What I did on my holidays

This year we were fortunate enough to be invited to Singapore.  My brother and sister in law live there.  He's something to do with banking.  As an added incentive, they told us that they had tickets for us to the Singapore Formula 1 Grand Prix.  The Boss and I are both fans (but clearly not REAL fans.  More of that later) and couldn't miss the opportunity to attend Singapore's first ever GP, the first ever Formula 1 night race and only the second GP to be held in Asia (Malaysia being the first).  So we accepted the offer and off I went trawling the net to find the best flight deals.

Our adventure started the moment that we left home.  I'm one of those irritating people that insists on switching everything off when we go on a trip.  All non essential plugs were pulled from their sockets; including the refrigerator!  I remembered this little action as we were sitting on the train taking us to Heathrow (London) airport.  I was not Mr Popular for a while. We just had to accept that by the time that we got home the fridge would probably have alien life forms in it and that nice piece of cheese might well be past its best!

I hadn't flown long haul for a few years.  I used to travel regularly for work, but latterly those trips tended to have been within Europe.  I also discovered that my passport was valid for five months and twenty five days.  "So what" you say.  Singapore requires there to be at least six months left on a valid passport for entry.  Being prone to over reaction, you will appreciate that my angst was at peak levels as we headed for check in at the Singapore Airlines desk.  We had prepared for them to respond negatively.  The Boss would continue out to Singapore whilst I came home, at least I could have switched the fridge back on, retrieved whatever is needed for a new passport.  Then headed back to London to the Passport Agency.  Queued all day; and if I was lucky received a new passport in my hand the same day.  Then it was simply a matter of changing flight and I'd be off to Singapore too.  With this in mind it was with some trepidation that I approached the check in desk.  The lady took my passport, glanced at it and said "I've only got a centre and aisle seats left".  I wanted to kiss her.  Surely they'd not let me fly all that way if there was no chance that I'd be let in at the other end?

Twelve hours ten minutes on a Jumbo jet is not the longest flight ever.  But it felt like it.  We flew overnight, what is so accurately termed "The Redeye".  We were seated near the rear of the aircraft conveniently close to the toilets.  Convenient for everyone else, as for much of the flight I found myself beside folk of all shapes and sizes waiting their turn to do whatever comes naturally.  There is nothing like the excitement of "Mr Six Brandy and cokes" finally lumbering to his feet and breathing pure alcohol fumes over you as his bladder screams for release but can't as there are five people in front of him.  On such flights there is also a need for a little leg stretching at times.  Nothing too strenuous - although I did once play a game of cricket in the rear of a German military transport aircraft - a simple stroll around the cabin will do.  There is always someone however, who has to go one better.  A middle aged man decided to practice Tai Chi or whatever it's called.  In the cramped confines of the cabin it is not possible to be quite as physical as might be the case in one's lounge or garden.  Our man hadn't quite grasped this fact and proceeded to smash one foot then the other into any stray piece of luggage, trolly, drinking glasses or passing passenger that got in his way.  You will understand I'm sure that these acts endeared him to us all.  

At last we arrived.  Time to worry about immigration.  Singapore enjoys a reputation of being something of an intolerant state towards wrong doers.  We'd already been informed on our immigration forms that if we trafficked in drugs we would probably be hanged!  So not only did I have to fret about my passport, I now had to worry about the new packet of Ibuprofen headache tablets that I had.  Would these get me a stretch at the end of a short rope?  Caned or imprisoned at least.  I don't know about you, but whenever I go through customs I feel that a large neon light illuminates above my head and says "GUILTY"!!  I approached immigration feeling that this was it, shortly I'd hear the snapping of latex gloves and places that are not meant to be visited by anyone apart from perhaps my doctor would be given a thorough examination.  So consumed was I by such thoughts that I barely noticed the cheerful and smiling immigration lady (yes, I said cheerful, smiling and immigration all in the same sentence) who took my proffered passport, found a clean page and stamped "Valid for 30 days" in it.  She wished me a good holiday and I was through.  Hooray!!

My B/SIL were there to meet us.  Being the debonair Englishman that I am I was wearing light chinos, a thickish short sleeved shirt and a lightweight jacket.  The 33 (92 F) degree heat completely poleaxed me and in a second I went from smart to soggy.  The air conditioned taxi was a welcome relief from my approximately 45 seconds exposed to Singapore heat and I resolved to change into something more comfortable the minute that we arrived.

The first thing that struck me as we drove away from the airport at Changi (more of Changi and it's sad history later) was how broad the freeway was and how beautifully landscaped with sealing wax palm trees (no I don't know why they're called Sealing wax.  Maybe that's what they were used for) and what I think were Bougainvilleas with pretty orange blossom lining the roads.  This soon changed though as we entered the outskirts of Singapore itself with its rows of apartment blocks interspersed with old colonial houses and headed for the little cul de sac that was to be our home for the next fourteen days.

My SIL loves bright colours so I was not too surprised to see that the outside of their house was a subtle shade of orange!  I also noticed that there were bars at all the windows. Apparently burglaries don't happen often - whilst we were there a break in and theft from a car made the national news - but it is not unheard of.  Better safe than sorry.

Our room was large, air conditioned and had a small balcony.  The view from which was the rear of a brothel!  I wasn't allowed to go over and investigate but we did meet some of the girls over the following nights as they left the premises for a smoke.  Meeting them was just so desperately sad.  Barely a single one seemed over the age of 20 - our own daughter is 19.  Mostly from other countries and working in the only way that they could to send money home to their families who probably thought that they all were maids in the houses of rich Singaporeans and the many ex-pats that live there.

That evening my SIL cooked our first and last home cooked meal of the visit.  This is not a comment on her cooking, she's very good, but why cook when you have a series of restaurants offering good and cheap food on every corner?  But that night we were beat and struggled to stay awake after our flight.

The following day we headed out for our first adventure.  We went into town and after a sumptuous lunch beside the Singapore River, we climbed aboard a river boat to see the centre of the city from the water.  Singapore is an eclectic and marvelous mix of old and new architectural styles.  In the 18th century Sir Stamford Raffles persuaded the local chief to let the British lease the island which at that time was mostly jungle as a way for us to get a toe hold on the spice and silk trade that was mostly monopolised by the Dutch.  They were extremely upset with the British for this action and in retaliation we stopped wearing clogs, banned mice from living in British windmills and made Ajax a cleaning powder rather than a football team.  Even today, secondary jungle is never far away.  Raffles set up a trading post which has grown over the centuries to the commercial powerhouse that Singapore now is. From the river however, everything looked peaceful and prosperous.  Huge skyscrapers - proclaiming the names of banks familiar and not so familiar - towered over old shophouses. These are open shops downstairs with apartments above where the owner and his family live(d).  These are mostly restaurants today.  For most of the trip we were the only passengers and could spread ourselves out to get all the best vantage points for our photographs. Singapore was preparing for the GP so everywhere we could see grandstands and the extensive lighting network that would allow for the night race.  In the mouth of the river, Marina Bay we saw the famous Merlion.  A mythical creature half lion and half fish that is Singapore's national emblem.  He is possibly the most photographed image and we contributed to that by taking a few shots of him as he spewed forth water from the bay below.  Moving back upriver we came across the Fullerton Hotel.  Formerly the central post office it is now a luxurious hotel.  Inside you walk over a bridge below which lies a large pond filled with Koi Carp.

That night we ate our first Singaporean meal.  We found a chinese restaurant where we could sit out on the street and watch diners and passers by.  Singapore has three principal cultures - Malay, Indian and Chinese - all these are represented everywhere and each has an area of the city designated just for them.  The plates just kept coming.  Beef, pork and chicken in bean sauces.  Gorgeous livid green vegetables and my favourite, fried baby squid.  These were hard and in a soy sauce, almost toffee like and luscious.  I'm happy with chopsticks so I wasted no time in getting to grips with these little delights.  Steamed rice and large bottles of Tiger beer helped to ease the whole lot down and I was a very happy boy.

I'm not going to give you a blow by blow account.  If you've got this far then I salute you.    But it was on our second full day that I decided to have a pair of linen shorts made for me.  We went up to see my BIL's tailor in Holland Village, a solidly ex-pat area where the local accent is mostly Australian with a little German thrown in.  Now these two great nations are united by one major item - BEER!  Holland Village has a street of bars from which the gentle cries of "For F*cks sake Mate; and noch ein Bier" echo down the lanes.  We joined them later in a few gentle beers followed by a bill the size of the cost of the Federal bail out package.  

