tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42098921877168690792024-03-14T04:40:55.253+00:00Siddie Nam's Too Wordy For TwitterI usually can't contain myself enough for Twitter's 140ish characters. So I blog instead. I'm Siddie Nam, I live in London, UK, and these words describe London Life and other things.DadBloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888168433715244522noreply@blogger.comBlogger39125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4209892187716869079.post-33706118942904409122012-10-15T23:34:00.000+01:002012-10-15T23:34:47.574+01:00The non-temporary disbelief in suspensionMy friend Addie co-authors my sister blog about beer (without meaning to deliberately plug it -- <a href="http://siddienambeer.blogspot.co.uk/" target="_blank">see here</a>). I don't usually write about him, but it so happens that he has just watched the recently released Prometheus on 3D Blu-Ray. He is currently the only person I know with a 3D television, and with only one UK channel regularly broadcasting in 3D ("Sky 3D"), I have sometimes wondered why he acquired this expensive gadget. He's not even a Sky customer. This means that he only watches 3D Blu-Rays and the occasional other 3D transmissions. For example, the BBC recently transmitted some of the Olympics in 3D on its main HD service, as well as the final of the last series of (the horribly named) Strictly Come Dancing. (This programme is currently the world's most successful TV franchise, and makes the BBC lots of cash. It has the different but equally awful name "Dancing with the Stars" in other English-speaking parts of the world. Happily the Spanish American version has the much better "Mira Quien Baila".) Addie is neither a regular sports fan, nor a regular watcher of televised ballroom competition, meaning that he is watching programmes simply because they are available in 3D, rather than due to the merits or otherwise of the broadcasts themselves. In other words, he is obsessed by the gadgety gimmickry, and he must go out without delay, get himself an instance of whatever the thing happens to be, and own it immediately.<br />
<br />
So, Prometheus. If you haven't seen this film then beware; I don't think I'm about to write any genuine spoilers, but you may not want to chance it; stop reading now, come back another day, and thanks for visiting. As Amazon and eBay like to say, why not bookmark this page? (Microsoft persist in being the only people to call these things "Favorites" -- sic, since us Brits even have that spelling imposed on us, not just the different word, in Internet Explorer. Grr. I suggest using Firefox's bookmarks, everyone. And just to reiterate a previously blogged point and not offend my US readership, I have zero objection to American English, but as a Brit I still expect to be able to write and use British English as my natural idiom, unconstrained by Microsoft's nonsense.)<br />
<br />
Basically, Prometheus is a clear member of the Alien franchise of films begun back in the late seventies by Ridley Scott with his super scary and brilliantly conceived space horror masterpiece. With Mr Scott back at the helm, Prometheus marks a return to form, with many of the original themes back in place and intelligently reimagined. But away from the film's obvious qualities, some issues have got Addie and I wondering, while we've been enjoying a pint. Perhaps this is what beer is for.<br />
<br />
One such problem is the issue of travel to distant planets. The movie's protagonists all endure a period (clearly alluded to as being about two years) in a sci-fi frozen sleep. But this makes no real sense; the space ships can reach distant solar systems in just a few hundred days, even though the closest theoretically possible solar system to Earth could be at Proxima Centauri, four light years away. If the majestic real-life exploratory spacecraft Voyager 2 were heading for Proxima Centauri (it isn't), it would take another eighty one thousand four hundred and forty ish years to get there at current speeds (<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Voyager_2" target="_blank">see Wikipedia</a> if you don't believe me). In fact, the commercial ships in Alien films seem to be going elsewhere, but even if they weren't the clear implication is that the ships can travel at least twice as fast as the speed of light (which Einstein says can't be done). If that's not how the ships reach their destinations, then perhaps it can be assumed that they have instead exploited hyperspace or wormholes or something? But if that's the case, what is the need for the temporary suspended animation freezerinos at all? Why don't they just arrive straight there?<br />
<br />
Curiouser and curioser. Then there is also the issue of the motivation of the Alien species itself. Sometimes, they just kill mercilessly, but on other occasions they capture their victims and restrain them for exploitation by the face huggers and ultimately to play host to more baby alien chest bursters (charming creatures). But there's no rhyme or reason to it. In the James Cameron directed Aliens, Ripley even shouts in desperation that "you can't help him!" to prevent Corporal Hicks from attempting a futile rescue of Apone and the gang, yet later declares that "they don't kill you" and successfully embarks on a perilous rescue of Newt.<br />
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Of course, because beer makes for entertainingly argumentative and trivial bloke-talk, it's all good stuff for one of our pub excursions. Addie and I are actually both very aware of the principle of the temporary suspension of disbelief. Just in case you're not, this is the way in which things that would be actually total nonsense can be enjoyed in film, television, drama and literature simply for what they are. This has applied throughout the ages. I've always struggled a bit with Viola and Sebastian, Shakespeare's twins in Twelfth Night, for example, but this hasn't prevented new versions of this play from appearing periodically for hundreds of years. In his lifetime, Dickens (a writer who is to novels what Shakespeare is to drama and verse) was criticised for having someone spontaneously combust in Bleak House. Even (arguably) the finest writers ever to have put pen to paper in the English language have stretched the boundaries, so don't get me started on The Da Vinci Code. Really. Don't.<br />
<br />
In the end, we like to debate the nature of these dramas or books or plays or movies because we have enjoyed them. Ultimately that's what matters. Have we been made to laugh or cry? Have we felt excited, or terrified? Have we rooted for the hero? If so, it's worked and we can all talk about it over a cheerful beer, happy that all is well in the world.<br />
<br />
Especially Addie. As I've mentioned, in order to make things as believable as possible when he's enjoying them, he has undoubtedly decided that difficult plot details cannot be endured without the latest technical wizardry. And he has to have it in his hands at the first possible opportunity. As I've already said, he's an early adopter of 3D television (to my mind a fad -- the jury's deinitely still out currently). And, on the same day that iPhone 5 was released in the UK, Addie was there collecting one (even though it took him a more than a week to get it to work). He has an iPad, a straight-from-the-factory new car, and he aspires to be first at the pub to sample the latest ales. He doesn't believe in waiting for things, despite the fact that "version two" of any given consumer item generally has the wrinkles much better ironed out. He even pre-ordered Prometheus (in 3D Blu-Ray, as I've mentioned) so that his copy was ready for viewing on the release date (I saw it on the big IMAX screen some months back -- the way it was meant to be seen).<br />
<br />
And what was the final, ultimate piece of wisdom Addie imparted as a consequence of his diligent efforts? He said, "I thought there'd be more aliens in it." He hasn't made it to the board of the British Academy of Film and Television Arts yet, but when he does, I'll let you know. In the meantime, gadget freaks everywhere: I salute you.<br />
<br />
STOP PRESS: Addie just gave me a card offering a promotional download for iPad, iPhone etc of a well known children's novel. I pointed out that I already had a copy of this book for my own kids to enjoy. "Ah yes, but how much did YOU pay to download it?" No, Addie. No!<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">** This blog post was first published at http://siddienam.blogspot.com **</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></span> DadBloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888168433715244522noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4209892187716869079.post-66101705524238150032012-10-01T00:21:00.000+01:002012-10-02T08:39:29.789+01:00Birthdays and comfy trousersI come into this week feeling increasingly aware of my age. In a few days time I hit the milestone of being 45 years old; and I can't really say I'm ready.<br />
<br />
When I was in my twenties, I was a partying night owl and a clothes horse. I liked to have the proper garments which any in-vogue twenty something should adorn himself in (though looking back at some of the photos now makes me wonder what the hell I was thinking -- that's fashion for you). I could worm my way into any sort of trouser, by virtue of my trim little twenty eight inch waist. Twenty eight inches! I will never get back there again, and actually now find that my shopping choices are much different.<br />
<br />
These days, with two cheeky nippers and the lovely Mrs Nam to provide for, less of my income (ie none) is disposable. This means that, when coupled with my relentlessly expanding belly, my choices of garment are often more practical. Sad isn't it? Practical. These days when I purchase some work trousers, they need to be comfortable and relatively hardwearing. And this is what it is to be me at 45.<br />
<br />
There are friends of mine who remember me when I hit thirty, an experience which might as well have been a million years ago. My <a href="http://siddienam.blogspot.co.uk/2012/06/excuse-me-do-you-happen-to-speak.html" target="_blank">Canadian Friend</a> told me that I'd spent several days being the most miserable and self centred so-and-so one could possibly imagine (except she didn't say so-and-so; she used a very naughty word one probably wouldn't adopt in front of one's five year old). Now, because she is a person I have a great deal of respect and affection for, it means that, when (less than) gently chastised for such behaviour, I ought to sit up and take note. Will I heed her warnings and not let being forty five take me into a pit of despair when I complete this particular lap round the sun? No. I very much doubt it.<br />
<br />
There's a raft of age related things about me that the twenty something me looking forward would have despaired of. For one thing, I am obsessed with the weather. No matter what, I can be found at some point every single day perusing internet-based weather maps and waiting patiently for the BBC forecast which happens just before the top of every hour on the <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/" target="_blank">BBC News</a> Channel. I know that it's quite British to be weather-mad, but in my twenties I would have gone out without a coat anyway and to hell with the consequences. Now I look on with smug satisfaction if I have my brolly with me while other people endure an unexpected shower.<br />
<br />
As well, my feet start to ache if I've been out and about for any length of time, and the moment I step through the front door, I have to kick my shoes off and settle down in just my socks on the sofa, feeling very glad that I have such a nice house and such a nice sofa where I can sit and put my feet up. I can imagine the twenty something year old me looking forward through time and shaking his head in disgust.<br />
<br />
Of course, it would be ridiculous to yearn again for one's twenties. As I've said, my life is complete and I have a family who I think the world of. But, in terms of my outlook on life, I would just like to be a young and groovy dad rather than the hopeless old fart I have been determined not to become, but which seems to be creeping up on me anyway. I mean, who in their twenties listens to Radio 4? My daughter has just started to take an interest in who's currently number one; I'm sorry, I haven't a clue.<br />
<br />
But it wasn't really any of the above that made a recent difference to me. As I said, it is naturally British and an essential requirement of London residence to be wary of random rain, sun, hot and cold on any given day. I'm bound to get a bit achey at my age. And I am actually the one often blasting my kids with groovy dance and drum and bass from my iPhone. So perhaps it's not that so much that's made me feel my age. They're just symptoms.<br />
<br />
What has pushed me over the edge is the trouser purchase previously referred to. Since a suit is just too much hassle on those days when I'm only going to be driving my desk, I decided last weekend to pop into venerable supplier of clothes and victuals to the slightly fusty middle classes of Britain, <a href="http://www.marksandspencer.com/" target="_blank">Marks and Spencer</a>. For my non-British readership, this is a major UK brand with outlets in every mall in every corner of the country. It does a wide range of boringly conservative office wear in a variety of wool, wool-mix, or out and out man-made fibre. <br />
<br />
I explored the smartly pressed regular fit section, and emerged (to Mrs Nam's apparent approval) with two pairs of relatively fashionable workwear, trying to shake off the recurring memories of the size twenty eight waist I once had. I tried my new strides on, and satisfied with the fit I deployed my MasterCard and treated myself.<br />
<br />
You might think nothing more of this, but when I put a pair on the following morning before attending the office, I discovered that the waist had elastic in it. Elastic! They look like the type of trousers you might give a toddler, just starting on his walking adventures and expecting to grow a bit. Were Marks and Spencer expecting a bit of post-pub furniture cruising, echoing the life we all once had as a pre-school child? Perhaps worse than this, M & S give these "special" trousers their very own badge of honour. "Active Waist", they call them. Active Waist? I'm sure it's not quite as firm and solid as it once was; but "Active"? All I wanted was something to tuck my shirt into.<br />
<br />
By this point, it was too late to turn back. I was wearing my new trousers, and I was off to work. I mean, you couldn't really tell these weren't just some nicely pressed tailored trousers. So I decided to keep the secret of my stretchy trousers to myself. It was all going well until a cheeky female colleague of mine caught up with me as I took my morning cup of tea down the office stairs to my desk on my way back from the canteen. "Siddie, do you know you've still got a label hanging off those trousers?" Dear God, please no. I pulled it off as casually and discretely as I could. "Marks and Sparks -- very trendy," she continued. "My other half needs new trousers -- let's have a look then. I might get him some."<br />
<br />
I tried to protest, but she insisted on viewing the label and took it from my hand before I could really do anything. "Active Waist? What's an Active Waist then? Are these fat-boy trousers? They are aren't they? Ha ha ha! They really are! Ha ha ha ha ha..."<br />
<br />
It kind of went on like this in much the same vein throughout the day. I enjoyed a great many visitors to my desk, many of who were delighted at my now-exposed trousery tale. And so, since my secret's out anyway, I have decided to share my tale of fashionable menswear with you. Are you sitting comfortably? No? You want to get yourself a pair of these, then...<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">** This blog post was first published at http://siddienam.blogspot.com **</span></span><br />
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DadBloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888168433715244522noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4209892187716869079.post-1282975949917915682012-09-13T22:55:00.000+01:002012-09-13T23:00:20.981+01:00Traveller's Tales: Train PeopleFrom time to time I am sent on an arduous work mission away from my native London, and last Friday was just such an event. I was off to Halifax in Yorkshire, a hellish journey to manage as a round trip in one day. I live in the wrong bit of London to easily reach Kings Cross Station, but had a 06:30 train to catch from there nonetheless. Up early, the ordeal proceeds as follows:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Overground to South London terminus.</li>
<li>On the Tube for the Northern Line to Kings Cross.</li>
<li>Train from Kings Cross to Leeds</li>
<li>Change at Leeds for train to Halifax.</li>
<li>Short taxi ride from Halifax station to the target destination.</li>
</ul>
<br />
The whole thing takes around four and a half hours, and if you add in the equivalent return journey starting at around 16:00, it results in abject exhaustion coupled with very little time in Halifax itself. Don't let anyone ever tell you business travel is glamorous. It would be easier to fly to New York for a long weekend.<br />
<br />
Having made it back from Halifax to Leeds for the return journey by about 17:15, I was delighted to discover there was train disruption on the East Coast Main Line to London. Seat reservations had fallen entirely by the wayside as the result of a previous Leeds - London cancellation, resulting in an undignified jockeying for position. I played this circumstance to my advantage, the dog-eat-dog methodology of my London commuter training kicked in, and I deftly located myself at a comfy looking window seat with a table.<br />
