Jackass Number Two ***

I really laughed out loud at some of this latest Jack Arse (as Ralph calls it) production. Some of the sketches were only quite amusing and some I could have done without, but it was definitely worth it overall; I love all the rocket propelled shopping trolley kind of stuff. Johnny Knoxville seems to be an interesting nutter; he obviously works hard at what he does, succeeding in getting his mates to do some very painful things to themselves. At one point he and two or three of his cronies are planning to stand in front of a device that is designed to protect besieged embassies by firing dozens of little pellets at high speed at the offending marauders. We witness the machine being discharged at a dummy target and shredding it. "Why should we do this?" someone asks. "It's footage", replies Mr Knoxville before taking the full brunt of the thing; it knocked him over and left penny sized welts all over his chest. As each skit happened I tried to imagine if I would be prepared to have a go at it, there wasn't one. Not a film to watch with your mum.

"Rectal bleeding......another first for Jackass".

Jet set

My Mum had just boarded the shuttle bus that takes you from Glasgow airport into town. She noticed that the volume level of the conversation between the driver and a guy who had just got on was increasing.

"What ja mean you wullny take a twenny pound note, what sort of fucking bus is this anyway?"
"It's the sort of fucking bus that goes te Buchanan Street Station"
"See youz, youz are a fucking arse..."
"Do you wann me to call security, 'sthat what you wann"?

There was a pause and the man with the twenty climbed off the bus. A couple more moments passed and a voice at the back announced just loudly enough for the rest of the bus to hear.

"Ah it's good te be home right enough"

Casino Royale ****

On Saturday I celebrated the fact that I was still breathing on my 44th (consecutive) November 23rd. I started by going to the fantastic place that is the Odeon Leicester Square to give the new bond film a whirl. In the last scene of the film Mr Craig's character shoots someone in the leg before introducing himself in the customary "Bond, James Bond" way. I thought to myself, yes you are, you may have ginger hair, alright fair hair, but based on the last two hours I reckon you have earned the right to the name. I found that I was bothered about what was happening which is a good thing (as a friend of mine would say). Everyone has been raving about the grittiness and edginess and I would boringly have to concur with them, I did feel pain. I would say that if I were to be planning to enter Blofeld's lair then, given the choice, I would be taking this bond with me, on the basis that as he quite tasty, I wouldn't have to rely so much on rediculous luck to survive (also, I reckon I'd be in with more of a chance when it came to dishing out the totty).

The thing about that particular Odeon is that you can sometimes enjoy an amazing atmosphere. In the 1987 or there abouts I went there with a few people to see Aliens. If you have seen said movie, you might remember Sigourney Weaver emerging from behind a warehouse door strapped into a kind of forklift truck with legs and announcing to the alien in question; "get away from her you bitch". That prompted the biggest cheer I've ever heard in a cinema. Casino Royale didn't quite achieve that, but I reckon being at that cinema improved the experience.

On to Kettners to join some more pals for a bottle of vintage Louis Roederer and then to Imli, a kind of Indian Tapas bar. We were served by Monica from Madrid who looks like she might be Fernando Alonso's big sister. The food was unusual but very palatable and included comedy breast-shaped ice cream. Then to La Casa del Habano which is a kind of cigar bar. There was a lady rolling massive stogies in the corner (not on her thighs) so naturally I approached her to pass the time of day. It would appear that her English does not extend as far as "hello". Perhaps I'd better steer clear of Bond baddies' places all together.

Hard Candy ****

An everyday story of a 14 year old girl systematically destroying a man she suspects of abuse. First you can't believe it, then you want to look away but you can't. Amazingly, the shock factor doesn't overshadow the brilliant performances. Go on.....rent it if you think you're man enough.

"So they weren't brass then!"

Colourful

This morning, as I sometimes do, I went up to the South Downs for a bracing walk.






I set off west along the South Downs way before veering off down Fulking Hill towards the village (I did wonder if the Fulking Phone Box might be working or not) then a mile or so back east to Poynings before climbing up the flank of Devils Dyke.

Little bag of pretzels

It is a beautiful clear day. I'm in a plane on my way from New York to Vancouver. My faced pressed against the window, I line up its edge with one of the many long straight roads 30 000 ft below and imagine I am down there; hurtling along at 500mph, scorching through the landscape, blowing up a big trail of dust. Sigur Ross is moaning away most satisfactorily through my headphones.

Last time I travelled this far west I wasn't that happy about being so far from home. On my way back I had to stop in Boston, my then business partner and I had a little spare time so we drove up the coast to Portland (Maine, having been in Portland Oregon a few days before). It is just like driving along a bit of UK coast,(I suppose it was part of the UK a billion years ago)and I felt much better with the familiarity of the landscape and the knowledge that I was just a flight across the Atlantic away from home. This time I am aware that in another metal tube, right now, people from home are following me across the sky, four hours behind me, having set off from Heathrow a couple of hours before I left New York.

It's flat out there at the moment, endless oblong fields, stretched out like a picnic blanket, purples, oranges, greens and yellows. There's another of those extremely meandering rivers that appears to have charcoaled a wiggly line on the material. I have been told that when a river meanders it becomes pi times longer than a straight line between the same two points. Sometimes this seems to make sense, other times not.

The Matador ****

Piers Brosnan in the tragi-comic role of a burnt out assassin who meets up with Mr Normal in order that we can be amused by what happens when their very different lives overlap. It made me laugh several times and I was intrigued all the way. I am sure he would not have been allowed to make this whilst still under contract to the Brocolli dynasty. "I shit you not Danny, Monte Christo?"

A story in pictures

At first Julian was reluctant to get close to someone he didn't know.


But soon he was warming to her, perhaps Naked Cowgirl was different from other girls.


It didn't take long however, before the inevitable, difficult conversations started.

Intense City

So the three stooges clamber out of the taxi at the hotel. We are a little, only a little disappointed in the hotel. Guy changes room though, so he has a view along the Queensboro Bridge, quite dramatic. It is interesting how important a view is to people, (even to people who don't actually appreciate the view for what it is). A large element of the price of a house can be what you can see when you peer out of it. I like city views, we decant from the hotel and head to Columbus Circus where we enter a tall building to emerge in the lobby of the Mandarin Continental Hotel on the twenty somethingth floor. There is a bar here and a spectacular vista from my seat looking along the seem between the south edges of Central Park and the concrete encrustation.
A view makes you dream and I was dreaming of how it would be to live over the other side of the park in one of those handsome apartment buildings on Fifth Avenue, looking back here.

By the time we left Jane, our energetic waitress at the Hudson Hotel, our next venue, the view was a little wobblier. On her advice we were going for a burger somewhere in Greenwich Village. The taxi ride was a little surreal, the neon of Times Square was starting to take advantage of the sun's decline, my window was down and the nice breeze was necessary to maintain my focus.
















I can hear my TV trying to sell me the idea of staying in my room and ordering a film instead of venturing out into the city, over and over. After what seems like a long time, I decide I can cope with it no more, I jolt myself into consciousness and notice that I am face down on my bed still fully clothed. The alarm clock tells me it is three am. Although I have tunred off the tv, I struggle to sleep much more as my own clock tells me it is eight.

