It's not a public inquiry

Wow, I got it right!

One of my employers (sounds good, huh?) has recently relocated so the admin work I do for them has been somewhat chaotic ("Okay, who's hidden the stationary cupboard?") and I've been catching up with the backlog of invoices. When I'd paid the outstanding backlog of unpaid urgent bills I started going through the rest of the paperwork, and was alarmed to find a letter advising me of a change of bank account for one of the companies I'd just paid. Oh bugger, I thought. Where have I sent the money? I searched the bank's website to try to find out how to cancel a payment but failed; and there was nobody else in the office to ask. So I worried and fretted. The next time I was in the office I explained it all to a director who was very understanding, which was nice.

Then I came across a bill for the new account we'd opened (with the same company) with the original bank details listed, and not the account number to which the letter had advised payments should be sent. This seemed a little odd, and I heard distant alarm bells ringing. I went back to the director, armed with all the paperwork as evidence. He rang the company queryline; no, they knew nothing about a change of bank account; no the signatory on the letter wasn't employed by them.

It seems I'd uncovered a con! I'm so very very glad that I didn't send any money to the 'new' account number, only to the usual one; I hope BT (for that is the company I was paying) appreciate my suspicious nature, and that they're grateful for the information that someone's trying to divert legitimate payments to a fraudulent account.

You put your left leg(s) out

Not a great deal of improvement re Beetle's health. She wants to come out for walks, but it takes a long time to get her moving once she's out; then after about five minutes she perks up and trots along faster than I can go. But when we get home again the curtain drops and the clouds come over her brain. She walks staggers into corners and can't get out. She gets stuck underneath dining chairs. She stands still, drops her head and wobbles violently until she's either grabbed and reassured (tail wags appreciatively) or, if you can't reach her in time, she falls over. I've put a carpet square down by her food bowl because when she puts her head down to eat (her appetite hasn't failed her!) her legs slide out from under her. However she manages to sleep very well by taking up three-quarters of the bed, leaving Ned and I clinging to our respective edges by our fingernails.

Good days, bad days

Beattie must have had a funny turn the other night - she was restless and fidgety, but not really more than usual. But in the morning she really wasn't herself; if she was human you'd think she'd had a mild stroke, but dogs don't get strokes in the same way as people do. She was very wobbly on her legs, with a definite list to port; she slithered down the stairs (me going backwards in front of her acting as a safety-net), bumped into the lefthand wall in the hall, bumped into the lefthand doorpost into the kitchen, and when on the tiled floor by the back door her left legs shot out sideways. She wanted to come for a walk, and being on the lead I could keep her going in the right (d'you see what I did there?) direction, and we went widdershins around the field because that was easier for her.

Granny dogsat her when I was at work and the at the end of the shift the vet popped in to check her over. There's nothing that you can pinpoint as being the cause, but clearly something's gone wrong somewhere - a blown fuse, maybe, making her left side weaker. So she has tablets to try to increase the blood flow to her brain and follow a watching brief. I don't think we've reached the end of the road yet, but we must be close to the final straight; I've told Beattie she's got to last out all the time Mother's here because I don't think I could handle Mother's distress as well as my own.

Flash! Saviour of the universe!

So there we were, standing in front of a large selection of beers, trying to decide which to buy, when I overheard the woman next to me discussing a similar problem with her teenage son. (She'd tried phoning her husband but he was too busy to talk then and would phone her back.) "What's that one up there?" she asked him. "That's called "Summer Lightning" he replied, then read out the blurb on the label. "That sounds all right" she said "but they've spelled it wrong - it should have an E in Lightening".

I couldn't let it pass without comment. "No, there's only an E in the word if you're talking about making something lighter - like lightening your hair. If you're talking about electrical storms, lightning without the E is correct."

Luckily she took it in good spirit - and I bet whenever they see a flash of lightning they remember the nosy eavesdropping busybody!

As sure as night is dark and day is light

A week in, and nobody's killed anyone yet! Typically, rather than be able to spend some time helping Mother settle in with us I've had to cover for people at work, so she's been left pretty much to her own devices. Still, we made up for it at the weekend, shovelling her into the car and taking her out and about, more than she's been for years! It helps her to sleep ...

The tent's dry at last. (No, that's not where she's sleeping.)

Boy's back from Reading. He and his friends had bought tickets over the net and found (along with several hundred others) that they'd been scammed, so had to queue for 23 hours (yes, 23 hours) in a very badly-managed horde to buy new tickets. That was a lovely birthday for his friend Dan. So now they have to contact Trading Standards and the credit card companies for a refund.

