If I were in charge in 2013.....

A few things I'd do if I were in charge next year....

Shops would be shut from 12 noon on Christmas Eve until 27th December, and also shut the whole of Easter Weekend from 5pm on the Thursday before Good Friday, until the Tuesday after Easter Monday.

Sales would NOT be at Christmas, but only be permitted in March and September.

Sunday opening would be banned for all except essential services.

Trains would be equipped with external coatings to repel mobile phone signals, returning them to peace and quiet, and they would have windows that open to give you fresh air.

Car radios and personal music players would have a legal upper decibel limit so others are not forced to listen to tinny overspill or thumping bass beats.

Voting at elections would be mandatory - it's no use moaning if you haven't exercised your democratic right.

Immigration would be curbed to protect our environment and reduce the burden on the state which we all pay for, and probably stopped for the foreseeable future. Immigrants would have to demonstrate why they would benefit our society to be granted a permit to live here.

The Health and Safety Executive would be disbanded along with vast number of ludicrous H&S laws and restrictions (retaining those that are of real value only) and we would return to an era of common sense and allowable risk.

The Human Rights Act would be repealed, because it has become an excuse to avoid the consequences of your actions for all sorts of villains and terrorists, and replaced with something more measured and sensible.

Learning to clean, cook and do DIY would be compulsory in schools, to equip young people with the skills they need for life.

Old fashioned respect for others and consideration for other people would be drummed into kids from an early age to prevent them becoming the selfish neanderthals I seem to meet every day, and parents would have to properly answer for their children instead of abdicating responsibility as many do.

Everyone would have to do something for their livelihood, even those on benefits, provided they were physically able. Why should we pay people to sit on their arses and do nothing when there are roads to be mended, graffiti to be cleaned up, drains to be unblocked and schools to be maintained?

Glitter is good, drab is bad!

People (including The Hubby) take the piss out of me because I like glitter. For me, the more the better.

I can't help it. I'm drawn like a magpie to things that sparkle and shine and because of that, Christmas is a wonderful time. I love the fact that not only can I deck out my house with an inordinate number of sparkling lights, tinsel and shiny streamers, but it becomes socially acceptable to wear large amounts of glitter as well.

The world is a drab place by and large, and a little bit of glitter makes me feel better. A large amount, even more so. I know if we had it all the time it would become commonplace and therefore not be so uplifting, but it's a pretty harmless thing to love and definitely, for me, makes the world a nicer place.

I've never been a minimalist in anything I do. If you're going to do something, you might as well really go for it. Therefore when I decorate my house at Christmas, not for me the tasteful string of beads and homespun looking tree decorations make of old bits of sack and gingham cloth, so beloved (I assume) by the earth mother NCT brigade. My tree has enough silver tinsel, and so many baubles and glittery snowflakes on it that it makes you feel frosty cold, and the light reflects and dances round the room where the coloured fairy lights catch them.

The dining room is festooned with shiny streamers (this year, to my delight, I found an old stack of unopened ones we bought from Woolworths several years ago and then never used, in gold and bronze foil), a second tree and a fibre optic twig tree that twinkles at you in a rainbow of colours. It's all staggeringly bad taste, and I love it.

Perhaps because of my overboard approach, my daughters sadly don't much go in for ornament at all, although they will wear a bit of sparkly eye shadow on occasion when they go clubbing. I have seven different shades of glitter eye shadow in my make up box, glitter eye liner and two or three different glittery nail varnishes. Originally I bought them for doing shows, but I like them so much they have migrated to my day to day make up box and I use them when we go out to dinner.

I think the world would be a much better place if we all adopted this approach, and in fact if I were in charge I'd love to pass a law about it and make it compulsory. so vote for me, the Glitter Party, if you want the world to be shinier and happier!

Too busy too blog!

I haven’t blogged for a while now, because life has been somewhat busy.

Principally, my time and mind has been occupied with a very unwell little puppy. Coco is a typical Labrador – always grubbing in the hedgerows and digging stuff up, then eating what she finds. Most often it is something totally unsuitable such as cat poo or her particular favourite, horse poo. But she’s not overly fussy and by and large will pick up and eat anything.

This time she clearly ingested something which disagreed in the most violent fashion with her insides. Normally a ravenous eater, she wouldn’t touch food nor, more worryingly, water, for two whole days. We came down one morning to find the carpet covered in vomit and bloody faeces, and throughout the day she was listless and sick even when she sipped water or had a few grains of rice. Desperately worried, we took her to the vet, who didn’t seem worried at all (presumably sees it all the time) and gave us some anti biotics and sent us on our way.

Things didn’t improve and the next day we took her back to the vets where she was kept in and put onto a drip, by this time fairly severely dehydrated. The nasty specimens we had scraped up from the rug have been sent off for analysis, and we don’t yet know what she ate although I’m sure we will soon. It could be anything, on walks we are always taking things out of her mouth that shouldn’t be in there and goodness knows what she digs up when she’s mooching round the garden. And there are definitely toadstools out there somewhere – no matter how many times you try to get rid of them they spring back up.

The vet, an infinitely patient man, checked her over for anything and everything including various canine ailments I rang up to suggest having looked them up on Google (which must be the bane of his life) and after 24 hours when she had stopped emitting foul fluids and seemed more herself and we had had enough time to steam clean the carpets, she came home. Apart from a raspy sore throat caused we think by the pipe put down her throat while she was sedated, she seems absolutely fine. It is an incredible relief, and I don’t think I have been so worried even when my children were ill.

The cost of all this of course, has been astronomic. X-rays, drugs, diagnostics and veterinary time are ridiculously expensive. Thank goodness we took out pet insurance, for which we pay a measly £12 a month and which we are just about to claim against for almost £600. It has made us think that perhaps we better investigate taking out insurance for the moggies, who fortunately have never been really ill or cost me much beyond their annual jabs.

On top of everything else it snowed the other day, and you will know if you read this blog last winter how much I hate the snow, hate being cold and hate being wet. It actually made people on the train speak to one another, mostly in horror, at whether they were going to get home and asking “this wasn’t forecast was it?” looking out of the window with worried eyes.

I’m supposed to be avoiding stress to bring the old blood pressure down. Recent events can’t have done it any good, and it had gone up to treatable levels when I last saw the doc before all this happened so I am now taking tablets every day (someone asked me what drug it was and not remembering exactly, I said "Ritalin" which made them snort with laughter. It isn't, of course). I have had to resort to buying one of those old people’s pill boxes with the days of the week on it so I remember whether I’ve taken them or not – of everything that is going on, that is the one thing which has made me feel oldest!

To finish it all off nicely, my own work has gone crazily busy and The Hubby has been job hunting like mad. On that front at least we have some good news in that he has some temporary work for a few months, which will keep the wolf (or at any rate the debt collectors) away for a little longer.

It seems like it was time someone gave us a break, it’s been a pretty tough year whichever way you look at it.

Seasonal disorders

I have a cold. A filthy, debilitating, snot ridden and temporarily life changing cold.

I haven’t had one of these for ages, in fact for about three years since I started having flu jabs each winter. I know they tell you that the flu jab doesn’t prevent you getting a cold (or even some types of flu) but it has done a pretty good job so far with me and this has come as a bit of a shock.

