Expensive lesson

I was up in London yesterday, as I usually am on a Tuesday.  Well, they expect me to turn up at the office, seeing that they pay me and all.  The train journey was surprisingly pleasant, the air conditioning has been working during the last few days of "warm spell" weather, so it's been comfortable*.

As an aside, I overheard two of the train staff chatting the other day.  One of them was telling the other: "When it's too cold, everything breaks.  When it's too hot, everything breaks.  Just accept it." 

Anyhoo.  I managed to get half an hour of not-too-interrupted snoozing, so was in a good mood when I got to Waterloo.  I strolled down the platform, and on impulse decided to get a cab to the office.  It was a nice day, the Tube was bound to be stinky, stuffy and hellish, and I couldn't be arsed to walk.  I had a new pair of sandals on and was keen not to get blisters early in the day**.

There was an unusually long queue at the taxi rank.  I joined it, waiting for it to be my turn to do the "Which number do I stand next to?" dance.  I love that.  People who are unfamiliar with the system stand stupidly at the head of the queue, glaring at those who walk past them to the numbers further along the rank, completely missing the fact that they ought to be doing the same thing.  Fools.

Anyway.  My turn came, I hopped into a cab with a nice young cabbie, and we set off for Victoria.  It's about a mile and a half, and usually takes about 10 minutes in a taxi, and costs about £6.  Now that I am bringing my lunch to work I feel that paying for a taxi is allowable, as I am not spending the equivalent of Ghana's GDP in Marks and Spencer on sandwiches, socks and cardigans***.

Now, apart from it being one of my In The Office days, what else was happening on Tuesday?  Hmm?  That's right.  The State Opening of Parliament, one of our many rich, ancient traditions, beloved by all.

Beloved by all, except taxi drivers.  And bus drivers.  And anyone trying to drive around South London, actually. 

The police had closed Westminster Bridge, so the cabbie apologised and said he'd go via Lambeth Bridge.  American readers (in fact, anyone who doesn't know that part of London) may wish to get a map and draw a thick red line along the route we took, possibly using a crayon. 

We inched painfully along the south bank of the Thames, nose to tail in a dreadful traffic jam.  Eventually we got to the roundabout at Lambeth Bridge.  The cabbie was looking anxious, and as we drove onto the roundabout he said "I don't fucking believe it!"

Me:  What?

Cabbie:  I'm really sorry about the language, love, but they've closed the fucking bridge!

Me:  Fuck!

Cabbie:  I know!  Fuck it!

Me:  So where can we go?

Cabbie:  Hmmmm, I could try getting along to Vauxhall Bridge...what do you think?

Me:  I have no idea....I'm not very familiar with London.  (Which is why I am paying you to get me where I want to go, Cockney poltroon.) 

That last bit in brackets was in my head, by the way. 

We crept along another half a mile, still nose to tail in the traffic, sucking up thick clouds of bus fumes, cyclists and scooters weaving in and out around us.  I watched the meter glumly.  It clicked past the £10 mark and we were still a loooooooong way from Victoria.  If I'd had any kind of idea where we were I would probably have hopped out and taken my chances walking the rest of the way, but I know what I am like.  I'd have been lost, lost, hopelessly lost within moments.  And probably either fallen in the Thames or down a hole in the road, never to be seen again. 

I wish I was kidding.

The cabbie swore fluently and quietly under his breath, in between engaging me in cheerful chat about how shocking the traffic was.  We made it to Vauxhall Bridge, sweeping across it at 5 miles an hour, then headed into the quieter roads heading up to Victoria Street.  There were, of course, roadworks on several of the routes we took, making the cabbie perform U-turns and unexpected diversions.  He apologised each time, suggesting that I might in fact prefer to go back to Waterloo and just go home. 

Reader, I was tempted.

We eventually got to Rochester Row, and as he turned the cab into the street, he had to stop to allow two shaven-headed men to saunter across the road.  Neither of them made any effort to speed up, or get out of the way, or even acknowledge that they were holding up traffic.  I know pedestrians have right of way, but the were deliberately being dicks.  And they got dickier.

The cabbie shouted, "Don't worry mate, I'll just drive on the pavement, shall I?"

I thought it was a mildly amusing bit of banter.    I expected a similar riposte from the two road-crossing guys, maybe a V-sign, or similar.  But no.

The older of the two stopped dead in front of the cab and yelled at the top of his voice: "Get out of that fucking cab!  Get out here right now!  Fucking get out of that fucking cab!  Come on!"  His mate stood beside him, also red-faced and belligerent, obviously enjoying being part of the unfolding drama. 

The driver declined.

We drove around the purple-faced yelling nutcase and his simian companion and continued on our way, somewhat chagrined.  Finally, after what felt like about a week, I spotted Victoria Street away in the distance, the other side of yet another building-site roadblock, and asked the driver to drop me off so I could walk the rest of the way.  He agreed, although I did see him check the mirrors to make sure the mad shouty man wasn't running after us before he stopped. 

