Men on bikes

Struggling up the nasty ascent out of Alfriston, there were three of us: Three middle-aged men travelling the South Downs Way on mountain bikes.

Monty and I were a little ahead when Tweeter, bringing up the rear, was severely displeased to be overtaken by ancient, hunch-backed hiker in shorts and wife-beater vest yomping up the hillside at quite a startling pace.

The grey-stubbled loony evidently stoppeth one in three for as he drew level with my hard-pedalling, hard-suffering friend he held him with his glittering eye and muttered succinctly "You know what your problem is? your saddle's too low, you need cleats on your shoes and you're in the wrong gear".

"So, did he say anything to you two?" Tweeter asked when he related the strange ecounter to us a few minutes later, lying in the sunshine on the iron age fort at the top of the Down (just a few metres above the Long Man of Wilmington, had we but known it )

Monty and I exchanged glances "Well yes - he said we looked... weary...  he said he felt ... weary". And just at that moment a shadow flashed across us and we looked up in the sky "A buzzard?" I asked "some bird that's bigger?"

We were on the South Downs Way, some 80 undulating miles of it. Well, "undulating" is one way of looking at it. "back-breakingly steep" would be another way. But another way again would "astonishingly beautiful"

Fifty miles of bridleway we covered on the first day, then B&B in a country pub where, oddly, we met a wedding party, then thirty more miles the next day until after the hair-raising descent into Eastbourne that concludes the path we cycled another 30 miles along the coast to Rye and home. 115 miles altogether, four punctures, five new inner-tubes, one hair-raising double brake failure and a trip home for one of us to fetch a replacement bike.

And just one crash: myself, on day two, painfully and irritatingly: no blood to show for it! What's the point of falling off your mountain bike onto the hard flinty downs but having no heroic trickle of dried blood from elbow to wrist? Oil-stained calves alone don't make you a real biker.


The sun went behind a cloud and, re-energised by the view, and our rest on the ramparts, we got back on our bikes and pedalled away; it wasn't long before we caught up with the old man again, he was barracking a hapless inner-city group of kids on Duke of Edinburgh who were carrying insufficient fresh water.

We ignored him and pedalled on, like one, that on a lonesome road doth walk in fear and dread, and having once turned round walks on, and turns no more his head; because he knows a frightful fiend doth close behind him tread

Man Down

We have a house, we have a very old house in the country......and the drains are blocked.


This week, I have been mostly in our garden watching the excavation of a deep trench by two cheerful men from Dyno-Rod fortified only with Earl Grey tea laced with organic fruit sugar. ("tastes like washing up liquid")

Dyno-Rod. Dyno-Rod Dyno-Rod. Does the name conjure up for you a national squad of trained and uniformed drain-busters, gradually working their way up the Dyno-ranks?  Dear Reader, if you think that then you, are as mistaken as I was: it's a franchise.  You order Dyno-Rod, you get a couple of blokes from Bexhill who paid £40,000 for a bright red van. And why not?

First off, they prised up the ancient manhole cover on the terrace ("yeah, it is gull-poo, yeah, sorry about that"), and then with the clang of cast iron still ringing in our ears the three of us gathered to looked gravely down into the inspection pit. Professionals to the core all mention of the unpleasant contents within was politely eschewed, as two expert pairs of eyes, and one amateur, carefully sized up the direction of the foul drain.

It ran down the slope directly toward the only obstacle on my lawn: my carefully-level 12 foot trampoline... of course it did.

The trampoline had to be shifted. The three of us grabbed the sides and on Dyno-Rod's smooth count we heaved, manfully. The contraption rose from its moorings and we grinned triumphantly to each other, brute force triumphs over nature..

"OK, let's move it ... which way?"
"Up the slope!  let's go, 1..2...3... keep going.. keep going.. bit further..bit further.. MIND THE MANHOLE!"

Gull Down

A marital dilemma..

An infrequent evening alone, sans children

Pic - Aerokev

a consequent table-for-two at the poshest restaurant in town, our at-home pre-dinner bottle of Cotes du Rhone quite nicely half empty
Mrs Botogol and I were on the point of leaving, just minutes from our rendez-vous with gastronomy, when the phone rang

 "It's Gull Rescue, Mr Botogol, we can come out to you after all. We're on our way - with you in five"

"It was Gull Rescue, dear",  I explained, "they can come out after all. They are on their way now"
"But Alibert, our table is booked for... three minutes' time"
"I know.  Hmm.. there's only one solution", I said, "One of us must walk down to the George, claim our table, and then settle down to wait in the wing-backed leather chair in the lounge by the roaring fire, with an apple bellini .... while the other stays at home and helps chase an injured gull round the garden in the mud and rain"


I looked at Mrs Botogol, and Mrs Botogol looked at me.. a marital dilemma..
"I think", said she, pausing elaborately, "you'll want to take one for the blog"

-*-

"Well there you go", said the man from Hastings Gull Rescue, as we approached the angry, cornered bird, down by the compost heap, under the trampoline "that's one of your Scandinavian gulls".
I wondered how he could tell
"They are completely different!" he told me, astonished; it was something to do with the head. "Now then, don't worry, they can't hurt you, just get a bit closer... move veeerrrryyyy slowly..  don't worry..... FOR GOD'S SAKE KEEP AWAY FROM ITS BEAK"

We caught it quite quickly, and likely saved its life: the town foxes don't miss a gull with a broken wing on a February night. I thanked the brave catcher "I won't shake your hand, if you don't mind - never a good idea to loosen my grip" and Hastings Gull Rescue disappeared into the night, a £20 donation the richer.

I surveyed the gull-poo all over our paving stones..  a job for the morning I reckoned,  and hurried off down the High Street to rescue Mrs Botogol.  I found her quite content, well into her second bellini.

Dancing to the wrong beat

photo: Gin Soak

The building in which I work has a large and impressive foyer: marble-floored and marble-walled, a triple-height ceiling and a display of subtly expensive flowers that wouldn't look out of place at a Royal Wedding.

