The prism of the past

We invited our old English teacher round for dinner.

picture B T

Well, not that old: after all 60 is the new 40 and if I'm honest he didn't seem that much older than us. You should certainly be thinking Dead Poets Society more than Goodbye Mr Chips

"Oh Captain, my Captain", I essayed when we shook hands in the hallway, and then "Ouch" as Mrs Botogol kicked me sharply in the ankle; but she needn't have bothered because Mr Robb wasn't paying any attention to me.

We are the prisoners of our pasts and captives of the prism through which we are perceived and in his eyes I was still 15, and my dad was the maths teacher, and I was giving up English in favour of computers and physics and if there are two cultures, I am in the other one.

Mrs Botogol, on the other hand, went on to A-Level English. Indeed she studied the subject at his alma mater.. there was a bond.. as there was also with the our eldest whom Mr Robb was there to coach, for she faces A-Levels of her own this summer  "Wisdom is not finally tested in the schools", I said, "wisdom cannot be passed from one having it to another not having it. Wisdom is of the soul, it is not susceptible of proof, it is its own proof."

They weren't listening - they were discussing an article Mr Robb had written for an on-line journal comparing Brideshead Revisited with The Great Gatsby.

"That Anthony Andrews never did much, really, after Brideshead", I opined. Cast as the oaf I rose easily to the challenge: "when you think about it Robert Redford was much more successful".

"Be a dear and go and check the potatoes, will you"

And so it came to pass that during the only literary meeting in our house for eleven years (I am not allowed at  Mrs Botogol's book club) I spent the hour in the kitchen while Mrs Botogol and our guest settled in the drawing room (no, we don't normally have a drawing room but somehow it had risen to the occasion) where they engaged in grown-up literary criticism of the most sparkling and erudite kind, occasionally sending for more smoked salmon blini (easy on the dill, dear, and can you have a look in the cupboard for those smoked almonds we got from the nice deli in Winchelsea ?)

When eventually the roast was captive and the vegetables under control and I ventured in to top up their glasses they were talking about Chekhov "Did you tell Mr Robb how I once wrote a blogpost about Chekhov", I asked lamely, and there was a sudden silence. I realised was trying too hard.

"What?"

"I said how long do you reckon it takes to cook a Yorkshire Pudding? Only my batter looks really watery  - do you think I should add another ten minutes?"

I am large, I contain multitudes.

We had roast beef and plenty of gravy, and although the Yorkshire was soggy (no one asked me for the recipe) the potatoes were perfect. Mr Robb and I drank two bottles of red wine between us; he asked me if I was in IT and in retaliation I told him about the teachers at school whom I had particularly admired.

Next week my mates are coming round and we are mostly talking rugby.

Education Special

On Friday evening Mrs Botogol and I had dinner with four teachers, all from the same school. Worryingly: three of them taught me when I was at the school myself, many years ago.

Frighteningly: the fourth is younger than I am but, just like the others, had taught at the school for more than twenty years.

With all of them so thoroughly steeped in the education system, and my mysterious incomprehensible job in the city, I had wondered if we would have anything in common but I needn't have worried: in an intriguing bout of role reversal, as the evening wore on I lectured the history teacher on the battle of Borodino and the economist on Idea Futures while they regaled me with stories about what it is like to own a racehorse. I guess we were all trying to impress.

Then on Saturday the Botogol family went en masse to the Cheltenham Literature festival. That's right: more school.

Well, that's what happens when you go and get educated: one moment you're throwing babyfood on the floor and tantrums in Tesco, the next you're in the third row of Cheltenham Town Hall listening carefully to Roy Hattersley's opinion of Stanley Baldwin and Britain in the interwar years. Or smuggling a sly syllepsis into an otherwise grammatically undistinguished blog. The first sign, I reckon, is watching Blue Peter: it's all down hill from there.

Anyway: the festival. In the end there wasn't any poetry at all, gay or otherwise: in the morning we all went together to DT and History; then after lunch (we were all hot dinners) we split up: while I'm not claiming that the education system is dumbed down or anything, let's just say that Mrs Botogol and I had Add. History followed by Comp. Lit, while the Lower Remove had a spare and went off early to watch to semi-final.

If truth be told I was a tiny bit jealous; but I quickly thought of a way to get my own back:

"Haven't you got any homework to do in half term?" I asked my youngest, "that you should be doing this afternoon?"
"No, Dad, I've just got one piece, I don't need to start today"
"Oh, what do you have to do?"
"I've got to write a play in two acts, about environmental issues"

Might as well leave it to next week, then.

Autumn Heat

furnace by milomingo.

Lately in London it has been unseasonably warm; and I have mostly been running for trains.

It's also been September. September is the month that SouthWest trains turn off the air-conditioning and switch on the heating.

Consequently, I have been very hot; and my my suit doesn't even have ventilated armpit holes, either, so when I say "hot", your mental picture should be "looks like he was caught outdoors in a hurricane".

