Tomato And Basil Sandwiches

A beautiful thing

2008-05-21T09:39:00.000-07:00

I'm back in Brussels now, and like anyone getting over a bereavement, I'm a bit emotionally susceptible at the moment.

Which is perhaps why I noticed something beautiful today.

I was walking under the European Commission's main HQ, the Berlaymont building, and under its wing near the metro entrance, there was a Moslem couple, girl in headscarf, kissing lengthily and very sweetly, in public. He was holding her in a very respectful, loving way, like a Disney prince planting his first kiss on the princess in the tower, like she was the most fragile and precious of flowers. And above, the Berlaymont's massive powerful bulk sheltered them and their most absolute right to be kissing in public if they want to.

I'd have taken a photo, but it would have been intrusive.

I mentioned it when I got back to the office, and discovered that they'd brightened the day of several other colleagues as well.

Even at the darkest of times, there's so much beauty and hope in the world.

Sad news

2008-05-11T07:47:00.000-07:00

This is just a quick one to let you know that I'm away because of a very unexpected and tragic family bereavement. Service will resume slowly once we've all had time to breathe a little.

Hug your loved ones and treat each other with the love you all deserve every day. There is not always a tomorrow.

Mornington Croissant

2008-04-25T07:29:00.000-07:00

It never rains but it pours. I have to go home to Bridport for a bit. Would you please cross all available fingers, toes and any other appendage you have enough of to cross. If appropriate cross two appendages of differing types.

Mornington Crescent? But this time... with the Brussels Metro! I'll start you all off at King Baudoin. The goal station, of course, is Eddy Merckx.

Signed off

2008-04-22T03:12:00.000-07:00

I've been signed off work with stress, which until this morning I was feeling guilty about. My blood pressure blew about three months ago and I've been taking Cozaar to keep it down ever since. However it doesn't seem to be helping with the barely suppressed panic that I'm not getting stuff done. I've been shutting my office door and yelling at colleagues when three of them try to ask me a question at the same time. I've been trying to do two tasks that require me to be in two different rooms at the same time. I woke up at 5am this morning with a racing heart because I'd forgotten to put the rubbish bins out. Physically panicking because I hadn't put the bins out. Sheesh.

It was at that point that I realised the doctor was right to sign me off work.

I've made a list in my office outlook tasks today of the various personal, professional and financial procedures that need to be done before I leave in September. It's about 40 tasks long and each of them are going to need an appointment, or two or three, before they're over. They consist of things like sorting out what I want to take with me, issuing a call for tenders for movers, getting the movers in, making a will, selling the car, renting out the spare room, getting medical check-ups, sorting out admin with Scouse Doris who is staying in the apartment, etc etc etc. It's a lot.

I'm hoping making a list with deadlines will help me deal with it better, cut the elephant up into chunks. Anyone got any other advice?

In which I reflect on how bloody lucky I am

2008-04-12T13:23:00.000-07:00

I grieve at the moment due to unspeakable horrors blighting the existences of close friends and family. I won't go into the horrors in question because they are other people's business. And so I choose instead today to reflect instead on one of the positive pieces of news I have had this weekend. I also wish to thank the powers that be that my own existence is currently fairly blessed, for which I am tonight trying not to feel guilty.

My beloved cousin C. has emerged from an epic battle involving his nose, a chisel, probably assorted other (hopefully) sharper instruments, and a rowdy horde of recalcitrant but now defunct polyps. He is apparently still quite himself, although morphined up to the eyeballs and sounding a bit like Kenneth Williams (see below) until they take several hundred meters of cotton wool back out of his sinuses. I wonder what will have happened to his previously honourably rugby-bashed nose. I was quite fond of it the way it was.

And now for some Kenneth Williams. They don't do gentleman comedians like this any more.

Things I've seen this week.

2008-04-08T12:38:00.000-07:00

Julio Buitrago community, El Rama, rio Escondido. Flood warning simulation. A village committee member calls his neighbours to high ground.

Bluefields, Nicaragua. Storms have washed rubbish and filth down the hill into a barrio overnight. People are busy clearing it up.

Telica volcano, near Leon, Nicaragua. Schoolchildren performing an evacuation drill.

Off on another trip

2008-03-28T05:34:00.000-07:00

There may be some fantastic photos when I get back from this one.

Mornington Cresent, I think. Here's the map, clicky to geopen.

Cutty Sark.

In which I purchase a shredder

2008-03-20T08:59:00.000-07:00

I suppose the time has come for me to tell you that my best-laid plans as announced last year have come to fruition, and I leave for somewhere where I will have to speak Spanish on or around Sept 1st this year.

As a result I am slowly trying to prepare my house for rental. This involves turning out a good 10 years' worth of accumulated archived bank documents, salary slips, and other assorted private information. One hears such dreadful stories about identity cloning that I haven't been throwing these away, but building them up in a corner awaiting the day I got access to a shredder.

Today I bought a shredder.

I had no idea it would be such fun to see assorted documents being munched into confetti. It reminded me forcibly of a game I used to play with Pickle, us either side of a door and me wiggling a bit of paper under it in a tantalising fashion. I had a delightful 15 minutes of watching my 1995 bank statements disappear in a very similar manner until the shredder seized up from overheating. It's cooling down now. I'd call it a cheap piece of tosh, but it wasn't cheap.

Of course, what I needed was one of these:

In which I am HORRIFIED by Delia Smith

2008-03-10T13:49:00.000-07:00

I cannot believe my ears and eyes this evening watching Delia Smith's appalling new show. I NEVER thought I would see this day, and I am absolutely aghast.

She has completely sold out to convenience food. Tinned mince. Frozen mashed potato. "Why don't you have some of these spicy potato wedges in your freezer?".

Well I'll tell you Delia. Because they are covered in preservatives, colourings and other E-numbers, and I don't control the salt and fat contents. How could you. How COULD YOU! Besides which, her tinned mince (catfood?) shepherds' pie just looked revolting. As did the potato wedge dip. Urgh. Urgh Urgh Urgh.

I'm disgusted. I'd like to say I'll not watch her show, but it's like driving past a culinary car accident. You can't tear your eyes away from it. I hope she's getting paid a hell of a lot for it by the convenience food lobbyists, because it's going to ruin her reputation.

Delia. Unfortunately, she's not having a laugh.

Sometimes you're just so happy, you want to share it. Hugs to you all!

2008-03-07T09:51:00.000-08:00

Where was I?

2008-02-18T09:21:00.000-08:00

I'm sorry. I couldn't blog again until I won at Civilisation. I managed it last night, as Hammurabi of the Babylonians, on victory points. It was a massive anticlimax as I'd been aiming for a space station. Ah well.

Well I shall make up for it by starting a little competition. The first person to tell me where these photos were taken, wins. Wins what? I hear you cry eagerly. Just wins. One of you is bound to be competitive enough.

Addiction

2008-01-28T09:47:00.000-08:00

I am not an addictive personality. I can use the drugs I have tried (legal, I'm a bit prissy like that) without cravings establishing themselves. Alcohol I like but can happily spend a few days without, painkillers I take as little as possible, even morphine, nice though it is, did not trap me in its sleepy, cotton-woolen, and above all slimming arms. I came off it as soon as I could, too soon as it turned out, ouch, but I didn't like being on it. It was beguiling, but just not right.

But I think I have met my match in the form of a computer game called Civilization. And all I can say to the person who introduced me to it, is this: I have a LAN cable and I think the copy of the game that you so kindly gave me handles multiplayer. I am coming over, and you had better get the supplies in and marshal your puny military, cultural and scientific forces, because it won't be over until your puny nation have been ground into their malaria-infested marshlands and you yourself in all your imperial grandeur have been reduced to Ozymandias's feet.

I can't think of a game designed to madden a civil servant more. What, honestly, do I need temples for? Why is Bismark so ratty? Why do I have to put in an aqueduct to seaside cities when plains cities without freshwater access don't seem to need one?

Aaaaaargh!

You may not hear from me for a bit...

POTTY!

2008-01-21T12:15:00.000-08:00

Phone rings.
Me: Hello?
My cousin: Hey there it's me, how NO ON THE POTTY, ON THE POTTY! are you?
Me: Very well thank you. How about you?
M.C.: Well we're all NO THE POTTY QUICK THE POTTY! very well.
Me: Good to hear. How can I be of service this evening?
M.C.: Well I wanted to invite you AAAAARGH NO ON THE POTTY OH GOD IT'S GONE EVERYWHERE.
Me: Do you want me to call you back in a few minutes when you've dealt with this minor family event?
M.C. No it'll be fine. Well, anyway, Mum and Dad are coming over and so we were wondering DON'T WALK ABOUT IN IT AAARGH whether you'd like to come around.
Me: It'll be lovely to see them. When would it be convenient?
M.C.: Well you're probably out at some fantastic party on Saturday aren't you? STAY WHERE YOU ARE, I'M BRINGING A CLOTH.
Me: As a matter of fact, I'm not at some fantastic party on Saturday evening, so I'd be free then.
M.C.: Could you come around for 5:30 then? We'll probably eat really early. AAAARGH NOT ON THE CARPET!
Me: Love to. See you then.
*CLICK*

Two things about having all your friends become young parents simultaneously are the following. One, they ring up and yell at you about potties. Two, they all suspect that because you've not got kids, you're getting out a lot more and having a much nicer time than they are. I'm sorry, there's just no getting around this. After the conversation I've just had, I think they're probably right. Still, someone has to pay for my pension, so I shake all my young parent friends by the hand (after checking first and if necessary offering them a wetwipe) and encourage them to keep at it.

Ay ay ay, tengo un examen....

2008-01-21T08:41:00.000-08:00

Por favor, desean mi suerte por mi examen de Español mañana, si, es verdad, es mañana por la mañana.

Tengo que tener exito, porque quiero aprender el flamenco....

Should I sue?

2008-01-15T10:23:00.000-08:00

Daffers stopped me as I was coming in last night, and very kindly handed me one of these:

Look what is all of a sudden available from Yves Rocher!

Tomato and Basil hand soap!

Hands up who thinks I should sue... Or do I have to wait until they produce Tomato and Basil Sandwiches soap?

Happy New Year 2008!

2008-01-03T03:05:00.000-08:00

I'm off for a week or so. Maybe I'll tell you about it when I get back. Maybe not. In the meantime, a little Mornington Crescent, I think.

Here's the map. Heathrow Terminal 4, I think.

Expo Da Vinci

2007-12-29T09:15:00.000-08:00

Back in Brussels, and with the town empty, what to do of a Saturday? The Expo Da Vinci, that's what, at the infamously ugly sixth largest building in Christendom, the carbuncular Koekelique de Basilberg with its throbbing neon cross on top. (You can visit it interactively, if you must.) A cross between the Battersea Power Station and a London Underground urinal, it lowers on the northern Brussels skyline like a boil. It is a testament to the architectural horrors of the industrial age, Art Deco en masse as its tiled fluted concrete pillars between brick vaulting mimic the fluted columns of its medieval forebears. It's worth a visit in itself. Every Gotham should have one.