Guarding the electronic gates are stationed three or four blank-faced security guards. Grey suited, ear-plugged and miked up, they stare impassively, but not disinterestedly, at the comings and goings of staff and visitors.

Each morning as we approach the barriers we are required to hold out our photo-ID for inspection before swiping, the guards' brief glance a precaution against cards borrowed.. or stolen.

Blank-faced and impassive all, that is, save one guard who finds a pleasure in his job that escapes the others. He's worked for the bank for about two months but still he grins and he beams.  Each tiredly-proffered card is acknowledged with a point, a confidential smile, sometimes even a wink.  A heavy bag draws a sigh of commiseration and a helpful hand through the barrier; nervous and uncertain interviewees are greeted and directed reassuringly.  While his colleagues stand, still and unmoving against the wall, he paces back and forth, and dances from side to side, spinning on polished heels as flow of desk-bound executives parts around him. Twice I have seen a little skip of enthusiasm. He's a genuine character, familiar to all of us, a fixture who always draws a smile.

But in our sober and serious, politically besieged investment bank he doesn't hit quite the right note; doesn't speak with the right voice. I don't expect he will last very much longer.

At the hospital...

Mrs Botogol was in her dressing gown whereas I still had my outdoor shoes on, so it was I who took our youngest on a late-night dash to the hospital (no, don't worry, he's fine).

Picture - Laura Mary

"And why shouldn't it be me?", I thought to myself, as we retraced our route half-a-mile after a hurried wrong turn in Isleworth,  "I am perfectly capable….. dammit has the entire hospital actually moved or something?"

When I eventually found the West Middlesex (where it always has been, less than a mile away) I had no hesitation parking in the drop off zone, and sweeping confidently in through the doors of A&E.

Then, facing the barrage of questions from the triage nurse I began to realise it was quite a long time since I'd had responsibility for any crisis of a medical nature

"Does he have any long-term medical conditions"
- "Um, well,  not that I can think of"
"I beg your pardon?"
-"No. No he doesn't"
A sharp look
"Does he have any allergies?"
- "Um, I don't think so - um, hang on - do you have any allergies, son?"
-"no"
- "no, he doesn't have any allergies"
"Is he taking any medication at all at the moment"
- "um, not so far as I….. Hang on…hey! are you taking any pills or anything?"
- "no"
- "no, he isn't"
"Are all his vaccinations up to date"

I stared defiantly into the eyes of the hostile nurse.
- "Ok...I am going to say… 'yes' "
She stared right back at me.. and eventually she made a small, disbelieving  tick on her form.
"Has he…"
- "Right, now stop messing us about:  I want a CBC, a Chem-7, an ECG and a Tox-screen, and start him on a general antibiotics for any infection"

It's entirely possible I watch too much American hospital drama.

They were very professional: they explained gently that such tests are not possible on the NHS outside of working hours and then they led us into a small and babyish play area in paediatrics to wait for the doctor, and meanwhile would I mind moving my car, please, no don't worry there's four people ahead of you so plenty of time before doctor will get here.

The wait wasn't much fun. I had brought no small change for coffee machine, I had forgotten to bring my old-man reading glasses and all the other families in the unit spoke Polish or Hindi so there wasn't much conversation.

After an hour or so young Botogol's colour had returned, and he was feeling a lot better, which must have been what the nurses were waiting for, because as soon it was absolutely clear that he had completely recovered and was ready to go home a sceptical doctor arrived "So, what is the matter with you then young man?"

Last Sunday Morning

Crossing the footbridge over Teddington Lock two Sundays ago something was odd - some sort of a flurry on the narrow walkway ahead. I could see three figures : a man looking down at the river, and next to him two women waving and yelling. Beyond them an overturned cycle. On the opposite bank, a siren sounded.

We dismounted to push our own bikes and a man came running off the bridge; on his way past he caught his arm nastily on my handlebar, but he didn't stop

Pic - Maxwell Hamilton

But the yellowy-green early morning light, the warm sunshine settling on the river, the Thames boats, the fishermen on the bank, a heron knee deep in the limpid river edge created such a dissonance it was hard to understand that something sinister was going on.

The first hurdle in dealing with a crisis is recognising that there is a crisis: the aeroplane is on fire; the man with the knife is going to stab you; the pain in your chest is a heart attack; the light is fading and the temperature is dropping and your companion cannot ski down the mountain. The heroes, the survivors, are not always the strongest and fittest - sometimes they are merely those who recognise the danger.

My friend and I were intrigued but not worried and grinned at the strange cries from the two excitable women on the bridge, until we could hear them properly. "Help us!" they were yelling, but clearly they were in no danger "help us! We need Help". Nothing made sense.

There was a man in the water .

The Necker cube flipped and the strange scene resolved itself.

A man was in the river. White haired, fully dressed, he clung silently to the floating pontoon to which a handful of boats are moored. At first sight easy to help, but look: a chained and heavily barb-wired gate guarded the pontoon preventing access. Only 50 metres from the bridge he was nevertheless beyond help from the bank while, 200 metres downstream, two fishermen in a boat sat with their backs to us, oblivious to the women trying to attract their attention. With a jerk I realised that if the man lost his grip then someone was going to have to go into the water and swim to reach him.

I can swim - but I am not the sort of swimmer who should strike out into the Thames and attempt a rescue. But what if no one at the riverside was that kind of swimmer? One thing was clear: if I was going to go in the water then a leap from the bridge wasn't the best way to start and I nervously eyed up the river bank working out the best route.

And then almost as quickly as the danger had come, it disappeared: the fisherman heard and heeded the wild women's callings and with a burst of outboard motor were quickly alongside the floating pontoon, they leapt out and pulled the man safely from the water on to the deck. A policeman arrived on the bridge - a numpty who charged down to the pontoon to stand, uselessly, on the wrong side the barbed wire. The Teddington lifeboat was summoned…. and we continued on or way.

Later that afternoon I reflected that I entirely lack any journalistic aptitude: I could have interviewed the bystanders - did he jump or did he fall? How long was he in the water? I could have taken the name and the photographs of the alert women on the bridge and the lifesaving fisherman and written it all up for the Ricky&Twicky.

