Says it All

clipped from www.claybennett.com

Just the McJob

After yesterdays rantlet,maybe I should have got Ms P a job at McDonalds.

Counting the Cost of Education

I will have mentioned before that Ms P is in her second year at university where she is working hard and taking her work seriously, but it has brought home to me just how much we and she has to pay so that the government can reach its target of having 50% of school leavers going on to higher education.

To start with there are the student loans. The argument goes that university educated people earn more in later life and so should put something back into the coffers. Apart from the fact that these higher earners will be putting something back by paying more taxes, it misses the point of what happens when, and if, they hit the 50% target. Will there be more high paying jobs? I don’t think so.

With more and more graduates competing for the same jobs so the effect will be to raise the bar on qualifications. We already see relatively lowly jobs where a degree is ‘essential’ and post-grad for anything that pays anything like a decent wage. Sure the workforce will be better in terms of education, if not ability, but generally the higher pay for graduates is flawed logic.

The second argument is that students are adults and can take on the adult responsibilities of a loan. I could go along with that notion except that when it comes to state support is concerned they are suddenly children again and their parents’ income becomes the determining factor in how much they might receive.

We have been contributing to Ms P’s upkeep and to give her her due, she has also taken part-time work during term-time and holidays to help support herself which usually involves giving up large chunks of her weekends.

Okay, so there is the occasional benefit from being a student, like Railcards and store discounts, but those are commercial decisions aimed securing their future custom rather than a beneficent state handout. The state doesn’t do handouts it seems as we discovered when Ms P had a trip to the dentist last week.

She picked a form that you use to claim support for the cost of dental work if you are in full-time education and guess what? Her income, in terms of parental financial support and part-time earnings, is taken into account when deciding whether she is eligible or not.

But the absolute FFS epithet moment came when we spotted that the government also considers the student as income. Since when has a loan counted as income? Does the taxman ever up your contributions because you happen to have run up a £10,000 Barclaycard bill? Does a mortgage counts as part of your salary? Do the car repayments mean you have more money in your pocket? No, they bloody well don’t!

And yet with students they get you every which way. Where I’m going wrong is in not being an MP employing my kids to do no work so that the state can subsidise their education with nobody being any the wiser. Until now.

I counted 11 secretaries and research assistants sharing the same surname as the MP and that was just on the very long A-C list. Money-grabbing, self-serving bastards.

Al Anon

Well that's my name for them, the folk who leave comments without saying who they are. I can only assume that they do that in case you start stalking their comments pages. I promise you that that isn't something I would do -- it is a pretty tedious pastime.

I don't delete anonymous comments unless I think they are either mindless or offensive to the reader rather than me, so those on Caught in the Flashlight remain, but I did want to reiterate both Anon's comments and my reply. Sorry Al Anon but I am the blogger and you are the bloggee -- I outrank you!

Anonymous said...
crap science, crap logic and crazy conspiracy theories....

Anonymous
What a load of rubbish! To see how this Telegraph article and those who support the anti-speed camera campaigns have distorted the truth see http://www.guardian.co.uk/Columnists/Column/0,,2210070,00.html.
At the end of the day if you break the speed limit you're breaking the law. End of story. (And i write as somebody who frequently DOES break the speed limit, but you won't hear me whinge if I get caught.)

Mosher
Speed cameras suck because now the police seem to rely on them as the be all and end all relating to bad driving. Speed *does* kill, sure. If you hit someone at 60mph, they're likely dead. Hit them at 5 and they might bruise.

However, driving safely at 60mph on an empty country road with a 50mph limit is still safer than driving like a twat at 30mph past a school. And speed cameras *can't* detect people driving like wankers, whereas a good old fashioned copper in a police car *can*.

If speed is so dangerous, then will someone kindly explain why the autobahns in Germany with their lack of limitation have the same number or fewer accidents each year than the 70mph limited ones in the UK?

Shooting Parrots
Ooer Anon, a raw nerve touched there then, but I wasn't aware that I was whinging about my speeding fines, the opposite in fact.

I've a lot of time for George Monbiot (you'll find a link to his blog to the right) but he is a bit of a leftie luvvie who believes that legislation can cure social ills of which speeding is one.

The issue is that speed cameras take no account of driving conditions, time of day, weight of traffic etc. They are robotic.