Eventually I go down to the lobby. Julian is there but no Guy. I go to his room but cannot rouse him. I persuade the hotel staff to open his door only after I suggest that he could be dead in there. He is niether dead nor alive. He eventually catches up with us in a diner, I don't quite believe his story about where he has been. Most of today is about different, smaller but still powerful views; mainly the Metropolitan Museum. There is much too much to see in one go in there. For me those two Rothko's were very conspicuous; biding there time is what they seem to do, hanging out with that other contemporary and much less scary work waiting for the day when who knows what. Julian is very much on duty and spends the longest there, I come in second but get tired eventually. Guy was soon off; to meet someone.

Dinner that evening was at a fairly posh steakhouse (Guy needed it after the previous night's down and dirty burger experience. He immediately hits it off with our waiter; "Who's in tonight?" "That guy over there with the much younger guy is Neil Sedaka".

After I got back from Baltimore the next day I had a quick look at the Momo which was bonkers busy and therefore no use to me. Dinner and a couple of bars and I withdrew leaving the other two to get on with it. At five the next day I would be heading for JFK and a flight to Vancouver.














Spot the man with political aspirations

God bless Phillis

Speeding through the early morning auburn landscape on a train from New York to Baltimore, headphones on, Boards of Canada 1969 tapping out the rhythm. The painted timber houses along the edge of the track all peachy hues in the low sun, cars and windows firing shots of bright white light into the carriage. I got up at 5.30 and by 6.00 I was out on the sidewalk cosmically ordering a cab. One lurched out from a nearby petrol station and rolled up next to me, I slid in and asked to go to Penn Station. The driver was sitting up straight at his wheel, oddly keen looking. "Am I your first fare of the day?" I inquired. "Yes", very African sounding, he turned and flashed a big smile at me. By the time I clambered out of that cab twenty minutes later, I knew quite a bit about him; Phillis, he said his name was. Twelve years ago he won a Green Card lottery, came to New York, got himself the required $470 000 loan for a cab driver's medallion and set about working 18 hours a day (except Sundays when he goes to church). Four months ago he paid it off; now he can rent out the cab for $800 a week and will use the money to go to school so he can get a better job. He is from Ghana and can't believe what good fortune he has had "anyone with a job and their health is very fortunate" he kept repeating. He should be on tv.

The Plan

Tomorrow morning I will visit my local shoe repair shop where I will have a set of keys cut.

At some point in the day, I will board a train to Victoria accompanied by a small suitcase and my folding, folded A-Bike. En route I will flick through the Times and attempt to beat the recommended time for the Killer Sudoku puzzle.

On arrival at Victoria I will cross the station concourse and deposit my suitcase at left luggage.

Having unfolded my bike I will pedal across St James park in a Piccaddilly kind of a direction. There, possible uses of the next two or three hours include a Waterstone's visit, a meeting with Tim for a cup of coffee and a visit to a mole clinic. (You can aparently visit such a place and for £45 have a particular mole investigated; this is what I feel needs to be done as I am left unconvinced by my GP's appraisal of the itchy red mole at the top of my right arm).

At some point I will swing my leg over the saddle of my light weight transport and head to Chelsea where I will take in the ambiance before meeting Mig for dinner at 7pm (venue yet to be agreed). After dinner, (although he does not know the first bit yet) Mig will drive me to Victoria where I will collect my suitcase and from there to Langley near Slough, where my new keys will hopefully facilitate entry to Gemma's parents' house. The following morning at about 7.30 I will be magicked to Heathrow's 4th terminal by a local taxi driver (probably originating from the Indian Sub-Continent) where I will meet Guy and Julian.

After the minimum of hassle we will board a large aeroplane whose destination is New York. Whilst skimming through the air high above the Altantic we will be hatching a mini plan which will include bars, shops and museums for the nearly three days we will be in the place that is so good they named it twice. A taxi will take us from JFK to the Bentley Hotel on East 62nd Street (whose Expedia room rate halved after the recent 'increased security at airports' unpleasantness).

(The next bit of the plan will be filled in in due course)

On Saturday morning I will rise early and get myself to Penn Station where I will climb aboard Baltimore bound train. Once in Baltimore, I will have brunch with Neil and Holly and their two children Elizabeth and Ian before jumping on the a return train for the two and a half hour trip back to Manhattan.

After an anticipated saturnalian Saturday night I will part company with Julian and Guy, head back to the airport and sit down in a plane bound for Vancouver.

Several hours after reaching Canada, I will be joined by Gemma, my brother, his girlfriend Claire, and my Mum.

Two weeks in Vancouver, Jasper, Banff and surrounding areas including a train from Vancouver to Banff through the Rockies and an intimate experience with a glacier.

September 24th, fly from Vancouver to Heathrow.

Bank Holiday fun

There are horrendous things happening all over the world but I wish to report what has fallen short of expectations in my immediate area today. Had a meeting this morning that went ok but got irritated in the car on the way there because of the number of things in my pocket. I removed my wallet and placed it by the handbrake reckoning that would help. Half way there I was breathing like a grampus in the belief that my mobile phone was languishing at home, busily and blatently ignoring important calls. Found my mobile under my wallet but my gratitude was short lived as I quickly returned to my "number of things in pockets" fixation. After the meeting went for lunch at the Royal Oak in Poynings which is a favourite. Today (being bank holiday) there was a definite feeling eminating from the building of "brace yourselves, all we've got to do is make it through the day and we'll have record takings". This was at odds with the actual number of customers present, perhaps they were staying away in anticipation of it being too busy. My fish was a bit small and my chips not properly cooked. When our waitress asked if everything was ok, I explained my problem but she had not been programmed with a response, I might as well have piped up with "that's my brother-in-law, Billy-Bob; he's got the fastest boat on the river", when asked if I had enjoyed my meal. I was also aware of being a little distracted by an enormous man at a nearby table. He had been waiting with his (also very big) partner before the doors openned to the pub. As we sat down he was aleady installed at his table with four bottles of Coke and was wolfing crisps in a determined fashion. His entire meal seemed to be a kind of systematic assault on the dishes placed in front of him. It was chillingly impressive, the relentless dissection, the continuous movement, no talking, just chewing whilst preparing the next forkful, absolutely no rest. I tried to ignore this display but couldn't help myself. At one point I witnessed what I thought was the begining of a pause, but it turned out to be the moment it took to carefully scrutinise his knife before licking it end to end at a steady speed, a speed cleverly designed to maximise matter removal as well as time available to arrange what food remained on his plate, with croupier-like efficiency, with his fork. I am very slightly afraid, just recalling what I saw.

After driving home and doing nothing in particular for a while, we went into town and in due course Carluccio's. My macchiato was definitely not the Milano blend I had ordered and Gemma's cappuccino was effectively a cup of hot slightly soiled milk.

Everything is cyclic

The top news story is that I had an email from Parcel Force yesterday afternoon. At first I thought that it was some kind of spam but on closer inspection I realised that it carried news of my new A-Bike (the latest brain child of that modern day hero Sir Clive Sinclair - I once saw him quite late one evening on Jermyn Street with a very beautiful woman) which I ordered a little over a month ago. Further probing took me to a website where I can track its movements. It left the "West London Hub" last evening and is currently awaiting collection from the "National Hub", wherever that is.

In the paper today.....

......there is an article about the funniest jokes in the world. One I had heard before was the one where someone rings 999 and says that he thinks that his friend might be dead, what should he do? "First let's make sure he really is dead" says the operator. There is a pause and then the sound of a gun shot. "He's definitely dead, now what"? That one was attributed to Spike Milligan.