So, symptoms! Firstly there’s the sore throat, which feels like dozens of razor blades have been unceremoniously rammed down it and wiggled about a bit. Then there’s the ear ache, which renders temporary deafness and a throbbing pain at the side of your head akin to being knocked out by a sledgehammer. Just as these are subsiding, comes the runny nose when you could rival an overflowing River Thames for the volume of liquid which seems to run down your face towards your mouth on a regular basis and due to the regularity with which you have to blow your nose, turns you into a passable doppelganger for Rudolph. And after the runny nose the final stage, the thick, usually green immovable snot which takes up residence in your sinuses, redecorates, has babies – often called Grolly – and generally makes your life a misery.

Whichever of Mother Nature’s elves designed our faces and thought it was a good idea to put your nose higher than your mouth and throat ought to be drowned in green gunk. When you get to stage three (the runny nose stage) mucus runs down your throat making you feel sick and out of your nose towards your mouth making you look like some sort of creature from the black lagoon, covered in slime. Prominent in the centre of your face, no amount of make up will disguise the reddish glow caused by too much blowing and for days people will go around trying not to look and saying “Poor you!”.

There really is a mind blowingly diverse range of different cold cures around. Meandering into Boots looking for a simple Lemsip, I was faced with almost a whole row of different makes and remedies in a massive range of flavours and different ways of ingesting. There are powders, syrups, capsules, things that last four hours, eight hours, all night and possibly also boil the kettle for you. But I still maintain my customised remedy of hot water, lemon juice, honey, brandy and a couple of emptied Lemsip capsules stirred in is best. Adjust the amount of brandy according to mood! Not only does it give you a cracking night’s sleep, it tackles the little b*****d viruses head on.

I have manfully (or should that be womanfully?) struggled into work today, and am sitting with a martyred look on my face beavering away (well, not literally at the moment of course, because I’m writing this).  Come 4pm, I will snuffle, sigh, maybe sneeze and cough a bit and make my excuses to go home. On the train, I will hide my face into my scarf looking sorry for myself and occasionally no doubt emerge for a very wet sneeze and good blow (it’s essential to emerge as my scarf comes from Barbour and is expensive, and I don’t want to get snot all over it).

Then I will go to bed when I get home with a hot water bottle and my patent remedy as outlined above, put “The Muppet Christmas Carol” on the DVD player, and so far as blocked nostrils allow, drift off to sleep. Bliss!

Thoroughly spoilt - for maybe the last time.

On Sunday, we were thoroughly spoilt.

It was The Hubby’s birthday, and as it has been a pretty crap year I decided he needed treating. To make things complete, it was a gorgeous day with clear blue sky and the sun shining, in fact warmer than many days we had in June or July.

So we headed to the South Bank and wandered up and down by the Thames in the sunshine. We looked at all the craft stalls and bought a few bits and bobs for Christmas as well as partaking of a glass of really delicious gluwein. Then we wandered up to Covent Garden and did a bit more Christmas shopping, topping it all off with afternoon tea at the Savoy Hotel.

My, it’s posh in there! The hotel recently had a total refit and was closed for a period of 18 months, reopening in splendour about a year ago. Goodness knows how much it cost, but it gleams with polished marble floors and beautiful wooden panelling, and you sink into chairs with massive padded cushions you could sleep on (and we nearly did once we’d stuffed ourselves with dainty little sarnies, scones and cream, pastries and cake – oh, and after a glass of very nice champagne, which many of you will know isn’t usually my choice of drink).

When you go to a posh London hotel for tea it really is a treat, and you don’t have to lift a finger. Each time a waiter wanders past the table they top up your tea cup and the refills of food and beverage just keep coming (although not the champagne, which you pay for by the glass). Nothing is too much trouble; I asked for a different chair to accommodate my crook back, and straight away one was whisked in from somewhere and the unsuitable one squirreled away. We each wanted different blends of tea; “Of course, Madam” and within minutes two gleaming silver teapots arrived at the table (well, probably very well polished chrome) with wisps of steam coming from their spout, and proper tea leaves inside and a posh silver tea strainer. For all I know the waiter went away and swore in Polish or whatever his native language was (they are all foreign) but to our face he couldn’t have been more helpful.

It really is nice to treat yourself occasionally and in our case, see how the other half lives. Short of a lottery win, we will never be able to do this more regularly so it felt very indulgent and to be able to do it actually on The Hubby’s birthday was even better. We even treated ourselves to a cab back to Victoria, which The Hubby normally snubs as an upper class, elite indulgence. Personally my feet were killing me and we had shopping to carry, so there was no way I was walking and birthday or not, he would have been on his own.

Now of course, it’s back to reality and certainly after Christmas, if he still doesn’t have a job, we will fall upon hard times. Some hard decisions will have to be made about spending and alternative types of work, and we will really cut back. The monthly treat then will probably be Wetherspoon’s curry night (and nothing wrong with that, after all!).

Research is continuing into alternative means of living and going out on a limb with something completely different, but I am so tied up with panto I haven’t got very far. But come next year, when panto will be over, I am no longer Treasurer of the operatic society and I can focus, I do intend to try and do something definite about it.

They say it takes a crisis to a) make you appreciate what you have got and b) take courageous decisions, so maybe this is it. Good job we spoilt ourselves now, we may never get the chance again!

We all love office training sessions. don't we?

I’m just off to deliver a training session.

In a previous life, I worked as a regional training officer for Barclays Bank (and look what a mess they got into afterwards) and I do quite enjoy standing on my feet in front of a crowd with a good set of notes, the facts at my fingertips and ‘performing’.  That will come as no surprise to those of you that know me, of course!

It’s a funny old thing, office training. Often (not always, but usually) the participants are reluctant and see other things as far more important than sitting in front of one of their senior managers who is spouting on about something they consider inconsequential and nothing to do with them. Therefore they rarely engage, reasoning that if they ask questions or show interest the session will be prolonged and keep them away from whatever else they think they should be doing for longer than absolutely necessary.

Just occasionally I have been to a training course which has proved stimulating, exciting and informative. They are the exception, and when I deliver a course I always try to emulate that and be animated and inclusive; there’s nothing more boring than sitting listening to someone speak for hours without variety. If it’ll only take 20 minutes, don’t pad it out for an hour and never, ever subject your audience to death by PowerPoint.

This afternoon’s session is to tell staff about a benchmarking exercise they have to take part in for a four week period in the run up to Christmas. It involves extra work, which is never popular, so I have a selling job to do. It involves completing data in a spreadsheet, which is also generally unpopular unless you are an anoraky statistician, which none of them are, so a bit of an uphill struggle.

By and large, I have discovered that Town Planners think town planning is the centre of the universe and nothing else that is not on their ethereal plain matters. The fact that they may be a costly resource, slow or inefficient is an alien concept to them, much like giving a decent level of polite and helpful customer care. One or two are particularly arrogant (I blogged about them a few weeks back) and if they think that you are not similarly qualified to them will treat you like doggie doos on their shoe- they have come unstuck in the past doing that to me (I'm actually more highly qualified than most of them), and so I doubt will try it again. This benchmarking could be seen as a threat, as it will expose their shortcomings as well as celebrate what they are doing well at.