Mosher is right As I said in the post, cameras can't catch the tail-gating tossers, the middle lane motorway hoggers or those who are just crap drivers. But we did when we had proper traffic police who exercised judgement as well applying the letter of the law.

Perhaps the jury is out on whether the cameras work, or maybe a verdict of 'they work' has been returned, but there is no doubt that they penalise good drivers as well as the bad. And that isn't whinging either.

Caught in the Flashlight

As a law-abiding citizen (for the most part) and having had a clean driving licence for the best part of two decades, it was irksome to get two speeding fines in the space of just 18 months. The circumstances were the same on both occasions. They were on broad roads with hardly another vehicle in sight, it was dry and bright, they weren't residential areas and there wasn't a school in sight. But there were speed cameras.

That was the annoying bit. I wasn't being reckless, 46mph in a 40 zone and 35mph in a 30, and no threat to the commonwealth as far as I could tell. But speed cameras aren't subjective. Rain or shine, day or night, cross the line and you're guilty, black or white.

Back in the days when I was a boy racer there people called traffic police and if you over-stepped the mark there would be a flashing blue light in your rear view mirror and you'd be pulled over. Winding down your window, a uniformed head would lean in to sniff for beer fumes and ask, "Do you know how fast you were going sir?" (Sir? And me barely shaving and dressed in tank-top and flairs.)

This was the second panic point. Do you say no and so confess that you weren't paying attention, or answer yes and own up to be knowingly speeding. A diplomatic prolonged "Errr..." usually did the trick and one of two results followed. 1) the bobby knew whether what you had done was really out of order and you got a ticket or 2) you'd slightly transgressed so you got a bollocking and let off with a, "If I catch you again" warning.

You don't get that with cameras do you? No personal touch, no subjective decision-making, but I sighed at the injustice of it all and signed the cheques for £60 each, reassured that speed cameras make the roads a safer place. Except they don't.

I read this article over at the Telegraph today by the authors of Scared to Death: The Anatomy of a Very Dangerous Phenomenon. I don't get off on the stealth tax argument: if speed cameras did what was promised in reducing death on the roads, I'd be all for it even if it cost me £60 every 18 months or so, or even my licence, but if the above is to be believed, speed cameras have actually hampered road safety.

Sounds like one for the Christmas list.

Good Citizen

I've often wondered exactly what is meant by my "moral compass", by which I mean that a compass is a tool to help you get from A to B whereas the phrase appears to refer to fairly fixed views on morality and life in general.

What set me thinking about this was an article in the Sunday Times about a website in the states that has set out to explain the moral compasses of various religions. Although limited in scope it is well presented and spurred on by this I took my own online moral compass test and this was the result.

You scored as Citizen, Congratulations. You are a Citizen. You probably believe that no one is above the law, and that the law is what makes life easier. You probably dislike chaos in all of its forms and, odds are, your dwelling is neat and tidy. Combine this result with your second to get your answer. Citizen 65% Loner 60% Pacifist 60% Guardian 60% Destroyer 45% Altruist 45% Narcissist 35% Miscreant 35% Conqueror 30% Hedonist 25% Where is your moral compass pointed?created with QuizFarm.com

Not sure about the neat and tidy bit!

Unintended Consequences

We know that when the state intervenes to improve our behaviour that there are consequences no-one had thought of. Take the smoking ban -- the BBC made dire predictions that it would possibly increase the number of people who smoke; adversely affect global warming through the installation of patio heaters to comfort puffing pub-goers (which has come to pass); inflict more passive smoking on children as more parents smoked at home; and other unthought of downsides.

But if their was an undoubted upside to the ban as it was sold to us by HMG it was that smoke-free pubs and clubs would be fresher, brighter, cleaner places in which to spend a pleasant, tobaccoless evening. Sadly the reality is somewhat different:

The disappearance of cigarette smoke has left many drinkers at many popular nightspots having to put up with the smell of beer and body odours.

Manchester Evening News

This unintended consequence has been confirmed by Miss P who was on the town last night to celebrate a friend's birthday. One of the things she reckons cigarette smoke had masked all this time was the smell of blokes farting. She is now convinced that men spend most of their waking (and sleeping) moments breaking wind, and if you read Jeremy Clarkson regularly, she could well be right.

Quite Interesting

I have been leafing through the QI pages at the Telegraph. Fascinating stuff. Here are a few of my favourites:

Ainu are the aboriginal people of Japan. They believe that the world is supported on the back of a giant trout and that sin is caused by otters.