And never sit down with a tear and a frown

We still haven't had a chance to put up the tent after Cropredy to dry it out; the weather was ideal today but we were both at work so couldn't do it. The soonest will be next weekend, weather permitting. Otherwise it's going to get really manky. (Did I mention that during the Sunday the tent, in its bag, started ticking? I kept staring at it accusingly and it'd shut up, only to start again when I looked away. I told Ned and he gave it a kick, whereupon a very bewildered Cropredy wasp crawled out of the bag and blundered to the window. I wonder if it's got home yet?)

Anyway. We can't put up the tent tomorrow cos we're going paddling with chums, then on Sunday we're going to collect my Mother and all her belongings as it's the Midlands stage of her Royal Progress northwards. With her propensity to fall over at the drop of a hat and our active dogs, and her vegetarianism and our omniverousness, this could be interesting.

"Don't look, Ethel!"

Other Cropredy things:

On Friday Hutters took his GPS and went caching with Ned and Stu and H accompanying him for the fun of it. After passing a couple of pubs (it would have been rude not to go in and buy a drink) Hutters dutifully followed his GPS and the others helped. In fact they helped so much that all three managed to find and sign and rehide the cache before the GPS did its stuff. Much hilarity ensued from three members of the party, whose parentage was roundly disputed for the rest of the weekend.

In fact they had so much fun they thought about doing it again the next day, but for some reason (probably good manners, because it would have been rude not to go in) they never really got past the pubs, or the beer tent on the way back (well, it would have been rude not to buy a jug), by which time Ned had a religious revelation and started Speaking In Tongues ("It bezzel" "Yes dear"), so I suggested he go and have a little lie-down. H (she's lovely, and I hope we didn't scare her too much) and Stu and I sat under the gazebo (awfully civilised, doncherknow) and chatted until I saw a bare-chested man at the back of our tent. Bear in mind that it was only about 3.30 in the afternoon and broad daylight, and our tent was right by a main walkway across the campsite. I sat up a little higher and saw .... "Oh shiiiiiiit!" I leapt to my feet and dived into the tent to grab a large covering. "What's wrong?" "He's got no sodding clothes on!". Yes, Ned had decided he needed the loo, had risen from his slumbers of nekkidness and was in danger of causing a breach of the peace. I managed to get him draped when two very nice women asked if something was wrong and could they help? "Nothankyouit'sfine" I squeaked, before hissing for help from friends who I knew wouldn't call the police. We managed to get him past the maze of guyropes and back into the tent where I got some clothes onto him before making him lie down again. But his sleep had been disturbed and he made several bids for freedom (fortunately clothed now) with me now giggling hysterically (I couldn't help recalling an episode of Father Ted when Father Jack escaped and Ted and Dougal were trying to catch him) in hot pursuit. A few cups of 'special rum' (ie very very strong black coffee) helped a lot, and with the tent doors firmly pegged shut he had a proper sleep for several hours. Which is why we missed the rest of the performances.

The final heart-stopping moment happened when we were in the queue of vehicles trying to get off the campsites onto the tarmac track to get home. Cars were converging from three different directions and often got wheelspin on the muddy slippery grass. Which is exactly what happened to a large motorhome that revved hard and suddenly got traction, shooting across the road as we were coming out in the opposite direction, missing us by inches. We nearly died.

If you really mean it

It's far too complicated to do a proper day-by-day report of Cropredy 08 so I'll just tell you some of the highlights in dribs and drabs as I recall them. The observant among you might detect a theme running through my critiques of the bands.

The only real disappointment music-wise was Supergrass who were headlining the first day. Okay they can play well, but what band doesn't play their best-known hit ("Alright" in case it'd slipped anyone's mind)? Everyone thought they'd do it as their final encore (especially as they'd come on for an encore and said they'd do some tracks of the tracks from their 'I Should Coco' album of which it's a highlight), so when they went offstage again after three more songs the crowd kept calling them back. The MC came onstage and asked the crowd "Do you want some more?" " Yeeeeeeeesssssss!!" came the reply ... there was a pause while someone scurried onstage, whispered him a message then scurried off. "Errmmm .. sorry, they're not coming back on. That's it. Thank you and goodnight!" Poor bloke, he was as surprised as everyone else at this blatant snub to all the people there. So, oi Supergrass! Are you listening? You spoilt the day for a lot of people (judging from what I overheard as we dutifully trooped back to the campsites) and left the impression that you're a load of divas who haven't learned who it is who buys your records and pays your bills. Grow up.

