I hate to wake you up to say goodbye....

For the last seven days, C and I have been playing host to the most delightful Austrian family. These are the same guys who pretty much single-handedly organised our wedding in Vienna a couple of years ago, so it's really been the very least that we can do to put them up for a few days and to spend some time showing them around our country. Actually, it's been a real pleasure having them around - it's hard not to have a ten year old boy and an (almost) twelve year old girl around the place and not have it brighten your day. Not ones as well behaved and charming as these two, anyway....

They arrived 11 days ago, but spent the first few days of their holiday in London, doing stuff like looking at the Tower of London, riding around on an open-topped bus and things like that. I went down to join them on Thursday last week, and we spent the afternoon in the Science Museum at the Wallace and Gromit exhibition they've got on at the moment (the highlight of which was when we spent a good half an hour making plasticine models of a Frankengromit and a punk rock guitar playing pinocchio). We then all got the train back to Nottingham and spent a couple of days doing things like pottering around town (Susie and Lilli were very taken with the shopping in town, which is apparently quite different to the kind of thing that they get in Vienna), trying out archery at the Robin Hood Festival in Sherwood Forest and learning some circus skills and watching the fireworks at the Riverside Festival.



I spent the weekend in Birmingham watching the Edgbaston Test Match, but Pauli is very keen on sport generally and was very keen to learn as much about cricket as he possibly could. On Friday morning, I spent the hour or so before play started trying to explain the basics of the game, and then when England took two wickets with the first two balls of the day, I spent much of the rest of the day trying to explain that it wasn't always like this, and usually you have to wait a lot longer to see anything happen. There's not much cricket in Austria, I shouldn't think (actually, it seems that there is), but I think the bug took hold and I did everything I could to help it take hold by sending Pauli home with a real cricket ball, which he thought was the coolest thing in the world ever.

On Tuesday morning, the six of us piled into my dad's stylish Hyundai Trajet and drove up to York. We'd borrowed it for this very purpose, so that we could all travel together in the one car. I spent much of my childhood sitting in the back of a Fiat Strada, shoulder-to-shoulder with my two brothers, being driven the long miles to visit my grandparents in South Wales or in Plymouth. Quite why my dad waited until we'd all left home before he buys a people-carrier, I really have no idea. Still, it was undeniably useful. In York we walked along the walls, had a quick look at the King's Manor where I studied for my Masters degree, and wandered around York Minster. There is a lot of monumental architecture in Vienna, of course, but much of it is from the Baroque period. York Minster is in the gothic style and as a Protestant Church is quite a lot more austere.



I regret the fact that the Church have felt the need to put in turnstiles and to charge £6 per person for admission... as I looked at the people in their baseball caps and eating their ice creams, I couldn't help but worry that the admission fee encourages people to treat this magnificent building in the same way as they do any other tourist attraction... but it remains the most splendid, light and airy building, and it always manages to lift my spirits. I'm not in the slightest bit religious, but I am a historian, and I am always moved by the thought of the sheer effort involved in putting these buildings together. I hate that Nottingham has nothing like it.



After admiring the street theatre next to the Shambles, we hopped back into the Trajet and headed up to Durham. As well as being a charming town with another magnificent cathedral, our trump card here was that we were going to be spending the night in an actual, honest-to-goodness Castle. The rooms of University College Durham might not be much to write home about, but the building itself, especially when seen through the eyes of a ten year old, is splendid: all crenelations, wonky staircases and creaky doors.



I prefer York Minster, but even I had to admit that Durham Cathedral isn't too bad - and has the enormous benefit of not being as overrun with tourists as York.



Those Prince-Bishops really knew where to build a church, eh?

A short stop at the seaside to have a paddle in the North Sea, and we were back to Nottingham and then on to Luton airport this morning to send them home.



I'll miss them. Of all the things we've done together over the last week, I think the ones that the kids will remember the most will be the simplest: playing football in the park, leaving their bedroom doors ajar in the hope that the cat will pay them a visit in the night, teaching me German, learning English tongue-twisters ("Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled pepper...."), playing Guitar Hero (they're from a very musical family, so it wasn't long before Pauli was playing "Strutter" on hard with his eyes shut.... literally) and having a ride in my mini. The two kids think we're the coolest people they know, which perhaps tells you a lot more about Vienna than it does about how cool we are, but it's a lovely thought. It's been a great week and, whilst it's nice to have the house back to ourselves, it definitely feels a touch empty tonight.



It was a touch like living with the von Trapp family at times though, and they serenaded us at dinner last night with a version of "Leaving on a Jet Plane", led by 12 year-old Lilli on guitar. Not a dry eye in the house.

Come back soon please.

bicycle....

I spent half an hour this afternoon watching Alberto Contador and the Astana team take what looks like a comprehensive grip on this year's Tour de France. It was especially interesting to watch Lance Armstrong, a 7 time winner of this race, performing his duties as a domestique to Contador and selflessly doing everything he can to ensure the Spaniard holds onto the yellow jersey into Paris - it's a role that not many people thought a man like Armstrong would be willing to perform for any other rider, even though he repeatedly told everyone that the motivation for his comeback to cycling was to raise money and awareness for his Foundation and the fight against cancer.

Not for the first time in his life, he's proving everyone wrong.

As always, watching the race made me take a moment to remember my friend Tracy. Tracy was a huge cycling fan, and we first really became friends when we used to sneak off from a residential course to watch Marco Pantani winning the 1998 race. Tracy died of cancer on 4th November 1999, the same year that Lance Armstong first won the Tour de France.

In the summer of 1999, and whilst she was undergoing chemotherapy and back living with her parents, Tracy put on her best wig and her bravest face, and she threw a birthday party for all her friends. The sun shone and we had jelly, angel cakes and a bouncy castle. The birthday girl herself was all smiles all afternoon, and it was a lovely day. Barely three months later, she was dead.

Tracy would have been 41 years old this summer. She was first diagnosed with cancer in March of that year, and her decline was as shocking as it was sudden: one day she was cheerfully telling me over lunch at work how she was losing a bit of weight and had been made slimmer of the week by her WeightWatchers club, and literally the next day she was on a drip in hospital and being told she had a stomach cancer that had bloomed into her intestines.

People are quick to point the finger of suspicion at Lance Armstong and to wonder aloud whether he can have achieved all those amazing victories on the bike without cheating. People also say that he's not a very nice human being. You know what? With the amount of money he continues to raise in the fight against cancer, I really don't care. He can't do anything to help Tracy now, but he might just be helping people like her.

