Friday 20th February, 2015

I’m not one for moaning so you wouldn’t be aware that I havn’t been feeling that well for the last couple of weeks.  I have struggled manfully on obviously and as a result our office now reverberates to the sound of coughs, sniffles and sneezes and “thanks for this David” so go me.  It’s ironic that my ill-health has coincided with a concerted campaign from the powers that be back home to eat healthily in 2015.  My Christmas present was a book by a couple of really annoying people called Hemsley and Hemsley and then I was signed up to a blog written by another nut eater called “Deliciously Ella”.  Talking of nuts it was my birthday the other day.  A bird table.  That’s what I got from Sophie.  WTF. 

 

I’m a bit fixated by Delicious Ella truth be told.  It’s wrong I know.  She was the year above Hen at school.  And thinking about it, she’s cut from the same cloth as these irritating, just not as gorgeous, Hemsley sisters.  Its’s all medjool dates, ground almonds, veggies and quinoa from this lot.  Things hit a new low last night though.  I had been told we were going to be having spaghetti putanesca for supper. Aside from a couple of anchovy fillets there’s no meat in that, so I hardly skipped through the front door.  However, almost as unsatisfactory, what do I find in the kitchen, but a new fangled machine.  The Hemsley & Hemsley Spiralizer.  Google it.  It turns out we weren’t even getting spaghetti.  Just a dollop of putanesca sauce on a bed of long straggly and anaemic strands of courgette.  For goodness sake.  

 

Behind all of this is the hand of Hen.  She who tells me she is probably going to vote for the Green Party in the coming election.  As I have told you she lives in London now but she the one who’s been encouraging Sophie of the virtues of meat and gluten-free living.  She’s started compiling a recipe book, in her own inimitable way, and sending various of her creations through to us….here, attached, I’ll share one of her recipes with you.  We had it last weekend in lieu of a birthday cake.  Needless to say I would have preferred a big chocolate one with lots of candles, but this was, though I hesitate to admit it publically, yummy.

 

We havn’t all gone green.  It’s half term and whilst Bob has been required to spend a good deal of it re-writing an essay on Anthony and Cleopatra the local wildlife havn’t got away completely unscathed.  When we had finished our so called “spaghetti” last night he cleared away his plate and with an “I’ll be off then” disappeared out the house with a high powered torch and his lurcher, Weasel, in tow.  He returned over two hours later, at 10.30pm, a smug glow on his face and three dead rabbits over his shoulder.  “At least there’s something decent for supper tomorrow” he said.

 

Talking about health, how could I have missed this gem from our China internet analyst Chao Wang a couple of weeks ago.  Something Freudian was going on when he decided to do some channel checking on Qihoo’s healthcare advertising and chose the subject “chronic constipation”.  If not Freudian perhaps he actually has a problem in which case I would recommend H&H’s flourless date flapjacks. 

Chronic constipation

 

PS.  The eagle eye’d amongst you will have noticed the lack of eggs in Hen’s banana cake recipe.  This does not augur well for a new listing in Japan.  Just a thought and yet another example of the value added you get from DS…..

 

PPS. I broke one of my New Year resolutions and had fish and chips at my desk today.

 

PPS.  But in my defence I am not in a very good mood having heard that Sophie is stranded on the A12 having filled the Toyota up with petrol.  We’ve had it for five years.  It’s done 130,000 miles and we’ve always put diesel in 

Friday 6th February, 2015

I was up in Scotland this week and took some clients out on Wednesday evening.  Us Scots are bred hard.  Thursday night is for sissies. The last time I had been up north I was invited to dine in the New Club, rubbing shoulders with Edinburgh’s elite, and as I think I told you, ended up singing, fuelled by a couple of stiff G&T’s, excerpts from HMS Pinafore.  These days, and I suspected this would be the case, reflecting ruefully on my behaviour that evening, I have to look to a different sort of venue for dinner in Edinburgh.  The Indian Cavalry Club sounds grand enough I think you will agree, but truth be told, it’s not quite as exclusive as the name might suggest.  Still, I thought it was a fitting enough venue for the motley crew I had managed to assemble with the promise of a fine wine tasting to precede the Officers Set Menu at £29.30 a head.  

 

Fine wine tasting.  Hmmmm.  In the good old days I recall hosting an event ( in the New Club as it happens ) with my wine merchant ( go me ) Justerini & Brooks.  That was a rare treat indeed.  The highlight was probably the Chateau Palmer 1990, but in addition to that we enjoyed an extensive range of delicious clarets paired off against each other from a selection of vintages.  The Chairman of J&B talked us through the wines which we enjoyed in a beautiful boardroom looking out over Princes Street Gardens onto the spectacular backdrop of Edinburgh Castle.   

 

How times have changed.  On Wednesday my colleague and I nipped into the booze shop at the top of Frederick Street and hastily selected four bottles.  I say hastily.  It wasn't that a certain amount  of thought didn't go into the choice.  The idea was to find interesting wines at affordable prices which would go well with curry.  However we managed to knock one of the displays over and a bottle smashed onto the shop floor.  Glass everywhere.   It wasn't the most welcoming of shops from the outset and the frosty glare on the shop assistants face suggested a quick retreat was the best option.  So we skedaddled with two bottles of Aussie rubbish, an interesting white Hermitage and what proved to be a perfectly passable red Rhone.  Yes there was a bit of a competitive thing going on between the two of us as to who could choose the best drop.  They were necked ( though not the Australian Savvy B/Semillion I noted gleefully ) before we’d got half way through the poppadums with the Hermitage universally acclaimed the winner.  It really wasn't much of a contest. 

 

I’ve just realised something simply awful however.  I failed to deliver the prize I promised to the winner of my Christmas contest who was with us. Shame on me.  In my defense there will probably be a more responsible opportunity to hand over a bottle of malt whisky to the sort of man who wrote the gem below, than in a second rate Indian curry house on a chilly Wednesday evening.  Could have got very nasty and out of hand.

 

 

Oor Christmas bash at the Scran & Scallie left me feeling right peely-wally,

A full day oot on the Coonsil Juice meant a bus for me back tae ma hoose.

Wi glaikit look ah climbed upon it – the last one, ye ken, the vomit comet.

Fu’ o keelies wha’d been oot wi their boss – can this bus get me tae Kinross?

