will always stand up for her if she needs it. She will even, on occasion, sing for me.

A few weeks ago she arrived back with a note in her music book about a concert her teacher was putting on in town in aid of Breast Cancer Research. She's been asked to sing a solo. She refused point blank. We talked about it but she was adamant that she would not sing on her own. She happily joined the small choir (along with me - "that's too weird, Mum") that her teacher has put together but a solo, na-ah, now way, not in your lifetime.

Sunday was our first rehearsal. We ran through the numbers that the choir is doing, Mamma Mia, Lean on Me, I Feel Good, then it was time for the soloists to stay behind to practice their songs. The Girl asked if we could stay to listen.

At the end, just as we were about to go, her teacher asked her if there was any way she could persuade her to sing 'Castle in the Clouds' from Les Miserables. I stopped in my tracks waiting to hear what she would say. Instead of the point blank refusal I was expecting, she hesitated. "I'll sing it with you..." her teacher promised. To my absolute amazement she agreed. My daughter, the one who didn't even believe she could sing 6 months ago, was going to sing on her own (more or less) to a room full of people she didn't know.

The Girl asked me to go out into the kitchen of the hall we were rehearsing in. I felt quite sick. Half of me wanted her to do it to prove to herself she could, the other wanted to grab her and run, just in a case it all went horribly wrong. There were some amazing singers in the room and I hated the thought of her feeling she had made a fool of herself.

I waited in the kitchen door where I could just about see her. I could see her knees shaking. Her teacher played the introduction and took a deep breath as if she was going to sing along. Of course she didn't! After a slightly wobbly start I could feel The Girl relax into her voice. Her confidence grew and by the end of the song she was belting it out like a Diva. It was one of the proudest moments of my life to see my daughter confront her fear head on and succeed. I'm not ashamed to say I blubbed like a baby in the kitchen doorway - and all the way to the supermarket afterwards. She got a huge cheer from the people in the room, none of whom knew her story but had an inkling that something wonderful had just happened. Behind her back, her teacher, who does know her story, not that The Girl knows she does, gave me a beaming smile and a thumbs up.

Her teacher has told her that she'll leave a space for her in the program to sing at the concert if she wants to Will she? I don't know but she's asked me to postpone a weekend away to her grandparents so she can get in an extra singing lesson. Whatever she decides, I don't care. Just to see the transformation in her is enough. I am one very, very proud mother.

To all the boys that I have loved before... (well one actually)

2011-05-20T16:39:00.000+01:00

Firstly, my apologies to Julio for shamelessly plagiarising his lyrics, with a little tweak here and there.

Secondly, I'd like to send my unequivocable thanks to an ex-boyfriend of mine. It was back in my Middle East days when money was no object and responsibility was a dirty word that he lavished on me some of the most god-awful jewellery in the world.

You've all been there. They produce a beautiful box, you hold your breath as you open it, wondering what it could be........ and inside is the most hideous thing you've ever seen in your life. You hold the smile, knowing you are being watched closely for your reaction. You take a beat then turn to them, fling your arms round them and promise that it's the most beautiful chain/bracelet/ring you've ever seen, all the while thinking that no power, human or divine, will ever make you wear it outside of the downstairs loo.

I had many such moments with this particular boyfriend and while I know I'm being very uncharitable and should just have been very grateful for such generosity, we all have our standards. Most of it never made it out of the box, never mind the house, and has moved with me halfway round the world to three different continents stuffed at the bottom of various boxes.

In my constant quest to make my life fit into my wardrobes I decided to take it all to a local jeweller and sell it. I didn't expect much, maybe a few hundred pounds if I was lucky. I left with a big fat envelope stuffed with crisp purple notes. He may not have had much taste but at least he bought 22 carat! Thank you, thank you, thank you.

So now, what to do with my money? A new fridge freezer? A Kitchenaid mixer to sit unused on the side? A pair of GHDs? All of the above? Well, so far, in my excitement I've bought a saucepan and a slotted spoon. The Husband told me to put it in the bank. 'Fat chance of that,' I thought. So, who's for a shopping trip?