The other joke made me laugh out loud in La Fourchette and the waiter gave me a disapproving look. A woman gets on the bus with her baby. As she is paying, the driver mentions that he thinks that she has the ugliest baby he's ever seen. Fuming, the woman sits down and announces to the person in the next seat that the driver has just insulted her. "That's terrible", says the other passenger "I'll hold your monkey whilst you go and give him a piece of your mind". Those were voted best in the world and best in Britain respectively. There was a best in England one but no best in Scotland one quoted; the England one didn't really do it for me.

I also noticed over the weekend that some advert or other suggested that if you called them to place an order "you could do it all over the phone". In my experience, once those buttons start to jam, no amount of fiddling with them will allow you to dial from that particular aparatus in confidence ever again.

Me and You and Everyone We Know *****

A real achievement; this is a unique experience, not so much a film as a visit. Witness the fragility of these characters and recognise how delicate this whole banana of a life of ours is. We are in a bit of a Grand Canyon, Ice Storm, American Beauty and even Donnie Darko kind of a zone here but with the "should I be laughing or crying?" knob turned right up.

Miami Vice ****

Unlike Mission Impossible, this film is an example of how to capitalise on more than just a name in the memory of your potential audience. But whilst the Miami Vice brand is evident, I think that it is quite daring of Mr Mann to push things along like this, it feels quite different, more contemporary, than Heat or even Collateral. The pace is modest (comparatively) and the viewer is invited to enjoy the slightly grainy cinematography. The beautiful and unusual shots (the traditional Miami Vice meat and veg) are still ubiquitous; nice cars and boats travelling fast or the city in crepuscular light, but it seems that more effort has gone into the feel of it. The acting is good; I liked the female baddy Isabella played by someone called Li Gong. Even the inevitable shooty gunny bit has been upgraded; sounding more John Simpson than Steven Segal.

I have read some uncomplimentary reviews, even one complaining about Colin Farrell's moustache (this viewer thought it was quite cool if a little too tidy) but I enjoyed this film. I had a slight problem with Crockett and Tubbs' boss; imagine the love child of Homer Simpson and Captain Doby (from Starsky and Hutch), but not so much as to spoil things.

I had promised to see it this week with Julian and so was feeling mildly guilty about going on Friday without him, but I felt better about myself afterwards as I enjoyed it sufficiently to see it again.

Marlin 1, Fisherman 0

Always nice to see a fish striking a blow for the aquatic world

Tasse demi-plein

At 6am on the Sunday before last, once Gemma had sorted herself out after falling down the front steps (fortunately and amazingly no debilitating damage done), she and my dad and I set off for Paris. First stop Newhaven, to catch the Ferry to Dieppe. I have made this crossing a number of times, always on the now discontinued 2 hour Hoverspeed boat. The only service now is a 4.5 hour Transmanche Ferry. I had assumed that as it was so slow it would be big and posh. Instead we endured uncomfortable seats in a restaurant which we shared with people who made equal facility of both fork and knife to deliver food to their mouths. The fare itself is of the swimming around in greese type that went out of fashion a couple of decades ago. Don't get excited when the boat seems to arrive a little early, there is a half hour of manoeuverings before you can clank out of the hold on to the French tarmac.

Lunch was light but pleasant and took place in a little restaurant in Forge les Eaux, this time we were accompanied by people demonstrating reassuringly French wackiness; curly moustaches, loud checked jackets and the like.

Then a further hour and a half of driving through beautiful countryside; the weather was moody which gave the landscape a dreaminess. Eventually we migrated on to more serious roads for the last few tens of kilometers arriving in the banlieux below ground via those fantastic subterranean motorways before popping up somewhere between La Defense and the Arch de Triumph, turning right on to the Periferique for the last spurt to Port de Sevres, location of my brother's temporary home.

Our hotel had an arrangement with a car park beneath the Parc Andre Citroen , site of a former Citroen factory. This is a carpark where they play classical music. I reckon if one were to draw a Venn diagram of the clients of that facility and of Transmanche ferries, the area of the intersection between to two circles would be very small. In the course of sorting things out with the manager there, my French ran our of steam and I sought the assistance of a nearby couple. Fortunately, although from Torquay, he had lived in Paris for 20 years and everything became clear. His wife was Venezualan. If you have ever heard me banging on about my (not fully developed) shared soul theory, he is an "archetype", someone you feel you know even though you don't, charismatic and enigmatic. We bumped into them a further twice on our way to the Eiffel Tower. Did you know that it was the tallest construction on the planet when it was completed before eventually being overtaken by the Chrysler Building in New York?

The next day we ambled the streets of Le Marais enjoying the many cool shops before hooking up with my dad at L'Hotel de Ville and heading for the Centre George Pompidou. Adjacent to that visceral development is to be found the Atelier Brancusi. I recognised the name of an artist whose work was being promoted there: James Turrell. I was introduced to him (not personally) when I first took an interest in things Arizonan, he works with the land and builds craters and things. We visited his installation at the atelier and as we filed out, there was a video running about some of the works he has done in the South West of the United States. I might attempt a post on this subject later but for the time being I can share with you that it featured the area of "mesas" occupied by those Hopi Indians. Indeed, for one of his most famous works at Roden Crater, he collaborated with a hopi chieftan. Mr Turrell describes the Hopis as "sky people" because they live on these extremely dramatic plateaux. I found this so fascinating that I watched the whole thing through, attempting to take notes. I imagined how stimulting it would be to own a a dvd of the film. We decanted from there into Richard Rogers' vast atrium and eventually to one of the shops where a copy of the "Passageways" DVD found its way into my hand without my having even looked for it.

Painted-on clouds

Dinner would take place at Brasserie Flo where I have been many times. Located down a tiny street in a not particularly salubrious part of town, it is almost a charicature of itself. The waiters look like horror film extras. My brother and I both had the steak tartare (medium spiciness); you don't need breakfast the next morning when you've had that.

It's a burger Jim......

On the way there, as we approached the Balard Metro station, a young tyke snatched the twenty euros I was clutching in my left hand (and had intended to use to buy our tickets) and sprinted off. I have to say that I was quite pleased with myself about this; in my younger days this would have generated a knee jerk reaction in me which would have resulted in a ruined evening, even if I had retrieved those notes. However, it was not a big deal, after all, he could have taken the 200 euros I had had in my hand a moment before or worse attempted to relieve my 82 year old dad of his cash or hurt someone; I could go on.

Le Pont de Bir-Hakeim

Before running the gauntlet of the Champs Elysees the following morning on our way out of town, we took a walk across the Bir-Hakeim Bridge ending up at Trocadero before boarding the Metro for the last time and enjoying the view from that elevated section of line number 6 that goes from Charles De Gaule Etoile to Nation (recrossing the viaduct). The Croque Monsieur I had in Rouen combined with the ferry home gave me a nasty tummy.

It all worked out nicely considering Gemma might have hurt herself badly when she fell, the 20 euro incident could have escalated badly and I might have started to have diahorrea in the car instead of on my front steps.

Good Bye and Good Night ****

A view of Senator McCarthy's communist witch hunt in the fifties which, despite being axactly that, I really enjoyed. Focusing on the CBS newsroom and in particular a news man called Ed Morrow played very effectively by David Strathairn (you might remember him from LA Confidential and a few episodes of the Sopranos), it does a good job of showing how tense everyone got about the whole situation and is very stylish; lots of well turned out people in nice suits, smoking a lot.

