My grandson, Oscar, as Huckleberry Finn for World Book Day (costume hand-made by my wife, Pauline)! Cute, or what?
And his predecessor, my son Ben, way back...
And finally, Ben’s little sister, Emily, Oscar’s Mum!
Thursday, 1 March 2012
World Book Day – our very own Huck Finn!
My grandson, Oscar, as Huckleberry Finn for World Book Day (costume hand-made by my wife, Pauline)! Cute, or what?
And his predecessor, my son Ben, way back...
And finally, Ben’s little sister, Emily, Oscar’s Mum!
Wednesday, 29 February 2012
On blogs and complaining – or – address and redress
My drear friend, Aloysius Z. Kattelbaum (of Book Titles and other tittle-tattle, below) kindly sent me these instructions on the RIGHT way to complain:
“I’d like to complain about your blog. It was so sharp it had me in stitches. I’ve never had stitches in my sides before but I’ve heard about people like you in China. Are you in the kidney business? I ought to sue.
I’d like to sue but I don’t have any money. You are considerably richer than me, somebody told me. If you lent me the money I could sue you.
In addition to that, the amount of time you’ve wasted I figure is worth something. I should charge you for that, too.
That’ll be at least £1,200 so far (and I haven’t got halfway down your blog yet).
I had lunch with my accountant once, which was a surprise because he normally looks down on people like me, and we had a long and interesting discussion about his holiday home in New York County alongside the longest lake in the US and how he always flies Virgin Atlantic, taking an economy seat, upgraded for free because his legs wouldn’t fit (he’s 6ft 7in) and how 150 -yr-old ‘historic’ houses over there can be bought cheaply because Americans prefer new.
The lunch was educational and expensive for me, but entertaining, and the next day he sent me the bill for the hour and a half and that’s how I know the going rates (accountants’, lawyers’, apostrophe’s and legalese).
Come to think of it, maybe he was charging for entertaining me, in which case of course, you could too. In that case just lend me the money to sue you and send me the entertainment bill and we’ll call it quits.”
“I’d like to complain about your blog. It was so sharp it had me in stitches. I’ve never had stitches in my sides before but I’ve heard about people like you in China. Are you in the kidney business? I ought to sue.
I’d like to sue but I don’t have any money. You are considerably richer than me, somebody told me. If you lent me the money I could sue you.
In addition to that, the amount of time you’ve wasted I figure is worth something. I should charge you for that, too.
That’ll be at least £1,200 so far (and I haven’t got halfway down your blog yet).
I had lunch with my accountant once, which was a surprise because he normally looks down on people like me, and we had a long and interesting discussion about his holiday home in New York County alongside the longest lake in the US and how he always flies Virgin Atlantic, taking an economy seat, upgraded for free because his legs wouldn’t fit (he’s 6ft 7in) and how 150 -yr-old ‘historic’ houses over there can be bought cheaply because Americans prefer new.
The lunch was educational and expensive for me, but entertaining, and the next day he sent me the bill for the hour and a half and that’s how I know the going rates (accountants’, lawyers’, apostrophe’s and legalese).
Come to think of it, maybe he was charging for entertaining me, in which case of course, you could too. In that case just lend me the money to sue you and send me the entertainment bill and we’ll call it quits.”
The Third Policeman… and all the rest.
The terrible row brewing about the possible appropriation of policemen’s pensions for the greater good of society strangely set me to thinking about The Third Policeman.
Like poor Brian O’Nolan, who died still waiting for its pub location, policemen have often to wait 27 years for the realization of their dreams: pensions double those of the average public sector workers whose pensions are up to six times those of private sector workers (those that don’t fall by the wayside through battle-fatigue or worse).
It was while listening on the radio to the union’s representative pointing out the incredible stress most policemen suffer, unlike soldiers, firemen and medical staff, that justified their justified index-linked pensions and early retirement, that my cynical reaction was suddenly turned on its head by the realization of my own possible contribution to the early demise of those with whom I had irritably interacted on occasion. And, yes, it must have been around 27 years after I started driving that the trouble began…
On the first occasion, after passing a bored police patrolman while turning left in the right-hand-lane on a dual-carriageway-roundabout and continuing on that dual-carriageway to overtake a dozen or so vehicles, through the next roundabout and on, veering left to turn right on an overhead roundabout, along another dual carriageway overtaking assorted vehicles past two more roundabouts until, as the dual carriage ended, I noticed the wail of a siren and flashing lights behind. Naturally, I slowed to let past this vehicle on its away to some emergency (the station to which they return for tea was not many miles ahead).