The one in which I become a recording star.... oh, and a Guinness World Record holder

2011-05-17T16:23:00.003+01:00

Not bad for a Sunday afternoon eh?

Finally, the days spent driving the children mad with random 'ooh, ooh's' and 'aaahhhs' with the odd 'eh oh' and 'do doo' thrown in were coming to an end. The dance moves were more or less learnt and I was on the coach to Wembley for Rock Choir Live.

It was amazing, incredible, emotional and lots of other adjectives. I won't go and get too sappy on you, I promise but it was a wonderful experience and one I will remember for a long time. I've been lucky enough to have some great experiences in my life; ballooning over the Masai Mara, standing on the escarpment overlooking the Great Rift Valley, swimming with giant turtles in Barbados, wreck diving in the Caribbean but this was up there with all of them. If you want to know the real definition of 'a wall of sound' it's 8000 voices singing in harmony - or more or less! Let's not forget my fellow tuneless choir member from earlier posts. When people express surprise at my moving back from France I tell them it's because I want to live my life, not exist in it, and this is what I meant. I want to have these amazing experiences. The 14th July fete couldn't really compare with this, nice though it was. Interestingly there are two other people who are French refugees like myself in the choir and we all felt the same.

We arrived at the Arena at midday. It was chaos, but happy, expectant chaos. Hard as we tried, we all got separated in the crowds so just had to hope we would be able to sit together when we got in. I've only been a choir member for a few months and ours is one of the newest ones to be performing at Wembley. I was the only upper alto on our coach and everyone else was sitting in a different block and so I'd resigned myself to sitting on my own, well, as on my own as I could be among 10,500 people, but by a stroke of luck I found myself being directed to a seat next to Sue, Annette and Lynne from my own choir. Hooray! Safety in numbers and at the very least, more experience members who could push me in the right direction if my swaying and snapping went awry.

The atmoshere was uplifting, exciting and the anticipation was almost palpable. People waved madly at friends and family, trying to attract their attention, the TV cameras whizzed around filming people for the documentary which comes out next month, microphones were shoved in people's faces for a bit of on the spot reaction and the Mexican Waves came and went with increasing regularity. The posh ones from off of London (as they say in Brizzle) had their iPads charged up ready to catch every moment. I had my ageing Sony point-and-shoot which proved not up to the task as you will discover from the lack of videos taken by my own fair hand.

It seemed hours before the show started, slightly late because an entire choir had been delayed by a road accident just outside London but when it did, it started with a bang. The Rock Choir leaders performed 'Let Me Entertain You'. I think Robbie would have been proud.

I'm not going to give a blow by blow account of what we sang but here are some videos of my favourite moments.

'Valerie'

'River Deep Mountain High'

Dancing in the Street

There was much whispering about who the special guests would be. Of course, we hoped for Robbie (Let Me Entertain You), Elton John or George Michael (see later) but instead we got this shower....

A motley collection of Rock Choir widowers, brothers, boyfriends and dads who had been rehearsing in secret to sing for their partners. They were totally fabulous and will no doubt savour the one day in their lives when they had 8000 women screaming for them.

The next mystery guests were not so much of a mystery, having been revealed by someone on their Facebook page. It was ~~George Michael and Elton John, Yay~~ 'The Soldiers' who Rock Choir supported on their last tour.

The final mystery guest was a bit of a wild card, an opera singer better known for his irritating television adverts. I was a bit confused as Rock Choir doesn't do any classical singing. When he was announced, there was an audible groan but he turned out to be a very funny man and soon had everyone warming to him. He was, of course, Mr Gio Compare himself, Wynne Evans. - and not nearly as annoying as his alter ego.

On a more serious note, because it wasn't just about having fun, Rock Choir supports two charities, Refuge and Missing People. Martin Houghton Brown, the Chief Executive of Missing People came on stage first. We'd all previously been handed a poster of a missing person. We were all asked to hold the posters up for a photo opportunity for the charity. We were told that each year in the UK 120,000 people go missing. Of those the vast majority turn up safely but 10,000 don't. Look around at the choir and audience at Wembley. That's 10,500 people. Just about each one of them represents a person who has gone missing in the UK in the last year. How shocki!ng is that? As we held our posters up, I imagined how those families must be feeling. It was very emotional, so much so that Mr Houghton Brown had to leave the stage. The photo has been reproduced widely in the local press but sadly a certain French politician with a big ego and stunted ~~willy~~ sense of what is acceptable proved more interesting to the nationals. Bloody Frenchman, always messing things up!