 

‘Haud yer wheesht son, just sit doon, I’ll wake ye when we reach the toon’

Ma heid went back, it never liftit as off to the land of nod I driftit.

Nae help frae the keelie tho’ – a total dearth, meant I didnae wake til Perth.

Panic stricken, gripped wi fear – whit tae say tae ma wife so dear?

‘Calm yersel son’ says the driver, ‘I’ll take ye back, just geez a fiver’

 

 

Friday 30th January, 2015

Sometimes I tell you things that are maybe a bit inappropriate and sometimes things which should really be kept just between you and me.  This one falls into both categories.  Predictably it involves Hen who rang me in stitches the other day.  I mentioned didn’t I that she is working the streets of south east England raising money for the Red Cross?  It appears, possibly because she is new to this line of work, but I think more because she’s was educated at Rugby, that she invariably gets sent to the less salubrious parts of this region.  Oh, she has been to a number of smart locations such as Brighton and Petersfield.  And sometimes she is to be found on Argyll Street.  Even London Wall.  More often than not though it seems she is sent down to Gillingham.  I’ve never been to Gillingham but – and as I write this I am hoping very much you don’t come from there – it doesn’t sound a very nice place.  I have a feeling its full of people with bad teeth wearing tracksuit bottoms.  That wasn’t Hen’s observation.  She is not at all snooty about it.  In fact she feels very much at home there now.

 

It had been a dull old day apparently.  Cold, grey and drizzly.  Hen felt she had slightly lost her mojo and power to connect with the good folk of Gillingham.  Then mid-afternoon a very large woman with many tattoos and body piercings and even more folds of exposed flesh waddled towards her.  Though, as we learnt in Pretty Woman, you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, Hen thought it was probably futile, but for want of anything better to do she summoned up the will to engage her in conversation.  And the woman stopped to talk!  It wasn’t a particularly illuminating or even pleasant conversation.  She had unwashed hair, awful skin and to top it all foul breath though these are probably unnecessary details to the picture you already had of her in your mind. Hen gave her the pitch about the crying need for fresh water supplies in Africa and held her attention for a full five minutes at which point, she explained to me, the chances of getting someone to contribute financially has normally increased exponentially.  Alas, it was not to be on this occasion.  The Old Woman of Gillingham finally stopped Hen and told her she couldn’t give anything because she had been shopping that day and had spent all her money.  With a conspiratorial hint in her Medway accent she said, “On this…..”  And with that she put her hand into the plastic bag she was carrying, which Hen now recognised was from Victoria’s Secrets, and pulled out her purchase, with a wink and a flourish, to prove it.  Hen’s mouth hung open aghast…..

 

I don’t often bottle it when under the Bodhi Tree, but on reflection I think I had better stop there and leave this one to your imagination.

Friday 23rd January, 2015

In just this one respect the year has started remarkably well.  As yet I have not found myself at lunch on a Friday morosely picking at fish and chips out of a polystyrene box at my desk.  It was not one of my resolutions to avoid a recurrence - of something that happened all too frequently last year- but I am pretty intent not to let it happen.  Please note! 

 

Today was a first for me however.  A client invited me to lunch at Whites.  I was bragging to a friend about my invitation…I know…I’m not proud.  “Ghastly place”, said he, “full of Old Etonians ( he’s an Harrovian ) and crooks.  Last time I was there someone stole my coat”. Historically of course this club is notorious for retrogrades so my friend ought to have felt at home.  Notoriously, in the early 1800’s Lord Alvanley bet a fellow member £3,000 as to which of two raindrops would first reach the bottom of a pane of the bow window. 

 

It was a fine lunch I am happy to report.  I had a brace of teal and a glass of wine, followed by Welsh Rarebit.  And furthermore, I love this, having never been there before I happened to meet 5 people I knew!!  How cool is that?  And then when I walked over to St James’s Park, as if I havn’t already done enough virtual name dropping, I bumped into The Earl of Airlie who you will no doubt recall was Lord Chamberlain from 1984 to 1997.  I’m not totally sure he recognised me, but that is probably a good thing thinking back to a reeling party in Angus…. No…stop right there David.

 

Hey ho….thank goodness for all that excitement today.  I was going to have to tell you that Hen rang me this week to say she was saving up to go to Mongolia in August.  The ultimate back packers destination of course.  But I’ll save that for another occasion other than to attach for the umpteenth time my trip report.  Can’t wait to read Hen’s.

 

 

Friday 14th January, 2015

 bet you thought I had forgotten about the Christmas challenge I set you.  Truth be told I was a wee bit underwhelmed by the number, though absolutely not with the quality, of responses.  Come on folk….. You’re a great lot, obviously, but I need to hear more.  Good to talk.  Those of you who didn’t respond missed out on the chance of a bottle of whisky the prospect of which clearly spurred yer man below.  Och well, no doubt you would have had to declare the gift to your compliance bod so that’s some relief I suppose.  Anyway, here is the winning entry.  

  

Oor Christmas bash at the Scran & Scallie left me feeling right peely-wally,

A full day oot on the Coonsil Juice meant a bus for me back tae ma hoose.

Wi glaikit look ah climbed upon it – the last one, ye ken, the vomit comet.

Fu’ o keelies wha’d been oot wi their boss – can this bus get me tae Kinross?

 

‘Haud yer wheesht son, just sit doon, I’ll wake ye when we reach the toon’

Ma heid went back, it never liftit as off to the land of nod I driftit.

Nae help frae the keelie tho’ – a total dearth, meant I didnae wake til Perth.

Panic stricken, gripped wi fear – whit tae say tae ma wife so dear?

‘Calm yersel son’ says the driver, ‘I’ll take ye back, just geez a fiver’

 

The gentleman who came up with this has home advantage, as you’ll possibly be able to discern.  His blend of McGonagall within a Tam O’ Shanteresque caper is pure dead brilliant.  I’m not sure however that it would be very responsible of me to present this particular individual with a bottle of malt.  To be discussed at our forthcoming Edinburgh client curry evening when we will also be monitoring his behaviour closely…….