Mr R**, my genial tailor is very tall for an Indian and looks like a cross between a pirate and an olympic runner.  He had a close cropped beard and smile wide enough to walk on.  In a matter of seconds I had looked at linen, selected one, been measured and my details were on their way to the tailor.  All I had to do was come back in 48 hours time and pick them up.  I paid my deposit and left.  Let's fast forward to the moment of collection.  Mrs R** served me as he was busy with another customer.  She ushered me into the smallest changing room and I put the shorts on.  They felt somewhat slack about the waist.  However, she called me out so that she could see me in them.  I walked out, they fell down,  leaving me in my underwear in full view of the passing shoppers.  "They're a little on the large size" I ventured.  She made it clear that she could see that.  At this point her husband rushed over from the other side of the store.  "Who measured this man?" he said.  "You did" she replied.  As a husband I recognise and sympathise with the crushing drop in ego that follows such a statement, but in this case she was right.  I picked up the fitting, finished article a day later.

So now I am every inch the suave, sophisticated visitor.  We headed for the Zoo!  In the UK we have zoos and we have Wildlife Parks.  The former have an unfounded reputation for being somewhat dull whilst the latter tend to belong to a stately home owner desperately trying to meet the cost of tax and leaking taps.  In Singapore however, the Zoo is magnificent.  We went at night when the whole thing tuns into a night safari.  It started with a boisterous dance involving fire eating and acrobatics by the residents of a Malay village (more likely a towering apartment block).   These agile and near naked young men were assisted by three of the most bored looking young female dancers. Their heavily beaded scarlet dresses making up a little for the otherwise dull and less than enthusiastic efforts that they put into their dancing.  We resisted the Bongo Burger restaurant although I was tempted to stick my tired feet into a tank of Doctor Fish who would chew contentedly on any dead skin that I might have lurking there. 

Soon we were loaded onto a little electric tram and taken deep into the forest where we were truly amazed to see nocturnal animals happily doing their stuff for us.  It was a magical experience and my only regret is that my camera chose this moment to misbehave.  As a result I only have dark and blurred images.  However, we saw lions and tigers.  Elephants came right up to us.  A giraffe examined us closely and three hippos, lying in a muddy pool ignored us in the way only something that is bigger and more contented than you can.  We enjoyed it so much that by means of a little deception, we did the whole trip again!!  I even had a fruit bat look for dandruff on my head.  I like to think that he left unsuccessful. he was big, I know that.  On the way out we found a couple of pythons dozing on a branch.  The previous day the Boss had come across a python in the city and had worn him around her shoulders, persuading me to join in. Of course she had to get a photo of these latest serpents.  This is a side to her that I've not seen before.  I hope that she's not got any ideas of buying a snake at home.

Earlier that day my BIL and I visited Changi Museum and the Kranji War Cemetary.  Changi prison was where thousands of Allied service personnel and civilians were imprisoned during WW2.  Their treatment at the hands of their Japanese captors makes for very sobering and sad reading.  Their Indian and Chinese prisoners fared even worse if that is possible, being systematically slaughtered on the beaches on the eastern side of Singapore.  I happily confess to shedding a tear or two for those brave but hapless people who were beaten, starved and tortured, men, women and children, during those years.  Standing at the beautifully maintained Kranji Cemetery later on, one can only marvel at the sacrifice that they made.  We should never forget what they gave for us.

Back to food.  Singapore is a very clean and healthy place.  You can drink the water and even food sold on the roadside is prepared to a high standard of hygiene.  Off we went to Samy's Indian restaurant.  Here you are served you food on banana leaves and you eat with your fingers - unless you ask for cutlery.  Did we?  Oh alright, yes we did.  Rather than bringing you a menu, your waiter brings various dishes to the table and asks if you're interested.  Now western eyes being bigger than their bellies we naturally said yes to everything included something that was described as "dry lamb".  I am highlighting this dish because it was one of those mysteries that you can never quite say exactly what it was.  Meat for sure.  Dry, but not biltong like, coated in pure spice hell.  I do not know what it was seasoned with.  I do know that it burnt the lips and the mouth.  Each piece a burning hell as it traveled deep inside us.  But it was delicious. As a result of this noxious and enchanting food the following 24 hours was, apart from boiled rice and Kaolin and Morphia, a food free zone for me.  Whilst shares in toilet tissue raised considerably!  However, I can honestly say that Samy's was a gastronomic treat, just a shame that the inner P1ke couldn't cope with it.

Now we headed for the markets.  I said earlier about the three main cultures.  Throw three religious festivals, one for each of them, into the mix and you have a very vibrant and exotic experience.  Especially at night.  For some time I had been hearing about Hari Rai.  Now I thought that maybe he was a local celebrity, apparently not (there was one that was a 17th century warrior I think).  In fact this is the term used as part of the Ramadam festival.  Largely characterised by music and markets from what I can see.  But nothing wrong with that.  I loved the hustle and bustle of these markets as absolutely anything and everything is on sale.  Gorgeous fabrics in brilliant colours overlaid with gold and silver. Artisan crafted wooden and metal ornaments.  Fancy an elephant in teak?  You can buy one there.  Acres of clothes from the most exotic saris and Indian tunics through to contemporary western fashions.  Shoes by the ton and I have never seen so many sandals (I'd just bought some but was sorely tempted to buy a lovelier pair) in my life.  Neither have I met so many men wanting to make me a suit or shirt.  The aisles between the stalls are quite narrow and usually packed with the rest of the nation going in the opposite direction to you!  From out of the shadows would come a hand attached to a beaming Indian.  "Buy a suit sir.  perhaps a shirt.  I can make one for you in 24 hours.  Very good price."  Frankly I found all this glad handing a little wearisome, but it all makes up the richness of the experience and one that I would not have wanted to miss.

The chinese markets are not so different although personally I find the silks and brocades on offer there even more appealing than those of the Indians and Malays.  My main problem is that I am comfortably built, or as Precious Ramotswe in the "First Ladies Detective Agency" books puts it "traditionally built", and most Chinese men are not.  I fell in love with a dinner suit (tuxedo) which whilst black, was made of silk with the most elaborate black embroidery on the front.  A white silk shirt was worn under this with just the collar peeping out above the high necked oriental collar of the suit jacket.  However my head ruled on this one.  I have a suit already, I don't go to too many events that require such things; and it would have taken too long for a suit to have been made for me not to mention the price.  I said don't mention the price!  About £600 ($1,200).  However, I can dream can't I?  Meanwhile the Boss was buying up shawls and purses, knick knacks of all sorts.  I carried the bags as is her wont.  I live to serve.  

Of course we could not visit the chinese quarter without a visit to a temple.  The one we visited is called the Buddha Tooth Relic Temple and is quite modern.  There are literally tons of pure gold in the temple.  I have never seen so much in one spot.  The tooth itself is housed within a huge casket crowned by an effigy of the Buddha and is revealed daily.  The atmosphere within, despite the opulence, was tranquil and lent itself to contemplation.  We moved up to the roof garden where there is a prayer wheel and each of us spent some little time quietly pondering our lives before congregating downstairs again and getting to grips with the huge Yue Hwa department store that sells everything chinese that you could possibly ever want.  More bag carrying!

Do you like the seaside?  I love it and was delighted to discover that Singapore has its own tropical beaches on a small island named Sentosa just south of the city.  You reach the island by cable car or monorail train.  We went one way and returned the other.  From the cable car you have the most wonderful views of the city and beyond.  You can catch glimpses of Malaya and Indonesia too.  The island is a bit of a theme park, but done very well.  There are tourist attractions of course, and we went up the Tiger Tower which takes you 50 storeys up over the island in something that looks a little like a ring donut.  Again, the views are magnificent.  Mostly though we pottered through the gardens down to a stretch of white sand (imported) and paddled in the South China Sea.  After such a strenuous afternoon we were forced to retire to a beach bar and sip a small beverage or two before wending our weary way home to bed, stopping only to polish off another delicious meal from one of the Hawker centres - street food vendors - en route.

The most famous hotel on Singapore is the Raffles Hotel.  Famous as the last place on the island where a tiger was shot - under the billiard table and it was an escapee from a circus - and for its Long bar where Singapore sling cocktails are drunk.  The cocktail itself is:

30ml Gin
15 ml Cherry Brandy
120 ml Pineapple Juice
15 ml Lime Juice
7.5 ml Cointreau
7.5 ml Dom Benedictine
10 ml Grenadine
A Dash of Angostura Bitters
Garnish with a slice of Pineapple and Cherry

Quite delicious and refreshing too.  Originally a woman's drink.  Today men drink it just as happily.  The tradition in the Long Bar is to throw the shells of the peanuts available on each table onto the floor.  Singapore has draconian laws about littering - £2,000 ($4,000) fines for each instance - and is a very clean place therefore.  Not in the Long Bar.  There is much crunching underfoot as you make your way to your table, to the point where I wondered if they ever swept up!  Still, I threw my shells down with the best of them and enjoyed my cocktail.  Cheers.