My missing person is Jamie Cheeseman, who went missing in 1993 at the age of 16. For 18 years her family have been wondering what happened to her. Can you imagine? This is Jamie as she might look today.

Rock Choir has been involved with Refuge for some time. All royalties from our recording of 'Something Inside So Strong', Labi Siffre's anti-apartheid anthem, go to Refuge who have adopted it as their official song. If you don't know the words, read them. We heard that in the UK each week 12 women die as a result of domestic violence, two killed by their partners and the remainder take their own lives. Yet the top four women's charities in the UK receive only a third of the donations of The Donkey Sanctuary. It's a very worthwhile charity but, come on! Universal Records were going to use the even to record a live version of 'Something Inside So Strong' for the new Rock Choir album. Here it is.

Then we had to sing it without the lead vocals which gave a fantastic idea of the sound the choir was making

So there you have it. I'm officially a recording artist. Oh, and a Guinness World Record holder. Rock Choir became, officially, the largest recording act in the Universe, or maybe it was the UK.

And just to prove it's not all for 'femmes d'un certain age' the Rock Choir Teen choir has been launched and it's hoped that more will be set up over the next few years

Watch out for the soloist in the last song. She got a standing ovation and promptly burst into tears. Recording contract to follow I'm pretty sure.

So, the day was nearly over, there had been laughter, tears... and of course a loony. Sitting next to me. Why me? There were 10,500 people in Wembley Arena and she was sitting next to me, invading my personal space, giving me her life story, a running commentary on her parents' progress from Brizzle to Wembley. "So where are your choir?" I asked hopefully. "I can't find any of them" she replied. Not bloody surprised I thought rather uncharitably.

It was time to finish in Rock Choir tradition with a hearty rendition of Joyful, Joyful which had sounded anything but joyful at our last rehearsal. Still, one thing I learned during the day is that when you sing with 7,999 others you can't hear yourself, never mind anyone else so our error-strewn version wouldn't really matter. As it was it sounded pretty good, even if I do say so myself.

But not only that, I've had a horrible, annoying cough for the past 7 years (yes I do mean years). No doctors have managed to cure it but after 4 months of Rock Choir it's almost gone. So on top of everything, Rock Choir can heal the sick!

So how did your weekend go?

Ooops, I forgot our Robbie Williams moment....

Que sera sera, whatever will be will be, we're going to Wem-ber-lee.........

2011-05-14T23:51:00.001+01:00

Hot on the heels of such musical greats as Mcfly and Busted I will be playing Wembley tomorrow. Impressed? Well don't be. When I say I, what I mean is me and about 7,999 others for tomorrow our Rock Choir will be performing at the Big Sing at Wembley Arena. Not only that but we'll be ~~making fools of ourselves~~ singing in front of a camera crew from ITV who are making a documentary about the phenomenon that is Rock Choir. Another great idea I didn't have.

For the unitiated, Rock Choir is a no-audition amateur choir or choirs which sings pop, rock and gospel (together with embarrassing dance moves) as opposed to Ave Maria and Faure's Requiem. It started off with one choir in Surrey and now has around 10,000 members around the UK.

Every Monday night our choir leader stands in front of a motley bunch of predominately 'femmes d'un certain age' who hang on his every word, laugh too loudly at his jokes and spend an inordinate amount of time fiddling with their hair while we murder songs from Abba, Marvin Gay and a whole host of other people. Guys, if you want to hit it off with the girls, learn to play the piano.

Our choir is in it's first year so this is our first chance to experience The Big Sing and, if our last rehearsal was anything to go by, we're in for an 'interesting' time. I only joined last term so haven't even sung one of the songs but then, to be honest, I don't think it will make much difference.