However, at the year ends the Basilberg generally hosts an exhibition of quality. On the Millenium, my mother and I went to see a prospective exhibition on what life might be like in a thousand years' time. It tackled biology, society, religion and lots of other aspects that didn't only involve trying to predict what gadgetry might be invented in the next thousand years. But the highlight of this year's exhibition, for me, was gadgetry itself. Several of Leonardo's machines had been built in scale models. We saw an excavator, a multiple cannon array, two or three of the flying machines including the 'aerial screw' or ornithoper, the balista, a bicycle, and two types of tank. Somehow seeing them built was much clearer than reading Leonardo's sketches. An initial biographical timeline, was followed by thematic sections on several of his foci, including anatomy which forcibly recalled the Bodyworlds poses Gunter von Hagen took from illustrations of the time, and a further dissection of the cartoons and studies for some of his best-known paintings.

If you get a chance to see this exhibition, do.

Below; turn it upside down and it won't be able to right itself. You'd think da Vinci would have spotted that flaw, wouldn't you?

Benazir Bhutto

2007-12-29T09:00:00.001-08:00

Certainly not an angel, and probably not a saviour. But a very courageous, intelligent, passionate woman, who knew exactly what she was doing and why she was doing it.

Respect.

Benazir Bhutto

2007-12-29T09:00:00.000-08:00

Certainly not an angel, and probably not a saviour. But a very courageous, passionate woman, who knew exactly what she was doing and why she was doing it.

Respect.

Merry Christmas

2007-12-22T08:08:00.000-08:00

In every office, firm and service, finance officers are currently spitting about how much they hate the end of year.

I recovered Arthur (yes, she has survived) from the garage late yesterday. It was touch and go there, as the Italian transport strike kept her new bonnet on the roads for three or four days longer than it should have been. She's lost her black rubber front bumper as the whole of her front end was resprayed, and she's developed a throaty rumble when idling in neutral, but she seems ready for tomorrow's run. I've bought the presents, scored two kilos of Leonidas chocolates, assorted Continental yummies, and a large sausage for my mother. Bridport dresses up at New Year's Eve and apparently she wants to hide the Fallen Madonna with the Big Boobies in it. Make of that what you will. Me, I'm steeling myself to perhaps take part in the West Bay Wallow, a charity Boxing Day dip off East Beach that I've never yet quite managed to steel myself to undertake. Last one in's .... quite sensible really....

Have a good one. I'll check in again before New Year.

Heidelberg

2007-12-17T17:30:00.000-08:00

On Friday afternoon, we motored to Heidelberg, where we stayed at the Goldener Hecht just opposite the old bridge. I've wanted to go to Heidelberg since I was 10, when my history teacher, Mrs Langmaid, told me it was the most beautiful town in Germany. It certainly is gorgeous, made of a red stone with a partly ruined schloss lowering above the city like a Moghul fort. It contains the largest barrel I have ever seen of which they seem inordinately proud, but much more interesting was the German Apothecary Museum, housed in one of the habitable sections. It was an excellent exhibition and had a good section for children where they could smell and look at simples and mixes of herbs and spices with medicinal properties. Another feature of a visit to the schloss is that you take the Heidelberger Bergbahn, and if you follow it up to the top of the Königstuhl you will discover that there is actually a Heidelberger Bergbahn Staff Song, the lyrics of which can be seen in a small museum at the top, but which unfortunately we did not hear performed.

What we DID hear performed was a production of La Bohème at the theatre. It seems that Heidelberg is a bit of a permanent Fringe venue, and a young company had put on a technically faultless production of this much-loved opera. What threw me a bit was the staging. In the first act, Colline entered dressed as a giant chicken, and Schaunard stripped to his boxers and began sticking 5€ notes to his chest with his own spit. At this point we knew we were in for something different.

In the second act, the street market was transformed to the madness of Christmas shopping, with extras rushing about the scene dropping Gucci and Prada shopping bags. Parpignol the toy seller, bearing a great resemblance to the child catcher of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, handed out Kalashnikovs and Berettas, and the children pulled on balaclavas and pretended to be terrorists. At the end of the act, instead of approaching soldiers, the shoppers returned, but as zombies. Act three. Mimi looks for Rodolfo at a nightclub filled with giant orange balls. Everyone is in fancy dress and badly hungover. Act four. Schaunard and Colline turn up in the worst outfits I have ever seen, and this is Germany we are talking about. All I can say is that I'll certainly remember this production of La Boheme. And from what we could tell from the pamphlets readily available around the city, fringe arts are available all year round. Go and see, do.

Baden-Baden

2007-12-17T17:06:00.000-08:00

As you know I've been doing a bit of travelling. On Thursday last we drove to Baden-Baden. It's awfully chic, isn't it! We stayed in the utterly luxurious Hotel Belle Epoque, but what I really want to point out to you is the restaurant at which we had dinner, the Stahlbad. Like many German hostelries it is proud of its family-run nature, and Mama, who from what I understand is about 130, is still in the kitchen every day ensuring that guests will have the very best. It was a fabulous dinner but it was outshined by the welcome and character of the Schwank/Monch family who run the restaurant. Go and visit them, they're delightful.

Baden-Baden is of course a spa town, and on Friday morning we wandered around the old town, eyeing the excellent shopping and the picturesque streets. The waters were taken at the Trinkhaus, and found to be pleasantly warm, heavily mineral and somewhat salty. I certainly felt it go through me.

I failed to find a piece of Black Forest gateau. It doesn't seem to be available anywhere near the Black Forest. I'm beginning to wonder whether British marketing people haven't made it all up.

Strasbourg taxis

2007-12-13T02:23:00.000-08:00

Strasbourg taxis are, in general, excellent. There is always an exception that proves the rule.

I had my hair done yesterday for a party, and ordered a taxi back to the hotel to keep the spiky fluffy effect from falling. No, sadly no photos.

The taxi driver pulled over at the hotel, and said, "Six euros please". The meter read 4.50€.
I said "But the meter reads 4.50€".
"In Strasbourg there is a minimum taxi fee of six euros, and if you don't like it you can walk".
"Where is it written in your cab that there is a minimum fee of six euros?"
"It's there in the back, but never mind that because you owe me six euros and I'd like you to pay and let me get on with the next client". He seemed to be having a very strong reaction to a reasonable request for confirmation, and I couldn't work out why.
I said, "I've no objection to paying the fee if it is indeed the fee. I would just like to know where I stand contractually, so that we can both see that we are having a fair transaction"
I looked around the back of the cab and found a transparent tariff sticker on the window. I started to read it. The cabbie became increasingly agitated. And it wasn't surprising. The minimum fee as per the sticker was stated at five euros and sixty cents.

He had tried to scam me for the paltry sum of forty cents.

I was so amused at this I paid him the six euros, waited while he grumpily and reluctantly made change, gritting his teeth and counting out every coin in as small a denomination as he could possibly find to get back at me. And then, when he'd gathered them all together, I tipped him his own forty cents change back and bade him good day.

Christmas shopping

2007-12-09T12:54:00.000-08:00

I'm off to Strasbourg for a spot of Chrimbo shopping. In the replacement car with no radio. In the meantime, Daphne organised a Blogger's Christmas Dinner.

Get this

2007-12-08T08:04:00.000-08:00

So Arfur, as we know, is in the garage, and I've had the good news that she WILL be repaired. This means that the Europcar SEAT Ibiza my insurers have so kindly supplied me with as a replacement car can stay with me until the 17th, when I can pick Arfur back up.

As I'd replaced Arfur's back window three weeks ago following a dose of pure vandalism, and I deliberately haven't replaced Arfur's radio since it was nicked outside Zed's house in January, I was thinking that there was nothing that could possibly go wrong again on the automotive front.

This morning, when I climbed into the SEAT Ibiza, I noted that there was no longer a radio.

That's right.

The police confirmed that the front driver lock has been forced.

Cars. Who'd have 'em?

Beneath; a photo of what my replacement car radio could now be up to.

The McChe

2007-12-03T18:48:00.000-08:00

New artist of note.

Busy

2007-12-03T10:53:00.000-08:00

You may be wondering where I am. I'm all three ways of megabusy right now, but what I'd particularly like to proffer is my excuse for not making it to Zed's MBIAT Reading To Wallstrom Exercise.

I was on my way, honest, but then I had a car crash.

Arthur ('cos she's Arf a car) and I were idling at a traffic light on a one-way street, minding our own bloody business, and a large yellow van containing three construction workmen, who proved to be delightfully polite and apologetic, came off the traffic lights opposite and drove straight into us.

I have a slightly sprained thumb.

Arthur has a bust radiator, has lost her windscreen wash tank, and, I suspect, has serious electrical damage which may include her power-assisted steering.

I'm waiting to hear more from the expert, but it's quite possible she may be a write-off.

The photo below is what my car used to look like, except lavender.

Free Rice

2007-11-19T12:08:00.000-08:00

Hah! You think you have a decent vocabulary?

Think again and meet the addictive challenge that is Free Rice.

Well done the WFP.

P.S. I've reached 50 but keep getting thrown by the Yiddish words. On most of 'em, I got bubkes.

Rememberance Sunday

2007-11-11T03:45:00.000-08:00

Today, I will be singing a brand new Requiem, the Requiem Bruxellensis, which has been written by a retired colleague of mine, Hywel Duck. I've never sung a brand new piece of music before, and it's very strange not to be able to listen to a recording. However, as of today you will be able to hear this beautiful, triumphant Requiem for organ, trumpets, oboe, baritone solo and choir, because we're recording it. More details as and when.

The relative I wish particularly to feature in today's post is Jean-Hughes Oltramare, my great-grandfather. Jean-Hughes was Swiss and had served in the Swiss artillery during WW1, but during the Second World War he and his French wife and two British-born daughters lived in Ruislip, north of London. He did his bit the only way he would have been allowed to, by joining the Air Raid Wardens. Sadly during the darkest part of the war it was felt that foreigners were not to be trusted, and he was interned from 1940 to 1943. It is a mark of the man that his certificate from the Air Raid Wardens shows that upon his release in 1943 he resumed ARW duty immediately and served until the war ended. This is a famous family photo of him in his ARW kit. We love the jut of his jaw.

I would also like to remember my grandfather, Merchant Navy captain torpedoed twice during WW2, and my great-uncle, whose exceptional merits are amply documented elsewhere, with their photos below.

Men of duty, quality and grit. Their greatest legacy to us is their example.