Munich ****

This film is based on the aftermath of the terrorist attack at the 1972 Olympics, is quite intense and designed to make you think a little as well as get your heart rate up. I enjoyed it more than I had expected because the characters were protrayed as flawed and the plot (which only has the Munich episode as a background) went somewhere unusual for movie of this genre. Daniel Craig's performance demonstrates to some extent why he has been given the 007 job.

Shopgirl ***

Not a comedy per se, more of a romcom, beautifully shot and quite intersting, it is about a wealthy guy and a shop assistant. I read the book and it is as good as or better. Rightly or wrongly I assume it is to some extent autobiographical.

Have you or.......

........one of your family members eaten a nut that wasn't your fault in the last three months?

The Truman Show

Today the sea is light grey and flat and appears to stretch out to infinity as it blends seemlessly with the sky. There is a complimentary eerie quietness about, occasionally a straining speedboat engine or some arguing seagulls reveal how little noise there is. The interesting idea on which that disappointing film was based comes to mind.

Forget it.

Last night a documentary aired on More 4 entitled "Unidentified White Male". Three years ago a 35 year old man found himself on the subway in New York. He knew nothing about himself, his name, where he lived, his job. He presented himself at the Coney Island Police Station from where he was taken to Mount Sinai Hospital and checked into the psychiatric department. He was told he would stay there until someone he knew came to collect him. He had no identification on him at all but in a Spanish book he had in his ruck sack there was a post-it note with a woman's name and phone number. When the hospital staff called the number the nice lady at the other end was unable to help. She did subsequently suggest to her daughter however, that she might call the hospital on the off-chance that she might know the man. She did; she had dated him a few times and so she collected him and took him home to his apartment. We learnt that he had been brought up in various European countries before becoming a stock broker in New York. Aged thirty he had made enough money to retire and chose to change vocation and become a photographer.

The cause of his "accident" was unknown but he had suffered a complete erasure of his "episodic" memory; the part that contains records of all the events of our lives. His "procedural" (the "how to" bit) and semantic (meaning bit of his) memories were intact. The effect of this was to render him without any context for his life, no knowledge of his friends or family, of world history, any history, art, food, politics. He was however still, eloquant and intelligent.

Initially he is very frightened due to his isolation. Perhaps surprisingly, very quickly (a few months later) he reaches a point where he is not just ambivalent at the prospect of his memory returning but he would prefer it didn't. This is because he is a man with no baggage. He does not feel responsible for the person he was before his accident and is unencumbered by the memories we all have that make us who we are.

When he is introduced to his old school mates they mourn the departure of their friend. He is very polite to them but they no longer share a past. Everyone observes how he is no longer the outgoing go-getter he was. He is now an intropsective, philosophical, aesthete. He sees everything as new, for the first time. When he goes to the beach and paddles in the water he is moved to tears by the "extraordinary energy" of the water. He does not recognise his family but identifies a "chemical" connection to his sisters. There are no stereo-types for him, only originality.

His friends feel they are twenty years older than him, not because he is childish but he has a lightness. Indeed although not referred to specifically in the film, he comes across as very cool, he does not seem to have any of the ego problems other have. A friend mentions in an email that he looks forward to reaquainting him with the delights of West Indian cricket when they next meet. "Is that a drink or an insect?" he inquires. His photography tutors believe his work has improved dramatically.

Is he the same person? If it were discovered for example that he had committed a crime in his former life; would he be punished now? Is he blessed?

Your art is at risk.......

.....if you do not know where to draw the line.

It surprises me every morning.....

....how heavy my alarm clock is.

The ghost in you

Today has been coloured with a kind of contented melancholy which lingers from a dream I had last night. It is also tinged with something similar from the Psychedelic Furs album I have been playing over and over, since I bought it in the week. It is a reassuring sensation; in the dream I was in Glasgow at night. As far as the music is concerned, I cannot remember what I was doing when I used to listen to it all those years ago, but whatever it was, I must have liked it. Dying, I imagine, must be easier, when you are accompanied by this feeling.

Tourists are go

I walked from Victoria up to Oxford Circus this morning where I was meeting my brother. As I approached Buckingham Palace I started to brace myself for the anticipated throng of visitors, there to see those blokes in tall hairy hats. Then I heard a brass band strike up; four slow chords which I recognised but couldn't immediately place. 5 - 4 - 3 - 2 - 1, it was the Thunderbirds theme tune. I have checked on Google and it was first played prior to the cavalry charge at Waterloo.

Rediscography

Two or three months ago I attempted to convert my favourite old cassettes into MP3 and would have been successful but for the fact that I seem to have a mono rather than a stereo mic socket on my pc. What did happen was that I started playing the cassettes again. I came to the conclusion that I would (in an unhurried way) watch out for Cds of my favourites and replace the tapes in due course.

I reckon that I will be able to go a long way to achieve this in a shop called Fopp. I found something that wasn't even on my list this morning; "All of this and nothing", by the Psychedelic Furs. As I type this, songs like "Love my way" and "Highwire Days" are having a similar affect on me to encountering someone that I was very fond of once upon a time, someone I didn't even realise I missed.

China Syndrome

At the moment, the media is full of advice about precautions to take during the warm weather. Despite not being in an "at risk" category I do feel I have identified an omission. If you put a couple of cups of cold water in your kettle, place it on a high heat (don't put the whistle in if you want to avoid uneccessary noise) and leave for about an hour and twenty minutes, when you return your kitchen area will be a lot hotter than when you left it, even when it was uncomfortably warm in the first place. Next week; nuclear fusion and the domestic boiler and also, 20 things to do with your kettle handle.

Dietary problems

George cross (or at least a little upset)

I enjoyed a pleasant Saturday afternoon in the Kings Rd doing a bit of shopping in that near-deserted thoroughfare. The bars were jammed to overflowing with ocassionally roaring and singing England fans. I am not one of those Scottish people who support anyone that England is playing, I am just someone who prefers, when possible, to shop without it getting too physical. It was quite interesting; the community feeling. I might be sampling the quality of a Comme des garcons shirt one minute but it would not be long before a taxi driver would ask if I knew the latest score; there was an all pervasive sensation that something was going on.

Eventually we decided to go for something to eat. When we got to the Big Easy, it was chokka but I realised that there would be a significant exodus in only a few minutes when I spotted that the game had reached the penalty stage. We considered the menu on the wall outside and in due course a particularly big sigh emanated from within and the building disgorged its unhappy occupants on to the pavement.

I felt vaguely guilty that the reason we were able to saunter in and enjoy a tasty burger was that so many had left, gutted.

Previously unpublished France photos

Azur in the area

Bvd Victor Hugo

Nautical illusion

Techno prisoners

Dom was telling me about showing his children where they'd be going on holiday using Google Earth and how exciting they found it. I suppose one day soon it will be live video that they will be showing, we'll be able to log on and witness each other doing what we do in which ever country we happen to be but probably quite small. I was thinking I could let off a firework or cause a distrubance, perhaps a medium sized road traffic accident would be visible.

A few weeks ago my American friend Neil was visiting his grandma in Dunoon and he rang me. He told me that he was beneath the Dunoon High Street web cam and that if I logged on he'd wave to me, unfortunatley it was out of service on this occasion. If I checked out if there was one in Leeds or Harrogate then I took my laptop to one of the Brighton ones (there is apartently free wifi on the beach although I've never used it) and someone I know in Leeds or Harrogate could get on line from somewhere in view of the web cam there and then one of us rang the other, then we could have a free video conference (except for the cost of the phone call ofcourse).