But I’m a good trainer (not just my personal opinion by the way, I have been told so by others). I enjoy doing it, I make sure I’m properly prepared and I don’t just read off the slides. I use humour and invite participation. I will be highlighting the benefits and mentioning, although playing down, the disadvantages. So it should be OK.

So, off to the lions den! I should say that if I live to blog another day, it’s been OK. If you never hear from me again, you will know that they have eaten me alive!

The telephone is not necessarily a totally good thing!

I have decided that the telephone is the most impolite thing ever invented.

When I was a child (admittedly a long time ago) I was always taught not to interrupt other people when they were speaking and to wait my turn politely in a conversation and not jump in and ‘out shout’ others. I taught my own children pretty much the same thing in the name of good manners and retaining my sanity.

We would never have dreamed of just walking up to someone who was otherwise engaged and demand they give us their attention immediately, or of expecting someone to get up from an unfinished dinner to speak to us. But that’s pretty much what using the telephone does.

Three times this week I have been in conversation with someone, either in a work meeting or in a social setting, and their phone has rung. Immediately, they have fished it out of their pocket or bag and despite the fact that on at least one of these occasions they had been in the middle of a sentence explaining something fairly complex, they answered it and interrupted what they were doing. Only once did the person apologise afterwards, and on none of these occasions was the call urgent, nor did it need to be dealt with straight away.

I find that sort of situation the height of rudeness, I really do, coming very close second behind people that talk unnecessarily loudly on their phone in a public place. Just because your phone has rung doesn’t mean you necessarily have to answer it. If it’s urgent (and it very rarely is) somehow, some way, you will be reached.

I have noticed that other people find it very hard not only to ignore their phone when it is ringing, but also to switch it off. Our children, when they were teenagers, used to leave their phones on all night and at all hours we used to hear the beeping or loud vibrations when a night owl called or a late text was sent. It drove me nuts, especially when I had to get up for work the next day.

Personally, when I walk through my front door my mobile is switched off. If people want me, and I want to talk to them, they will have my landline number. I thoroughly dislike being contactable 24/7 and the number of junk calls I get on my mobile is increasing (due, I think, to the fact that when you use the web, in particular price comparison sites, you often have to give a contact phone number and I use my mobile number).

We often have ‘dinner for two’ evenings. Mobiles are switched off (all of them) the BT phone is unplugged, the computer is off, we disconnect the doorbell and shut the curtains. We put on some music, have a good bottle of wine and a nice dinner, just the two of us, without any interruptions from the outside world thus guaranteeing us some quality time. The first time we did this The Hubby was quite apprehensive – “What if there is an emergency?” he wailed, probably concerned that his poisonous ex would be trying to get hold of him about something trivial and become irate because he wasn’t jumping to command. “The phone’s off for two hours, three hours max,” I said. “What can happen?” Of course, nothing did.

We’ve done this several times now and it’s a wonderful de-stressor. Being at the world’s beck and call means we never truly relax and by and large, very little is so urgent it needs instant reaction or response. It’s just that we have got used to it, which makes anything else seem unusual or odd. I didn’t even have a mobile phone until about 18 years ago, and only bought one then because I had a job which meant I was travelling alone late at night and wanted the security in case my broken down old car clapped out. I still wonder whether I might be better off without one.

Only four total d***heads? Is that all? Really?

There are four people in my office, which comprises about 120 very different individuals, whom I really cannot abide. At least two of them make my flesh crawl just by being in the room. All four are men.

Why do I hate them so much (I think the feeling is mutual, by the way)? Well, here we go, let’s air all my prejudices and dislikes:-

1)    A raging Queen obvious to all to see, but not out and proud and in total public denial. Throws full blown tantrums over ridiculously minor stuff and is totally change averse.

2)    A dinosaur stuck in the 60’s who calls women ‘chicks’ and ‘babes’, wears hush puppies and corduroy jackets and has hair which is creeping over his collar leaving a slightly greasy neckline. Rarely does any work, and whatever you try to talk to him about, says it’s the first he’s heard of it. The first flesh crawler!

3)    A fat arrogant slob who, despite being just a junior planner and having vastly less experience and knowledge, thinks he is better than and more qualified than me and is staggeringly rude at every opportunity. This one is the second flesh crawler.

4)    An up-his-arse urban designer who has managed to get away with doing very little for several years and thinks he’s God’s gift, and so makes a full time occupation out of being a total knob!

Most people I can tolerate in fairly close proximity and most of the time probably can ignore fairly effectively. These four, I bristle just at the sight of and they can annoy me by simply walking into a room.

I know it’s irrational, and I know it’s unreasonable to feel like this, but it’s just the way it is. Perhaps it stems from the fact that I am charged with bringing about organisational change and don’t have any time to suffer fools (as those of you that know me well will be aware of) and in my early days these four were the main protagonists and blockages to modernisation, so we crossed swords fairly regularly. I don’t know; I can’t explain it and no matter how hard I try, cannot shake off the feelings. They’re with me to stay.

In contrast, there are a few people that I like a lot and who, despite varying degrees of incompetence and annoyingness, it is impossible to be cross with for long if at all. There’s simply no sense to it at all!

I acknowledge of course, that there is very little I can do to change these people and probably nothing, so I have to find coping strategies for them and most of the time that comprises ignoring them as much as possible. When pushed, I have to force myself to listen to what they say because maybe, just maybe, they may have a valid point in a discussion, but it’s a struggle because in my head, before they start they have no credibility.

There must be people like them in every office, and we must all, if we work, have colleagues we feel similarly about. Please someone tell me I’m not alone! I know I’m not the most tolerant of other people and most of the time would rather spend my life in glorious isolation, but generally speaking I manage to rub along with most including a complicated and awkward family. So I don’t think it’s me. But then there must be a common denominator, so perhaps it is?

I’ll probably never know, because most people are not blessed with the gift of honesty and won’t say what they think. Why can’t we just be straightforward from time to time, and if someone is being a total dick just tell them instead of nodding politely and then slagging them off behind their backs. It might at least make the workplace more lively!

Busy, busy, busy - but doing what?

I don't understand how I can be so ridiculously busy all the time! And yet, if someone were to ask me what I've done today, I'd struggle to put together a list of more than two or three things.

The Hubby feels the same. He has now been out of work for about two months. although some time has been spent on a few applications for new jobs, he has dedicated his newly found leisure time to doing work around the house that has frustrated him over the past two to three years because he hasn't had the time to do it when he was working. But the two months has flown past; in that time he's mended a fence, painted the side of the house where the paint was flaking and done some general maintenance but when you stop and think about it in two months it's amazing that's all.

That sounds terrible, doesn't it, because he hasn't been sitting on his arse doing nothing. But the point I'm trying to make is where does the time go to? Because the list of accomplishments for both of us in two months seems pitifully small.

