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.

You are 45 minutes from the dinosaurs.

The diplodocus in 1904

and in 2008, by Richard Carter

A wet Bank Holiday afternoon in London.

I didn't get where I am today without spending wet Bank Holiday afternoons in London at the Natural History Museum looking at the dinosaurs; so that's where we went.

It was rather more crowded than it was in 1904 - we queued for 10 minutes until we reached a sign. "You are 45 minutes from the dinosaurs", it said, so we went to the Darwin exhibition instead.

Darwin changed the world with an astonishing idea
which he hugged largely to himself for over 20 years until the same idea was had by Alfred Russel Wallace who wrote it all up in a neat essay and sent it to... Charles Darwin. Oops.

One idea, two authors. The reason we now remember name of Darwin is because Darwin was a partner at McKinseys the more senior and illustrious and able to speak with the right voice.

The reason Darwin had sat on his idea for so long seems to have been largely because he didn't want to upset his wife. The ironic thing is: he nearly didn't have a wife, for the most memorable item in the exhibition is his notes on the pros and cons of marriage and you can see for yourself it was close run thing.

Which point was it, do you suppose, decided him in the end?


In Victorian times most people refused to believe that a species could change, despite the clear evidence of their own eyes. Even now it can be hard to believe what's in plain sight: for instance if you look closely at the two pictures you'll notice that at some time in the last 100 years the diplodocus has stirred, stood up and lifted its tail...

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?"

Little Donkey

picture by publicenergy

Mrs Botogol loves a Carol Service at Christmas and because I love Mrs Botogol this year I agreed to go with her.

But which Carol Service to choose? Well, of our houseful of Christmas co-celebrants only one is a regular church-goer and it's the Catholic Church where he worships so, of course - it being Christmas and all - it was to the RC gig which we agreed to accompany him.

And of course -  it being family and all -  he bailed out at the last minute; leaving Mrs B and I quite alone to brave the warm, friendly, and somewhat enveloping welcome at the Church of St Anthony of Padua in Rye.

I determined to be completely inconspicuous, but I had reckoned without the sign of peace, and the constant standing, kneeling and gesturing of the Roman ritual, and suddenly it seemed to be extraordinarily hot in the small, bright church.  Worst of all: the congregation was, shall we say, short of stature, and every time I stood up, bobbing half a tempo behind, I found myself towering a full head above the little old ladies in front of me, and face to face with the startled priest. "May the Lord be With You" he said, looking directly into my eyes.

 .."And Also With You", I replied; just a moment too late. I think I was rumbled.


It was a Family Carol Service and so not the best occasion for the priest, you might have thought, to devote his sermon to a denial of the presence of any donkey or oxen in that holy stable 2000 years ago; but that is, in fact, what he did.

There must have been 200 people crammed in that tiny church on Christmas Eve, and 198 of them comfortable and secure in their harmless - if evidently misguided -  belief in that poor blessed donkey.

It was the kind of clever argument which, delivered enthusiastically at the dinner table, would have earned me a sharp kick on the ankle from Mrs Botogol but with no wife to restrain him the earnest Father Joseph ploughed relentlessly on:  there is no donkey mentioned  in the New Testament, he preached, and no ox neither.  Their placement in the crib is a misapprehension, he explained, begotten of a myth, by way of a prophecy. So there.

It was an inordinately nihilistic message from (the Catholic) God's representative in East Sussex and while the tiny worshippers filed up to Communion I thought of  - and preferred - the optimism and hope of that famous atheist, Thomas Hardy, on the same subject nearly 100 years ago.

 -----------------------------------------

After the service we repaired to the George where we were inordinately chuffed to be recognised as locals . . and rather nonplussed to be offered a regular drinkers loyalty card.

Then, while Mrs Botogol carefully filled in the application form, the Taproom bar slowly filled with our accidental co-religionists, also on their way home from the service, who nodded, waved and smiled to us across glasses of sherry and local cider.  "Look away, dear!", I whispered urgently but, to my alarm, I couldn't restrain Mrs Botogol from waving back and joining in.