Dinner recommendations

2007-11-09T09:15:00.000-08:00

Tonight I will be eating my dinner here. I have not been to the Ateliers de la Grande Ile for a good five years, but the last time I went there was live music from a Russian band, including a piano-type structure whose grouped strings the musician hits with two long-handled small metal hammers. The menu used to feature koulibiaki and suckling pig and various virulent flavoured vodkas such as chilli and pepper.

I shall try hard to follow the recommendations of the Russian food pyramid, as reproduced below. Particularly with regard to lard.

The "Darfuri orphans" scandal

2007-11-05T10:21:00.000-08:00

There's a lot of sad fallout from this nasty little story about inappropriate actions by a French NGO, L'Arche de Zoé or Zoe's Ark. L'Arche de Zoé have been running an "Operation Darfour", allegedly to evacuate orphans from the war-torn region of the Sudan, to "host families" in Europe who would then fight their asylum claims for them. This is already borderline - their decision to undertake the activity they did placed them on the very edge of IHL - international humanitarian law. (They quote a bunch of legal bases on their website - it's a pity it doesn't include some of the Geneva Convention provisions).

A swoop last week by the Tchadian authorities found that they were shipping out Tchadian kids instead, without their parents' permission. When this scandal broke, we at work were immediately struck by the UN's failure to protest, by the silence of the Red Crosses and other NGOs, by the tenor of the French government's reaction. It was a clear sign that something had gone badly wrong and we were all very glad that it is not one of the NGOs we fund, although I am sure there will be corresponding political fallout.

But there are other victims of this story than the kids themselves. My heart goes out, for instance, to all the parents. First of all the parents in Tchad who were apparently told their kids would be taken to a boarding school at a town nearby in Tchad and educated. They've been sorely betrayed and are not likely to trust another Western NGO, and that's a crying shame. At the other end of the story, there are couples in Europe, the USA and Canada, possibly childless, hoping to become foster parents, ready to fight for an asylum claim for the child they'd welcome into their home. They've possibly unwittingly funded part of this shameful operation as part of a "fostering" fee, and their hopes of fostering have been, at least temporarily, dashed. I feel horribly sorry for them too.

I also feel very sorry for other NGOs working in the fraught field of rescuing children from conflict. Their work has been made no easier by this event and they'll be eyed with suspicion by third world governments for a long time to come. I feel sorry for all the kids and parents they'll not be able to help because of the mistrust this will have caused.

L'Arche de Zoé were set up during the tsunami. The end of funding of that initial crisis probably led them, like many NGOs that found themselves a bit spare at the end of the Balkans crisis, to look for activities elsewhere. If you are a small NGO, and you've had a period of success with an initial mission, you have to consider whether you want to really put in the policy and legal work you are going to need to be able to do your good work within IHL and in coordination with other agencies, or whether it would be a good idea to wind up your activities and call it a day.

It would have been better for all concerned if L'Arche de Zoé had had the sense to call it a day.

Capitalist Ball 2007

2007-10-26T07:42:00.000-07:00

None of the following necessarily represents the views of my employer.

The more eagle-eyed of you will spot that there wasn't a Capitalist Ball review in February this year. This is because it was held in October. And yes, I did go. It was not until the later part of the next morning that I recalled with heart-squelching embarrassment a moment of behaviour which surpasses everything I've done before, and I include the day I didn't recognise Will Carling and told him I knew a rugby player (Simon Hogg) and more particularly the incident with the four Royal Navy officers in the swimming pool at 3am.

I was doubly and finely squired to this year's CNE Capitalist Ball. Held once more in the Concert Noble, it was a glittering affair honouring in first place, Jan Bielecki, who gave a very competent, witty and entertaining speech about why he wasn't in black tie (it turned out the airline had lost his luggage). Further prizes were given, each with their own interesting backstory. Dresses of various levels of appropriateness floated about. Dinner came and went. For the first time, the event was attended by a demonstration outside by a somewhat deluded group, I link only to offer you a glimpse of their website's charming dagger and hammer logo and "Our own folk first" slogan, who had convinced themselves that all Europe's economic decision-makers were inside, swilling champagne like capitalist pigs. We were indeed swilling champagne like capitalist pigs, but as for decision-makers, we only had the one MEP and he left early.

After the demonstrators got too cold and went home to their parents' nice suburban villas in the Flanders commuter belt, us champagne swillers spilled out onto the pavement and that's when I got talking to Tim Evans, who had been President-Director-General of CNE for three years. "So where do you work?" he said, and I said "Nextdoor, would you like to come and see?" and marched the poor fellow 25 meters down the pavement. "You know" I said, slurring slightly from all the capitalist champagne I'd been swilling and waving expansively at the posters of refugees we have up outside the office, "market access isn't just for big industry. It's also for these people. Norberg knows this, it's the basis of his In Defence of Global Capitalism. Amartya Sen would call lack of market access an unfreedom. Palestinian refugees, for instance and they're not alone in this regard, those in quasi-permanent camps in Jordan and Lebanon, are not granted work permits, they can't even start their own businesses within the camps, and this is a, a, a crying shame, and whilst here in this office we spend a lot on advocating their basic human rights and providing them with ways to try and secure a livelihood (giving barbers hairdessing equipment, for example) the wealthier nations among us should be doing something about advocating their rights to work and trade like any other resident in their host countries, or we should sort things out and get them home to allow them those same rights. And not enough is done, and it's not fair, and it's not even economically sensible, because they're just as valid an emerging market as any other".

At this point, my kind escorts broke us up (apparently they'd seen it coming) and I was led away to a warm ballroom and handed more champagne. The memory of lecturing a senior market economist on market access surfaced at about 12pm the next day with the thickening sud of a flooding soap powder factory. I wonder whether I'll be allowed back next year.

OK. I know you're all waiting. Piccie of frock.

Cecilia goes shopping

2007-10-26T03:02:00.000-07:00

I've been offline a while, not because of the disappointment of the rugby (to tell you the truth, I didn't think we'd get out of the pool, so I was dead chuffed just to see us reach the final) but because I've been brought low by an 'angine blanche'. This illness has recently had a political outing, because according to the Elysée's press machine, the reason Cecilia Sarkozy, ex-First Lady of France, could not attend a picnic with the Bushes, was because she too had an 'angine blanche'.

Now none of us would want to attend a picnic with the Bushes. There'd be the obligatory ants, there'd be far too much toe-curling small talk, laboriously relayed through interpreters (although I have it on good authority that Sarkozy is merely feigning incompetence in English) but most of all it would be teetotal. One shudders at the white-gloved, forced-pleasantries social awkwardness of the thing. I would probably be forced to commandeer a tray of sandwiches from a passing waiter just to allow me to get away from the hosts.

What is just plain stupid, if you're going to use 'angine blanche' as an excuse, is to be caught out shopping the next day. I can tell you that when you have an 'angine blanche' the bug in question eats away through the back of your throat and launches itself down into your glands in a bid for general mastery and domination of the lymphatic system. It takes three days for the antibiotics to kick in. You can't swallow, you are exhausted, you can't sleep for snuffling snot that is maddeningly lurking just between the sniff and hawk ranges and you can't get up even to feed yourself. Between that (although Scouse Doris tried her best, bless her) and the fever, in three days I lost three kilos, (there's always a silver lining). You are in any case in no condition to slip on your high heels and have a quick blast around the shopping centre with the girls.

There must be plenty of plausible excuses for not having to attend a picnic with the Bushes. Having a 'family' prior appointment (i.e. to rearrange your sock drawer), for instance, or being virulently allergic to Chicago School economics. What amazes me is that no-one ever seems to have the courage to tell the Bushes straight that they've got better, more useful, more fun things to do than waste an entire afternoon on diplomatic niceties over ant-filled obesity-inducing American stodge. Like governing another country, for instance. No wonder Cecilia went shopping.

So what would your excuse be?

Chasing the egg.

2007-10-20T06:32:00.000-07:00

I'm so excited. I can't wait for the big match.

England 14 and France 9, and going, ahem, home.

2007-10-15T09:27:00.000-07:00

Would someone who can reach please give Chabal a hug? I would, but I don't think having his knees hugged would help.

Also I'm English, which might not be favourite right now.

Christmas shopping recommendation

2007-10-10T09:47:00.000-07:00

Zoe's book is out. It's a very cute little hardback with an alarmingly accurate, as far as I can tell, Lucy Pepper cartoon of Q and Z on the front. Buy it here.

OMG

2007-10-07T01:38:00.000-07:00

The French have sent the Kiwis packing. Now THAT was unexpected.
Obviously standing up to the haka properly, and not going into a girlie huddle like the Italians, is what a team needs to do.

We're through

2007-10-06T08:00:00.000-07:00

How I don't know, but I suspect the Australians are beginning to hate Jonny Wilkinson's left boot.
Well done guys.

"Big girl's blouse"

2007-10-05T09:44:00.000-07:00

A British general election is looming, and the cut and thrust of political debate in the mother of all democracies (Except, as they would have it, Greece. And Iceland. And....) is beginning to heat up again. It's within this context that the Conservative party seems to think its recent Conference opinion spike will cause it to gain from an earlier snap election. Traditionally the bastion of highly educated wordsmithery, it has unleashed a veritable barrage of Pythonesque French taunting at the Prime Minister, Gordon Brown, in order to try and sting him into calling a general election as soon as possible. Boris Johnson has called him "a great quivering jelly of indecision" and that if he didn't call a snap election this weekend he'd be "a big girl's blouse". George Osborne suggested he'd "bottle it".

Firstly, what sort of language is this for the Party of Tradition? No wonder they're leaving themselves open to accusations of hug-a-hoodieism. They might as well saunter up and say, "Yo, Gordon. Yo' Mama" in an upper-class accent. Risible.

Secondly, what sort of a glove in the face is this to a dour, religious, uptight Scot? An absolutely ineffective one, that's what. Brown's blood runs much colder than that. If the Tories really want a fight, they should stop sitting on the policy fence and produce a manifesto. None of this "Are you thinking what we're thinking" business. Let's see the colour of their flag. THEN we'll be squaring up for a decent scrap.

I LOVE British general elections.

LOVED Provence

2007-09-30T07:42:00.000-07:00

I'm back. It was fabulous, and of course exhausting. No, we did not dance on Le Pont D'Avignon, nor did we record ourselves singing the song on a DVD to take home with us. But we saw Salins du Midi's salt pans at Aigues-Mortes, the Roman theatre at Orange, the Roman arena at Nimes, a very well-appointed museum of modern art at Bagnols-sur-Cèze, and a mad mad Provençal print cloth shop in Aix-en-Provence which I had vowed to bring my mother to when I saw it in 2005. I bought so much cloth for tablecloths that I had to mail it to myself. I'm hoping Scouse Doris will help me sew them all.

Good times: listening to the England vs. Tonga match with my father on his tiny transistor radio 1930s stylee, eating fabulous prawns with aioli sauce, rich stew made from a fighting bull calf with saffron rice, fabulous.