On a tengential subject I went to an introduction to NLP course the other day and they were discussing techniques for dealing with tricky situations which included making images in your mind smaller. I was reminded of a fairly unpleasant time in my life where I had to attend a weekly meeting and explain why sales figures weren't better. Often the other people in the meeting were in Glasgow and I was video conferencing from my PC in my office in London. I discovered that an effective way of dealing with the stress was to reduce the size of the window; sometimes I had to be careful not to laugh. Eventually I got sacked and the problem disappeared completely. I am not particularly a big NLP fan, I went because there was a free space and it was being run by a friend of a friend and I thought that I might get to like it better as a result of going; but I didn't. I am working on a different method which I will announce to the world in due course.

Au revoir de France

Day 10

Panoramique

Very nice techno breakfast. Went for a swim and got chatting to an Antwerper.

Tray jolie.

Later on enjoyed the Japan - Brazil game in a bar where many people were speaking English. They were from different countries and so English was the most readily available common language; are they allowed to do that?

Day 11

Tried out the water beds on the roof, much lovlier than I had anticipated.
Went shopping, ended up in the Virgin Megastore cafe trying to keep my eye off the heavy petting teenagers. Heading back to the hotel we noticed a bus at a stop round the corner advertising its destination as the airport. So we collected our bags and boarded the next one; total journey cost 2.60 euros (rather than the 40 euro taxi ride), most satisfactory. (You may be relieved to know that we did actually have to go to the airport).

Tart irritating wife.

Salut de France (IV)

Techno Prisoners

Dqy 9

So we have arrived at Hi Hotel, and a "techno corner" room. After a short burst of sunbqthing on the roof I returned to the room to cool off qnd beco,e properly aquainted zith its powers. The TV is projected on to a screen which is slides into the gqp between the bed qnd the bqth so you cqn watch it fro, either. I decided to hqve q cool bqth; whilst it was running I fired up the TV qnd negotiqted the complicqted controls to find the correct chqnnel and sound etc. I also set the lighting levels and closed the rqther nice electric shutters.

A little nice oil qdded to the bqth, I plonked my bottom down into the water and the TV picture simultqneously dissappeqred. I decided to bite the bullet qnd get out qnd dry ,yself to sort the TV. At this point I discovered thqt there was quite q lot of water on the floor. In the dqrkness I checked round the other side of the bqth next to the wall dicovering even more water. As I stood up I hit my heqd on the brqcket thqt holds the gold fish bowl. It hqs tqken a few hours to beco,e qble to operqte things but I have now leqrned how to operqte the screen by stqnding on the bed to press the buttons on the porjector qnd found thqt no ,qtter how you hqve set the water, so,e will co,e out of the shower heqd which is neqr the bqth but not qbove it: The roo, is nice but there is nowhere to put qnything so I would reco,,end it as a novelty but think it would beco,e chqllenging for q week, unlike this french keybqrd which took no ti,e qt qll.

Salut de France (le troisieme)

Day 7

Tree house

The safe in our room is too small to accept my lap top so I decided that rather than carrying it around as I have been; I would conceal it on top of the wardrobe. I stood on a slightly wobbly chair to achieve this. I am thinking about stepping down when it shoots out behind me and my attempt to regain my balance results in it returning sharply to the vertical. I am however horizontal now, hovering for a fraction of a second six inches above it. What happened next was quite sore.

Quite sore (too many abdomen shots, ed.)

We walked to the old town to see the flower market but there was a flea market there instead. After an orange presse we pressed on into the little alleys and came across a building called the Palais Lascarais. It was impressive in the way that it was so vertical in a tight space. I particularly liked the way the small (room size) courtyards, (open to the elements) were treated almost like indoor spaces. They were cool because they were so deep (and presumably fairly dry in the rain). My ideal house would have outdoor space for living in, rather than (or as well as)a garden.

Alley Palais

Returned to the hotel kind of early after a drink in a Libyan place which came with falafels and dips and things; nice. Enjoyed a comedy cocktail in the hotel bar. Asked for a vodka martini and the woman said she'd have to get the barman. He came and gave me a glass with vodka, sweet martini, a chunk of lemon rind and an olive in it. Not very Sanderson Hotel, but you had to admire its gung-ho attitude.

Those balconies and windows are painted on.

Saw no celebrities today but did dream that Bob Geldof stopped me in the street to mention how much he liked my jacket.

Day 8

Best lunch of the holiday so far at a place called Karr on a nice little street with willow trees on either side shimmering in the breeze. I ordered something called Poelee de seiches which was delicious (google has just explained to me that it is cuttlefish; I had not asked in the restaurant) followed by figs in port. Call me naff but I will be returning before I go back to England; I wanted everything that I saw being eaten at the other tables.

Bought some black toilet rolls and other toiletries.

Other tall trees

Salut de France (deux)

Day 4

After breakfast at the usual place, we check out of the hotel with a bit of a heavy heart and head for Nice. I am a bit grumpy as the next hotel is not very nice. Dinner at a restaurant where they are showing a football game. The waiter is playing the "I cannot understand you game". Gemma says it is my fault but his wife takes over and things move much more smoothly.

Day 5

Walked along Rue de France as far as the Taoist bookshop where, as last time, I had a short conversation with the owner. He has no books in English, and I suspect thinks I am a bit of an idiot.

Lunch at a cafe near the Galleries Lafayette. Got chatting to an English couple. He was quite intense, fit looking, wearing nice clothes, 59 (aparently), his wife looked attractive and expensive. He was excited about the new Lexus hybrid he will be getting at the end of the month. He told me that he and his wife had been in Nice only a few months ago with another couple. They were in their hire car, stopped at some lights when someone opened one of the back doors and tried to relieve his wife of her handbag. Our new friend looked like he would have been quite tasty in his day. He told me that the most interesting thing about the experience was his response to it. He said that he was "the kind of guy that you could throw a glass of wine over in a club and he would walk away". (Somewhere in my head I enjoyed experimenting with this idea, deciding it was not very safe). However he had seen red and rugby tackled the young tike as he sprinted off. In so doing he badly damaged his knee and the would be thief wriggled free to jump on the back of a waiting get away scooter. This was a big deal for him and his account of it felt very personal, like a warning. He had turned his chair towards me and I noticed that several times he touched my arm, unusual I thought.

Saw those two gay Scottish TV interior designers coming out of Emporio Armani, they saw me pointing them out to Gemma.

Day 6

Moved to the Hotel Windsor. Much better. Continuing the celeb theme, Michael Caines, (the two Michelin Star chef with a plastic hand) was sitting in reception.


Walked all the way up to the Matisse Museum in Cimiez, the posh bit of Nice up the hill. From his early work there was a still life of a small pile of books on a table. It didn't appear to be painted particularly delicately, nontheless I could imagine the feeling of the pages of one of the books with a slightly turned up corner against, my thumb. Is that why they call it still life? Art like that brings things to life, it has a kind of heat. I noticed that the French for still life seems to be Nature Morte however.

Nature very much not morte in the garden of the Hotel Windsor

Salut de France

Day 1

Train to Gatwick where we got to cross that massive new bridge and then share a plane with Lawrence Llewellyn Bowen. I like him, (I think he may be misunderstood) but he still chose to wear his Ray Bans emerging from Nice Airport in the dark.
Hire car to Cap Ferrat and the Brise Marine hotel.