He apologised again and again for the time it had taken to get almost to where I wanted to go.  I said it was alright, he'd done his best.  The cabbie suggested that the State Opening of Parliament should be a Bank Holiday.  I nodded politely, but secretly thought that might be a bit excessive for everyone who isn't affected by the traffic chaos.  Which would be everyone NOT in South London. 

Anyway.  I paid the taxi fare.  £28.  Twenty Eight Pounds.  It had taken 55 minutes and cost me the price of a nice Chinese, but I had made it to work.  Nearly.  Plus I was almost involved in a huge fight. 

When I got to my desk, half an hour late, people asked me how my journey had been.  "Oh, fine," I lied. 

Other news:  I have lost another pound.  It is slow, but mostly steady, and I have had several people at work say "You look nice today!" and then "Have you lost some weight?" which is very encouraging.

Mr WithaY is being supportive, in his own manner.  I mentioned to him that I was wearing new knickers, a size smaller than my other ones.  He looked at me fondly and said  "Oh?  I wondered what that squeaking noise was." 



*As comfortable as it ever is on the Sardine Express

**Also, I am lazy

***You know how it is.  You pop in for some lunch and come out with an outfit.  And lunch.

Easter basket cases

I've done a lot of driving lately.  I went down to Sussex on Friday to pick up my lovely Mum, who is staying with me over Easter.  We're having a bit of a girlie weekend, which is very pleasant. 

Mr WithaY has made himself scarce, off on some woodsmans training course, where he will be honing his bushcraft and survival skills.  I daresay that even now he is sitting by a campfire, munching on pemmican, trying to dry himself off.  He made a batch of venison jerky last week, ready for the weekend.  Then, struck by inspiration, he finely ground up some of the jerky, added dried cranberries and suet, moulded the whole lot into squash-ball-sized lumps and packed it in his survival kit.  He was very proud of it. 

Pemmican.  Mmm.  Fatty.  And if he doesn't get through it all, I daresay the birds will enjoy it.

Anyway, the driving.  I went down to Sussex, as I said, a journey of just about 100 miles which usually takes me 2 hours, give or take a bit.  The weather was horrific.  Heavy, heavy rain, thick blinding spray on the roads, and of course all the fuckwit holiday drivers who are determined to drag their caravans all the way to the South Coast despite the fact that it is like the end of the world outside.

Gah.

I know I've mentioned this on the blog a few times before, but why oh why oh fucking why do people insist on driving with their lights off in poor visibility?  I almost sideswiped a silver van as he came up fast on the outside, completely masked in the spray and gloom.  Luckily I spotted him before I started to overtake the car in front of me, but even so it was close. 

The trip home was marred by traffic.  Traffic traffic traffic.  We sat on the road into Salisbury for 45 minutes, just waiting to get into the city.  Once in, it was fine.  The roads were relatively clear, but the queue on the way was just appalling.  I only went that way because I had driven past miles of traffic heading west down the A303 on the way out that morning, and thought I'd be wily and avoid it going home.

Schoolboy error.

Here's a picture of similar traffic on the A303 I took a while back.  I daresay some of the same cars were in the queue on Friday. 

I logged the queue on Friday at about 6 miles.  Nice.

It took us 3 hours to get home. THREE.  Once here, however, we have been having a nice time.  Yesterday we went for lunch to the rather funky Indian restaurant on the side of the A36, which used to be a Little Chef.  They kept the elephant slide outside but have decorated it tastefully.  Today we plan a trip to the garden centre, as the sun has made an appearance. 

It's all go here.

Men in tights

We've had a Weekend Away. This has become rather a rare event, at least for both of us to be in the same place at the same time, so it was a bit of a treat.

We went up to see some mates in Nottinghamshire (*not* pronounced Nodding-Ham Shire, American readers) which entailed a nightmarish drive up on Friday afternoon/evening. It took 4 hours. FOUR!

Our plan to stop en route for a cup of tea and a bun were abandoned and we chugged along in slow, slow traffic all the way instead. Once we got there all was well, though. We enjoyed seeing our lovely mates, we drank a lot of wine, and we ate like fat greedy kings.

We went ten pin bowling on Saturday. I can't remember the last time I did that, and due to the unfamiliar positions adopted, both Mr WithaY and I were limping around with Bowler's Buttock for a couple of days afterwards, which was rather depressing.

Our mate took us into the nearby town (I can't remember which one) to run a few errands, and we ended up sitting outside a local pub having a cheeky lunchtime drink, watching another pub over the road being demolished. On the way back to the car we were accosted by a wild-haired woman who demanded that we come into her shop for a glass of champagne.

Well, it would have been rude not to.

It was the opening day for a new estate agency, and they were having a bit of a celebration. We had a glass of not bad pink fizz, gawped at the property prices (£150k for a three bedroom detached house!) and idly wondered if it was worth buying another house up there to rent out to students*.

