We were in the country (not far from the lip of the Cotswold escarpment etc, etc) and Mrs Botogol ordered a Chinese takeaway. "Ready in forty minutes", they said, so I had to set out immediately, taking a sandwich for the journey.
It came to exactly £90. Well there were 11 of us, and no one ever said that the countryside was cheap. Although it is low-tech:
"Sorry, no credit cards"
I was unaccountably furious. Red-mist, fist-slammingly cross. Why didn't they say on the phone?
I emptied all my pockets. Not enough.
"We do take cheques"
Cheques???? Cheques??? They might as well take ten-shilling postal orders. I haven't written a cheque since 2004.
I went back to the car and fetched the parking stash from the glove compartment and piled the tiny coins into a heap on the counter before the startled Chinese owner.
"There you are", through gritted teeth, "eighty-seven pounds and forty pence. It's. All. I. Have. You'll just have to take out £2.60's worth of food. HA!"
Protests don't make you popular, do they? I could almost hear my Mother's voice in my ear "Stop it Alibert, it's not big and it's not clever".
But protests are also irresistible.
I don’t remember much about my life before I was about seven; for instance I have no idea if I even wnet to nursery school, and from the two years at the primary school I attended from 1968 to 1970 just one event made a lasting impression on me, and that was a protest: a rainy day, an over-long playtime, and fifty or sixty of us mixed infants lined up in the yard desperate to be allowed back in.
It was Lester Deakin who took the blame for starting the singing: Why are we waiting? (And sung all the way through!) but it wasn't really fair: it had been all of us, but to my shame I didn't stand up for him and and that day, as well as the of futility of protest (we waited a long time in the rain that playtime) I also learned about the importance of isolating the the ringleaders, for it was poor hapless Lester who was sent to see the headmaster while we the rest of us filed sullenly past the incandescent Mrs Briers, back into our classrooms.
However the urge to protest has never left me, whether it is against the Chinese Government strutting self-importantly around my town or walking the entire route of the wrongly-compulsory Junior House Cross Country race in 1980 (no, it wasn't big and it wasn't clever) or sneaking unsuitable words into important, senior management Powerpoint presentations, or now harnessing the power of Google to tell the whole world to beware of the holiday apartment at 17 Dunhamish Street, Edinburgh for every single window has been painted shut and consequently it's stiflingly airless.
At the takeaway we were in a stand-off situation, but the owner was the one in possession of the silver topped cartons. She took out the Crispy Aromatic Duck (half) with Pancakes. "Hang on", I said, "that's worth more than £2.60". She opined that I wasn't really in a position to negotiate and I wondered if, on reflection, I could have handled the whole thing a little better; could I have been a bit bigger and bit cleverer?
For protests never work, do they?
========================================================
Although the window one did! This morning a carpenter arrived and unstuck the kitchen, the bathroom and two bedrooms. Addresses have been changed to protect the - actually - very responsive.
13 August 2008
09 August 2008
In the country
Weary and footsore, we paused to rest at the very lip of the Cotswold escarpment.
The evening light had that dreamy, golden quality of a perfect English day, and we could see for miles. Far beneath us a real, live steam train crossed patchwork plains and centuries; and either Patagonian physics had spread to Gloucestershire, or the air was ozone clear for I could make out flocks of sheep grazing the slopes of the Malvern hills twenty miles away.
In the sixteenth century, so local legend has it, Thomas Cromwell sat just a few yards from our resting place and watched the righteous fires of the protestants consume Hailes Abbey where in happier time his friend Stephen Sagar had been Abbot.
Five hundred years on, in more peaceful times, we rested against a low gate set in a brand new, spanking-smart, dry stone wall. A Narnia-door to nowhere, at first glance the pointless gate merely connects two fields, but look sideways! ... it stands exactly at the mid-line between two newly planted avenues of trees that march from the field behind, two miles or more, down the escarpment, through the village of Wood Stanway, across a wood, all the way to the simply ludicrous but awesomely splendid Stanway Fountain, the largest gravity powered water jet in Europe.
The Stanway Estate was leased by Hailes Abbey to Richard Tracy in 1533, the very year of Henry VIII's divorce, with the writing on the wall for the Catholic Church in England. The Lessor was none other than our well connected Abbot Sagar who evidently understood not only the way the national wind was blowing, but also local politics, for when the Dissolution Act of 1536 was passed, who else was appointed head of the commission to dissolve Hailes Abbey but one Richard Tracy.