Day 2

From the Brise Marine Terrace

Breakfast at a cafe in the port. Found a 100 euro note on the ground outside Spar, spent it at Paloma Beach on Lobster Pasta and Steak and Chips and stuff. After lunch we lay on sun beds. Next to us were an American couple. Cast your mind back to Ursula Andress emerging from the sea wearing not a lot in the Dr No film. Now replace her with a lady 40 years her senior and 40 inches larger in the chest, without a bikini top and carrying a small dog instead of a conch. The Americans were doing their best to disguise their excitement. Back in Iowa (where going topless is much more frowned upon than shooting someone), they were going to get to show their buddies a photo of this abomination. Bear in mind nobody else is batting an eyelid, the camera is passed boy to girl, she discretely points and presses. The deed done, the bloke wanders off.

We have not even exchanged a hello up to this point. "Don't see that very often in the States", I mention casually to the girl. There is a bit of a delay as she realises she is busted. "No", she manages. "A little dog like that in the sea", I continue.

Short dip.

That evening we trudge about the peninsula, dressed up so we can sample a couple of cocktails at The Grand Hotel du Cap. Not bad.

Day 3

Cafe by the port (zoom in for traditional knife sharpening action)

Breakfast at the same cafe. I ask an old man next to me how much he paid for his Daily Telegraph. He has just had time to tell me 3 euros and his wife promptly grabs it off him, gives it to us and then goes next door to buy another "tidier" one. Two seats beyond the lovely old man is a big English guy about my age, who I hear explaining to the lady that he has cancer of a great many parts of his body, including his bones. He is in France to be taken care of by French physicians whom he says are excellent. (He is not allowed the treatment at home on the NHS but the French Doctor's bills are paid by the NHS). God bless him, he didn't look good.

Later we had Tapas at the Mirador Hotel in Monaco. Not expensive, very tasty.

"They went that way...."

Spring loaded

Wakehurst Place

Trike of the light

One of my first memories is of manouvering around the carpark at the flats where we lived in Hamilton near Glasgow in my red pedal car. I am told I could reverse park instictively which my mother found irritating; she was learning to drive at the time and had to think before deciding which way to turn the wheel when backing into the gap between two vehicles.

Aged three and now we live in quite a big house in the country. Whilst my parents sip their gin and tonics in the porch, they time my circuits of the property; I have now upgraded to a tricycle.

Memories of this time include my mum decorating a bedroom for my soon-to-be-born brother, I can remember the smell of the paint and the transfers of fairies that were applied to the furniture.

My dad came home in a blue Fiat 500 one day, a present for my mum, we all drove off to Biggar in it. Later my grandfather had decided to make me a kite and I think there were five of us in that little car, (the smell of which is still clear in the space in my head between my eyes), heading into a nearby town, ostensibly to buy the necessary materials (bamboo and brown paper). A hitchhiker put out his thumb, grandad sqeezed his arm out of the passenger window and returned the gesture; that might have been the first joke I ever got. Early memories of achieving a meditational state, are of me in the passenger seat of that car, in front of my toy steering wheel. As the Fiat had a metal dash, the wheel stuck on perfectly with its big sucker. It had a horn in the middle, an indicator projected from one side of the plastic steering column and a gear stick from the other. Perhaps my engagement with this pretence was such that it appeared real to people other than just me. I wasn't a child who wildly sawed at the wheel as I gazed out of the side window or attempted to extricate some soggy biscuit from my crotch; this was serious and I drove the road as I found it. I remember my mum momentarily wondering what to do with her own set of controls as I announced that I would be taking the next left off a long straight road that we were whiring along. Better still was the feeling when I was allowed to steer my dad's car up the drive, I could feel the power.

When that kite was finished, it weighed more than than a medium sized dumb bell. It might have actually flown in that storm we had in 1967 (or there abouts). I remember being allowed to sleep in my parents bed. My dad went out to check on something and reported that he could not stand; such was the wind. The next morning the green house was smashed in a pile, about 30 yards from its concrete base.

There were woods in the garden. I used to venture in sometimes. Once I emerged from there; crying. I had seen an animal which must have been about 8 feet tall, I clearly remember it's huge mouth and eyes. My mum collected me in her arms and on the way to the house we encountered Mr Lamby, the gardener, who wanted to know what all the fuss was about. He suggested that I might have seen a frog. This was the first time I experienced outrage.......a frog......that size!?

My mum and I would walk into the village with my brother (smelling lovely like a baby does) in his old fashioned pram. We would pick fruit from the side of the road; have you ever tasted a perfect gooseberry? Mm mm. Every so often a van would appear at the top of the drive, there was a grocer one and a butcher one, those really had distictive aromas. For some reason when I think of those, I make a connection in my mind to those little coloured canvas shoes kids wore then, I think I can see mine negotiating the metal steps at the back.

One November the 5th, right about the spot where those vans used to park, my dad was crouched over a box of Standard Fireworks. I was sitting on the upstairs hall window-ledge peering out into the darkness with my mum. My dad could be seen sprinting away from the potential pyrotechnics and there followed a disappointingly long haitus. We were eventually rewarded for our patience by a short but intense display of sparks. I learnt that that's what happens if you drop your lit cigarette in a box of fireworks.

One more tummy post

Torso what?

As you can see the swelling around my scar is very much reduced; last night I was actually able to lie on my front in bed for the first time. The surgeon has told me to expect that the swelling may take a year to disappear but the pain is gone and my mobility has improved lots, my stamina; coming along nicely. It has been a handy thing to have though because as the things that happen in life all the time have been happening to me since the operation, I have been aware that the wound has been a brilliant communicator. Things that I might not have thought too much about normally; doing too much physically, getting into an argument or getting stressed, not leaving a space between doing one thing and the next and so on have all been alerted to me by the damaged area as things that are draining me. So thanks for that, I will try to keep up that listening to myself thing when my body finishes healing this particular scar, although I suspect that it will always be there for me.

I am intrigued about what I have been doing in my life for the "divarification" to have happened in the first place; need to do more work on this but I suspect that it has to do with being uptight. I realise that I have been banging on about this for a while recently, meaning that you haven't been able to read the other wonderful stuff that I might normally put in these pages. Not much I can say about that really as I haven't really felt ready to divuulge other things lately, although I reckon I will do soon.

More midriff murmurings

It is now three weeks since my trip to a local hospital where I received a 5 inch vertical incision in my tummy. The news is that the scar is beautifully neat and that the swelling is reducing (back to a large avocado size) but that I am in a bit of pain some of the time. I reckon this is all down to having overdone things at the weekend when I went shopping in London.

I have spent quite a lot of time lying on my bed watching TV or reading. Daytime TV highlights start out with Frasier about 9.15 on Channel 4 (don't turn on early or you will have to endure some of Will and Grace). After lunch there is an episode of ER and then maybe a film. After that I tend to flick between Oprah and Deal or no Deal. I couldn't sit through an entire episode of the latter and the watchability of that super black lady is dependent upon the topic of the day.

I have finished reading the previously mentioned Moon Dust (excellent), as well as The Lincoln Lawyer (very good if you like that sirt of thing; I don't usually do crime novels but was kept entertained), and have embarked on The Bookseller of Kabul (so far so good).

Other than this I just keep thinking how lucky I am, funny how it can take a set back to do this.

Avocado at its small melon (largest) phase.