Tracy was a lovely, active, bubbly girl and she was cut down in her prime. I haven't forgotten her.

I won't forget her.

he always took the time to speak to me, I liked him for that...

I received an email a little while ago from someone I went to school with. As regular readers will know, I don't really look back on my time at that school with any great fondness. It was a hugely formative period of my life - far more so than my time at university - and it had a crucial role in the shaping of my personality; it was here too that I made some of the most lasting friendships of my life. It was also a time of my life that I was delighted to put behind me, and since I left, I have actively avoided cultivating any ties with my old school, in spite of the plethora of reunions and dinners that they keep inviting me to. My friends aside, the thought of staying in touch with the vast majority of the people I met there fills me with horror. I know full well that not everybody fulfills the stereotype of the arrogant, floppy-haired public schoolboy, but a good many of them do. I've spent far too long running away from that stereotype and from people's preconceptions of public schoolboys to want to spend any time with living, breathing examples filled with some sepia-tinted nostalgic view of the time they spent at their alma mater. If the time I spent at that school turns out to be the best years of my life, then I want a refund.

So, I think it's fair to say that the email was not entirely welcome. Less welcome still was the dawning realisation, as I read, that my email address had been harvested from this blog. Emails sent from Friends Reunited are one thing and are easily ignored, but this one was different and altogether more unsettling. I don't blog under my real name for the very simple reason that I don't really want all of this to come up when I'm googled. I'm fully aware that it's only a figleaf of anonymity and that anyone who reads this who really wants to find out who I am can do so easily. Hell, if you ask me, I'll probably tell you. My name is not a secret, and I don't really write about anything controversial, but I don't really like the idea of people idly searching for me by name to land here.

To be fair, the guy who sent this email was very much not a typical public schoolboy - quite the opposite, in fact. I wouldn't say that we were especially close at school, and obviously we haven't kept in touch, but he was in a lot of the same classes as me, we ate and slept in the same House for five years, and he was basically okay. I don't know if he had stumbled across this blog accidentally or if he had been pointed in this direction, but he was planning his honeymoon and wanted to know about our trip to Ecuador in 2007. Did we learn any Spanish? Did we take much cash with us? That kind of thing. Harmless stuff really, but although I received the email several weeks ago, I haven't yet answered. Initially, I had no intention of answering at all: I was mildly alarmed to be contacted in this way via my blog and to have someone I knew from school rummaging around through my archives.... although, to be honest, given that most of my friends, several colleagues and now some members of my family read this already, I'm not sure why I would be too worried about that. I think what really pissed me off was that the email, although politely written, made reference to nothing except my trip to Ecuador and any advice and tips I might be able to pass on. Fair enough, I suppose. That's both a reasonable thing to ask and something that I would be more than happy to share with any passing stranger who emailed me to ask having read my blog entries on the subject. So why did I not reply to this? I think what irritated me was that many of the most recent posts I had written when he sent the mail were about my health, and yet this guy had just dived straight into asking me about Ecuador. Was he really interested in getting back in touch with me, or just interested in what I could tell him to help him plan his trip? I'm sure Ecuador was very much on his mind, and he may well have just landed here via a Google search and recognised me via a photo, but if you accidentally stumbled on five years worth of material written by someone that you used to know reasonably well, wouldn't you read around a bit? I'm pretty sure that I'd read the most recent posts, anyway.

So I didn't reply.

On reflection though, I think I'm being rude. He was always a decent enough guy and I don't really mind him reading this blog (although it's not as though I could stop him, is it?). Perhaps I'm overreacting. After all, is his directness not a good thing? He hardly comes across as disinterested in his email, and he seems friendly and polite, but would it somehow be better if he pretended to be more interested in MEMEME? What exactly would I expect him to say about the fact that an old acquaintance he hadn't spoken to in more than a decade has just been diagnosed with MS? He'd hardly be the first person who didn't really know what to say to me about that. What could he say?

Hmm.

What do you think?

Yeah, you're right. I should reply.

(and if, by any chance, he happens to be reading this.... well, that's one of the perils of rekindling an acquaintance with a blogger, innit. If it's not too late, I'll be more than happy to share my experiences of what is a beautiful, interesting country filled with lovely people. You'll have a great time.)

April come she will.....

When we were in Ecuador in the spring of 2007, our guide had a wise saying: "not for free is the rainforest". He would say this, with a phlegmatic shrug of his shoulders, whenever anyone looked anxiously at the sky. He had a point. Why worry about whether it's going to rain or not? After all, it was the rain that made the beautiful landscape of this stunning country possible.

The phrase sprang unexpectedly to mind as I was stood over a barbecue in the rain on Sunday. Instead of spending the day arguing with my dad over the existence or otherwise of the historical figure of Jesus Christ, I had elected to spend the weekend with my friends in Oxford watching the final two rounds of the US Masters golf at Augusta. I'm sure I've spent Easter away from my parents before, but there was something wonderfully liberating this year about electing to spend the time with friends instead of family. We drank beer, we drank wine, we shot the breeze about the golf, fell asleep in front of old re-runs of Red Dwarf and we generally relaxed in the company of people we've actively chosen to spend our time with over the course of the last 25 years. Are friends the new family? Is black the new black? I can never keep up with these things.

Given that it was April and we're in England, perhaps it was a little ambitious to plan to have a a barbecue on Sunday... and sure enough, no sooner had we put all of the bits and bobs out on the garden table and fired up the charcoal, than it started to rain.

I didn't mind it though. Ten days in Canada, beautiful country though it is, has given me a new appreciation of the English spring. The Rockies are stunning, no question, but where the winter snow is starting to melt, the grass underneath is like dirty brown straw. It's not surprising, really, given that it's been under a coat of snow for several months and hasn't seen a jot of sunlight in all that time, but it's still not very attractive. England at this time of year, on the other hand, is absolutely bursting with promise. Compared to Canada, of course, the temperature is extremely mild, but how pleasing is it to see the trees blossoming, the daffodils blooming, to smell the first grass cuttings of the season and to smell the changing season in the air? Of course, as Ivan from Ecuador would point out, this stuff doesn't come for free..... but if the price we have to pay for the English spring is a little rain, then I say bring it on.*

I've had a lot on my mind recently, but it was a great weekend.

---

* if it's still raining in May, however, with no sign of abatement and Glastonbury beginning to figure in my thoughts, then I reserve the right to change my mind.

all your diction dripping with disdain....