The metallic smell we experience after handling coins is actually a type of body odour. When we touch the metal, sweat from the skin gains electrons, then reacts with body oils and causes them to decompose, creating the familiar smell.

As at least one linguist has pointed out, if he hadn't and "Saxon" had been adapted over "Anglo" (as it was in Sussex and Essex), the English might now live in Sexland and speak Sexish.

The word "infant" means "unable to speak" - from the Latin in (not) and fari (to speak) - but babies are prodigiously quick learners of language. From about 10 months, they begin to grasp the names of objects, but will assign names to whichever object interests them most.

The modern world's first international sporting fixture was a cricket match between Canada and the USA in 1844.

In 1887, Kansas property developers and prohibitionists Horace and Daeida Wilcox bought 120 acres in the Cahuenga Valley hoping for some peace and quiet. Daeida named her home "Hollywood" after the summerhouse of a friend.

Crap Walk

Picking up dog crap is not pleasant, even if you're armed with those specially scented plastic scoop bags. Collecting a freshly squeezed, steaming dollop of dump? Well there are more life-enhancing experiences. But we do it because we are responsible dog owners and yet sometimes you wonder why we bother.

I took Jack for a stroll along the canal tonight. I didn't really want to, being totally knackered from two days of more or less solid interviewing, but it did me good getting some fresh air. And wet. But the dog shit?! There were mounds of it every few yards, some of it just feet from the bin that the council has installed for the purpose of disposal.

The 'responsible citizen' in me should have picked up other people's pet's Winalot by-product, but then I would have needed a bloody rucksack on my back to carry the perfumed plastic scoopers needed to clear that lot.

I know the arguments -- I've used them myself -- that it's a natural product that will dissipate in time. But it's a bloody nuisance. Apart from anything else, you spend most of your time head down, stepping over the crap and completely missing the beauty of the countryside you're walking through.

So please, please, dear reader, if you have a dog and don't scoop the poop, try this experiment. Take it home and scatter it on your lawn instead. Leave it until June or July and see how you feel about it then.

By any other name

You do wonder what comes into the minds of parents when they Christen their children. Take this article and check out the by-line. Mind you, some seem to go out of their way to do it. Someone I once worked with claimed that she once knew a girl called Bythesea Shore, pronounced By-thes-ee-a, but think about it.

To bonk or not to...

Mostly surveys pass me by. Usually the the MORI type who make a point of ignoring my views by never ever asking for my opinion, the other one being the online questionnaires that plague the web and every news site you visit. Are they really interested in which Sunday paper I read?

But this one didn't. I think I could forego sex in exchange for a million quid:

1. The house would be paid for;
2. Student loans would be a distant memory;
   
3. I could give up work.

And I could devote the time I'd save to my string collection.

A Roma Therapy

As you can imagine, I'm fairly cock-a-hoop after last night's match. Breathtaking and the best I've seen Man U play in some years, but I won't go on -- the papers are doing enough of that in the Sun, the Mirror and the Mail.

The reason I've been quiet for the last few days is that I've been busy doing other things. On Saturday we went to see Van Morrison at the excellent Bridgewater Hall. It was a fab evening and Van the Man was on great form for a 61 year old.

The warm weather at the weekend meant work in the garden. Mrs P is more the gardener while I provide the labour. All this came to halt on Sunday when Mrs P took a tumble. She had been reeling in the hosepipe when it jammed and threw her off balance, falling backwards from a raised area of lawn onto a stone-flagged path.

She hurt her right arm and leg, but the main damage was to her right big toe which must have turned when her foot got caught as she fell. Monday morning found us at our local A+E and despite what the Daily Mail would have us believe, we didn't find an NHS in crisis, but one that dealt with us quickly and efficiently.

In around 40 minutes, Mrs P was seen by a triage nurse, had been x-rayed and been told by a nurse practitioner that the toe was badly sprained and not broken, and who then strapped it up and sent us on our way.

Food featured prominently with our first barbecue of the year on Sunday and then we took Master P out for a pre-match meal last night at the excellent Fletcher's Arms in Denton. It offers the usual pub carvery fare, but everything is prepared on site and is a cut above what you would normally expect for £7.45 all in.

We also took the dog for a pleasant stroll around Etherow Country Park yesterday, or rather a totter in Mrs P's case given the state of her toe, and any other free time I've had has been given over to the Immortal Throne, the expansion to the excellent Titan Quest.