Right, we'll put them out of our minds and get back to the Good Stuff! The music on Day 2 was brilliant. It was opened by the brilliant
Family Mahone who are consummate professionals and hugely entertaining to boot (ie not vanishing up their own backsides)! If you ever get a chance to see them, seize it - you won't be disappointed. Especially if you like Drinking Songs. Another great set was done by Siobhan Miler & Jeana Leslie who fully justified their winning of the Radio 2 Young Folk Award. They were amazing. Good luck to you, girls! May you go from strength to strength!

Before Friday's headline act was Joe Brown performing with Dave Edmunds. What can I say? What a treat - stunning musicianship and a real joy. They seemed to really be enjoying themselves (I suppose with Joe Brown being 67 now he's only doing it because he loves it and isn't just drawing his pension) and gave stunning performances. He's a mere whippersnapper at 64, but makes up for that by having survived a quadruple bypass.

The headline act was The Levellers (Q: why do Levellers only drink Herbal Tea? A: Because Proper Tea is theft.") who again know what an audience wants and did their hits at intervals during the set, so everyone was happy. Another band who Delivered The Goods.

The Saturday was unfortunately very wet, as opposed to the previous days which had been showery at worst. Due to circumstances outside my control (mainly the weather, Beattie, and Ned!), about which I shall blog another time, I only got to see Richard Digance in his usual graveyard slot, who did exactly what at least a small part of the audience wanted, the details of whuich will undoubtedly be told far more eloquently by the main protagonists! Always a terrific performance to get an audience warmed up. Regretfully I only heard the rest of the music from the campsite - I'd have loved to have see Midge Ure, whose music I've liked for years before the Main Event which is always the Fairport Convention finale, and always worth being at if at all possible. Still, there's always next year, which will be the 30th anniversary of their first Farewell concert held on this site ...

I will wear the green willow**

Cropredy was fun, if very wet. Lots and lots of things (and Things, both current and new) happened, about which more later. Richard Digance was great and read out a request and luckily the right response was given.
*apologises for the blurry photo and blames the rain, not the champagne

**Looks for milliners in Yellow Pages.

Come fly with me ...

Is it only this village (at least I know it's not just Genie Towers, thankfully!), or is the current plague of houseflies national? I hate using flysprays, especially in the kitchen, and prefer judiciously placed (so that nobody gets their hair stuck) flypapers. Two years ago a single flypaper lasted a couple of months. Last year I didn't need to use one at all. This year they last two weeks tops. The last one I hung up had three flies stuck to it before I'd put away the kitchen chair I'd been standing (oh god, my vertigo!) to hang the damn thing. The bloody things are everywhere.

We're all going on a summer holiday

Anyway to continue, while Mother's house moving was going through, Ned and I managed to grab part of our previously booked holiday in Cornwall. The first time we went down there the weather was fantastic and we had the most marvellous time. Every year since then the weather has been ... 'unreliable' is probably the best description. Last year was the worst when we had to come back early because the rain and gales were getting worse and worse and threatening to destroy the tent. This year wasn't quite so bad, but the overall impression was one of grey dampness rather than summer sunshine. But it was at least good enough to visit some of our favourite places, like Port Isaac, which is the setting for the fictional Port Wenn in the TV series Doc Martin. It's very picturesque

with very narrow streets in the old part of the village. We'd meant to park at the handy car park at the top of the town and walk down, but we took a different route which led us down a worrying ("Please don't let there be anything coming the other way") lane right into the centre
so we ended up parking in the harbour. Our car is one of those down there on the shingle.


We couldn't do our usual long walks, a, because the weather wasn't conducive to admiring the views and b, because Beattie's arthritis would mean she'd be in a lot of pain. So we contented ourselves with shorter strolls on the beach.



As we'd never been to St Ives before (and the Chysauster Iron Age village was shut because of the lashing rain) we thought we'd have a browse around. A word of warning to others who think about going there - when you see a sign suggesting that vehicles don't go right into the heart of the town, take heed, or you'll find yourself testing your handbrake to the limit whilst simultaneously shortening the life of your clutch by several years!

It wasn't the best place to go strolling in the rain (with a very reluctant and resentful dog in tow!) but had a better selection of art galleries than some of the other places we've been. One very nice little shop even allowed Beattie in as I was admiring the work of Stewart Middlemas. One day I'll buy something of his.