Sagar held out, negotiating terms, for three years, before he and his 21 monks finally acquiesced on Christmas Eve 1539.
The Abbey and its estates were eventually sold for a total of £539, and one can suppose that as both sitting tenant and vendor Tracy's purchase of the freehold of Stanway was on not unfavourable terms.... and that neither was Abbot Sagar disappointed with his pension of £100pa (His monks, you ask? ... £8). And now, get this, Stanway has remained in the Tracy family ever since. In these sort of deals is won possession of our green and pleasant land.
The last time we walked that way we were soaked to the skin, and it was miserable and misty.
Today it was just beautiful.
The evening light had that dreamy, golden quality of a perfect English day, and we could see for miles. Far beneath us a real, live steam train crossed patchwork plains and centuries; and either Patagonian physics had spread to Gloucestershire, or the air was ozone clear for I could make out flocks of sheep grazing the slopes of the Malvern hills twenty miles away.
In the sixteenth century, so local legend has it, Thomas Cromwell sat just a few yards from our resting place and watched the righteous fires of the protestants consume Hailes Abbey where in happier time his friend Stephen Sagar had been Abbot.
Five hundred years on, in more peaceful times, we rested against a low gate set in a brand new, spanking-smart, dry stone wall. A Narnia-door to nowhere, at first glance the pointless gate merely connects two fields, but look sideways! ... it stands exactly at the mid-line between two newly planted avenues of trees that march from the field behind, two miles or more, down the escarpment, through the village of Wood Stanway, across a wood, all the way to the simply ludicrous but awesomely splendid Stanway Fountain, the largest gravity powered water jet in Europe.
The Stanway Estate was leased by Hailes Abbey to Richard Tracy in 1533, the very year of Henry VIII's divorce, with the writing on the wall for the Catholic Church in England. The Lessor was none other than our well connected Abbot Sagar who evidently understood not only the way the national wind was blowing, but also local politics, for when the Dissolution Act of 1536 was passed, who else was appointed head of the commission to dissolve Hailes Abbey but one Richard Tracy.
Sagar held out, negotiating terms, for three years, before he and his 21 monks finally acquiesced on Christmas Eve 1539.
The Abbey and its estates were eventually sold for a total of £539, and one can suppose that as both sitting tenant and vendor Tracy's purchase of the freehold of Stanway was on not unfavourable terms.... and that neither was Abbot Sagar disappointed with his pension of £100pa (His monks, you ask? ... £8). And now, get this, Stanway has remained in the Tracy family ever since. In these sort of deals is won possession of our green and pleasant land.
The last time we walked that way we were soaked to the skin, and it was miserable and misty.
Today it was just beautiful.
30 July 2008
Dragon's Den
I like Dragon's Den.
My reason is: it's the only programme in the entire BBC ouvre that looks positively at the business of making money.
And don't give me The Apprentice: that whole programme is edited with the purpose of making today's world of business seem entirely cut-throat and nasty1
My reason is: it's the only programme in the entire BBC ouvre that looks positively at the business of making money.
And don't give me The Apprentice: that whole programme is edited with the purpose of making today's world of business seem entirely cut-throat and nasty1
A man is never so innocently engaged as in the pursuit of money (Dr Johnson)1No, it's not. Not entirely.
28 July 2008
Bon Mots
The citations in the Oxford Book of Quotations must be a google-game now..... "That's a good! I wonder when they said it first. . . . so, let's see...ooh look, somebody blogged it in 2008"
So here's two for posterity....
Kelvin Mackenzie "I like rich people, I wish there were more of them - I'm fed up of being surrounded by the dim and skint" At the Intelligence2 debate on taxing the rich (more)
Lisa Reichelt "We registered his domain name before we registered his birth" At Interesting2008, on having a child in the digital age
I was there.
(Aside - could you make money by cybersquatting names? Could a shortage of domain names reinforce the trend for silly-made-up-ones? Like botogol?)
So here's two for posterity....
Kelvin Mackenzie "I like rich people, I wish there were more of them - I'm fed up of being surrounded by the dim and skint" At the Intelligence2 debate on taxing the rich (more)
Lisa Reichelt "We registered his domain name before we registered his birth" At Interesting2008, on having a child in the digital age
I was there.
(Aside - could you make money by cybersquatting names? Could a shortage of domain names reinforce the trend for silly-made-up-ones? Like botogol?)