By now the GP was looming.  We had tickets for all three days of the festivity.  Friday practice where the drivers get to learn the circuit.  saturday qualifying, where they sort out their positions on the starting grid and the Sunday race itself.  Now I thought that the Boss and I were fans.  We're not.  We don't have the T shirts, caps, socks, shorts, shoes (underwear probably), flags, encyclopedic knowledge of the teams or sheer determination to sit through all three days.  We both went on the first day and worked out where we were sitting, where the food stalls were (you were not allowed to bring any food or drink into the circuit) and watched some practicing.  We baled out early however, to meet up with B/SIL to eat.  The Boss and BIL went on the Saturday whilst SIL and I found a lovely bookshop opposite a lovelier French bar in Chinatown.  But on Sunday we went off and watched the race proper.  You see more on the TV but you don't get the atmosphere, the crowds or the sheer adrenalin burst of actually being there.  Because the race was at night we got to see the Bay area illuminated in a  way that it never has been before and it was magical.  Millions of twinkling lights complimented the single star that sat over us high out in space.  There was a capacity crowd of over 100,000 of whom about half were tourists, most of whom promptly flew out again the following day much to Singapore's chagrin.  The noise of all these folk was overwhelming, yet there was hardly any litter - probably those fines.  We all had a fantastic time cheering and shouting for our champions.  I hadn't been to a GP in over 20 years, and don't know when I might go again, but this was truly a magical and heart bursting occasion and I am so pleased that we got the opportunity to go.  "Our" team didn't win, but that didn't matter.  We were there.

Early on in our visit I had a foot massage.  I lay with three ladies whilst men and women did unspeakable things to our feet and legs up to the knee.  At times it was quite painful.  Afterwards however, it felt like I was walking on air.  On our last day I decided that I wanted another one.  This time I went downtown to a massage parlour in a very swanky mall.  I explained that I wanted a foot massage to the girl and she led me down to a small room and told me to undress!  I was wearing shorts already and I didn't see the need to remove any clothing.  I reminded her that I wanted a foot massage.  She said OK, but clearly was a little disappointed in me as I suspect that many of her male clients like to be massaged a little further up their bodies.  If she does well she receives a larger tip no doubt.  However, the Boss would NOT have approved and so I stuck out for just the feet.  For all that, she gave if anything, a better massage than the first one.  I am now keen to repeat the experience.  All I need to do is find someone here that can do it.

By now we had pretty much reached the end of our trip.  One last burst around the stores before settling down to a plate of Singapore's national dish.  Chili crab.  Two huge mud crabs cooked and smothered in a chili sauce, mercifully pre cracked for us and eaten with your fingers.  Our mouths were bright orange afterwards as were our hands.  But what a feast and what a final memory as we wended our way for yet another 12 hour flight to a cold and windy Britain.  Would we go again.  What do you think?

How Long?

Blimey, I've not been here for a while.  I hope that nobody has been waiting for me.  I've just not felt like writing anything recently.  Sometimes I just can't get the words out fast enough.  Some people "just have to write".  I envy them.  

So, what have I been up to?  Not much.  The Cathedral continues to fascinate me and I have met some lovely people there.  The visitors never fail to amuse and amaze.  I love to see the bored children as their parents expose them to a bit of culture; the reward for which is a trip to MacDonalds or Burger King!!  Not my thing, but I expect that for the children it makes up for that dreadful man who bored us rigid with Magna Carta and bad King John.

I've come off myLot for a while.  I've dried up and so have many others by the look of things.  Of course our holiday will allow me to clear my mind, have some new experiences and hopefully become reinvigorated.  I really miss my friends there; but there is quite a vibrant e mail thing going on.  Of course one of the problems is that it is very hard to be original.  So much is recycled.  However, I suppose that the newbies are the life blood of sites like myLot and they are picking up the responses to age old questions like - "Have you been paid?"  and "How many myLot friends do you have?"

I've just discovered sugar coated peanuts!  I can feel the extra pounds all switching on their sat navs and looking for directions to my waist!!  I really don't need any more inches, but it's fun getting them.  Perhaps when I go back to the Lot I'll start a weight watchers club!

Guiding for Boys

I have returned unscathed from my first day at the Cathedral.  I was mildly disappointed not to lead the daily service, some chap in a black dress and a dog collar did that.  I was dispatched to the Chapter House to get to grips with the Magna Carta.  First though I had to dress up. I was relieving a pleasant chap who looked like he was in need of some relief.  He handed me a green sash with a HUGE badge that said "Salisbury Cathedral Guide".  Like the Girls Guides, I assume that as time goes by I can gain badges to sew alongside.  "Granny Knot" badge, for confusing grannies perhaps.  I suggested that it was a little large even for my big head, but was reassured that I should sling it Mexican bandana style over my shoulder.  The back was checked to ensure that my seam was straight - very WW2 stockings - and I was ready to be unleashed on an unsuspecting public.

My Guide mentor was a very pleasant but frighteningly scholarly lady who introduced me to the Magna Carta.  I have visited before, but not exposed to the sheer wealth of information that this lady has.  'I'll give a couple of presentations, then you can have a bash" she said.  "Great" says I in return, wishing that I'd left my bicycle clips on because my tummy was moving into serious churning mode.  So, like the visitors, I listened spellbound, as she cantered through 800 years of history of this venerable document in about ten minutes.  "Any questions?" she asked me.  "Er, what did you say after Good morning ladies and gentlemen" I replied.  No, I feigned total comprehension and told her that I had nothing to ask yet.  "Jolly good.  I like people that pick things up quickly" she replied.  Did I mention that she is a retired school teacher?  I looked around, but I couldn't see anyone there that looked like they'd picked up anything quickly.  Oh, she meant me. That meant one thing.  The minutes before I had to do this were reducing rather too fast.

"Scuse me", came an American voice.  "Are these the original floor tiles?"  The question was aimed at me.  FLOOR TILES.  What floor tiles?  Oh, these tiles on this floor.  "Er, well." Says the panicky struggling newbie.  I looked desperately at the oracle.  "No.  They're exact replicas, but these were laid in 1855 to replace the originals which were broken".  I'm here to do the Magna Carta.  Now I have to know about floor tiles!!  I don't remember that in the job description.  Oh, the mediaeval frieze and the Parish silver, I need to know that too.  Phew, the architecture of the Chapter House is identical to that of the Cathedral.  Pure Gothic! 'Can I take a photograph of the ceiling please? says a pretty Architecture Major from California.  Seeing that I was going to struggle to say anything other than "Marry me", in response to this vision, my school Ma'am friend barked, "Sorry.  No photography".  I heard myself say "You could always draw it instead". You know what, she did!! 

All afternoon we had a non stop flow of visitors.  For some reason California is closed on tuesdays so they'd all come to Salisbury.  Maybe it's something to do with the proximity of a Spanish speaking country (Mexico) because most of Spain dropped by too.  I expect that they'd been to Wimbledon to see Nadal beat Federer.  

Soon I was talking to Americans like a seasoned veteran.  The document has 3,500 words.  How do I know?  Deirdre told me.  Don't quibble, count them if you want.  "No, Runnymede (where the Magna Carta was negotiated) isn't in London.  No, the Barons with whom Prince John parlayed didn't all get cheap day return train fares down to Salisbury.  There are four copies of the original 13 made left in existence.  Yes, I do know that there were 36 cathedrals in those days.  No I don't know why every cathedral didn't get it's own.  I guess that as each one took somewhere between 53 and 56 hours to write, the Scribe's wrist probably ached and he got bored and gave up.  No, this is Salisbury Cathedral Madam.  Your schedule is wrong, Winchester Cathedral is tomorrow.  It's tuesday today. San Francisco you say.  Fascinating.  NO PHOTOGRAPHY PLEASE.  Bitte nicht.  Oh you're Spanish."  You get the picture I'm sure.  Oh, sorry, no photography!   

I now know about Iron Gall ink.  Made from the Oak Galls (parasitical nut shaped growths that infest Oaks), iron salts and tannin.  The Magna Carta itself is written on a piece of sheepskin in an educated hand in mediaeval Latin.  However, the iron salts have eaten into the sheepskin and the words are permanently etched thereon.  Even if the ink were to be washed off, the words would remain.  There are 63 clauses of which four are extant in English, Commonwealth and US Law. I can tell you about Dutch prisoners of war too.  I just can't remember which war!