At least I have got a blog to tell the tale.

One Friday, last month

Looking back, I had felt weird all afternoon.

Not due at the restaurant until 7.30pm nevertheless, bored silly, I left work at five and took the tube to London Bridge from where I wandered, against the flow of the crowd, through the closing-up remains of Borough market and out on to the South Bank.

It was autumn-chilly, but I wasn't cold and I pushed on past the Golden Hind, Vinopolis, Clink Street, the Globe and to a bank building where in 1996 I had worked for over a year as a consultant and where, now, I paused and stared into the windows trying to catch a glimpse of my former life.

When I reached Tate Modern I calculated I had still an hour to kill and so I went inside, vaguely in search of a Kandinsky, vaguely in search of a surprise and a few minutes later ventured, intrigued and hesitant, into How It Is, an enormous dark steel box that occupies the Turbine Hall. Completely dark, but clanking and echoing with the footsteps of others, and with whispers echoing from within, I felt not alone but disconnected : It was uncomfortable although not scary, disorientating but not debilitating and it was impossible to perceive how many people were inside with me. I was glad, when I turned around, to find that the way out was clear and obvious.

At the entrance to the box stood two identical twins in identical bright scarlet dresses, and identical ribbons in their hair, talking to a curious young man, and I thought I heard one say, quite distinctly: "Actually, we're an exhibit".  At the time it made no sense at all.

They did have a Kandinsky, though it took a moment  for I didn't immediately recognise it as one of his: Lake Starnberg: a confusing, false colour view of an autumnal Switzerland.

I scurried away, glad to be outside, and hurried to Waterloo.

By the time I reached the restaurant it was raining and it felt like a long time since I had left Canary Wharf. We were eating with another family, a birthday treat. Greasy antipasti and two cool beers later I felt the warm excitement of a Friday evening but the restaurant was windowless and too dark and it was hot and noisy. The antipasti was filling and the beer was cool and when my cheeseburger came I chewed a couple of mouthfuls and suddenly I needed to stand up very quickly.

And then I was back inside the steel box, but now the Kandinsky was there as well, and the colours brighter but it still it made no sense, and this time I could tell there were lots of other people there, and far away I heard someone shout "My goodness! - it's Alibert" and I laughed.



And then I was standing at the other end of the restaurant, leaning against a counter and a worried-looking Mrs Botogol was there with me, staring.

"You fainted", she said, "How long were you out for?" and I could only think "I'm supposed to ask that" and it wasn't fair, and I had no answer and so, for quite a few moments, I didn't say anything at all.

In the interests of science

It was a damp, cold morning in Hounslow and the clocks were striking eight when I presented myself at the UK Biobank offices ready to sign away my body medical records to science

Staircase to hell by Jano De Cesare

'Yes', said the bored security guard, 'they are expecting you' surreptitiously pressing a button under the counter.

I was the first to arrive and foolishly early, but the white-coated, young, pleasant but strangely unreal staff were unruffled, and before long I was meekly seated at a computer console answering intrusive personal questions about my medical history. Behind me a middle-aged woman was being mysteriously reassured, as to my left a sinister-looking young asian sat down at a console and pretended to be answering his own survey... while all the time keeping an close eye on me.
 
A door swung closed with a click. A window blind fell. Above me I could see an ATMOS CCTV camera, red light blinking, pointing directly at me.  It suddenly didn't seem right at all. What was really going on here? Who was watching me? I imagined a large room on an upper floor, a giant monitor, my face filling the screen.. before it a huddle of Daleks angrily commanding some hapless human, "YES! .. THAT ONE... THE BALD ONE WHO HAD THE TONSILLECTOMY IN 1969. BRING. HIM. TO. US! HE MUST. BE. EXTERMINATED!'

"Mr Botogol?", I leapt out of my chair,

"Please come this way, Alibert... would you like a biscuit?".   At least, I figured, at least I'd die with a chocolate hobnob in my mouth..

Heffalump's Footsteps

Walking to work last week in the low, dazzling September exalting in the cool, milky autumn air; I was juggling my mp3 player, my newspaper, my blackberry, my phone and my old-man glasses when the phone rang.

Parallel Worlds by alicepopkorn ( in and out )

Glancing at the display I was nonplussed to see who was calling for there on the screen was flashing  Alibert Botogol [Work]

Now, I've seen an episode or two of Dr Who in my time, so I knew pretty much what to expect: most likely my alter ego from a parallel universe was taking advantage of a tiny wormhole in the space-time continuum to place a call to summon my assistance with a problem that was threatening the security of the entire multiverse.

Either that or someone was burgling my office, had found my address book, and was having a laugh at my expense.

Not sure which prospect was the more frightening and full of curiosity but not without hesitation, and somewhat gingerly, I took the call.

"Hello, Alibert Botogol speaking?", I said just as the person at the other end said exactly the same thing. "Hello? Hello?" we both continued,  talking over each other, until, spooked, I fell silent. So did the other guy.... I waited, coolly....

...until a tiny squeal from my pocket distracted me and I fished out of my jacket... my blackberry. I must have forgotten to lock the keys when I stuffed it away for it seemed to be making a phone call.....

The dockland breeze blew chill

I was sitting in the sunlight, the early morning sunlight - the pearl grey sunlight that settles over Cabot Square, sipping a rich and hot, bitter and dark, Cafe Brera macchiato.

by Fenchurch!

I was cooling down after a long and weary, fast and furious, almost record-breaking two wheeled commute.

Hunched over my blackberry I quickly sent enough emails to give the impression that I was in the office, (that is worth something when you think about it, that is worth some money) and then I stretched out my legs sipped my coffee, and turned to the Guardian crossword

"Excuse me?"
It was a kid, early 20s, besuited, betied, hot-looking. I tried my hardest to glower
"Can tell me... I mean sorry to disturb you... but do you know.... I mean I thought that you would know:  Which one is Morgan Stanley?"