A glass and half later and "Yes, I was with you in church", I admitted, helplessly, to a middle aged table of merry donkey-deniers "but really: I am not of you"

I'm not at all  sure I've made quite the right first impression in our second home.

This Old House

picture by Mc Morr

Like everyone who works for an investment bank we have two properties: one to live in and one to lie awake at night, worrying about, when it's empty.

Still, at least it gives me plenty of time to practice my DIY, now that we're unable to afford any workmen, on account of the credit crunch; and the totally irresponsible lending policies of HSBC (what on earth were they thinking of lending me 134 times my bonus?), and last weekend I mostly spent painting (it turned out when I lifted up the old and evidently porous newspapers) our front doorstep.


Next weekend I am mostly removing paint, and that may not sound like fun, but actually it's a reassuring thing having a weekend planned ahead. Normally I wait for Mrs Botogol to tell me what to wear, then I put on the clothes that are indicated, inspect myself carefully in the mirror and I might think  "Smart shirt, stripey trousers? Hey, I reckon I'm going to a dinner party!" or  "Boots, Jeans, Jacket? - a long walk"   Last weekend I found myself in old t-shirt, shorts and trainers:  "Am I going jogging?"  "No you're washing the car"

The house is looking nice now; even if the front door does need another coat.
15th Century it is (the house, not the door) in Rye, if you would like to rent it. Then I could use the money to get a man in.

Shut Out

by Robby Garbett

This evening I kicked down the side door of our garage.

Well, the lock had somehow broken, and I clamped the up-and-over door completely closed some years ago after the garage was burgled (they stole an electric drill and pair of gloves... ie equipment with which to perform more burglaries. "Burglar bootstrapping" I said to the police with a chuckle, and they asked me how to spell that and said they would come round eleven weeks on Friday.


The key was revolving round in the lock with nothing happening. "It's broken", I pronounced gravely and I took a credit card and slid it into the small gap between the door and the frame. This works in films. It doesn't work in real life.

I fetched my boots and prepared to use force. Mrs Botogol came out to watch, this she was not going to miss. I was not without trepidation - would it do a lot of damage? did I need a sledgehammer? how much force would be required - would it bruise my heel?

I took a deep breath and kicked as hard as I could.

The door flew open immediately and I fell over onto my backside.

On Safari

Book Club by wander.lust

Mrs Botogol and I are nothing if not energetic and after Interesting2008 we rushed straight home for a Safari Dinner organised by Mrs Botogol's book club

Now if you're thinking: "Safari Dinner"? Isn't that a slightly childish activity, best suited to giggling twenty-somethings in an alcoholic haze rushing excitedly from room to room down the corridors of the halls of residence for an endless succession of courses each one progressively more dried-up and more burnt than the one before?", then I'm retorting: "You haven't met Mrs Botogol's book club!"

To this day Mrs B will maintain that they do all read the books but I, frankly, suspect a poker school. Let's just say that the first Wednesday of last month (The Return of the Native by Thomas Hardy) featured precious few Brodie's Notes but rather a lot of mysterious ATM withdrawals, and all along our street they are still talking about that all-nighter pulled in the back garden of number 50 during the long, long, cicada'd, mexican, velvet summer of 2006 (The Beach by Alex Garland)

A week or two ago some neighbours knocked on the doors in our road to apologise in advance for the noise of an upcoming 21st birthday party - "Oh don't worry about it all", charmed my friend and fellow book-club widower, Roger, "make as much noise as you like for next week, round at ours, there's Book Club!"

On Safari, the husbands rose to the occasion (without a barbecue even) and did much of the cooking while the book-club critiqued: it was like a cross between the Hell's Kitchen and the F-Word. I has been allotted course three of seven labelled, confusingly, the starter. With one husband-course before me and two to follow, reputations were up for grabs and Sabotage and Mischief caught my ear and laid out their tempting wares. After some thought I decided upon a rich and creamy high-carb, spoiler following which courses 4-7 would surely languish uneaten and unappreciated. Potato soup with lardons and focaccia bread, preceded by an amuse-bouche of an individual ravioli parcel stuffed with goats cheese all in a sour-cream source. But midweek Mrs Botogol saw the Ocado order and she suggested firmly that I might switch to my signature prawns in a warm courgette salad. I cooked it theatre-style in front of my less than amazed guests.