At last my afternoon came to an end.  Time to disrobe and trot along for my free cup of tea and a general wash up with the rest of the gang of guides.  At the door I met a nonagenarian lady who hands out the leaflet that explain the wonders of the room to those too shy to ask we "experts".  Bear in mind that Cathedrals are places of quiet contemplation.  "HELLO.  HAVE YOU ENJOYED YOUR VISIT.  OH.  YOU ARE A GUIDE.  I'VE BEEN HERE YEARS".  and so on.  What a lot we guides are. "Do you think you'll come back?" was an oft repeated question aimed in my direction.  Struggling to overcome the embarrassment and pain of having poured half a pot of scalding tea all over my upper leg - why do teapots pour from where the lid fits and not the spout?  in less than 500 words on my desk by Monday please - I replied in the affirmative.  Actually I loved every minute.  Just don't ask me about floor tiles!!

So What Now

I have been struggling with myLot recently and neglecting my blog.  Let's start with the blog.  I set this up initially as an alternative place to go when I staged my protest about the treatment of Katherine.  I quite enjoyed writing here, I was able to say what I really felt about people. Good things I think in the main.  However, once I went back to myLot I "forgot" to come back here and keep up with things.

I quite like the idea that I have someplace to record my daily thoughts and the fact that they might be public means that I have to think just that little bit harder.  I don't set out to offend here, but I am not afraid to say what I think either.  I'll just try not to slander anyone!  In fact, as no one comes here anymore, it is highly likely that I can get away with saying pretty much anything.  But I shall behave myself.

My story about the Our Lot Pub is coming on, although more slowly than I would like.  I know that it is not going to win any prizes but it is meant to be an affectionate look at some of those people that have been friendly towards me over the months that I have been on myLot.  If anyone objected to the story line or their role within it; I would stop immediately.  As it is, only two people have read it, and only one of those is in it so far and she hasn't objected.  Let's hope that it stays that way.

I have not written anything else that I want to put up on "the Darker Side of P1ke".  Well, I have, but they are not stories that I feel happy about just anyone seeing.  I don't believe that I have any talent when it comes to writing, but I bless those people that say otherwise, but I do enjoy it when I have the time and inclination.  I bought a writing magazine yesterday.  If I wasn't depressed about my writing before I am now.  There are so many wannabes out there. An agent wrote in an article about how to get an agent to consider your work, that he would rather take a young female Oxford graduate than a middle aged man.  Assuming that he is typical of the norm of agents then what chance does this middle aged man from Oxford (originally) have.  I'd better stick to blogging.  At least I don't have to impress here.

So what's my issue with myLot?  I'm bored with it really.  There is no cut and thrust like there used to be.  Most of the "old" guard have either reduced their postings to a trickle or have left entirely.  The new people coming up are all suitably enthusiastic and that's heartening.  I think that after a couple of months you do get like that and enthuse wildly about the place.  But I have also noticed familiar themes in the new discussions being posted.  I am starting to answer new discussions that I've answered or posted before. There is very little originality even from people that think that they are original.  I have tried posting discussions myself, but frankly, I'm bored with them almost as soon as I've hit the submit button.  It's just not fun right now.  If this were a discussion I'd be getting lots of "take a break.  I've been there too. Maybe they're all on holiday".  Funny how no one ever says "Piss off then and go and irritate someone else".  Of course if they did I'd be very offended.  But they'd be right.

Then there's my friends.  I love them all as much now as ever before.  I have some new ones, but they are not the same.  Younger, more self obsessed.  But then nobody is more self obsessed than me!  I am not as good a friend as I could or should be.  One of my friends got into some difficulty and all that I did was sympathise.  We don't seem to communicate now.  I deserve it probably.  I wasn't there when I was needed.  Just bunged out a few platitudinous words.  No practical help at all.  But that's a warning to me.  When the chips are down just how effective am I going to be?  I know that I don't have to do anything, but something inside tells me that I ought to.  Someone else sent me an E mail today saying that she thought that she'd never hear from me again.  That wasn't my perspective as I know that I had sent her E mails, but the fact that she had to say it tells me that I'm not a good friend at all.  So what to do?  Write to them all and say "P1ke's a fink drop him from your mailing list".  Perhaps.  Maybe I should just keep contact with the few that I always have done.  That's about three that still contribute actively to myLot and another three or four that I talk to offline.  If I am expected to do all the running then that's not a friendship, more an imposition by me on them.  I am not a nice person really, too selfish, and I think that people are starting to realise that fact.

I have however received a card from one of my new friends.  She sent it to my wife and I which was a lovely thing for her to do.  There are some very pleasant people out there.

That's enough gloom and doom for now.  Tomorrow or Wednesday I shall write about my first afternoon as a Cathedral Guide.  I'm quite nervous about it.

I'm Behind

I've taken a break from the Wimbledon Final to come and say that it seems an age since I last posted here.  The day we met Ellie apparently.  That's three weeks ago.

Since then Liz has been ill, had a brain scan and is now waiting for a meeting with the neurosurgeon.  She's had no recurrence so fingers crossed she's OK.  But it was very scary and I did think that I had lost her at one point.  That's partly what I want to talk about tonight. When someone you love "dies", what is your immediate reaction?

I confess that somewhere through all my hysteria at kneeling beside my unconscious wife I thought "Bugger, I don't know her pin number for the ATM and she has money in her account whilst I don't".  Is that a terrible thing to think?  Two seconds I was thinking "Do I have change for the hospital car park?"  Our hospital charges both patients and visitors for the privilege of parking two miles out of town on the grounds that it puts off would be commuters!  They must make quite a great deal of money.  I spent about six pounds over two days.

Fortunately she came round again and was carted off to hospital where she made a good recovery.  Then they sent her home and she fitted again, this time I wasn't quite so alarmed, but still got the ambulance who took her back and they kept her overnight.

But is it normal to have such trivial, if slightly practical thoughts?

I suppose that when someone dies suddenly and unexpectedly the mind blocks out the reality of what has happened and practical thoughts cut in.  There is a complete sense of disbelief, this isn't happening, and you desperately want everything to be normal again. I wouldn't want to wish the experience on anyone, but I suspect that having your loved one die in front of you, whilst horrific, is also strangely comforting.  You were "there" at the end and I know that when I go, whilst not wanting to upset my nearest and dearest, there is something comforting in knowing that they were there as you breathe your last.  Hope that it doesn't happen to us soon.

Ellie - I presume?

For those of us that indulge in social networking meeting up with someone seems to be a great risk.  Get it right and you have a friend for life, get it wrong and you've lost them.  So it was with a little trepidation that I set out on the road to meet someone that hitherto  had simply been a name over a few sentences on a website.

Of course, it wasn't an overnight thing.  To be successful a modicum of preparation is required. Firstly do the two of you actually want to meet.  Many don't preferring the anonymity that the internet provides.  Overall I am one of them.  But in this case I really felt a pull and wanted to see and meet the object of my curiousity.  We were careful.  I didn't want to appear to be some predatory male looking for a casual female acquaintance; I respect both my friend and myself too much for that.  My friend didn't want to meet some mad axe murderer either, so I think that we were both pleased that my wife said that she would come along for the ride.  

Eventually we actually spoke on the telephone.  My friend sounded just as I imagined that she would.  Friendly, bubbly and oozing with personality.  We agreed a meeting place and time.  A place suitably neutral so that we would both feel comfortable.

On the appointed day my wife and I drove the 85 miles down to where we had agreed to meet.  I was very excited and a little nervous.  I have been to many meetings in my life, but rarely did I feel as concerned as I did that day about the visit's outcome.  The visit had to go well.  

We met at a farm shopping complex but the restaurant was crowded so we decided to adjourn to a local pub instead.  Curiously, the pub was one that I have visited several times before in the course of my previous employment.  Once there we busied ourselves with, apart from choosing something to eat, the real business of the day; getting to know each other better.

My friend was exactly what I had imagined her to be.   Small, dark haired and very attractive. She was vivacious with a friendly laugh and kind, sensitive eyes.  Anyone that laughs at my jokes has to have some humanity about them as my witticisms are especially juvenile!  We found some things in common, children, places etc and she and my wife seemed to get along too.  We are all of a similar age and I think that helps a little too.  Something must have gone right because we went into the pub at a little after one o'clock and didn't leave until nearly four!

Going our separate ways I felt so very positive about the whole visit.  We liked each other and had a lovely meeting. We haven't arranged to meet again, but I am sure that we will.  My friend is a very special person and I am delighted that we both took the "risk" of a meeting.  Our postings will have that extra dimension in the future.