I looked him up and down for a moment or two not, I hope, unkindly:

"Interview, eh?"

And the early morning sunshine darkened as the ghost of my interviews past returned to earth.

The interview where they kept me waiting... and waiting.... until I finally up-sticked and left. The interview-while-walking-around, the 'How do you value a knockout option?' interview, the 'What's so bad about inflation anyway?' interview, the time I was assaulted on the tube on my way to an interview, the flying back from New York overnight on Friday for a Saturday morning interview, and the 'I've read your CV carefully and I have to say I have absolutely no idea why you applied for this job" interview.

The dockland breeze blew chill, and around the edge of the square swayed the bourganvillea and roses of Jericho.

"Um, yes actually, it is an interview", he said, "how did you know?"

I smiled, I hoped enigmatically, "Never mind, hey well, best of luck with that, anyway! Morgan Stanley? Sure, of course I do:  it's that one over there" and I pointed carefully at Barclays Capital.

For I have a dark side.

And one day he might write a blog and then he'll thank me for it.

amusing but spiteful

Every so often at work they invite external speakers, successful in their chosen fields, to inspire us with their ideas, experiences and achievements

A New Dawn by Thomas Hawk

There are canapés, and I always attend.

Last week the speaker was an entrepreneur venture capitalist. No, not one of the ones on Dragon's Den, but if you are the sort of person who could name five entrepreneur venture capitalists, then perhaps you would have heard of him.

His messages were simple, and they were simply told and there were two:

Lesson the first: Perseverance.

It is perseverance, he said, that creates 'so called luck' and in particular luck is created by being out and about and connecting with people - people who have ideas, or who might be able to help you.

Sitting eight rows back I shifted uncomfortably in my seat with the realisation that every single one of the entrepreneurs who have come to speak to us have given us pretty much that same message.

And then, because I am British and not American and therefore value cynicism over optimism, I thought of all the entrepreneurs out there who have not yet persevered long enough to create their luck and have not been invited to speak to us at work

Lesson the second: - Adaptability

If you have an idea you will face setbacks. You need to constantly reassess: you must ask yourself  "Do I have a good idea?" and if you do have good idea then see 1) Perseverance. But also see 2) Adaptability, lest your idea is good one but your approach is wrong.

For sometimes you might open the doors of the room that contains your idea and stride in expecting a ballroom but find yourself in a cupboard. This doesn't make it a bad idea, just a cupboard-sized idea. Or perhaps you have an idea the size of a cupboard and open the doors to find yourself in a ballroom?  Whatever: Either way you need to recognise and adapt.

Now, as well as being a cynic I am also a pragmatist, and I did like that.


Afterwards over canapés I encountered a colleague I hadn't seen for a while and James and I spent a happy glass of wine or so picking over Project Phoenix until we were disconcerted by the organiser of the event, a senior executive normally to be found on the 27th floor, who came smoothly over to shake our hands and ask us who we were and what we thought of the speaker.

Never too shy to express an opinion I said that I thought our speaker was entertaining and engaging and, I judged, in the top quartile of recent speakers.  Indeed, I continued, sipping some more Chardonnay, remembering previous speakers, and warming to my theme, "on a scale of " gesturing now, hand at knee level, I named a famous chef, to (reaching high in the the air), a famous businessman,  "he was about here" (armpit).

I was rather pleased with my improvised bon mot / bon mime, but as the VIP excused himself and hurried away I reflected how no one likes a smart arse, and that unconventional is rarely clever.

Of course I should have come up with something much blander, something more right-thinking, something interior-decorated that surrendered self in favour of conformity. Or more cleverly still, something that drew attention to the quality of my interlocutor's speech of introduction, rather than to my own amusing but spiteful glibness. Lesson the third - diplomacy.

On the other hand James choked on his canapé and said 'good one' so it was a quip not entirely wasted.

All the same I was glad I had given a false name.

Swiftly but gingerly

The half-second or so between the realisation that you are going to crash, and the actual crash lasts an age: time really does slow down, the brain, astonishingly, works faster (it's possible, then)

Nervosa by forezt

On Monday, in the short moment between jamming on my brakes and hitting the floor a great many thoughts passed through my mind:

• I am about to have a crash
• It can't be more than three months since my last crash: bad luck? or bad cycling?
  
• My brakes are rubbish, I should have sorted them out weeks ago
• I wonder whether I will be injured when I hit the ground?
• I wonder whether the dog will be injured when I hit the dog?
• After I have hit the dog, and I am on the ground, very possibly injured, will the dog, very probably angry, take the opportunity to bite me?
  
• After I have hit the dog, and I am on the ground, very possibly injured, will the dog's owner, very probably angry, take the opportunity to bite me?

And then I hit the dog.

It was a large, reddish deaf dog, with two large dog-friends. The other two had heeded my bell and swerved away to avoid collision, but the third veered directly into my path.  I did brake hard, and can't have been going very fast when I hit it for it yelped, loudly, and then it ran off.  Swiftly but gingerly, I picked myself up off the path and got to my feet.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see the beast's owner running toward me; so I leapt smartly back on to my bike - time enough to look for grazes later - and pedalled away.

As I escaped I heard, behind me, the breathless owner yell at me: 'Sorry!'

TRI-ing Times

Buoys in the Lake by 10b travelling

"First Time?", they asked me and I nodded, "Don't worry, the lake's not too cold now, just sign this disclaimer.... and this one.... and fill in this one.... Now, what colour hat will you be wearing?"

Hat? I needed a hat? I suddenly had that Golf Club feeling. You know, it's like that dream when when you suddenly realise you are naked, but worse: you are at the Gold Club, addressing the ball at the first tea when a steward coughs and indignantly hauls you back to the clubhouse for wearing shorts that are insufficently tailored.

And you are not dreaming  (This has happened to me twice)

"I, um, I didn't know I had to wear a hat"
"Well, you're supposed to, really: it's just so that the safety boat can see you clearly"

It was getting worse and worse.

And then they pointed out the 750m buoys to me. "No, not that one - look see the red one? No, not that one, further than that, no further than that, no further than that...."