 

Now, for all the gloom and doom in this first couple of weeks of the year, and I know you think I spend an inordinate amount of time bemoaning my lot, a happy moment.  I went for a ( 9 miles….1hr 13mins ) jog last Saturday and what should I find in my wind proof jacket, which I last wore when doing the Jungfrau Marathon, but two crumpled 50 Swiss Franc notes.  Really. How lucky am I?  And as if that were not enough good fortune, after a terrific day on Monday, thank you very much for asking, I have four woodcock plucked and sitting in the fridge at home ready for supper on Saturday night to be washed down with a bottle of Beycheville 2003.  

 

Friday 9th January, 2015

It has been the most tragic start to the year of course, but against the backdrop of the discussion about the importance of a free press it is ironic that the one thing that had me laughing out loud this week was a WhatsApp message from Bob with a copy of a letter he had had published in a somewhat controversial monthly  journal. 

On his return to school this week – having left me a rabbit to skin on Wednesday eveningsuppose as a sort of leaving gift – he found a back copy waiting for him of a magazine that his grandparents had recklessly subscribed him to.  I am talking about “The Countryman” of course.  Founded in 1927 and with a circulation of about 23,000 it is essential reading for anyone struggling with the demands of Geography, Class Civ and English Lit A level courses.  It appears he had taken a moment out of his busy academic schedule towards the end of last term to write to the Editor who had seen fit to publish it. I’ve got to tell you I almost fell off my chair when I read the attached.  I mean what possessed him to write such a lame letter and to include a photo of his dog for goodness sake????

I suppose that may sound a little churlish of me.  The truth is I’m a wee bit jealous of him.  I have spent an inordinate amount of time over the years writing to a variety of newspapers and magazines, but reflecting on this upon receiving the news of Bob’s triumph at the tender age of 17, I reluctantly had to concede to myself that even at my advanced age, I have only ever had one letter published. It was the South China and Morning Post so that’s pretty cool.  The topic far more relevant and, naturally, much better written.  

I know.  I have no shame!

2015 can only get better surely.  Talking of which I’m off on Monday.  Shooting woodcock at Houghton Hall.  It’s a great surprise to me I’ve been invited back because I didn’t behave very well when I was there last year.  Blame some ropey New Zealand Pinot Noir which induced a severe bout of alcohol poisoning.

 

Friday 19th December, 2014

Ending the year on a bit of a dull note.  I’m quite embarrassed by this, but being the honest, open sort I am I have to tell you that today, the last Friday before Christmas, I had lunch at my desk.  How sad is that??  And prepare to be bored yourself.  The ideas from Under the Bodhi Tree always flow better after a bottle of Ch. Tour St. Bonnet and a cote de boeuf in Le Rendezvous.  Sitting at my desk, rueing my lot aswell as the uninspired collection of stocking fillers I have cobbled together for Sophie, I discovered, interestingly enough, that a high proportion of people ( estimated 40-50% ) fail their driving theory test first time round. I had thought it was almost impossible to fail.  Admittedly Hen had to sit it twice, but that was because having passed her theory she didn't have the same success in her practical within the requisite period of the following two years, though this was not for want to trying.  Happily the passage of time has also faded from my memory precisely how much I spent on her lessons and the innumerable tests she took.

I know it reflects poorly on me, but in my opinion Bob didn’t have a chance in heck when he headed off to Bury St Edmunds in our most conspicuously L- plated and very battered VW Polo ( Hen and Jimmy have given it a good seeing to over the last few years ) to sit the theory test on Monday.  Sophie, her feet no doubt slamming repeatedly on the imaginary brakes, nervously occupied the passenger seat.  But pass he did, though he had the good grace to admit he was as astonished as the rest of us.  “Turned out I had only been revising half the test.  I hadn’t realised there was a second part to it and I had to guess every single answer.” 

I didn’t have to take a theory test.  Well, it is a while back now, I supposed we used to be given a few questions about braking distances and road signs.  Perhaps I appeared a bit lackadaisical when I turned up for my third driving test, but on this occasion I was armed with an international licence which meant I was going to drive myself away regardless of the outcome.  I took the test in Forfar, a quaint market town in Angus, and I sensed the examiner didn’t like my attitude very much or perhaps it was my accent or maybe he was just envious of my wheels ( a white Peugeot 404 Estate just like the one pictured below though ours was specially equipped with African suspension ).

Anyway when it came to the question and answer session I was asked for the hand signal to turn left I thought that was a bit of a sneaky one.   With more swagger than I felt I stuck my arm out the window and, flipping my hand up and over, tapped a few times on top of the roof.  “Noooooo” said the examiner, a little testily.   “Are you sure?” I innocently enquired.  “Mr Sandison”, he replied sternly, “ Ye mae think I dunnae ken much, but ah ken ma Highway Code.”  So that put me in my place.   

I am pretty sure there isn’t a question in the current version of the theory test about what happens if you leave your car for any length of time with the head-lights on.  This would have been the one that tripped up Bob for when he and Soph got back to the Polo after a celebratory burger at Bills, they found that is exactly what he’d done and, yes, straight to the top of the class for you, the battery was as flat as a pancake.  What a berk.

To give him his due though, it is thanks to him this is already established as THE BEST CHRISTMAS EVER.  My worst job of the year, without doubt, is putting the Christmas tree up.   I hate the whole process.   Trekking off to some ghastly winter wonderland where you are confronted by St Bernards with stupid hats on and the most complicated tree selection and payment process imaginable.  Then tying it on top of the car.  That’s a nightmare in itself.   But if by some miracle you get it safely home the torture moves on to a different level.  I forget each year from the last how I finally manage to get the tree upright and to Sophie’s satisfaction.  Oh I’m banging on.  I’m even boring myself with this story so goodness knows what its doing to you.  The point is…..they got the tree without me mid week.  Genius.  And then Bob, the total hero that he is, went and put it up.  No fuss or bother.  He just did it.  How totally good is that??  Oh man….I’ve had a terrible thought.  All this helpfulness has got to have something to do with his school report which is due any day now.

 

Friday 12th December, 2014

The journey from Newmarket to Rugby is not an easy one at the moment.  Miles and miles of roadworks have turned what used to be a breezy hour or so ( admittedly when I had my Porsche ) into right old slog ( in the VW Polo 1.2 ).  On the bright side it's not a trip I do very frequently and I was expecting the worst when I decided last Saturday to go and watch Bob playing rugby.  Consequently I arrived on time and in reasonably high spirits.  Bob came bouncing out of his house and greeted me exuberantly.  Moments later, though, it all went horribly wrong.  In his rush to say hello to me he had left his jacket on the floor of the dining room and his housemaster, picking it up to find whose it was, discovered in it a packet of tobacco, filter papers and a lighter.  I mean the stupidity?  Smoking obviously – well that’s ridiculous – but then to be caught like that….AND whilst I was actually right there on one of my all too rare visits.  It could only happen to Bob.