<br />
Circumstance being what it is, I was joined at my table on this busy train by an eclectic mix of people. First up was a smart-suited businessman. Unlike my cheap and cheerful off the peg trouser-and-jacket affair, this had the look of a proper made-to-measure number, well cut and sharp. Gold cuff links glinted at me, and he had an expensive looking leather bag which concealed his laptop. He asked me politely if it was OK to sit, (it was), and immediately ensnared me in some humorous conversation about the perils of distance travel and train disruption. It took seconds for me to feel slightly ashamed that I had expected a pompous twit to be joining me. In fact, this chap was witty and likeable, revealing the utter folly of judging a book by its cover.<br />
<br />
Next to arrive was a serious but friendly Muslim gentlemen. He also politely requested if he could sit next to me, since he was concerned he would feel unwell if he were not facing the direction of travel. Suity Man I were at that moment doing battle with the power cable to his laptop, and I didn't immediately hear this soft spoken and gentle voice making its request. It fell to my generous spirited business friend to up sticks and decamp to the other side of the table, diagonally opposite me, the whole time making sure he kept up his charismatic repartee, constantly checking that everyone was OK and comfortable while I sat there with his power cable dangling from my left hand. By now, I was feeling secondary and tertiary waves of shame that I'd personally done nothing to help our new travel sick friend and had also left my own laptop firmly in the luggage rack, ignoring a large pile of emails in favour of a snooze.<br />
<br />
As we began to settle once again, the remaining gap at our table was filled by an attractive thirty something lady with what appeared to be a baby bump. To accommodate her, Suity Man jumped up dashingly yet again, while she fitted herself carefully into the window seat. Then the equipment emerged from a bottomless rucksack; a laptop, a mobile phone, another mobile phone, a large ring-binder, and what appeared to be a portable electric fridge which we later learnt carried two bottles of fresh mummy milk destined for her brand new infant (waiting at home with daddy). This influx of kit caused further power issues, with much untangling of cables, juggling of plugs in sockets, and required yet more of Suity Man's good-humoured and unrelenting courtesy. Soon we were all experiencing strong waves of brotherly protectiveness as we learnt her story. She'd had to return to work less than a month after the birth of her child. It didn't seem right somehow. <br />
<br />
The train began to move, and we were dismayed to discover our packed carriage had malfunctioning air conditioning. New Mum commented cheerily that the train staff must enjoy the "just out of the shower" look as she perspired as gracefully as possible, Suity Man smiled winningly, and Forward Facing Man stroked his long beard wistfully. I offered up some cola flavoured Colin Caterpillars from Marks and Spencer (I know it's mad, but I'm obsessed by these), and while they were politely declined by Forward Facing Man on the basis of religious beliefs, New Mum tucked in like she'd never eaten before, at one point sitting with Colin's head jauntily poking from her mouth while she considered whether it would be better to call or email a troublesome client. Suity Man suggested a call, because you can't beat the personal touch. Then he assertively removed the tail from a fellow Colin with a single bite.<br />
<br />
After a sweaty eternity, we reached London Kings Cross station. By this point, we knew that Forward Facing Man had been accompanying his oldest son to Boarding School, and had missed his outbound train earlier in the day causing him to have to pay an additional seventy pounds in fares. We knew that New Mum was inclined to get teary about being away from her new-born child for so long. And we knew that Suity Man was going to drink a really good bottle of Chianti with his wife when he got home (I secretly feared for my liver and its possible future consumption with some fava beans).<br />
<br />
And then, everyone went on their separate ways. I was glad to have met these three interesting individuals, all friendly and with a tale to tell. Apart from livening what would have been a dull and uncomfortable journey at the end of a long and tiring day, it caused me to reflect a little that there are many people in the world with buzzing existences, starring roles in the epic stories of their own lives. Just looking at people is not enough; happily today I encountered humans with places to go and things to do. It's also a near certainty that none of us will ever cross paths again. But life goes on. I wonder who I will come across next time? <br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">** This blog post was first published at http://siddienam.blogspot.com **</span></span> <br />
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DadBloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888168433715244522noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4209892187716869079.post-12804075884184182602012-09-04T23:27:00.001+01:002012-09-06T16:33:13.901+01:00Bald chins and beardy weirdiesSummer is just about over, and the last few days of Paralympic competition in London are coming to an end. My highlight so far has been David Weir's epic victory for GB in the 5000 metres T54 wheelchair event, followed later by his similarly impressive 1500 metres victory. But soon, this second chapter in London's glorious Olympic and Paralympic adventure will be complete, and already an inevitable normality seems to be returning to this big and bustling town.<br />
<br />
This was exemplified by conditions on my train into the office on Monday this week, which felt genuinely busy for the first time in months. There were people everywhere, presumably all gloomily returning to the office with their sunny poolside adventure disappointingly over for another year. No more sandcastles 'til 2013. But something's happened. Something is different about the returning throng. They've all grown beards. <br />
<br />
Not just the odd bit of stubble here and there. There are so many beards. Everywhere I look I seem to be greeted by a jungle of face furniture. I am struggling to imagine what might have provoked this phenomenon. Are razors a casualty of the current economic gloom? Has there been a big foamy explosion at the shave gel factory?<br />
<br />
I first saw a significant collection of face fuzz when I attended the Great British Beer Festival in my alter ego as mild mannered roving beer reporter, documented in<a href="http://siddienambeer.blogspot.co.uk/"> my other hugely entertaining beer blog</a> (not that I'm biased, but you are either reading it or you're a sherry drinker). At the festival, you always expect to see a few choice specimens; this year I noticed a finely waxed moustache on a big round ruddy face sat atop a cheery mountain of a man. But at the beer festival you know you will see a few of these and I thought little of it at the time, instead indulging myself in the liquid treasures on offer.<br />
<br />
But the sproutings have spread. On the train around me, right now, let me describe what I can see. Opposite, a mainly bald chap, probably in his early fifties, has a finely trimmed neat and tidy affair. It's basically grey, and surrounds his mouth carefully. Next to him, a guy who looks like he works in a physical role for a living (my bet is electrician, as he seems to be fiddling with what look like some specialist pliers) sports a general and scruffy growth dating back to the end of last week. To my right, there's a red headed guy, looking like a hairy scary biker bloke, and he's generally unkempt and seems to have allowed his mane to grow unchecked since 1982.<br />
<br />
Amazing manes, a jungle of them. A new guy in the office has a wiry black number over a swarthy face which makes him look like a bank robber in a balaclava. A guy I know in his early fifties from the Caribbean has decided to "try out" a new chin carpet, and he has previously been a smooth cut and well presented Lothario, dark eyed and smouldering.<br />
<br />
Of course, it's likely that Don Quixote's seducer would have been a bearded gentlemen, although I'm unsure if Cervantes ever helps us discover this in his entertaining but rambling discourse. But everyone was facially hirsute in those days. This suggests perhaps the point I've been fearing to reach while I've been creating this blog post. It's not them -- it's me. While fashion, in its cyclic way, has decided it's high time that we sorted the men from the boys and furried their faces, I am stuck with a boyishly charming but otherwise bald chin (well, these days, chins). Can I emulate Bradley Wiggins' awesome Olympic sideburns? No. I can just about manage a fluffly tash and a bit just underneath my bottom lip, approximately in the middle, which if left unchecked would make me look a little like a second rate B movie d'Artagnan. <br />
<br />
This is all deeply frustrating, but we all are who we all are, and when Mo-Vember (the annual autumn fund-raiser for men's health issues) comes around, I shall once again observe wistfully, wishing I could play my part. Maybe I should start growing now.<br />
<br />
As I finish this blog post, a tad behind schedule due to laptop problems, I can report that the PC Support chap appeared at my desk and set to work on my dead machine. Happily he breathed life into the ailing (and frankly ancient) device once again, and as he sat there, warming my chair up and basking in the glory of another job well done (I imagine he'd like to have his underpants outside his trousers and a big "S" on his chest), I managed to observe his face full of unkempt whiskers. There were clearly unidentified deposits of who-knows-what in his beard, and its strands looked so long around his mouth that it would be impossible to avoid the ends getting in as he ingested beer, pizza, or other nerd-sustenance. Really, not nice. Perhaps I should take heart from this. Not all beards are desirable or cool. This one is a disgusting mess. My chin at least remains relatively unstained after a meal. On the other hand, at least he won't be hungry later.<br />
<br />
Urgh! Now that I've observed that, nor will I. Gag! <br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">** This blog post was first published at http://siddienam.blogspot.com **</span></span><br />
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DadBloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888168433715244522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4209892187716869079.post-53484277266882432302012-08-31T17:49:00.001+01:002012-09-01T11:19:35.533+01:00Snuggly and The GoldfishMy children, bright and bouncy little souls that they are, have discovered that they love the world and everything in it. Both are doing very well, and at the tender ages of five and seven have begun writing little stories to entertain themselves, as well as entertaining Mummy Nam and me. They write about the things that interest them; space and mermaids, dinosaurs and Ancient Egyptians. The stories are lively and wonderful, and the action is constant.<br />
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Encouraging such positive creativity seems the right thing to do as far as Mrs Nam and I are concerned, so I mentioned to them that I wrote a blog. "What's a blog, daddy?" I explained that I tried to write stories for grown-ups to read on their phones and iPads and computers. "Write one for us, daddy!" they said. Over and over again. Worn down by my little lovelies, and with no apology to my normal readership who I hope will enjoy this too, here is a blog for them.<br />
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I asked them to name two objects. My daughter chose her goldfish, and my son chose a much loved cuddly bit of felt called Snuggly. <br />
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Ruby and Max, two goldfish who share a tank together, were happy in their watery home. They had plastic seaweed, their very own Easter Island head, and a filter which hummed reassuringly day and night. Their tank was placed on a bright red table top, and they were as content as any goldfish had ever been.<br />
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Their favourite part of every day was the visit by The Hand. Every morning, The Hand opened their roof, and long slender fingers sprinkled in their breakfast. They loved their breakfast. Gorgeous flakey yumminess, all different colours; red, beige and green. De-licious! When The Hand came they splashed and darted, sometimes trying to give The Hand's fingertips a little nibble, and sometimes flicking their tail fins in beautiful little waves. The Hand was their friend, and their lives were complete.<br />
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One day, The Hand opened the tank’s roof. There was something different about The Hand; for some reason it had short little fingers, and it was holding a bit of orange cloth. The fingers were wriggling strangely, and Ruby and Max felt a bit surprised. As well, there was none of the lovely yummy red, beige and green food that normally appeared. “What’s going on?” asked Ruby, but before Max had a chance to answer, a large orange object came into the tank and floated to the gravelly floor. It settled gently on the tank’s bottom, and it said, “Hello. I’m Snuggly.”<br />
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Ruby and Max were bit surprised by what had happened. At first they didn’t know what to say, but, being polite goldfish, they decided to be nice and welcome Snuggly into their home. “Hello,” said Max, “I’m Max. It’s ever so nice to meet you. Are you lost?”<br />
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“Yes, I think I must be,” said Snuggly. “Usually I get to cuddle that nice little boy, but for some reason I now feel a bit cold and wet. I think they put me in here to hide – that nice little girl said it was hide-and-seek. Do you happen to know where I am?”<br />
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“Well," said Ruby, “this is our home. We call it The Tank. It’s lovely isn’t it?”<br />
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Snuggly didn’t seem too convinced. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I feel a bit cold and wet," he said. "Is there somewhere I could dry off?"<br />
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Ruby and Max were so lost for words that Ruby blew a bubble as big as a pea, and Max had to swim round the Easter Island head three times before he could speak. Cold and wet? But wasn’t that the best feeling in the whole world? Cold and wet were what Ruby and Max lived for. That was the best -- their little cold wet tank was their perfect place, and who could ask for more?<br />
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“I’m sorry,” said Ruby, who was always very polite and determined to make any guest feel welcome, “but cold and wet is how we like it. Where do you live, then?”<br />
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“Well,” said Snuggly, wriggling himself up as best he could in his waterlogged state, “I like to cuddle up with that little boy. He’s lovely and warm and dry, and he gives me snuggles and cuddles and kisses and hugs. It’s yummy scrummy warm, and I feel very happy when we fall asleep together. But now I’m very soggy – I don’t think I could be very cuddly like this. I don’t even know why I’m here.”<br />
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“How strange,” said Max. “Still, at least you’re a lovely orange colour, just like me. I would always want to help anything as orangey as you. Come on Ruby – let’s make some noise!”<br />
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And with that, the two goldfish began splashing and flicking their tails. They bobbed and weaved and somersaulted, and poor Ruby even bumped her head on the tank roof. They pulled on the plastic seaweed, and spilled the tank water onto the bright red table top in the outside world.<br />
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Suddenly, The Hand was back. This time, it was like the old hand they knew and loved. The long slender fingers reached in, grabbed Snuggly, who smiled and waved, and was gone. Ruby and Max briefly saw him above their heads. He twisted himself round and round, and a mini torrent of a waterfall landed back in the tank. After he finished being wrung out, he was gone.<br />
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“Well,” said Ruby, “He was nice. If only he could have stayed for breakfast.”<br />
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“I wonder what a cuddle is?” said Max. “No idea,” said Ruby, and she swam off to nibble the seaweed.<br />
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The next day, Snuggly was there outside the tank, gently swaying as he hung from the clothes line. Ruby waved a fin at him through the glass. “Hi Snuggly,” she bubbled, “did you get your cuddle yesterday in the end?”<br />
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But Snuggly couldn’t answer. He smiled back with his friendliest, cuddliest smile, adjusted the clothes peg that was holding him up, and waited patiently to be taken down. “What nice fish,” he thought. “But it’s so cold and wet in there. I’m glad I’m not a fish.”<br />