All in all, I think it went down very well.

And let's be clear: not a single one of the courses at our safari dinner were the least burnt or dried up, indeed the book club safari was a resounding success, for I heard a rumour that one of the club sometimes reads this blog, and I don't want any small waxen miniature Botogol pierced with a ceremonial needle on the first Wednesday of July (Heart Of Darkness by Joseph Conrad)

Other Lives

by Lex in the City

I blame Russell Davies and specifically tip #7 in How to be interesting

7. Once a week sit in a coffee-shop or cafe for an hour and listen to other people’s conversations. Take notes. Blog about it. (Carefully)

I wasn't in a coffee shop I was on the tube, and I wasn't listening to a conversation I was, well.... I couldn't help seeing... I mean I didn't want to look ... but really... if someone is going to write their secret diary on a crowded tube, well, it can't be that secret, can it?

• Her right-hand page was headed TO DO w/c 9 June
  In my day-book I also have a page with that title: it's full of items transcribed from TO DO w/c 2 June.

• Her left hand page was headed Feelings
  In my day-book I don't have a page like that.

So I quit emailing, and smartly alt-tabbed my blackberry to the notes function.

She was getting divorced and she had a lot To Do

• email David re Primary Care
• email David re 60%
• email David re Car
• 10am call David
  

Some days she was feeling focused, but other days she was feeling overwhelmed.

In the centre of the left hand page was written

CANADA: If I want to have complete control over Georgie's love, then we have to move. (But what if David doesn't agree to to 60%?)

She had written lots more but when arrived at Canary Wharf I fumbled my 'berry and managed to exit notes without saving. I guess it served me right.

Levelling Out

Vodka Level by - Martin Koitmäe

It turns out the floor of the cellar in our house is far from level and every time the washing machine reached the spinning bit it rattled and it shook, and it walked down the slope until its power lead came out of its socket.

"We need to get a longer extension lead, perhaps", I remarked to Mrs Botogol when I took down her supper, and placed it carefully beside her on top of the the shuddering appliance, "it's a shame you having to spend so much time down here, and in the dark as well"

Mrs B invited me to try and think of a better solution, please, and within days I had it: "I'll build a platform", I said, "lightweight but sturdy, closely-contoured yet level, of chipboard or MDF, as wide as the cellar and exactly 605 mill deep"

"Lovely, but do you think you can dear", she asked, not unkindly, "after all: it's a long time since you did any DIY, and isn't your tape measure marked up in inches?"

Reader, I will leave you to judge by results: for a platform it indubitably is.

I had to buy a new saw to do it (from the tiny store) and on that multi-toothed blade I cut myself four times. On the floor there you may just be able to make out traces of mopped-up blood.

The dawn of Blogger power

dead at computer by badcompany_6

I had that Perry de Havilland on my blog once.

I don't suppose he's a regular reader of Green Ideas, but I still read him and it was odd to see him in the flesh Curbing the Crap Artists at the Adam Smith Institute this evening, sharing a table with giants of the blogosphere Guido Fawkes and Tim Worstall.

Politics neeks and blogging geeks are strange breeds and there were many of them (us?) crammed in a tiny front room, directly off the street. When each person spoke he (there were few women) introduced himself not by his profession but by his blog. As well as Samizdata, Devil's Kitchen, Englishman's Castle, Spinwatch, Great Simpleton, Despatchblog were all there although, much to my disappointment even surrounded as I was by early adopters, I spotted no one live-blogging, twittering or even rickrolling

From the panel it was all heady stuff: new technologies are empowering the common man to confound his betters armed the sword of accuracy, the rifle of knowledge, the rapier of complaint, the dagger of wit and, unfortunately also, the rubber cosh of coarse language. The blogosphere may be small but it's influential, it punches above its weight, it shines sunlight into the hideouts of the corrupt, and it exposes the ruses of the self-important.