Wednesday was hottest. I was in a hurry; I forget why; and I emerged from the underground at Waterloo just 87 seconds before the train left, which in the madcap world inhabited by Southwest trains means 27 seconds before the gates shut. So reader, I ran.

Much later, as I stood in the crowded aisle wiping the sweat off my blackberry, I reflected on my mistake. And on my bad luck for not only was it the hottest, most humid, sweatiest Wednesday for 47 years (I blame Gordon Brown), it was also the 1-day test match at the Oval and at Vauxhall 3,141 fans boarded. Singing.

When I say 'caught outdoors in a hurricane', by the way, I do mean Katrina. Not George or Eric or some other inconsequential tropical storm. Oh no.

At Raynes Park a seat became vacant, right before me. The woman next to it was so alarmed at the prospect of my sitting there, she gathered her possessions and escaped to the next carriage.

I judged it best to remain standing.

When I left the train at Kingston, three girls giggled and pointed at me behind my back (at my back probably) and most rudely, I thought. I would have stopped and remonstrated with them, but I simply hadn't got time, and instead I sprinted for the excess fares collector, in the hot corner near the ticket barrier.

I didn't want to be even later for New Parents evening

Career Prospects

Last week, to the ill-disguised dismay of my boss, I stood up in the middle of a meeting and left work early - 6pm - in order to go to a careers evening. I thought it would be interesting and unusual opportunity to find out what other people really do all day, and how to get the best jobs.

There were over 40 speakers at the event covering every class of profession imaginable from Animal Behaviourist to Zoologist. Participants could select four talks to attend. Readers, I have seen the future, and it's in the web 2.0 media. My choices were Professional Poker Player, Reality TV Contestant, Captcha Decoder and Shill Bidder.

Arriving late, I found my name down for the less than exciting quartet of Solicitor, Investment Banker, Barrister and Advertising Executive.

Very traditional, very Job 1.0, I wasn't really on the edge of my seat. But still, one of those four is not a million miles from what I already do all day, so I reckoned that at least I might get some tips on what it's all about

So, what did I find out? Well, I did discover what it is that they all do - that they all do: it's Powerpoint. But don't leap to the conclusion that all these professions are similar: Oh no - Powerpoint styles can differ. So here is

botogol's guide to Powerpoint in the Professions

1. Investment Bankers do it with closely stacked tables in 10-point Arial, crammed with jargon and information. Cannily they bring their .ppt on a memory stick and borrow the equipment they find. They summarise the executive summary.
   
2. Solicitors do it cramped in a small corner unable to find or understand the full-screen option. They have handouts with spaces to make notes. They give powerpoint slowly and cautiously. They never allow a slide to transition ahead of a mouse click.
   
3. Advertising Execs do it on vast titanium Powerbooks, with steel speakers and bright OHPs with calf-leather carrying cases. They do it with sound effects and video.

(Barristers don't do powerpoint. They do photocopies.)

The professionals were there to explain their jobs and to offer useful advice to supplicants, and in their differing approaches to this task also they couldn't help displaying their innermost souls.

• The Barrister advocated his job. Extolling its virtues he was lyrical, persuasive and eloquent. He had been asked to attend the evening 25 minutes before it started.
• The Advertising Executive pitched his job. He wanted us to believe, he desired us to apply. He knew he had the best job in world and wished us to share his conviction.
• The Investment Banker bigged up his job. He knew it was important and he didn't really care whether we did or not
  
• The Solicitor dissed the Barrister. Whatever career we chose, he said, don't be a Barrister. Above all, he said, don't be a Barrister. Useless good-for-nothing Barristers. Had we been to see the one this evening? Wasn't he dreadful?

Did I mention that I was at the evening with my daughter? To tell the truth the event wasmore ained at her really. She had arrived earlier than me and consequently chose - and got into - a wise selection of realistic and dependable 21st Century professions: Diversity Co-ordinator, Eco-Lifestyle Advisor, Reality TV Presenter and Virtual Estate Agent. She tells me they all did great Powerpoint.

If I had my time again at least I now know what I'd be: Barristers Clerk.

Ruth Kelly and the West Lothian Question.

Characteristically, Simon Jenkins has written the best article I have read on Ruth Kelly's decision to send her son to an independent school.

Eschewing the knee-jerk condemnation of the tabloids, the knee-jerk approbation of Guido Fawkes and fence-sitting attitude of Iain Dale, Jenkins' discussion on communities, and faith in them homes in nicely on why Kelly's decision doesn't feel quite right, even for a liberal fee-paying parent like me.

One thing that strikes me about it: I think this is a preamble to what will be the theme of 2007 politics - the hitherto rather obscure West Lothian Question: if it's not possible for person to be Minister for Communities (or Education) prevailing over a system that her family doesn't have to put up with, how much harder is it going to be to have Prime Minister prevailing over the UK, elected by a set of constituents who don't have to put up with the results.

I don't see the West Lothian question leading to the end of the Union as one blogger mischievously speculates, but I do see lots of most enjoyable trouble ahead.