When we were away at the end of September, we made a list of all the things we wanted to do to try and change our lilves. It wasn't a long list, rather carefully chosen, and we thought easily accomplished in a month or two. But I haven't even started, and nor has he, and I haven't yet got into the main thrust of panto rehearsals and all the demands they bring.

The rate at which time flies is scary. When we sat down and thought about it the other night, it made us realise that we have to focus our minds sooner rather than later if we are not to miss the window of opportunity to change things that I have blogged about before.

Of course life is generally busy anyway as it would be if between you, you have five children who all now need guidance to make their transition into full adulthood and also three stubborn cats and now an enthusiastic puppy. Also trying to have 'a life' takes up time - I have loved the theatre since I was a child but boy, does it eat into your leisure time! All sorts of things get neglected when I'm involved with a show - washing, ironing, food shopping and cleaning all go to the wall and we live in an air of neglect for a few weeks until it's all over.

Between now and Christmas, I am going to have to write myself a 'To do' list and systematically work my way through it. I might even write a few things on it that I have already done just so I can cross them off straight away and feel better about my busyness. I'm going to have to do that anyway just to cope with the festive season, so a few additional tasks shouldn't make too much diference. Should it?

My God, that was good!

Last night, we went to see Jesus Christ Superstar at Wembley Arena. And it was mind blowingly, staggeringly and amazingly good.

I first saw this show back in the seventies not long after it debuted in the West End. I also saw the revival in London in the mid nineties, and I’ve seen a few amateur versions. And none of them came close to seeing what I have realised is essentially a rock concert in a proper rock arena.

I hadn’t been keen to go along, mainly because I had in my head that this was a theatrical experience that should be seen in a theatre, and probably wouldn’t translate to the massive stages and spaces of arena performances. How wrong I was.

You do forget how much JCS is pretty much wall to wall rock music, since Lord LW is primarily known for his orchestral high drama productions like Phantom of the Opera. But apparently he’s a hard core rock fan himself, enjoying stuff such as Deep Purple and the Stones. He made an appearance at the very end last night to tumultuous applause and was clearly delighted that his original vision for his masterpiece (and it remains, to my mind, the best thing he has ever written) to be performed in a proper rock’n’roll venue had come to pass.

The Hubby had bought me these tickets as a surprise, and to say I was ungrateful initially is an understatement. I had decided that I didn’t want to go and see something like this in a stadium, Wembley is a pain in the arse to get home from late at night, and I HATE surprises. At first I told him to try and resell them, but eventually he convinced me to go along anyway for a night out and not be such a boring old fart. So I went, and I’m very glad I did.

But Wembley Arena is a pretty dreadful place. The standard of the loos and the catering hasn’t changed or improved for the last forty years despite being a high profile venue for so many major events. I’m sure we’d all be willing to pay an extra pound on top of our already extortionately priced tickets if we felt it was going directly towards modern sanitation and something better than lukewarm lager, acidic wine and something to eat that look like a horses willy in a bun covered in dog sick. Fortunately, we ate at Wetherspoons in Victoria so managed to get something that was actually edible.

But all in all, we had a jolly nice evening and have contributed to the musical lord’s coffers yet again, but do feel we have had value for money. There is something indefinable about the standard of really good professional shows that sets them apart and it’s not just the fact that shed loads of money have been chucked at them. This show was slick, relevant to today’s audiences and impeccably done. The cast were disciplined, drilled to perfection and perfectly cast. I know some people are sniffy about the reality shows which choose the leads for some of these shows, but so far they have done a thorough job, and certainly the winner of the JCS show on ITV in the spring (poor as that was) cut the mustard last night, just like Lee Mead did for Joseph and the ATD.

Well done, Andrew – another triumph!

Ridiculously tired !!

I feel phenomenally tired!

It has been a ridiculously busy week all told, and the weekend was hectic too. Coupled with too little sleep, back pain and not a very health diet for a few days, over busyness is a killer (hopefully not literally).

We have done some nice things amongst the busyness, but it has all come at once. Thankfully next week is less frenetic and I will be able to catch up on the little things (which make you feel stressed when they are neglected) before we go away (again!).

The Hubby tells me to stop moaning and be thankful that I am able to take four or five breaks a year when most people have to make do with one or two (or increasingly in today’s straitened times, no holiday at all) and of course he’s right but I do feel like I earn it and anyway, what’s the use of having a place in the southern Mediterranean if you don’t take advantage of it as much as possible?

Perhaps this excessive tiredness is a result of my age and the menopause, along with the high blood pressure, weight gain and poor sleep pattern? Maybe I’ll go through it and come out the other end a rejuvenated person! That would be nice, but somehow I can’t see it happening.

Quite simply, I am getting old and feeling my age! There are times when I feel still like I’m in my thirties which I think were my best decade in many ways, but more often than not I get the urge to curl up in my PJs with a good book and cup of hot chocolate with my dog and my cats and shut out the world. I hobble when I get up from sitting in a chair for a while as my limbs have gone stiff, and I am becoming less and less tolerant of other people and their peculiarities. But then you may have noticed that!

The tiredness is the worst of all the symptoms of age, because it is so debilitating and there is no easy solution if you are a bad sleeper. I’ve tried herbal pills which were useless, and then tried Nytol which works to a degree (but not, interestingly enough, after a glass of wine) but leaves you with a heady ache first thing in the morning. I’ve tried old fashioned remedies like a warm bath and warm milk just before bed, the bedroom is totally dark and quiet anyway, and I wear earplugs (The Hubby, although he denies it, snores!), all of it to no avail.

I do know other women who have started having trouble sleeping when they hit the menopause so I’m hoping that’s what it is, because I am now starting to look as haggard as I feel and getting increasingly grumpy and grouchy with the world. One poor friend went through a phase of not sleeping at all and God knows what she must have felt like. The trouble is I can usually go off to sleep, but wake up after a few hours with my mind buzzing and then have trouble dropping back off again. I regularly lie awake between 3am and 5.30am pondering the mysteries of life and other momentous things, only to drop back off just as the alarm is due to ring.

An afternoon nap is sometimes the solution at the weekend, but it isn’t always possible. I have always been able to sleep in the afternoon and then slowly come round, like a dozy fly on a hot humid afternoon, with the aid of a cup of tea for 15 minutes.  A siesta should be compulsory in the UK like it is in Europe as it really suits me. Shame my employers don’t think so.

I am working at home later this week and so I will schedule my working day to put my feet up in the afternoon. I’ll have to set the alarm. And don’t anyone dare ring me between 2pm and 5pm, I’ll be asleep!!

Hero is an overused word.

If I hear the word 'hero' used inappropriately by the media again, I will scream.

The most recent occasion was, believe it or not, in relation to a golfer (yes, a golfer) who had won some trophy or other (being one of those people that think golf is a silly game that only spoils a good walk, I have no idea what tournament has been going on recently). Previous to that, the word was overused and abused during the Olympics with regard to our gold medallists.

Let's be clear on this, shall we? A hero is someone who puts his life on the line at extreme risk for the safety and security of others. Real heroes are selfless, brave and unassuming. Very often, the extreme bravery and courage they show is instinctive and if they had stopped to think about what they were doing, they probably wouldn't have gone there. Real heroes are rare things.