Do I need Social networking?

I have been using  myLot and to a lesser extent Facebook for a few months now.  Up until I "discovered" myLot I would have said social networking was a waste of time and for those with enormous egos only.  Of course I know differently now - or do I?  I treat myLot as a place where I can let off steam in a measured (usually) way.  I think that others do too.  There are some large egos out there without a doubt.  There are people that strut about like the place is theirs.  When they post, they assume that we will always jump to it and respond.  Often we do.   I have had a dry spell and have had the temerity to let my ego run loose and post a discussion saying that I am "dry".  To date, I have had forty responses.  That's rather more than I thought, but as someone suggested, it was a clever ploy that has resulted in a successful discussion.  That genuinely wasn't my thought at the outset.  But is is good that someone thinks that I have been clever.  So my ego rises and I am increasingly likely to be a "strutter".

Do I need this applause though.  I like it certainly, but what effect is it having.  The fact that I have some self esteem issues is widely acknowledged, so having a higher profile on myLot must be therapeutic mustn't it?  Maybe.  But perhaps I am likely to let this go to my head and start to show off.  That's not good for me.  But if I don't post at all then how will I let my feelings go? After all, it's only a computer board, nothing critically important.  I have managed 50 years without it, why has the last 5 months been so different?

I said to someone earlier today that I feel very safe on myLot.  Cuddled, but not smothered. This whole friendship thing still puzzles me.  I have friends on myLot that have said things to me that barely any real life friends have.  All related to love and affection.  They come from countries and walks of life that I would never have encountered otherwise.  I often ask myself why social networking should produce such good friends.  Do we have something in common?Are we are all looking for friendly ears because we have something going on in our lives that makes us uncertain or because our personal circle of friends is restricted for some reason. 

Whatever the reason, we have become closer in a few months than some people that call themselves "friends" do in years.  Is this good?  or are we just deluding ourselves?  Can this level of friendship be sustained?  I have no answers, what will be will be.  There is an intensity in these friendships that I have not experienced before.  I liken it to a child with a new, all absorbing toy.  He runs home from school and plays with it until he is dragged away to bed.  I am like that with myLot and Facebook.  I dare not join any other boards otherwise I would spend even more time than I do in front of the screen.  I do know though, that there is no subject that I cannot raise with my social network friends.  I have often wondered what sort of reception I would receive from some real life friends about the subject of stress and depression. Most would be sympathetic, but the urge to run would be firmly reflected in their eyes.

Shortly I shall meet someone in a restaurant that I have known on myLot almost from the start.  We are friendly, and I have an affection for her based on the discussions and messages that we have had.  Will this meeting enhance or damage our relationship?  There is safety in maintaining our anonymity behind the computer screen, but a real life meeting might change all that and move us onto a different level that is altogether more serious.  Potentially, it might kill our whole relationship.  Obviously I don't really think that this is likely, but like the bride and groom often  have last minute doubts; has my social networking taken me to a different dimension that is starting to make the intangible, tangible.

But back to my original question.  Do I need social networking.  Currently, my answer has to be a resounding yes.  I don't really know how long it will go on for.  But I love it right now, and I guess that the present is the best that we can hope for.  I have wondered "what if my friends leave me?".  After all, a simple WWW change and they could be off to pastures new leaving me behind.  But that happens in real life too.  Maybe it is better for now to just accept that life is good in the friendship stakes and see the pluses and not the "what if" minuses.

    

Damn these tears

My eyes are moist again.  I am feeling very low today, not very cheerful at all.  I can give you no explanations why, but everything critical that I see or read seems to be aimed at me.  Nonsense though I know that is.  I am surrounded by so much love and affection and I am trying to think positively but it's not working today.  I shall probably be OK tomorrow.  At least the sun is shining so we are getting some washing dry.  I don't even know why I am writing this drivel.  It is self-indulgent.  I think that I need chocolate.  I shall go and find some.

So What's Next?

I have been giving some thought about what I should do now.  This is the start of a new year for me - May 13 will always been a little private new year.  Many years ago someone read my palm and told me that she saw that I would have a major upheaval in my life and that I might well kill myself.  At the time I thought that she was ridiculous.   However, I have had the upheaval, but fear not, I am not considering ending it all just yet.  You've got me for a day or two longer.

I have several projects that need to be finalised.  I really do need to knuckle down to the family history again and I despair of the book.   But that's not all down to me.  Summer is just around the corner and the house will start to buzz with the chattering of teenagers.  My trips to the beach will increase - they swim and sunbathe, I mooch about.  It also means al fresco eating, doing stuff in the garden (my poor bones) and digging out the BBQ for Clare's annual shindig that her parents enjoy too.  We don't camp out like them though.  On a myLot discussion I explained that I have an Orang Utang and a crocodile in the garden.  They may put a slight dampener on this years party.  Should be fun though.

Pumpkin has found a new house for her and her family.  That is fantastic news to me.  She works so hard for them all and I am delighted that she will have a great new kitchen to work in as well as being more convenient for her SO's work etc.

I am thinking about looking for a job.  As I said in my last post, I don't want a high powered, BMW driving, look at me aren't I important because I earn more money that you and more stress than I can handle job.  Nope, all I want is something that will provide a little service to people and get me out - and bring me a pound or two.  Any thoughts?  Apart from a mobile library driver I cannot think of anything.  I shall have to start searching.

Happy days are here again......

The Truth and Nothing But The Truth

I am writing this at the exact time that a year ago my adventure with mental illness began.  I was in my office when I felt an overwhelming need to get away.  To close my mind to any external distractions and leave.  For nearly two years I had been ignored, undermined, belittled and humiliated and suddenly it didn't seem important any more.  I could no longer cope.

I had been delighted in March 2004 to be appointed to the most senior operational position in an organisation whose purpose was to deliver employee HR advice and support to a major Government Department.  I had an international role and a large staff based across the World.  I was given no support staff and expected to provide a 24/7 on call service which I shared with a colleague.  My days were largely spent traveling, meeting corporate clients, and helping staff resolve their client lists as well as managing the staff as well.

All went well, except we knew that we were to be taken over by a new organisation that was run in the main by ex-bankers who had little grasp of people dynamics and no idea at all about what it was that we did.  But that was OK, we were there to help them.  I met the new Chief Executive and his deputy.  The latter was fairly dismissive of our worth and it was clear that he felt that we were really a distraction to his main business which was creating a "People Centre".

He left us alone for a few months, but did invite me to the senior management strategy meetings, but never acted on any points that I raised, but he was at least polite.  The CEO even bought me lunch once and impressed on me how vital I was to the whole effort.  Then he brought in a former financier from a major UK bank as my new boss and that was where the fun really began.

Initially things went well.  He had a "Vision" for the future, he wanted us to offer a wider reaching service; things that I could live with quite happily.  He wanted to spread my role amongst a larger number of managers - my first alarm bell rang - but if it benefitted the organisation who was I to complain.  We had already had a "rationalisation" and a number of staff had left, but we were a sharper service as a result.  He also wanted to merge what we did with another HR activity.  I was less sanguine about that, but he was determined to carry on, and so long as there was no negative overlap I was happy for it to happen.  Then the new managers started to appear and he drifted away from me.  In fact he never contacted me again unless he wanted something.  I would try to contact him, but usually got his voicemail - we worked in different parts of the country and he very rarely called me back.

He devised and set up an strategic implementation team that consisted of all the newly appointed managers.  I wasn't invited and when I enquired of one of them why I never got invited to their meetings was told because they had been instructed not to.  To say that I felt upset by this was an understatement.  In fairness the other managers, hearing that I had made that enquiry, did invite me to subsequent meetings.  I then discovered that there was a whole host of things going on that I was not even aware of.  Conferences, recruitments, training of people that I didn't know had been recruited and who I was expected to, in part, manage.  I went to one meeting and my boss came up to me, he was just passing through, he rarely attended the meetings himself, slapped me on the back and said that he thought that I was on a steep learning curve.  Another understatement.

I returned to my own staff and explained to them what was going on and how I thought the new organisation would look.  The record of that meeting somehow found its way to my boss.  Who waited until we were at a conference in the Midlands, having lunch, to express his annoyance with me, in full view of others, including several that worked for me.  He also told me that he had decided that I should not longer have my senior welfare title and that he was passing that to someone else who at that time was working abroad!  Happy I was not.

From then on I could do not right.  He would barely speak to me, and glower at me like I was an itch he couldn't properly scratch.  He was never wholly impolite, but he let his thoughts show clearly enough to me.  Of course there was more than this, but my aim in writing this is not to give a blow by blow account.