On another note:

My blogging has been curtailed of late because frankly I am too hot and tired to think of stuff. I keep starting posts and then going "Oh arse to this" and going to sit in the garden or make a cup of tea or do some washing.

I'm hoping it passes and my usual ability to blather on about all the dull stuff that makes up my life will return soon. Being stressed out of my head over the last few months hasn't helped.

Mr WithaY and I have made some progess on the SSFH** aftermath, and that has made us both feel better, but we are waiting to see what happens next.

We have been trying to socialise a lot more, and keep each others' spirits up, which has worked to a large extent. I have recently realised how much my job in London has affected our social life, though. Mid-week entertaining and socialising has pretty much stopped, which was a big part of our lives before I took this job. I can't see a way around that, though. Not at the moment anyway.

I am not socialising in London nearly as much as I had thought I might, too, so it's not as if I am making up for it elsewhere. Might need to be more pro-active about meeting people in town.

And on that note, time to go and sort stuff out for the morning, as we have decided to invite some friends over for an early supper, to try and rejuvinate the mid week social life thing.


*No.

**Shit storm from Hades

Harbingers

Spring is springing. Hurrah.

Today, on my absurdly early drive to the railway station, I saw:

A barn owl, landing dramatically on a fence post
Three hares, running around a field chasing each other
Several roe deer, standing about like the idle sods they are
Numerous pheasants
Numerous quail (I think), but possibly partridge
Primroses
Daffodils
A few scraggly snowdrops

About time too. Winter's been going on for so long that it feels like we live in Narnia.

The walk from Waterloo to Victoria was glorious, all the buildings around Parliament Square glowing in the sunshine.

There were many dazed Japanese tourists almost getting flattened by taxis as they tried to negotiare the complicated pedestrian crossings. They were all dragging those big suitcases on wheels, which made them walk as if they were leading a pack of surly dogs, the cases tipping onto one wheel and then the other as they lurched along the pavements.

In case we managed to avoid that particular hazard, they took turns stopping dead in the middle of the street to take photos of each other pointing at Big Ben.

There is a crossing on Westminster Bridge where you can dart across, against the lights, to the refuge in the middle of the road if you're quick. I did this. A couple of other commuter types did the same. The group of Japanese tourists followed suit, their cases spilling off the refuge and into the road , causing taxi drivers to swerve and shout threats. It was mildly entertaining.

Is there some central casting depot in Japan where they train these people? Adverts in the press: "Come to England and behave like every stereotypical tourist ever lampooned in a poor attempt at comedy"? If so, they are doing a fantastic job.

Other news: There is the beginning of a promising long-term feud brewing at work. I always put two spaces after a full-stop when I write, so-called "English punctuation" according to Wiki*. I was taught that was correct, and have been doing so for many many years. The rest of the office only put one space, so-called "French punctuation".

Annoyingly, the house style guide backs up the rest of the team, and not me. We are therefore all amending each others' drafts to reflect our own personal preference with every iteration. I have already conceded the removal of a semi-colon at the end of a bullet point, but I am prepared to take the full-stop spacing issue all the way to the bitter end. Unless I am overwhelmingly proved wrong by the internet**, which I trust implicitly.

This will run and run.





*which is never wrong, as any fule kno.

**see above

Cheese fiasco

Can't believe it's been so long since my last post. Sorry, if you were impatiently checking back on an hourly basis for the next thrilling update, and all that. I have no real reason for this slackerliness, other than a dull and tiresome lack of inspiration. Some days it doesn't stop me and I cheerfully witter on about anything that happens to scamper through my brain, but for some reason that facility deserted me.

Until now, obviously.

Maybe it's all the gravitas and responsibility of my new job starting to congeal in my soul. Maybe in 6 months time I will have grown my own pinstripe carapace and be unable to find other people falling down holes funny any more.

I hope not.

So. The big disappointment of the weekend was the Frome Cheese Show. We've had it in the WithaY diary for months, planning our annual Big Day Out to admire the animals, vegetables and Crafts. Oh, the Crafts. I had new batteries in the camera and everything.

Following a slightly more cider-centric night at the pub on Friday than we had planned, we were up a bit late, and didn't set off for the Show till about 11am. Still, it was a nice day, and we headed off cheerfully in Mr WithaY's Landrover, reasoning that it wasn't far to go, and it was likely to be a bit muddy. All went well.

Until, that is, we got onto the main road to Frome, which was nose to tail with almost stationary traffic. We inched along till we got to the next junction, and the long straight road towards the showground was nose to tail as far as the eye could see.

We looked at the queue, then at each other, and made a team decision to bale out, do a U turn and head for the hills. Driving back the way we had just come, we could see the traffic backing up for bloody miles. Nightmare.

Once home, as were were already in our "Walking in the Mud" clothes we did a couple of hours of gardening, cutting back about a hundredweight of lavendar. We were knackered but very relaxed by the time we'd finished.