So all in all a busy time in mundania and I've still got another three days off work.

If Democracy Changed Anything...

I finally got round to having a look at Tony Blair's petition page today. It isn't clear what impact these will have on government policy. There is certainly no suggestion that if enough people sign then change of direction will follow, but then petitions are notoriously ineffectual. Just look at the Chartists FFS -- a petition that put the fear of God into the establishment, so nuch so, they were trodden into the sediment of history.

There is a real democratic deficit in petition-signing. Number one, you're signing up to a statement with no wriggle room to add a rider, such as "unless..." And how sure can you be that the signatory actually does support the motion, or did they just sign up to it to get rid of the ardent tit with the clipboard. Thirdly, they brook no argument because there is no box to tick to say that you do not support the statement, so you have to be arsed to set up a contra-petition. (See the petition to repeal the hunting act and the petition to ban such petitions.)

Undeterred, I've signed up to three:

1. We the undersigned petition the Prime Minister to Scrap the planned vehicle tracking and road pricing policy. Obviously when Manchester wants to charge me to enter the city by car to pay for the Metrolink extension that runs nowhere near me.
   
2. We the undersigned petition the Prime Minister to change organ donation from opt in to opt out. I've never understood the attachment to dead people's organs, especially if they might do someone else some good. Unless you live in Liverpool, of course.
   
3. We the undersigned petition the Prime Minister to reduce the classified period for census data from 100 years to 70 years. Purely selfish, family history reasons, I'm afraid. I really need to access the 1911 and 1921 censuses.
   

Do I expect anything to change? I doubt it. At best filed under I for 'inconvenient' and 'ignore'. At worst, the bulging cabinet marked S for 'subversive' and 'send the boys round'. Paranoid? Me? Who said that?

UPDATE: Blimey, I write about the road charging petition when it stood at around 930,000 and twelve hours later it goes through the million barrier. I wonder if I can claim credit?

UPDATE: No, someone else already has -- www.mailonsunday.co.uk/petition

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow

I sometimes wonder if the boss at Tesco has a secret button under his desk to trigger the 'extreme weather warning' messages that send folk scuttling off to denude their shelves of bread and milk as was happening in Wales today as the snow fell overnight.

More likely it's the media as in 'it snows in London, therefore the rest of the country must be ten foot deep in billions of no two are identical snowflakes. (How do they know that? Is there some quality check in the sky before any fleck is allowed to fall? I don't think so.)

But back to the media conspiracy, long may it be so. Thanks to the 'only drive if your journey is necessary' warnings and the weatherman predicting that 'road chaos will edge north by the afternoon' the drive to work was a breeze this morning as everyone else stayed at home wondering whether the power would last and would they have to eat the dog to survive, or the children come to that.

Between slices of panic-bought Warburton's.

Variety

Early Saturday evenings in the Parrot houshold follow a familiar course. Mrs P parks herself on the sofa to watch whichever celebrity show is on at the time. Making an Arse of Yourself on Ice, Cricketers in Sequins or some folk you'll never hear of again once they've had their 15 minutes of fame.

Me, I slope off to the PC for more cerebral research, like the "Bounceometer" for instance.

That changed tonight. I'd had the rugby match on the telly (bloody hell Jonny, Jason and Harry, you all played a blinder) and when it finished, "When Will I Be Famous" crept on. It was brilliant -- a dog act, a vent, close-up magic, a bloke on a bike, a cortortionist and the obligatory cute singing kid.

But the best was Bruce Airhead. Cracking finish when he appeared out of the burst balloon in an Elvis wig and suit. Now that's what I call entertainment.

I'm obviously a throw-back to the time of vaudeville, that or Hughie Green, God help me.

Fiestaval

Me and Mrs P aren't really equiped for life in foreign climes. It isn't the heat or the language barrier that's the problem (or even what happens if you get sick in the sun, according to Trevor McDo-nut) it's just that we're not very good at haggling like you're supposed to do in those Latin places.

Take yesterday. We went to the local Ford dealer to see about a new car for me. It was quite relaxed, no pouncing hard-sell salesmen, in fact we'd wandered round for ages looking at the different models and then had to seek out someone to do the maths. We'd taken the test drive before settling down and working out that I could do the change and save 20% on our monthly payments, so we said yes after a few moments thought.