Impetuously I suddenly hauled up the zip on my (surely too tight?) wetsuit and I leapt in.

It was very cold. I quickly realised just exactly why everyone else was wearing a hat.

Four weeks to go

Close Calls, and Deep Regrets

frozen light in a snow weekend
by Paulo Brandão

In life they say that you regret the things you didn't do much more than the things you did: for while the bold mistake is easy overlooked, the fork untaken (or, worse, the fork unnoticed) gnaws the soul.


And it was in that spirit last week that I boldly attempted all the jumps in the snow park (I stacked), and it was in that spirit that I raced with middle-child madly, recklessly down the mountain (it was an epic tie) and it was in that spirit that I persuaded Mrs Botogol, a determined but improving skier to attempt the blue run down to St Martin, to return over the mountain via the gondola.

The previous few days, careering round the well-groomed pistes of the Three Valleys in bright sunshine, pausing only at high altitude bars to enjoy a €6 glass of vin chaud and free wi-fi, it was  possible to imagine that the Alps have been tamed.

Not so.

For when Mrs Botogol and our party found ourselves an hour behind schedule and 2600m above sea level, the sunshine long gone and a light snow falling, sliding and stumbling as fast as we could for the very-soon-to-close gondola which was Mrs Botogol's only hope of making her way safely down the mountain that evening short of an emergency helicopter, well the thin-aired, steep and freezing mountains were suddenly about as tame as a polar bear.

It wasn't as if the decision point that afternoon had gone unnoticed either: the metaphorical and literal fork in our road had been 45 minutes earlier and 800m lower when, behind time on a run that had proved too demanding by far, we had found ourselves at the top of Biolley piste and the bottom of the St Martin 2 chairlift.  The safe option was obvious: the five us should continue down the mountain to safety: an easy blue run, no more than 5 mins on a good day 25 minutes at current pace but to the wrong side of the mountain, and a good 30km taxi ride back to Meribel.

The other option, the silly option you could call it, was to head up the mountain the waiting gondola, 1000m above us and two chair lifts away.

I thought about it... and we blundered on.

It was when Mrs Botogol fell over getting off the first chair-lift that I knew for certain I had made the wrong decision, but by then there was no way to turn back and on we pressed, higher and colder, the pistes beside us all redder and steeper.

So, how close did we come to catastrophe?

Well, if I tell you that Mrs Botogol and her friend made it into the gondola but by the time the two boys – just a chair behind us on the way up - had taken off their skis and scrambled over to me the Retourner a Meribel door was shut and firmly padlocked.... well then you will realise that we had the nearest of near misses.

The ski down was fun though, and the boys and I easily overtook the mums in the bubble, who waved cheerily as we raced past.

“You skied down!”, they said when they eventually rejoined us at the bottom of the mountain, “but why didn't you take the gondola like we did”

“Well, you know, the boys fancied a run, so..."   

No regrets

A new President

Peace by Natashalatrasha

You wouldn't know it this week -  but the USA is not actually the first country to get elect a black president after a long history of oppression and white rule.

South African apartheid may have outlasted American segregation  - by just 20 years - but when it eventually fell in 1990 the impact was more immediate and, in 1994, to world-wide excitement and joy, South Africans elected a charismatic black man promising renewal, change and hope as their first black President.

And I was there.

We were living the plush Northern Suburbs of Johannesburg. We had two (very, very) small children and in the January of that year, with the absurd self-confidence of youth, we had set out with our young family for a South Africa that the Sunday Times - and indeed many of our friends -  assured us by April would be an anarchic bloodbath.

During the ensuing months it would be fair to say that we experienced some trepidation but in the event our election day ended not in riots but an impromptu evening picnic on the streets. Well, on the finely-manicured suburban roadside, owners, maids and gardeners all together drinking champagne, clapping, laughing and talking into the late autumn evening.

There was no blogging in 1994, and instead I wrote monthly letters home.  Here's what I wrote in April 1994.

Letter from Jonnesburg - Election Special

The election campaign formally started in the middle of March with the Absolutely-last-and-final-This-time-we-really-mean-it-No-really-just-try-us date for the registration of political parties.

I rose early the following morning to watch on  live television the draw to determine which party would appear at the top of the ballot paper - with 21 parties standing, an 18 inch ballot paper, and maybe 25% of the population illiterate or semi-literate this was a big issue.

The agreed procedure was a random draw for first place,  and  thereafter alphabetical order.

Like so much else in the election, the event was a circus: instead of drawing a party at random, they drew a letter.  So seven of the eight parties whose names begin with 'A' had no chance of being at the top, but with no parties at all beginning with G,H,I,J or K, the Luso South Africa Party had six chances of winning.

At the moment of the draw the ANC observer complained that the papers weren't shuffled properly; the hapless Mr Justice Kriegler had to insert his arm into the slot and stir them about a bit. 

Eventually the draw was made:  P. 

Then the International Election Commission (IEC) officials looked even more foolish as they stood, gaping, behind their table wondering 'who could that be then?'  Eventually the Pan African Congress observer lifted his hand and while the other parties were congratulating him on his achievement a quiet but distinct chorus of 'Of course! PAC! Obviously! Huh! How stupid of us' could be heard.

Apart from the PAC, also looking smug at this point were the Keep it Straight and Simple (KISS) party, who were second on the list (How's that? They had  included their 'The' on the registration papers). Also smug were the National Party who had drawn what was generally reckoned to be the second-best slot  - right at the bottom. It was to be some weeks later, after distributing 4,000 'To be tops, vote at the bottom' posters, that they would be so unluckily stickered out of position by the re-entering IFP ¹

In the following week the ballot papers were 'finalised':  Not before the IFP withdrew. The AMC (an Inkatha spoiler party created specifically to confuse the voters) were forced to become the AMCP (African Moderates Congress Party) but were allowed to keep their ANC-like black, green and gold logo. The Soccer Party were told that there wasn't room on the ballot paper mugshot to include both a soccer ball and their leader's face and no, they couldn't drop the face. Inconsistently, the Women's Rights Peace Party were permitted their picture of both of the two joint leaders (presumably standing extremely closely together).