Ah, back from a pleasant few days staying with some friends in Oxford. Ostensibly, the reason for my visit was that I was going to be working in our store there on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. It was also, of course, an excellent opportunity to catch up with my friends down there, culminating with the 11th annual Juxom Street Christmas Party on Saturday. Work in the store was as good as ever, even if it did make me realise that life at the sharp end of a retail business is very, very hard on the feet (and they're not as busy as they should be at this time of year, either). I had a lovely 20 minute stroll from my digs with Rich and Laura, over Magdalen Bridge and past their lovely illuminated chapel and into the town centre itself, which made a most welcome change from my usual commute by car to a large industrial estate.

The evenings were busy though: Tuesday night spent in a nice Italian with my hosts; Wednesday spent intially with The Ultimate Olympian for a few pints and then a meal with my colleagues from Nottingham also working in the store; Thursday spent in a chinese restaurant with the Pollstar, taking the chance to be introduced to his lovely, charming (and far too good for the likes of him) girlfriend and then on to a pub to watch Leon perform at an open mic night; Friday catching up with friends and helping with last minute party preparations and watching "Ivor the Engine", and Saturday itself spent at the party, starting with the traditional drink (champagne this year) at noon. It's the 11th time we've had this Christmas party now, and I think it's fair to say that things have changed - not least because there are now several children in attendance, so things are naturally a little more restrained (actually, we all ended up in the kitchen listening to Dire Straits at one point, so we are officially turning into our parents).

It's all good though... an excellent way to spend the week. I may even be feeling a touch festive.... something I'm sure work will choke out of my before the end of working week.

Anyway.

Music maestro?

Shuffleathon 2008 Update

Reviews are starting to come in now, with new ones by Cody Bones, Russ L, Ben, Ian all now in. Several more CDs have also reached their destinations, with asta discovering that she drew the shortest of short straws in this game and received a mixtape from me.....

There are still a few to be sent out. I realise that this is a busy time of the year, but it would be great if everyone could try to get their CD done and out into the post before the end of the year (or at least drop me a line to let me know that they're still alive and on the case....). As always, if you could drop me a line when you have sent / received / reviewed your CD, then I'll keep this slightly unwieldy table up to date with links and suchlike.

Right? OK then.

Shuffler	Posted out	Received?
1. Me	yes
2. Mandy		yes
3. Charlie	yes
4. Planet Me	yes	yes
5. Ian		review
6. Mike
7. Jerry	yes	review
8. monogodo
9. Erika	yes	yes
10. Michael	yes	review
11. Lisa	yes	review
12. Cody Bones	yes	review
13. Del		yes!
14. RussL	yes	review
15. Tina	yes	review
16. Wombat	yes
17. Joe the Troll	yes	yes
18. JamieS	yes
19. Cat	yes	yes
20. Rol	yes	review
21. Beth	yes	yes
22. asta	yes	yes
23. bedshaped
24. Paul	yes
25. Alan	yes
26. Astronaut	yes	yes
27. Threelight		yes
28. The Great Grape Ape	yes
29. Paul W	yes
30. Ben	yes	review

Oh, and can you email me your 5 votes for Earworms of the Year please? Ta.

let's talk about it....

Unless you're one of those strange people who plans these things months in advance, if you are anything like me, then you're probably still on the lookout for Christmas presents for various people. I find the hardest ones to cover-off are often the smallest; that little token present for that person you're not planning on spending more than a tenner on. If you haven't been struck by a brilliant idea, then no doubt you've been browsing the tat tables in various shops in the desperate hope of receiving some inexpensive inspiration, even if that means getting somebody something that (barely) seems amusing at the time and after all the polite thank yous are done is quietly put away and never thought of again. Well, somebody must buy that stuff.....

I'm sure you've got your own ideas, but if you'll allow me to humbly make a suggestion.....

The Art of Conversation by Catherine Blyth.



"A guided tour of a neglected pleasure"

"Mixing philosophy with literature Catherine Blyth wittily encourages conversation. It seems we’ve forgotten how to talk. The art of face-to-face engagement has lost its allure as the world of facebook has seduced us. Catherine Blyth is on mission to convert us back to pleasures of good conversation in this charming, celebratory look at repartee. Wittily mixing up philosophy with literature, blending science with psychology, and with a nod to the great chatterers of history, she persuasively argues the case for banter and badinage - it’s free, its fun and it gets your brain cells firing like the prettiest of firework displays."

I can sense that you're on your way to buy yourself a copy or two as we speak, so perhaps I should declare a couple of things here:

1) I haven't actually finished this book yet. In fact, I'm on about the fourth page of the introduction (every page of which, to be fair, I have enjoyed hugely).

2) The author is an old friend of mine.

I first met Catherine when she had the great misfortune to be assigned to eat her meals in my boarding house back in the distant, sepia tinged days of 1990. It can't have been much fun being a girl at my school: joining a tightly knit bunch of institutionalised emotional cripples when they've already had three years to form deep bonds and who, even at the age of 17, have absolutely no frame of reference for dealing with the female of the species, having spent most of their lives in single-sex seclusion. Catherine must have been a conversational genius even then, as she somehow managed to pierce my outer shell of awkwardness and establish that we actually lived only a few miles from each other. We soon bonded over the number 33 Johnsons bus that we had both used to get into Northampton as kids, and we never looked back. I admired Catherine hugely for having the strength of character to walk her own path at school and not to be beaten into conformity like so many others, including me. Many people spent their school years trying to make themselves as inconspicuous as possible, but Catherine always seemed to remain true to herself, even when that made her stand out dangerously from the crowd.

Much to my regret, we lost touch for a few years some time after University, but thanks to the magic of the internet and her very trusting husband generously forwarding on a speculative email from a complete stranger, we have rekindled our friendship. And look! She's only gone and written a proper, honest-to-goodness book. She's been on breakfast telly and met Rolf Harris and everything! The reviews have been excellent, but if she manages to distill a mere half of her wit, insight and droll humour into the book, then how could people not love it? It's hard to explain, but it makes me proud as punch to know that a friend of mine has managed to get something like this out into the shops. I waste my time writing nonsense on the internet, and she's gone and written a proper, published book that you can buy in an actual shop.

So, if you're struggling for ideas for Christmas prezzies this year, why not give someone you love the gift of conversation? You can pick it up for less than a tenner on Amazon, and it's included in the Waterstones 3 for 2.

Bearing in mind that I'm the kind of person who will deliberately and obtusely provide one word answers to small talk in the coffee queue, perhaps this is EXACTLY the kind of book I should be reading.....perhaps I should be more inclined to think of it less as a light and entertaining read and more as a self-help manual.