This eulogising by the media and in particular by TV journalists is quite simply a travesty of the English language. Top sportsmen and women are certainly tough and for many of their sports exhibit courage, but they fail on every other aspect of my definition of a hero. They certainly aren't self effacing or unassuming (quite a significant number of them court the media and make an absolute packet out of it), what they do is for themselves and let's not kid ourselves it's for "their country", and they aren't putting themselves on the line for others.

It's interesting that we very rarely hear the word 'hero' used about people that it might actually genuinely apply to - members of our armed forces on active service across the world, the police and ambulance service and the fire service all regularly face situations where they put themselves at risk for the sake of others and sometimes tragically lose their lives in doing so. But the term 'hero' isn't often used when these things are reported; instead we hear "s/he was a brave officer" or "s/he often put others before her/himself" even after the individual in question has died in pursuit of their duties. It's as though the press are afraid of using it in those situations, for some weird reason I can't fathom. But for some self promoting cyclist, male or female, who has enjoyed a modicum of success it's OK for some reason.

A while back I resolved to stop reading the papers because all they did was wind me up, and for a while I succeeded. then I slipped back into old ways and of course, it's impossible to avoid news reporting altogether; I am surrounded by TV, radio and trains full of commuters reading newspapers and I can't help but see it. And it still irritates me.

Perhaps the answer is to become a journalist myself and sell a freelance column with a slightly subversive view of the world to a local or national paper. Certainly the quality of writing could do with improvement. Hmmm, could be a new career path!

Not what Facebook's for!

I've been on Facebook for quite a while now, and it's a very useful tool for keepng up to date with what's going on and what other people, who you may not often actually see but know well(ish), are up to.

But this morning I lost my rag at something I read on the feed from Kevin Black's County Border News page where several Tandridge residents were complaining about the new recycling service that was introduced last week.

Largely, the complaints focused not around the fact that they have been asked to do more recycling, since as well educated Surrey residents presumably they understand the impact of excess rubbish on the planet and the limitations of landfill. No, their complaints were about the conduct of the contractor, Biffa, and how they handled and returned the small food bins and wheelie bins. There were also a few complaints about the manner of TDC staff when they had rung to make enquiries. And they were vitriolic.

Clearly, these people felt strongly, although it was very obvious in one or two cases that they hadn't read the leaflets which the Council provided to every household and so put their bins out at the wrong time. But whinging on Facebook isn't the answer; if you really feel strongly that you have received poor or not as advertised service the way to deal with it is to complain direct to the Council in a reasonable manner and not abuse the staff. Staff rudeness to callers is not acceptable, but after your tenth arrogant and unreasonable whinger naturally patience gets a little tried.

All local authorities have a well publicised complaints procedure which people should follow if there is something (anything) about which they feel they have a genuine grievance. Speaking as a local authority employee (although not locally here of course) I know that they do take complaints seriously and will do their best to rectify it. There are formal procedures for dealing with contractors that do not meet their contractual obligations, and disciplinary procedures to deal with staff that fail to give proper customer service.

Furthermore, all new procedures take a few weeks to bed in, and there will be teething troubles. To expect a new service to be perfect on week one is unrealistic.It won't take long, and where things crop up that are unforeseen problems believe it or not there are good professionals working in local councils who will sort things out.

Some comments also focused around what people considered would have been a better use of money, such as repairing potholes. But money for different services comes from different places. The County Council is responsible for roads and provides the lion's share of the funding, although they do have local depots which is what confuses people. The District Council is responsible for the rubbish from a different budget. But again perhaps if the complainers had bothered to a) get their facts straight and b) talk to the council instead of Facebook they would have known that. But then it's easy to moan isn't it, much harder to actually establish facts!? As a friend of mine says, never let facts get in the way of a good row!

I never thought I'd find myself defending the local authority, but the sheer unreasonableness of these people has driven me to it. STOP WHINGING Tandridgers, and if you have a genuine complaint deal with it properly by writing to the Council and not moaning on social media like some sort of closet internet Troll where things cannot be explained by people who are in position of the facts and where the organisation canot defend itself. Act like adults, why don't you?!

Jim certainly fixed it!

So Sir Jimbo is an alleged kiddy-fiddler!

Well, who would have thought it? Apart that is, from several PAs and Producers at the Beeb who, if the allegations of dressing room misconduct are true, couldn't have failed to be aware and must have turned a blind eye.

I saw a documentary once on Sir Jimmy, and he certainly was a very odd man. There was a touch of the Norman Bates about him since several years after her death he hadn't touched his mother's room and had failed to dispose of her personal items and clothing. When asked about his mother, and whether he thought it was rather morbid to hang on to stuff like that and almost worship her in the way he did, he got very touchy (not literally, in that case!)

Now, of course, many people are coming forward with allegations which, sadly, will probably never be proven or otherwise and the man's reputation will be tarnished forever, possibly rightly. His family must be mortified, and their actions today to remove his headstone and have it broken up and put into landfill only two weeks after erecting it in his memory with glowing sentiments reveal the extent of their hurt and despair.

It will be an impossible task for the police to sort out the genuine allegations (if any) from the attention seeking weirdos, and this is a story that will run and run. Someone who was idolised by many of my parents generation for his charity work and in particular for his TV shows will now have his peculiarities splashed all over the tabloid press and most of the broadsheets to be pilloried and lambasted without being able to answer in his own defence or even give his alleged victims satisfaction by admitting his crimes. Many older people who have laughed at and admired him over the years will be disillusioned and disappointed, to say the least.

I remember watching Jimmy Saville as a child on TV and desperately wanting to write to Jim'll Fix It with my own ambition, which was to drive a police car at speed down a high street with the siren going and lights flashing (seems rather tame, now!). Many others must have felt the same, but perhaps we had a lucky escape. If many of the misdemeanours were indeed committed at Television Centre, then some of the victims must have been children that were featured on that show, surely? Why else would they be in his dressing room? And what were the TV people doing to allow him in there unsupervised with those children, and without their parents?

The BBC will have a great deal to answer in this investigation, and it will be interesting to see how it manages to wriggle out of it or how it reports it. Sir Jimmy (and he may not be that much longer) allegedly  indulged in his habits over a considerable period of time and he must have begun to think he was untouchable.

Perhaps it's as well he is no longer with us. An old man such as he would be now would be treated appallingly by the media and given a trial by TV, which would be totally wrong. No matter how convincing these allegations may seem at the moment they are just that - allegations - and until someone can find some proof that's what they will remain. The likelihood of their truthfulness is, in terms of the law, irrelevant and we should remember that.

If he did do these dreadful things, then yes he should be stripped of his knighthood and the plaques etc erected in his memory should be removed. Glorification of an individual guilty of any kind of exploitation against the vulnerable must be avoided regardless of the worthy aspects of their character. And we must put safeguards in place against such a thing happening in again the future.

My Dream House!

There is a house opposite my office being renovated at the moment. Work has been gong on for several months and I can see daily progress from my desk.