We're singing 6 songs ranging from Mamma Mia and Waterloo, so we can get in touch with our inner Agnetha and Annafrid, to Joyful Joyful from Sister Act which we've renamed 'Awful Awful' because we are. Really, truly awful. It's very difficult to sing with lots of key changes and first notes that bear no relation to anything we sang previously. Put this together with our little dance routines and it's a recipe for disaster.

I'm all for no audition choirs but I do think people should at least be able to hold a tune but sadly being tone deaf doesn't seem to put some people off. I had the misfortune to be standing next to someone who not only couldn't sing but danced as it she had been possessed by the ghost of Isadora Duncan. She kept bearing down on me warbling off key ("I can't sing a note in tune, everyone knows I'm hopeless" she giggled) until I found myself standing in the aisle to avoid her overenthusiastic thrusting. Still, at least I managed to avoid her unlike the entire front row which performed a slow motion collision when people struggled with the concept of the people on the left going to the left and the people on the right going to the right. Simple enough, you may think, but not when you are trying to remember your words, your harmony and your moves.

So, tomorrow at 8am, while most self-respecting people will still be tucked up in bed I'll be standing in a car park waiting for a coach to take me to Wembley Arena for my debut. The way Rock Choir is growing, it will be the stadium next year. And at £10 per head even to sing, just imagine the profit.

For your delight and delectation I'm posting a video of Joyful, Joyful from last year's Big Sing. Our version sounds nothing like this.

Oh Crap!

2011-05-08T21:46:00.002+01:00

This week's Listography on Kate takes 5 is bad combinations. What things just don't go together. You'll see a common theme in my list.

1. The Husband and Ballcocks

Many years ago I sent The Husband up into the attic to check on the ball cock in the header tank as it didn't seem to be filling up. I said 'look, don't touch'. He touched. An hour later, as I sat in the lounge feeding out new baby, I heard running water. 'Ah,' I thought, he's doing the washing up. A few minutes later I noticed he was, in fact, in the garden. So where was the running water coming from? I went into the hall to find water pouring down the stairs.

2. The Husband and Ladders

The house we were living in at the time had a suspended bay window from the underside of which I had noticed a lot of wasps. I told The Husband I would call the Council to deal with it as he had a history of nasty reactions to wasp stings. Did he listen? No he did not. He put an extending ladder up to the bay window and went up with some wasp killer to do it himself. Within minutes he had been stung and come over all peculiar. I saw him wobble down the ladder from the lounge window, where I was playing with The Boy, who was a crawling babe at the time. I told him to come in so I could give him some antihistamines but he insisted on putting the ladder away first. He unclipped the top section and pulled it down, not taking account of the fact that it was leaning up against the downstairs bay. As he retracted it the top the ladder smashed through the lounge window showering The Boy with broken glass. He was, fortunately, none the worse for it.

3. The Husband and Electric Fences

When we lived in France we had to put up some electric fencing to keep the ponies in. Posts were duly banged into the ground (without incident) and the electric tape attached. We had bought a heavy duty battery for it and The Husband was having some trouble getting the current to flow properly. After much cussing (from him) I decided to see if I could help. We checked the circuits to see if it was earthing anywhere but found nothing. In the end, The Husband redid all the connections, whacked the power up to maximum and flicked the switch. I shot about a foot in the air. He had forgotten to put the earth spike in the ground and hadn't noticed that I was leaning on it

4. The Husband and Chainsaws

Don't even ask!

And finally.....

5. The Husband and Spades

Today we decided to try and blitz the very overgrown garden. I had some extraneous aquilegias growing in the herb garden so I decided to move them into a bed we had just cleared out. I asked the husband to dig me a hole for the plants, not too big, I said. I went down to the herb garden to dig up the aquilegias. "Oh no!" I heard him shout. "What's the matter?" I called.

This is what the matter was......

Holy Crap.... literally!

Meet the sewage pipe that runs into our septic tank

W.I. do I put myself through it?