Beware: I might want to talk about this again once I've read it, so you might as well give in now and go and buy several copies. I'm only going to go on about it until you do..... (and actually, as I've already bought six copies, you may well be getting it from me for Christmas anyway).

midnight to six man....

A generally fairly ordinary day has just been salvaged by my brain's ability to somehow identify that the tune being played on the bontempi organ was, in fact, "White Man (In Hammersmith Palais)" by the Clash. Never mind the Scouting for Girls cover of "London Calling" (about 3m39s in on that clip), I'm pretty sure that this is what Joe Strummer would have wanted to be his musical legacy.

And we won the Left Lion Quiz at the Golden Fleece too, which was nice.

I'd like to say that my answer was decisive, but the truth is that it was about the only question that I really answered. Thanks to Sarah and LB's uncanny knowledge of Cher, Cliff Richard and Thompson Twins records, and Hen's remarkable recall of the vocal parts on USA for Africa's "We Are The World", plus the knowledge that the bloke off of the Krankies and Lemmy off of Motorhead shared the same christian name, we somehow muddled through....

Happy days.

We may all have stultifyingly dull day jobs, but it's good to know that we can at least put our brains to productive use at least once a week.

white wedding....

Congratulations to two of my very best friends, Keith and Tracey, who tied the knot on Friday afternoon. I first met Keith around 8 years ago when he came to interview for a room in the shared house that I used to live in. It was pretty much a formality, and over the years I don't think we ever turned anybody down, but for some reason, our landlady used to think that it was essential that we went through the hoops and had a formal meet up with prospective housemates. I remember the first message he left on the answering machine to arrange a time, as he sounded like the campest man alive - an impression that was only reinforced when he turned up on the doorstep wearing what can only be described as a pair of trainers that looked like ballet pumps. He seemed nice enough though, so in due course he moved in to the room at the very top of the house.

It was a brilliant decision - Keith is probably the most generous person that I know - and before long he was willingly doing every single task around the house: cleaning, washing up, ironing, charging up the electricity and gas cards.... it's also a real struggle to beat Keith to the bar to buy the first round, and he has been known to sneak away during meals to settle the bill before anyone else thinks to pay. He's a lovely man. Judging by the stream of young ladies who I met on the stairs on their way out in the morning, he certainly wasn't gay either...

Perhaps there was genius in our landlady's insistence on the interviews in that house, after all. I first moved in after I broke up with my last girlfriend in 1999 and was looking for somewhere to live in the classified section of the local newspaper. I ended up living there for about five years, and I only moved out when I moved into a little house with C. It was a really happy house and I made a lot of good friends there. In fact, I think it's fair to say that I'm still really close friends with almost everyone who passed through those rooms.

A couple of years after Keith moved in, my friend Kate's job moved to Birmingham, and the little room on the middle landing became available. As usual, the room went to the first person that we interviewed. In my interview, I had clinched my spot in the house by dint of the fact that I had a video recorder that would replace the one the departing housemate was taking with him. This time, all it took was the promise of plentiful supplies of biscuits (and the clinching statement that she disliked both M-People and Simply Red) and the blonde girl who was a production manager at a biscuit factory became a part of our lives. It was a promise that Tracey only came though on once, that I can remember, although we've done a bit better out of her since she started working at the Walkers crisps factory. She was a brilliant addition to the house though as she is the most fantastic value for money, whether that's sitting in front of the telly watching 'Eastenders' or out on the town after a couple of glasses of wine. On one occasion in the Nottingham Irish Club, a slightly tipsy Tracey flirted so outrageously with one guy that he started to respond, sending her running back to me. She threw her arms around my neck and told her now rather confused looking suitor that I was her, presumably very long-suffering, boyfriend. He apologised to me and made himself scarce, as Tracey tried not to choke on her barely stifled giggles. Bless her. She's vulnerable underneath her bluster though. She doesn't often let it show, but there's a definite softer side to Tracey, and maybe because of that, I love her to bits. She's like the little sister I never had.



Shortly after I moved out of the house, at a get together shortly before Christmas, Keith and Tracey rather sheepishly revealed to us all that they were a couple. Perhaps they were worried about how we'd all react to this news, but to be honest we were all as pleased as punch and found the idea that they'd spent a few months creeping around the landings of the house after dark quite funny. A little while later, they moved out of the house and into rented place together, and shortly after that they bought a place of their own. Things were obviously going well for them, and although Tracey used to talk big about how Keith didn't want to get married as he'd been married before, we all realised that Keith knew he was onto a good thing and would marry her as soon as she was ready. As it turned out, she announced she was ready at the back end of last year and they set the date for May 2nd 2008 - last Friday.

It was a lovely day. The venue was lovely and the church next door was very small and pretty (even if I can't get my head around the fact that although the Vicar was happy to take their money in a commercial arrangement to carry out the marriage, he can still somehow insist as a condition that they turn up in his church twice a month for six months, even though he knows he will never see them again after the ceremony. What's the point? When the vicar announced during the ceremony that there would be a collection to provide for something the church lacked, we wondered what that might be. I thought 'a sense of humour', but LB reckoned 'proof'. I kept my wallet in my pocket.... ).

It was good though. We laughed, we ate well - not least C's delicious handmade and eventually tiered wedding cake), we danced and we drank (lots of) toasts to two of my very best friends on the occasion of their marriage.

Hurray!

Might I just say that I thought that the wedding photographer was fantastic. She was an understated presence throughout the day, and although we did have a few formal poses, I reckon that there are going to be plenty of fantastic shots of the happy couple and their guests enjoying the day.

Not that I'm biased or anything.... nosiree.



So, all in all, a really happy day, and hearty congratulations once again to the Bride and the Groom, who are now off in Cape Town enjoying their honeymoon, which will also see them enjoying a safari and a few days in Mauritius.

Lucky them, eh?

And yes, when we went down to reception on Saturday morning, we found that Keith had beaten us to it and had already paid for the room. Bloody man!



...and perhaps I will just leave you with this rather striking image of two titans of the dancefloor strutting their stuff at the reception.

nothin' but a hound dog.....

That strangely brown creature next to my dad is Sadie.

Sadie was found wandering around the streets of Northampton when she was a puppy, some 13 years ago, and not long after that she was adopted by my mum and dad. She's something of an anxious little bean, but she's a sweet and attentive little dog and she has loads of personality. She's getting on a bit now, and is starting to get a bit stiff around her hind legs, so she certainly doesn't bounce around like a flea as much as she used to do, but I reckon there's some life in the old dog yet.