26 hours

Two weeks ago at this precise time I was engaged in a polite conversation with a beautiful older woman as I lay on my bed, my heart rate a little high at 99 beats per minute. She was telling me about a programme that she had watched on TV the previous night featuring people's fat pets. She had a well meaning and attentive young guy with her who was nowhere near as relaxed as she was. The conversation switched around a bit; house prices and other TV stuff before settling on socks......surgical socks and the fact that mine had fallen down. They were pulled up before I was fitted out with kind of throbbing leg warmers. "It's like you're walking," they kept telling me.

Then we got on to food, I mentioned that I wasn't as peckish as I would have expected, not having eaten anything since about 6 the previous evening. The lovely lady said the she would give me some nutritious stuff whilst I was asleep; it was all going to be happening whilst I was out, food, excercise, "what else", I asked. She admitted that the anaesthetist had not arrived because he was getting a sandwich himself. A moment later he walked in and everyone was on best behaviour. For the nth time I confirmed who I was and that I had not eaten since.......and that I didn't know if I was allergic to any drugs. The needle was inserted into a vein on the back of my hand, and a tube plugged in. No count down as I had expected, instead the sleep maker said that I would be starting to feel a bit more relaxed, he had given me something for the purpose. He then put a mask over my nose and mouth, not as unpleasant as those I had experienced in the dentists of my youth. Then I was dreaming, a nice dream I seem to remember. I was thinking, "I am waking now, hey, I wonder if I am waking from the operation or just from an ordinary sleep; I hope it is the operation, it would be good it if it is over.......actually I think I am, it is quite bright in here, there's a nurse". I had overheard a conversation earlier in the day about how entertainng people coming round from an anaesthetic can be, how they giggle and enjoy the lack of inhibition the drugs leave them with. Determined to stay cool, I just wink at my nurse.

By 7.30 that morning I had been sitting on my bed in a ward where a number of the beds were empty, but several had groaning old blokes in them; it was a little melancholy and it was obviously not going down well with Gemma who looked to be counting down the minutes before she could leave politely. We hardly said anything to each other then the man in the bed opposite helpfully broke the ice by releasing a fairly prolonged burbly fart. He looked like a baddy from a Tintin cartoon, intense, scrawny and swarthy. His neighbour had only just arrived and I decided that he was here in preference to taking his rightful place along side Saddam Hussein, accused of being his main henchman. The other two guys had established a bit of a connection with each other; they looked like slightly bonkers librarians.

Can you guess what it is yet?

A little while later and I was on my own reading my copy of the excellent Moon Dust when a medical man turned up and drew on my abdomen. Then the surgeon arrived, his features appeared to be exaggerated today. Sharp suited he is in his mid 40's with a strong chin but soft looking, slightly floppy skin. He listened to my questions. I noticed that his main reason for being in the room seemed to be to witness his victims signing their consent forms, it reminded me of getting the customer's signature on the order form. He certainly seemed better disposed to communication than some of the other staff though. At about 11.30 that night a nurse arrived at my bed and said she wanted to give me some antibiotics. Looking at the back of my hand she noticed that I no longer had a needle in it and seemed confused. A little more than an hour later I woke from drowsing to the unmistakeable smell of freshly popping pop-corn. A young girl who described herself as a "doctor, well physician actually" announced whilst removing popcorn from her back molars with her tongue, that I did in fact need the antibiotics and the nurse would be back presently. I waited twenty minutes and as I wanted to go back to sleep decided to go and find my nurse. I found her sipping her tea, she would be along when she had finished; you can't really argue with your arse hanging out of one of those gowns, (I don't understand why they need to be like that). Back in my bed and Florence Nightingale has arrived with her kidney-shaped bowl of kit. After she has fumbled about in the dark a bit, I reach up and put on the anglepoise. She hooks me up to a bag of clear fluid and two seconds later the room is spinning, I am covered in sweat and ready to throw up. "Can you get me something to be sick in please"? "Do you want some medecine to stop you feeling sick"? "No, I need something to be sick in". She went off and came back with one of those papier mache bowls and then disappeared. I wondered if this was one I was allergic too, I certainly didn't seem to be enjoying it. I sat on the edge of my bed ready to pull out the tube if I carried on feeling shite, but the feeling went and I lay down and went back to sleep.

Next morning the day nurse greets the ward with a cheery "morning everyone". She is unbelievable, I can't begin to understand where she gets her energy to be so generous to all of us. Bad enough cocky me, but there are all sorts of weird noises eminating from people down the corridor just the sound of which depress me and I don't have to wipe their dirty arses. Several people come to look at me and give me conflicting answers to my questions. Gemma arrives to take me home and is obviously disappointed that as I am still connected to a drip it may be a few minutes till we can go. Soon enough I am dressed and shuffling along the corridor like I've just been shot. All in all it's not been too bad.

Whilst I was sleeping.

The world's fastest Indian ****

Gentle, funny, moving, inspiring and only occasionally a little cheesy. Mr Hopkins pulls off an acceptable (to a person born in Scotland and has lived in Yorkshire and London) accent portraying the slightly aged, penurious New Zealander, Burt Munro, who went after the motor bike land speed record on the Bonneville Salt Flats in the sixties. Bit of a feel good movie and some great sequences. At one point we see the hero testing his low slung bike, haring along a straight bit of rural Utah tarmac, passing a sedantry traffic cop in his car at the side of the road like a bullet. Sparked into life, the policeman sets off and eventually tracks down Mr Munro standing by his bike scratching his chin reflectively.

"Can you tell me how fast you think you were going when you past me back there?" asks the cop.
"About 160?" suggests the old man, disappointed

Digestive biscuits

I mentioned that I am going for an operation on a hernia soon and so (because I am over 40) they get you to go along so that they can check you out and establish that the probablility of you expiring on the operating table is acceptable.

There was a small wait required before they started doing things to me. The waiting area of the digestive diseases department was nondescript except for the fact that there was an old man there who could, if he chose, make a living mimicking the noise a water cooler makes when you pour yourself a glass. It was such a perfect imitation that I had to look up several times. I suspect that only flaw in my plan might be that he is probably unable to control it. That big gurgle is the sort of thing you would supress until you'd left a very small room full of people sitting in silence, if you could.

I had and ECG, was weighed, height checked, blood sample taken, blood pressure tested, and questioned thoroughly (one of the questions was: do I have any loose teeth?) I forgot to take a sample with me. My ECG looked nice and regular, I weigh 84kg (13 stone 2), am 180 cm tall, don't know about my blood, I have slightly high blood pressure (148 over 90).

I have probably watched too much ER over the years but I quite fancy the idea of being extremely taken care of; a room of people all looking after moi. (Of the current crop) I reckon I would go with Kovac assisted by Abby, Abby would get the job of telling me how it went afterwards before going for a snog with Kovac in the supplies cupboard. (Poor Kovac, it is always so dark in his apartment, although he does get to drive the best cars). Ideally (although he has been written out after two attempts on his life by wayward helicopters, the second of which was successful) I would also like to be entertained by a Doctor Romano outburst, though preferably not at my expense.

In the afternoon I went to a different hospital’s digestive diseases department, to accompany my dad who was going to learn about the constitution of a biopsy of part of his tummy. The news was good although I can't help thinking that there could have been a better way of delivering it. The fast speaking Indian doctor and the octogenarian from the planet Tharg and me (trying to be helpful):

Doc, "has anyone in your family ever had any diseases affecting their abdomen?"
Dad, "no."
Me," your mother was killed by a massive malignant tumour in her stomach."
Dad, "ah but she's dead."