Sensing the alacrity with which I gave way, the police car pulled over and stopped just ahead. Two officers climbed out and strode over. Instead of shaking my hand in congratulation at the rapidity of my avoidance-response, as he leaned into my driver’s window the offside officer removed the key from my ignition and offhandedly asked if I had my handbrake on just as his fellow gave my car an almighty shove up the backside. The first then asked me out for a chat. His comrade, seemingly upset at my car’s unresponsiveness to his manly thrust, despondently kicked at its wheels for a while as the first questioned me about my automobile and credentials.
When I admitted it was my eighty-year-old mother’s car, an old Peugeot 205 diesel (twice written-off and twice resuscitated – unadmittedly) that I was driving, aged fifty-something, he let me go with a warning about driving without ABS. I guess he felt sorry for me, though how he could tell through my jumper, I don’t know.
But it was my proudest moment when he announced, before he left, he had been chasing me all that way in a Pursuit Ford Cosworth.
I had never felt more elated since I evaded, in that same car, four men in a BMW 3-series messing about on the motorway by overtaking me, slowing down and repeating the process, who mistook my flashing lights as some sort of invitation to meet. Leaving the motorway, some sixth sense jumped into gear and I pulled up behind them at a roundabout at the end of the motorway sliproad at just the right distance to enable me to accelerate past them as all four jumped out to say hello. After an exciting cross-country pursuit of some eight miles to the next the next dual carriageway I pulled into a layby to watch them rocket past at 90 miles per hour in the outside lane, waving merrily to me, so much did they enjoy our little race. Oh, the joys of Friday evening commuting in that trusty old Pug!
The second incident: after a Christmas bash in the offices of a London newspaper and one or more –my memory is hazy after all this time – glasses of wine, I drove home to Sussex (in the days when people used to do that kind of thing – drive home, I mean).
On that same dual carriageway I was pulled over by a policeman (happily I don’t remember if it was the same one or I might have suspected something amiss, though he didn’t seem that sort) who insisted I blow into his little bag. The sheer excitement caused palpitations that precipitated a sudden rapid breathing resulting in a final massive puff into his tube that registered nothing at all, so that I was permitted to return home and have a happy Christmas after all.
In fact I have now come to believe policemen are indeed my friends as they frequently stop me to see how I am and admire my cars and often coming knocking at my door to let me know how others have commented on my overtaking skills. They take time out of their busy schedules to fraternise, such is their warmth.
Why, one even called at our door on Christmas morning, after my son, with his infant daughter in hand and arms full of presents, on arrival in our street inadvertently ‘threatened’ a poor resident who, in the spirit of the season, had kindly warned him of the illegality of parking on a public highway outside his own house, to warn my son that language likely to strike terror into the quailing breasts of citizens righteously protecting their personal space was to be avoided at all costs.
That these officers can behave in this most friendly fashion despite, as you can see, dealing with the dregs of humanity in grave situations at great (and I emphasize) ‘personal risk to themselves’, including I might add the grave risk that they may not even stay in the force long enough to maximise the benefits of their final-salary pensions, is a testament to their outstanding upstandingness, for which they should of course be duly rewarded with index-linked early-retirement benefits the rest of us (non-lottery winners) can only dream of.
Indeed, I would go so far as to suggest they be given the opportunity to undertake, at public expense, further training to enable them to engage upon a second career to occupy that greater part of their lives so that their well-deserved years of retirement are not prematurely curtailed through dying of boredom.
But, “what’s all this got to do with Flann O’Brien?” you might ask.
Like poor Brian O’Nolan, who died still waiting for its pub location, policemen have often to wait 27 years for the realization of their dreams: pensions double those of the average public sector workers whose pensions are up to six times those of private sector workers (those that don’t fall by the wayside through battle-fatigue or worse).
It was while listening on the radio to the union’s representative pointing out the incredible stress most policemen suffer, unlike soldiers, firemen and medical staff, that justified their justified index-linked pensions and early retirement, that my cynical reaction was suddenly turned on its head by the realization of my own possible contribution to the early demise of those with whom I had irritably interacted on occasion. And, yes, it must have been around 27 years after I started driving that the trouble began…
On the first occasion, after passing a bored police patrolman while turning left in the right-hand-lane on a dual-carriageway-roundabout and continuing on that dual-carriageway to overtake a dozen or so vehicles, through the next roundabout and on, veering left to turn right on an overhead roundabout, along another dual carriageway overtaking assorted vehicles past two more roundabouts until, as the dual carriage ended, I noticed the wail of a siren and flashing lights behind. Naturally, I slowed to let past this vehicle on its away to some emergency (the station to which they return for tea was not many miles ahead).