My dad absolutely adores this dog. He does insist on talking to her in a ridiculous baby voice, but he lavishes this dog with affection, and since his operation last year, she's been an excellent reason for him to get out of the house and take some exercise by taking her for walks in the forest.

A while ago, I decided it would be nice to get my dad a picture of his dog. Who better to ask to produce something like this than that wonderfully talented artist / photographer, Suburban Hen.



She's done a pretty good job, eh? I think my dad is going to be delighted.

Thank you Hen!

For all your artistic / photographic needs.

the warmth of your hand and a cold grey sky...

Sometimes, the best breaks of all are those where you do very little at all. Vienna is a wonderful city with a fantastic history and heritage, but I've just spent a very restful few days pottering about doing nothing very much in the company of a delightful Viennese family.

As well as wandering about, it's true that we did go to the Tutankhamun exhibition and the Haus des Meeres (a saltwater aquarium in the amazing setting of an old flak tower (one of several) that the Nazis built in the middle of Vienna).



I'm sure that both are wonderful attractions in their own right, but somehow seeing them through the eyes of a ten year old girl and an eight year old boy made them both that much more interesting. It was also kind of nice to be in the company of someone who understands that every set of stairs we come across in the course of our wanderings is something that should not simply be seen as a means of ascent or descent (as C. - bless her - tends to see them), but rather sees them for what they really are: an opportunity for a race.

It was a nice couple of days. I have eaten cake, schnitzel, chocolate, soup made from wild garlic freshly picked from the Vienna woods and goulash. I have drunk several local beers, some local wine and a drop or two of Talisker. I introduced an Austrian who had barely heard of the game to the full glory of the Six Nations (he loved it, he tells me) and also to the Manic Street Preachers. I also went to a jazz club and watched some improvisational jazz inspired by German philosophy and modern protest politics.... but more on Gilad Atzmon and the Oriental House Ensemble tomorrow, I think.

Mmmm. Nice.

We also came home to a nice note from the nice Cat Patrol people who have been popping round to look after the cat whilst we've been away:

"Minou has been a joy to look after. She has been here every morning and evening and has enjoyed her treats. Hope you had a great time."

A visit to the LB/Hen household reveals that they leave similar notes for everyone... but I do like to think that Minou may have another fan....

Bloody hell though. Easyjet aren't much fun though, are they? Would it kill them to print seat numbers on the tickets? Would it be too much to expect my fellow passengers not to push and shove?

Gah.

Still, in addition to the usual pile of Viennese chocolate, C. has brought back some new recipes, a guglhupf mould, some ground poppy seeds (for cake) and some sweet paprika (for goulash). That sounds promising, eh?

A good break with some good friends.

may the lines sag heavy and deep tonight...

On the day that I turned 33 last year, I was in Ecuador and spent several hours walking to the top of Mt Yanaurcu de Pinyan - a height of some 4535m. On the way back down I saw my first Condor, and later on that evening I was treated to some fantastic birthday french fries (whipped up on a camping stove and still absolutely delicious), some birthday cake and a bottle of wine that had been stashed away in our (teetotal) guide's bag for this very occasion. It was a really, really special and probably unique day.

Turning 34 was, of course, a very different experience to that. I had the day off work, but the sum total of excitement in the morning consisted of a bit of a lie in and the short walk up to the optician for a check-up and to have some stuff put in my eyes that dilated my pupils for a couple of hours and made walking around in the spring sunshine almost unbearable. Not the stuff that birthday dreams are made of just yet, but that was followed by a trip into town for a spot of shopping and some gifts from C. - a nice pair of jeans, a belt, some fancy pants (too much detail?), the third series of the Mighty Boosh on DVD... that kind of thing. Then just time for a quick run before some friends popped round for some champagne, some more prezzies and the short trip into town for a tasty meal (albeit the bar staff in the restaurant have no idea at all how to make a mojito). Then back to LB and Hen's for some of C's delicious homemade birthday cake and a few rounds of singstar.

So a very different day to last year, for sure, but a fantastic day in its own right nonetheless. It's good to spend time with your friends, and I'm grateful to them all for celebrating my birthday with me.

A good day.

I want to give you children...

I met up with an old friend of mine the other day. Whilst chewing the cud about this and that in the pub, he suddenly looked at me, put on a glum face and said:

"Lisa wants to get a cat"

"Right. And that's bad is it?"

"I don't like cats"

I shrugged. "So don't get a cat then"

He pulled a face. "She says it's either a cat or a baby".

Oh. I see his problem. It's catch-22: she's not offering him a real choice at all. When she says it's a cat or a baby, what she really means is that it's a cat then a baby. Either way, there's bound to be a baby involved at some point - it's just a matter of time.

I don't really see how he can win this one. It's a double-bind.

He can stall for time, I suppose, but if he *really* doesn't like cats then he simply has to bite the bullet and get on with the other option.

...or he can run as far and as fast as his legs will carry him. And even then, Lisa's pretty sporty, and I rather suspect that she can run both further and faster than him, and he knows it, so he's back to square one. He can run, but he can't hide.

No wonder he's looking a bit glum.

before I knew how much it cost to play it safe....

Remember, remember the fifth of November.

It was on Bonfire Night, exactly seventeen years ago today, that a good friend of mine asked me if I would look after her stash of vodka and some other assorted spirits. We were both not quite yet seventeen years old and such things were not only illegal in the eyes of the law of the land, but, of far more immediate concern to us both, it was also strictly forbidden in the school rules. As I stowed it away in my study, I knew that the consequences of being found with this contraband would be severe - most likely involving a letter to my parents and if not suspension, then certainly a period of confinement to the House (for obscure reasons, this was known as 'gating').

So why did I do it? I'd only actually known Catherine since the start of that term in September, so why risk punishment on her behalf? Those of you who did not attend a largely single-sex school will probably laugh at this, but this was a period of significant change in my life. Up until that point, I had gone through all of my schooling since the age of seven with classes made up almost entirely of boys. As I entered the sixth form, however, our routines and friendships were disrupted by the arrival of girls. The girls stayed in their own houses, of course, but they joined us for classes and were assigned to a boy's boarding house for their meals. This meant that when I arrived for the first lunch of the academic year, the fourteen boys in my year in my house were joined by four girls. Of course, as you might expect of some extremely emotionally retarded sixteen year old public schoolboys, the arrival of these interlopers immediately divided us into three main camps. In the first group there were those of us who treated these girls with disdain; as somehow lesser people who were only worthy of any attention if they were deemed to be attractive, otherwise they were to be at best ignored and at worst actively abused. A second group panicked completely and were like rabbits caught in the headlights; unwilling to accept that something had changed, but unable to stop looking and equally unable to open their mouths in the presence of such a thing as a girl. The third group probably liked to think that they were sensitive souls and actively repudiated the loathsome behaviour of the first group and the desperately pathetic reaction of the second group. These wiser boys would attempt to engage these girls in polite conversation and to otherwise acknowledge their existence, never letting a complete lack of any conversational experience with women get in their way. All three groups were divided in their reaction to the arrival of the girls, but all were united in the immaturity of their reactions. I was in the latter camp, incidentally, as if you wouldn't have guessed.