As the campaign got underway, the IEC voter education programme started in earnest. At first I was contemptuous: what could be simpler than making a cross? But I soon learned: polls in the Cape suggested that the majority of voters thought the second ballot paper was for indicating their second choice (it was for their regional assembly); it seemed that many people were confused by the negative implications of a cross (as opposed to a tick). It emerged that farmers in the Free State were telling their farm-workers they must sign their ballot paper (which would invalidate it) and I listened to radio phone-ins with questions like 'Can I carry my children into the polling station?' (yes) 'What if I can't read' (officials will help you) and 'What if I make a mistake?' (ask for another paper) as well as more worrying questions such as 'Can I vote for the same party on both ballot papers?' (yes) and 'Can I vote if I am unemployed / not a landowner / live in an illegal squatter camp / have a criminal record / have only a Bophuthatswana ID?' (yes in all cases).

If the organisation has been poor, however, the campaigning has been good. Some of the slogans have been memorable including (in strict ballot paper order): the PAC's sinister: 'One settler: one bullet'; the ANC's romantic: 'The time is now!'; the Democratic Party's clever: 'If the Right get in there'll be nothing left; If the Left get in there'll be nothing right'; the Soccer Party's punning 'We're the only party FIT to govern'; the National Party's cutting: 'The ANC have yet to run a township successfully. Why trust them with a country?'; and, in a full page advert on the day that they were removed from the ballot paper, the IFP's portentous 'Vote Inkatha: When the time comes' (followed up four weeks later, of course, with a predictable: 'Vote Inkatha: The time has come!')

Other slogans have not been so successful. Following the ANC's 'Jobs! Peace! Freedom!' and the Nat's 'Vote for Peace! Vote for Jobs!' the Democratic Party (DP')s 'Freedom! Federalism! Free Enterprise!' hardly seemed likely to capture the imagination of the nation. The outspoken DP also made few friends with 'No killers, kidnappers, torturers or corrupt politicians' (a reference to the various candidates on the National Party and the ANC lists who have been convicted of these crimes).

The unambitiously named Minority Front didn't have any slogan at all.

We entered into the political process enthusiastically. I took my parents to a ANC vs. DP debate in Sandton Town Hall. At first I was nervous as this was only ten days after the Johannesburg massacre ² and the toyi-toying ANC supporters were initially even more frightening than our kiwi friend's haka at his wedding last summer. However the debate was fun and was conducted in an excellent spirit of mutual respect and rivalry.

I was impressed. When did candidates last agree to debate with each other in a British general election? The occasion also yielded our best South African souvenirs: a Nelson Mandela for President poster, andthe local paper carried a picture of the debate with my mother just discernible amidst a sea of black faces in the ANC side of the hall.

But while the campaign was inventive, the rumours were more so. Did you know that in the Transkei the National Party gave out porridge laced with invisible ink so that the voters would get it on their hands and be prevented from voting? Did you know that the ANC bussed 600,000 electors into the Western Cape (a marginal region). That the word in the townships is that come April the 28th the Northern suburbs will burn? That every single flight out of South Africa in April and May is booked up? That shops are deliberately encouraging panic buying to reduce their stocks before the looting? That the electricity workers are buying candles? That British Airways have made a plan to evacuate all British passport holders if trouble should flair up? That the AWB have purchased 25 Army-surplus armoured personnel carriers? That the ANC have published plans to confiscate all second homes? That thousands of Zulus stayed away from the election because the voting stations were square, which means that the tokoloshes can hide in the corners?

Which of the above do you believe? I can't be sure, but I think that only one is true, however all of them have had a long life and a big impact in the various communities: The IEC had to officially investigate the porridge complaint; If we panic-bought once we panic-bought five times with no discernible effect on the stock-levels. The story about the armoured personnel carriers, however, was reported in Business Day (equivalent of the Financial Times) so I actually tend to give it some credence. Did you believe in the BA evacuation plan? So did I at first. But try dividing 1.5 million passport holders by the number of passengers on a jumbo jet - it's about nine flights a day, seven days a week for a whole year.

When it finally arrived the election was extraordinary. On the 26 April, the day before polling, I sat in Village Walk mall having lunch on a balcony overlooking the street.

There were about 20 of us gathered to celebrate the passing of the old South Africa and the ushering in of the new. In some ways it was a typical office party: pizzas, beers, a whip round at the end that was 50 Rands short of the bill. In other ways.....well even I had a lump in my throat as they all sang Die Stem, the old national anthem, followed by Nkosi Sikelel' i Afrika, the new one. (Fortunately I wasn't so overcome as to attempt God Save the Queen, despite much encouragement). We remembered the old South Africa, perhaps tastelessly, with Irish Coffee - a large amount of black with a thin layer of white sitting uncomfortably on the top. We celebrated the new South Africa by stirring vigorously.

You will have seen the queues, read about the logistical chaos and heard all the people on the TV. What, perhaps, you couldn't see was the extraordinary sense of peace and reconciliation. People were patient and smiling. There were no drive-by shootings, there were no riots, there wasn't even any queue jumping. (Some friends were even able to leave the queue and go back home to get more beers). All over South Africa whites and blacks, rich and poor, ANC and Inkatha all stood peacefully shoulder to shoulder for hours in the hot sun, simply to vote.

It can't last, but: Oh, what a good beginning.

 
===============================================================


1  IFP  - The participation of Chief Buthelezi's Zulu-dominated Inkatha Freedom Party was generally considered crucial to the success and credibility of the election. Buthelezi realised that and with an acute sense of brinkmanship entered the election, withdrew and then eventually re-entered. By the tame they camme back in, the ballot papers had been printed and millions of stickers were printed, and had to be manually affixed to ballot papers, one by one. In some marginal areas the stickers somehow never arrived.