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Ruby and Max looked at their new friend through the glass for a while. “What a funny thing he is, wanting to be all warm and dry,” said Max. I’m glad I’m not a cuddly toy."<br />
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<a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/deed.en_GB" rel="license"><img alt="Creative Commons Licence" src="http://i.creativecommons.org/l/by-nc-nd/3.0/88x31.png" style="border-width: 0;" /></a><br />
<span href="http://purl.org/dc/dcmitype/Text" property="dct:title" rel="dct:type" xmlns:dct="http://purl.org/dc/terms/">Snuggly and the Goldfish</span> by <a href="http://siddienam.blogspot.co.uk/2012/08/snuggly-and-goldfish.html" property="cc:attributionName" rel="cc:attributionURL" xmlns:cc="http://creativecommons.org/ns#">Siddie Nam</a> is licensed under a <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/deed.en_GB" rel="license">Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License</a>.<br />
Based on a work at <a href="http://siddienam.blogspot.co.uk/2012/08/snuggly-and-goldfish.html" rel="dct:source" xmlns:dct="http://purl.org/dc/terms/">http://siddienam.blogspot.co.uk/2012/08/snuggly-and-goldfish.html</a>.<br />
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DadBloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888168433715244522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4209892187716869079.post-58889805055581655352012-08-24T18:49:00.001+01:002012-08-25T09:59:47.842+01:00Inexplicable TuesdaysI know it's Friday. Yes, look, I may write some total piffle on this blog, but I am not entirely brain-dead. Despite what the calendar says, I want to talk about Tuesday.<br />
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What is it that's got me thinking about Tuesday? Well, what started was thinking about the slow commute home from the office, catching the train with the other Tuesday-dwellers. There are the familiar faces; Sou'wester man is usually to be found somewhere, telescope scanning the horizon (ok, I made up the bit about the telescope). Also there's the poor put-upon mother with the buggy and the large collection of cheery but unruly children (kids are never really very rush-hour friendly, but if you have to travel, what can you do?). But on Tuesdays, for some reason, my train is always much busier and I never get a seat. Wednesdays, no problem. Fridays, well the rush is spread out as people stagger home from pubs. (That's clever isn't it; they stagger because they offset the timings of their journey home, and they stagger because of the beer. I'm well good at this blogging malarkey, aren't I?) But Tuesdays? No chance.<br />
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Why is everyone on my train home at the same time as me on a Tuesday? What's special about Tuesdays then? As a weekday, it's one of a set of seven, a practice in Europe that seems to be attributable to the ancient Greeks, who felt that it would be good to have the gods for the five known planets, plus sun and moon, watching over a day each. The Romans adopted this idea (they had an eight-day week prior to this), and as a consequence the scheme has spread around the world.<br />
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Mars, red planet and god-of-war, was adopted for Tuesday. This can be seen in the weekday names from most of Europe's Latin languages, such as Mardi from French. But although the Britons adopted the weekday scheme from the Romans, our names are derived from Anglo-Saxon words imparted on Britain from the various post-Roman invasions that occurred. "Day" is a modern transliteration of "dæg", and we get the "Tue..." part as a transliteration of Norse god name Tywr, a war god, comparable to the Roman Mars.<br />
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The history lesson is all very well, but it tells us very little about twentieth century Tuesdays, except perhaps that having my face pressed against train window glass as a direct consequence of mass under-capacity (a term I prefer to overcrowding, since it implicitly blames the authorities rather than the long-suffering populace) can make me feel pretty war-like. What coping strategy might be employed?<br />
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I discussed this phenomenon with the lovely Mrs Nam, long suffering and enduringly patient listener when I'm philosophising. She suggested I offset my journey home and try a different train. Good idea. So off I went to catch the service scheduled for twenty minutes later. Amazing! She was dead right, that train was completely calm, relaxed and civilised, and I discovered that I no longer needed to care about what was causing the Tuesday chaos. Super. Mrs Nam to the rescue; wife and superhero.<br />
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So impressed was I with this change that I decided to try this lovely new quieter Tuesday service at the equivalent times on Monday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. The whole thing could be an utterly life-changing experience. What could go wrong? So, on Wednesday (Wōdnesdæg) there I was, waiting happily for my new train, and when it turned up it was jammed to the rafters. No explanation, no rhyme or reason. A proper old fashioned sardine special; I couldn't even get near the door.<br />
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Mars, or Tywr, is obviously toying with me. It seems I am destined to do this weekly battle, bound to have my Tuesday torment by the muses of ancient deities. Perhaps my only hope is to stagger home myself. Hic! Let's hope I don't end up saturnine by Saturday.<br />
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DadBloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888168433715244522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4209892187716869079.post-50174340537001442332012-08-20T17:46:00.001+01:002012-08-20T23:33:18.879+01:00Random LondonAs a hardcore Londoner, I have always felt at home in the city. There's a strange and hard to understand part of me that sees London as if it belongs to me. My city... mine! <br />
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What this really is, of course, is a sense of belonging, the place we call home. It's punctuated too by more pubs, bars, clubs, restaurants, parks, history, galleries, museums, arts and culture than you can shake a stick at. Combined with the enthralling and ethnically diverse nature of London (the whole world is here; there's a language you don't recognise spoken on every tube train), it makes for a continuously absorbing and fascinating place to be. If you don't believe me, buy a travel guide, read my pal Natasha's excellent travel blog (she's a Kiwi who lived here for a good while, so you know she'll tell you it how it really is -- see <a href="http://www.worldwanderingkiwi.com/2012/07/london-the-queens-house-in-greenwich/">here<br />
</a> for an example), get a visa (and an Oyster card) and come and see for yourself. <br />
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Did you notice that big sporting event called the Olympics recently? That took place here. It went well, as a result of which us Londoners are even prouder of our city. Don't you think it'd be fun to visit the city where all that happened?<br />
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Leafing idly through my photos (I have thousands because I'm obsessed with my Canon DSLR) I realise I have a few decent random London shots. I thought I'd share a few favourites here. There's no real rhyme or reason to them. Just for fun. <br />
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My photo of Tower Bridge with Olympic Rings is published below, but see <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/siddienam/sets/72157630657994878">here</a> for the full set on Flickr.<br />
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DadBloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888168433715244522noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4209892187716869079.post-18343436799634956212012-08-13T22:41:00.001+01:002012-08-20T23:32:04.388+01:00The day after -- a Londoner's view.Two weeks of Olympics have elapsed, and after moment upon moment of inspirational action and drama from both Team GB athletes and talented human beings from across the globe, we can stop holding our breath. We pulled it off. Hurrah London!<br />
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It's certainly been wonderful. Despite a dearth of tickets for real people (shame on you corporates who left empty seats; some of us would very much have liked to have been there), there has been a real and genuine buzz about my home town. Many of us had some initial reservations; one of my favourite places on Planet Earth is The Home of Time, Greenwich Park, which has been sealed off and somewhat altered by the Equestrian and Modern Pentathlon events. I was worried about this, but now, with the park finally reopening for mere mortals yesterday, I begin to think that Greenwich will have a new and historic chapter to add to its long, intriguing history. And it was certainly more inspirational than Johnny Depp's Greenwich visit, sparrowing about in the Naval College when they filmed Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides.<br />
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Meanwhile, I was in London's West End on Sunday, about the time the men's marathon was finishing and a brave Ugandan called Stephen Kiprotich made his much-troubled nation proud. I couldn't get anywhere near the finish, but it was a buzzing Sunday afternoon in the capital, and the area around Trafalgar Square, just a few hundred yards from the marathon's end and Buckingham Palace, was heaving with smiling and excitable people. There were many Canadians and South Africans (perhaps unsurprisingly; stately High Commission buildings for both nations face onto the square). I also saw some Japanese fans, some Kenyans waving their nation's flag enthusiastically (they came second in the marathon; a fine performance by any measure), and numerous others in numbers too great to count. Some Brazilians were having a little samba, some Spaniards were all talking at the same time, and many Brits had shed their usual reserve and were friendly and chatty. Road closures helped, and I was even able to take a family snap of my children giving a life-size statue of Olympic mascot Wenlock a cuddle. It was a fun a lively place to be.<br />
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Further onwards, along Charing Cross Road, we made it to Leicester Square, in search of a yard or two of grass on which to plant our weary backsides for a few minutes. The trees over the central gardens had all been draped with giant-sized replica medals, and the new fountains bubbling little streams of water made a cooling diversion for my young children on a hot day. The Olympic buzz pervaded, and more people with flags and souvenirs and cameras were visible in every direction, cheerfully doing their thing. <br />
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This was just one afternoon on a sunny day in the life of a city's Olympic experience, but I've been in town most days during this adventure, and have experienced happy people constantly as I've gone about my life. It's been wonderful, and I'm delighted that my home city has felt the way it's felt. And I find myself suddenly quite saddened that this brilliant adventure has come to an end. <br />
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I hope the mood on our city pervades. I think that it's been wonderful for us, and as a fairly hardcore cynic under more usual circumstances myself, I defy my fellow cynics to disagree. You'd have to have a heart of stone not to have been entertained by Usain, moved by double distance Gold winner Mo, or fallen in love with talented and likeable heptathlete and Olay model (as I discovered on opening today's London Evening Standard), Jessica Ennis, whose gold was amongst Team GB's first athletics achievements. You could blog every day with a different tale from a different athlete from around the world, and everyone's personal story of triumph and commitment would be endlessly compelling. And the people of London, if you speak to them, have their own Olympic stories to tell. Where they were when... How they overcame the transport disruption, how they watched the rowing on the big screen in Hyde Park. Everyone wants to know, to join in the fun with other Londoners.<br />
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But it's at its end for now. We eagerly await Rio and the Maracanã Stadium in four years time (perhaps I'll get luckier in that ticket lottery, and perhaps by then I will have convinced my mother that it's NOT the Macarena Stadium). London, though, has a new community spirit which I would love to see continue. It's the end of the affair, but let's hope we can still be friends.<br />
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DadBloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888168433715244522noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4209892187716869079.post-76238716065662258752012-07-10T22:42:00.000+01:002012-07-10T23:37:29.607+01:00Tennis and the tragic gnomeThe All England Lawn Tennis Club has just completed a very successful Wimbledon tournament on some thick and healthy looking (but gnome-free) grass this season. And as a valiant Andy Murray is just edged out of being the first Brit to win the title for a thousand years by a majestic Roger Federer, one wonders again at how much of a factor the weather was. The Wimbledon organisers closed the roof, Federer could perform better as indoor conditions suit him, and Murray was seen off by the best player on the day.<br />
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Of course, Federer is perhaps the finest tennis player ever to have lived, so Murray's task was always an uphill struggle. But the point is that, once again, our mad 2012 weather here in London has had a major influence, in Murray's case necessitating the closure of the roof.<br />
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I am wondering if this all risks becoming a weather blog. I had no intention of that being my theme when I started out, but being a Brit, I am genetically predisposed to it. And us Brits have had much to discuss. There have been multiple hundreds of flood warnings around the UK. But, being the middle of summer, when the sun pops its face out from behind the clouds for any length of time, the air temperature in London rockets. This means you can quickly be too cold or too warm on an almost minute by minute basis. Also, <a href="http://siddienam.blogspot.co.uk/2012/07/leaf-slapper-in-unrelenting-rain.html">as I previously described</a>, Britain's wild plants are having a merry old time of it with the continuous rain and random sunny moments causing any untended green space to become thickly lush and verdant. It can be suddenly humid and I have been reminded of steaming tropical forest places simply by walking to work. The effect is compounded by the <a href="http://siddienam.blogspot.co.uk/2012/04/pieces-of-eight.html">numerous parrots which now inhabit every corner of the capital</a>. Olympic visitors from tropical nations are going to feel right at home here.<br />
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Wimbledon is not too far from Chez Siddie, and is enjoying a similar climate. The difference is, I suppose, a professional ground staff. Elsewhere, the overgrown gardens are this year's truly spectacular sight. I was slightly concerned it was just me, but clearly hardworking families everywhere are struggling to find time to fit in a spot of lawn mowing during the rain-sodden weekends. The front of our house is like a jungle exercise area used for military training, fully equipped with some genuine hazards such as bumblebees the size of barrage balloons. I saw a monster moth called a Red Underwing land in my garden like a Harrier Jump Jet, and even the occasional frog which turns up in my back yard is starting to look menacingly large. Has it eaten one of the neighbour's cats?<br />
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My lawn is also lush and green like that at Wimbledon, but that's where the similarities end. A tennis ball in my grass would simply be lost, with only the dandelions and daisies knowing its secret location. Things couldn't go on like this, so I bit the bullet, climbed into my gardening trousers, and launched into the undergrowth with my electric trimmer thingy (which I found after hacking my way to the garden shed with a machete).<br />
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It wasn't easy. Sweat oozed from every pore and my rippling musculature (moobs, if you prefer) with its glossy sheen must have been a sight to behold. Eventually I chanced upon the corner where one solitary garden gnome sits, waiting patiently for that big sweaty bloke to occasionally cut the grass. Of course, I couldn't see him through the undergrowth, and WHACK! I caught him squarely across the head with a burst-the-strings backhand that I'm sure would have sat agreeably with either Mr Federer or Mr Murray.<br />
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But where had the top of his hat gone? Smashed to smithereens, beyond repair. And thus, albeit indirectly, the bad weather claimed another innocent victim. There are only losers in this rain game. If Murray can blame the rain (and I don't recall reading anywhere that he did, but let's just imagine he thought it for a while), so can I.<br />
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How am I going to explain this to my lovely wife? I'm in a bit of
trouble now, so would you mind keeping this just between us? Thanks.