God knows what the girls made of all of this. Although they would only have arrived at the school a day or so before, they would probably have had ample time to experience the wonders of walking just in front of a group of thirteen year old boys who would loudly pass judgement upon you, making kissing noises if they liked you, and coughing or retching noises if they did not. Over time, they would develop survival strategies. A few lucky girls would find universal acclaim as being 'fit' and would be placed upon pedestals so high that they could only ever hope to be reached by members of the first XV rugby team - their survival would depend upon having a boyfriend who commanded respect. Others would be deemed 'alright' and generally left alone as long as they kept their heads down. The unfortunate majority would be openly and unsubtly abused for their perceived failings - their survival strategy would be to develop a thick skin. All would be judged on a daily basis by boys who outnumbered them ten to one. It was horrible.

I'd got on well with Catherine pretty much immediately. At that awful, stilted first meal, we had discovered that our parents lived about four miles apart and that we had bus routes into town in common. That had been enough to get us talking, which had been a great relief to me as my conversational gambits with girls were (and probably still are) somewhat limited. Over the course of the next few weeks, we became friends. Catherine proved to be intelligent, dignified and fiercely independent. There was no way that she was going to conform with anyone's expectations of how she should and should not behave, and she had the courage - at some cost - to try to retain her individuality in the face of a smotheringly chauvinist environment and some oppressive rules. She kept this up for the best part of two years as we studied for our A-Levels, and however vulnerable and insecure she must have been feeling, she managed to convey at all times an air of icy calm and disdain. I thought she was great and used to love meeting up with her during the school holidays, when I discovered that she had the same awkward air of non-conformism with her parents.

I think Catherine asked me to stash her booze that day because she had been seen smoking or out of bounds or something like that. Instead of taking part in sport or any of the other activities that Thomas Arnold deemed improving for the young men at his school, she would often go wandering around town with a couple of her friends, sitting in coffee shops and smoking. On this particular occasion, she had been out buying booze to drink that Saturday evening and was worried that she was going to have her room searched and be caught red-handed. Even then I was something of a loudmouth, but I had the happy talent of keeping my head below the parapet and generally avoiding trouble. I'd like to say that this was because of a brilliantly cunning survival strategy, but really it was because I was pretty square and didn't really do anything much that might land me in serious trouble... the odd drink, the odd cigarette... but nothing particularly out of line. When Catherine asked me to look after her booze, I didn't hesitate and tucked it away without a second thought. She kindly said that I could help myself to as much as I fancied, but needless to say I didn't touch it.

The town's firework display and bonfire was taking place that evening in the park quite near to our House, and for some reason we were given permission to attend. I can remember walking over and standing around in the dark watching a half-decent display of fireworks and wondering if Catherine had got into any serious trouble or if I would bump into her. At the time, it seemed to me that she was reckless and hellbent upon self-destruction, and perhaps she was. She defied the the rules so blatantly that it seemed impossible that she would be with us for long. I remember realising, perhaps for the first time, that perhaps it was cruel to put a person like Catherine into an environment like that school where she would be crushed (the school would probably prefer the term 'moulded', but crushing is what it was). Perhaps it's cruel and damaging for anybody to be into that kind of an environment, but where I had the ability to conform and to survive, I don't think that Catherine had the ability to conform or the will to survive.

She did survive though, and went on to Cambridge university and a career in publishing. The last time I saw her was six or seven years ago at a coffee shop outside Baker Street tube station. She seemed content (she was about to get married) but still happily carrying that fierce intelligence and slightly prickly air of non-conformism. We've lost touch since, but all the fireworks over the weekend have reminded me of her and that weekend half a lifetime ago, as they usually do.

Never mind Guy Fawkes: it's my friend Catherine that I choose to remember at this time of the year.

viva las vegas!

Looking for LB? Try here....

start again.

I thought that finding something appropriate to read at the wedding of two close friends would be a doddle.

Apparently not.

I wanted to avoid slush at all costs, but actually finding something appropriate is devilishly hard. For once, this is an area where the internet is of no bloody use at all, suggesting that you go for some drippy poetry or a reading from Captain Correlli. Fine, but not what I was looking for.

I was convinced that Nick Hornby would come up trumps, but it turns out that "Fever Pitch" really is mainly about football (and Arsenal at that) and that "High Fidelity" -- great book though it is -- is distinctly double-edged in most of its key passages, and probably a bit too close to the bone to be read out at a wedding ceremony....

A bit of the last chapter of "Ulysses"? No. Some Robert Frost? No. Something by Shakespeare? e e cummings? D.H. Lawrence? John bloody Hegley? No, no, no.

Argghhh!

And then I thought about this:

---

I hope all my days
Will be lit by your face
I hope all the years
Will hold tight our promises

I don't wanna be old and sleep alone
An empty house is not a home
I don't wanna be old and feel afraid

I don't wanna be old and sleep alone
An empty house is not a home
I don't wanna be old and feel afraid

And if I need anything at all

I need a place
That's hidden in the deep
Where lonely angels sing you to your sleep
Though all the world is broken

I need a place
Where I can make my bed
A lover's lap where I can lay my head
Cos now the room is spinning
The day's beginning

---

It felt right, and I hope they liked it.

I wish them happiness with all of my heart.

william, it was really nothing....

After purchasing tickets to various forthcoming shows*, but before heading into the auditorium on Friday evening, Sarah and I had a quick glass of wine in the bar connected to the Playhouse. It was whilst we were sat there, totting up who owed what to who and who needed what ticket for when, that I saw him. He hadn't really changed all that much since I last saw him some twelve years ago and I recognised him almost immediately. His hair was shorter now, but it still had that distinctive dusty orange colour and he was still whippet thin and slightly gangly. He breezed past where we were sitting, looking around him as though for someone he was supposed to me meeting. I hadn't seen him in more than a decade, but there was absolutely no mistaking William.