I'd tell you more, but I'm sorry, the rugby's on, Ireland versus Argentina, and it promises to be a humdinger. And may I say, the best of Irish luck to a fellow home nation. Wager, anyone? I thought not.

Tomorrow I will be taking a train to....

2007-09-21T11:08:00.000-07:00

I am going to meet my parents and spend a week chauffering them around Provence. Parents are for spoiling, while you can.

Tonight I will mainly be eating....

2007-09-19T10:07:00.000-07:00

Human mice

2007-09-17T10:20:00.000-07:00

I went to a course today on something very boring and financial. At the beginning of the day's labour, the teacher asked us all whether we were sure we were all in the right course. "Yes, yes, Financial whotsit whotsit, room 3.6, that's us".

Then he made us sign the register. One gentleman noticed he wasn't on the list. Was he still sure, the teacher asked, that he was in the right course?

"Yes, yes" he said, "room 3.6".

"OK" said the teacher, "there must have been a mixup, add your name on the list, the more the merrier". And he started the course.

After about 15 minutes of being led by the nose around the financial car crash of CapGemini's 2003 accounts, the unlisted gentleman lifted his hand. "Excuse me, but I think I'm in the wrong course."

"What course are you supposed to be in?" we all asked.

"Assertiveness...."

It took a while to restore order.

We subsequently discovered that several people had been turned away before any of us had turned up. We think the assertiveness course people deliberately give students the wrong room number as a test of just how much work is needed.

I'm assertive, I'm assertive!

Sandpit

2007-09-16T08:04:00.000-07:00

1) I've just sat down to blog after a weekend away, and there are traces of chocolate on the white paper we run the mouse on.

Scouse Doris, you are officially busted.

2) It is only when you take your two-year-old relative to a sandpit, and then bring him home, feed him, put him to bed, and then undress for a shower, that you fully learn just how much sand you can carry in your bra without noticing.

Dame Anita Roddick

2007-09-10T23:53:00.000-07:00

Matchmaker of Capitalism and Conscience.

Rugby, God Bless Its Cotton Shorts

2007-09-08T06:19:00.000-07:00

Least said about last night's blogmeet, soonest mended, I think.

On another much more interesting note, the rugger world cup has started, and I am in heaven. Big, burly blokes scrumming about all over the place, it all looks horridly violent and then you look at the action replays and you see the ballet of 110-kilo men being lifted into the air for the line-out, the care taken in a tackle to bring the opponent down without hurting him, the way that, in a well-honed team, as he is tackled a player will pass the ball to a team-mate he cannot see but whom he knows is there. You start watching for the eye candy, you keep watching for the beauty of the game.

Last night, in the Stade de France, the French hosts opened the tournament against the Argentines. For reasons probably linked to Laporte seriously underestimating the opposition, they left the terrifying Chabal, whose aspect alone could floor you if you were feeling a tad vulnerable, on the bench until it was WAY too late. La Honte Nationale. As a result, Argentina gave France a wrist-slapping, which will provide me with plenty of ribbing material at work on Monday. As will New Zealand's trouncing of Italy, an up-and-coming rugby country that should have been able to put up slightly more of a challenge. Although I have to say the All Blacks are VERY fit.

That is, if my own country manage to avoid pulling defeat from the jaws of victory again, and survive the unpredictable onslaught of the USA. If not, I shall be taking down the Jonny Wilkinson picture I have put up on my office door and keeping very quiet. Yes I know he's injured and so not playing until later. I just think he's pretty.

BLOGMEET 7/9/2007

2007-09-03T10:00:00.000-07:00

Kitty O'Shea's, Brussels. See link for directions.

My favourite cover band, Take This, are playing.

Be there or be somewhere else.

New dress

2007-09-02T02:55:00.000-07:00

I may be going to a barbecue this afternoon if the weather holds.

If so I will be wearing this very reasonably priced Marks and Spencers giraffe print dress.

It looks like absolute rubbish on the hanger, it looks OK on this model but, because we fill it out better and in all the right places, it looks AMAZING on curvy ladies. Especially if they've judiciously taken Daphne Wayne-Bough's advice and purchased a serious pair of foundation garment knickers. I tell you, when it comes to self-confidence and taking control of her life, a woman can do a lot worse than get her underwear sorted out.

Albert's Dilemma

2007-08-30T09:08:00.000-07:00

King Albert of the Belgians called me up last night. He wanted to ask me whether I'd be his new formateur.

"Haven't you got any Belgians left to ask?" I said.

"No." he said. "I've asked everyone in politics, and none of them think they can do it. So then I asked Tintin, who was too busy clubbing, and Poirot, who pointed out he was fictional, and Magritte said he was too busy being dead, so then I went and knocked on Jacques Brel's grave but he wasn't in. And then the wife said she'd met you in the Berlaymont and was impressed by your nervous grin. Please please please, I'm DESPERATE."

I considered the task. From the little I understand of Belgian politics, it seems to involve herding cats into a shower cabinet while the shower is on.

"Sorry, your Maj" I said. "I haven't got time. I've got to recatalogue my sock drawer."

I'm an environmental villain

2007-08-28T09:34:00.000-07:00

I was driving through Colyton, "the most rebellious town in Devon", on Saturday when along the narrowest part of the road, just where that little hexagonal turret is, I came upon a large piece of agricultural machinery coming the other way. It was a terrifying piece of equipment. Circular scythes and scarifyers bristled all over it. It was exactly the sort of thing I'd want to be driving if I'd ever have to join an angry mob rushing to sack a castle or kill an ogre. Anyway, I didn't like the look of it nor how close it was going to get to my little car, and so that's why, as I swerved out of the way of its blades, I ran over the large, crunchy hedgehog that was right in front of me.

I felt awful. I'm very fond of hedgehogs, and besides, it hadn't popped in crisp-packet fashion like the pheasant I took out as a learner driver with my parents' Volvo estate. No, old Tiggywinkle, being a large adult, was quite sturdy, and had taken quite a lot of the car's weight before it collapsed with an audible kerrr-unch. I could still hear that crunch all night.

I have spent the best part of the last three days trying to shake the guilt of running over the hedgehog. And now I find I've killed a protected species.

So I'm asking you, what form of mental self-flagellation do you suggest that might scourge this environmental guilt from my mind?

Melplash Show 2007

2007-08-23T10:21:00.000-07:00

Today was spent trudging about the Melplash Show. Due to the current livestock movement restrictions, well done Pirbright, there were no cattle, pigs or sheep, except for one stand which in contravention to the abovementioned restrictions claimed to have brought the Lamb of God. The restriction enforcement inspectors couldn't see it either, despite the stallholders' arguments that it's not because it's invisible that it's not there. Meanwhile the organisers were making do with what else they could get hold of. We thrilled to falconry, lumberjackery and dog displays, and otters and rabbits gambolled in carefully fenced-off areas. There were helicopter rides, two people wingwalking on biplanes and you could buy a new tractor, seeds and implements, farming clothing, Shirley Bassey Wellingtons, beef and stilton pasties, and farming insurance. My trip through the "rural crafts" tent saw me richer by one Thai silk kimono top and poorer by £25. Does Thailand count as rural? I suppose so.

My parents should have entered their runner beans in the vegetable class. The ones we ate last night for dinner were far finer than the winners. Ah well, you can lead a horticulture but you can't make her think.

It was very hot. Candy floss is still available and yes, it still does cause sugar rushes, overexcitement and vomiting in small children. Flake 99s are not as yummy as they once were but pasties are even better. We had a swim off East Beach to cool us down. I am now enjoying, to my great surprise, a bottle of J.C. and R.H. Palmer's Light Pale Ale.

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Archiving the ancestors

2007-08-21T08:03:00.000-07:00

Since we lost Grandpa in June, the family's become somewhat more interested in genealogy, and I have spent large portions of my holiday at home scanning and archiving my ancestors. We've turned up a few characters. For example:

My Swiss great-grandfather visiting his new French in-laws in rural Haute-Savoie, around 1911. We thought his choice of socks was to prevent them feeling bumpkinnish, but later photographs reveal he just had an alarming taste in socks and, the better to exhibit them, wore plus-fours whenever he could get away with them, well into his eighties.

The same great-grandfather, proving that the Swiss did once play rugby, in his "La Servette" Geneva rugby team photo in 1906. It was the last year before La Servette switched to football.

My great-grandmother and her sister, French milliners imported to the UK around 1909 to work at Selfridges. My great-great-aunt later millinered for Madame Lanvin. It certainly explains the outrageous hats.

My Mexican great-great-great-grandmother. How she ended up marrying a Swiss is still unclear.

It so happens I have a USB key in my handbag (I like to Be Prepared...) so you'll be seeing a bit more of this lot over the coming months...

While I'm away...

2007-08-02T10:38:00.000-07:00

Let's have a game of Mornington Crescent!

I'll start you off with Ruislip Gardens. Doubleclicky to embiggen.

Unless I meet you in Bridport, squeezing Fearnley-Whittingstall's huge tomatoes at the Farmer's Market, I'll see you all again on August 28th.

About bloody time

2007-07-31T23:27:00.000-07:00

The UN should have sent a UN, not AU, peacekeeper force in YEARS AGO, 2003 would have not been too soon. There may not be enough of them, either.

Currently listening to....

2007-07-29T05:35:00.000-07:00

Angels and Airwaves. For those of you who enjoyed "All the small things", and the more matured direction they took with the 2003 album, such as "I miss you", Tom DeLonge's post-Blink-182 venture features anthemic mantras of teenage angst and love and occasional actual enthusiasm ("The Adventure") over very competent pleasant soft rock, reminiscent of the Cure, U2 and, according to Scouse Doris, a 1970S prog rock band called Yes that I should probably check out.

Those of you who recommended Sigur Ros, you know who you are John B., may find A&A pleasant, in a more structured, teenagey way. Plus they're not singing in Icelandic. Although I quite like the Icelandic. I don't have a snowball's chance in Algeria of understanding it, so for once I don't try, and the vocals float about like another instrument. Quite restful, really.

I have a stinking cold but I've made chicken and leek soup out of some very fatty chicken wings, so if the rumours about the curative properties of schmaltz are true as the Jewish grandmothers always said, I should be right as rain in no time.

OK - review without spoilers

2007-07-27T09:06:00.000-07:00

Well, it gets very much worse for Harry before it gets any better. You're going to need some hankies. The battle scenes are going to require some cutting-edge CGI work when the film is made. And a lot of mysteries are revealed, such as who dies, who ends up with who, and what's really up with Snape*.

But you all knew that.

However I was caught out by one element. All I can say is, Randall Sherman is going to find a particular scene of HP n° 7 extremely familiar indeed.