The mole's still out there. We think we've seen the last of him, then hey presto, bloody miles of tunnels and molehills appear. It's all most dispiriting.

It may be coincidence, but all the roses are doing really well for the first time all year. I think they might enjoy having their roots disturbed. Hey, who wouldn't.

Still waiting for the glorious Village Fete prize, by the way. *sigh*

Moles, hills

The mole's back.

We thought he had been run over, as we found a very squashed, slightly dessicated corpse in the road outside the house. It was either a mole or a young rat on his way to watch a major sporting event, wearing two of those giant foam hands.

Anyway.

The front garden has an ever-increasing tunnel network developing, which is ruining the pristine loveliness of the velvet lawns.*

Mr WithaY, in an alarming echo of the grand old Jasper Carrott Mole Story, has taken to stamping furiously on the mole tunnel tracks, particularly where it looks like a molehill might be developing. He thinks this will annoy the moles to such an extent that they will go and live somewhere else.

Never mind the moles, I'm beginning to think that way.

This evening, apparently, he has been outside watching the ground, and when he saw movement, he jabbed down through the disturbed earth with one of his longbow arrows, trying to maim or destroy the little invaders.

Once again, I wish I was making this stuff up.

The moles must be thinking "Fuck, civilisation's crumbled....they've reverted to traditional weapons up there."

I might sneak out to Mole Valley Farmers and buy a trap over the weekend.

If I don't get a trap, I might just stock up on sheep ointment. And a new scythe. And some farmer-wear clothing. And a huge industrial-sized box of washing powder. And a ham. I love that shop.

Other news: Got stuck in the middle of a military convoy on my way to work this morning. I pulled out of a junction in the middle of Salisbury Plain and found myself sandwiched between about 7 huge trucks in front, and another 5 or so behind.

It was slow, slow going. I think the top speed we managed was about 35 mph. Going up the hills, we were down to a grindingly frustrating 15mph, plus I got to enjoy the choking fumes as the truck in front struggled to make it all the way up to the top.

Despite the bendy, hilly, high-hedged nature of most of the roads, some idiots did suicidal overtaking manoeuvres, causing the oncoming traffic to swerve and flash their lights. I always half hope to find the fuckwits in question upside down in a ditch around the next bend.

On the bright side, the police were out in force again with their "for your safety**" speed traps. If there's any justice, a certain silver Mercedes is getting a nasty letter through the post soon.

I feel a bit less grouchy about work too. I've decided to get a lot more assertive with people, and to simply get on with my job. To this end, I emailed one of the external organisations I deal with and told them "As from next month, I will no longer represent my organisation at your meetings. I have passed your requirements to our central strategic team, they will be in touch to let you know who can help you."

I copied the email to the strategic people (who I had already spoken to) and my new boss. By doing that, I free myself up at least 1 day a month in London, which also saves my office £100 quid in train tickets.

Also, as I am out of the office on holiday most of next week, I emailed my team with a list of stuff I want them to do while I'm away. They're a good team, and more than capable of getting on with stuff, but I feel better about having left them with my expectations.

But. Next week. On holiday for most of it. Yay!



*I told you, in my head I have a garden like Hampton Court Palace.

**my arse

Back on the road again

Well, took me an hour and a half to get home from work this evening. A journey of 33 miles, usually do-able in about 45 minutes, given the narrow, tractor-infested, hilly, blind-spot-filled roads I use.

Apart, that is, from the A303 (look on a map, American readers).

That is a fine, dual-carriageway-fied bit of road that allows you to overtake all the tractors, horseboxes, ancient farm trucks and doddery old twats who have been sat in front of you doing 20/30/35 miles an hour for the last 15 miles.

Apparently a truck full of flour had overturned* on the roundabout a few miles further on, so everyone was diverted off the road while the police made flour castles. Or maybe pancakes. I have no idea. They closed the road for bloody hours, anyway.

So, off we all went, through every Army camp in Wiltshire, a million cars nose to tail, various clever dicks doing u-turns in the road to find a different route. Yeah, good luck with that, matey.

After about 40 minutes of inching along, we got through a police traffic control checkpoint, most of the queue headed back to the main road and I continued along the glorious highways and byways of rural Wiltshire.

Well, it was a nice evening.

Other news: Went to Sussex and spent a lovely day with my Mum. We went to the Gribble Inn for lunch, where there was a beer festival with a live band. Hurrah. I had to be a bit guitar-nerdy and go and admire their 12-string**. They gave me their business card so I can email them with more nerdy questions at my leisure.

Also had the opportunity to admire my Eldest Nephew's new motorbike, which is huge. Much bigger than first-time bikes were when I was his age. Just as well, as he must be about 8 feet tall now. Maybe taller.

In case you were wondering, I had written a much longer*** post but bloody Blogger lost it when I tried to upload it. SO you get the condensed and less amusing version. Sozz.