 

I say that, but on reflection I recall ruefully there is form in the family.  Hen had always denied it resolutely and, naïve as I was in those days, I had backed up her twice in the face of the grave suspicions of her housemistress that she had indeed been smoking.  That was until Hen herself rang me and admitted she had started smoking, “occasionally”.  Presumably she thought she would get some kudos for being upfront about it, but it soon became clear why she had done so.  During the course of a police investigation into a rather nasty incident – in which she was the innocent victim having been set upon by two local lasses -  Hen was found via a perusal of CCTV footage, considerably out of bounds, leaning against the brick wall of a side road enjoying a quiet Embassy Red.

 

If there was an upside to this sorry story it is that I resisted the temptation to high-tail it back home and moped my way half heartedly to the rugby pitch.  Ten minutes into the game, Bob, who is not a natural rugby player, scored one of the most tremendous tries I’ve seen at any level.  Right up there with the best of Jonah Lomu.  From deep inside his own half he burst through at least seven attempted tackles and running like the wind, scored in the far left corner.  Amazing what a bit of adrenaline and intent can do.  Talking of which the next evening the force was still with him and he and his band got through the auditions and will perform “Somebody Told Me” by The Killers in front of the entire school this evening.  And to be fair, as lead singer you have to have a few rollies in your back pocket, don’t you?  De rigueur really.

 

***   CHRISTMAS COMPETITION  ***

A reminder from last week that in the run up to Christmas I have provided a little diversion for you.  The challenge is to use as many of the Scottish words below as you are able to, incorporating them in an amusing and pertinent short paragraph.  I will determine the winner who will receive much acclaim and to whom a bottle of single malt will wing its way in due course.  I should add this competition is closed to the Glaswegians amongst you, though I think I have lost most of them anyway.  Obviously the restriction doesn’t apply to my Edinburgh clients who would have a better chance of fulfilling this mission if I had chosen Latin instead of The Patter.

The words are:

 

Coonsil juice / Glaikit / Barry / Hackit / Clipe / Keelie  / Peely-wally / Plook / Liftit / Haud yer wheesht / Jookies  / Mawkit

 

Entries to be received before Christmas so take your time, make it a good one and best of luck.  Remember….. “Whisky….all you want!” 

 

If you are in search of inspiration here are a couple of efforts.  In their contrasting styles – it is not difficult to guess which was written by a Fifer – both solidly grasp what is being demanded:

 

'So there I wiz, fair drookit an wi' a mooth like a rat's arse. No sae barry and ma clathes were aw mawkit efter 3 days on the coonsil juice. An' as if it couldnae get ony worse it wiz then I ran across Bennie. He's a wee clipe so he iz and a plooky, glaikit wee bastart tae.

 

says I 'awa ye go ye wee nyaff. an dinnae tell the wains ye seen me'

 

He wid too though and then Jessie'd be aw over me like a dose o' clap. A knee in the jookies'd be the best I could hope fer. What's a keelie tae dae? Nae luck at aw. An me feelin aw peely wally  wi nae a bawbee fer a dram.

 

Hame it wiz then. Better a kickin than gettin liftit and flung in the slammer by the polis. Plus she'd a had her giro fi the brew by noo. She's mebbe a hackit bizom but she'd hae some jakie fer sure...'

 

 

Or this one….

 

Two fine keelies were walking home in the wee hours following a big night out when they came across a barry babe.

Dougal was brave and said hellooo despite the rather large plook protruding from his nose.

Dougal went on to say where have you been this fine evening (fraser whispered Mawkit under his breath)

She looked at him with a glaikit stare trying to avoid any sort of conversation.

Frazer said steer clear of her, she is hackit my boy plus I know her older brother and I bet she will clipe on you!

He will come looking for you and give you a kick in the jookies! so Haud yer wheesht!

The girl looked at Frazer and said, " You look a bit peeley wally my boy, get ya self some coonsil juice fast otherwise the police will liftit you when they see you!

 

Friday 5th December, 2014

t seems like yesterday I was telling you how, despite being eminently well qualified to contribute, I had shown great resolve and resisted helping Jimmy write her first University assignment, a 500 word essay on the cultural differences between a handshake and a Namaste.  In fact it was over a month ago but I was as good as my word and left her to her own devices for quite a while.  I’m ashamed to say though that I wavered this week when I got another plaintive ( an understatement if ever there was ) call from her.  This time, you see, it was proper crisis facing her in the form of a second, but longer essay ( have these universities no regard for undergraduates who might want to have a social life ),  discussing cultural norms in burial rituals and required to be handed in the following day.  I had to intervene really didn’t I?  And it was quite interesting actually.  Gone is the need to drag yourself and your hangover down to the library only to find that the one single copy of that crucial book has yet to be returned.  Nowadays all it takes is a few taps on your computer keyboard and hey presto you can become an expert on any number of anthropological theories.  The other insight from this experience  - and those of you yet to go through this phase please note – is how it highlights that a GAP year or fifteen years as a stock broker can turn your brain to mush.  I say this because after spending an hour on the phone with Jimmy, jointly researching, formatting, writing and refining her essay, I retired utterly spent to the sitting room for a well-deserved glass of wine and to catch up on what had been happening in the Australian Jungle. 

Moments later Lottie, our 13 year old, a pupil at the renowned Perse Upper school in Cambridge ( go me ), strolled casually in and settled onto the sofa next to me and the dogs.  “What have you been up to?” I summoned the energy to ask her during the adverts. “ Oh, just a bit of prep”, she said.  Just a bit of prep????!  Turned out she had rattled off a one thousand word essay entitled “ “ The Industrial Revolution was Overwhelmingly Beneficial For the People of Great Britain” How Far do you agree with this judgement?” .  No tantrums.  No cries for help.  No biggie.