This is a double fronted four storey mock Georgian house in Kensington, including basement.  Goodness knows how much it is worth – gazillions probably – and it has been completely gutted and refitted out. They’ve done new plasterwork outside and presumably in, new windows, doors and frontage with off road parking. Must have cost a packet! Bet they’re either movie stars or foreign diplomats.

As I speak there is a van from ‘The New England Kitchen Company’ painted in tasteful cream and sage green reversing out after having delivered a load of what looked like shaker style solid wood kitchen cupboards and worktops. No B&Q Formica or mock marble for these people, only the real solid oak will do!

I’m just jealous of course! There’s nothing I’d like better than being able to spend as much cash as I like fitting out a new house with the kitchen, bathroom, fixtures and fittings of my dreams and not worrying about the money in any way, shape or form.

I often day dream about the sorts of features I’d include if I could start with a blank sheet; definitely in my kitchen I would have a larder and space for an enormous American style fridge and freezer as well as an Aga and a large, porcelain butler’s sink with a sloping granite draining board. A separate laundry room would also be essential with indoor drying space for the winter (I hate tumble dryers – I think they ruin your clothes – and we all have so many items of clothing that if something takes 2 or 3 days to dry so what?). I’d like an old fashioned flower arranging room which would really just be a dumping space for the wellies and dog leads.

A separate dining room and lounge would be good (I dislike open plan living space – it’s always good to have a bolt hole where you can get away from everyone else) with a study and luxury of luxuries, a separate ‘withdrawing room’ which would be mine and mine alone where I would set up my paints and sewing machine and fiddle away with badly done and pointless arts and crafts to my heart’s content as well as watching a considerable amount of the old comedy programmes on Gold without someone saying “Not again!?”. An activity room for the teenagers would be good too, with their telly, games consoles and other noisy electronic activities behind a soundproofed door.

Upstairs I think you should have a suite of bedrooms for permanent occupants as well as a guest suite. My own would ideally include one decadent double room adjoining two separate singles. That’s because, quite frankly, the joy of sharing someone’s bed for sex very quickly tarnishes if they are bad or noisy sleepers, and to be able to get away into your own room to simply get a good night’s rest is a luxury which cannot be underestimated. Adjoining each single bedroom should be a private bathroom (ie in mine no men allowed with their bad aim and habit of not shutting the bathroom cupboard door), and a walk in dressing room with separate walk in shoe cupboard. Adequate storage for life’s essentials is so important, don’t you think?

Of course this is all pie in the sky. I’m never going to be rich enough to afford any one item on my list, let alone a whole new house. At the rate we’re going I’ll be lucky if I can kit out a new garden shed!

But it’s nice to dream, isn’t it!?

Irrational hatred? It's normal!

Each and every day, I develop a deep and irrational hatred for at least one of my fellow commuters.

I don’t think I am alone in this; I see other people staring with baleful looks at certain individuals for a wide variety of reasons.

Today, it was a young woman with a permanent case of the sniffs. She was well dressed, immaculately made up and reading an ‘intelligent’ magazine (The Economist, if you must know). And she sniffed, constantly and with great vigour. It made a rich bubbling sound reminiscent of a stew in a saucepan or a rapidly boiling kettle and conjured up pictures of volcanic green lava just about to erupt and spray all around. It was, quite frankly, disgusting.

I did toy with the idea of giving her a pack of Olbas oil soaked tissues, without which I never travel, and expressing sympathy for her obviously imminent demise due either to raging bird flu or possibly suffocation due to her inability to blow her stuffed up nose, but to be honest I wasn’t sure how that would be received and no one ever speaks to each other on the morning train.

I’m amazed that my piercing stare didn’t register on her consciousness, but then perhaps she was so stuffed up with mucus that her brain was clogged and nothing would penetrate it short of a nuclear blast. I spent a considerable portion of the journey staring at her smug face wishing she could be rocketed into oblivion (along with the irritating pissed woman who sat behind me on the plane on the way home from Greece the other night) never to return.

Don’t these people learn manners at their mother’s knee? When I was a child it was drummed into me that to indulge in anti social and irritating personal habits in public was simply unacceptable, and if you had a runny nose you got yourself a hanky (not a tissue in those days) and you blew your nose. Not all parents were successful – I was at infants school with a boy who ate his own bogies in class – but by and large we all learned that you keep your filthy habits to yourself and if you must, you indulged in private bogie feasting instead of public.

I have blogged before of course about how other people seem to lack even the most basic consideration of others. I mentioned above an annoying woman who sat behind me on the Easyjet flight from Heraklion last weekend. She was mildly pissed as is always the danger with late night flights when people have been out to dinner or to the bar at the airport, and behaved like a five year old all the way home. She played with the tray table, had her music on ludicrously loud (I could hear it above my own ipod and the plane’s engines) and sang along tunelessly in a low voice but certainly loud enough for me to hear it. She kept up an ongoing commentary throughout the flight (bear in mind we took off at 11.35pm and landed at Gatwick at 2am local time and you will understand how irritating that was) and whenever the captain banked or she felt the plane do a manoeuvre went ‘whee’. I did think about turning round and complaining, but when I looked she had a husband built like a brick shit-house with wall to wall tattoos, so I thought better of it and quietly seethed all the way home.

But sniffing gets to me every time. Speaking as someone who has had her fair share of suffering with nasal problems, I know there is no excuse for it; I mean tissues aren’t exactly hard to find, are they? If I have to sit opposite her tomorrow, my hatred will be multiplied ten fold and I will take my Olbas tissue and ram it so far up her nostrils it may come out of her ear.

Bet you’d like to be there to see that!

Sooooo dull!

At the present time I am quite staggeringly, mind numbingly, incredibly and totally bored.

I have checked all my e-mails, written various reports and documents that I needed to do, had all my meetings for the day and put a few pointless entries into my calendar. I’ve written a ‘To Do’ list which has several entries on it that I have already completed, just so I can cross them out straight away and feel good about it. I’ve rung a few people with dull, unimportant and routine enquiries and received incredulous answers that I am even bothering. Yes, you’ve got it, I’m VERY bored!

Despite the fact that I have several projects on the go and am supervising a vast amount of work which will have a major impact when it is completed, I haven’t myself been terribly busy for a while now. I put that down to the fact that I am a superb delegator and set myself realistic deadlines for achievement which mean I am not constantly rushing, and also that I manage efficient teams well so that they are on top of their work so there isn’t a crisis. Or it could just be that there isn’t much to do. My vote is on the first option!

Some respite is gained by the fact that I sit by the window, and so am able to glance out with increasing frequency and watch the world go by, or at least the portion of it that is permitted within the hallowed boundaries of the Royal Borough. Generally, that portion is well dressed, well mannered and well behaved. No oiks here, you know! We do get the occasional occurrence of road rage where someone is taking too long to park their Chelsea Tractor into a space marginally too small for it and a jam has built up behind them, but that’s about it.

There isn’t even any drama in reception; it seems even poor people in Kensington are well behaved even if some of them do smell a bit. When I worked in Crawley someone punching the glass out was a reasonably frequent occurrence, especially if they had just been told they didn’t qualify for benefit or a council house, but nothing like that ever happens here. We did once have a fraudster who was a bloke dressed as a woman trying to get housing benefit out that wasn’t his; the cashier got suspicious and he legged it, frock, high heels and all, through reception and a security door into the main offices. The fact that we are still talking about it four years on shows you that nothing else much has happened since!