That brings me to this day 12 months ago.  I was writing a report that he hadn't called for, but that I knew that he would.  Suddenly the message came on my e mail that he wanted it immediately.  He'd forgotten about it until reminded himself and was now panicking.  So I let him.  I closed down my office.  Had a privately tearful session and left.

The following day I went to the doctor who signed me off work for a fortnight.  But I resisted any drug treatment.  My wife rang my boss who spent most of the conversation telling her about his own breakdown a couple of years earlier!  Perhaps that explained some of his behaviour.  I don't know.  I didn't hear from him again for a total of 11 weeks.  When he wrote saying words to the effect "when are you coming back?"  In the meantime I was allocated a psychologist and signed of for many more weeks.  The psychologist challenged me in many different ways and for the first time in a long time I started to see that there was a life outside of work.

My staff were wonderful.  I received many letters and cards and felt hugely appreciated by them.  But my bosses didn't bother to contact me - ever - apart from when I wrote myself to the CEO, and my own boss's "hurry up" call at 11 weeks.  I attended weekend sessions at the local mental hospital - I was always surprised to see how many faces I recognised at those - and I began an internet therapy course that was also first class.  I cannot criticise the NHS.  They were wonderful.  Eventually I did start drug therapy and it helped hugely.  I wish that I hadn't resisted for so long.

Initially I suffered from enormous guilt about being ill.  I felt that I should pull myself together and get back to work; but I knew that could not.  I would spend hours lying on the bed, either sleeping or feeling very inadequate.  There was a concern that I might be suicidal - I never felt that way once in fact, but I understand why they might have had that worry.  I was not allowed to spend too much time alone.  I was terrified that I might meet someone that I knew so I literally hid myself away either at home or at my parents. Eventually the psychologist persuaded me to go to a local supermarket for an hour each day.  I would spend 15 minutes walking the aisles and then go to the coffee shop for the rest of the time.  But it forced me out and I gained some confidence.  But still I couldn't face work and I started to think that maybe I never would.  I also stopped missing it, so resolved to leave and take some time off.

My employer had agreed to give me full pay for six months - at the end of that time I resigned and found myself without work for the first time in 33 years.  As a final parting shot I was sent a valedictory letter.  It was written by somebody that I had never heard of but thanked me for my 31 years work.  That was good of them.  I expect my name came up on a database reminder somewhere.  Being without work is not scary, but that is maybe because we have a little money and can afford my "holiday".  I want to start doing something soon, but I don't know what.  I don't want to be a senior executive again.  Every day I receive an E mail from an HR recruiter - it's full of "exciting" opportunities doing things that I can do standing on my head.  But I should be bored before I'd completed the application form.  I have been there, done that and hated it. Why go back for more?  Something part-time appeals.  I'd love to drive a mobile library.

What is a little sad to me is that several of my friends haven't so much dropped me, as don't know what to say.  We are of a generation where we don't give up, we pull our socks up and battle on.  I didn't do that and possibly, in their eyes, have let the side down.  Many are the same though, but we don't see each other as much as we did before.  Such is life.

The really wonderful thing is that I discovered social networking.  I am not very good at it, but I have made so many wonderful friends.  They know who they are and how I feel about them.

Onwards and upwards.  It's the only way to go.

I am desirable again

Blogger has freed me from my pariah status and I can get on and write my book.  Thank you Blogger.

Apparently I am an undesirable

I decided at the weekend to set up a parallel blog to this one to act as an ongoing story.  The intention is that I shall start writing and only stop once I have reached a conclusion, or my friends have had enough and tell me the thing is too awful to read any further.  I also hope that they they might give me editorial thoughts and pointers.

I thought that this was pretty innocuous and could not imagine that anyone might take offence at the idea.  But Blogger has!  S/He has told me that my Blog may be a "Spam Blog"  whatever that means.  To say that I am unimpressed is an understatement.  There are barely any words there and I am unable to post for now.  I have raised an appeal, but I am pretty annoyed.

I am going away for a few days.  Back on Friday.  If my blog is still there and functioning again I shall try to make a start.  I am slightly afraid that I shall lose both that blog and this.  Clearly I am an evil subversive undesirable.  You just thought that I was a fish with a penchant for conical bras!

Sunday Roast

I have popped back to myLot a few times over the past 12 hours.  Bella thought that the time was right to salute our friends which we have done royally, most of us have been there - except for Cyn!  Where is that girl?

Roasting is not something that we do in the UK - except on a Sunday usually when we carnivores like nothing better than to get to grips with a joint of beef or similar.  Alternatively, being roasted is not something that we relish.  In the UK it means that we have been told off. 

The whole concept of saluting ones friends by means of an irreverent but affectionate discussion seems on the surface, rather shallow and cloying.  In fact, it has been a wonderful experience, at least for me.  Now there are parts of this blog where I have made clear how I feel about my myLot friends. But the opportunity to say what we feel about each other in an organised manner in front of the whole myLot audience is quite unusual and I for one welcome it.  I am also delighted to have the opportunity to acknowledge the debt that I owe to my friends without whom my life would lack so much.

So as I get to grips with my Sunday roast I give thanks for the Sunday myLot roast too.  Cheers.

Do we "Overshare"?

Eh?  Do we what?  Overshare?  What's that then?  Those of us that spend what seems like an increasing part of our days on sites like myLot, Yuwie or the myriad of similar sites have become used to sharing our secrets with each other.  But how far should we go.  The lure of such sites is that they expose us to a far wider variety of thoughts and perspectives than we might otherwise discover from within our own close circle of family and friends.  The anonymity of the internet gives us a sense of security that allows us to reveal intimate details and receive confirmation that we are not so unusual; that ointment X will help that embarrassing spot, that someone else slept with his wife's best friend too etc.

But why do we want to share this information in the first place?  Is it because we are sad, lonely, morbidly curious, exhibitionists, what?  I think that it has something to do with the pseudo psychotherapy approach to modern life, at least in the West.  For years now we have been actively encouraged not to bottle it up, letting go is good.   We are comfortable therefore, with the thought that it is permissible to ask for opinion about almost anything.   We are happy to parade all that ails us in front of our peers.  I belong to a generation that grew up believing that family problems stopped at the garden gate.  You never ever washed your dirty linen in public.  But that approach has now been all but dashed and I, along with thousands of others, seek the comfort and solace that sharing my agony with a strangers brings. I have mentioned elsewhere here that a number of those strangers are no longer viewed in that light by me.  They have become friends, some of them very close.  They know things about me that my family are not necessarily aware of.  I have posed in women's underwear for their amusement.  I would never do that in my local newspaper.   Neither would that be information that I would share with a prospective employer.  But I am happy to share that comedy image with the World!   I feel safe simply because I have placed myself on the global scene rather than the parochial one in which I live.

If we show a willingness to share, then where does the line get drawn?  I am not sure that it does.  I have sat on trains listening to the most personal details of family life as someone finishes his breakfast conversation on the 7.10am to Waterloo (London).  "Darling, I have said I won't see her again. What do you want me to do?  She works in the same building for goodness sake.  Cutting up my suits isn't helpful my love.  You're getting this all out of proportion" and so forth.  Great entertainment, but is it healthy?  We all like a gossip and to know who is doing what and then feign shock and indignation that there should have been such a lowering of morals.  You have to look no further than Oprah, Montel, Jerry Springer to see people happily trotting onto the TV to bare their souls for the delectation of the wider community.  And we love it don't we.  We act as amateur counsellors to the legion of men and women that parade their problems in the hope that somehow we will make it all better.  We receive our 15 minutes of fame too.  Andy Warhol was not so far off the mark then.

Look at the other public things that we do.  To start with, there's this blog.  I have written this for myself but I hope that you will read it too.  Some people put their diaries on-line, others their art and literature.  What about a film, I'll stick it on Youtube.  The possibilities are endless.  Do we feel happier for doing this?  In the old days someone's diary was intensely personal and rarely shared; at least while they were alive.  Now we leap to the internet to share.  We pronounce ourselves happy.  Only time will tell if we really are.

But our happiness to reveal our innermost thoughts comes at a price.  We look for benign, uncritical responses and live in hope of affirmation that what we think, do or believe is acceptable to others.  If their response is less than enthusiastic we sulk, scream or abuse the very people that minutes before we were asking for their help.  But having received this brush off what do we do?  Why, we rush off and ask another question, hopeful that this time the replies will be more generous.  Perhaps we are addicted.  