2. The Johannesburg  Massacre. On March 28th ANC Security Guards in the Shell Centre in Joburg opened fire on Zulu demonstrators in the street below, killing 19 of them. A long time later emerged that Nelson Mandela himself had authorised the guards to open fire (something you don't hear much about now that he is a Saint)

A Dinner Party Surprise

   'Surprise' by O'mages     

In the face of a surprise one imagines oneself unflappable and calm, suave and assured, decisive and charming. Or that's the hope.

At dinner last Thursday on the French Riviera, champagne glasses tinkling around our table, I had the chance to put my hope to the test when the bien chic, bien elegant French woman seated to my right gently touched my arm, flashed a white-toothed smile and breathed softly: "Can I ask you, Alibert? Eez eet OK if my sister and I kiss you zis ev'ning?"

I blinked, and not in a calm, suave way. Very possibly, dear reader, I flapped.

"You see, 'ere in France it eez  zee custom", she continued, in a waft of Givenchy, "at New Year, to kiss, at midnight.... but we know zat you English, you don't like so much to be kissed, and you must not be uncomfortable 'ere in our country".

I think I must have had too much Pomme Dauphinoise and Pouligny Montrachet, for my voice when I spoke quavered unconscionably,  "Well, I think that... I mean... well, obviously..."

I trailed off,  for over her bare, french shoulder I could see her excitable (and suspiciously wired) 'usband, dancing tanned, wild  - and now shirtless - with my daughters.

Beyond him, far below our hosts' beautiful villa shimmered the Mediterranean, redly reflecting the fireworks of St Tropez on the far side of the Gulf.  In the kitchen yet another champagne cork popped and I collected myself.  "Naturellement, Sylvie, bien sur, zat would be  - I mean that would be - perfectly agréable"

But the moment had passed: Sylvie was paying attention to her right-hand neighbour; to my left everyone had switched to a type of incomprehensible French that resembled-not language I learned at O-Level long ago.  Through the Bose sound system Abba asked: Does your Mother Know? and I fell silent and tried not to look as if no one was talking to me.

"What would very agreeable, dear", asked Mrs Botogol, appearing unexpectedly at my elbow.

I sighed, calmly and suavely,  "A 2009", I replied, gravely, "that proves better than 2008 - now that would be very agreeable - don't you think?"

Big Ben, carefully Mp3'd and play-listed earlier in the week, bonged right on time, and the iPod segued smoothly.

Poor old Johnny Ray

Sounded sad upon the radio, 

he moved a million hearts in mono.

"So, shall we dance?"

The Winchelsea Street Game: Blue Team Till I Die.

Another day in East Sussex, another bizarre, centuries-old Christmas ritual.

It was Boxing Day, and the Winchelsea Street Game: a medieval no-rules, no holds-barred contest in which three teams compete to gain possession of a Frenchman's Head

and stuff it in a beer barrel.

I mean, how rough could it be? Everyone is  (as the 'referee' reminded us) subject to the Laws of the Land, and the last fatality was in 1808.

Blue Team were short a player, so I handed Mrs Botogol my sunglasses for safekeeping, stripped off my coat, kissed the children a tearful goodbye, donned a blue neckerchief, and strode purposefully, amidst wild applause from the crowd, into the fray; keeping just half an eye on the dangerously young and strong-looking Green Team who were staring closely at me and nudging each other.

"I'm not a tourist!", I said, bravely, "I have a house here!"  They looked away, but there was something familiar about team Green: I had a strange feeling I had seen a couple of them before, but I wasn't sure where. 

Then the Frenchman's Head was tossed into the melee and all hope of the running, passing game we had planned evaporated as the three teams formed a 25-person collapsed maul on the hard and unforgiving surface of Castle Street.

"Mind the Clematis!", shouted the ref (it's that sort of village) "Mind the Lexus! Mind the man with crutches!"

In the midst of the scrum, the Head suddenly rolled free and I scooped it up and headed for the goal, with just three Greens to beat.

As I lowered my shoulder I suddenly recalled where I had seen then before: the George, Christmas Eve:    "Get the Catholic!",  they cried.

"No, wait!", I shouted, "you're labouring under a perfectly understandable misapprehension! I'm not actually a  ouch! oomph!"

"And do you really live here?" said a voice in my ear, "or is it just a holiday house?"; I tightened my grip on the Frenchman's bonce and fought for dear life.

The result, you ask? Well, cough, ahem, we won! By 4 goals to 3 to 2 and not, I like to think, without a contribution from myself¹

Afterwards we all repaired to the New Inn for roast potatoes and to compare grazes. I had three. Grazes I mean, not potatoes (which is five fewer grazes than I received falling off my bike this morning).

"Actually, Dad, you quite surprised me", said middle-child, reflectively, "you were, well, quite aggressive".

====================================================================
¹ I only went and scored the winning goal :-)

More pictures here and here
(Unaccountably the scenes of the crowd carrying me shoulder high through the streets of Winchelsea, chanting my name - all failed to come out, so you'll have to imagine)

On the treadmill

picture by dead_squid

I used to absolutely hate running. Always.

But then suddenly, in one of those inexplicable, but seemingly permanent, changes that one goes through at around the age of forty, I started to to enjoy it, and now I run as often as I can in the Bushy Park  5km¹ each Saturday morning.

My PB is a shade over 22 mins, and I am exceeding proud of it, being of a certain age and not, to be honest, entirely of a runner's build² and if I work hard, and run as often as I can, I have calculated I'll reach my 100th race, and receive the coveted T-shirt, and a round-of-applause-in-front-of-the-impatient-crowd before I am fifty. Just :-(

On the other hand, before I get too big-headed, 22 mins works out to be an average speed of 13.6 km/h, while the world record for the marathon was set last month in Berlin at an average speed of 20.4 km/h.  That's fast.  Running at that speed Haile Gebrselassie would win the Bushy Park 5km every single week. Often by more than a minute.

How far, I wondered, could I run at 20.4 km/h?

Well, another splendid thing about working for an Investment Bank is that we have a gym in the basement (and even more splendid - there are fewer people in it every month) so yesterday I put on my fastest trainers, set the treadmill to 20.4, pressed the big green button and sped off.

