What do you think of it so far?

Sunday 17th June

The football of course – what else?     It feels so strange; England are at a major tournament and yet there are no flags out anywhere, well, hardly any.  Why is that?  Is it because of the Jubilee, and we are all flagged out?  Is it that we really do not care?  Or is it because our expectations are so low that not even the most fervent fans give us a hope in hell of winning the thing?  I suspect the latter, though why this should be I am really not sure.  True we no longer have Beckham, but then the Beckham we all remember of ten or twelve years ago was never actually that wonderful when we got to the tournament stage anyway.  And the supposedly golden generation of Michael Owen, Rio Ferdinand etc:  was largely puffed up by the press to make us all for a moment or two believe we were the equals of Germany or France or Italy, to say nothing of Argentina and Brazil, and now we have Spain to contend with too.

So, two games down and what do we think; that we are lucky to have four points, or that actually we may not be quite as bad as we at first thought.  After the Fabio fiasco, and the John Terry racism stuff and then the appointment of boring old Roy Hodgson most of us must have thought what small chance we had must have gone, but the players are still there, well – those that aren’t injured are anyway, and next match Wonderboy Wayne Rooney will be back, so it can’t be all that bad, can it?  Well no, except when you watch them play, and all of us know that when the opposition, even Sweden, get the ball and start to attack, we fear another stupid defensive error and another goal.   This was exemplified by the last game against Sweden.  We went one goal up, and you just knew it wouldn’t last.  It didn’t, two free-kicks and Sweden were in the lead, and every Englishman knew it was over.  But then, by some miracle it wasn’t.  So, lucky or not, we are exactly where we should be going into the last game.  Only Ukraine to beat, or at least draw against, surely we won’t lose against them.  Well with England anything is possible; except, of course, winning the damned thing.  That would be plain ridiculous…but you never know.

England flag

B is for Bowie – The Early years

Saturday 16th June

After many struggling attempts at fame, young David Jones finally came up with a formula for not only success and worldwide acclamation but some wonderful music too.  After shedding the neo-Anthony-Newley vocal affectations of his ‘Laughing Gnome’ era he came up with the magnum-opus of ‘Space Oddity’ with its plaintive vocals and wonderful rising orchestration.  This seemed to come completely out of the blue, and David didn’t really appear to have a clue where to go with it.  There were a few fey songs like ‘Cygnet Committee’ and ‘The Man Who Sold The World’, but it didn’t really gel until he met Mick Ronson and recorded ‘Hunky Dory’.  This album is possibly his best, though most people, myself included, only bought it after they heard ‘Ziggy Stardust’.

David created a separate persona, a super alien rock star, an androgynous red haired and sequin covered being who either took David over or had a life of his own.  Fame and fortune and drug abuse soon followed, along with three brilliant albums ; ‘Ziggy’ itself, ‘Alladin Sane’ and ‘Pin-Ups’.   The sense of excitement was constant – you were never sure if David would implode or where the next album would take him and Ziggy.  And even though Ziggy was officially killed off at Hammermith Odeon in 1973, he still lingered on in the next album ‘Diamond Dogs’ – a darker and harder sound, but still some great songs.  Then all of a sudden and out of the blue Ziggy disappeared and David emerged with a new sound and another great album, ‘Young Americans’.  This was David’s take on Soul and American Black Music and was incredible.  It was followed by ‘Station to Station’, another twist of the kaleidoscope, still recognizably Bowie, but a bit sombre and brooding.  We will leave David now, as his fans wait ever expectant of what on earth he will come up with next.

 

The Jeremy Hunt saga – what really matters

Friday 15th June

So, Mr. Hunt survives another day, or maybe a bit longer, who knows.  He certainly has a self-satisfied smirk on his face of late, in contrast to the man who has saved him; Mr. Cameron’s face is taking on more and more the appearance of a boiled lobster as he has to again and again defend the indefensible.  Who know whether Mr. Hunt was actually able to keep his obvious enthusiasm for the Murdochs under wraps and be totally objective; one would doubt that it was easy if at all achievable.  But the fact that his special advisor Adam Smith was in almost constant contact with them, slipping them snippets of information before Hunt had even addressed parliament, along with his own many texts do seem to indicate that he was looking after their interests as best he could given the constraints his quasi-legal position put him in.  To turn round now and say that Mr. Smith was acting on his own, as some sort of rogue agent, who never discussed what he was doing with his boss stretches incredulity to breaking point.

And why does any of this matter?  Are we not all tired of this sorry saga?  Because integrity is at the heart of public life, if we brush it aside and say that it really doesn’t matter then the public will lose any remaining scraps of respect they might have once had for politicians.  And the biggest loser is not the smirking Mr. Hunt, who is really quite a small fish and obviously way out of his depth, but the smiling duo of ex-Bullingdon boys Cameron and Osborne.  And in a strange way the longer that Hunt survives, the worse it all looks for Cameron.  They haven’t got away with it, nobody has been fooled, the Tories voted through gritted teeth, and the Liberals would have voted against if Clegg hadn’t begged them not to.    The longer Mr. Hunt remains the shakier does Mr. Cameron’s own position become.  Read on.