I don't think that we will return to the days when discretion ruled.  The advent of the internet has brought a freedom that allows us to express ourselves in ways hitherto unthought of.  I can even publish a book myself now abut anything that I want.  No agent, no publisher, just a few words, $20 and I am published.  

So with all that in mind.  I will see you out on the lot.  I've got a very nasty rash somewhere sensitive that I just want to share.

Facebook

I am on Facebook.  Have been for a while.  I didn't want to be, but my sister, Lis, not to be confused with my wife Liz; we are a close family but not that close!  Anyway Lis went on a hotshot holiday to South Africa with her husband and wanted to show off not just her tan, but her holiday snaps as well.  Years ago we had slides.  Little pieces of negative images packed into plastic cases that you lost down couches etc.  We'd get back from wherever, invite all Mum and Dad's friends round, eat cheesy things on sticks and drink cheap wine, cider for me if I was lucky, switch on the slide projector and sit through hour after interminable hour of: "Here's the hotel".  "Here's the coach before we left on the trip to the glass blowing place where p1kef1sh was sick after drinking too much Coke". "Look there is Dad having a pee!"  Hah blooming Ha.   You know the score.

Anyway, Facebook.  I opened my account and soon became entranced by its spell.  I uploaded my Profile picture.  Added an album and started to have friends join in the spectacle.  Soon I started to receive gifts from people.  I have karma, muppets, film and music quizzes - all of which is wonderful I am sure.  What I really want though is to see what it is that somebody has sent me.  For example, my sister sent me something green today.  No, not  a photo of her on that sail boat on a very choppy sea, but something that by the simple act of sending it will save the planet from all its environmental ills.  Fantastic.  I want one of those.  I shall be Chair of Greenpeace tomorrow!  But can I actually see this wonder?  Can I heck.  First I have to download an application.  What?  I have to apply for this thing.  Will it be considered by an earnest group of conservationists.  Are my sandals open toed enough.  My clothes sufficiently homespun? Oh.  Not that sort of application.  This one will enable it. Enable it to do what? To enable it to allow you to send the green thing to all your friends too.  But I don't want to do that.  Why should my friends be lumbered with this thing too.  Can't I try before I buy?  

At this point my friend Karen in Canada came to help me.  Karen is another of my loves.  She has always been there when I am in trouble.  We first met when she was looking for the male G spot.  Not on me I hasten to add.  I am not averse to Canadian ladies, especially ones as attractive as Karen, seeking my G spot.  But there are limits to a computer relationship.   Karen is bright as well as beautiful and she kindly offered to help me sort the problem out. Unfortunately I am terminally stupid.  My ability to navigate something like Facebook, which my neighbour's dog can manage is beyond me.  Apparently I am one of a very large group of people that are stymied by Facebook applications.  There are help groups, probably employing counsellors and therapists available to help me regain my confidence after a particularly nasty attack of Facebook applications.  But for all that, there is no known cure.  We have to live with it.  The upshot of this is that I still haven't seen what it is that Lis has sent me.  I have just had an IM conversation with her.  I explained my problem and after several abortive attempts to solve her brother's stupidity she signed off with a cheery "That's life boy".  I thought that was a soap.

Karen had previously sent me a Facebook Anthem.  It is worth looking at if you suffer the Facebook malaise too.  

Here it is: www.youtube.com/watch?v=boPhG9dtGfo

Thank you USAF

I have just been to Lidl.  Now don't all fall of your seats laughing.  Fish have to eat and frankly, ants eggs pall after a while.  So I resolved to be like the Yummy Mummies and take my Waitrose bags and shop at the cheapo place.  (Waitrose is a superior UK supermarket - sort of like Dillards but with food.  Actually Dillards might well do food.  I don't know).  Now my nearest Lidl is about 12 miles away.  There are at least four supermarkets within two miles of where I am sitting right now so why did I choose one that far away?  Simple.  It's cheap.  "But think of all money that you will spend on petrol getting there and back" you cry.  "I've got a hybrid car.  That's at least a third of the cost saved."  Don't roll your eyes.  I have been thrifty, in a not very efficient way.  This is the point where Pumpkin, my lovely surrogate daughter comes in and ticks me off.  Have I mentioned  her?   She will tick me off for this I just know it. She is so good at making her money stretch and I just fling it around, despite trying to manage on a, for me, low budget.  We haven't made £25 once.  But we are "only" spending about a tenner more.  Thats still £50 a week less than we used to.  But I love her so.  She'll have to forgive me the waste.  Please.

What has this got to do with the USAF then?  On my drive up there I went through a small village, just a strip of houses really, called Shipton Bellinger (SB).  As I drove into the village I burst into tears.  I have done a lot of that this week.  Not screaming my head off the end is nigh stuff. Just silent eye watering ones.  Close to SB there is a large military airfield - Boscombe Down.  Just as my tears started to make me wish that I had taken my rain coat the entire US Air Force (well three of them) flew over to check that we are all still here.  As the last aircraft flew over the sun came out, my tears dried, and I felt the most cheerful that I have done in a while.  I carried on to Lidl and did my shopping.  Of course I didn't have a £1 coin which is a requirement if you want a trolley, so I had to carry my purchases round the shop.  Have you ever tried to carry a frozen lobster, 40 dishwasher tablets, assorted other fishy items and a bottle of red wine in your hands?  Well don't if you can avoid it.  I did think of stuffing the lobster down my trousers and then whipping it out at the checkout.  However, firstly inserting a frozen lobster into your trousers is a risky business; secondly, once there it will drip freezing water over your unmentionables causing intense discomfort and a need later for nappy rash cream; thirdly, at the checkout itself making a lunge for your trousers saying "I'll just get my lobster out for you to see", is going to involve a nasty scene involving not only the checkout assistant but the store Manager too. 

As I drove back home the USAF, plus a smaller British aircraft (everything is bigger in the US of A) flew off again leaving the sun shining.  Happy and safe flying, take my love to America.

Squabbling

Have you ever watched small children squabbling with each other.  Usually a deliberate act starts the fight.  A toy is snatched or a crayon stolen.  The response is invariably swift and just as spiteful.  I have just dropped into myLot - I cannot keep away - and it's going on there right now.  The children all look grown up.  They have families, houses, jobs, in all respects they are utterly respectable; but they love to squabble.  "That's my opinion and you are a  big fat fink for thinking differently"  "Ha.  At least my opinion doesn't depend on something that you can't see or prove"  and so on.  Why do we love to be right all the time?  Why must I lash out the minute that I read something that challenges my belief or mindset.  Am I so convinced in views that I am unable to accept a differing opinion might at least be worth looking at.  It is said that you can ask for advice but you don't have to take it.  What's different here.  I ask a question, someone gives me their thoughts, I weigh it up, I accept or reject.  But, if I reject I have a choice.  I can reply, and if I do so, I must say that I am of a differing opinion, but let it not lead to a fight.  I must state my case and encourage thoughtful and careful discussion.   Alternatively of course, I can choose to ignore the reply,or post a simple "Thank you".

What actually happens though is that the red mist descends.  I feel threatened and must retaliate.  I lash out, often missing the principal focus of the reply and give my own, unexpurgated opinion of not only the reply, but the belief behind it.  Religion is a common one.  Sexuality another.  I, it would appear, am also the cause for altercation.  I have already said that I am catching my breath, but that is clearly not how some see it.

So we can squabble about anything and anybody; and probably will.  Fighting and competition is a human condition and we do it in a minor or major way daily.  None of us is immune.  But it would be nice (when I was at primary school my teacher banned that word - nice.  "Find another adjective" she'd say.  How right she was) if we all gave just a little more thought to our responses to things.  We don't have to agree, but we don't have to be nasty in our disagreement either.

Coffee time I think.

Comments

I have had this Blog 24 hours now and have managed to accrue a few comments from friends.  Of course deep down this is what I want.  The approval of my friends and the constructive thoughts of others.  However, I shall have to be careful because the comments are all better written than the writings on which they comment!  I am touched and humbled, that those that I have received thus far are not only extremely welcoming to a new blogger, but charming, witty and loving too.  I continue to be a lucky man.

What Kind of Friend am I?

Some time ago there was a woman on myLot who though not a native English speaker did her best to keep up with the discussions.  She asked to join my friends list and I was pleased to have her.  Over the following weeks she managed to upset a fair few people and repeatedly changed her avatar.  When this occurred she always told me her new name and rejoined the List.  I also gave her my private e mail address which she regularly used to contact me off myLot.  We corresponded every couple of days this way.  She has now decided that I don't  E Mail her sufficiently often to be regarded as worth continuing to correspond with.  That's a shame but I shall not be popping in to the library to look up the section entitled "101 ways to kill yourself".  