*IMHO the man needs a hot bath, some cocoa, and a few of my homecooked dinners, he'd perk right up.

Offline

2007-07-24T13:00:00.000-07:00

I have purchased the new Harry Potter. See you in a couple of days.

Alea iacta est again

2007-07-20T07:56:00.000-07:00

From the finance point of view I could not have asked for a better interview. They asked me questions I could answer from my daily work. After my particularly thrilling exposé of the procedure for recovering funds from people who owe us money, which seemed to be received with every evidence of interest by the panel, if it had been appropriate to get up and run a little lap of honour around the interview room, whilst carrying a European flag and humming the Ode to Joy, and then slam dunk my coffee cup into the dustbin, I would have done so.

However I have muffed the Spanish a little. I was very nervous. I managed to blurt out that I can read it perfectly and I am attending the appropriate courses. I think they were satisfied that by next year I'll be able to work in it. I hope so anyway.

They said they thought they could confirm to me that I will get one of the countries I have asked for (yay!) but that they are running late with the interviews and so don't expect to be able to tell me which one until December (poot.)

I'm hoping I'll lose weight from nerves caused by the suspense, but it's probably more likely I shall take to chocolate to palliate the insecurity. This means I will blow outwards like a hot air balloon being inflated for air baptism rides at a provincial agricultural show. Teenage mothers will point me out in the street to their air-raid-siren offspring as a dreadful example of what happens to People With Ambition.

I can't influence it any further, but it ain't over until the fat lady sings.

Procastiblogging

2007-07-16T01:58:00.000-07:00

I have taken two days off to study for this interview.

The Goth's Mariposa is kindly coming to lunch with me in Spanish twice this week. This in repayment for a favour I have done for the Goth that I'm not allowed to tell you about.
I have the manual of financial procedures for overseas funding.
I have the manual of financial procedures for the European Development Fund, in Spanish, and I have a handbag-sized paperback containing the 2005 revised version of Cotonou.
I have the general procurement manual for overseas funding.
I have a helpful little pamphlet on EU-South Pacific relations.

I have the Delegations' web pages for each of the countries in question.

And am I reading them? NO.

I'm tidying the kitchen, doing the washing, wondering what to put out for Mariposa's almuerzo, and, as you can see, procastiblogging.

I'll never get to meet this gentleman at this rate.

HELP!

2007-07-15T10:58:00.000-07:00

My interview for Delegation has been set for 20th July.

I now have 10 days to learn how to talk intelligently about financing procedures in countries being encouraged towards regional integration processes, the reduction of vulnerability to natural disasters, the reduction in economic inequalities, through several budgetary mechanisms ranging from budgetary support to development projects, in Spanish as well as ye olde English and French, for at least half an hour.

I may have bitten off more than I can chew.

Excuse me, I have to go and swot.

Bouncy Castles

2007-07-14T06:24:00.000-07:00

Yes, I know I'm supposed to be studying, but...

Quarsan, who has hijacked MBIAT while Zoe is off you-know-whatting, is thinking of installing a bouncy castle in the garden. I'm not impressed with the choices he has found. He could get a much more risible feature, more pneumatic than even Kylie, second hand, and probably quite cheaply.

Dip Dop Crabtree, Sherman and Arthur Miller

2007-07-06T10:07:00.000-07:00

Je ne sais pas quelle longue heure au blogroll m'est prise tellement Monsieur Crabtree. Il est particulièrement délicieux à le bilingue, comme nous pouvons passer les heures qui essayent d'établir ce que vraiment essayé pour dire avant Babelfish a obtenu à lui. Parfois il fait le cri à moi. Avec le rire.

Arthur Miller seems to have moved in with Sherman. A domestic tragedy has taken place, a father brought low, a spouse uninvolved, a secretary at fault. A reader ROFLing.

How angels get wings

2007-07-05T13:03:00.000-07:00

Tippler's boyish fantasy about a particularly unorthodox good deed that allows an angel, though somewhat fallen, to earn her wings, has triggered me to reveal to you a conversation I had a couple of Sundays ago.

A small child had been entrusted to us for the morning by her sporty and elegant mother, which explains the following exchange:

Small Child: "What are those flappy, wobbly bits under your arms?
Me (somewhat flabbergasted, and therefore operating entirely on reflex): Well, I'm trying to grow wings.
S.C.: REALLY?
Me: Well, yes, you see you can't grow them overnight, it takes a bit of time, so this is just the beginning.
S.C. (horrified, but somewhat fascinated): How do you do it?
Me: Well, you go to the doctor, and she tells you what you need to do, and after a while you wake up one morning and there are these here wobbly bits (wobble them for effect) and then a bit later bones start to grow inside, and then eventually feather ducts grow in the skin, and then the feathers come out, and you can start learning to fly.
S.C.(turning to Scouse Doris for confirmation): Really? Is it true?
Scouse Doris (who has never, to my knowledge, actually lied) nods with a very serious look on her face.
S.C. thinks for a good 45 seconds, and then: That's NOT TRUE!

Well I can't think of any other explanation why I've got these (frankly rather modest) wobbly bits under my arms. So clearly it must be due to my impending ascension to a higher plane.

New animals

2007-07-01T14:51:00.000-07:00

Scouse Doris and I went out for lunch in Leuven and had a couple of glasses of wine. As a result a mother and child piéta of giraffes are now living in our sitting room. Unlike the pair in the photo, ours have leopardskin print cloth covers. The mother is about 1 meter 50 in height.

They look very surprised indeed.

Aaaaargh. Honey tagged me.

2007-06-28T11:29:00.000-07:00

1. Each player must post these rules first.
2. Each player starts with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
3. People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.
4. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.
5. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.

eight random facts/habits about me:

1. I was once, for a couple of years, the second best female archer in Belgium after a woman called Gerlinde Klingels. I own a Hoyt Spectra Lite. It lives with my cousins because they have a garden, and also because if they see it, it scares men off even faster than I do already.
2. I wish I was able to say "no" more when people ask me for favours. Sometimes I think I get invited AS the entertainment.
3. I can make soufflés. They're actually not at all difficult to do.
4. I had to have rabies jabs as a child of eight after a nasty dog bite. I didn't get the full course. Apparently it shows.
5. I don't want children of my own, I'm terrified of psychologically crippling them. I enjoy being an auntie. Hence the name.
6. I'm a cyborg. 25% of my pelvis is made of cement (see gory stuff).
7. I never date other women's men. Not even if they've just expressed slight interest. A man I was living with came home to tell me his secretary was pregnant*. Aside from his betrayal, I thought it was the most tacky thing I've ever seen any woman do to get a man. Of course I sent him to live with her and his child. I've got class, me. It didn't last, of course.
8. I'm off for a bubblebath.

TAGGED: Scouse Doris, A.A. Ayscoughe-Hussey, Mutley the Dog, the very kind Andy Ramblings, the exotic Edina Monsoon, the erudite pundit Prufrock, the activist Lucy Arin, and the Lippy Lawyer, not that I know any that aren't. Let's see what they make of it.

*yes, by him. Apparently he fell down the stairs on top of her with his flies open, or something.

Things I have learned recently.

2007-06-27T12:48:00.000-07:00

- There are no actual words to Bee Gees songs. One goes "nanana na na na, You Win Again, na na na" or "Tragedy! Nanana nanana nanana nana it's Tragedy!".
- My grandfather was born in 1916, not 1917.
- My sister K thinks it is appropriate to take a salmon and cucumber on wholewheat sandwich to her grandfather's funeral. In her handbag.
- I do not want Danny Boy played at my funeral. I shall haunt you, I shall.
- Why is it that during the post-funeral bunfight old UKIP-voting codgers of the sort who arr-arrr their way through a conversation ("Arrr arrr grandfather what, Arnhem, jolly good show, arrr arrr arrr fuzzy-wuzzies arrr arrr Kitchener arr arrr arrr absolutely ripping!") always assume that your defunct family members were of their political opinion just because they admire them? Sometimes, just sometimes, I'm tempted to say "well, I'm glad you enjoyed his company, given that he was a communist." Not that he was, but just to wind'em up.
- The Swan in Lympstone is a dam' fine hostelry.

That's all for now.

"Arrr arrr dontcherknow, arr arr arr Mafeking, surrounded arr arr arr only cucumber and salmon sandwiches left arr arr".

Away

2007-06-23T05:09:00.000-07:00

I'm off to Bridport for the funeral. Back next Wednesday.

Whilst I'm over, I shall also go and pay my respects at the enormous, smoking, tragic crater that once was Beavershott. Gosling must have been killed in the explosion, for he is gone too. I am blaming Hector Munroe. He has also disappeared from the radar, and I suspect him of suicide bombing the pub.

The Webley-Bullocks seem to have survived. Perhaps they can reveal what happened.

Hugs.

Bulldozer

2007-06-23T01:30:00.000-07:00

Elaib has been blogging through the summit. There are several delightful posts, not least the one where the hacks ran out of beer, but the best one is about this superb public relations gift the Brussels police were stupid enough to give the UKIP group. I don't agree with UKIP, but because I cling (doggedly and in the face of all evidence) to a belief that the electorate is able to vote intelligently, I will defend to the hilt UKIP's right to say what they think. Let them have their inflatable bulldozer.

In any case, I bet UKIP are delighted. To be able to deploy the "we're being gagged" argument at any summit, and particularly this summit, is fantastic news capital for them.

What stumps me is why the police felt they had to take it down. I'm sure it was on their own initiative, as no-one politically savvy would have been daft enough to hand such a PR coup to the Eurosceptics. I suspect one of Brussels's finest will be being sent to political sensitivity classes on Monday.

William Kamkwamba

2007-06-21T12:10:00.000-07:00

Via Worstall, a young lad making his own homemade windmills in Malawi. V. Cool if you ask me.

Secret fantasies revealed n° 2.

2007-06-21T09:43:00.000-07:00

Tippler is recommending we all go and see The Prestige. I wasn't that bothered until I realised Christian Bale is in it. BTW if Tippler can get away with lusting after Harry Potter characters I can get away with the following:

He's a funny chameleon of an actor, is Bale. Allegedly he's Welsh, but he's so good at accents no-one would ever be able to tell. I understand he did a fabulous job of the kid in Empire of the Sun, which, sadly, I've never seen. Scary as hell even with no clothes on in American Psycho, completely unidentifiable due to the very authentic-sounding accent in Captain Corelli's Mandolin, coldly efficient with a heart of pain in Equilibrium, burgeoning superhero in Batman Begins (sequel coming, yippee!). He also voiced over Howl for Howl's Moving Castle, who is much the same sort of powerful, aching character. It all sounds so hedgehoggy and chilled, rather as if snuggling up to him would be rather like pressing one's undressed body against a freezer door covered in tears of condensation, brrrr, now I have to go and have a hot bath.