Jeremy Hunt Culture Secretary Jeremy Hunt Gives Evidence To The Leveson Inquiry

Those who serve and those who serve themselves

Thursday 14th June

There are many ways we can divide people up; by sex, by the colour of one’s eyes, by sexuality – but there are many more subtle ways too.  One of these is that there are those who serve, and those who serve themselves.  And if you find yourself in one camp it is very difficult to change one’s nature in order to become one of those on the other side.  Is it nature or nurture that dictates whether one ends up become self-serving or self-sacrificing, and before you think me pious, I am not condoning either behaviour.  Those who think first and foremost of themselves are maybe not so much greedy and selfish as simply more focused, more certain of their needs and how to satisfy them; in fact they may not even notice that others are scurrying around after them, so intent are they on pursuing their own goals.  Those who serve others, seemingly without a thought for their own interests, may not be quite as altruistic as they appear; they are often begrudging servers of others anyway, complaining about those they serve while smiling as they pursue their duty, all the time hoping to garner some unearned crumbs from the go-getters.  Many are happy to serve, almost relishing their second-class status, and maybe even here they are inadvertently serving their own purposes, finding comfort in their own discomfort, constantly reminding themselves how selfless they are.  I am sure that even Mother Teresa enjoyed the accolades bestowed upon her.   And maybe it is a harder furrow to plough going out in front and grabbing everything before one, maybe this self-serving becomes a burden in itself.

Or maybe as suspected those that serve themselves are just more greedy, and those who hold back and assist others just nicer people.  You decide.

The rain in England falls mainly on one’s head

Wednesday 13th June

Unlike the elocution lesson of old the rain here falls everywhere, on plain and hill alike.  And an awful lot of it has fallen of late.  I described in my book ‘Catherines Story’ how the young Catherine felt as she was unceremoniously decamped form the sunshine of Cyprus and deposited in rain-bound England.  In some way she felt she were being punished, that all this rain was penance for her sins; maybe she had been the cause of Grandma, Mummy and Catherine herself having to leave the sunshine (where her Daddy stayed) and being shunted into the perpetual gloom and rain of England.  And the thought strikes me again, am I, or us rather – the English, somehow being punished for some ancient sin – The Industrial Revolution, Slavery, the Empire?  Is all this rain just an accident caused by a slight shift in the gulf stream, (possibly a result of Global Warming) or is there some deeper psychological reason behind our (self-inflicted?) suffering.   At least this morning it has stopped raining, although, being English, we know that this is but a brief respite.  I am wearing the same thick outdoor shoes since October, every day the same shoes are laced up, because you know it will either rain or the pavements will be wet.  Except for that brief holiday last week I have been wearing sensible shoes every day for nine months.  And to tell the truth I am getting a bit fed up with it.   So, come on summer, hurry up and blow away all this rain.  We are quite prepared for Wimbledon to be a wash-out, that is normal for us, but we are holding the Olympics in August, surely it must clear up by then.

Ducks at the bottom of our garden

Tuesday 12th June

Where we are situated, just on the river behind Canary Wharf it is incredibly quiet.  The Isle of Dogs is in a big loop of the river, and despite the presence of all that commerce just a few hundred yards away the fact is that nobody drives through the Isle of Dogs; we are literally on the road to nowhere.  No-one in their right mind would think of driving through us as a short cut, and so there is remarkably little traffic.

Our house is almost unique too in having a fairly decent sized garden and glory of glories, there at the bottom of the garden is a lake, well a large pond really.  It was once a dock basin and has been preserved now as an artificial lake.  And at this time of the year the wildlife are thriving.  We even have ducks and some moorhen chicks, little black balls of fluff, stumbling over the large water-lily pads and paddling furiously to keep up with mum and dad on the water.  There are large goldfish lurking in the depths and iridescent blue dragon flies hovering near the surface, and of late we also have a heron who has also made this lake his home, as he stand on one leg and tries to catch one of the elusive goldfish.

Here, as in the distance loom the towers of Canary Wharf, and just across the river the O2 dome sits like a big fat cat, we can watch as the little moorhen chicks, totally oblivious of us humans and the busy city nearby, learn to walk, swim and eventually fly.

4 day old moorhen chick illustrating little bald patch on the head.  Now the blue over the eyes is becoming flatter and the beak is less bright red.