Sensing the alacrity with which I gave way, the police car pulled over and stopped just ahead. Two officers climbed out and strode over. Instead of shaking my hand in congratulation at the rapidity of my avoidance-response, as he leaned into my driver’s window the offside officer removed the key from my ignition and offhandedly asked if I had my handbrake on just as his fellow gave my car an almighty shove up the backside. The first then asked me out for a chat. His comrade, seemingly upset at my car’s unresponsiveness to his manly thrust, despondently kicked at its wheels for a while as the first questioned me about my automobile and credentials.
When I admitted it was my eighty-year-old mother’s car, an old Peugeot 205 diesel (twice written-off and twice resuscitated – unadmittedly) that I was driving, aged fifty-something, he let me go with a warning about driving without ABS. I guess he felt sorry for me, though how he could tell through my jumper, I don’t know.
But it was my proudest moment when he announced, before he left, he had been chasing me all that way in a Pursuit Ford Cosworth.
I had never felt more elated since I evaded, in that same car, four men in a BMW 3-series messing about on the motorway by overtaking me, slowing down and repeating the process, who mistook my flashing lights as some sort of invitation to meet. Leaving the motorway, some sixth sense jumped into gear and I pulled up behind them at a roundabout at the end of the motorway sliproad at just the right distance to enable me to accelerate past them as all four jumped out to say hello. After an exciting cross-country pursuit of some eight miles to the next the next dual carriageway I pulled into a layby to watch them rocket past at 90 miles per hour in the outside lane, waving merrily to me, so much did they enjoy our little race. Oh, the joys of Friday evening commuting in that trusty old Pug!
The second incident: after a Christmas bash in the offices of a London newspaper and one or more –my memory is hazy after all this time – glasses of wine, I drove home to Sussex (in the days when people used to do that kind of thing – drive home, I mean).
On that same dual carriageway I was pulled over by a policeman (happily I don’t remember if it was the same one or I might have suspected something amiss, though he didn’t seem that sort) who insisted I blow into his little bag. The sheer excitement caused palpitations that precipitated a sudden rapid breathing resulting in a final massive puff into his tube that registered nothing at all, so that I was permitted to return home and have a happy Christmas after all.
In fact I have now come to believe policemen are indeed my friends as they frequently stop me to see how I am and admire my cars and often coming knocking at my door to let me know how others have commented on my overtaking skills. They take time out of their busy schedules to fraternise, such is their warmth.
Why, one even called at our door on Christmas morning, after my son, with his infant daughter in hand and arms full of presents, on arrival in our street inadvertently ‘threatened’ a poor resident who, in the spirit of the season, had kindly warned him of the illegality of parking on a public highway outside his own house, to warn my son that language likely to strike terror into the quailing breasts of citizens righteously protecting their personal space was to be avoided at all costs.
That these officers can behave in this most friendly fashion despite, as you can see, dealing with the dregs of humanity in grave situations at great (and I emphasize) ‘personal risk to themselves’, including I might add the grave risk that they may not even stay in the force long enough to maximise the benefits of their final-salary pensions, is a testament to their outstanding upstandingness, for which they should of course be duly rewarded with index-linked early-retirement benefits the rest of us (non-lottery winners) can only dream of.
Indeed, I would go so far as to suggest they be given the opportunity to undertake, at public expense, further training to enable them to engage upon a second career to occupy that greater part of their lives so that their well-deserved years of retirement are not prematurely curtailed through dying of boredom.
But, “what’s all this got to do with Flann O’Brien?” you might ask.
Friday, 24 February 2012
The Flight of Birds – Very nice review
After tweeting this,
@OnundTreefoot Just finished The Flight of Birds - fantastic! it had me deferring theTimes Crossword on the commute to London each morning
Steve Sharpe, a Times Crossword fanatic, very kindly wrote this review on Amazon:)
Steve Sharpe, a Times Crossword fanatic, very kindly wrote this review on Amazon:)
Title: If you enjoyed The Quincunx you will love this.
Rating 5 Stars
“This is a truly astonishing book. The cleverly spun threads will draw you into a web of intrigue and mystery that will have you gripped throughout. If you enjoyed the Quincunx you will love this - I can't recommend it highly enough.”
Wednesday, 22 February 2012
On Book Titles and other tittle-tattle.