*Been racking my brains for a hilarious "mix up" pun but failed. Be my guest.

**Insert double entendre here

**and funnier

Silence

Went to play some music on my iPod just now while I reviewed a mighty long document, and realised that the battery is completely flat. Zilch, zip, bugger all.

So, that's annoying. And what with this office being all but empty, the sound of my typing is echoing thunderously around the place like a cheap action movie sound effect. TAP tap TAPPITY TAP.....aieeeeee!

I am planning on sloping off early this afternoon to avoid the traffic hell that is the A303 Westbound on a Friday afternoon. Summer's here, there are nose to tail jams all the way home.

When I get home, I shall charge up my iPod and then make sure I keep it that way. I bet I left it running when I put it away after lunch yesterday, and that's why it's run out of juice. What an idiot.

Lights

Oh yeah. Was almost wiped out this morning on the way to work by a FUCKWIT in a dark blue car who was tanking along the road with NO FUCKING LIGHTS ON.

Why?

I mean, every other road user had lights on. Even the doddery old galoots with Nissan Micras had managed to find the right switch.

I was behind one of said doddery galoots (2 of them, and a huge dog up on the back seat glaring at me), so decided to overtake. It was a nice long straight bit of road, I waited till the hidden dip was past, nothing in sight for miles, and then put my foot down to go past.

And hey, guess what?

Heading my way at 80 miles an hour was said unlit, unseen till the last moment, fuckwit. I managed to get past and back onto my side of the road with, ooh, several inches to spare, and flashed him angrily.*

He's probably still wondering what my problem was.

If I see him again I will force him off the road and explain it to him. Slowly.

*With my lights. Tch.

Health and efficiency

One of the things I like best about this time of year is the easy availability of satsumas. They are the perfect office desktop snack. You can eat as many as you like in a day (within reason) and they add an aura of health and wellbeing, especially if those around you are scarfing down pies and crisps, the bastards.

And they make the office smell nice.

Have had a couple of very busy days at work so far this week, which has been fulfilling. I was feeling pretty good this morning, after a good night's sleep. Went to the gym after work yesterday and did a fair bit there, which always helps.

That feeling of wellbeing and contentment lasted right up until I bumped into a mate in the coffee place, who after doing the "Oooh, haven't seen you for ages!" thing said "But you do look tired". Arse.

I plan to work at home tomorrow as I have a huge daunting document to read, and when I sit at my desk reading people assume I have no "real" work to be getting on with. They walk past and make hilarious remarks about how I obviously need more to do. Ha fucking ha.

So, will do it at home, which also saves me 70 miles of driving.

Talking of driving.

Was lucky enough to watch a superb piece of idiocy this morning on the roads. A BMW and a Volvo 4 by 4 thingy. They were having a race, I assume. What a spectacularly great idea. On narrow, high-hedged, unlit, unlined country roads, with tractors, dog-walkers, horses and cyclists around every corner.

Fuckwits.

Other news: Christmas is still coming and I am still not nearly ready.

Coffee to go

Got home this afternoon from visiting some mates up in Nottingham. It was a lovely visit. We saw their house for the first time, they had arranged a fantastic dinner party with some excellently entertaining mates of theirs, we heard all about their incredible adventures in Pakistan, and we ended the evening by singing along to a karaoke dvd at the top of our lungs.

Ahhhh, classic home entertainment. I love singing. As does our host. It was very, very pleasant.

The drive home this afternoon was a bit of a nightmare though. Some fuckwit had had an accident on the M42 and we ended up sitting in a traffic queue for the best part of an hour, while it got colder and colder.

The rain turned to sleet, which meant Mr WithaY and I could have the "Ooh, perhaps we'll get a proper winter this year" conversation. Which was nice.

We ended up calling in at the supermarket in Bath on the way home as it would have been too late by the time we got back here, did a grocery shop, scooted home, then had a nice cup of tea and some scones.*

However.

On the way up there on Saturday morning we stopped off at some services on (I think) the M5 for a drink and a bite of breakfast.

There were two or three little old ladies in the queue ahead of us, chatting and giggling quietly. They were Welsh, and none of them was over about 5'2". I got the impression they didn't get out much, and this was a bit of an adventure for them. We stood patiently behind** them, doing our famed "Godzilla devastating Tokyo" impression whenever they weren't looking.

We stood there for quite some time, as there was only one girl serving at the counter. Who would ever imagine a coffee bar being busy at 11am on a Saturday?

Not fucking Costa, that's for sure. Gah.

While we stood there, more and more teeny old ladies appeared, joining their mates in front of us. I didnt realise for ages because my attention had been diverted by the World's Ugliest Rugby Fans. I think a coachload had arrived, and boy, they were unattractive. Distractingly so.

Anyway. When I looked at the queue in front of me, bugger me if it hadn't grown from about 3 little old ladies to about 12. And no, I am not kidding.