Ah, it’s all coming back to me now

Monday 11th June

Driving off the shuttle was like waking from a dream, or maybe going into one.  The Chunnel is so relaxing, I was dozing off, listening to my mp3 player, casually swapping over random tracks as I got bored with a song, something I rarely do, as I have always been a strictly-album person.  The train glided out of the darkness and we saw green hills and blue skies, not so different at all – one could almost still be in France.  Driving straight off the train and onto the M20 and remembering to drive on the left again we were soon on our way home, past the now familiar motorway signs.  And instead of the delightful roadside picnic aires and the larger French services with their lovely Arche restaurants we saw McDonalds and Costa beckoning us in to their second rate fare.  Then under the Thames and emerging at Barking we headed for the Hydra, the many headed monster that is London.  And as we crossed Rainham marshes, there in the distance, just as Stonehenge must have looked to weary travelers thousands of years ago were the grey silhouettes of Canary Wharf, The Gherkin and the Shard of Glass, our very own beacons of hope and despair.  And just as waking from a dream the thought ran through my mind….Ah, it’s all coming back to me now.   And I do feel as if I have woken from a dream, or rather had my dream disturbed somewhat.  And even though this other reality impinges, I am now determined that it will not take me over.  I may have to live here for a while longer, but it will not be long before I return and start really living again.

Holiday over – for a while

Sunday 10th June

And so we return to England, for a while.  But we did succeed in signing the papers for our new house in France.  We should complete by August, so we will return then, hopefully to fit out our new home.  We have met quite a few English people out here, and they are all so welcoming and helpful.  It does seem a delightful life; though I am not sure I could abandon all ties with England and come here to live permanently.  Having a foot in each camp seems the best of both worlds.  So, we cannot wait for August, first of course the Olympics, which Julia is running away from, and then at least a week or so back here in Eymet.

So, in the space of just a few years my life has turned around.  I finally sold the big house in East London, which had it been in West London would have been worth three times as much, still never mind.  Now I have a small house in Walton on the Naze, and an even smaller one in France.

One of the secrets of life is not to be envious of anyone else; you have no idea what their lives are really like anyway – for all you know they may be envying you.  Remember that for every one who has a bigger house or car, better job, or prettier partner, there is always someone else who is renting, or unemployed, or just plain miserable.  Make the most of what you have, and remember that whatever filling you find when you open up your lunchbox, you make your own sandwiches.

Swimming in Lakes

Saturday 9th June

I love swimming, but hate swimming pools, especially indoor ones.  The smell for a start, all that chlorine, which because the water is so heated they have to overdose on.  The noise secondly; I am sure that the body of water acts as an amplifier to all the noise, kids screaming, water splashing and even normal background talking seems far too loud – you are never alone in an indoor pool.  There used to be so many open-air pools around, lidos were especially popular in the thirties.  My favourites were Parliament Hill Fields, Chingford and Finchley, all sadly closed now I believe.  The trouble was that the climate meant they could only open for the summer months and if it was poor weather, as it is in England at the moment, they would be empty and if it was sunny they were overcrowded.  For about 6 months I once had a job buying fruit and veg at New Covet Garden Market.  I would wake at 2 a.m., read my ansaphone, work out what I needed to buy and putter down on a little Honda 50cl motorbike.  I not only loved the job, but also I finished at 10 in the morning, came home had a sleep, then would pick Justin up from school and we would spend the afternoon at Finchley Lido, which was pretty quiet and we had most of the place to ourselves.

I first swam in a lake in Slovenia in 1974, or Yugoslavia as it then was.  Lake Bled, high up in the mountains, glacial fed and bloody cold.  Since then I have loved to swim in lakes.  Recently Lago Maggiore, Lac Lucerne, and a small lake near cognac with friends Brian and Sue, and again on this holiday a few miles from Eymet at Lougasse; a lovely sandy beach and a nice slope, there is even a diving platform to swim out to.  The water is soft and unlike the sea you aren’t being bashed by waves full of sand, and no salt means you don’t get sore in those delicate places we all know about.  And here at the beginning of June the water is quite mild, almost warm, and I was the only swimmer in this lovely expanse of gentle sun-washed water.  Heaven.

The French system of buying a house

Friday 8th June

The French system of buying a house has much to commend it, though it does take a bit longer.  Firstly, after verbally agreeing a price, the estate agent draws up an official offer letter which is signed by both parties, then the vendors usually appoint a Notaire to handle the contract, the purchaser can either use the same Notaire or one of their own choosing.  Either way makes little difference as there is absolutely no adversarial aspect.  The Notaire is there to make sure that the interests of both sides are looked after.  Both parties then sign an initial contract, with a 10 day cooling off period for both sides, and provided the purchaser deposits 10% of the purchase price with the Notaire the sale is legally binding on both sides.  The Notaire does all the searches and informs both sides of any issues arising.  This should take about 6 – 8 weeks, but a longstop date is put into the initial contract and barring any unforeseen circumstances it should happen in that time frame.   The buyer pays the Notaire for all of their work plus taxes and stamp duty, and unlike here, the buyer pays the estate agents fees.

No side can gazump, or throw stones in the road, or change details or threaten to pull out unless such and such, (usually more money) is paid.  The beauty is that once the ten days have passed, provided that you have the money to purchase, you know the house will be yours.  The nightmare of the English system is that as each parties solicitor is only working for their own client’s interests there is inevitably the blame game, and also as both sides are free to walk away at any time before exchange of contracts, one, especially the vendor, can end up paying for surveys and searches and drawing up of contracts without ever being guaranteed of a purchase.  So viva la France, and their much more civilized approach to house-buying.