The thing is, I'm downsizing in the vehicular department. With Miss P at uni and as I seldom run Master P about, most of my time in the car is spent on my own, so a smaller car seemed a better idea and I opted for a Fiesta Zetec S, as above.

But we should have walked away, not saying yes like we did. These guys are desperate to sell cars in January and we should have said that we'd think about it and waited for the call with a better deal, but we didn't. It just never entered our psyche where a deal is a deal.

So there we were, deal closed when we went into what passes for haggling in the Parrot household. The salesman (real name Kurt Swindells, I kid you not, but a good bloke nonetheless) did his next bit of patter: did we want the paintwork and upholstery protection? Usually £299, on offer for just £99.

Mrs P stepped in with her sweetest smile and hinted that maybe, just maybe, he could throw that in, us being good customers and all. He thought a while and then he said he'd throw in some car mats instead. I'm just an onlooker at this stage as Mrs P is quietly persistent on the protection.

In the end he admits defeat and says yes in place of the mats. "And the mats," said Mrs P and the need for a January sale kicked in, so mats and protection kit, total value £316.99 and we walk away happily haggled. Sad, isn't it, but 31,698 pence more than I would have managed.

The worst thing is, it's like regression therapy. The first "new" car I ever drove (I didn't own it) was a Fieasta Sport which preceded the XR2 and which got me in terrible trouble in its own way. Before you know it, I'll be wearing a baseball cap back-to-front and driving at night with just my foglights to light the way.

Chemistry

I heard on the radio tonight that performance enhancing drugs are more common than marijana and other mind-altering stuff. So where are they? The former, not the latter, which comes as a freebie for our kids if the Daily Mail is to be believed. That and gambling, which I doubt.

But where are the real drugs? I get plenty of offers for Viagra and Cialtis (which sounds like an itcy, irritating and personal disease) but that is spam, so what's the real deal?

Where is the drug that can enhance talking-bollocks ability? The one you need in 'team meetings' that convince your colleagues that you acually know what you're talking about? Or the one at home that excuses a failure of a domestic task, like emptying the 'wishdosher', getting you off the hook?

Speaking as one whose performance is under-enhanced almost always, give me the chemistry every time.

Who Gives You Less-tra

Do you know what the difference is between a credit card and a debit card? See if it matches my understanding. A credit card is a way of spending money that you haven't got, an on the spot loan as it were that you then pay interest on. A debit card, on the other hand, is a way of spending money that you do have in your bank account and if it isn't, then you can't.

Not so apparently. Just before Christmas, we were out buying a few last minute bits and pieces, six to be precise. Mrs P used her debit card knowing that funds in her account, but thinking that she would get the knock back if the money ran out. Now in January she has discovered that you can go 'overdrawn' on a debit card and for each of those six purchases she has been charged £30, plus some sort of "naughty, naughty" fee to take total somewhat north of £200. For going around £50 'overdrawn'. Which you can't do, obviously.

Oh yes you can, at least according to the oxymoronic helpline operator. Apparently the stores can ignore the fact that the cash isn't there and accept the payment. So why aren't they the ones getting stung with the £30 fines?

I won't bore you with the details of the ongoing saga, the failed promised calls from a manager, different scripts from operatots in Mumbai, or thereabouts, and bits of the Halifax that open out of office hours and those, like the fraud office that only work nine to five. Two items on Mrs P's statement that contributed to the 'overdraft' are worth pointing out though:

1. A cheque for £60 from 2005 cashed at the end of 2006. We can find out what it is only by ordering a statement, cost £5, and yet for years the computers/people have checked our cheque numbers to know when to send us a new chequebook. And surely cheques have a cash-by date?
2. One for a cash withdrawal for £42.38. Yeah, right, ATMs dishing out coins? Or a rather Asperger's exact amount when at the till at Morrisons?

It's sad really as Mrs P has been a Halifax customer since before I knew her and, despite the fact that we have both savings and accounts with them, still they make it hard, if not impossible, to challenge punitive penalties. (What's the name for the opposite of an oxymoron, as in the end of that sentence? As in "new innovations"? Too cross to think straight.)

Moral of the tale is that the Halifax is crap. Outsourced, out-moded and definitely out of here. They see a debit card line crossed, not our savings and mortgage accounts, both of which are healthy and high and which will be heading into the sunset come the morrow.

Bankers? Well it rhymes.