Well, I'm buying it.

Tim Worstall's careful cynicism failed to conceal an infectious optimism for the growing power and influence of the ordinary blogger. Guido Fawkes - the rhythm, and cadences of his speech sounding unexpectedly and uncannily like Diane Abbot - bewailed the multiple failings of politicians and their trough-sharing lobby, but was strangely subdued compared to his lively on-line persona, while Perry de Haviland eschewed Samizdata's natural political stamping grounds for a paen to the new power of the complaining customer.


I'd like to hang out with those blogging guys. Perhaps I should quit procrastinating and start that single issue political blog I've been thinking about off and on this last year. (I've got an idea... and I know the time is right) But the thing is, I told Mrs Botogol over a London Pride and sun-dried tomato sandwich, I'd have to quit my indescribable job to find the time. If, that is, the credit crunch doesn't get me first.

Mrs B opined that I could, instead, quit surfing the net and emailing her 'interesting' tidbits all day long and use that time saved to write my blog from work.

Its not such a bad idea.

New Year Resolution

I'm not sure I'll have time, this year, to improve my performance at both the Triathlon and the Wii.

My experience since Christmas certainly isn't promising: last week, increasingly wild and agitated while being thrashed by silent five year old at tennis, I felt like one those old, stooped, furious but impotent Silverbacks in an earnest BBC nature programme, being outsmarted by a younger, lither rival, clearly after his harem.

I smashed, I passed and I lobbed and Mrs Botogol, watching from the sofa, had to tell me to calm down and for Goodness Sake Mind That Lightshade! Eventually, though, through persistence and guile, my luck turned, and a wild, reaching cross-court baseline stroke caught my miniature opponent a glancing blow on the side of the head with a nunchuck and the game had to be abandoned. Out of the corner of my eye as we mopped the blood, I could swear that the baldy little left-handed Mii that I have built actually winked.

But forget tennis - my favourite game on the Wii is Coarse Fishing. Its brilliant, and very realistic. This is how it works: you stand motionless in your living room, grasping your controller firmly in both hands waiting for a bite.

About every hour (on easy) or two days (difficult) the little float moves - a bite! - and you sharply hoik your nunchuck upwards and back and ... well, that's it! Its just like real fishing.

Anyway, as you can imagine, it's quite a favourite with Mrs Botogol and I. Of course with two you need quite a big room to play - the second player has to stand at the next stake, quite a distance along the bank. However it has one considerable advantage over the tennis: with some practice you can prop up your controller on a book and can go and make a cup of tea and a sandwich. There's not many Wii games you can say that about.

The Triathlon? May 5th. I promise not to blog about it again.

Flowers and Memories

Forget Memories
Originally uploaded by Schicchi - Indipendentemente.org.

This morning, for some reason, I forsook my normal Guardian and bought The Times. On the platform, waiting for my coffee to cool, my train to arrive and my blackberry to synch, I read the births, engagements, marriages and deaths.

Normally when I do that there it is, smack in the middle: a name I know (the name that - presumably had already caught my subconscious eye and prompted my conscious read). This morning, however, I didn't know anyone.

But, even so, one of the sparse, 9point, close-spaced unknowns brought a lump to my throat (I have become so much more readily moved in my middle-age): an old man who died, aged 97, just 19 days after his wife.


But why don't people, any more, want flowers at funerals? What could be better than a simple gift of flowers: beautiful yet ephemeral, costly but without value? Instead we are asked, tackily, to give money to sad donkeys, or some such, to be totalled up and reckoned in a table of relative (and relatives') grief.

When I die I hope presents, donations and flowers are simply not mentioned, and that people will perhaps just come. Just come. And, if they come, their flowers, should they think to bring any, should be made so very welcome, but they bring no cash in their pockets to be offered up by direction, for a gift solicited is no gift at all.

I hope they play songs by Eddi Reader...

... and even read extracts from my blog :-)