2011-05-07T10:08:00.001+01:00

As regular readers will know I am a member of my local WI. We are a WI Lite, a contemporary twist on the traditional WI aimed at younger women. Think more Mojitos and Mamma Mia than Jam and Jerusalem. I love it even though it has ruffled a few feathers among traditional WIs. The WI has become a hot ticket with groups of young, sexy women getting together to learn the traditional crafts that, in previous generations, were learned at their mother's knee. Those were the days when Mother stayed at home and make do and mend was king. If nothing else it has given me an opportunity to discover so many traditional crafts that I am totally crap at.

Take knitting for example. We have a good number of very accomplished knitters among us. People who can actually wear their creations.To launch our knitting group 'Finish the Row' (that's row to rhyme with toe, not row to rhyme with how) they spent an evening teaching the duffers among us how to cast on and knit. Those that were slightly more capable knitted chicken vests for follicly challenged ex-battery hens. The pattern read like advanced Chinese. I opted to make a mouse blanket, otherwise known as a square. It did come out vaguely square-like and, flushed with success I headed to a charity shop and bought some knitting needles and wool to knit a scarf. I chose some lovely thick dove grey wool and what turned out to be relatively small needles. One ball of wool made about 4 inches of scarf and with the prospect of several years of intensive knitting just to make it long enough to loop around my neck I soon lost interest.

Then there was jewellery making. Probably the less said about that the better. It seemed a simple enough task. Take a piece of silver wire, fashion it into a heart shape, attach a ring from which to suspend said heart and voila! A piece of individually designed, origainl jewellery that no-one else will have - or in my case ever want to wear. Suffice to say while my fellow designers were wearing their creations I was pounding mine with a rubber hammer muttering expletives under my breath.

'Not going well then?' commented one of my fellow designers, sporting her beautifully shaped heart pendant.. Too bloody right. As the chairs were being stacked and the lights being turned off I was still trying to make my heart look like something that wasn't in the early stages of cardiac ischaemia. In the end I hastily made a pair of earrings for the Girl which required zero ability and the heart went in the bin.

Then came Christmas wreaths and, as proof that occasionally miracles do happen, I turned out to be quite handy at these. Typical, my only skill is one that you can use once a year!

So we moved on to hand tied bouquets. Easy peasy. Select your flowers. Take one central one then add your next one to the front. Turn your bouquet through one quarter turn and add another flower. Once again, as the lights were going out I was fighting with the end result of a nuclear explosion in a florist's shop.

This week we were making felt brooches. Terribly simple. Two sides in the shape of a bird. Stitch on a button Bob est votre oncle. I sat on the duffer's table where what we lacked in talent we made up for in laughs at each other's sorry attempts. This time I was the second to last to finish having decided to sew my birdie brooch together with some sort of bastardised blanket stitch. As a final flourish I persuaded our Secretary, and all round capable person, to chain stitch some feathers on it's little wing. That was probably the best part of it.

I showed it to The Girl. "Oh look Mum, you've made a mutant pink chicken". I showed it to The Husband. "Do you like it?" I asked. "Err.....". I even know someone, who shall remain nameless but you know who you are, who was planning to pass hers off as the handiwork of her 7 year old daughter.

Next month we start work on an art installation for the village. We've won a grant from our local council to work with a proper sculptor to create a 'thing of beauty'. Apparently when the Parish Council were asked if we could create something to be displayed in a little corner of land known as Pound Piece they, rather unkindly, laughed!

Perhaps I'll just stick to making the teas and coffees. I'm quite good at that......

I am, I really am!

Mine's a pint!

2011-05-04T11:54:00.001+01:00

It's not a good time to be a policeman in France. First, after much pressure and many court cases the government has agreed to enforce the Human Rights Act in respect of the right to a fair trial meaning that from now on, anyone who is arrested has the right to have a lawyer present for the whole of the questioning process which will put a rather swift end to their usual methods of violence and intimidation. Followers of Spiral (Les Engrenages) which is currently showing on BBC4 probably thought the producers were using a bit of artistic licence in their portrayal of the treatment of prisoners but no, that's how it is.