Let's hope she doesn't notice otherwise I fear being on the wrong end of
a forehand smash. Ouch. New balls, please.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Agv29Q28Vu0/T_yer9kULLI/AAAAAAAAAWo/W8dkkjH-Qec/s1600/Gnome.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Agv29Q28Vu0/T_yer9kULLI/AAAAAAAAAWo/W8dkkjH-Qec/s400/Gnome.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gnome, by Siddie Nam <br />
<a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/" rel="license"><img alt="Creative Commons License" src="http://i.creativecommons.org/l/by-nc-sa/3.0/88x31.png" style="border-width: 0;" /></a><br />
This work is licensed under a <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/" rel="license">Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License</a>.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/siddienam/7539168272/" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">See the gnome in full size on Flickr</a><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">, along with more of Siddie's images.</span></span></div>DadBloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888168433715244522noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4209892187716869079.post-54100051029307275142012-07-02T19:06:00.001+01:002012-07-02T23:41:40.504+01:00Leaf slapper in the unrelenting rainNow I wouldn't want you to think there was a dark stain on my otherwise emerald green credentials, but I have to tell you that I am about to to pick a fight with something you might regard as a pure and innocent living thing. Maybe it's the persistent bad weather, the relentless precipitation. It's pushing all of us to the limit, and my personal bugbear, my own axe to grind, is with trees. Yes, there it is. Out in the open. Trees are getting to me.<br />
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There's a tree on my commute-route that blocks my path daily. I dare say that, when it was planted as a sapling perhaps eighty or more years ago, the locals must have thought, "Oh, that's nice." These days it's a towering monster of a London Plane tree, which, unsatisfied with simply spreading its canopy across the road, has decided to sprout leafy tendrils from its base. These seem to be a protest at the local authority periodically cutting its mature upper limbs off in an effort to minimise the threat it poses to the surrounding properties and passing cars. Several iterations of this cycle have resulted in what looks like a chunky trunky frame almost entirely covered in leaves.<br />
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This years "wettest April, May and June since records began" (<a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-18653274">the dear old BBC loves a "since records began" story</a>) may well be further contributing to this tree's verdant leafiness. There's no doubt that the torrential downpours of late, punctuated with the (tragically infrequent) sunny spells we have occasionally enjoyed, have made the south of England a lusher, more densely vegetated place. <br />
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One of the consequences of this is the random assaults that trees and bushes everywhere delight in making. Since it's currently always raining, the trees are often hoarding what must be countless gallons of water. They stealthily conceal it in their leaves, waiting for an unsuspecting commuter to walk beneath thinking, "that's nice; the sun's come out," before dumping a torrent of drippiness on his head. It's the arboreal equivalent of the old bucket-on-top-of-the-door trick. But the trees have two or three other anti-personnel weapons.<br />
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Another such device is the leafy wet face-slap. You may have experienced this one yourself, perhaps when following another pedestrian. I'm wondering if certain trees and plants have formed strange pacts with selected human beings. When the world is as lush as it currently is, it is sometimes necessary to use an arm to temporarily bend a tree frond out of your way. But if you happen to be following someone who has made an arboreal deal with his local forest, you may find out too late. This tree-sprite in commuter form releases a twisted branch bent away from his own path, then it pings back and, SMACK! Right in the chops. You emerge from the undergrowth with a streaming wet visage and a diminishing temper. It's always especially nice when you've made a particular effort with your hair or attire.<br />
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If you add in the constant threat from the variety of spiders hammocked between the plants, and the fact that even one abandoned soggy leaf can be enough to have your feet slip from right under you, it's surprising that we don't have more of a love/hate relationship with these large and intimidating wild things.<br />
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Or perhaps it's just me. Maybe just a little sunshine. Just a bit. A few simple rays to warm me, brown my translucent skin, pull me back from the brink. Then I can learn to love the leaves, branches and stems once again. Until then, they're sending me barking mad. Barking. Bark. Aargh!<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-d6PE30S2BYw/T7Ngi1oi-6I/AAAAAAAAATI/EGLYNpPVyl0/s1600/blogger-image-1476607171.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="107" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-d6PE30S2BYw/T7Ngi1oi-6I/AAAAAAAAATI/EGLYNpPVyl0/s320/blogger-image-1476607171.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>DadBloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888168433715244522noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4209892187716869079.post-91671184302818993172012-06-27T17:20:00.000+01:002012-06-27T18:04:47.528+01:00Excuse me, do you happen to speak squirrel?<br />
One of the controversial pleasures of modern London living is undoubtedly the sight of grey squirrels everywhere. And I do mean everywhere. These days, my suburban garden can be seen hosting them on any given day, and I usually encounter them on my route to work at some point.<br />
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Now the thing is, my children love them. They are basically attractive creatures, with a huge bushy tale and, in London's parks and open spaces at least, they are endearingly tame. They will even take food directly from your hands if you are still and patient. Of course, this makes them beloved of little people everywhere, who feed them, and thus perpetuate the rise of grey squirreldom.<br />
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The Eastern Grey Squirrel is in fact an American introduction into Britain, and it has been so hugely successful that it has led to the near extinction of Britain's smaller, native, and genuinely beautiful red squirrel, especially in the south. There are no certainties about exactly why the red has suffered so badly since the grey was introduced deliberately as a curiosity during the 19th century, but it may simply be that the grey is basically made of stern stuff, and competes with the native breed for food and habitat.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/4/4f/Sciurus_vulgaris_in_snow_-_Helsinki,_Finland.jpg/720px-Sciurus_vulgaris_in_snow_-_Helsinki,_Finland.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="332" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/4/4f/Sciurus_vulgaris_in_snow_-_Helsinki,_Finland.jpg/720px-Sciurus_vulgaris_in_snow_-_Helsinki,_Finland.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Red Squirrel By Tomi Tapio K; image licensed under<a class="extiw" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/en:Creative_Commons" title="w:en:Creative Commons"> Creative Commons</a> <a class="external text" href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/deed.en" rel="nofollow">Attribution-Share Alike 2.0 Generic</a></td></tr>
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The Wildlife and Countryside Act (1981) in the UK actually deals specifically with grey squirrels, stating that if one should be captured it must not be released but humanely destroyed. Such is the threat level the greys are perceived to possess. It seems a shame, and one of the many difficult things we must overcome on a path to proper conservation.<br />
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On a lighter note, I remember some time back discussing the issue of grey squirrels with a Spanish friend, not a native English speaker, but someone who's English was certainly very much superior to my Spanish. The intention had very much been to consider the prevalence of grey squirrels in English parks, but unfortunately the conversation was unable to proceed very far. It was broadly as follows:<br />
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<b>Siddie Nam:</b> So you see, the grey squirrels aren't native to this park, but they're very common indeed.<br />
<b>Spanish Friend:</b> <span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps">¿Qué? "Skwiwwels"?</span></span><br />
<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps"><b>SN:</b> Squirrels.</span></span><br />
<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps"><b>SF:</b> Sorry, I no understand? </span></span><br />
<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps"><b>SN:</b> The fluffy grey creatures in the trees?</span></span><br />
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<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps">At this point, a Canadian friend who was also in the park with us, joined in in an attempt to clarify:<b> </b></span></span><br />
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<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps"><b>Canadian Friend:</b> It's his accent. Siddie, you have to remember that your London accent sounds to Spanish ears as if you're saying a "W" when you are in fact saying an "R".</span></span><br />
<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps"><b>SN:</b> Oh. And there's me thinking I was the perfect example of fine diction and elocution.</span></span><br />
<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps"></span></span><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps"><b>CF:</b> Don't be cheeky. (<i>Turning to Spanish Friend</i>) What Siddie is trying to say is "grey squirrel</span></span><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps">".</span></span><br />
<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps"><b>SF:</b> "Grey squirl?" What's a squirl? </span></span><br />
<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps"><b>SN:</b> It's a squirrel.</span></span><br />
<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps"><b>SF:</b> But you are talking about a "squirl". I don't know what a skwiwwel or a squirl is? What are their names in Spanish?</span></span><br />
<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps"><b>SN:</b> (<i>Blank look</i>)</span></span><br />
<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps"><b>CF:</b> "Ardilla".</span></span><br />
<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps"><b>SF:</b> Is that a skwiwwel or a squirl? What would you call the other one in Spanish?</span></span><br />
<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps"><b>CF:</b> No, there's only one word I know for a squirrel in Spanish. "Ardilla".</span></span><br />
<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps"><b>SF:</b> Yes, I understand. And what about a "skwiwwel"?</span></span><br />
<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps"><br /></span></span><br />
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<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps"><br /></span></span>DadBloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888168433715244522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4209892187716869079.post-28262932488875051212012-06-19T12:05:00.001+01:002012-06-27T17:20:28.120+01:00Peppa Pig and the Life Changing ExperienceWe're out and about waiting for my daughter's gymnastics class to begin, and Mrs Nam is putting our daughter through her maths paces. Having had an extended half term break, us proud parents have decided not to let our kids off the hook, and my seven year old is grappling with challenges like "if I divided a cake into ten pieces and then gave seven of those pieces to my friends, how many pieces would I have left?" <br />
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School or no school, Mrs Nam is a firm believer that the kids need a little something academic every day. And sitting watching, I can see why. The mid term break has played havoc with my daughter's concentration. The schoolwork is not interesting her at all, she is instead distracted by a nearby toddler with a Peppa Pig book. It's electronic and wonderful. Every fifteen seconds or so it echoes the cheery "Peeeeeeeeeppa Pig" refrain, beloved of children everywhere. It's not the slightest bit annoying, but if it happens again, I am going to toast myself a three year old. Well, maybe not because I actually quite like children, but you know what I mean. Grr!<br />
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I'm not even usually here. Usually I am in various places in central London, working hard to earn some cash to pay for classes like these. And I'm wondering what I'd be doing if I wasn't sitting here listening to Ms Pig's cheery kiddie refrain. <br />
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I didn't really try as hard as I could have when I was at school, and having left with a bunch of high expectations but mediocre results, I do sometimes consider what might have been. For example, I love to write. I have spent my entire existence absorbing books and literature at a huge rate, as if someone were suddenly about to abolish them. This has filled me with words and I think a few are now being pushed back out again. The consequence of this has been a loose collection of short stories and articles, some children's poems, and no less than two half finished novels. Since unfinished novels don't pay the rent, I do actually have a real job, which means that I never have any time to finish my novels. It's Catch 22 (except it isn't, because that's a finished novel by Joseph Heller).<br />
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Like Yossarian, I too feel the constraints of cleverly worked and bureaucratic rules, surely designed to ensure that the commuter trap is well placed to snare hard working but naive victims like me. For example, I often don't have enough time to really complete my tasks during the day, and thus frequently resort to dealing with emails and desk-based trivialities from my laptop on several evenings a week. I don't get anything extra for this, but since many of my colleagues behave similarly (and moan about it), it has led to a situation where, if I didn't do it, and the work didn't get done, I would be exposed as the one with poor values and behaviours. Naturally, all my colleagues feel the same way, with the obvious consequence that our employer gets an awful lot for free. <br />
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This is one of many traps laid for the unsuspecting, and I imagine this type of thing has become more typical in a world of constrained finances. It's also the consequence of a mediocre job. The self employed at least stand or fall by their own efforts. And the high fliers get to enjoy the thrill of the completed endeavour. Us normal people...? Well, we commute.<br />
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But there is hope. My children do get to see their daddy. Regularly. Every day Mrs Nam and I play with our kids. We read with them. Do sums. Take them to zoos, galleries and museums, and exciting places at home and abroad. They do football, swimming, gymnastics, drama and dance. They're both doing well at learning the piano. And they do it with mummy and daddy there, encouraging them on. <br />
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Why am I telling you this? It's certainly not to gloat; there are many excellent parents I know who work and play hard and have amazing, delightful children. No; I'm telling you this as a cautionary tale. I also know far too many mums and dads who, sadly, will have "I missed my kids grow up" as a possible inscription on their tombstones. <br />
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My point is simple. These straitened times we live in have shifted the balance, and I urge parents everywhere to be wise to this trap. Your kids need you too, to prepare them for their lives ahead. And your reward is seeing it happen. That will be amazing.<br />