26 July 2008
Fashion Statements
On Thursday while cycling to work I was overtaken by another cyclist.Now, that doesn't happen very often, and when it does I am always a little peeved, but this time I was actually mightily annoyed because
- I was going at 23mph; you just don't expect to be overtaken at 23mph on a London road; you have no business being overtaken at 23mph on a London road
- His bike was equally as inexpensive as mine, thus invalidating my normal excuse when this happens.
- Despite his cheap bike, he was clothed from head to toe in bright, dafodill yellow, brand new, 2008 Saunier Duval kit. Who did he think he was? Ricardo Ricco?
He glanced behind and saw me, then he feathered his brakes just enough to break my rhythm, stood up on his pedals and shot off, calves bulging like base-balls, his skinny yellow backside weaving from side to side through the traffic.
We cyclists are anything but naïve and I knew exactly what this meant, I filled my lungs and bellowed after him as loudly as I could: "Druggie!"
Meanwhile it was my birthday on Tuesday and I got a manbag. I have been out wearing it once. It's OK as long as the kids don't mention it.
They mention it a lot
21 July 2008
Autre Lands Autre Moeurs
Last weekend we went to France to entrust our oldest child into the hands of a foreign family we had never before met. We knew they would be OK, though, because we found them on Facebook
No, not really! Ha ha! The truth is that the grandmother of the French family (the grandmere if you will) went to university - back in the 60s - with the mother of one our friends and since then their two families have indulged in some reciprocal god-parenting, and meeting up in the Languedoc, and anyway they are both doctors so I am sure they'll be all right; and they have children just about your age, well a little younger and so you'll have a great time, anyway it's Bastille Day on Monday, so... fireworks!
Such are life's connections made.
We arrived early and so we parked up outside their apartment for 20 minutes of nerve-racking anticipation.
As we waited the sun went behind a cloud, the temperature dropped and it began to lightly rain. Along the pavement walked a grizzled, tobacco-stained Frenchman, who paused to stare into our car. I wondered aloud if she would get a room of her own or would she have to share with the truffle-pig, and our middle-one suddenly cracked 'It's not too late!", she cried, "Get back in the car! Drive for the ferry!"
But it was too late and forty minutes later we found ourselves seated around an immaculate Louis XIV table, with hosts of ineffable French elegance, sipping the tiny coffees we had been given and wishing we weren't all wearing jeans.
In came a small child, about 10, but as elegant as her mother, and without a flicker of hesitation surprise she gravely went around the table introducing herself to each of us in turn, with a kiss on each cheek.
The family Botogol were each of us thrilled and appalled, on the edge of our chairs with the rising tension, as she progressed inexorably toward Botogol-minor, the last in line writhing in his seat, breathing hard, glancing from side to side searching for means of escape, 11 years old et ne jamais avant été embrassé
No, not really! Ha ha! The truth is that the grandmother of the French family (the grandmere if you will) went to university - back in the 60s - with the mother of one our friends and since then their two families have indulged in some reciprocal god-parenting, and meeting up in the Languedoc, and anyway they are both doctors so I am sure they'll be all right; and they have children just about your age, well a little younger and so you'll have a great time, anyway it's Bastille Day on Monday, so... fireworks!
Such are life's connections made.
We arrived early and so we parked up outside their apartment for 20 minutes of nerve-racking anticipation.
As we waited the sun went behind a cloud, the temperature dropped and it began to lightly rain. Along the pavement walked a grizzled, tobacco-stained Frenchman, who paused to stare into our car. I wondered aloud if she would get a room of her own or would she have to share with the truffle-pig, and our middle-one suddenly cracked 'It's not too late!", she cried, "Get back in the car! Drive for the ferry!"
But it was too late and forty minutes later we found ourselves seated around an immaculate Louis XIV table, with hosts of ineffable French elegance, sipping the tiny coffees we had been given and wishing we weren't all wearing jeans.
In came a small child, about 10, but as elegant as her mother, and without a flicker of hesitation surprise she gravely went around the table introducing herself to each of us in turn, with a kiss on each cheek.
The family Botogol were each of us thrilled and appalled, on the edge of our chairs with the rising tension, as she progressed inexorably toward Botogol-minor, the last in line writhing in his seat, breathing hard, glancing from side to side searching for means of escape, 11 years old et ne jamais avant été embrassé
17 July 2008
GAFCON or Not?
A fascinating consequence of the looming schism in the Church of England is the rare window it opens into my religious friends' souls.
In polite conversation one isn't supposed to do God so while I know perfectly well that my three cycling buddies all rush off to worship at three different churches after our Sunday morning rides, I've never been able to discern whether it is differences theological, ontological or even musical that draw them to their different altars.