Move it and a-groove it

Apologies for the recent lack of anything more than idle random thoughts - it's been a very strange and hectic few weeks, and I'm only slowly getting my mind back onto its usual course. So randomness will probably continue for some time to come!

As you know, my mother's been in the throes of moving house, which is traumatic at any time but when you're 85 (today! Happy birthday, Mum!) is even more unsettling. She and my dad bought the house
back in 1983, and was the first home they'd ever owned (due to being in the Forces we were always in rented quarters). Unfortunately Dad didn't live for many years afterwards and since his death in 1987 she lived there alone, apart from the dog she got a couple of years later. So she was very much settled there, and it's only because of her increasing frailty and the isolation of the house that she realised she would have to leave. The sale has been reasonably straightforward, but there are always hitches and snags (usually of a financial nature and never in Mother's favour), and trying to work out a timescale to suit everyone involved has been a challenge. My brothers have done sterling work - the one Oop North where Mother will be moving to has done all the paperwork, and the other one Down South has (with as much help from me as I could) done a lot of the practical stuff, such as organise removers and order skips for rubbish and getting things out of lofts and dismantling the disability aids and all the million and one things that crop up. But at last on Thursday the money was transferred and the keys handed over and that stage of the move is done. It's very odd to think I'll never be going back there again.

Here's another picture of the Boy beside 'my' mulberry tree which I grew from a seed. I hope the new owners leave it alone.
Of course her new bungalow (somewhat smaller! Hopefully she won't find it too cramped and will be able to get her wheely-zimmer around it without crashing into things!) is nowhere near ready for her to move into yet - it needs rewiring and a new bathroom that she'll be able to use and all that sort of thing done, so she's started her 'Royal Progress' (in the manner of Elizabeth I, travelling around her realm) and is currently staying with my Southern Brother before sometime (I hope after Cropredy and not before) moving in with us for a while, and then continuing Northwards. Slow stages to help her adjust have been decided on as being least stressful for her.

Which is why I'm trying to sort out all the rubbish we've got in the back room to make room to put a bed up for her. The amount of accumulated 'essentials' - many of which are going straight to the tip - is astonishing, so it's a valuable exercise anyway.

You must remember this

Often people ring up to cancel appointments for one reason or another; often they can't find the cat, sometimes they've realised they can't make it and want to reschedule, sometimes they just change their mind. Sometimes they forget and just don't turn up.

Today was the first time we had a client turn up for the appointment but had forgotten to bring the dog ...

Where did you get that tile?

It's bugging us - what sort of hat are these chaps wearing? We thought at first that they must be trilbys or homburgs, but they're neither. Any ideas?

Hold your hand out, you naughty boy

Oh, doesn't it add to one's general joie de vivre, when one's beloved child who works with a chainsaw for a living comes home with a bandaged hand saying "Mum, I've just spent the afternoon in Casualty".

It turns out to be a minor flesh wound, but my life expectancy is noticeably shortened.

I know that I'm a prisoner

I got a bit more of Mother's pre-move house-sorting done this weekend. The most awkward loft is now completely empty (I lost count of the number of times I whacked my elbow on the hatch-frame) as is one wardrobe and my Dad's chest of drawers which I'd hoped to fit into the car to bring back for The Boy, but the wheel-arches thwarted that plan and I had to limit myself to a lawnmower, logs, coal, kindling, a small rug and a picture.

Because it was possibly the last time I'll be going down there I went to visit my Dad's grave to keep him up to speed with proceedings. It's 21 years since he died and you'd have thought I'd have got used to the idea, but no. Every time I go there I only have to say hello before I have to sit on his grass and sob like a baby. Quite pathetic.

Oh, and you remember I told you about the mulberry tree that I grew from seed in 1981 that has flourished but never fruited? Guess what it's done? Yep, the first fruits are developing. The alternative reasons are a) that it hated us and is rejoicing or b) it needed a dead dog buried at its foot.

I want to break free

'Free' is one of the many words that's used in different ways to give very different meanings. For example, as well as meaning 'unoccupied' ("I'm free, Captain Peacock") or 'vacant' (the bathroom's free now) it can also mean 'for no money at all'. All of which can make translation into a foreign language fraught with danger and has to be approached with caution in case it's used in the wrong sense.