 

Talking of writing it appears that only Lottie is capable of completing an assignment without assistance. Hen rang me on her way back from Ashford where she had been fund raising for the Red Cross. She had taken the opportunity of the train journey to write a letter to Jimmy, despite finding herself squashed next to three elderly and rotund Chelsea supporters.  Hold your tongue David.  Don’t do it.  Hen gives everyone the benefit of the doubt and talks to them too and by the time the letter was completed her three new best friends were fully involved in her epistle.  So much so they each added a message to Jimmy, jointly signing off “respectfully yours, The Three Musketeers”.  Says as much about Chelsea supporters as it does about my eldest daughter. 

 

Friday 28th November, 2014

Last weekend’s tally is worth relating so long as you promise not to tell Sheikh Mohammed.  Bob was home for a leave out and his new lurcher, Weasel, who I have been insisting to him was cute but useless, nailed her first hare so there was great rejoicing on his part even though I put a dampener on proceedings by suggesting that I had thought hare’s couldn’t contract myxomatosis.  Bit esoteric for the townies amongst you perhaps.

Anyway, on Sunday evening, after Bob had gone back to school, I saw the log shed door had been wedged shut which always means some grim deed has been done and at least one animal carcass will be hanging inside, out of reach of the dogs.  I had expected to find Weasels hare.  Strangely there was no sign of that, but adding to my surprise, four dead partridge were pegged on a bit of binder twine obviously waiting for me to pluck them and pop them in the deep freeze.  This was strange though.  We hadn’t been off shooting that weekend.  He has previously caught partridge almost bare handed as they ran down the furrows of a ploughed field, but these four were despatched, he admitted to me when pressed on the phone, with the aid of a folding poachers 410.  He had secreted the gun about his person and taken advantage of the fact that torrential rain that afternoon meant the neighbouring estate ( where Sheikh Mo comes into the story ) was deserted by all but the hardiest souls.  Bob had brought two friends back from school, one of them Japanese, the other Bulgarian and they had been dragged into this dastardly action with him.  Lovely boys through they are they could not really be described as hardy souls. I think it’s fair to say this was a very different sort of weekend to the norm for these guys and I’m not so sure we will see them at Bovills again.  Which is a pity because one of them was quite good at table tennis though not quite good enough…..go me!  I am really excellent at table tennis.  And at playing the recorder.  That probably also got to them a wee bit.

Anyway, if you were wondering, Weasel’s hare turned up.  I got a WhatsApp message on Monday from Sophie which conversation I wish to share with you:

 

S – What shall I do with the hare in my fridge???

D – Cut into bits, with carrots and onions, and make stock

S – Such fun, we can do that this evening!

D – Roll your sleeves up and get on with it you wooser

S - ****-off

 

Well that wasn’t very pleasant really.  You probably don’t know Sophie as well as I do, but she doesn’t mince her words.  How about this for pillow-talk.  Not giving too much away, as we settled into bed last night after watching The Fury I commented to her how peculiar it was that she always yawns prodigiously the moment her head settles on the pillow.  “I, however, never yawn” I said.  “That’s because I’m not boring” was her immediate riposte.  

 

PS.  Don’t know if you are a Downton Abbey fan, but it was unfortunate that the Earl of Grantham called his yellow Labrador “Isis”.  They had to put the poor thing down in the latest series.  On my way back from lunch today I was nearly run over by a cement mixer on Lower Thames Street.  I can’t entirely blame the driver.  I had enjoyed a great natter and a decent bottle of Meinert Merlot so I was probably a wee bit distracted.  I didn’t get a chance to take a photo myself, but this was the offending wagon:

 

 

Time for a re-brand I think.

Friday 21st November, 2014

I’m conscious that I have been a wee bit of a moaning minnie these past few weeks.  Sorry for that.  Almost as tediously I need to warn you I’m going to prattle on yet again about mobile phones and Taiwan so do feel free to skip quickly on to all the proper stuff further down.  As we move into the Festive Season I will do my best to change the tone ( how punny I am ) and lift my mood, but in the meantime even if the Christmas Tree is up at Newmarket’s Clock Tower roundabout and gawdy coloured lights brighten my drive along the High Street at 5.15am, I’m not quite yet in that cheery happy place. 

 

The thing is I was hoping I had put my phone troubles to bed after last Fridays rant at Jimmy who, if you remember I told you, had left her phone at Paddington Station.  I had zoomed round there on the Circle Line and miraculously retrieved it.  I didn’t recount that the following day Sophie went to the post office in Moulton and at exorbitant expense sent the phone to Bristol by first class recorded delivery.  We had a couple of grumpy emails from Jimmy during the week, which I didn’t burden you with, bemoaning the fact that her phone hadn’t yet arrived, and at the time of writing last Friday, although I could see that the package had been delivered to her hall and signed for by the Porter, I had heard nothing from Jimmy so presumed she had not been to collect it.  All I could do was send emails telling her that her phone was there and she should go and pick it up.  A bit annoying right, but let’s leave it at that…for the moment.

 

The next day I went off to Leicestershire shooting.  There I was, standing in a field, gun poised, waiting for the Husband Bosworth pheasants to come lumbering overhead, when my phone buzzed.  A text from Sophie.  “Hen has had her phone stolen”.  Appropriately enough, the first bird that came my way, though in truth probably my neighbours bird if I had been in the mood for courtesies, was a hen and a surprisingly challenging one at that.  Dusted.  It didn’t stand a chance poor thing.  

 

We had a record bag for the first day of the season but I couldn’t say I had totally got the venom out my system by that evening when we had to go out to dinner at friend’s house a long way from us.  There was a pea-souper to make the drive even more of a slog and we were the last to arrive which I hate though I should be used to it by now, with Sophie as my wife.  But we got such a warm greeting from our charming hostess that my mood lifted.  “Isn’t it just wonderful that Jimmy and Tarz are such good friends at Bristol” she purred.  “And now they’re planning to share a house together next year.  It’s so sweet.”  I concurred enthusiastically enough even though I still wasn’t quite able to discuss Jimmy without bridling slightly.  “And” she added almost as an afterthought, “isn’t it funny she dropped her phone down the loo?  Apparently she’d only had it back for two hours after being without it for a week.”  Oh hilarious.