And then you get this sort of a quote:
"At first, I was somewhat hesitant to do the role. I mean, after all, Batman is an icon. But I remember, as clear as day, being at the grocery store the day the movie opened, and this little boy saw me. He couldn't have been more than five years old. He just walked right up to me and hugged me. He hugged me, and I was so moved by it that I hugged him back. Then he looked up at me and said "You're my hero." And in that moment, I knew that not only as an actor that I had done my job, but that I had made the right decision to play Batman. And I've never looked back on my the decision to play Batman since. "

*Sigh...*

Mwahahahahaha!

2007-06-21T09:00:00.000-07:00

Sherman's on fine form. He's been trying to buy a drink in Utah.

"Most gas stations and supermarkets have a cooler containing cans and bottles upon which is stenciled the word, "beer." Don't be fooled. It is 3.2% by volume. As we all know, these are merely bottles and cans of colored water, at which several elderly ladies from Bratislava with gigantic moles sporting prehensile hairs on their chins have screamed the word, "beer" repeatedly."

I looked for a hairy mole photo for this post, but they all made me feel sick, so you'll have to do without one.

Post alert

2007-06-19T11:17:00.000-07:00

It's a time of arrangements. Travel, funeral, work. Very focused.

In the meantime, Scouse Doris has been posting on matters that command deep reflection. I have yet, frankly, to see a decent chocolate review, and am beginning to suspect she is merely masquerading as a chocolate expert in order to gain your confidence and use you as a confidante for her far more nefarious and exciting activities.

Anyway, you'll see what I mean. Go see.

More photos of Grandpa

2007-06-17T05:23:00.000-07:00

Granny and Grandpa at their 60th wedding anniversary in 2003

Granny and Grandpa and two generations of descendants in 2003. There were also the two great-granddaughters of whom I am The Aunt, who've been since joined by two great-grandsons, with another two great-grandchildren on the way.

Grandpa 1917-2007

2007-06-16T10:05:00.000-07:00

Grandpa died quietly this morning, at 91, after a very short bout of pneumonia. He was a Merchant Navy captain, a bailiff at a Crown Court, a church warden, a tour guide for Exeter Cathedral, a fantastic father, a devoted husband, and the very best grandfather ever. In 1943 he turned up on my grandmother's doorstep in his captain's uniform with his hair brylcreamed back like Cary Grant and asked his future mother-in-law if he could take my grandmother to the cinema. They were married in three weeks ("there WAS a war on!") and celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary in 2003. He had a baritone as rich as Christmas pudding and as strong as brandy butter, and a sense of duty so ingrained it was passed on to us in our genes.

May we all have lives as long, fruitful, and noble as his.

Grandpa at 2 years old in 1919.

Grandpa at 16, just going off to sea.

Grandpa in 2005 at 88.

Friday

2007-06-15T11:07:00.000-07:00

And I'm going out to see my favourite live band Take This.

Don't wait up for me.

Heads down over the books

2007-06-14T11:56:00.000-07:00

Scouse Doris and I are both slaving away over hot paper. The Mistress of Chocolate has a significant exam to take in the coming weeks and must hone her skills to their utmost. I, on the other hand, may soon be expected to justify at interview why I want to go and work in the five countries I named earlier. You'll note, Mutley, that Burkina Faso is not one of them, but actually if it was offered I might not say no. It's landlocked and poor but there are richer seaside places much worse than Burkina Faso, such as, just an example off the top of my head, Gaza.

No, if I'm going to be shot dead, I'd rather it was because my work was having an effect and perhaps unsettling entrenched interests, as I have been warned several of my colleagues have met their nemesis, rather than by some random, stray, ricocheting, paramilitary bullet. Of course one can always be stabbed to death by a random burglar, but to be honest I nearly got run over on a pedestrian crossing ten years ago here in Belgium on rue Joseph II by the now outgoing Prime Minister Guy Verhofstadt at the wheel of his ministerial BMW, so there's danger everywhere really.

Caption: "Right flustered she was, George, bosom heaving, scurrying across like a startled hedgehog!"

Secret fantasies revealed n° 1.

2007-06-11T13:08:00.000-07:00

Peter AND Dan Snow.

There's a troll about.

2007-06-10T13:47:00.000-07:00

There's a person masquerading as me, The Aunt, or Aunty Marianne, on Blogger. He has visited Honey and Mutley and left a series of strong-language offensive comments in my name. Luckily Mutley rumbled him and let me know, thank you Mutley. One of the "Aunty Marianne" comments on Mutley's blog led back to a fellow called Hector Munroe, which may be him, or it may be that Hector is someone else he's cloned. I also got an email from Andy Ramblings to tell me that he wasn't the author of the comments under his name in the post below.

Now I think back this person may have been hanging around for a while. I sincerely hope this offensive fellow doesn't visit anyone else and please accept my condolences in advance if he does visit you with objectionable material.

I have changed my passwords and I am going to put comments on moderation for a while.

Support the Dryads 3 - Smoking gun

2007-06-08T01:34:00.000-07:00

Yesterday courtesy of Tippler a document came to my attention which pretty much provides the smoking gun in the tale of the tree felling. It's on the STIB's own website, which forbids us to link to it, so here's the URL, http://www.stib.irisnet.be/FR/13100F.htm, n° 13 among the PDF brochures available on that page, the brochure related specifically to the STIB's plans for its tram rolling stock.

You will note that for future trams, planned at 2.65 meters in INTERNAL width, and with a wider axle base, and a wider gap between the trams, 25% of the network still needs to be 'adapted'. The STIB need to gain at least 70 cms overall (35cms on either side), and probably more for the gap between the two sets of rails. The tree-lined avenues of Brussels are unlikely to be offering this additional width. My guess is that's why the Region are helpfully chopping them down for the STIB.

In the light of this brochure, I think you'll agree the STIB's answers below are highly economical with the truth and frankly rather disingenuous.

I wrote to them last night as follows:

Dear Monsieur Glinne,

Merci de votre réponse.
J’avais l’occasion aujourd’hui de visiter le site http://www.stib.irisnet.be/FR/13100F.htm où j’ai pu lire votre PDF N° 13 concernant le renouvellement du matériel roulant de la STIB. C’est ainsi que j’ai constaté que le STIB prévoit d’acheter dans le futur des trams de 2,65m de largeur intérieur, ce qui est plus large que les très beaux nouveaux trams que nous avons aujourd’hui.

Dans ce même PDF je remarque que 75% du réseau étant déjà adapté aux trams de 2.65m, 25% reste à modifier pour acceuillir les trams du futur. Est-ce que vous pouvez me signaler quels zones se trouvent parmi ces 25%. Est-ce que cela comprend les avenues suivantes :

Winston Churchill
Albert
Tervueren (Chaussée et Avenue)
Boulevard du Souverain
Avenue Louise

S’il y a d’autres lignes de tram sertis d’arbres dans les 25% à adapter, est-ce que vous pouvez me signaler quelles sont-elles.

Je vous en remercie d’avance,
Bien à vous

I will be very interested to see what they come up with.

Support the Dryads Part II

2007-06-06T12:06:00.000-07:00

Not satisfied with the STIB's glib answer as given below, and inspired by the continued campaign (see new Expatica article) I wrote to the STIB again. I thanked them for the speed of their answer, and then asked for the number of trees on Winston Churchill, the number diagnosed with an illness that makes them dangerous, the number already cut down, and the number that were scheduled for the chop. I asked them to give me all three dimensions for the trams. I asked them for the contact details of the people at the Region of Brussels-Capital responsible for the tree-felling.

This is the letter I got back.

Bonjour,

Nous vous remercions de nous avoir fait parvenir votre message.

Nous ne pouvons malheureusement vous indiquer le nombre exact d'arbres à abattre sur l'avenue Churchill, ce dossier relevant de la compétence de l'Administration des Equipements et Déplacements de la Région de Bruxelles-Capitale. Cette administration dépendant du Ministère de la Région de Bruxelles-Capitale (MRBC) est joignable au numéro de téléphone: 02 204 21 11.

Par ailleurs, les dimensions des nouveaux trams sont les suivantes:

T3000

largeur: 2,30 m
longueur: 31,85 m
hauteur: 3,40 m

T4000

largeur: 2,30 m
longueur: 43,22 m
hauteur: 3,40 m

hauteur de la caténaire (mesure standard pour le réseau): 9,69 m

En restant à votre disposition,
Cordialement,

Nathanaël GLINNE (Mr.)
STIB - Relations avec la Clientèle
Tél: +32 2 515 23 91
Besoin d'un renseignement? Surfez sur www.stib.be
ou appelez notre Contact Centre au 0900 10 310(0,45€/min).*

"Hello,

Thanks for your message.

Sadly we cannot give you the figures on the exact number of trees to be felled on Avenue Churchill, because the file is being handled by the Administration of Equipment and Removals of the Brussels-Capital Region, which is a dependent body of the Ministry of the Brussels-Capital Region and can be reached by telephone on 02 204 21 11.

The dimensions of the new trams are as follows:

T3000

width: 2,30 m
length: 31,85 m
height: 3,40 m

T4000

width: 2,30 m
length: 43,22 m
height: 3,40 m

height of the catenary (power cable) (standardized across the network): 9,69 m

At your disposal,
Cordially, etc"

Now I think this is a much better answer. It's honest and factual and I have forwarded it to the Marroniers people to do with as they see fit.

In the meantime I had a chinwag with a friend who happens to be a Doctor of Botany. She'd heard about the Churchill kerfuffle and had seen something similar happen near her own house, where a row of trees of which only some were diseased had been slaughtered wholesale. It was her contention that a properly managed avenue of trees has fellings, sometimes culls, and replantings every five years or so, so that there's never an enormous gap and diseased trees are caught early and either treated or felled. Whilst it sounds expensive, in the long run, such a policy of regular expenditure on a smaller scale would undoubtedly be cheaper than having to have a wholesale felling and replanting session. It might also avoid the sort of leaf blight that seems to have hit the baby trees replanted along the Chaussée de Tervuren. Suffice to say that she is also not overly impressed with the Brussels-Capital Region's management of their trees.

Speaking of replanting. Today, I was reading the blog of Eric Sax, one of the councillors of Uccle, the municipality in which Avenue Churchill lies. He's campaigning for the chestnuts too. Towards the end of the comments on that blog, there seemed to be a suggestion that any replanting would not be of chestnuts or other leafy trees, but of conifers, and metasequoias, pictured herewith, at that. Guess what Wiki says about metasequoias. It says "In the late 1980s, it was discovered that many of the second generation trees in cultivation suffered from inbreeding depression (extremely low genetic variability) which could lead to increased susceptibility to disease and reproductive failure. This was because most of the trees were grown from seeds and cuttings derived from as few as three trees that the Arnold Arboretum had used as its source. More widespread seed-collecting expeditions in China in the 1990s sought to resolve this problem and restore genetic diversity to cultivated Metasequoia."