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Recently, I made an important personal decision. Mostly my work laptop now stays switched off at home (not always; it's not about being unreasonable or inflexible -- just mostly). This has had a major positive influence on my life. Now I usually get to see my kids. And you know what? I found time to start this blog, just a few months back. And I found time to take photos. And, just yesterday, the reason for this post: I dusted down my novel, and started work on it again. Wow! It may never be published, but it WILL be finished!<br />
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This time has made my life immeasurably better. I'm so glad I took such a positive, assertive step. Think about it. What could you do if you made yourself and your kids some time? Who knows. Now if Peppa Pig would just be quiet, I will continue to concentrate on changing my life for the better. Oink.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-d6PE30S2BYw/T7Ngi1oi-6I/AAAAAAAAATI/EGLYNpPVyl0/s1600/blogger-image-1476607171.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="107" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-d6PE30S2BYw/T7Ngi1oi-6I/AAAAAAAAATI/EGLYNpPVyl0/s320/blogger-image-1476607171.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>DadBloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888168433715244522noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4209892187716869079.post-10006684197818322352012-06-15T09:09:00.001+01:002012-06-27T17:20:49.432+01:00Grubby Monkeys and the Air BiscuitAs a parent of two little terrors aged five and seven, I have much sympathy with hardworking mums and dads everywhere who spend a great deal of effort managing their little ones from one place to another in as timely and orderly a fashion as realistically possible. One of the many fun experiences a mum or dad can especially enjoy is the delight of managing your little darling when forced by circumstance to join the commuting throng on public transport in the rush hour.<br />
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Now, as one of these commuters, I am aware of the harsh truth that commuting, in common with rush hour driving, is inevitably a survival of the fittest dog eat dog affair. There's something about the daily trudge that turns otherwise normal, decent and reasonable people into elbow wielding, instantly angered psychopaths set on securing the best seat on the tube and to hell with the consequences. People can be sardined into a space the size of a single bed, squashing against their travelling comrades in sometimes deeply inappropriate ways, yet still completely ignore each other except when there's a need to shove someone when alighting. It's a tough and undignified existence, but it is what it is and your seasoned commuter accepts it with a dour inevitability.<br />
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Then, into the fray comes Mum. Mum has a buggy. There's a wriggling two year old in it. She is accompanied by another grubby faced little urchin, perhaps about five. As she steps on board, Mum immediately breaks rule number one: she speaks to you. "Excuse me, excuse me, buggy coming through..." This type of unsolicited conversation is always likely to provoke a raised eyebrow and disapproving grumble from the hardcore commuter, who will also take a dim view of having a buggy roll over his foot (even though there is nothing Mum can do about it due to the overcrowding). Then, the little urchin, excited by the adventure but bundled about because he's too little to hang on to anything, delivers the killer blow. "Mum, have you parped (sic)?"<br />
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Another of the dubious pleasures of the crowded morning commute are the abdominal exhalations which occasionally waft around. Let's not pretend this doesn't happen; I'm sure we've all been trapped on a train desperate to escape some unpleasant selfish oaf's noxious emissions and yet been powerless to move (or breathe). But the commuter gives out a disapproving glare, or just pretends to blow his nose while breathing through a handkerchief. <br />
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"No!" blurts Mum. But five year old urchin is the author of his mother's undoing. Playground lore dictates that "you denied it -- you supplied it," and, thus condemned to guilt by association, Mum is hung out to dry.<br />
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I expect some unpleasant character in a gaudy shirt and tie combo was the real perpetrator, and no doubt he had a good laugh about this with his mates when he got to the office (as I am probably doing with this blog if you think about it -- we're all damned!). But it made me think about situations when little kids have unintentionally embarrassed their parents. <br />
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My own five year old entertained my wife's friends at the bus stop one morning. The littl'uns were all being taken to school by my wife, but they were not their usual prompt selves. They arrived at the stop, panting and flustered, just as the bus came round the corner. As Mrs Nam got her breath back, her friend said to my five year old in that slightly patronising talking-to-kids voice that grown-ups adopt, "you only just made it today didn't you?" My son said, "We're a bit late because mummy had to have a poo."<br />
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I recall attending a wedding many years ago, a big lavish affair in the north of England where it felt like the whole of a hotel had been booked out by the bride's family, and the guests numbered in their hundreds. A colleague of mine was attending with his wife and kids. They were casually chatting in a small group with others while their children were pulling up flowers, one by one, from the hotel's carefully tended flower beds (I won't deny it, I was standing nearby with a group of my twenty something friends, and we may have been slightly encouraging the little cheeky monkeys -- pity about the mud on their lovely clothes...). Their father suddenly realised what was going on and screamed a pained "No!" before running over, admonishing them, and attempting to replant a row of around twelve doomed tulips. My group of co-conspirators didn't help at all, but were certainly delighted to witness the spectacle of Daddy now muddying his own smart suit. <br />
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Ah, the little darlings. Listen, it's hard work ferrying kids around, so if you're on the tube and a parent arrives, cut them some slack, OK? And if you're a parent -- well, you know what it's like, right? The kids will love you and humiliate you in equal measure. Goes with the territory. <br />
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<b>Are you a parent whose little darlings have made you wish the ground would open and swallow you? Let me know your story. Leave me a comment, here or on the Facebook or Twitter links. Thanks!</b><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-d6PE30S2BYw/T7Ngi1oi-6I/AAAAAAAAATI/EGLYNpPVyl0/s1600/blogger-image-1476607171.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="107" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-d6PE30S2BYw/T7Ngi1oi-6I/AAAAAAAAATI/EGLYNpPVyl0/s320/blogger-image-1476607171.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>DadBloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888168433715244522noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4209892187716869079.post-76915462759071917162012-06-11T23:22:00.000+01:002012-06-12T17:45:04.527+01:00Adrian Chiles and the Shin PadI'm an anxious England fan today. In common with my countrymen everywhere, I don't have any real hope that England are going to accomplish anything meaningful in this year's UEFA Euro 2012 tournament, but also in common with patriotic fans from every country, we live in hope that our disarrayed team may yet pull something out of the bag.<br />
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In the UK, the two main terrestrial TV broadcasters are the holy and revered BBC, and also commercial upstart ITV. They are sharing the Euro games according to a formula I don't really understand. Today it's ITV's turn to show the crucial opening encounter between England and France, the game of the group and a tie which will inevitably set the tone for England's campaign.<br />
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Now, this isn't a footy blog and I won't be writing a daily rant about all things soccer. But I must draw your attention to the competing footy programmes' respective anchor men. On the Beeb, we have England hero, potato crisp advertiser and all round nice guy Gary Lineker. For those readers unfamiliar with Association Football (my American readers should be aware that, with the greatest respect for your fine nation and my many friends there, I am probably looking in your direction at this point), Mr Lineker is an England hero. A talented goal poacher, he played in probably the best England international team of the modern era under the late great Bobby Robson, where the guys were pipped in the semi final of the World Cup but came away from the tournament with a great deal of kudos and respect. The same Gary Lineker was on the pitch playing with a fractured arm in a previous World Cup in Mexico, when Argentina's Diego Maradona broke English hearts with a handballed goal. As you may recall, the referee didn't see this illegal move, and Maradona later described his effort as "<i>un poco con la cabeza de Maradona y otro poco con la mano de Dios</i>" ("a little with the head of Maradona and a little with the hand of God").<br />
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Video evidence suggests that neither Maradona's head nor God's hand were involved. To rub salt into the wounds, Maradona followed this illegitimate goal with perhaps the finest legitimate goal ever seen in international football. Lineker also popped a good goal in for England near the end of the game, but could not get another to level the score. He shook Maradona's hand afterwards. Many years later he interviewed Maradona for a BBC football magazine programme. He said to Diego cheerfully, "Personally I blame the referee and the linesman, if that counts". Then he told him that the second Maradona strike was the only time in his career when he felt like applauding an opponent's goal. Maradona laughed stupidly and shook Lineker's hand. Lineker was gracious and unbowed. Unbooked in his professional career, this is an English superstar and a man with lucid dignity who can hold his head high.<br />
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Meanwhile, ITV have Adrian Chiles. Good old Ade used to be a BBC reporter on Radio 5 Live, and has covered the world's most prestigious sporting events as a co-anchor to Gary Lineker, before apparently having some kind of falling out with the BBC and defecting to a relatively unsuccessful ITV morning programme with Christine Bleakley. (I have no insider knowledge of what went on here -- but one day Chiles seemed simply to have left the BBC. Who knows what goes on in these contractual discussions.) Unabashed, Chiles is now ITV's leading sport's presenter and apparently commands a salary worth millions over several years. Chiles is a man-of-the-people midlander, an iconic West Bromwich Albion supporter, and is clearly positioned as such when taking the lead in ITV's footy coverage.<br />
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Unfortunately, Chiles and his team of pundits (tonight featuring Patrick Vieira for the French point of view, and England also-ran Gareth Southgate) are sitting in an apparently un-soundproofed studio which seems to wobble slightly in the breeze. And that's just the breeze coming from the pundits' mouths. Watching the Ireland game the other night with Roy Keane, one prayed for the long-awaited Keane-Vieira punch-up to enliven proceedings (Keane and Vieira have had a fractious relationship over the years -- when they were both playing in an Arsenal v Manchester United game in 2006, trouble broke out in the Highbury tunnel and there have been a variety of feuds at other times, notably including Keane's public criticism of Vieira for choosing to play internationally for France instead of his birthplace, Senegal).<br />
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But Adrian kept it all in check in both the Ireland and England games, perhaps hypnotising his panel of experts with some top notch inane Brummie drivel ("...how inconvenient of the French to go and equalise...", "...good to see England players with their peckers up" etc). This rainy Monday evening, excited by the prospect of some proper competitive football, on free-to-air TV and involving England, I rushed home to discover Chiles in action. Fortunately England held a skilled and troublesome French side at bay resulting in a sporting and well-contested one-one draw. Just as well. Can you imagine having to listen to this stuff while your side are losing?<br />
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Now, it's not personal. One suspects Mr Chiles would be an entertaining companion if watching this on the big screen at your local hostelry. As it happens, what I read about Mr Chiles suggests that he's a committed charity fund raiser, has a high quality university degree, and plays several musical instruments to a very good standard. So let's not judge a book by its cover, OK?<br />
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But do you really want your Everyman mate on the telly? I have my doubts. Come on BBC -- bid for all the games next time, for all our sakes. In the meantime Mr Chiles, with the greatest respect, can you put a football sock in it please? And maybe the shin protector, too.<br />
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DadBloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888168433715244522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4209892187716869079.post-89470603162668680882012-06-07T18:12:00.000+01:002012-06-07T18:16:09.956+01:00London's Moody Jubilee HangoverWhen looking around London this week, it's a bit like being inside someone else's hangover. In the suburbs, there are still a few Union Jack flags adorning people's houses, but now the Jubilee is over, they seem a bit bedraggled in the rain that has followed our recent mini heat wave.<br />
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In town, the banks of the Thames are still showing evidence that a heaving monster of a crowd has been there. There are occasional piles of stacked crowd barriers presumably awaiting collection. There seems to be more litter than usual. And somehow it's strangely quiet.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Post-Jubilee Rubbish</td></tr>
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It's not really quiet, of course. London doesn't really do "quiet". But perhaps you'll know what I mean. There are noticeably fewer people around. The trains have spare seats. I suppose some of this is due to the half term holiday currently being enjoyed by the capital's children. But even my eccentric travelling companion in the yellow sou'wester is absent, perhaps off chasing humpbacks in the north Atlantic rather than wave his red white and blue any more.<br />
<br />
If music were playing now, it'd be slow, and slightly overdriven. There'd be a church hall reverb, like that when they're going to switch the lights on at the end of a wedding party. It wouldn't be hard to find a broken bottle, and perhaps in the corner a girl with tear-streaked makeup would be mournfully smoking a cigarette and wondering why it came to this.<br />
<br />
But life goes on, and so does London. I still see a delivery happening as I walk to my desk. The recently finished hotel just along the street (unashamedly completed in good time to exploit Olympic visitors) is now serving breakfasts to its guests. There's always a tomorrow, and that tomorrow has come now. The Shard is still Shardy; The Wobbly Bridge still doesn't wobble any more, Nelson continues to observe proceedings from the top of his column. There has been rain today and sunshine after it, and when the half term is over, the people will return. It's London, it's alive, it does events and gatherings and festivities perhaps better than anywhere in the world. And then it wakes up, moves on, and takes us all with it in a perpetual journey through its ever changing moods.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-9q22D2wCP8w/T9Dg-5YVHEI/AAAAAAAAATg/DHa9brkp4Qo/s640/blogger-image-772353833.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-9q22D2wCP8w/T9Dg-5YVHEI/AAAAAAAAATg/DHa9brkp4Qo/s640/blogger-image-772353833.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Post-Jubilee Shard</td></tr>