In actual fact judges will still have the power to delay access to a lawyer for up to 72 hours to allow "for the collection or preservation of evidence or to prevent an attack on individuals" in cases where the crime would be punishable by more than 5 years in prison. The organisation Human Rights Watch. more usually associated with places like Libya and Yemen. has a large dossier on human rights abuses in France and is lobbying the government to take the new regulations even further. You can read more about the situation on the Fly in the Web's excellent blog.

Now, the CRS, the French riot police have been banned from drinking on duty. Up until now, they have been allowed to have up to 250ml of wine (equivalent to 3 units at 12% volume) or a small beer, served with a meal, but after photos appeared of them during the recent unrest swigging wine and beer straight from the bottle police chiefs have decided enough is enough.

Personally, I've always found the sight of a man with a gun in one hand and alcohol in the other rather disconcerting. Alcohol, a loaded gun and unemployed, disenfranchised Muslim youths seems a recipe for disaster. In the autumn and spring months our hillside became France's answer to Helmand with scores of men in hi-vis jackets marching around with rifles and mangy hunting dogs shooting anything with a heartbeat, including from time to time, each other. I would keep the children and animals in the house after lunch, knowing full well that a hearty meal had been washed down with liberal quantities of gutrot and on more than one occasion I was confronted with a staggering man with a loaded gun and purple teeth.

According to research, 3 units of alcohol will give an increased feeling of happiness - not something traditionally associated with the CRS - but will significantly impair judgement which might lead, for example, pepper spraying children or indeed this , although I suppose you could argue that at least they would do it with a smile on their faces.

They plan to respond in true Gallic style by going on strike. Tchinn!

Mine's a pint!

Ooops!

2011-05-02T11:43:00.000+01:00

As the world wakes to the news that bin Laden is dead, Fox News get it horribly wrong..........

Wedding Belles

2011-04-30T01:12:00.002+01:00

Dateline 29th April 2011... The Church of West Minster

Posh Totty Miss Katie Griptight-Thynne is at the Glaring Hotel getting ready for her big day. Today, the little girl from the Shires (no, not the shopping centre in Trowbridge) will marry her 'prince', well, he's not really a prince except to her, but he is an Honourable. Her mother, Mrs Caroline Griptight-Thynne, is quaffing champagne whilst barking orders at the staff. As an ex-stewardess on the Stena Line ferry from Dover to Calais, who happened to marry well, she's often guilty of being more royal than the Royals, as her husband Mick is oft to say, smiling benignly.

Katie stands in front of the full length mirror while her dress designers fusses around her.

"Oh bluddy hell Mummy, why didn't you let me get my boobs done? I barely fill this dress" she wailed, plumping up her chest as best she could.

"Oh for heavens sake Katie, must we go through all this again. You'd end up looking like something out of a girl band and we all know that none of them have managed to land an 'Honorable'" She barges Katie out of the way and admires herself in front of the mirror. "God I still have great legs. The Stena Stunner they used to call me you know"

Katie smiled weakly. If she'd heard the story once, she'd heard it a hundred times.

The door from the bedroom opened and in sashayed Poppy, Katie's younger sister. " How do I look" she asked, smugly knowing full well that she looked gorgeous in her full length column gown.

"Oh effing hell Poppy, you look better than me. I knew I should have insisted on that big meringue dress"

Poppy turned to check out her rear view. "Does my bum look big in this?" she asked, already knowing the answer

"Oh yah, Poppy, it's bloody ginormous!"

"Oh come on Waitie, don't be like that". Poppy gave her sister a smug look

"Mummeeeeeee, tell her not to call me that. I HATE it"

"Come on girls," Mrs Griptight-Thynne said in the same voice she'd used with them since they were tiny "Play nicely. We all know it took Wait...er.. Katie years to find get Bills down the aisle but you don't need to rub it in"

A sharp rap on the door heralded the arrival of the father of the bride. He stopped for a moment at the door, taking in the three women in his life, well that's if you didn't include Dolly., the elderly labrador he'd had for years. "My word gels, you look stunning. Are we ready for the off then? Don't want the Hon Bills to have time to change his mind"He guffawed loudly to himself, completely oblivious to the blank stares of everyone else in the rooom.

"Or for his bluddy stepmother to persuade him that we are too common" murmured Mrs Griptight-Thynne through gritted teeth herself only two generations from Bodgit and Scarper Plumbing and Heating Ltd.