Weather Vain

It started with an email from Mrs P: "Do you want the good news or the bad news? Bad news -- a slate has blown off the roof. Good news -- it missed the cars parked underneath it. Bad news -- the telly in the living room has blown up. Good news -- you might now get one of those flat screen, HD ready jobbies you've been hankering after."

I was sitting in an office in deepest, darkest Cheshire at the time having battled against storm force winds walking from the car park. The meeting I was there for started and as we spoke, the lights flickered as the power was affected by the weather, then his computer screen blinked to black. The odd thing was that the person I was seeing continued chatting as if this was an everyday occurrence, which for all I know it may have been.

Then my mobile rang and fortunately I took the call instead of turning it off as I usually do when in meetings. It was the office. "They's evacuating the building, so we're all going home. The wind is threatening to bring the tall cranes they're using across the road down on top of us."

Oh well, cancel the planned return to the office and home early for a change, I thought. Hah! The roads in Cheshire can be pretty narrow, even the A-roads so the first bit of excitement was in trying get out of the way as fire engine came bombing up behind me, all blues and twos. A few minutes later it was belting back the other, presumably having decided they weren't needed at the scene of an accident -- a van that had ended up in the hedgerow and two rather dented cars.

A little further on, the road was closed and coned off with a left turn the only alternative. This led to a really, really narrow road with room for just one car in most parts and no pull-in-to-pass places, but I put my faith in Tom Tom that had recalculated my route and insisted I was going the right way. I was and finally made it back to the main road, albeit at the end of a long queue.

I made it to the M6 and was doing okay, despite the 20mph warnings that seemed to be universal on the motorways today when the traffic bagan to slow. An artic had taken a tumble in the wind and had blocked off all but the inside lane. We began to move again with me nervous at overtaking anything taller than a Honda Civic.

The warning signs told that the M6 was closed at juntion 20, but I persevered knowing that I was leaving at exit 19 which I did only to run into more creeping traffic on the dual-carriageway that links the M6 to the M56. The reason became clear after a few excrutiating miles -- a rather large tree strewn across our path, blocking both lanes. And it hadn't been dragged up from its soggy roots after all the recent rain. The thing had sheered about six to ten feet from the ground from the force of the wind.

The M56 into Manchester was solid with traffic, but I negotiated the always conjested link road to the M60 in about the usual time, finally landing home two hours after setting off on what should have been a 45 minute journey.

But I was lucky. Mrs P's choir night was cancelled because the organisers were stuck on Deansgate, as they had been since 5 o'clock and five people have died as a result of the gales, one not far from where I live.

All in all, making it back to hearth and home in one piece is a result. Still no telly in the living room though*.

* Not sure I can blame the weather for this. Just a crap telly really.

Recorded for Training Purposes

If you've ever had to contact your broadband provider's technical support, you'll empathasise with this one.

Tom Tom

A strangely quiet day, the first one back at work after a two week break. Oddly quiet, or perhaps the office brain hasn't quite clicked in yet to remind me of the things I'd mentally listed for me to do come the New Year.

So instead I got chance to play with my new toy, the sat/nav presented to me on Christmas Day by Mrs P which came as a major surprise, despite my many 'getting lost' hints over recent months. And I am impressed.

I set it to get me to work, a journey I've made for over 20 years, wondering what the Australian voice I'd set it to (in deference to our appalling performance in the Ashes) would make of my back street shortcuts and traffic avoidance. I'd half expected a telling off and an order to turn round, but no, the gizmo simply politely replotted my route time after time.

Back home tonight, I couldn't resist downloading a couple of the extras, which is where Tom Tom must make their money. First up was the 'safety camera' information. TT doesn't do the S-word, ie 'Speed', not that I've been caught very often, but then you can't be too sure, touching wood and that.

Next was an indulgence -- the voice of John Cleese to guide my driving instead of the Australian bloke. I'm not sure how that one will work out. Perhaps it only really works well in Torquay (as in "Don't mention it. Oh, you didn't," when you show politeness and let a car out of a side street,) or "Don't mention the war," on entering Berlin, and "I think I got away with it."

Or even, "From those wonderful people who brought you the Wellington Bomber," on approaching the outskirts of Dresden. Okay, so this is not a Fawlty Towers quote, but it should have been, dammit!