 

I was out with a colleague from Japan the other night who was saying that at some point he would probably have to go back to Taiwan to take over responsibility for the family fishing business.  They have a fleet which catches tuna in the Pacific.  Ever the opportunist I asked him whether in due course there was any chance he could arrange a job for Bob – whose favourite programme of all time is Wicked Tuna - on one of the ships.  Certainly, he said, adding that their boats go off to sea for three years at a time.  Perfect solution thought I, but now I’ve done a bit of research about the Taiwanese fishing industry maybe I will not sign him up quite yet.  It appears that three years at sea is the least of the trials that the men of the Taiwanese fishing fleet– most of them from Cambodia - face.  And to be fair to Bob, he’s actually held onto the same handset for quite a while now.  Lose another one though and he’ll be in Kaohsiung quicker than I can dial Vodafone Customer support on 191. 

 

PS….thought you might enjoy the attached Twitter exchange I had with the singer James Blunt yesterday.  He has gained notoriety for his quick fire and risqué ripostes and certainly put me neatly in my place!

 

Friday 14th November, 2014

“Never be afraid of a blank sheet of paper”…one of many excerpts from the font of wisdom that is my eldest, Hen. 

 

But this afternoon I stare at my empty screen terrified. In my defence this has been a slightly shattering week if you will allow me to whinge for a change.  We had our Shinka corporate access event on Monday and Tuesday and even though it was a tremendous success - an awful lot of sushi was eaten if that is a measure of anything at all – it was quite draining. 

 

When it was all over on Tuesday afternoon I felt a little like I used to feel after a week at a CLSA forum.  Well that may be a little bit of a stretch.  I remember once after a particular heavy Japan Forum and in an inspired attempt to beat jet-lag I had pulled an all-nighter in Tokyo, getting to the airport on Saturday morning and slumping into my seat on the plane where I instantly fell asleep and only awoke 12 hours later to find our plane in a holding pattern above Heathrow.  Despite having a mouth as dry as ball of camel dung I discerned the most enormous hole in one of my teeth.  During the night I had swallowed one of my fillings.   

 

No.  It wasn’t that bad and even though I moaned about having to go for dinner at the Phoenix Palace Chinese restaurant – back of Baker Street tube - we actually had a great evening.   I made a new best friend.  He is CEO of one of the companies we were hosting and what a terrific guy.  He’s from Taiwan, but spends most of the week in Shenzhen.  That’s commitment to the cause for you.  And at the weekend he rides his dressage horses which he has imported from Holland.  Like myself, he also has four children, but he seems to handle this with considerably greater equanimity than I do.  

 

On the other hand he hadn’t had to dash round to Paddington Station before getting to the restaurant on a desperate mission to try to retrieve his 19 year old daughters iPhone which is what I had had to do.  I know I shouldn’t be so stressy.  It “wasn’t my fault” was the predictable comment from Jimmy.  “It’s been stolen or maybe I left it on the ticket counter.”   And it had been at least five weeks since the last time she lost it.  I got it btw.  And you would have been proud of the way I displayed only the slightest hint of annoyance when I noticed that the recently replaced screen was already cracked.  I got my own back.  The guy who had found the phone wouldn’t take the £10 I offered him but I didn’t tell that to Jimmy.  She owes me. 

 

If I still have you that reminds me of another phone story.  Maybe I told you before but anyway we were skiing in Val D’Isere and Bob lost his phone on the slopes.  I sent it a text pleading anyone who found it to return it.  Lo and behold almost instantly an awfully nice sounding boy – turned out he was reading history at Nottingham University – rang. It turned out he was staying in Tignes and his Turkish girlfriend had suffered a suspected broken leg so he couldn’t get it to us immediately.  A fairly convoluted series of arrangements made the following day had me eventually side stepping frantically half way up a mountain in order to get to our rendezvous at the appointed time.  And there he was, just above the Tommeuses chairlift.  Bob was happily reunited with his phone and EUR20 from Bob’s life savings was handed over by way of a thank you.  No doubt what would have ensued would have been a series of expensive text messages between him and various friends, but instead he whizzed off, with me and the boy from Nottingham looking on aghast, across the piste, flew over a bank of snow and landed in a heap on an icy mogul smashing irreparably both his phone and a brand new pair of sunglasses.

 

Friday 31st October, 2014

I normally look forward to the weekend a fair bit, but this one?  Not so much.   Sadly, I think I will be unable to escape going for a drive with Bob who has just turned 17.  The roads around Gazeley are as perilous as they have ever been.  The sense of foreboding is heightened by the fact that this evening the village will also be crawling with screaming, sugar-crazed kids baring dodgy teeth and sporting fake scars and weird hats.  How I hate Halloween.  Oh well.  I’ll lock the gates and dim the lights and we should be left in peace.   I took this photograph of Bob the other day before he set off on his first outing in the car, which is still just about holding together thanks to a lot of sticky tape, having been “driven” by both Hen and Jimmy.  Sophie, who is infinitely more patient and braver than me, went with him, but even she might have had second thoughts if she had noticed what I saw only later, when I looked more closely at the photo, the deeply inappropriate message sported on his baseball cap.  

 

Talking of bonnets I was up in Sutherland with Bob last week crawling on our stomachs around the slopes of Ben Loyal.  Quite fantastic stuff, but I’ll spare you the gorey detail as I really wanted to tell you about my uncle.  This is freaky enough to be honest.  As we sat down - my uncle and aunt, Bob and I - for dinner on the first evening we were spending with them,  Uncle Bruce took a slightly deeper breath and told us he wanted to say a few words.  My goodness I thought it’s only a Thursday but he’s about to say grace.  As you know I have not banged on very much about the Scottish referendum, but whisper it quietly, my uncle was definitely in the YES camp.  In the run up to the vote he repeatedly posted evocative photos of bens and lochs, country dancers, a Highland cow and one of him wearing a “semit”.  So what I thought we were about to receive was Rabbie Burn’s four liner “Some hae meat and canna eat, And some wad eat that want it, But we hae meat and we can eat, Sae let the Lord be thankit.”  

 

It wasn’t grace, but it was indeed Robert Burns to whom my uncle turned.  He launched into a delivery in the vernacular of the Bard’s famous poem, Tam O’Shanter.  Bob and I looked on bemused, barely understanding a word, as over the following 10 minutes or so he recited the entire poem without reference or hesitation.  At the risk of blowing up your Blackberry – and I would like to emphasise that there is a lot of good stuff below this week so please make the effort to scroll down – but I can’t resist including this:

 

“ When chapmen billies leave the street,
And drouthy neibors, neibors meet,
As market days are wearing late,
An' folk begin to tak the gate;
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
And getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Where sits our sulky sullen dame.
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, 
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, 
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses 
For honest men and bonie lasses.) 