The stretch Hummer that the Hon Bills had chosen for the wedding car purred quietly outside the hotel. Katie sighed and wished to god he'd never joined the Territorial Army. Thought he was bluddy Napoleon now.

"But Bills, darling, can't we just have a nice limo?" she had asked"Well, these are austere times for the proles" he had told her, "don't want to seem too profligate"

Sighing deeply, she clambered in, hampered by the twenty foot train that her designer had thought would finish off her gown so nicely. "Oh daddy do try not to stand on it" she said as her father planted his size 10 right on top of it.

The Hummer set off followed by the attendant's car chock full of relatives of Bills and his parents who were doing the honours of bridesmaid and pages.... all ten of them, the youngest, Lady Petunia White-Van Cutmeup was only 4. She winced slightly as she saw the two page boys. She's suggested to Bills that they might look quite dashing in military uniform but desert combat dress wasn't quite what she had in mind. Poor Poppy having to manage that lot. Thank goodness she'd be captain of the lacrosse team at Marlborough. That should stand her in good stead.

They arrived at the church of West Minster to find a group of rather bemused looking Japanese tourists waving Union flags half heartedly.

"What on earth are they doing here?" Katie whispered to her father. "Lord only knows because I don't think they do". A chill breeze hit her as she climbed out of the Hummer. "Oh arse!" she groaned as her nipples stood out like organ stops. "I told Mummy to get me some of those Gel Petals from John Lewis." The photographer snapped away as Katie tried to hide her embarrassment behind her ridiculously small bouquet.

The organ burst into life playing an almost note-perfect rendition of a trumpet voluntary. "Come on Katie, time to go" said her father, taking her hand. The doors of the church swung open to reveal 20 people crammed into the bridegroom's side and 200 on hers. What the.... ! There was the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker.

"My bluddy mother" thought Katie, "Just because I'm marrying an Honourable she's acting like the lady of the manor.... and after she told me I couldn't invite Petronella and Tarquin too" She fixed a smile on her face as they set off down the aisle. She felt a rush of affection for Bills as the sun came out, sending the multi-coloured reflections of the stained glass windows bouncing of his balding pate, a stark contrast to the thick head of ginger hair sported by his brother, the Honorable Hal. Where did that ginger hair come from?

She smiled to left and right, nodding to those she didn't know (most of them) and beaming at the odd familiar face. Bills's family seemed to be involved in some sort of 'Ridiculous Hat' competition. There was one that looked like a giant popodom, Tara's looked like a satellite dish, probably so she could pick up'Horse and Country' if she got bored and OH.....MY......GOD..... what the hell were the Car Crash Couture cousins wearing this time? One looked like a giant Roman candle, the other like a cross between Rudolf (as in the reindeer) and a tellytubby with a bad spray tan. Better keep them out of the wedding photos.

Bills's choice of wedding attire was almost as big a secret as her dress. She'd hoped for a morning suit but he'd come in his TA uniform with a borrowed sash to spice it up a bit. Viscount Hal, on the other hand, who was a real soldier, looked resplendent in his ceremonial dress uniform, even though he did look like he had had a tangle with a few hundred yards of gold rope. Maybe she could fix him up with Poppy. Now there's a thought.

As she approached the altar steps Bills turned and smiled. OK, perhaps he wasn't the greatest looker in the land but she didn't care. He was her Bills.... and in any case, the old Earl was knocking on now so he was bound to peg it soon. And you never know, Hal could run off with a Muslim or something and then Bills would get the title. She'd be the Countess of Nether Wallop. God, mother would have a field day on that one!

As Bills took her hand she had a fleeting thought for the other couple getting married that day and hoped that they would be just as happy as she was.

Any similarities to any person living,dead or recently married is purlely unintentional . Did I get that right?

Aisle be seeing you......

2011-04-29T15:24:00.000+01:00

This week Kate Takes 5's Listography is on the subject of weddings. Apparently there's some big do going up London today but never mind that, I'm here to talk about a different wedding. Mine.