I was at University with William and I suppose you could probably call us friends, although we were never really terribly close and had been somewhat thrown together by mutual friends. In our third year we actually shared a flat together in Venice for a few months and again when we came back to campus, although on each occasion we shared these flats with our friends. He was a funny fish really. He was awkward and spiky at the best of times, and he was a loner who liked company but seemed to rather resent it. He was seriously into his music too; one of those kids who absolutely threw himself into the loudest and most angular corners of American hardcore and made a point of knowing the minutiae of every single band he loved. He scorned the mainstream, of course, but reserved most of his vitriol for someone like me who wasn't exactly mainstream, but certainly wasn't as bleeding edge in my musical tastes as him. He rather fancied himself as straight edge too, or at least rather liked the idea of it, if not the actual practice of it. Like a lot of introverts he was also prone to sudden furious outbursts in company that seemed woefully out of place, as though he had felt the need to contribute to conversation but was incapable of judging the correct tone.

Like I say, he was a funny fish... and after we graduated, I don't think we even pretended that we were going to be keeping in touch and we didn't exchange emails, addresses, phone numbers or anything.

And then I saw him in Nottingham on Friday night.

I've lived here now for ten years. In all that time, I've been to quite a lot of gigs. I'm pretty sure that if he had been living around here during that time then he would be certain to go to a lot of gigs, and I'm pretty sure that I would have seen him at a concert in the Rescue Rooms or somewhere. Unless perhaps he saw me first.

I'm fairly sure he recognised me on Friday, anyway. After walking past us looking for his friends, I saw him walk a little more slowly past the outside of the window where we were sitting and caught him having a second look at me when he thought I wasn't watching.

So did he come and say hello? Did I chase after him and greet him like an old friend?

No, of course not. Two introverts don't equal an extrovert.

* The tickets were for Sean Lock, Mark Steel, Lee Mack, Punt & Dennis & Tim Minchin... although I'm only going to the first three of those. I think I'd better add them to the gig list before I forget.

oh, it's my only joy....

There are friends who I have known for as long as I have been drinking who will swear that they have never seen me drunk. This is certainly not because I have never been drunk in their presence, or that I have a particularly legendary capacity for consuming alcohol, it is simply because I have either been less drunk than them, or have simply appeared to be less drunk than them.

I mention this because I managed to get quite comprehensively and unequivocally drunk on Saturday evening at Lord B's stag do. We'd started with a few quiet pints at about half-past two, and I was feeling nothing more than a pleasant buzz until at some point around six or seven in the evening when I foolishly consumed about two and a half pints of some really nasty scrumpy. I wasn't trying to impress anyone particularly, but it just seemed to slip down nicely, and each time I reached the bottom of my glass, it was recharged (everyone else wisely stuck to the same pint, many not even attempting to finish that). In the amount of time it took that cider to start being absorbed into my system, I just collapsed. I don't remember there being much of a tipsy stage, and I don't remember a slurring and staggering stage... in fact I don't remember very much at all. I seemed to go from being fine directly to wanting nothing more than to go to bed. I don't recall feeling sick or getting head spin or anything like that. All I remember is my body starting to shut down and a desperate urge to get home. At one point, my homing system took me out of the house we were in and into the street in an attempt -- in my head at least -- to find a taxi. Thankfully Lord B. came and rescued me from underneath the lampost where I had abandoned my ill-fated attempt and took me back, first to the others and then in a taxi home.

The next day, I didn't so much feel hungover as, well, wonky. I wasn't particularly thirsty as I don't think that I had really drunk all that much, and I've certainly drunk a lot more in the past... but for whatever reason, this time around, something just tipped me right over the edge and knocked me for six.

As I tried to piece my evening together though, the thing that I kept coming back too was that I hate being that drunk, and I hate people seeing me that drunk. I think it might be a control thing: I like to feel that I am always in control of myself and that I have something left in reserve. Above all though, I like other people to think that of me.

On Saturday night, this clearly wasn't the case. There's absolutely no pretending that I wasn't in need of some help to get me home safely.

You know what though? I don't think that was necessarily a bad thing.

Oh sure, I'm not keen on having any more of that cider any time soon, and I hope I didn't really embarrass anyone but myself, but what I have learnt is that sometimes it's okay to strip away that reserve and to show people from time to time that I'm vulnerable. The really important thing is having people around you who care about you enough for it not to matter; people who will make sure that you get home in one piece at the end of the night.

I'm sure my wander in the Park will go down into legend now, and that it will be brought up from time to time for a giggle.... but that's okay, I think. I'm comfortable with that. If you can't laugh at yourself with your best friends from time to time, then when can you?

I'm fairly sure that it's the bridegroom who is supposed to be helped home at the end of his stag night, but to be honest I'm just grateful that he was there for me when I needed him.

tonight we're going to rock you tonight....

Having already displayed my geekish tendencies by spending much of last week playing Spider-Man II, I'm maybe a little reluctant to tell you about this....

Oh, go on then.

I spent several hours yesterday evening pretending that I am a rock god.



Sad, yes... but in my defence, it wasn't just me.



Sarah turned out to be an absolute natural.



...and Lord B kept being asked by the crowd to play encores (even if he had never heard "Tonight We're Going To Rock You Tonight" before. I really must sit him down in front of Spinal Tap)



Hen instinctively understood the crucial role of the "rock face" as the solo reaches its climax.



...whilst C. preferred a more "classical" style.

Guitar Hero is a very, very silly game indeed (do you think anyone under the age of 30 actually buys this?).

And as a direct and somewhat unfortunate consequence of the game soundtrack, I am now also earworming some of the most ridiculous heavy metal: "Strutter" by Kiss. "Carry On Wayward Son" by Kansas. "Woman" by Wolfmother. "Them Bones" by Alice In Chains....
Excellent!

What's not to like?

Photos taken by Hen and Sarah and available here and here. An excellent evening.

spineless swines, cemented minds...

Whilst I was cleaning out those boxes at my mum and dad's house, I came across a pile of old photographs from my school days. Every term we had a photographer come round to the House to take pictures of the various sporting teams and so on, and every summer he took a picture of the whole House. From time to time, and in spite of the fact that I wasn't especially sporty, some of those pictures would feature me. Sadly it looks like some of them have survived. None of these are in the least bit flattering, and so obviously I'm going to post them up here for public consumption.....

A word about my school: in case you hadn't spotted already, I attended one of the more famous Public Schools in England. I'm not in the least bit proud of this and I don't really like telling people. Why? Because people have the most terrible preconceptions about Public Schools and about Public Schoolboys. Like many preconception, some of these have absolutely no foundation. I had some great times at school, and most of my best friends today are people that I met at that school - some of them are almost normal. Having said that, there were many other people at that school who I would be delighted never to see again. Their tragedy is not so much that they were horrible, stereotypical English Public Schoolboys then, but that twenty years later, many of them have hardly changed at all.