While we had the bananana machine out of mothballs I siezed seized (why do I always spell that word wrong first time?) the opportunity to print myself (and make an extra couple on spare red shirts) a political protest teeshirt on a topic very dear to my heart, ever since I first read Tintin in Tibet at the age of 6.

I'm assured, by a well-trusted native speaker and writer of a Chinese language, that the script on this shirt

reads "Liberate Tibet".

I do hope so, and that my chest isn't actually recommending the chef's special menu for two.

Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily

It's been all go here at Genie Towers. Somebody at Ned's Jelly factory thought it would be a jolly fine idea to enter the annual charity Raft Race ("Think of the advertising potential, Adam!") and in a brief rush of enthusiasm a volunteer crew was duly signed up. The rules are that everything has to be homemade from the rafts themselves to the method of propulsion - no manufactured paddles. The various tasks were delegated to those most likely to be able to achieve them; the welding of the barrels was assigned to someone who knows how to weld, etc (which was a top move, when you saw some of the other rafts!). Ned & I dusted off the bananana machine and produced the crew's teeshirts proudly emblazoned with (the company's name. They nearly didn't happen. Two weekends before the race we decided to clean off old screens to reuse them, then coat the clean ones, expose them and wash them off which would mean we could empty the garage to print them at our leisure. The best-laid plans, and all that ...

First of all the old coating decided that it loved the screens so much that it wasn't going to come off, and despite double-strength solvent, hot water and a lot of scrubbing, after two days it was still determinedly clinging to several parts of the screens. Bugger. When we eventually managed to get a large enough clean area for what we needed we coated them and left them to dry in a warm dark place for a couple of days. On a free evening the design was duly exposed onto them and they were taken for rinsing ... whereupon all the coating (all right, so it's been a long time since it had been used and chemicals deteriorate) promptly flowed away, leaving us back at square 1. Bugger again. Despite the attempts of a garage mouse to thwart us by eating through a bottle of essential chemical there was just enough left to make some fresh emulsion, and the screens were coated again and left to dry. On the day before the race the design was once more exposed onto them and with bated breath we rinsed them off ... hurrah! It only washed off where we wanted it to! Victory was in sight!

Until Ned started setting up the machine to actually start the printing, when he realised that we'd exposed them back to front and the advertising would only work if everyone held a mirror! Aaarrrggghhh! Rinse off the coating again, recoat, and judicious use of a hairdryer speeded up the drying time. This time it all worked, but it was after ten at night by the time we finally got all the printing done, and we had to meet up at the starting point at 8.30 the next morning.

The rafts were launched one after the other, with the starting line some 100 yards downstream - as each boat passed they'd call out their number and their starting time noted. From then on it was a simple matter of getting downstream (with a couple of weirs thrown in for good measure) as fast as you could.

The launch

Setting off

Gaining ground

On windy open water

Approaching the finish - at last!

Yes, they did all change places, several times!

Unfortunately nobody had a camera handy when young James had a contretemps with a tree whilst using the punting pole, and ended up dangling by his neck in a fork in a branch - luckily for him it snapped (the branch, not his neck) and he realised the wisdom of wearing a lifejacket under his teeshirt.

Usually it takes crews about 3 hours to complete the 7½ mile course, but this year although it was warm and sunny there were very strong winds, and the moment people eased off paddling the rafts were being blown back upstream. It was just under 5 hours before Ned and the rest finally crossed the finishing line (coming in a respectable 38th out of 56 finishers); the last boat to complete the course took just over 7 hours.

Surprisingly everybody could move reasonably freely the next day at work, but during the Monday night Ned and another chap were struck down by a nasty lurgy, resulting in explosive ejection of as many bodily contents as possible. Having discounted Weil's Disease (incubation period 7 to 14 days; maybe we have that to look forward to as well) my money's now on cryptosporidium, which can last between 1 and 3 weeks. What fun!

Gin a body meet a body ...

...well, not comin' through the rye, really; more like runnin' through the wheat. Harry and Piglet love running through it and springbokking over it (they don't break it down or damage it so I don't feel bad about letting them), hunting for all the creatures that are hiding in it, like rabbits and pheasants and partridges and, on one very exciting occasion, a roe deer. As the wheat's grown taller the stalks become tougher and have a very rough, sandpapery texture. And as a dog forges his path with his head, a certain amount of grazing happens.



It doesn't seem to bother him at all though; but it's very unsightly.

Be careful with that axe, Eugene

X, Y and Z axes? WTF is the Z axis?

*stares sadly at all the cut out numbers on the floor and waits for the hoover-repair man*