And so it went on. After a while the doc stared longingly at a half eaten packet of crisps on his desk. He is a digestive diseases specialist working in the department of digestive diseases which is positively plastered with posters advising on what to eat to prevent digestive diseases. The only thing on his desk apart from a tired looking pc screen is a half eaten packet of crisps. It was so conspicuous, all shiny, sitting there scratching its chin, half paying attention, examining its finger nails, thinking; I love my job.

I have no loose teeth by the way (well not in my mouth, I do have the tooth of a wild boar, untethered on a shelf at home, I suppose I could take it along on the day).

Old dog, new tricks

Met my 82 year old dad for a cup of mint tea in town today. He had just been to his acupuncture session. He has had a mobile phone for several years but it is rarely if ever that you can get through to him on it and rarer still that he calls you. He produced it in the cafe as he was telling me about the fact that he was checking his missed calls with someone who wanted to arrange a meeting with him! I was handed the phone where I found unviewed text messages from 2001. His call register included many recent calls to odd numbers that included asteriscs and hashes and that more often than not did not start with a zero. When I asked about the conversation with the missed call person he was indignant that he calls a number to ask about his missed calls.......he is never wring by the way.

When it came time to leave, we rose from the table and he set off with a paper bag with Chinese writing on it. "What's in there?" I asked. "My anti ageing pills", he said confidently.

There are people dying of poverty all over the place, meanwhile.......

...... I have been trying out new cars, culminating in a short trip in a BMW1 earlier this month. When I arrived at the garage I was greeted by a middle aged woman revealing a noticeable amount of cleavage; considering the level of BMW corporate detail that I was about to be exposed to, this was certainly a missed branding opportunity. I was duly met by a gangly inchoate salesman who took me through a precise process in a very efficient way, resulting in my sitting behind the wheel of a very clean car on the forecourt. As I set off I asked him how long he had been selling BMWs. He revealed that this was his first week. I went with; "So you haven't heard about me then?" This caused a momentary interruption in the smooth flow of things but soon we were back on track making small talk and I caused my passenger to make a rigid straight line between the headrest of his seat and the footwell with his body; whilst the car coming straight for us seemed to have its horn jammed on.

Back at the dealership I was installed in my seat at new boy's desk (the one in the far corner by the coffee machine) with my mint tea. Periodically he would disappear to find the answer to some question or other, leaving me to soak up the ambiance. Car showrooms can be pleasant places indeed and this is a nice one. Everything was in its place. Just two feet from me a woman was sitting on the floor cleaning the model cars in a glass case. In due course a suited man arrived and the cleaner explained what she had been cleaning and how she had done it before going on to say that next time she would be using a cotton bud on a currently inaccessible bit. The grey man walked off. It occurred to me that I would be paying for that cotton bud if I purchased a car here.

The first test drive (of five) had been of an Audi A3 in December. The salesman there had been in the job for a month. Next I drove a Golf GTi accompanied by a diminutive blond girl with a little head that popped out from the collar of a massive Volkswagen all weather jacket. Then to another A3, htis time (different garage) I was met by a man who said he was the general manager. Having already driven one, I didn't particularly feel the need to try another A3 but in due course caved in. After twenty minutes of trying to manoeuvre the motor off the forecourt we headed off towards the M4. My passenger's response to my first question was that he knew nothing about this car or indeed any in the range. Several times he suggested that when we got back to his office he would log on to his website and be able to answer any question I could come up with. We spent the rest of the trip discussing what we would each be doing that evening (it was New Year's Eve). Every so often, despite my lack of interest, he would try to persuade me about a certain aspect of financing. Back at his office, I helped him log on and we found the car on the site; but no details.

Test driving a car is quite an odd social event. Two people who don't know each other locked in a small space together for half an hour. The first BMW I tried was with a young girl, who had been only doing the job for that month, (bit of a theme, I know). I don't remember much about that conversation except that she attempted to break the ice by telling a risqué story. However, she left out the risqué bit and I was left to make up my own. I didn't come up with much.

So back to the second BWM place; I had already made up my mind before going to this garage that I wanted this particular model; but that I didn't want the ES which might as well stand for Equipment Scarce and go for either the SE (Some Equipment) or Sport (different shaped seats). I had noticed that one difference between the SE and the Sport was that the SE had an armrest which I liked (ok so I am getting older) but otherwise I would prefer a Sport. I had chosen this garage because they had a Sport that seemed a good buy. When I discovered that this particular Sport had an arm rest fitted, I wrote a cheque that would have fed three African villages for several years.

Questions for cash

The thing is that apparently you can’t do much with £50m cash these days. I bought a car earlier this month and when the payment method was discussed it was as though, if you propose using any reasonable amount of cash to purchase your BMW, then you must have a part time job importing crack dope dragon or the like. They told me it is all about the money laundering laws. But there are two sides to this coin. Why have cash at all? I suppose it is a bit like the arms business in that the very fact that it is there, creates jobs and more money. It is a healthy and natural feeling to go out with a bit of cash in your pocket; like having a satisfactory dump. But surely we are not far away from a world where I walk into a pub and the chip just beneath the skin somewhere in my left arm, lets the barman know that I usually spend a lot of money in places like his (on vodka and lime). By the time I ask him for a drink he can make a polite comment about the new jacket that he knows I bought earlier in the week. I am free to leave the bar without handing over cash or producing a card as the bill will appear on my personal statement in due course and goodness knows whether it will be correct; the bosses of boozers like Easypub will be loving it and I’ll be even less in control of my life. A gizmo that you can charge up over some kind of network and debit in shops, that shows what credit is left would be nice; something else my phone could do except that I can’t even tell how much my phone bill is going to be.

See prism specs........

So I am supposed to be going to have an operation on 16 March to remove a kind of hernia thing which I have had since I was about 12 but which has become a bit bigger lately; it is just below my sternum, right here by the edge of my desk. They say that unless it is incised it will go on becoming bigger and apart from not being one of my most attractive features it seems to be weakening the area around it, so it is probably best out of here. I also sometimes wonder if it might be a kind of a pararsite that I feed with my various worries and which, it would appear, my various attempts to starve have failed.

I am not afraid of the process but I would really like to be able to see what goes on when they cut me open; instead I will waken in some mild discomfort not knowing if they found an alien in there and what exactly they did to sort out some unforeseen problem they encountered. I feel uncomfortable enough about taking my car for a service; who knows what has gone on during the day, what abuse it has suffered in the hands of the mechanic whose wife is sleeping with his best mate.

My dad mentioned that he saw a programme on TV recently featuring a woman who was having heart surgery without anaesthetic, she had had a number of strategically placed acupuncture needles inserted about her body and was able to chat to the surgeon during the operation. This is what I would like to do. In fact I could wear my prism glasses and observe proceedings without having to have my head lifted up. Have I mentioned my prism glasses?

I think so but in case you don’t know about them, here is a photo. I wear them most nights to read or watch TV.

My friend Ralph made a rather good suggestion the other day. Why don’t those lugers wear them. The commentators are always reporting how some competitor or other has thrown his medal chances in the bin because he or she lifted their head to have a look where they were going. I think I will approach the manufacturers of those super smooth helmets they wear to suggest that a couple of carefully positioned prisms should be glued to the inside of the racers’ visors.

There is a difference between Yoda-esquely feeling your way down the course and being happy to have the lights switched off to avoid the truth.

More of Friday's Loch Fynne Photies

Otter Ferry

Bridge at Invereray

Two Birds....for Paolo ;)

From Port Ann Woods