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<br /></div>DadBloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888168433715244522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4209892187716869079.post-36528843459212633152012-05-30T09:31:00.001+01:002012-05-30T09:44:31.521+01:00Label fableThe Thames, in London near the Wobbly Bridge, is a tourist Mecca. Rightly so. <a href="http://siddienam.blogspot.co.uk/2012/03/tete-moderne-part-one.html" target="_blank">As I've explained before</a>, on the south side you have the Tate Modern, with Shakespeare's Globe just nearby, and looking north you see an immense view of Wren's masterpiece, St Paul's Cathedral. These days, the place is absolutely heaving with visitors from around the world. Welcome as they are (and I am always hopeful that our many visitors all have a positive London experience and leave with fond memories and a desire to return), it can be awkward moving around in such a crowded place. Invariably, those of us who live and work here can be caught trying to walk upstream into a tourist tide. Not easy.<br />
<br />
Just yesterday, I was nearby trying to get to Southwark Tube station (Olympic Games visitors might want to note that this is pronounced "Suth-erk", with a soft "th", as in "the", and the stress on the first syllable), but picked my moment badly. I came up against an overwhelming mass of apparently German youths, presumably heading for the Tate, and given that I'm not that enormous and some of them were, I felt it better to move to one side and let the thronging horde pass unimpeded. Who cares if I was late? At least my delay gave me the chance to observe them as they wandered on.<br />
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As they streamed by, one thing that struck me was the labels in their clothes. Summer has landed abruptly on London and it's currently swelteringly hot, leading most people (except my eccentric commuting friend perpetually attired in whaler-friendly yellow sou'wester) to don lighter clothing. The swarm of Germans were no exception, and as they herded past I observed a myriad of t-shirt labels, all poking up jauntily from the backs of collars. A young blond lady was wearing a pink, sleeveless vest-top type thingy (I'm an obvious expert in describing clothing; perhaps I should write for fashion journals). At the back, I could clearly discern washing instructions on a small tab of white nylon.<br />
<br />
One of her bulky Teutonic fellows was also attired in a vest-top thingy (sigh), although his was green and tight, showing off fine, toned and muscular phsyique, similar to how my own isn't. But he shared his friend's stuck out label, which was jigging gently as he walked. Why weren't any of their fellow group members helping these people?<br />
<br />
As I walked in the crowd, a fluid thing hefty in number and anxious to tour as tourists do, I became increasingly aware that people everywhere were similarly afflicted. Labels, present in great quantities in all directions, sticking out of the backs of vest-tops, t-shirts, jumpers (because this person hadn't spotted that London was a sweltering twenty eight degrees celsius and felt that an item of fashionable and snug knitwear was just the thing). At least sou'wester-man knew how to keep his labels neatly tucked away. It wasn't just tourists either. London's army of workers were similarly afflicted in many instances, my favourite example of which was an attractive twenty something woman not only helpfully informing me that her blouse should be hand-washed only, but also that her shoes, retaining their newly purchased sole-sticker, had leather uppers and man-made heels (which I believed because those heels were not natural).<br />
<br />
Perhaps I'm no fashion expert, as I've mentioned, but please, London! Let's all try to get dressed nicely shall we? We've got an Olympics to host, and people will see.<br />
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<br />DadBloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888168433715244522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4209892187716869079.post-52195804391070329262012-05-28T22:59:00.000+01:002012-05-29T07:17:03.814+01:00Trafalgar Square -- a beautiful grey colourIt's my view that London has an intense beauty in the sunshine. It's not necessarily a beauty that everyone would recognise; not all people are enamoured with high rise buildings or overwhelming crowds or long angry queues of traffic. But somehow the sunshine adds vibrancy and life to this sometimes grey and foreboding metropolis. In the warm glow of an early summer's day, I watched London today, and I can't deny it. I love it. <br />
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In the centre of London, virtually smack where you'd stick the needle if you were an overseas visitor deciding to hit London and see the sights, is Trafalgar Square. Its unmistakeable landmark column, with Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson standing atop, commemorates the Battle of Trafalgar, and Nelson's other campaigns. This battle was fought in 1805 and was a decisive naval victory for the British fleet in the ongoing Napoleonic wars. Nelson himself, serving aboard the HMS Victory, was mortally wounded in the battle, and thus lives large in the British psyche in that way that gallant dead people do.<br />
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Trafalgar Square is itself a grey place, with impressively grand buildings surrounding it, notably the National Gallery (housing as fine a collection as you will see in any gallery anywhere on the planet), as well as Canada House. Also, there is South Africa House, once the subject of many anti-apartheid protests, but happily these days a less controversial tenant of London's West End. Meanwhile, the church of St Martin-in-the-Fields is near one corner of the gallery, at the southern end of Charing Cross Road. Here can be heard rousing classical concerts if you time your visit right, but buy a cushion if you're planning to sit through Wagner's Ring cycle as the wooden seats can numb one's behind.<br />
<br />
The grey of Trafalgar Square first began appearing in London in the 1820s, when John Nash was commissioned by King George IV to redevelop the area then housing the Kings Mews and Green Mews (where the National Gallery now stands). The square itself opened in 1845, designed by Sir Charles Barry, although modifications to plinths and fountains found their way into the square as you stand in it today.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/a/a6/Trafalgar_Square%2C_London_2_-_Jun_2009.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="File:Trafalgar Square, London 2 - Jun 2009.jpg" height="264" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/a/a6/Trafalgar_Square%2C_London_2_-_Jun_2009.jpg/800px-Trafalgar_Square%2C_London_2_-_Jun_2009.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Photo by DAVID ILIFF. License: CC-BY-SA 3.0</b></td></tr></tbody></table>In 1843, the William Railton designed memorial to Nelson was completed. It was topped off by E H Bailey's statue, made of Craigleith sandstone. The whole thing is 169 feet 3 inches (or just about 51.6 metres) tall, to the tip of Nelson's hat. Some time later, in 1867, Sir Edwin Landseer's lions were added to the base of the column. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/e/e6/Trafalgar_Square-2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="File:Trafalgar Square-2.jpg" height="400" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/e/e6/Trafalgar_Square-2.jpg/406px-Trafalgar_Square-2.jpg" width="271" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Picture by David Castor</td></tr></tbody></table><br />
Perhaps the most important thing about Trafalgar Square, though, is what it has in common with other squares in many of the world's great cities. It is a place of the people; it is where people go when they need to go somewhere, and today, in London's sunshine, it was like that. It was a riot of colour, and the grey is simply a backdrop, or a frame. It bustled with tourists and Londoners alike, just busy, doing their thing. But I have seen it when there were real riots and protests. I have seen movies made there, with casts of strangely horrific injured people, perhaps reenacting a scene from the Battle of Trafalgar itself. I have been there when there have been concerts and political speakers, all of which bring the square alive and straight up to date. Every year, Norway sends us a gift of a Christmas Tree, which is annually sited in Trafalgar Square for everyone to enjoy. It's a place where people go to do things, to get involved.<br />
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Perhaps you're coming to London soon, maybe for a business trip, maybe for a holiday, or perhaps you are going to join us for the Olympics. When you're here, you should pay Trafalgar Square a visit. It's not just simply about being a tourist. It's about visiting a major cultural centre. It's an important place.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-d6PE30S2BYw/T7Ngi1oi-6I/AAAAAAAAATI/EGLYNpPVyl0/s1600/blogger-image-1476607171.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="107" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-d6PE30S2BYw/T7Ngi1oi-6I/AAAAAAAAATI/EGLYNpPVyl0/s320/blogger-image-1476607171.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>DadBloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888168433715244522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4209892187716869079.post-16459260033561357212012-05-22T15:45:00.001+01:002012-05-22T19:09:21.157+01:00JFDIY. Or Maybe NotWith car fixed and mobile again (<a href="http://siddienam.blogspot.co.uk/2012/05/it-sounds-silly-so-belt-up.html" target="_blank">see here for details</a>), it's back to the important business of getting on with my life. It wasn't too painful. After having a go at dismantling the car myself and (after three or four hours of fruitless tinkering and colourful use of English) discovering I couldn't, I called a chap recommended by a neighbour. He turned up to collect the car the following day exactly when he said he would. He charged me a reasonable, sensible amount, which also concurred with his original quote. He called me with an update twice during the next three hours, then brought the car back on the same day, fully fixed up, and exactly when he said he would. What a man! If only it were always like this.<br />
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Sadly, it's not always like this, which is one of the reasons why people like me (tight-fisted and cynical) attempt Do-It-Yourself as an option in the first place. I was once charged an £86 (+ VAT) call out fee by a plumber who came into the bathroom only to say "sorry mate -- there's nothing I can do about your busted toilet". He was there for at least two minutes. I'd booked through a UK-wide web-based plumbing service and in the small print I was condemned -- he'd turned up, so I had to pay. There was nothing I could legally do about it, although I have kept my vow that I would never use this website's services ever again. It's one of the largest of such services in the country and, if you're UK-based, you will have heard of them. Be afraid.<br />
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I don't know; perhaps it's toilets. I haven't had much luck with faulty cisterns. For example, I had a problem in a previous, and more downmarket residence (London's pricey when you're young and just starting on life's journey). There, I had just one bathroom above my kitchen, and one day I noticed that the overflow was constantly... erm, overflowing. Suspecting a faulty washer in the siphon (I had all the talk, didn't I?), I opened the lid simply to size the job up before proceeding downstairs to fetch tools and turn off the mains supply. All I did was touch the top of the siphon before the end of it shot off and mains pressure water started spraying my bathroom. Oh dear! I stuck my finger in the end of the exposed and squirting pipe, much like the little lad with the dyke. The flow stopped, and my finger began to gradually cool down and ache.<br />
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I suppose the plumbing fixture had gradually been working itself looser and looser over a period of some weeks, and it now dawned on me, unhelpfully at this stage, that the washer was probably OK. I was stuck, alone in my little home, with no prospect of my flatmate returning any time soon, wondering how to refit the ejected component without starting a new staircase Niagara. Especially since said widget was nestled neatly out of reach on the carpet, some distance away.<br />
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After a while considering my options, it occurred to me I was faced with a stark and binary choice. As I think back now, I hear John Kramer in my head saying "I wanna play a game... make your choice". My choice was:<br />
<ul>
<li>Try to reach the far flung pipey valvey screw-on thingy (I no longer had all the talk) that had been hosed to the other side of the room under pressure, then refit it.</li>
</ul>
Or: <br />
<ul>
<li>Try to run downstairs as fast as I could, and close off the mains inlet valve.</li>
</ul>
Neither seemed much of a choice. If I opted for the first plan, this would result in water sprayed around the room while I fumbled for the part, then the ordeal of trying to refit the rogue doodah while high pressure water fought right back against me. There was no guarantee that the part would go back on. It may even be faulty. Plan B contained two certainties, although one was very unpalatable. I would certainly be able to staunch the flow, and I would certainly create a big splashy watery mess while on my way to the valve to turn it off.<br />
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It had to be the second choice. It had definition, a visible end-game. I mentally planned my route, imagining every possible twist and turn, visualising all the known obstacles. I readied myself, took a deep breath, then ran for it.<br />
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The torrent was immense and powerful, as I knew it would be. I felt like it was chasing me down the stairs, visceral and alive. As I made it to the bottom, I could hear the water roaring as it sprayed its way into the bathroom carpet and through the floorboards. I turned through the lounge and on into the kitchen, the aqua-monster now screaming its watery scream directly above my head. I threw the kitchen bin out of the way (this was always the plan -- it only contained empty beer bottles anyway, nothing too messy) and dived under the worktop to get to the tap. It was stiff, but thankfully it turned, encouraged by some of my more ripe and fruity rhetoric (the first known Middle English usage of which was published in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Proverbs_of_Alfred" target="_blank">The Proverbs of Hendyng</a>, not later than 1325 CE). Then, the rushing sound stopped almost immediately, and the deluge had ended.<br />
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But what trouble would follow in its wake? Hopefully it wouldn't be too serious. I could see some soggy looking patches emerging on the ceiling above me. How bad could it be? I allowed myself to feel a sense of relief that it was all over, and as I mused, the kitchen ceiling collapsed. It dumped plaster and dirty water everywhere, and I stood sorrowfully in the middle of it all, newly coated in a damp patina made from my house.<br />
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I called in a plumber and a plasterer to oversee the repairs, while I mopped, vacuumed, shed a little tear, and said a little prayer -- "please God make that didn't happen." God had left His voicemail to field calls that day, and never got back to me. <br />
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If you're someone like me, you're faced with a non-choice every time a fault develops or some little job requires jobbing. Do It Yourself and risk a gigantic (and potentially soggy) cockup, or call in someone and risk paying a charlatan for nothing. Where there's a job, there's a scary looking toolbox or a bloke with a BlueTooth-attached chip-and-pin card reader ready to take your money and (perhaps) put it right. It's how the world goes round.<br />
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<br />