There’s a limit to how inventive you can be sitting at your desk to find work to do. I do browse Facebook or the web sometimes, but my boss sits behind me so I can’t do that too often. It’s OK to write this because I do it in Word so it looks like it’s work and official, but even then I have to access the web to post it onto the blog site so can’t do that too often either. Internet shopping is out too, as it’s obvious that isn’t work! It would almost be easier if we didn’t have unlimited access to the web (provided it’s not porn, gambling or something else dodgy we can pretty much view what we like) as then the temptation wouldn’t be there.

There’s nothing else for it. I started writing this at 3.30pm and I am simply going to have to go home at four.

Oops hang on, there’s something happening outside the window…..

Well, can't you just tell I'm back?

Can’t you just tell that I’m back from my holidays!

Not only is it October (which means that the shops are full of Christmas cards, baubles, tinsel and crackers but nothing that is remotely useful in the meantime), but it’s p*****g down with dull grey skies. The train was late this morning and therefore missed its ‘slot’ all the way up the line and got stuck at every red signal between Oxted and Victoria, and I waited 25 minutes for a circle line tube which was, apparently, running a ‘good service’.  

To top it all off, we have no phone nor internet due to a major fault at BT’s end (along with most of Bletchingley and Godstone, so I understand) so I can’t check my bank account to see how much I have overspent on my holidays and The Hubby cannot complete an important job application form which must be done by Wednesday and submitted on line. The BT fault reporting line says the problem is not likely to be fixed until Wednesday 3^rd, which means in more ways than one we are totally f****d! So I’m writing this at work!

I could turn this into a rant, which might at least make me feel better, but mostly it would serve no purpose other than bore you all rigid. But I must say there’s nothing like a good rant from time to time as I’m sure you’ll agree. To be honest, there doesn’t even have to be anyone there to listen or to reply to me, just getting it all out of the system is incredibly cathartic.

I have in the past made the mistake of having the rant without also dealing with the issue calmly and reasonably. It’s an approach which has got me nowhere and lost me a few friends. So now, I tend to rant on here and be reason personified (well, for a while) to resolve it or get what I want. But I still think there is a definite place for the rant, and that it’s very important.

I could never be one of those repressed people that don’t show their feelings at all. I mean, surely we all need an outlet? I always get the feeling that that sort of person must go home and punch through the living room door in frustration, don’t you? Either that or they kick the cat or something!  If they don’t what do they do to calm down and sleep at nights? There’s no way that I could go to bed and sleep (even though emotion and frustration makes you exhausted) if I hadn’t managed to get it out of my system somehow.

Some people, of course, turn to counselling and good luck to them if it works for them. It never has for me, and every counsellor I have ever come across (I saw a couple of them when my first marriage broke down) has been a sanctimonious, patronising w****r (gosh, there’s a lot of swearing in today’s blog! Must mean I feel strongly). And many people I know (but not all) who have seen counsellors certainly don’t seem to have derived any benefit from it, but then perhaps I have a biased and slightly jaundiced view of them (the counsellors, not the friends!)

Anyway, got to knuckle down now for a few weeks until I go away again (the benefit of having your own place abroad is you can go often and cheaply!). Knowing my luck it’ll chuck it down the whole time and there will be a major rail failure at least once a week. Hey ho…..

What shall I do?

As you may remember if you read this blog regularly, I have been investigating various possibilities for an alternative source of income.

I am very tempted to try and use the opportunity we have at the moment to do something completely different. That might mean some sort of consultancy using our public sector experience, it might mean a completely different job or it might mean setting up a little business to do something, probably on line.

When you type in ‘setting up an online business’ to Google it’s quite staggering how many returns you get. Many of them are, if course, aiming to sell you something and a very large number are web design companies because, not surprisingly, to sell online you need a smart, well laid out and easy to use web site. Weeding out the good stuff from the rubbish takes quite some time.

It’s also quite amazing that when you type in say ‘wholesale suppliers of…’ you get thousands of companies aiming to sell stuff to you in bulk for you to sell on to the public as a retailer. No wonder life is getting expensive for a consumer, with all these middle men taking a mark up. I’ve read quite a few articles recently of people who have resorted to getting their bulk supplies from as far afield as China and Russia because UK suppliers are simply too expensive, even taking into account the increased cost of bulk postage from abroad.

I’ve also considered some sort of housekeeping service. When I say ‘housekeeping’ I don’t mean just cleaning but a whole range of domestic services including gardening, maintenance, dog walking, pet sitting, waiting in for the gas man to service the boiler, babysitting, cooking for special occasions and, of course, cleaning. I live in the middle of one of the wealthiest areas of the UK and even in the depths of the recession, there is money to spare. You only have to look around the coffee shops and designer dress shops in Oxted and Reigate to know that the proportion of yummy mummies with good levels of disposable income remains high.

The trouble is, I can’t decide what to do. There are also businesses for sale in Crete which, although not something I had really considered before, are another option. But I do have to ask myself whether I want to spend my time in Crete slaving away when really my aspiration is to move there and relax after a lifetime of slaving away in England. I have a friend who has been brave enough to make the change and moved to the other side of the planet but still has to work; I don’t know if I want to do that. If I’m going to be in the sun, I’d rather not be beholden to anyone or anything (least of all the bank!). I’ve worked for 36 years pretty much without a break and I’d like to stop now.

I am also very conscious that the window of opportunity is very small, because to start up most businesses you need capital and the tiny amount we have due to circumstances will soon erode through the general cost of living. So I can’t prevaricate about this for months, we have to discuss it and come to some sort of decision.

Of course if The Hubby gets another job fairly quickly, the opportunities are endless. Instead of waiting to be made redundant myself, perhaps I could resign and use our capital to set up something on my own. Or we could use it to pay the debts, sell the house anyway and I could stop work – what bliss that would be!

We have a couple of holidays this year still to go and we’re going to use that time to talk all this through. It’s highly likely that by this time next year one way or another, life will be very different! Argh !!!

(Another) update on the fitness regime.

I’ve been unusually silent on my fitness regime recently, so it’s probably about time for an update.

My fully catered, hideously expensive diet is paying off, and over two months I have lost about a stone in weight. For a while I didn’t do the diet foods regime because we had lots of social events on and it would have been wasted. And I have probably drunk more wine that I ought, but by and large I think that sort of weight loss in a slow sustainable way is pretty good.

Over the same two month period I have started doing more exercise (the dog walking, as I blogged the other day) and even over my non diet ‘break’ I didn’t put any weight on due to the extra exercise. So I am hoping that when I do exercise and dieting at the same time, I will lose even more.

I have two more months of my catered diet to go, and a goal to lose at least another stone, which will bring me down to the weight I was when I got married in 2003 and hopefully reduce my blood pressure into the bargain. Then I am hoping that with what I have learned about portion control and ‘good’ foods, I will be able to cater for myself and lose even more. I would dearly love to be ten stone again (until I was almost 30, I weighed eight stone but that may be somewhat unrealistic!).