Mr WithaY and I glared at them in increasing irritation but without saying anything, obviously. Far too British to make a scene, oh dear me no.

I tried to defuse the situation by saying to him "Don't stress, they're old, they'll die soon." His response? "They fucking will if they do that again." Classic.

It gets better.

They then started the "Oh, I just want a coffee please dear" thing to the girl behind the counter, who reeled off all the options available, and they all nodded sagely and said "Yeeees, just a coffee please."

It went on for what felt like a week. Eventually an understanding was reached and the girl said "Is that to go?" Oooh yes, it was to go, thank you very much love.

After another hellish eternity the twelve coffees were handed over in paper "to go" cups. There was much excitement about paying (Paying! At the till! What an idea!), but it finally got done.

Then we had the Dance of the Napkins, Sugar, Stirrers, More Napkins, and "extra milk, ooh, tip a bit out love, bit more, bit more, ooh, lovely", and finally, finally, it was our turn.

We got our drinks and lunch (we'd missed breakfast by now) and turned to find a table.

Fuck me, if all the tables were't filled by all the little old ladies, with their "to go" coffees.

Gah.

I had started laughing by now, and had to sit down until it stopped. I think they thought I was a mentalist on a day out.

*which I made as soon as we got in, because I had been fantasising in the traffic queue about a cup of team and warm scones with butter. No, I don't know why.

**loomed over

Infrastructure, lack of

I have had two days of nighmarish travelling, and am exhausted. Should be reclining on a chaise longue with a teeny lace and satin hankie in my trembling hand.

First travel nighmare: London.

Left home to catch the 0715 train, which gets me to London by 0915, plenty of time to get across town and have a cup of tea, brush hair, slap on some lippy etc before the meeting.

Or so I thought.

Train got to Salisbury. I hopped off and onto the big fast London train as planned. No problems thus far. Arrived at Basingstoke only 10 minutes late. Still not too bad.

However.

The nice man sitting opposite caught my attention* (was listening to my iPod and reading Neil Gaiman) and said "I think we have to get off here...there are problems with the signals".

Hm. Not good.

So, a whole trainful of people disembarked and scurried down the tunnel, under the lines, up the other side and across to the waiting train on the opposite platform. The already-full waiting train. Which had been held back for 20 minutes so it could meet our train.

How the delayed, crammed-in passengers laughed as an extra trainload piled in around them.

I was fortunate enought ot find a seat (not First Class, but I wasn't going to push my luck), but there were dozens of people who had to stand up all the way from Basingstoke to Waterloo.

Oh yeah, and there was an extra stop at Woking to pick up even more passengers, who should have caught the first train. The one still sitting at Basingstoke, presumably. Bloody nightmare.

We finally crawled into Waterloo at 1020, over an hour late. I scampered across to my meeting (taking some funky escalator photos on my mobile on the way) and was only 30 minutes late.

Four hours from leaving my house to getting to the meeting. Sheesh. FOUR HOURS. Not impressive.

Coming home, I got to Waterloo, found the right platform, had to use a different gate as mine was shut, and ran onto it just as my train pulled away. I thought about running along beside it, waving my arms and shrieking, but couldn't be arsed.

Went and bought some chocolate buttons and a Telegraph instead, and sat quietly for 40 minutes till the next train arrived.

So.

Almost 7pm by the time I got home. That was Wednesday.

Today. Shrivenham. By road.

Only 60 miles from home, not brilliant roads but hopefully not too busy if I left early enough. I had to be there for 9am, so thought I'd allow 2 hours. Just in case of delays.

In the event, I was out of the house and scraping ice off the car at 0645. Gah.

As I'd predicted, the roads were full of large, slow lorries, all doing between 30 and 40mph, with nowhere to overtake, so I was glad I allowed plenty of time. Got there by 0815, cup of tea, nice and relaxed, hurrah hurrah hurrah.

Left at 5, and thought "I'll go home the same way I came this morning. It was nice and straightforward."

What a FOOL I was.

The police had closed a road just as I came off the M4, so I sat (along with about 5000 other people) in an ant-speed** queue, winding down a tiny back road for an hour. Got home at 7pm again, seething.

Other news: Mr WithaY had his exam today and is very pleased. He said he could answer all the questions, and didn't run out of time. Results in a couple of months. We went to the pub for dinner to celebrate.

Also. Kevin the Decorator is going great guns on the downstairs loo.

I came home tonight to find the toilet cistern on the front lawn. I assume he will put it back at some point, and wasn't just having a rock star moment.







*He waved at me, trying to attract my attention without disturbing me. How British.

**An ant with several broken legs. Carrying a huge suitcase.

Decorating

The morning started off slightly bizarrely.

Kevin the Decorator turned up unnanounced at 8am to measure up for a job we asked him to do ages ago. He said his dad had promised to call me to tell me to expect KtD this morning. Perhaps he'll ring later tonight.