Anticipating the recent trend of publishers’ book titles
of a sometimes clever and witty nature,
having some, little or no relevance to
The Content of Books,
such as:
The Elegance of the Hedgehog
and others… (whose memorability is such that they have temporarily slipped his mind)
the noted Fellow,
Aloysius F. Kattelbaum, here published his
Authoritative Iteration of Entitlements
in which he lists,
for those authors for whom
The Absence of Ideas
for a title of their own is a problem,
and, being himself primarily,
The Man of Letters
he begins with
The Articulation of Alphabets:
The Prefixing of -Ase.
The Knitting of Bees
The Circumscription of Seas
De -nunciation of Dese
The Taking of Ease
The Upping of Gees
The Dropping of ’Aitches
The Selfishness of Eyes
The -ing of Eff’s
The Jabbering of Jays
The Cataloguing of Kays
The Measuring of Ells
The Spectre of EMS
The Absence of Ens
The Burden of Owes
The Mushing of Peas
The Annoyance of Queues
The Wiping of Ars
The Repetition of Esses
The Irritation of Teas
The Bleating of Ewes
The Signing of Vees
The Cloning of Double-You’s
The Suing of Ex’s
The Asking of Why’s
The Bedding of Zeds
and so, Aloysius M. Mittelbaum
proceeds on to
A Series of Suggestions:
The Execution of Sentences
The Particularity of Paragraphs
The Partiality of Phrases
The Interruption of Parentheses
The Absurdity of Words
The Denunciation of Nouns.
The Preposterousness of Prepositions
The Accompanying of Adjectives
The Lying of Adverbs
The Closure of Consonants
The Openness of Vowels
(with apologies for
The Unevenness of Originality)
until,
our esteemed author,
Aloysius S. S. Stutterbaum,
finally questions:
The Primacy of Titles
The Perniciousness of Trends
noting that most titles are
agreed by committee
as a result of a
A Concatenation of Circumstances
beyond the poor author’s control.
[As are the covers, he suggests,
designed, precisely from precis,
as instant indentifiers
of Genre,
The Leibfraumilch of Literature
or of Style,
The Sine Qua Non of Design
in either case, for
The Followers of Fads.]
[Like Sebastian’s friend, Aloysius cannot bear not to be the centre of attention and affection and so I am forced to indulge my flighty friend now and again – it makes him feel wanted.]
of a sometimes clever and witty nature,
having some, little or no relevance to
The Content of Books,
such as:
The Elegance of the Hedgehog
and others… (whose memorability is such that they have temporarily slipped his mind)
the noted Fellow,
Aloysius F. Kattelbaum, here published his
Authoritative Iteration of Entitlements
in which he lists,
for those authors for whom
The Absence of Ideas
for a title of their own is a problem,
and, being himself primarily,
The Man of Letters
he begins with
The Articulation of Alphabets:
The Prefixing of -Ase.
The Knitting of Bees
The Circumscription of Seas
De -nunciation of Dese
The Taking of Ease
The Upping of Gees
The Dropping of ’Aitches
The Selfishness of Eyes
The -ing of Eff’s
The Jabbering of Jays
The Cataloguing of Kays
The Measuring of Ells
The Spectre of EMS
The Absence of Ens
The Burden of Owes
The Mushing of Peas
The Annoyance of Queues
The Wiping of Ars
The Repetition of Esses
The Irritation of Teas
The Bleating of Ewes
The Signing of Vees
The Cloning of Double-You’s
The Suing of Ex’s
The Asking of Why’s
The Bedding of Zeds
and so, Aloysius M. Mittelbaum
proceeds on to
A Series of Suggestions:
The Execution of Sentences
The Particularity of Paragraphs
The Partiality of Phrases
The Interruption of Parentheses
The Absurdity of Words
The Denunciation of Nouns.
The Preposterousness of Prepositions
The Accompanying of Adjectives
The Lying of Adverbs
The Closure of Consonants
The Openness of Vowels
(with apologies for
The Unevenness of Originality)
until,
our esteemed author,
Aloysius S. S. Stutterbaum,
finally questions:
The Primacy of Titles
The Perniciousness of Trends
noting that most titles are
agreed by committee
as a result of a
A Concatenation of Circumstances
beyond the poor author’s control.
[As are the covers, he suggests,
designed, precisely from precis,
as instant indentifiers
of Genre,
The Leibfraumilch of Literature
or of Style,
The Sine Qua Non of Design
in either case, for
The Followers of Fads.]
[Like Sebastian’s friend, Aloysius cannot bear not to be the centre of attention and affection and so I am forced to indulge my flighty friend now and again – it makes him feel wanted.]
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