Kate asks what five things would you would change about your wedding? Simple....

1. Nothing

2. Nothing

3. Nothing

4. Nothing

and finally,

5. Nothing

How, I can hear you all ask, did we manage to achieve the perfect wedding? Easy peasy. We invited no-one except my parents. There was no falling out over bridesmaids, no arguments over flowers and colour schemes, no battles with the Mother of the Bride for control. I guess the only downside was that there were no presents either.

It wasn't always going to be like that. My father is a Freeman of the City of London which confers on me, along with the right to drive my sheep across London Bridge and the right to be hung with a silken rope should the situation ever arise, the right to get married in St Paul's Cathedral. As an impressionable young gel it was a standing joke among my friends that I was going to have this big f**k off wedding at St Paul's with a rent-a-crowd of several hundred, Jeremiah Clarke's Trumpet Voluntary (cruelly nicked from me by some Princess type before I had the chance to use it) and a banquet in the Guildhall. It was planned down to the last teaspoon for years.

Fast forward several years and I met The Husband. He's already had his own big f**k off wedding. He used to do fashion shows for Zandra Rhodes and so she had 'designed' his wedding. West London was still recovering! Sadly, it wasn't a happy event and the decree nisi was already being discussed by that same evening. Any mention of weddings bought him out in hives. Any mention of a wedding in St Paul's bought on a bout of hyperventilating (figuratively speaking of course).

When the time finally came for us to tie the knot, his family were in the middle of one of their many feuds. I told him if they couldn't all grow up and get on with each other they weren't coming. That planted the seed. What if nobody came? The more we thought about it, the more it made sense. In the end, we told no-one what we were planning with the exception of my parents who were to be witnesses. They'd already done big wedding for my brother and sister so I think my father was quietly relieved not be have to slit another artery to pay for it all.

We got married in November, on a beautiful sunny winter's day. I wore a fabulous appliqued copper velvet longline trouser suit and carried flowers that my mother's friend, a Chelsea exhibitor, had made for me. My dad drove us to the Register Office. The Registrar was a little surprised to see such a small wedding party but she got into the swing of things, projecting her voice during the vows as if she was at St Paul's which provoked an unforgiveable fit of the giggles in the bride and groom. We even had music.

Then we headed off to a Country Club and had magnificent lunch and copious amounts of champagne. It couldn't have been more perfect. I shared it with the most important people in my life and that was all that mattered.

The following , week our family and friends received beautiful embossed cards telling them we had got married. Some were shocked, some a bit peeved, most were glad not to have had yet another wedding list from John Lewis to wade through.

I guess there are maybe two things I might change. My brother's sodding camera would have worked - I have not one wedding photo - and I might have got the date right on the beautifully embossed cards. It has led to confusion to this very day.

St Paul's? Pah! Who needs it?

Weird Wednesday

2011-04-27T14:41:00.000+01:00

No wonder Sarkozy has banned the burkha! For fans of 'Team America' everywhere.......

5 Things I hope people say about me at my funeral........

2011-04-20T13:11:00.000+01:00

A bit late on this one but then my father has always joked I'll be late for my own funeral. Liz Taylor had it written into her will that she had to arrive fashionably late for her funeral so I'm in good company all of which segues nicely into Kate's latest Listography at Kate Takes 5. What 5 things do you hope that people say about you at your funeral?

Well, amid all the weeping and wailing of the assembled throng I hope people say.......

1. The world will be a poorer place without her

2. That million pound book deal never changed her

3. Isn't that George Clooney at the back? He never got over her you know

4. The Boy is looking well. International Corporate Law must be agreeing with him and look there's The Girl, she's a top investigative journalist you know

5. Isn't it great that thousands of her loyal fans have paid for a wake at the Langham

But what they are most likely to say is......

1. Oh sorry, I thought it was a christening....

2. Did she ever finish that book?

3. There's The Boy with his new wife ..... old but fabulously wealthy , oh, and The Girl too, they must have let her out on a day pass. Celebrity stalking you know....

4. There's The Husband..... poor bastard!

5. Oh well, off down the pub now is it?

And by the way, when the day does come, you're all invited