Not a big deal in itself as I was up, not naked, didn't have wet hair and was halfway through breakfast when he rang the doorbell.

KtD was hacked off though. He left (after measuring and listening to what I want doing), muttering "Dad's always doing this to me. I'll kill him." Heh.

So, with any luck our downstairs loo with be made lovely before our mates from the States arrive, which would be great. It'll be a longer job than I'd hoped though. KtD scraped a bit of the hideous lumpy wallpaper off the ceiling in there and announced that there was no plaster underneath, just plasterboard.

Some fuckwit just stuck horrible wallpaper onto bare plasterboard. No wonder it looks so dreadful.

Not as bad as our last house which had expanded polystyrene ceiling tiles all over the place (well, on the ceilings, anyway). When we took them down we found extensive gaps and holes in the ceiling where internal walls had been demolished.

The kitchen, particularly memorably, had an old packing crate as part of the ceiling. Nice.

Taking the tiles down was tough in places too. They'd run out of the correct adhesive halfway through one room and used (we think) lino glue to attach them. We chiselled those buggers off inch by inch. Gah.

And people wonder why we pay qualified and experienced professional tradesmen to come and do stuff in the house for us.

Other news: There had been an accident on the way to work, so the road was closed, leading to massive holdups and tailbacks. Added half an hour to my commute, which I could have done without.

There was a very bored (and very young looking) policeman sitting in his car with all the lights going, blocking the road. He gave the impression that he'd already been there far too long.

Also. Watched "Bulletproof Monk" on TV last nght. Heh. I love films like that.

Off to London tomorrow. Can't wait. More train travel and tiresome pointless meetings. Marvellous.

Mmmm cake

Back at work after the weekend's festivities in London. It was great to see all the family, plus a few mates, and the birthday cake was superb. I took photos*. If I ever work out how to post pictures on here, I will do so.

It took us four hours to get there on Saturday. 130 miles, more or less. Four bleedin' hours. I think the entire motorway network was a single slow-moving traffic queue.

One thing made me laugh though. Saw a white van driving along the motorway with "Crime pays. See driver for details" written in the dirt on the back. Heh.

The visit was marred slightly by the news from Glasgow, especially as Youngest Sis and her children and friends were all flying out to Spain for their holiday early (i.e. getting up at 4am) on Sunday. Not from Glasgow, but still. No word from them, so we assume they arrived ok, and hopefully are having a fab holiday.

I need a holiday. I really do.

Have booked a few days off work when Mr WithaY's mum comes over to see us but other than that I have nothing planned. I guess I should just book something and tell him about it afterwards or it won't happen. Trouble is, he does his scuba diving stuff so has holidays doing that. Two so far this year. And I had my week away with the girls but I would quite like to go somewhere as well.

Anywhere really. Amsterdam. Barcelona. Paris. Berlin. Padstow. I don't care.

Anywhere.

Still, sent our huge 12-months-in-the-making report off to the publishers today so with any luck we can issue it before the end of the day. Hurrah for us. We are great. If a bit tired.

*Of the cake, obviously

Mud

Took me almost 2 hours to get home last night. There was an accident on the A303 so the police diverted everyone onto the "back" road across Salisbury Plain. Fine. But that then led to a nose-to-tail 20mph queue of traffic lumbering along small roads which were not designed for huge trucks.

I finally hit a tailback at a junction which I knew must be at least 4 miles long, so I did a 3-point-turn in the road and legged it along a different set of tiny lanes to get back onto the main road, and cleverly avoid the worst of the jams.

Well, that was the plan.

Sadly the main road was in just as bad a state, what with floodwater and more accidents, so it took me just as long to get home as it would have done if I'd sat in the tailback.

One entertaining aspect was watching the traffic heading home from Glastonbury, looking as though it had been rallying. Several of the cars were completely covered, the only clean bit being where the windscreen wipers had cleared the mud away. The drivers looked shell shocked. It seems there were queues for 8 hours for some of the people trying to get off the site. Bloody nightmare.

Been watching the news with increasing disbelief...villages evacuated, bridges collaping, people drowning in drains...this is the kind of thing that happens on the other side of the world, not here. And it's June! I mean, 6 weeks ago we were being warned about the possibility of water shortages and drought, now entire communities are watching their neighbourhoods being deluged. It's bizarre.

And I'm off to stand in a field in Bedfordshire for the next two days. Hoo-bloody-rah.

I've seen the future...

...and it's piebald.

On my way to Bath yesterday I was stuck in a long queue of traffic. Not a huge shock, as Bath is always a complete nightmare to get across, especially in the afternoons. This hold-up however was on the A36, in the middle of nowhere. And what caused it?

A horse and cart.

Fair enough, I suppose. Glastonbury this weekend, Stonehenge about to get the annual hippy invasion, bound to be a few odd vehicles on the roads.