So, out of the frying pan and into the fire, then?

OMG! Small village wiped off map!

2007-06-05T14:28:00.000-07:00

What has happened to Beavershott? It seems to have disappeared completely!

Let's ask Gosling; I found him in Marrakesh. He has also taken to using a very familiar picture as his gravatar. I find it hard to believe, but could Oliver Gosling be a direct descendent of the late great Ivan the Terrible?

If you are in Marrakesh, and you see this man, please notify us immediately. He may have stolen an entire West Country village. Whither the romance between Honoria and Modo? Will D.C. Warmington ever get to wear his first prize toupé to a village hall dance? Will the burgeoning affair between Dr E.E. Spinks and the somewhat surprised Bunty Binstock ever attain its apotheosis? Will we ever know?

I can't live with the suspense.

Water, water everywhere

2007-06-04T09:15:00.000-07:00

The first inkling I heard of it when I met my colleague S. in the lift. Apparently there'd been a flood overnight in the office cellars and some of our files were soaked. I commiserated politely but had no idea of the misery that was to come. But at 2pm we all received an email saying that the water would be turned off to try and mend the leak. At 2.30pm, some overdressed young men from Vivaqua came and started drilling in the street outside, leaving us all with the impression that a giant dentist was working away at an exceptionally torturous cavity.

Nature calls to everyone sooner or later, and without water, our lovely clean facilities would become extremely unpleasant places to be. However my assessment of the events is that the majority of my colleagues decided to delay the inevitable somewhat rather than face the ignominy, however anonymous, of being the one who fouled the facilities. As the afternoon wore on, faces became somewhat tight, concentration dropped and conversations were conducted in a light, rapid manner. Nobody seemed to want to leave their desks.

At 5.30pm precisely, instead of the usual leisurely multicultural exodus which may end well towards 8pm, a somewhat cross-legged stampede streaked out of the office in the direction either of home bathrooms or the nearest acceptable pub conveniences.

I do hope the water's back on tomorrow...

Support Our Boys

2007-06-03T08:44:00.000-07:00

The Spanish Goth and Tippler have entered the Big Blogger House. We should all go and support them. Tippler is particularly in need of the support of close friends, as he packed in a rush and forgot his banana slings. One of you may care to take over on that particular task. I have to go and ... go and.... go and oh, um, rearrange my sock drawer. Immediately.

STIB's answer

2007-05-31T23:55:00.000-07:00

In the spirit of fairness, I'm posting the STIB's answer to my email.

"Nous vous remercions de nous avoir fait parvenir votre message.
Celui-ci contient quelques contre-vérités que nous tenons immédiatement à dénoncer.
D'abord la gestion des espaces verts ne dépend pas de la STIB, mais bien de la Région qui a pour charge d'entretenir et de prendre tout disposition utile, notamment pour ce qui concerne le danger potentiel présenté par des arbres malades. Nous ne pensons pas que tous ceux qui critiquent tout sans prendre évidemment la moindre part de responsabilité seraient d'accord de voir des arbres malades menacer la vie des personnes qui passent sous leur frondaison.
D'autre part, le gabarit des trams de la STIB est standardié à 230 cm de large depuis l'achat des T200 en 1991. L'espacement entre les voies a été modifié aux rares endroits où c'était nécessaire. Il ne doit donc plus l'être.
Enfin, votre opinion selon laquelle notre achat de tram de grande capacité est impensé est complètement contredit par le succès qu'ils remportent, au point que notre direction doive acquérir rapidement des véhicules supplémentaires.
Avec nos meilleures compliments,
Daniel VAN BOECKEL
Relations Clientèle
02/515-5083"

OK. Let's take this answer bit by bit.
1) They pass the buck to the Region of Brussels, who wouldn't be felling the trees if the STIB hadn't asked them to.
2) They repeat the insinuation that all the trees being felled are ill. This is clearly not so.
3) They state that the trams have been standardised at 230cm since 1991. That's only one of 2 directions and it looks like width to me. What about height?
4) The success of the trams with the clientele (they are LOVELY trams) and their need to buy more, which I'm entirely behind, does not compensate for the tree-felling.
5) They provide no statistical argument (n° of diseased trees) or evidence of monitoring or verification that unneccessary tree-felling is not occurring.

I think it's a pretty weak answer. What do you think?

Fahrt

2007-05-31T23:44:00.000-07:00

Ich fahrt nach Frankfurt am wochen-einde beim Thalys, nicht am flugzeug. Ich gruss Sie und wunsch Sie eine schönes Wochen-einde.

Tchuss meine liebelinge!

Support the Dryads

2007-05-30T10:45:00.000-07:00

I have to take a little of your time to garner support for a very local cause. The STIB, Brussels' integrated transport system, which forbids us to link to its sites so here is the index page URL, is cutting down trees unnecessarily and it's a crying shame. Both Tippler and Up Front have tackled this issue, please read their posts, and they'll refer you to the the "Protection des Marroniers" petition site, but I'd like you ask you all to visit the STIB's "Quality of Service" email form on http://www.stib.irisnet.be/FR/61200F.htm and let them know what you think. For those of you who do not wish to spend 20 minutes composing something in French, may I suggest you cut and paste the following text:

Il parait que de plus en plus des arbres des grandes avenues de Bruxelles se font abattre par la STIB suite à un achat impensé de trams trop larges, sous prétexte qu'ils seraient tous atteints d'une maladie qui n'afflige en réalité que très peu d'arbres. Ces arbres font partie du patrimoine historique de Bruxelles, contribuent à leur poumon vert et donc à la santé publique des Bruxellois, et sont un atout important dans ses industries de tourisme et d'HORECA en terrasse. Ceci est honteux et aussi économiquement maladroit.

J'appelle à l'arrêt de ces abattages tant qu'une étude complète des coûts associés dans l'environnement, en santé publique et en perte de revenus de tourisme et autres industries associés soit faite, publiés, et les résultats pris en compte. *

I am going to provide them with my email address. I am curious to see what on earth they could say that I would consider a satisfactory reply.

Yes, I do know the dryads above. Aren't they GORGEOUS. I'm so proud of them.

*(It appears that, further to the ill-considered purchase of excessively wide trams, more and more of the trees on Brussels' great avenues are being cut down by the STIB under the pretext that they are diseased when in fact only a few of their number are affected. These trees are part of the city's historic inheritance, they contribute to its green lung and therefore the public health of Brussels people, and are an important asset for the tourist and terrace café-hotel-restaurant industries. This is a shame and also economically clumsy.

I call for an end to this tree-chopping until a complete economic study of the associated costs in the environment, public health and loss of tourist and other industry revenue has been made, published, and its results taken into account).

That should tie the beggers up for a few years. Then we can get a public health lobby group to sue'em.

Lordy Lordy.

2007-05-26T09:55:00.000-07:00

As a treat for Scouse Doris's birthday a while back, we went this afternoon to the matinée presentation of Lord of the Dance. Before it even started we were treated to 10 minutes with the World Champion Rope Skipping Team, DDF I think they call themselves. I remember double dutch in the playground ... and I remember it being a good deal more girly.

As we all sat there aghast, the show began. An ancient Oirish tale of good versus evil, it starts off with an introduction to a small creature in sparkly pyjamas and nightcap who pretends to be playing a much-loved Shaker (weren't they Protestants, what's with that?) melody on a tin whistle. The tune is sweet, as Aaron Copeland has pointed out, but the mannerisms are maddening and the "Little Spirit" was lucky I didn't have my bow and arrow on me. It awakens a bunch of flower fairies, all legs and hair extensions, who prance around for a bit without their clogs on and then have a dance-off with Morrighan, the wicked hussy, or at least as wicked as Bonnie Langford fallen on hard times and forced to take up pole dancing can get. I might add that this woman is wearing a shorter version of my red dress, but as I look much better in it I find it in my heart to forgive her. Then Don Dorcha, the evil leader of the Dark Warrior clan comes onstage with his Cybermenesque cronies. Despite the Russian Mafia purple and black shell suit trousers and the somewhat plump anatomically correct armour, the dancing was very virile.

At this point Scouse Doris murmured to me "I'm with him!".

A loud bang is let off, after which it's defibrillators all round which distracted us somewhat from Saoirse's solo, and then came two lassies with some very hot violins. Then the ladies come on in their prim Oirish dancing costumes and leap about for a bit until Morrighan influences them at which point, in true Buck's Fizz stylee, they rip their dresses off to reveal shamrocked gym kit. Not surprisingly at this point the eponymous hero, who has a belt with his name on in case you haven't worked out which one to root for yet, leaps onstage with his knights companion in their skintight tops with silver buttons on. The famous chorus line to the Shaker tune then ensues.

Interval. Scouse Doris and I reach for the chocolate ice-cream like an ageing librarian for the G&T when forced by his mother to dine with the vicar's spinster sister.

Act 2. On comes the Spirit with her bloody tin whistle again, followed by Don Dorcha and his Warriors who tease her, steal it from her and then break it. At this point, Scouse Doris and I broke into a small and lonely bout of applause. In comes the Lord of the Dance and he and his men fight off the baddies in quite a magnificently virile show of Irish dancing. For reasons I have yet to fathom the Lord of the Dance mends the Spirit's bloody tin whistle. Despite this heinous act for which he should have been roundly booed, Saoirse still manages to find him sufficiently fanciable as a partner for a romantic dance between the male and female characters. After this the support dancers come onstage in Strictly Ballroom-style day-glo leotards for a set piece dance during which a little light relief was finally provided when one of the men fell over and the rest of them got the giggles. Erin the Goddess (the singer) then sang something rather sad about missing Carrickfergus, although the lyrics seemed suspiciously familiar from the Skye Boat Song.

Then the Lord and Saoirse come on for a bit of a dance but Morrighan is waiting and she distracts him (all men are the same). Gentlemen, be warned. See what happens when a man lets himself be distracted by a loose woman: he is captured by the dark henchmen and taken to Don Dorcha's palace where he is danced at until he disappears in a puff of smoke and a loud explosion. Out with the defibrillators again. Don Dorcha claims the Lord of the Dance Belt, which I wouldn't want personally due to all the sweat. But it turns out that the Lord has been saved by the annoying Little Spirit elf thing who's grateful he mended her tin whistle, and he returns to challenge the Dark Lord in a quite magnificent duel, and everyone comes onstage and dances that chorus line again until their shoes fly off into the audience.

I haven't laughed so much in ages. It was worth every penny.

A first grey hair

2007-05-25T08:57:00.000-07:00

I have found my first grey hair. I was poking at it in a mirror near the lifts at work when a male colleague stopped and looked at me quizzically.