O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise, 
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice! 
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, 
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum; 
That frae November till October, 
Ae market-day thou was nae sober; 
That ilka melder, wi' the miller, 
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; 
That every naig was ca'd a shoe on, 
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on; 
That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday, 
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. 
She prophesied that late or soon, 
Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon; 
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, 
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet, 
To think how mony counsels sweet, 
How mony lengthen'd, sage advices, 
The husband frae the wife despises! 

But to our tale:-- Ae market-night, 
Tam had got planted unco right; 
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely 
And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony; 
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither-- 
They had been fou for weeks thegither! 
The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter 
And ay the ale was growing better: 
The landlady and Tam grew gracious,
wi' favours secret,sweet and precious
The Souter tauld his queerest stories; 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus: 
The storm without might rair and rustle, 
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy, 
E'en drown'd himsel' amang the nappy! 
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, 
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure: 
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious. 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious! 

But pleasures are like poppies spread, 
You sieze the flower, its bloom is shed; 
Or like the snow falls in the river, 
A moment white--then melts for ever; 
Or like the borealis race, 
That flit ere you can point their place; 
Or like the rainbow's lovely form 
Evanishing amid the storm.-- 
Nae man can tether time or tide; 
The hour approaches Tam maun ride; 
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, 
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; 
And sic a night he taks the road in 
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; 
The rattling showers rose on the blast; 
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd 
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd: 
That night, a child might understand, 
The Deil had business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg-- 
A better never lifted leg-- 
Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire;
Despisin' wind and rain and fire. 
Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet; 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet; 
Whiles glowring round wi' prudent cares, 
Lest bogles catch him unawares: 
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, 
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.

By this time he was cross the ford, 
Whare, in the snaw, the chapman smoor'd; 
And past the birks and meikle stane, 
Whare drunken Chairlie brak 's neck-bane; 
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 
Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel'.-- 
Before him Doon pours all his floods; 
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods; 
The lightnings flash from pole to pole; 
Near and more near the thunders roll: 
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze; 
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing; 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing. 

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn! 
What dangers thou canst make us scorn! 
Wi' tippeny, we fear nae evil; 
Wi' usquabae, we'll face the devil!-- 
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, 
Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle. 
But Maggie stood, right sair astonish'd, 
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, 
She ventured forward on the light; 
And, vow! Tam saw an unco sight 

Warlocks and witches in a dance; 
Nae cotillion brent-new frae France, 
But hornpipes, jigs strathspeys, and reels, 
Put life and mettle in their heels. 
A winnock-bunker in the east, 
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast; 
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, 
To gie them music was his charge: 
He scre'd the pipes and gart them skirl, 
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.-- 
Coffins stood round, like open presses, 
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses; 
And by some develish cantraip slight, 
Each in its cauld hand held a light.-- 
By which heroic Tam was able 
To note upon the haly table, 
A murders's banes in gibbet-airns; 
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns; 
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, 
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape; 
Five tomahawks, wi blude red-rusted; 
Five scymitars, wi' murder crusted; 
A garter, which a babe had strangled; 
A knife, a father's throat had mangled, 
Whom his ain son o' life bereft, 
The gray hairs yet stack to the heft;
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', 
Which even to name was be unlawfu'. 
Three lawyers' tongues, turn'd inside out, 
Wi' lies seam'd like a beggar's clout; 
Three priests' hearts, rotten, black as muck, 
Lay stinking, vile in every neuk. 

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious, 
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious; 
The piper loud and louder blew; 
The dancers quick and quicker flew; 
They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit, 
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, 
And coost her duddies to the wark, 
And linket at it in her sark! 

Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans, 
A' plump and strapping in their teens, 
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, 
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linnen! 
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 
That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair, 
I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies, 
For ae blink o' the bonie burdies! 

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, 
Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,
Louping and flinging on a crummock,
I wonder did na turn thy stomach!

But Tam kend what was what fu' brawlie:
There was ae winsome wench and waulie, 
That night enlisted in the core, 
Lang after ken'd on Carrick shore; 
(For mony a beast to dead she shot, 
And perish'd mony a bonie boat, 
And shook baith meikle corn and bear, 
And kept the country-side in fear.) 
Her cutty-sark, o' Paisley harn 
That while a lassie she had worn, 
In longitude tho' sorely scanty, 
It was her best, and she was vauntie,- 
Ah! little ken'd thy reverend grannie, 
That sark she coft for he wee Nannie, 
Wi' twa pund Scots, ('twas a' her riches), 
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches! 

But here my Muse her wing maun cour; 
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r; 
To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 
(A souple jade she was, and strang), 
And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd, 
And thought his very een enrich'd; 
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain, 
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main; 
Till first ae caper, syne anither, 
Tam tint his reason ' thegither, 
And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!" 
And in an instant all was dark: 
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, 
When plundering herds assail their byke; 
As open pussie's mortal foes, 
When, pop! she starts before their nose; 
As eager runs the market-crowd, 
When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud; 
So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 
Wi' mony an eldritch skriech and hollo. 

Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin'! 
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin'! 
In vain thy Kate awaits thy commin'! 
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman! 
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
And win the key-stane o' the brig; 
There at them thou thy tail may toss, 
A running stream they dare na cross. 
But ere the key-stane she could make, 
The fient a tail she had to shake! 
For Nannie, far before the rest, 
Hard upon noble Maggie prest, 
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle; 
But little wist she Maggie's mettle - 
Ae spring brought off her master hale, 
But left behind her ain gray tail; 
The carlin claught her by the rump, 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

No, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother's son take heed; 
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, 
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, 
Think! ye may buy joys o'er dear - 
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.”

Wow eh?!  132 lines and 1,513 words.   Some guy, my uncle.

 

Friday 17th October, 2014

I havn’t updated you for a while on my bucolic existence.  You may recall I used to keep you regularly informed on how many chickens we had and even what their names were, but despite the frequent revisions and updates necessitated by fox visitations that kept this rich vein of stories fresh, I sensed I was beginning to bore you so I found other stuff to rabbit on about. 