But no. This cart was not driven by hippies or druids or bloody star children.

It contained what appeared to be a local famer and his mate. Loads of stuff in the back, looked like they'd been shopping, most likely at the nearby Mole Valley Farmers. Probably buying rat traps and enormous industrial-sized boxes of washing powder. Maybe some sheep ointment. And a new pair of odd-coloured corduroy trousers. I love that shop.

It was a refreshing little inclusion in a long and otherwise dull drive.

The presentation went very well, by the way. In retrospect, maybe I shouldn't have compared the current financial approvals process to an Arthurian Quest:

"Bring me the head of the Black Knight, and then, and only then, shall the first committee review your submission. If you please them, they will set you another mighty task. Succeed, and you may submit your second iteration for review. Fail, and you shall be cast into the outer darkness FOREVER. Mwahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaa."

Apart from that, it was constructive and positive. Got loads more work to do as a result, but it will all help us get to where we want to be. And my boss was pleased, so that was good.

The trip home was a bloody nightmare. Left Bath at quarter past five, got home at quarter to seven. Dead Maids Hill was closed, I assume living up to its name, and so everyone got diverted off the main road.

I love it when that happens. The police block the road, stick a "Diversion" sign up to guide you into a maze of tiny lanes - cars, caravans, huge European articulated trucks with no clue about the fucking Highway Code - then effectively tell you to fuck off and find your own way home.

Do they only have the one "Diversion" sign in Wiltshire?

Aha, no. They have hundreds, but it seems they are all stacked at the side of the roads around Stonehenge (where the demons dwell) for tomorrow's big Solstice event.

Druids. Bastards.

Aaaanyway, reverting back to my original point...this morning as I was driving in I encountered another horse and cart. A different one, driven by an elegant elderly lady with a couple of long dogs running alongside. Obviously on her way to town, presumably to go shopping as she had a load of bags and baskets in there with her.

Makes sense I suppose. If you don't have far to go why use a car? Got a field? Stick a couple of horses in it and get a cart. Do they have to pay road tax? No fuel costs, just vet bills and horse food. If I had a shorter commute I might think about it. I could store it in the bicycle rack until hometime. Heh. If I didn't hate and fear all of horsekind.

Off to London tomorrow for a meeting. On the train. No fighting through the post-sunrise throng for me. And I am taking a day off on Friday because I have some stuff to do locally, and have no desire to join the long slow crocodile of Glastonbury-bound traffic that is bound to fill every road for miles around. I shall watch it on the local news and be smug that I am not involved.

The weather forecast is appalling. I have spent too many long, long weekends wallowing in mud on campsites to want to do it again anytime soon.

Mr WithaY is off shooting on Saturday. I, however, am going to sit with my nose pressed to the window, waiting for the windscreen repair guys to turn up.

Musical genuis, proximity to

I have just had a hugely successful guitar lesson. Am confident that I will be able to play Nickelback's "How you remind me" before too much longer.

My gorgeous teacher is bloody marvellous. He did make a bit of a face when I said I wanted to learn it, but when I waved the "ripped from the web and therefore possibly wildly inaccurate" chords in front of him he couldn't refuse. Heh. Bless him. He keeps trying to sneakily teach me Pink Floyd and I keep thwarting him.

This week has gone so fast. I've been in the office every day for work and it's a fair while since I've done that. We've made great progress on our huge looming deadline and I am confident (again!) that we will make our target date. Plus we had a team lunch at the pub today and most of us knocked off after that, so I was home nice and early.

Good job too - the Friday before a Bank Holiday...the A303 was a feckin' nightmare. Lord knows what it's like at the moment. Nose to tail between Andover and Exeter probably. (Look on a map, American readers).

I amused myself by listening to thrash metal. I assume that's what it was, anyway..not up with all this new stuff, being a sad old git. Anyway, it was very loud, lots of bass, lots of shouting. Perfect traffic jam music.

My youngest sister rang while I was having my lesson. She and a mate are apparently coming over and staying the night. They will have to sleep on the futon in the study as Jim is in the spare room, and I think it would be a bit crowded with three of them in there. Even if one of them is my foxy little sis. Not sure if they're here for the weekend or just the night or what. Anyway, it'll be fab to see her.

Usually when we get together it is in a house heavily infested with small children so the conversation is limited. I love them all dearly but it doesn't make for very deep discussion when there are four of them mungoing about, playing on their PlayStation (or is it an X box? I have no idea), trying to show me new stuff, texting their mates, fighting (the boys, anyway) and demonstrating their newly-acquired football skills in the middle of the floor.

We're of to a party tomorrow. I am taking my electric guitar as requested by the host. Mr WithaY had to relay the request and it clearly caused him some small twinges to say "Ian wants you to bring your guitar to the party tomorrow." And I had the delicious opportunity to ask "Electric or acoustic." Great. (Electric, by the way.)

I plan to drink cider and make a lot of noise. Hurrah!