I wonder if it's a sign of my scarily advancing years. I mean, I'm no ancient and crumbling fogey quite yet, but there really can be no doubt that youth is well behind me and middle-age has instead sunk its teeth in. It is manifested in many ways; I wake up most mornings and absent mindedly rub something or other because, inexplicably, it aches. I sensibly drink a bit less because a serious hangover can last for over a day afterwards, instead of just a few hours. And sometimes I start sentences without ever actually finish<br />
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Anyway, it's arguable that a blog itself is the sign of an emerging mid-life crisis. I need to vent, I need to share my inner mysteries to a wider audience of anyone who'd care to read them. It's an essential part of my existence suddenly. The air I breathe, the meaning of life. I am gripped by a need to expose myself. No, no! That came out wrong! You know what I mean.<br />
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And what is this inner turmoil that I must share with you? I'm sorry, I haven't a clue.<br />
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It's true. Today, on a strict timetable of editorial requirement, I need to deliver the next instalment. It's due for publication just about now, and here I am, an incomplete middle-aged nutter with plenty of words but nothing to say. I had something earlier, sitting on the train. It may have been to do with the interesting amount of rabbits seen from the window, or the particular artistic qualities of a bit of graffiti, but the moment's passed, I never wrote it down, and I just can't be sure. I am even fascinated that the spellchecker just amended a mistyped "sure" to "suede", which then got me thinking about the mysteries of English once again (why do British English speakers pronounce "chamois" as "shammy"?). Oh look; another rabbit.<br />
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One is then forced to invent things. I can see a cloud shaped like an elephant. I just saw a peregrine falcon being mobbed by a bunch of parrots. Betelgeuse is expected to go supernova by the end of next week (it's not, I'm afraid; I'm lion about Orion, or lyin about Ori-in; oh hell, I can't even get my internal half-rhymes working properly).<br />
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In the end, it'll be a vague post about nothing which will be today's exhibit, m'lud. I'm sorry. Please bear with me; I'm sure it'll be better tomorrow. Maybe. Oh look! A cloud shaped like a rabbit! No, really. Nuts! No one's going to believe me now...<br />
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<br />DadBloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888168433715244522noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4209892187716869079.post-22070292797346932812012-05-12T21:32:00.000+01:002012-05-12T23:29:49.216+01:00It sounds silly, so belt upI am currently inconvenienced (hopefully in a temporary way) because my car is malfunctioning. The electronic indicator panel behind the steering wheel says, unhelpfully, "ALTERNATOR WORKSHOP!!" (sic) and the battery light has come on. It's not really clear exactly what this capitalised alarm phrase means, but it was soon really clear that the battery wasn't charging. Oh well. One of the joys of car ownership is that stuff like this happens, so one grits ones teeth and considers ones options. Calmly, patiently, and with a very British stiff upper lip, I endeavour to get the problem resolved.<br />
<br />
It's not the first time car misfortune has befallen me (<a href="http://siddienam.blogspot.co.uk/2012/03/car-troubles-in-big-smoke.html" target="_blank">see here</a>). Sadly it's an all-too-common part of my life. But I have a socket set, and the urgency to effect a repair motivates me to get on with it. All I need is a part. This should be straightforward. I need an "alternator drive belt" (I hope), once called a "fan belt" (cars were simpler then), but now, according to my Haynes manual and several websites I've looked at, it's called a "Serpentine Auxiliary Drive Pulley". A what?<br />
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Ok. I suppose it makes some sense. It curls round several gears and cogs in a snake-like fashion, drives several mechanisms including the alternator and the air conditioning (but not the fan), and it does pull. Armed with my newly acquired technical knowledge, I set about sourcing the replacement I need.<br />
<br />
Now you'd think in one of the world's great sprawling metropolises this would be easy. This is a city full of Homebases and Halfords, and zillions of small car part shops. But not so. I start with the web; typing in exactly what I want. "Serpentine Auxiliary Drive Pulley". Nothing, save for the various blogs and car geek sites that first offered up this obscure phrase. I try entering make and model of car, even my registration number, but to no avail. Sigh. Ok, let's make some calls.<br />
<br />
Before taking to the telephone, I decide that the car geek nonsense speak was not something I could be persuaded to say on the phone. I opt for "alternator belt" since this is actually what I want. It seems to me much more likely that a real human answering a telephone would respond positively if I adopt this approach. After all, I don't think anyone would actually walk into a McDonalds and say "I'd like a McChicken sandwich and some chicken McNuggets and a McCoke and make it McSnappy, please". Us Brits don't really do that, do we? Only the most pseudo-intellectual Brit would say "cellphone", because here they're "mobiles". I know others call them "cells" or similar, but the point I am aiming at is that most regular Brits are fairly uncomfortable with names which, in British English, would seem pretentious. I never get my money from an ATM, my luggage goes in the boot (assuming the car is operational), and tonight I am not going to eat a "take out", but in the words of the late great Lily Allen, I'm going to have a Chinese and watch TV. Oh, wait a minute, she means "telly", and as far as I know she's not dead (let's hope not because she seems nice).<br />
<br />
Before any of my American friends take umbrage at any of this, please understand that I am not in the least bit critical of American English. On the contrary, I find it endlessly fascinating to watch the way that English has evolved around the world, and the separate efforts of Webster and Johnson effectively ensured the divergent paths of English on either side of the Atlantic (although they were only really endorsing existing trends anyway). In any event, American English at its best is a vehicle for the finest of art -- look at Poe, or F Scott Fitzgerald, or Mark Twain, or J D Salinger, or Harper Lee, or many others. All this is simply to say that Americanisms can sound ridiculous in British mouths. Despite this, a growing number of people resort to them.<br />
<br />
I suppose American English is now very abundant, and I suspect it inadvertently provokes British nonsense speak. This can lead to either unnecessarily politically correct nonsense ("Seasons Greetings", in case "Happy Christmas" offends my Hindu colleague, who is cheerfully baffled by such idiocy and shares sweet Diwali goodies with us every year), or hellish tautologies (which, I suppose, are what they are), or baffle-speak designed to obscure something's true meaning ("I think we need to solutionise using responsive relative mobility techniques").<br />
<br />
In the end, my car's slipping alternator belt is named in baffle-speak. That's why I had to say "alternator belt" to the nice lady on the telephone. She was trying hard to help me find the part I needed but had been previously unable to locate using any web-based search facility. She was very helpful. She said, "I can't seem to find an alternator belt in-stock for your car, sir. The only thing we have seems to be a serpentine auxiliary drive pulley. Sorry."<br />
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When researching this blog-post, I was delighted to find the <a href="http://www.plainenglish.co.uk/" target="_blank">Plain English Campaign</a> had a gobbledygook generator. It's great fun -- <a href="http://www.plainenglish.co.uk/examples/gobbledygook-generator.html" target="_blank">try it here</a>. Thanks to them for inspiring me to a couple of items of high quality nonsense, deliberately sprinkled into this blog. <br />
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DadBloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888168433715244522noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4209892187716869079.post-2850183812118152732012-05-08T00:45:00.001+01:002012-05-08T00:45:05.609+01:00Olympic InsecurityI have met some doormen in my time. Occasionally, some were polite and friendly, but others were distant and disinterested. Many were unnecessarily surly, perhaps unaware that I really did only want a pint with a mate, or maybe just to throw some shapes into the early hours. Ah, those were the good times; these days I'd be more likely to throw a spinal disc herniation. The belly would wobble more in this second decade of the twenty first century than it once did, too. I had a baby-face when I was younger, and that of course may have been the reason I used to struggle. <br />
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Mulling on London's doormen, I was surprised to learn of a new trend which wouldn't have come up in the days when there was still some doubt about whether I was legally allowed to drink (there's no doubt now -- these days they direct me straight to the snug and bring me a half of light and bitter along with the evening newspaper). It seems that <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/newsbeat/17930370" target="_blank">some bouncers are now checking Facebook</a> and other app's on people's SmartPhones in an effort to ensure that people are using legitimate id's. This is all very well, but since it doesn't say Siddie Nam in my passport I would have immediately been given the classical "...not tonight mate..." speech and sent on my way. Another evening thirsty, lonely, and unable to strut my funky stuff.<br />
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I wonder how many of London's youths these days have suffered a similar indignity? I would think most people in their early twenties are, just like the rest of us, Facebook fanatics, but what if you really happened to be Billy No Mates? Perhaps you wouldn't be going out anyway, I suppose.<br />
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The streetwise young people of the UK's major population centres are well able to fend for themselves, so I won't worry about them too much more here -- have a good evening everyone, and don't do anything I wouldn't do. Meanwhile, what of visitors to the UK who will be invading in their tens of thousands in the next couple of months for the Olympics? What security trials and tribulations will they face? Well...<br />
<ul>
<li>Bottled Water (and any other non-"official" drink) will be banned. Could be a security, threat, obviously. Or it could be a Pepsi, not a Coke.</li>
<li>Not more than one soft-sided bag per person, not more than 25 litres in capacity (that's a lot of Coke; at my age I'd be needing to visit the gents constantly)</li>
<li>They will be in range of anti-aircraft artillery deployed even as they fly in to this proud and free country (<a href="http://www.metro.co.uk/olympics/898020-olympic-security-measures-generate-climate-of-fear-activists-claim" target="_blank">see here for rapier missiles deployed on the peaceful and ancient common-land of Blackheath</a>).</li>
</ul>
Compared to a rapier missile, I'd take the big chap outside the Slug and Lettuce any day. He may be a bit of a grump, but he has a vocabulary of a good couple of hundred words and phrases (like "no trainers", and "you looking at me, mate?"). You know where you are with a man like this. The Rapier would creep up on you, and the guys operating the metal detector at the Olympic Park (or Heathrow Airport) are far more likely to take to you one side while slipping on a rubber glove and greasing a finger).<br />
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I worry about our country sometimes. London is a wonderful, tolerant place -- it is one of the great things about this super city. I fear it won't feel like it though when we welcome guests from around the world in summer. Before you say anything, I acknowledge that there is a real security risk around the Olympics and, sadly, some misguided people out there believe it is OK to strap a bomb to themselves and maim and kill innocent people. No you don't; not in my town, thanks very much. But I just think we could be a bit more discrete about defending ourselves. Wouldn't it have been better just to keep quiet about the military and intelligence operations taking place, for example, rather than plaster our national insecurity all over every news bulletin? Surely it's better for our own purposes that the potential enemy, whoever it might be, does not know how we propose to fend them off? I can't see how it helps to have all these things out in the open, worn as a badge of honour, like an Olympic medal. It seems to me to have made quite a few Londoners a bit nervous.<br />
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If we really have to be so touchy about it all, perhaps a few big blokes in bow ties standing near the entrances to the Olympic venues should be enough to see off any bother. "You got any ID mate? Sorry..." <br />
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<br />DadBloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888168433715244522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4209892187716869079.post-20865206182993564192012-04-30T20:53:00.002+01:002012-05-01T00:03:27.392+01:00Pieces of EightI first stuck my head outside this morning at around 08:00, not quite believing the forecasters promise that, just for one day, we might be having a respite from the torrential downpours that have plagued us in the past week or so. I didn't have much confidence that I should leave the brolly at home and ventured out with some trepidation. Happily the London skies were clear and blue, the trees were verdant and springlike, there were some bluebells gently swaying in the London breeze, and an emerald green parrot screeched overhead.<br />
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Yes, a parrot. Mad, I know. I suppose I first started noticing them in London around seven or eight years ago. When I initially spotted one I recall feeling surprised at first, and then, assuming it was an escapee, I internally congratulated it on attaining its freedom. That was all; I then thought little more about it. <br />
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But in the years since that first sighting, I now realise that, across London, they are everywhere. I've seen them in one of my favourite of London's green spaces, the soon-to-be-damaged-by-the-Olympics Greenwich Park (note to my American friends who we look forward to welcoming to London in summer -- when asking for directions, say "Grinitch", not "Green Witch"). My children's school has a fine parakeet selection living in the trees surrounding their playground (my daughter is determined to get them to speak, and constantly shouts "hello, hello" at them). I have even seen one wrestling with the bird feeder in my garden.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/7/70/Rose-ringed_Parakeets_%28Male_&_Female%29-_During_Foreplay_at_Hodal_I_Picture_0034.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="371" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/7/70/Rose-ringed_Parakeets_%28Male_&_Female%29-_During_Foreplay_at_Hodal_I_Picture_0034.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rose Ringed Parakeets, by J M Garg <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/deed.en" target="_blank">Some Rights Reserved</a></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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I'm never really sure what to think about this. In case you haven't gathered, parrots are about as native to London or the UK as penguins or polar bears would be. When I was a small child growing up in non-rural inner city London, I pretty much refused to believe that any birds other than sparrows or pigeons existed. These days, a sparrow sighting is tragically rare, although blackbirds, blue tits, great tits, magpies, long tailed tits, robins and a host of others now visit my garden on most days. As do what seem to be Alexandrine and Rose-Ringed Parakeets, both Asian species (I'm no expert; a friend of mine who knows his birds suggests to me that Amazonian breeds are out there, too). Where have these tropical birds all come from? <br />