You might just be interested to know, however, that a few months ago one of our hens went broody.  We don’t have a cockerel at the moment ( I’ll tell you how it all works if you need me to….it always surprise me how often I have to explain this ) but we managed to obtain some fertilised eggs from a friend and popped them under her.  Twenty one days later eight chickens hatched.  Alas, and this is just one of many blows life is landing me at the moment, seven of them are cockerels.  Cockerels don’t lay eggs in case you didn’t know that and their meat, given they have the run of the place, is extremely tough so the vast bulk of our current crop of chickens are essentially useless.  They will just eat lots of food and wake the whole village up at dawn.  Oh, and they can be very aggressive!  We had one once called Mohammed Ali who, crowing like a legend, mounted our Argentinian au-pair - yes boys, gorgeous – and plunged his spurs into her shapely calf.  It’s not funny.  She had to go to hospital for stitches and an injection.   

The one bit of good news this week on the flock front is that the surrogate Mother Hen, having now ditched her chicks in a mixture of relief with a certain amount of trepidation at what will come when her boys are just a little older, has resumed laying enormous double-yolkers.  The other day she whacked out a whopper which weighed in at 96gms, though she could hardly walk for the rest of the week.  I had the egg for breakfast last Saturday.  Check this photo out.  It’s AMAZING. 

 

Don’t know why I started banging on about chickens again.  Forgive me.  After my hefty breakfast, I had quite a busy morning ahead of me last weekend.  I wanted to go to Newmarket to open a bank account.  I have had it with Coutts charging me £600 a year. Just before I left, Lottie, who had gone off for a ride, rang in to check whether our horses were still in their fields because someone had stopped her to say that they had seen two loose greys and a sheep roaming loose around the countryside.  Our horses were safely in their paddocks and we don’t have sheep at the moment.  We did have a couple once, Bombadier and Genevieve, however we ate them.  So I breathed a sigh of relief and made to get on with my day.  However ten minutes later she rang again to say she had come across the stray animals who were now insisting on following her wherever she would go.  Dave to the rescue time.  I grabbed two head collars and leading ropes, jumped on my bike and found them, about a mile and a half up the road.  Inevitably, given my run of bad luck, a continuous stream of vans and cars chose the very moment that I set off for home, dragging and cajoling a small skittish young dappled horse, a chestnut Shetland Pony and with a black goat ( not a sheep ) gallivanting freely behind us , to drive down the normally quiet country lane that led back to our village.  It’s a pity I didn’t get a photo.  It would have been a touch more amusing, I suspect, than a picture of a fried egg.  I made it safely to our house eventually and shut the three of them into a stable.  They were reunited with their owners later that day who gave me two bottles of Hardy’s Sauvignon Blanc for my troubles, but I never did get to the bank. 

 

PS Really interesting lunch upstairs today with the CEO of the Scotch Whisky Association.  Insights on India, China, Taiwan and Thailand which I’m happy to share with you at some point.  But the main thing was that it dawned on me, as I sipped a small glass of Highland Park once the clients had departed,  that I have never, in almost 30 years in the City, drunk whisky at lunch before.  I’ve had a lot of other stuff needless to say, but not whisky.  There’s life in the old dog yet.  Oh, I’m in such a generous mood this afternoon, have another photo…..unsurprisingly given the bottle is half empty the background is a bit blurred but lunch on me if you can tell me where the photo was taken???

 

 

Friday 10th October, 2014

Now, I’ve got to say, you lot have done me proud this week.  In an era when, as a humble salesperson, if you get a single response to an email you consider yourself hugely appreciated, this week I had 53 – you heard that read dudes 53 - replies to a request for feedback on my “Japan Matters” report.  I care, but a jot, that some of you never want to receive it again;  that some think it’s about Japan when it really is not;  or that quite a lot of people are seemingly simply surprised that at least I am trying to come up with something a little bit different.  No.  53 responses.  Go me!  I might even take an early bath tonight.  Particularly as I am struggling to come up with anything even mildly entertaining this afternoon.   

 

Truth is, the response to my email aside, I have had my self confidence somewhat rattled this week.  One of my kinders sent me a link to a Bristol University “rag mag”.  Read it Daddy….hilarious.  Well perhaps it is.  But sad though it is to admit it, although something about the article seemed vaguely familiar, I can hardly understand a word of it.  Take a look if you have a moment and let me know what you think.  For my part the idea that I could ever make a living in journalism….not a hope.  It’s another world out there.

http://bristol.tab.co.uk/2014/10/07/so-youre-going-to-motion-for-the-first-time/

 

Talking of language and different worlds, I squeezed into my seat in the last row of an Easyjet flight to Edinburgh the other day.  Sandwiched beside a policeman and a handcuffed convict, I was bemoaning to myself the extent to which my life had changed from the heady days, albeit many years ago, when I lived in Asia and spent my time jetting about in First or Business Class. How the mighty are fallen!  I had to laugh though. Standing at the top of the steps waiting to get off the plane I heard the guy in the handcuffs say to his warder " Oh great, a'm gettin' a hur'l " as we looked out and saw a Black Maria on the runway waiting for him!

 

Whatever.  All but three of you missed out on a terrific lunch on Wednesday.  OK….I’ll be honest.  The chickpea main course was a bit dry and, horror of horrors, the poppadoms were slightly leathery ( although this did not seem to deter one of my clients, who shall remain nameless, and had 7 of them….yes….I was counting ), but it was a great event and next time I invite you, please try and come.  I had Alastair Newton as our presenter.  The spymaster.  He has danced with Kim Jong Un.  Well, not quite, but the air is fresh in North Korea apparently.  Anyway, we had a very good discussion and the following day he released an updated round up of various issues we had mulled over between attacking the pile of naans.  Attached. 

 

Another reason for the early bath, if I’m honest, is that the nights are drawing in.  If I leave at the appointed hour it’ll be dark by the time I get halfway home.  Hate that.  Reminds me of a good story about Hen though.  She and a friend were chugging along the train line between Cambridge and Newmarket coming home for supper after a busy afternoons shopping, looking out the window at the gathering gloom and bemoaning how quickly the nights were drawing in.  “Just then”, her friend told us, tears rolling down her cheeks, “Hen exclaimed "OMG...did you see that?......see how quickly its gone dark?" “  "We’re in a tunnel Hen" her friend had explained.  Kid you not.  That’s what I have to deal with.