"I've found my first grey hair." I announced in mournful tones, suggesting that it was but the scouting harbinger of an entire army and that I could give away my glad rags and settle into a black mourning dress for my lost and insufficiently mis-spent youth and perhaps even take to massage stockings and those shopping trolleys that one trails after one like a plaid, plastic dog.

He thought for a bit and said "well, when you look at it from my point of view, a grey hair is a hair I've still got".

Politics

2007-05-21T11:00:00.000-07:00

And as the Beeb settles for a week of non-stop clematis trimming, a girl's thoughts turn to alternative activities. Politics, of course, is always a popular pastime for those with nothing better to do with their leisure hours. Daphne is painting Madrid red, which sounds far less boring than it probably is, and Tippler and Eliab have found a politician prepared to offer them personal services, apparently not even in exchange for a vote. Honey is observing riots in her street and raging herself about another issue, which I must say I agree with her on.

Sport of course is a far more useful pastime than politics although sometimes the two can be combined. Issues such as immigration have certainly been tackled effectively by the Iranian cycling team. Economics come into play when it comes to taking up sports activities. I myself have been pestered by Scouse Doris to join her rather chic gym, but I nearly balked when she explained that in order for weight loss to occurr (other than the extraction of notes from my wallet) I would actually have to GO. My own personal planned economy is affected; but the income allows the gym to employ assorted handmaidens and handimen to fluff towels, etc, thus helping the economy turn and increasing the alluring opportunities Europe can offer. I myself shall be looking out for any buff young Omar Sharifesque Iranian spinning class teachers.

Wedding party

2007-05-19T10:11:00.000-07:00

I went to a fabulous wedding party last night. It was held in the Palais des Colonies, and my Indian colleague was celebrating the marriage of his strapping, focused son to a beautiful charming young Mauritian lady. The food was fantastic. The saris were glittering. The company was scintillatingly high-flown and cosmopolitan. I wore a fabulous halterneck chocolate brown silk floor-length frock and felt appropriately elegant. It was a delightful evening of the sort I hope you all get to have often, and all I can say is, Indian grandmothers ROCK, I hope I'll be dancing to bhangra in a jewelled sari at sixty-five.

I am very stiff now. And so tired I'm buzzing. I wish the blogmeet and the wedding had happened on two different weekends. Ah well, needs must where the party devil drives.

I should read my mail

2007-05-17T08:06:00.000-07:00

It was only whilst reading Scouse Doris's comments this afternoon that I realised that Brom-Man is passing through Brussels again, and consequently there will be a Blogmeet tonight. I was gutted because no-one had told me. That's OK, I thought, I know when I'm not wanted.

And then I phoned Zoe.

Turns out I really should read my blogmail more often...

See you all at O'Farrell's this evening. Happy hour starts at 5. Oh look, it's 5.10.

Scouse Doris

2007-05-16T13:46:00.000-07:00

Scouse Doris is blogging! OMG!

Dr Frankenstein

2007-05-15T13:01:00.000-07:00

I have created a monster. I got some feedback from St*ke today, and it appears that one lad arrived home that evening and announced to his parents that he intends to become an MEP.

I may have overdone it a trifle.

Meanwhile in Beavershott, Oliver Gosling has issued a warrant for a very dangerous-looking person indeed. If you see her about, I'd steer clear if I were you.

The Eurovision Song Contest

2007-05-13T01:14:00.000-07:00

Well I'm glad Serbia won. It was a well-composed ballad, musically quite competent, although I wasn't sure what all the Charlie's Angels shoulder-grabbing was about. But I'm not glad WHY it won. In past years, the bloc voting has been humorous. We used to enjoy guessing who would vote for who, diaspora votes being the biggest telltale. But now it's just tired.

The Eurovision Song Contest (ESC) is not an EU activity. (If it were it would have big EU flags all over it). It is run by the European Broadcasting Union and funded by countries as they see fit. Now, they don't know what you think until you tell them. We should all write to the EBU and say what we think of the way in which the contest is judged. Here are the contact details of:

Svante Stockselius, Head of Unit, EBU, Eurovision Song Contest
Tel.: + 41 (0)22 717 2414, Fax: + 41 (0)22 747 4414
mailto:stockselius@ebu.ch

and send a copy to

Bjørn Erichsen, Director Television Department,
Tel.: + 41 (0)22 717 2402, Fax: + 41 (0)22 747 4401
erichsen@ebu.ch

Jean Réveillon, Secretary General
Tel.: + 41 (0)22 717 2111, Fax: + 41 (0)22 717 2010
ebu@ebu.ch

Lastly, I would like to call for the United Kingdom to pull out the majority of governmental funding it sends to the ESC. It should be used to build starter homes for young couples or increase nurses' pay instead. People who are interesting in the continuation of the ESC should make donations and/or purchase their merchandising to help fund it. I will probably not be one of them.

Clustrmap

2007-05-11T12:06:00.000-07:00

Having lost it when we all had to migrate to the Google account, I found my Clustrmap again (see side bar, or click on link for big version) and it's lovely to see you're all still there. Those of you who are new, please do introduce yourselves. I've picked up some readers in India, probably courtesy of Prufrock, and someone probably very puzzled in China, is that Chongqing or Chengdu? Aside from the USA Cruise Girls, sashay ladies! there must be R. Sherman, John B., and the Problem Child Bride. Costa Rica or Nicaragua? Guyana, hi there Guyana Gyal. Iceland. Japan - Kyoto? Hello all my fellow Europeans, I love you all dahlinks but you are too numerous to mention and mentioned numerously anyway. Dubai and Riyadh. Amman or Tel Aviv? Lima, Santiago and Montevideo or Buenos Aires, and something in the middle, is that San Luis? Jo'burg or Pretoria. Bangkok. Dhaka. Kuala Lumpur - that's Edina Monsoon. Manila, of which all I know is envelopes and Imelda Marcos's shoe collection. Edmonton, Saint John's, and Churchill, Canada, one of whom is Dawn. Is that Hawaii? Aloha Hawaii.

But nobody seems to be reading me from the Congo. Ahem, Mr Gorilla Bananas. You are Busted, Sah. You're actually frontline reporting from a cosy simian lovenest in an airing cupboard in Ipswich, aren't you! What do you have to say for yourself, you charlatan of an anthropoid?

Eurovision heats

2007-05-10T13:13:00.000-07:00

I'll tell you all about Stoke tomorrow. Or over the weekend. Suffice to say I had a fantastic time, very inspiring, and I was sorry to leave.

In the meantime, Poland should hang their heads for their Eurovision entry. For shame, Poland, for shame.

Embarrassment ahoy

2007-05-07T12:54:00.000-07:00

You won't hear from me for a couple of days. I am going to a certain English city by the name of St*ke-*n-Tr*nt for May 9th, to speak to 250 university students and a school. Apparently they'd like to know why we celebrate the 9th of May in Brussels, and what the European Commission is, and what the EU does in the way of external/development/humanitarian aid. Yeah, right. I bet they've been waiting for this day all sixteen-seventeen years of their lives.

I've never addressed 25 people, much less 250. I have to admit to having no idea whether I can do this or not.

On the bright side, if I make a COMPLETE fool of myself, no-one will ever know.

Speaking of Queens....

2007-05-05T06:40:00.000-07:00

I have just met the Queen. Of Belgium that is. I was doing my annual stint on the ECHO stand at the Berlaymont for Open Day, which I always enjoy, when along come a six-camera media circus, a flash of photographers, and an assortment of large men in dark suits milling around our Commissioner, Louis Michel, and her Majesty Queen Paola of the Belgians. Sans tiara, in case you're wondering.

My fellow Brit colleague S and I, trained (in my case from my earliest youth by my Hyacinth Bucket of a mother) for the elaborate protocol of dealing with the doyenne of all monarchs, our Second Elizabeth, stood to attention and smiled tightly. When you are British, you do not speak to royalty unless they speak to you first, you do not offer a hand to shake unless theirs is extended. If invited to shake hands, one rips off a small bow or half-curtsey, which I had been a bit nervous about as my balance is still a little unreliable and I had worries of keeling over and bringing down the whole stand, pamphlets and postcards fountaining up and out in a mushroom cloud of information, which would not have been very elegant, would have shamed my mother forever, and furthermore would almost certainly have violated protocol.

Our non-Brit colleague Su, though, seemed unaware of such restrictions. She launched into an explanation of our activities, repeatedly calling the Queen's attention back for a further sentence or two (unbidden! the horror! we Brits curled into small mummified versions of ourselves), and then presented her Majesty with one of our rather classy jute rucksack bags, stuffed with pamphlets featuring our most photogenic beneficiairies and all in her native Italian. Her Majesty was somewhat nonplussed at being offered such an item, which apparently no other stand had had the gall to try doing. She turned to her retinue and made a help! gesture, whereupon the Commissioner scooped it up and handed it to a senior official. We have no idea where it went, but at least it didn't come back.

All I can say is it's a good thing we weren't all Brits behind that stand, otherwise the Belgian Queen would have thought Europe's entire humanitarian aid effort was staffed by wan, tight-smiled mutes.

The dinner is claimed...

2007-05-04T08:59:00.000-07:00

.... by Drama Queen. I have not as yet met the Drama Queen, as she has not as yet deigned to turn up to a Blogmeet. She'd better turn up for the dinner. I have been known to fly into fits of pique when peeps disrespek' my soufflés, man.

In the meantime, I am now faced with the dilemma of whether to divulge Mrs T.'s blog details unto you. Some of you have already found her, Sherman, Gosling, and are probably now wishing they'd put 2 and 2 together a bit earlier and rendered themselves eligible for a bit of duck. Some of the rest of you are still searching. Well, anyway, what I recommend you do is start watching people's sidebars. You'll get there sooner or later. Holler out in the comments when you do.

Mrs. T's blog...

2007-05-02T09:21:00.000-07:00

... remains elusive. I've got the clue from Tippler's blog and have google oogle oogled 'til I just can't google no more and it just ain't there unless she's claiming to be a Danish pensioner. But this wasn't the point of the exercise. The point of the exercise was that I was planning to reward the kind person, plus guest of his or her choice, with one of my fabulous dinners, in exchange for the URL.

The menu would have gone something like this:

Crevette grise and parmesan soufflés on a bed of lamb's lettuce, wholegrain mustard vinaigrette, accompanied by a perfectly fresh Pinot Grigio

Pan-fried duck breast with a marmelade and port gravy just slightly touched with star anise and a little cinnamon, gratiné dauphinois, steamed courgettes drizzled lovingly with Austrian pumpkin oil, served with a suitably cuddled Australian Shiraz

A perfectly aged Chaource cheese served with homemade sun-dried tomato bread rolls, served with port

My own apple and almond tart with Dorset organic vanilla ice cream, served with coffee or tea and a Calvados

Sigh. It's such a pity that no-one seems keen to claim it...