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I've read speculation that <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/3869815.stm" target="_blank">Jimi Hendrix may have inadvertently introduced them</a> to London, but given that there are several species, I don't really buy that (though, given Hendrix's short but productive existence, nothing could really be ruled out). More likely that they're the hardy feral descendants of a variety of escaped or released pets. It seems certain they're made of tough stuff, eeking out a living in a non native environment, reproducing vigorously, and decorating my car with fruity guano (another assumption; I haven't actually tasted it).<br />
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Whether or not these colourful aliens are competing with the native species for resources I have no idea. As non-native birds, they can be culled, apparently, and some parks and local authorities have ordered such an exercise. It seems sad but is perhaps necessary if the local ecosystem is being disrupted, and maybe native birds are threatened. That said, millions of migratory birds pass through Britain every year; are these native? It's a dilemma. Anyway, I kind of like them myself. It's possible they remind me of exotic travels from my past, I suppose; I was once lucky enough to have just alighted from a broken down bus in Guatemala, miles from anywhere and wondering what would happen next, when a vast flock of them flew over. Parakeets, that is. Not buses.<br />
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Enough of this reminiscing -- I have an excuse to share my parrot joke with you:<br />
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Q: What's orange and sounds like a parrot?<br />
A: A carrot.<br />
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("No daddy," says my daughter (Kiddie Nam?), "parrots say 'Pieces of Eight, Pieces of Eight...'" Bless her.)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BGEEB3JhF6o/T4tJydlczzI/AAAAAAAAASo/Hw6a4DiluB0/s1600/FlickrTwitterFacebook2DQuickscans.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="106" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BGEEB3JhF6o/T4tJydlczzI/AAAAAAAAASo/Hw6a4DiluB0/s320/FlickrTwitterFacebook2DQuickscans.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>DadBloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888168433715244522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4209892187716869079.post-2135356171844045262012-04-26T22:58:00.001+01:002012-05-13T08:56:38.686+01:00Rain Rain Go AwayIt's official. London is having the wettest drought on record. Ok, it's not official -- I can't find any stats on the <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/weather/" target="_blank">BBC's weather pages</a>. I just feel like it should be official. It's no fun at all.<br />
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This morning, I went to the station to catch my usual train (which, as usual, was cancelled). By the time I'd reached the platform, I was absolutely drenched. I have to wear a tailored suit, but none of the creases remain. Instead, I cut a dashing figure of baggy knees and sogginess. Umbrellas and raincoat could not save me.<br />
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It got worse when I got to the office and realised that the weather had turned some important notes in a cardboard folder into a kind of green porridge. My laptop actually dripped when I removed it from my rucksack. And my socks never really dried out all day.<br />
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Of course, the water companies are rubbing their hands in glee. Those dry and dusty aquifers may just be rescued, the odd reservoir may have inched up a notch or two, but still we're in a drought. If this drought continues, I'll never get my trouser crease back again. No one cares that there is a <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/environment/2012/mar/12/hosepipe-ban-london-south-east-water" target="_blank">hosepipe ban</a> in place, because no one is using their hosepipe right now. The world's gone mad. It's official. Oh -- ok, that's apparently not official either. Sigh. Why doesn't anybody want to commit to anything these days?<br />
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Anyway, the one positive benefit of the rain is the return of London's favourite subject to the forefront of everyone's mind -- the weather. I only had to walk in the door dripping before someone said to me "Is it raining out?" (No, I thought I'd take a shower in my suit this morning you dipstick). In the lift: "Terrible this rain, isn't it?". "Forgot my umbrella this morning -- you'd think I'd learn..." And then there's my old favourite: "Good for the garden isn't it?" I personally can't see how being under four inches of water is helping my garden, unless I am trying to grow seaweed.<br />
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At least one gets to enjoy the attire Londoners adopt for the dampest conditions. My friend in the yellow sou'wester has made a happy return appearance on my evening train (though he never really went away -- I suspect he's always equipped with his whale-hunting gear, and just feels extra smug when the rest of us are soaked through). Everyone else is divided into two camps broadly, those who come equipped with umbrellas and sensible coats in a serious if futile effort to be as dry as possible, and those who have walked from their front doors determined to pretend that spring has sprung and ignore the rain altogether. Both categories of commuter prowl the city streets when they depart their station; after a brief period steaming up the windows of their tube or train then mooching across the grey pavements, they reach their office bedraggled and grumpy, all the while pretending to be neither.<br />
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I have seen London defeated by snow. I have been splashed by selfish van drivers. I have been hailed upon, and blown around. I have burned and sweated. But this rain, in the end, is a godsend. If the weather was just normal, what on earth would us Londoners have to moan or blog about? I'd have to talk about dull stuff like the Leveson inquiry, or the Mayoral Elections. No one wants to read about that, do they?<br />
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Of course, if my laptop hadn't needed to dry out, I could have posted this blog hours ago. Anyone got a cloth?<br />
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<br />DadBloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888168433715244522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4209892187716869079.post-84560693864691088412012-04-16T00:27:00.001+01:002012-04-16T18:00:53.499+01:00It is all about the box<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Before you read this very funny and entertaining blog post (I'm my own harshest critic), I should warn you I'm asking for some help here. Will you assist? If you'd be decent enough to read on, I'll explain everything... </span><br />
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Leaving the office this evening, I encountered a substantial cardboard packet, empty except for a small piece of bubble wrap. It was large enough to accommodate a Pit Bull Terrier, a glass-fronted beer fridge designed for home consumer use, or a small child. I had no need to despatch any of these items to any particular destination, nor even did I have any of them with me, so I walked round the box and continued on my way. I kept thinking about it though. It had a Norbert Dentressangle shipping label on it, but otherwise no discernible branding. I wondered why such a box might randomly choose to obstruct my local pavement. I wondered what mysterious journey the box might have already undertaken, and I wondered how many different pronunciations of Norbert Dentressangle I might find amongst my British colleagues (I fear for the Dentressangles that their brand might be a tad inaccessible for many native English speakers).<br />
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You might think I'd have better things to do with my life than muse on the provenance of a cardboard box, and you'd be right. But those things can wait. Right now, I'm wondering at the profuse quantity of cardboard I find in and around London on a near daily basis. <br />
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Just this morning I had an Amazon carton to get rid of. (Books, bring me books. I'm like the literary equivalent of the Cookie Monster and Amazon and I are on first name terms. I'm not made of blue fuzzy fluff though.) I saw another box on a neighbour's step, presumably recently delivered and awaiting an excited exploration.<br />
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There was a large, suit sized cardboard carton outside a dry cleaner's on my route. And, even in my office, a bloke with a red T-shirt was wheeling a bunch of flattened cardboard boxes somewhere. They were being bundled off to the basement I fear, the place where old cardboard boxes go to die I suppose.<br />
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Boxes. Everywhere. We live in a world made from boxes. <a href="http://www.thestuntbase.com/index.html" target="_blank">Gary Connery</a> is soon going to be absolutely reliant on them, as he's going to <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-beds-bucks-herts-17664020" target="_blank">drop out of a helicopter without a parachute</a> in a special suit and (hope that) the boxes will break his fall. He's mad, of course, but obviously I wish him well. Meanwhile, a quick bit of cardboard box research (ie I Googled) reveals that most professionals in the industry do not refer to these types of containers as cardboard boxes because it does not denote a specific material. What? It's cardboard! What the hell else could it be? It's bits of unbleached wood and paper, these days usually made from recycled materials, and it's used for boxing stuff up. Simple.<br />
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OK -- perhaps I am non expert, but I reckon you and I and any of your friends or enemies could spot a cardboard box if they saw one. It's going to be a kind of brown colour, maybe with two or more paper-like layers surrounding a layer of corrugation. (Further Googling reveals this type of box material is known as "corrugated fiberboard", but since the site I read this information on was American, I'm going to call it "corrugated fibreboard", or, even better, "cardboard". What's more, the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cardboard_box" target="_blank">Wikipedia site</a> I'm researching this from helpfully informs me that a shipping container made from corrugated fibreboard (or cardboard) is "sometimes called a 'cardboard box'..." Seriously, you can't make enlightening stuff like this up.)<br />
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I spotted a box once in London's West End after I'd been for a few drinks with some friends. It was about six feet tall, and was empty except for a wire coat hanger (wire coat hangers -- don't get me started). It seemed like it would be a good idea to be in this box, in the way that being full of wine, beer and <a href="http://uk.answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20080604125115AAdoodO" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">After Shock</a> can make things like that seem like a good idea. So my friend Charmaine (not her real name, it's Donald) and her boyfriend Donald (not his real name, it's Charmaine) decided to assist with inserting me into this exciting looking box.<br />
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Anyone who had not been After Shocked would probably have found it most sensible to turn the box upside down and put it over my head (or, arguably, not do this at all). However, in our cheery state we felt it more sensible to hoist me into the box as it stood upright, its open end facing skywards. After much lifting and grunting, I was finally sufficiently elevated to drop gracelessly into the box and enjoy the wonderful experience of packaged-ness.<br />
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Dear me, the happy memories. After having so much fun, a moment or two later I decided I didn't want to be giftwrapped in cardboard anymore, but could not now climb out. Stranded, and unaided by my two giggling companions, I was left with no choice. What may have been as long as several seconds elapsed before I threw my weight sideways and caused the box to tumble over. Oh, the unmitigated mirth of it all. As all the ad's now say, please drink sensibly -- the world's most fashionable oxymoron. Happily, being wrapped in the world's most fashionable packaging material, my fall was relatively painless and my shell of corrugated fibreboard prevented any lasting injury.<br />
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And so, I owe it all to the humble box. I was uninjured and could proceed on my very merry way. By way of a tribute, I thought it would be fun to collect pictures of them (cardboard boxes, that is). As many as possible. Please send me yours. I don't want any high art particularly. Smart Phone photos will be great. Don't edit them -- keep them raw and gritty please. Either link to them from here, or add them to <a href="http://www.facebook.com/TooWordyForTwitter" target="_blank">Siddie Nam's Too Wordy For Twitter Facebook page</a>. I've added one to start you off. Your help is appreciated. Please tell your friends -- their help is appreciated too. Let's have a card bombardment.<br />
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Otherwise please post them to Twitter if you prefer. You can find me for a DM as <a href="http://www.twitter.com/siddienam" target="_blank">@SiddieNam</a>, and you can use #TooWordyForTwitter (and, of course, #CardboardBox). <br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Once again, post here -- <a href="http://www.facebook.com/TooWordyForTwitter" target="_blank">Siddie Nam's Too Wordy For Twitter on Facebook</a>, or here at <a href="http://www.twitter.com/siddienam" target="_blank">Twitter (@SiddieNam)</a> and I'll love you forever (whether you want me to or not).</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BGEEB3JhF6o/T4tJydlczzI/AAAAAAAAASo/Hw6a4DiluB0/s1600/FlickrTwitterFacebook2DQuickscans.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="106" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BGEEB3JhF6o/T4tJydlczzI/AAAAAAAAASo/Hw6a4DiluB0/s320/FlickrTwitterFacebook2DQuickscans.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>DadBloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03888168433715244522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4209892187716869079.post-68285926067460750372012-04-11T22:31:00.002+01:002012-04-12T09:06:56.569+01:00Edinburgh ArchitectureI recently had the good fortune to visit Scotland's grandiose and majestic capital city, Edinburgh. Being a Londoner, I'm a huge fan of cities, but Edinburgh is a different sort of place, with Reformation and 18th century architecture being the central styles in the Old and New Towns respectively. This is interspersed with a dash of medieval and, occasionally, a splash of the modern that makes any major cultural capital complete.<br />
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I wandered round, armed with camera (as well as my lovely wife and happy, noisy children), and it was sunny and springlike. We had a wonderful time. Too wordy I may usually be, but today I have chosen to let my photographs speak for themselves and show off this wonderful (and usually extremely friendly) town as best I can. <br />
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You can click on any of the images to see a slightly larger version, or you can see high quality versions of these images in the <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/siddienam/sets/72157629409969590/" target="_blank">Edinburgh Architecture set on my Flickr site. </a><br />
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As I mentioned previously, you can find the full size versions of these images in my Edinburgh Architecture set on Flickr -- the set is here: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/siddienam/sets/72157629409969590/">http://www.flickr.com/photos/siddienam/sets/72157629409969590/ . </a><br />
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Alternatively, you can <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/siddienam/sets/" target="_blank">click here for my Flickr sit</a>e, or scan the 2D codes below from your SmartPhone. <br />
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