Anyway. Here are the photos - the quality's a bit poor, especially when you blow them up, but they're good enough to get the general idea and I'm guessing no one wants to make any posters out of them....



The 1991 "First House" Rugby Team. This was the senior side picked to represent the House in the inter-House rugby tournament (the school was divided into something like 14 boys houses, each containing something like 50 or 60 kids from 13 to 18). What with the game having been invented at the school, rugby union was the signature sport. The captain of the school First XV was almost always the Head of School, and the other players in the team always seemed to end up being the Heads of Houses. Ability at rugby was always deemed more important than academic excellence. My House was always dreadful at rugby and we never won this tournament. 1991 was no different.

The silly hat on the guy in the middle means that he had been "capped" (i.e. awarded his colours) by the School first XV. Players in the full national side have very similar caps. Actually, the England rugby team have to ask the headmaster every year for permission to borrow the school colours -- black socks, white shorts and white shirts. If you look really closely you'll see that some of the other players - including me - are wearing black socks and not grey socks. Thats means that the players had been "awarded their socks" (colours) by the School 2nd, 3rd or 4th XVs.

I played for the Thirds that year.



This is the House photo from 1991, taken in the back garden after lunch one day. Statue John is standing far left in the first standing row. I was 17 years old at this point and in the "Lower Twenty" and was already a "sixth" (prefect). Girls only joined the the school in the sixth form, and although there were 4 girls houses at the school, they were all assigned to a boys house for their meals. Here they were outnumbered something like 10 to 1 by boys who had spent their whole lives in single sex schools and had no idea what a girl was, nevermind how you were supposed to talk to them or relate to them. They really were like another species to us, and they had to put up with all kinds of childish abuse, ranging from marks out of ten from the table of thirteen year olds all the way through to bullying from the 'more mature' sixth formers. I'm amazed that any of them survived it, frankly. Some girls thrived.

No daughter of mine will ever attend a school like this. No child of mine will ever attend a single-sex school.



This is the winning team from the 1988 House Under-14 8-a-side hockey tournament. I was the goalie and we won the final on a penalty shoot-out. As I recall, it was the first time that I had ever played in goal. At the risk of this becoming like a game of "Where's Wally", Statue John is in this one too.



Summer 1992. This is a picture of our two "Levée" (heads of House - here in their blazers and stripey ties) and the "Sixth" (prefects). I think this is probably taken either during or just after our A-Levels. We were the people who were supposed to help the headmaster to run the house and carried out the tasks like supervising prep, making sure that everyone went to bed on time and got up on time. In return, we got some privileges and pretty much boundless authority over everyone else in the house. I seem to recall that we spent most of the time either smoking out our study windows or trying to nip off to the pub.

Don't we look like wankers? (at least the others weren't wearing their boaters in this picture..... I refused to have one, but many others liked to swan around town in them).

Here's a game for you: tell me who you think looks the most loathsome and I'll tell you if you're right. Pick me if you want, but do try not to pick Statue John....



I have very mixed feelings about the other photos here, but this one is from a bit earlier and from a different school --- this is the first XV at my prep school and the photo was taken in 1986.

A more innocent time.

scattered pictures of the smiles we left behind...

My mum and dad are moving house in a couple of months.... nothing drastic, they're just shifting a mile or so down the road into the middle of the village.... but they have been getting ready for the big day by slowly clearing out the clutter that they have accumulated over the course of the last 29 years or so of living in the same place. Needless to say, quite a bit of that clutter actually belongs to their three sons, and the last few times I have been down here, I have had the pleasure of sorting through boxes of stuff that they have brought down from the attic.

Last time I was here, I had the distinct pleasure of reading through some of my old school reports (watch this space - I'll probably post some of the highlights up here at some point, although suffice it to say that one of the highlights is when I score a "C" for personal hygiene). This time around though I seemed to be trawling though old books and piles and piles of old letters.

Amongst the old birthday cards and things (would you believe that I stumbled across some cards from my first birthday?) I discovered a cache of letters dating from when I was around about 17 or 18 and a number from when I was a student. Judging by the volume of them, it looks like I was quite the correspondent in the pre-email era.

Funnily enough, it was one of the first ones that I read that had the biggest emotional impact on me. It was a letter enclosed in a hand made envelope constructed from the page of a local newspaper, and it dated back to the summer of 1991. It was the first letter sent to me by my friend Sarah after she had suddenly left school in the middle of term and with no explanations. I'm not sure how best to describe my relationship with Sarah. I was a 17 year old emotional cripple who had absolutely no idea how to relate to girls. Sarah was a 17 year old girl who had been thrown into the hostile environment of an (almost) all male English public school and who had struggled to cope. By chance we were in the same history class and we ate our meals together in the same boarding house. I think we got on reasonably well. I liked her, and in spite of the fact that I was unable to find a way of talking to her normally, I think she liked me too. We were friends - or at least we were becoming friends. We only really knew each other for a little less than a year and I wish we had had longer.

I distinctly remember earlier that summer when we were both on a school trip to Stratford to watch some Shakespeare. We had a really good chat in spite of the fact that I became some sort of bumbling Hugh Grant-like figure when my arm accidentally brushed against her side. I think it was a week or two before she left, and I think she tried to tell me... but she never quite did.

Shortly afterwards she was gone, and I don't think I ever saw her again (although I see that we corresponded for a few months afterwards). At the time there was quite a buzz of speculation around the school about why she left. Of course I was curious too, but it seemed largely irrelevant. I was just sad that she was gone. A few weeks later, I received that first letter and although it told me very little really, it was nice just to hear from her and know that she was okay. I treasured that letter, and although I had forgotten all about it, it was no surprise to me that it was the first thing that I saw when I opened that shoebox full old postcards, birthday cards and letters.

I read that letter again this morning and although it was written something like 16 years ago, it hit me quite hard. I found myself wondering all over again how she was and hoping that everything had worked out okay for her.

Amongst the many books I found in those boxes, I stumbled across a thin hardback called "Petra - a dog for everyone". This tells this story of the long and eventful life of the first Blue Peter dog. That bloody dog died in 1977 when I was three years old, and even though I can barely remember watching her on TV, this book has made me cry for as long as I can remember.

So what did I do? I read the book and it made me cry all over again.

I'm rather afraid that underneath this bluff exterior, I am really something of a sentimental old sod.

I've kept the book, obviously. And that letter.