I am on a promise from The Hubby that if I lose enough weight to bring me down to my goal of 10st 10lb, he will buy me a pair of Armani jeans. I don’t think he realised they cost about £350 when he made that promise, but he’ll have to stand by it now, because I’m going to do my utmost to achieve it.

I’m also determined to have a bikini body by the time I go away at the end of the year, and if that could be by the end of September I’d be even more pleased. I haven’t worn a bikini for donkey’s years (probably pre baby) but there’s no reason why not if I can lose my fat belly – I mean, God! The sights you see on the beach and I wonder why I’m worrying.

Apparently you can see the weight loss so far in my face, which was a surprise to me and rather motivating. I knew I had several chins to rival any idol of the Buddha, but I had no idea they had got so bad as too be commented upon. Clearly, they had, and now some of them have gone. Never mind – chin up darling, all of them!

I’m now hoping that the knees and back hold up for me to continue with the walking. It’s a real test, and ideally they will strengthen so that I can do even more and tone up the saggy areas which have embedded themselves due to lack of exercise over the past few years due to injury. I’m not sure what I’ll do if they give way, seeing as we don’t have health insurance any more and I’d be dead before the NHS got round to treating something like that. Resort to crawling, I suppose.

So wish me luck with the next two months. There will be a week’s break in late September when I go on holiday (yes, again!) but apart from that I should be able to focus with few distractions.

Here goes…..

The power of the negative press

As you read this, I will be sunning myself on a Greek beach (again). For a week, I will be mercifully far away from the realities of life and the stress inducing reporting of British news and newspapers.

Don’t get me wrong, in many ways the British media and in particular the Beeb are the best in the world, but they do tend to take rather a pessimistic view of things and take great delight in reporting bad news.

In the few weeks before I left to come on holiday, as many column inches were given to what I think were four very tragic deaths by drowning in English rivers and around the coast as to the whole of Team GB’s Paralympic victories, or so it seemed (but then I don’t even bother to open the back pages of the newspaper, so may be I am wrong).

I won’t miss being away from reality at all. I always hate it when you get on the plane to come home and they give you an English newspaper (don’t sell you one, mind, but give them away). That doesn’t happen with the budget airlines that have to watch every penny, which is another reason for using them since once I open the Daily Mail or the Times I can feel my stress levels rising and my impatience growing.

A little while ago I was blogging about why people feel so negative today and want to get away from it all for a fresh start, and I do think that the press must take their share of the blame here. They drag you down, because bad news sells papers. Their justification about some bits of scandalous or negative reporting (“It’s in the public interest” or “we have a right to know”) is just nonsense. They are in business to make a profit, and as I said bad news sells papers. By and large sensationalism turns us all into voyeurs by proxy, whereas a good news story about success or someone doing a good deed just makes a lot of people sneer.

Yes, sneer! There seems to be a real downer on kindness, which has always been a much undervalued trait, and positive news reports. The euphoria which surrounded big good news stories such as the wedding of Wills and Kate in 2011 or the Olympics doesn’t reflect itself in smaller good news stories like children getting the care they need or a kind person helping an injured animal. Those sorts of things just aren’t juicy enough to sustain our interest.

There’s also something in the British psyche which rejoices in the misfortunes of others. It’s a most unattractive trait, and one we should do our utmost to quash. ‘Serves them right’ or ‘told you so’ are phrases which I used to hear my mother parrot on numerous occasions with extreme relish. As a child I didn’t think anything of it, but now as an adult I realise how unkind and uncaring she was when she said this with such enjoyment. There is nothing good to be had rejoicing at others’ bad luck and nothing commendable about it.

I have learned through my own situations in life not to judge others. I have suffered at the hands of unthinking, unkind and shallow individuals who have said unpleasant things about me and never stopped to consider that there are several sides to every story. Because of the distress this has caused me, I have learned valuable lessons and now never do this to others. Yes, I gossip, but I don’t judge.

And that is what is wrong with the newspapers and the media today. It’s not wrong to report, but it is wrong to report with such bias and strong judgement that your subjective opinion comes across as fact. People that read the Daily Mail and don’t take it with a pinch of salt ought to be ashamed of themselves, because it is one of the worst offenders of the lot. If there’s a bandwagon rolling, that paper will jump on it without hesitation, and it’s responsible for many of the biased and prejudiced opinions of middle England today.

So when I’m on holiday I never read a newspaper. I am trying to avoid it when I’m at home. As far as I am concerned, they are fit only for lining the dog’s toilet training tray!

Hols again

I’m off back to Greece tomorrow after a three month break (yes, yes, I know, most of you get just one holiday a year so I should stop moaning).

Once again, potential burglars can stop short of even thinking about burgling my house because my daughter and her boyfriend are there and also, this time, my fast growing and ferocious Labrador puppy, which they are supposedly generally looking after, walking and feeding.

My flight is at a hideous time on Saturday morning and we have to be at Gatwick at 4am. But at least that does mean we get to our apartment at lunch time and have most of the day available to us (even if we do sleep for quite a lot of the afternoon). A nice dinner, and early night and we will be raring to go on Sunday.

Unfortunately the flight back is also at a rubbish time and we land at Gatwick about 2am. That is more knackering, as when you come home you don’t have a holiday to look forward to. But I suppose you have to come home some time!

Being adopted, I have no idea whether I have Mediterranean blood in me anywhere but it would certainly seem like it. There is very little of the English temperament in me as far as I can see, and I have never minded being out on a limb with my lifestyle and preferences. I dislike so much of the UK and adore being in southern Europe where the climate suits my health issues and where, being a keen cook, I love the variety of fresh, vibrant and nourishing food, in particular the fish, fruit and vegetables.

We have some friends who have recently moved up to Cumbria. Apparently they dislike being too warm and like the outdoorsy life. The fact that it is bloody cold and wet most of the time up there as well as being miles from anywhere would appear to have escaped them, but perhaps they like that too? Personally, it wouldn’t suit me. As I have blogged before, I like being warm, I love the sun and I hate being cold and wet. Tramping across the moors and sitting by a roaring fire in country pubs is alright for a holiday, but I would dislike the remoteness which, although it might be a novelty for a short while, would eventually grate on me and I’d be wondering where the next Chinese takeaway was coming from or where I could buy Clarins.

Greece is, of course, even further up shit creek than the UK at the moment and to make things worse would appear to have also lost the paddle. And they’re drifting even further upstream as you read with no hope whatever, if my layman’s observational view is worth anything, of paying back their debts and repairing their infrastructure in the next decade or even possibly within my life time.

But it’s still my favourite place. Even before I get off the plane, I relax. At home I’m ancie (I’ve no idea if that’s how you spell it, and the spell checker suggested ancient as an alternative – totally useless!) if things take too long or people are late, out there it doesn’t seem to matter. I’m sure I’m less stressed and my blood pressure goes down.

So early start or not, I can’t wait. I have been applying the tinted moisturiser for weeks now to make sure I’m not totally ‘engleesh white skin’ on the beach and my bag is packed – passport, cash, tickets, ipod and book. Gatwick, here I come!