White Goods

Have you come across those insurance policies that you you can take out on household appliances? Not the ones they try and stiff you with at Currys or Comet, but the private ones that promise to repair them when they break down and to replace them if they are unrepairable in exchange for a small monthly payment. If you've been tempted, don't bother -- they're rubbish.

We took one out on our washing machine after the manufacturer's warranty expired. That was about ten years ago and the other day it conked out, as has done two or three times a year for the last few years.and we went into the usual rigmarole. We phoned the company and were told that it would be a week before an engineer could come and take a look. Given the age of the machine, that will inevitably involve a shake of the head and air sucked through teeth and the words, "With a model as old as this, we'll have to wait to get the parts".

Two or three weeks later, we just might have a working washing machine. In the meantime we (or rather Mrs P) will have to spend hours at the launderette, not to mention the expense. And they will do anything, absolutely anything not to replace the sodding thing which is daft when you consider how much it must cost them to send their man and his van to visit us six times a year.

But enough was enough. I don't believe in throwing things away if they are reparable, but the service should be rather more prompt than that, so yesterday we went out and bought a new washer, plus a dryer, from a local shop who delivered and fitted them two hours later and took the old machine away. And the money we used to pay the insurance company we'll put away to cover future repairs from a mechanic who can be arsed to provide a decent service.

We rang up the company to cancel the policy and were asked if we would mind telling them why. Because it's rubbish we said. "Oh" was their only reply.

The Way I'm Feeling

Not sure if it's the pressure of work, Christmas or the prospect of another Ashes losing defeat over the next few days, but I haven't had much to say lately. The above seemed appropriate in the circs.

Sack Race

The first weekend of December and the sack race is on, the one to fill as many Santa sacks as you can before teetering into bankruptcy.

Me and Mrs P headed for Stockport early doors, or 11am as it is on a Sunday. It would normally be Mrs P and her personal shopper, Miss P, but as the latter is having a whale of in Sheffield, I had to play Trinny to Mrs P's Susannah. Or should that be the other way round.

We had expected to struggle to find a parking space, but this was a breeze. Also that we'd be fighting off the blood-maddened crowds with up-turned dining chairs, but it wasn't so. In fact, it felt like a usual Sunday, ie crowded, but civilised.

As it was, we made a fair dent into the prezzie list over our four hour sourjourn. And I also picked up a few clues (hints) as to what Mrs P might expect from my direction come that holy morn.

You see, there is something to be said for paying attention. But then this particular sack race is a sprint, not a marathon.

Stalked

I think I'm being stalked. By Jo Malone. You may recall my one and only trip to Harvey Nicks in September to buy some Pomegranate Noir for Mrs P's birthday. While still in a state of shock at the cost, I filled in a form with my details on auto-pilot and the woman hasn't let me be since.

It started with an offer of a hand massage or somesuch. I suspect there had been something of a marketing breakdown and they hadn't clocked that I was a bloke, but then there's no telling these days. Next it was the odd billet-doux to tempt me to purchase more (no discounts I might add), but, as 25 December approaches, Jo has gone full on with glossy brochures landing on the doormat and emails beating the spam trap.

Don't get me wrong, it's good stuff. Mrs P smells great when she wears it and we'd quite like to buy one of Jo's smelly candles for my sisters at Christmas, but they are so bloody expensive. At £38 you'd think they would burn for a while, but apparently not according to a colleague who says they fizzle out pretty quickly.

I would buy Mrs P the Perfume Wardrobe for Christmas. I would be in Brownie points until at least July, but at £590, the kids would have to make do with a tangerine and nuts in the bottom of the pillow case and nothing else, except a pomergrenate if they're lucky.

Identity Chip

Time was that fish and chips was a cheap, nutritious meal for the working class of the major industrial cities of the country, but particularly in the north of England. That time is long gone. I visited our local chippie tonight to buy fish, chips and peas and didn't have much change out of four quid, so feeding a whole family could easily top £20.

Mind you, at least our chippie is an award winner and even hit the news when a young mum decided to name her daughter after the shop to mark her cravings for curry and chips durin her pregnancy, though what daughter Taylor will think about it when she grows up is anyone's guess. Chipper?

Des Res

With All Hallows Eve upon us, how about this for a spooky pied-à-terre? £33k gets you your own 9ft x 9ft mausoleum in the Cemetery of the Measow of Rest in Porto. It "sleeps" 12 on six shelves above ground and a further six in the underground chamber. You will have to decorate it for All Hallows though and open up its doors though.