The question that I ask myself though is "What kind of friend am I if I don't maintain a regular contact."  I don't think that true friendship does require regular contact.  The man that was my Best Man I saw for the first time in five years last July on his 50th birthday - I always knew he was older than me but it took 25 years to find that out for certain!  We chatted as normal, admired each other's paunches and greying hair, and were, well, friends.  I am concerned that the lady ex-friend now I suppose, thought that she needed almost daily contact to maintain the friendship.  I suspect that her life has been a catalogue of disappointments in her relationships with other people and that she will move on to another and then another e mail correspondent.  None of whom will ever satisfy her need for companionship.

Love 

Funny thing Love.  I am very fortunate that I have been loved well all my life.  As a child you don't notice it.  Hopefully it is there coming from your family, your Mum and Dad, siblings, whoever, but it is only as an adult that you really start to think about what love is.

I am a great lover.  I don't mean between the sheets; love in terms of my affection for others, male or female.  People talk about soul mates.  Is that the same as being on the same wavelength as someone?  I have known many people that I have readily identified with, that have spoken my language and shared similar thought processes.  But I have not loved them. Love to me is a feeling, an emotion, not always action.  Wordnet defines love as "a strong positive emotion of regard and affection". But this is a description not an explanation of the feeling that one has when in love with a person, a concept, an act or even something as a food.  I love my wife and daughter unconditionally.  They mean so much to me that I would die if I thought that would make their lives safer, stronger and happier.  When they are around me I experience a happiness and delight that I cannot describe adequately.  But why?  What is it about these two people that cause me to feel differently than I do about anybody else.  How has it been sustained for over twenty years.   Obviously I know them better.  Maybe it's the reciprocation of my feelings, my joy at being in their company returned to me.  My wife has always been there for me from the first time we realised that our feelings weren't simply a liking for each other.  I have done my best to look after her too.  My daughter is literally of my loins.  A piece of me.  She thinks like me, acts like me (except that she is one hundred times more energetic), is me in so many ways.  I cannot imagine life without her now.

What of the others.  Let's talk intangibles.  People that ought, by any reasonable definition be people that I might like, but not be too bothered about.  They are not people that I have ever met, most don't even live in the UK.  I know nothing about them except what I have seen coming at me through the computer screen.

Let's look at my friend Nova.  I met Nova though myLot three months ago.  She seemed bubbly, intelligent and committed to her principles.  She made me laugh and challenged many of my preconceptions of life.  We also shared similar interests.  She knew some of my history too.  But my liking for her turned to love in a surprising way.  I found myself in an unpleasant discussion with someone who clearly had no regard for me, and refused to accept my apology when I thought that I might have jumped to a wrong conclusion.  Nova leapt to my defence.  I didn't ask her to, she did of her own volition.  Here was someone that I had never even spoken to, let alone met outside of the discussion forum, fighting for me!  I was simply astonished that she would do that.  From that moment on I wanted to know more about this wonderful person who had been moved, by I don't know what, to the point that she was prepared to kick ass as they say in America.  I have now seen her on my webcam.  She is everything I have described and more.  I am so lucky to have a friend like Nova.

Or Sparky who pointed me in the direction of this Blog site.  She has plenty of her own issues to tax her, but she cheerfully drops things to come and talk to me; listens to the rubbish that I spout, puts her arms around me; hugs and kisses me and makes me laugh and do silly things. Katherine, who I love so much that I ache.  We both grew up within 30 miles of each other.  She holds my hand when I am daft.  Kisses me better and gives me sensible sound advice.  I correspond with her each day.  My heart leaps when I see a post from her.  Angel, Cyn, my good friend Goodie who has been so much help this past day or two.  Ruby and Ellie my special British friends who tease me keep me in line and share their unique experiences with me.  Mummymo, who tells me off and puts me to bed when I stay up too late.   Others too, so many.  I have such a deep and warm love and affection for these people, yet I have never even spoken to a single one of them.  In the main I would not know them if I saw them in the street, nor they me.  But I know that I have such strong feelings about them that I cannot imagine my daily life without their cheerful banter.  

"The boy's daft" I hear you cry, and indeed he is.  But these people, through their kindness and companionship to me, their simple caring, despite the fact that we all have very different backgrounds and lifestyles have never judged me, nor taken a negative stance with me.  They tell me that they love me and I love them back.  That's it then.  No explanation, just a warmth and trust that the right thing will be done.  I worry that I may have let them down.  But if I have, I know that they will tell me in a caring and understanding way and will not judge me.

Well here I am

I have a Blog.  I have no real idea of what a Blog is but it seems as good a way as any other to wile away an hour or two.

Firstly, I make no apologies for my Blog Title.  I am not anybody famous, just a face that might pass by in the street and not warrant a second glance.  I have of course pinched it from George and Weedon Grossmith and added a slight adaptation of my own.

So where to begin.  At the beginning I suppose.

I am 50 years old.  English.  Married with one daughter.  I live in the city of Salisbury famous for the Cathedral and a plain but not much else.  That said it is  a very old and historic city, but I am sure that there is someone out there that has described the City's history far more eloquently that I ever could.

What else is there?

Currently I do not work having resigned from my previous employer after 31 years, the last few of which were exceptionally difficult for me and resulted in me having a nervous breakdown.  I shall refer to myself as being "potty' or a "crackpot" from time to time.  This is not meant to trivialise what is a very serious issue in modern western society, but it is how I think of myself.  I suffer fairly low self esteem as a result of my illness but I am working on that.  Like many males I love to have my ego massaged , I only have to do the family washing once and I shall crow about it for the rest of the week!

I have come here to draw breath from a social networking site called myLot.  I have been a member of that site for three months and have loved every minute of it.  I have met some of the loveliest people there.  People that don't judge me (although right now there are some exceptions.  But I will come to that), have given me love and affection that I surely do not deserve and have given me hope for the future.  I shall talk about some of them in my ramblings here.  I also have a surrogate daughter on myLot who I love like my own.  Her "real" mother and sisters are members too and I regard them as confidantes and arbiters of my actions.  If Nanna says "no" then I listen.  It is not fair to single people out.  But I will no doubt. 

Over the past week or so, and a week is a long time in myLot World, I have witnessed a general decline in overall happiness of the people there that I mix with.  myLot has a ratings system that I don't understand and have never been too bothered by.  My own rating has been almost constant since soon after arriving.  But others are very bothered that their own ratings have gone down for inexplicable reasons.  There have been many views circulated about what the reasons for these changes may be.  Gremlins, Trolls all sorts of fairy folk rushing around negatively rating peoples discussions for the sake of it.  I have always taken a fairly jaundiced view of this and subscribed to the maxim "He who lives by the sword dies by the sword". But this has certainly not been the case with several of my friends whose discussions are innocuous, and who do not court controversy at all.  I have a particular friend, who I correspond with daily, she lives in Arizona which is almost as far from Salisbury as it is possible to be, I shall call her Katherine, because that is her name, who said in a post that asked if people were disliked at work, that she had a co-worker who disliked her intensely.  The response to this from a "new" myLotter was an outpouring of hate and poison the like of which I have not seen since I was in the school playground.  The attack moved to another discussion where even the educational prowess of her son was questioned.  Katherine is someone that I love dearly and who, so far as I am aware, does not have a bad bone in her body.  I am not blind to people's frailties, but badness is not one of hers.  So why the attack.  The explanation given was that the attacker was the daughter of a co-worker.  Which didn't seem likely, but you never know. Rather than wade in and fight beside her, which I was tempted to do, I reported the conversation to myLot HQ and devised my own discussion.  This I likened to a walk around a garden.  I explained that I had found Katherine wounded and I asked my fellow posters to show some restraint in their postings.  I fully expect and even hope that discussions should be a heathy cross flow of opinion, but making personal attacks is not a grown up or mature act.  I was and am so very cross about this that I decided to leave myLot for a while.  Compounding this were several suggestions in responses to my discussion that I should let things lie where they are and not get involved.  There are some occasions when it is acceptable to leave things be.  But to me - witnessing an unwarranted attack on somebody that had done nothing to attract such attention - standing by and doing nothing is tantamount to joining in the attack itself.  So I have withdrawn from myLot to think things through.  There are some there now that are saying that I have been chased off, or run away; that I have surrendered "power" to those that would cause trouble.  I don't believe that I have done any such thing.  I hurt for my friend.  Not for me.  This is my protest.  At least I have managed to get people writing and thinking about these things.  I shall return to myLot in due course I expect.  Refreshed and ready once more to have fun with my friends old and new.

I am ready for a coffee now.  I shall return later.