Afterwards in changing rooms, making idle small talk³ with strangers, I was sure I could have run  further, yes much further. What stopped me, you see, thundering along on the treadmill, heart pounding, arms flailing, feet stomping on the belt, sweat dripping from my temples, headphones dangling from one waxy ear, wasn't exhaustion or lactic acid build-up in the calves. Neither was it the increasing realisation that just one tiny misstep or stumble and I was likely to lose my balance and be ejected smartly from the back of the roaring machine on my stomach.

No - what stopped me was the consternation and - if I am honest - look of absolute fear on my neighbours faces on the treadmills either side, and so that's how it was, that after just 250m I was forced to press the big red emergency stop button and call it a day.

===============================================================
¹ for all my American readers (cough):  5 kilometres = 3.11 miles
² the race is dominated by skinny, unhealthy-looking 20 somethings with 30" waists and long legs. Meh.
³ will our top management be sacrificing their bonuses; if they did would it be a trick; and - most importantly - would it mean a smaller or larger bonus pool for the rest of us?

Crisis Management

picture by ton3vita

Well that was an exciting month to take a break from blogging: while greenideas was away banks collapsed in the worst financial crisis that even old timers like me can remember.

It's an astonishing 23 years this month since I started work in the City.

(I can still remember my first day: it was an appropriately high tension, sweaty one as I found myself hopelessly lost walking in small circles around Holborn viaduct looking for an office I had never been to before, without the aid of an A to Z or even, in fact, the address)

In the first twenty-two years, eleven months of my career I witnessed just three financial events of the where-you-when? variety. They were:

• 19 October 1987
• 16 September 1992
• and, of course, most excitingly of all: the glorious champagne soaked hedonism of the celebrations in the old Arbitrager, Throgmorton Street on 16 March, 1988

Each one of those I experienced closely but vicariously for I wasn't actually an Equities trader in '87, and nor was I an FX dealer in'92. Nor, if truth must painfully be told was I even a high-rate tax payer in '88. (I pretended I was though).

And, if there was pattern to my witness it was that on each of those events I didn't actually have a clue to the full extent of the crisis before me, and each time I mainly got on with my work, glancing occasionally at the screen, before going home to have my tea.

Actually it's a good job I wasn't a trader because I don't think I would have been a successful one: a key skill in the markets is realising, seeing, understanding the situation you are actually in, the crisis that is unfolding, the options and opportunities available; and then choosing one. Indeed perhaps that's the key to facing any crisis whether financial, military or indeed of the soul: it's not choosing the fork in the road that's hard: it's noticing that you were, in point of fact, at a fork.

So third time around, facing the collapse of the financial markets and quite possibly TEOTWAWKI, I was determined to do better and to pay more attention and so, instead of merely working, I have spent the last three weeks chuckling at the sardonic wit on alphaville, standing outside Lehman brothers watchnig laptops walking out the building in what amounted to a mass looting and, in the evenings, mainly panicking.

I was a believer in omens, or superstition I would have noted how the extraordinary events in the markets were once again accompanied by extraordinary weather: while Black Monday was preceded by a hurricane, the fall of Lehmans and Merrill took place with Canary Wharf bathed in unseasonal sunshine, and on the Friday evening, ten days ago, several thousand people gathered in Jubilee Place to drink and talk in the eerie, late autumn sunshine.

Twenty-three years previously, in October 1985, as it become later and later, and I became sweatier and sweatier, it eventually dawned on me that I was actually going to have to ask for help and, at my wit's end I went inside an open church door, and asked the vicar. For an unbeliever I seem to have spent a lot of my life in churches.

The priest was kind but clueless, but right outside I met a grimy street cleaner who had no trouble at all pointing out the Coopers & Lybrand building. I hurried away, and when I remembered to look back to thank him he had disappeared. I got to work at 8:59; perhaps he was an angel.

What's in a name?

Johannesburg. Pic by Michael Heilemann

When we lived in South Africa I made an unusual friend.

It was 1994 and I was 31, but Vaatjie must have been nearly 40 when I knew him: a large man, a South-African man, a boertjie oke, and he looked it.  Indeed every inch of him looked the Afrikaans-speaking, beer-swilling, braai-loving no-nonsense-taking, very restless prop forward that he was.

There was something dangerous about him.

"I was born on the wrong side of the tracks, Alibert" he'd sometimes tell me over over his third Castle. He never elaborated but one winter afternoon outside the Loftus Versfeld I witnessed a chance encounter with an old acquaintance: a burst of Afrikaans swearwords (I'd learned those), raised voices and a flash of anger; and it was easy to believe him.

Vaatjie was a middle manager in a large South African bank where he was in charge of a chunk of one of their change programmes - the change programme that evidently required hot-shot, 31 year-old international management consultants to help run it. If ever there was a fish more out of water than Vaatjie hunched over a spreadsheet in the Programme Management Office, then I never saw it.

In twelve months living in Africa he was the only white person I ever heard speaking native languages to black people, "What was that?", I asked one time, after a bunch of kids had agreed that they would 'watch' my car for only 5 Rands, "Ah, look, man, it's a mixture, ja? but mostly Zulu, it's how people speak at work - in the mines in the farms". I asked him where he'd learned it  "Ah, see, Alibert I grew up on the wrong side of the tracks".

When we moved back home it was hard to keep in touch - he's not really much of a letter writer. In 1996 I was back in Jo'burg and I looked him up; we went to Ellis Park to see Gauteng Lions play the Crusaders and outside the stadium the women handing out leaflets for the local lap-dancing club greeted him by name.

Around 2000 Vaatjie emailed me to tell me that had been, as the South Africans have it, retrenched.  Like so many jobless bankers before him he found work in Saudi Arabia.  On the personal scale just as much as the international geography is destiny, and I live in England. He did come to London once - we saw England beat South Africa again - and that was the last time I saw him. It must be the best part of 10 years.

Vaatjie is pronounced Fikie. It's not a  name - it's a nickname; it means 'barrelly', in English he'd be called 'Tubby'. Not so dangerous after all.