Indeed I couldn't begin to describe what it is, actually, that they believe in - for they are all Anglicans.
For instance do they believe in the Garden of Eden? in Noah and the flood? In the water-boarding of Job? What's their opinion of the Filioque Controversy and was Jesus unbegotten? Do they believe in the bodily assumption of the Virgin Mary? or in the secret marriage of Jesus to Mary Magdalan with a resulting bloodline protected through the centuries by the Knights Templar?
I have simply no idea. Their religion, they will tell you, is central to their lives, and I acknowledge that, but about the details its simply not polite to ask. (I do know that they don't all of them count the Catholics as properly Christian but that hardly sheds any light)
So, when I bumped into one of my three God-fearing friends at the station last week, and he and I travelled up to town together chatting about the weather, the credit crunch and the stories in our morning newspapers, the front page schism spread gave me the a rare and unexpected opportunity to delve a little deeper.
I asked whether he was thinking of joining the GAFCON cell that's formed in Twickenham (apparently they have booked the church hall under the disguise of being of a harmless Yoga group and, having fallen out with the St Margaret's GAFCON, must communicate directly with Richmond GAFCON Command via double-blind dead letter drops)
Well, he said, smiling, no he hasn't "After all, we have a woman vicar at our church, and I'm perfectly comfortable with her"
"But this is all about women bishops isn't it?", I asked, "What about them?"
"No", he said, "I don't agree with women bishops but I wouldn't leave my church over it"
"And what about gay priests? Would you leave your church over them?"
"Well now that is different - Yes, if my church had an openly gay vicar, I think I would have to leave and go somewhere else"
A little silence, as tumbleweed drifted down the aisle.
"The lad Mark Cavendish did good on Wednesday didn't he!" and then we were at Waterloo and we separated.
My friend works at a large and very successful global firm (you will have heard of it) which firmly - and I believe sincerely - champions values of inclusion and diversity. They have plenty of women partners and an active LBGT network, and no doubt gay partners as well.
I thought back to the Ken Costa, and his campaign to bring God to the workplace; and I couldn't but help a little shudder.
In polite conversation one isn't supposed to do God so while I know perfectly well that my three cycling buddies all rush off to worship at three different churches after our Sunday morning rides, I've never been able to discern whether it is differences theological, ontological or even musical that draw them to their different altars.
Indeed I couldn't begin to describe what it is, actually, that they believe in - for they are all Anglicans.
For instance do they believe in the Garden of Eden? in Noah and the flood? In the water-boarding of Job? What's their opinion of the Filioque Controversy and was Jesus unbegotten? Do they believe in the bodily assumption of the Virgin Mary? or in the secret marriage of Jesus to Mary Magdalan with a resulting bloodline protected through the centuries by the Knights Templar?
I have simply no idea. Their religion, they will tell you, is central to their lives, and I acknowledge that, but about the details its simply not polite to ask. (I do know that they don't all of them count the Catholics as properly Christian but that hardly sheds any light)
So, when I bumped into one of my three God-fearing friends at the station last week, and he and I travelled up to town together chatting about the weather, the credit crunch and the stories in our morning newspapers, the front page schism spread gave me the a rare and unexpected opportunity to delve a little deeper.
I asked whether he was thinking of joining the GAFCON cell that's formed in Twickenham (apparently they have booked the church hall under the disguise of being of a harmless Yoga group and, having fallen out with the St Margaret's GAFCON, must communicate directly with Richmond GAFCON Command via double-blind dead letter drops)
Well, he said, smiling, no he hasn't "After all, we have a woman vicar at our church, and I'm perfectly comfortable with her"
"But this is all about women bishops isn't it?", I asked, "What about them?"
"No", he said, "I don't agree with women bishops but I wouldn't leave my church over it"
"And what about gay priests? Would you leave your church over them?"
"Well now that is different - Yes, if my church had an openly gay vicar, I think I would have to leave and go somewhere else"
A little silence, as tumbleweed drifted down the aisle.
"The lad Mark Cavendish did good on Wednesday didn't he!" and then we were at Waterloo and we separated.
My friend works at a large and very successful global firm (you will have heard of it) which firmly - and I believe sincerely - champions values of inclusion and diversity. They have plenty of women partners and an active LBGT network, and no doubt gay partners as well.
I thought back to the Ken Costa, and his campaign to bring God to the workplace; and I couldn't but help a little shudder.
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