Coffee Culture

James May bemoans the fact that we are abandoning tea in favour coffee, as pointed out by Blognor Regis. His theory is that this has betrayed our cultural heritage and is the reason why we don't invesnt anything decent these days.

Not sure how that squares with the coffee house culture that thrived in this country from the 1600s onwards, the very time when we were laying down our industrial heritage. Perhaps it was just an effete London thing shunned by real men who were into spanners, grease and steam. And tea.

Whatever, if you do like your coffee, I recommend cold caffè latte by Emmi. Straight from the fridge, a 15 second shake, and you have the most delicious drink, especially the choco latte. Beautiful.

Abridged Too Far?

"Just when you thought there was no area of British life left for the health and safety lobby to invade, they've found another one... the game of bridge."

Or so the Mail on Sunday would have you believe, and of course there are plenty of believers judging by the response, but the tale isn't quite what it seems if you bother to read the document that has got them so worked up. I'm no great fan of the H+S lobby, but it's clear to me that it is intended for those involved in rather more risky study than those learning to play a harmless card game.

Meanwhile, while we moan about these state intrusions on our lives, they are as nothing compared to what some states do to their people -- censorship, imprisonment and a denial of freedom of speech, hence the additional bit of code on the right that links to Irrepressible.info, which fragments of state-censored material on your site. Think about it.

This Post is Pre Post- Modern

"I know many Americans are not satisfied with the situation in Iraq," he said. "I'm not satisfied either."

Thus spake GWB today, ever the master of the understatement. I've just finished re-reading How Mumbo Jumbo Conquered the World by Francis Wheen, recommended reading if you want someone to cut through the post-modernist twaddle for you.

Speaking of the Iraq War in the Mumbo-Jumbo Never Sleeps update, he borrows an earlier jibe by Michael Foot, referring to the destruction of British manufacturing industry in the 1980s, likening the White House to:

"...a magician who borrows an expensive watch from a member of the audience, smahes it with a hammer -- and then after much anguished brow-furrowing, confesses that he has forgotten the rest of the trick."

Quite so. I guess it's back to the post-modernist essay generator.

The Doctor Won't See You Now

You may think I've been quiet for a few days. I haven't. I thought I was over the worst of the cold I had last week, but I was wrong. They lurgy returned lurgissimo and I was coughing like a chain-smoking consumptive over the weekend, particularly at night disturbing sleep for both me and Mrs P.

I went to work on Monday still croaking and spluttering and feeling decidedly light-headed for a meeting I really didn't want to miss. That out of the way, I decided to try one of the much trumpeted Walk-in Centres handily nearby. It is run by Atos Origin on behalf of the NHS and it looked impressive on my non-patient visits.

I rolled up at reception just before lunch and as to see a GP to be told that I could, but that there was a 50 minute waiting time, not the 15 minute maximum their leaflet claimed. But hey, there are lots of bugs about and they could be busy so I asked for an appointment time and I would come back.

"We can do that," said the receptionist. "You have to wait here once you're booked in." I said I'd rather not and she gave me a card with the centres number on it with the suggestion that I should call later to see what waiting times were like.

Back in the office, I dug out the leaflet about the centre and it said quite clearly that you can book an appointment other than during the rush-hour period of 7.30am to 8.30am. So I tried. After going through the automated answering service that advised me to phone 999 if I was desperately ill or NHS Direct if only feeling a tad peaky, I finally got through to the receptionist:

"But you don't have to make an appointment, you just turn up," she said.

"How long would I have to wait?" I asked.

"I really couldn't say. We've no idea who might come through the door before you get here."

"So why can't I book an appointment like it says in your leaflet?"

"Because that just isn't possible I'm afraid."

I rang my GP's surgery, more in hope than expectation, and sure enough there were no appointments available that afternoon.

I explained that I thought I might have a chest infection and that the practice nurse might do. "Can you get here for 2.30?" asked the receptionist. "Surgery starts at 2.45 and the doctor could fit you in before then."

So there I was at 2.25, had seen the GP who ran his stethoscope down my back, had an opportunistic blood pressure reading, and out again just after 2.30 with a prescription for a week's course of amoxicillin in my hand.

I have no ideological problem with the private sector providing NHS services, indeed I suspect that they could provide a spur towards better 'customer care', but in this instance I have to congratulate good, old-fashioned public sector 'ineffciency'.