Credospheres.

Following a discussion with a colleague, I have been asked to expand upon the concept underlying the word in the title. Since it's my own invention, I suppose I shall. Feel free to mock it if you will, although I think it's a neat way to describe the way ideas interact - or not as the case may be.

What is a Credosphere? Very simply, it's a way to describe an area of belief, or an area where a common set of beliefs and ideals exist. Credospheres cover a multitude of different ideas, yet what they have in common is this idea of faith and belief. In other words, they do not deal with things that are solid facts, but rather with those things that people consider to be true. They can exist on several different levels:
1) Personal - our self-belief and view of ourselves;
2) Familial/clan - the idea that our family is 'normal' and others are somehow 'abnormal' (or even vice versa;
3) Social, tribal and work groups - the idea that my team is better than your team, or my workplace is somehow superior to another;
4) national/linguistic - my country/language is 'better';
5) supranational - the idea of the EU, or Western Europe, for example;
6) Political - one party represents this particular set of ideas, etc;
7) Religious - hence my originally calling the concept a credosphere in the first place;
and others.
I decided that it is best described as a sphere because of the way each area interacts, or not, with others. At the centre of each credosphere, belief is at its most strong, and is less likely to 'believe' in an alternative; At the edges, where credospheres meet, mingle and interact, the core belief of any given credosphere is more dilute, and more open to change, interpretation and challenge. Where Credospheres have heavy areas of overlap, there is an essential confusion where belief systems clash.
Let me give some examples. Linguistic credospheres are easy to describe. Someone who lives in the middle of a monlingual environment is less likely to learn a foreign language, simple because they are (geographically) distant from the target language, plus they are likely not to actually need it. That belief is likely to be shored up by this perceived fact. British people are well-known for their reluctance to learn foreign languages, partly because of our geographic isolation, but also because we believe that if we go anywhere in the world, we will find someone who speaks English. That, or we will be understood by talking loudly and slowly. However, someone who lives on the border of two countries, let's say for example the Alsace, is more likely to speak the languages of both regions, or a hybrid. There's a given belief that the knowledge of two languages is inherently 'good'.
Another obvious example is of course religion - let's use Islam. The way Islam is practised in Saudi Arabia, its nominal centre, and the way it operates on its idealogical margins - in Turkey, for example - is significantly different. The fact that Turkey borders the 'Christian' west suggests that it is influenced by it - for better or worse, I leave to you to decide, although I personally dislike both labels.
Using Turkey in another example, it has been trying to join the EU for years. The EU is best seen as a concept as much as an enormous, lumbering over-bureaucraticised dinosaur; After all, you have to believe in the project before you join it. And so Turkey has had a hankering for the European project these past few decades. Yet now, after rebuff after rebuff while other countries jump the queue, it is now beginning to look to the Credosphere of the East - not necessarily the world of Islam, but the Grand Turkish Project of connecting all the Turkic Republics that stretch all the way to the gates of China.
And what happens when credospheres collide? Well to take the UK as an example, you end up with a crisis of identity. Can you tell me what it means to be English? No, and I wouldn't be surprised. Can you tell me what it means to be Scottish? Probably, but if your answer is essentially 'Not being the southern bastards next door', then there's an essential void in the description of your belief. Being 'English', as a concept, is remarkably difficult to determine; It has nothing to do, nowadays, with George Orwell's famous essay. And if you come from a family that originally emigrated from the West Indies, or from Pakistan, or even from just over the border, then how do you define yourself? How do you believe? What do you believe, in terms of nationality, religion, which music or sport is the 'best'? The clash of ideas and beliefs is inevitable, because there are so many opinions whirling around as to which concepts are 'good' and which 'bad'. 'Good' and 'bad' are entirely subjective, and I am tempted to dismiss them all under the epithet 'wrong', although that of course is totally unfair.
This is just an outline in brief - and one I will probably come back to. As I said at the beginning, this is just a way to describe how people believe a certain set of things, and how that creates an impetus to create a 'common area'; It is not meant to be a hypothesis, merely a tool.

If your field don't yield, get up and hoe it.

Monday, and no students, seeing as it's the beginning of the Easter break. Now's the time to catch up on errant marking, create lists of students for the marathon of exams in the summer, get all my photocopies done for the next term, and put all the mountain of paperwork on my desk to the torch. One other thing is that it's blissfully quiet in the office -there's only me and another colleague, Ruth, here.
Also, of course, the absence of people demanding a slice of my time means I have an opportunity to write something here. I was listening to this song the other day, and reflecting how hard it is to create, to write, and to do all the things I enjoy, or rather enjoyed - My time being so taken up by other demands, or so it seems. And the song spoke to me, of how I feel about creating, or writing, or studying, and how so often I passively wait for things to come along.
Well, I don't want to be that any more. It's to do with being fulfilled as a person, of doing the Three Peaks in my head, as it were. What has always been a problem for me is a personal reluctance to take a step along a single path - I've always been afraid that by doing so, I will somehow cut myself off from other experiences, other adventures. But by staying as I am, I am cutting myself off from all those possible experiences.
So, it's time to move forward. But to what? Well, first of all, there's the small matter of my Diploma in TESOL. I have been genuinely busy over these past two years, but now I want to get the bloody thing out of the way.
Next, The Booze Rule. I have reflected on how much I have sunk over the past twenty-two years, and the reasons why. It started as a way out of my extreme reticence, and to cope with social situations. The trouble is, I have let it slip into a bad habit. As you can see from previous posts this year, I have made efforts to address this, with varying degrees of success week by week. The general principle is: No Booze during the week, unless in a social situation; Eat something when Boozing; And there is no requirement to finish a bottle of wine once it has been opened.
What else? Obviously (to me, anyway) my writing. I enjoy the process of making words appear on the page, pulled from some recess of my mind, so why don't I do it on a more regular basis?
There are other things, but I will enumerate them later, as someone's just come in with firewood and accelerant so I can deal with my paperwork.

Thanks to the wonders of wireless broadband and an extension lead, I'm writing this from the (dis-)comfort of my shed. The reason I'm in here is because a) I kitted it out as an office of sorts back in January and b) Nur, along with her friend Bilge, are doing an extensive clean of the house from top to bottom, and moaning about it. well, they bloody well decided to do it.
I am not what could be described as un lapin joyeaux at the moment. I am feeling very pissed off with work, and one incident in particular involving someone in a position senior to me. I am not going to say anything more about this at the moment, save to say that it has made me seriously consider whether I resign or not. However, I am not going to do anything in a fit of anger - that would be to harm none but myself: No, I am going to bide my time - for now. It is not the anger so much as the disappointment at an act done in an underhand way, and the knowledge that I can no longer rely on or trust this person in the way I would have done before.

Aspire, respire, perspire, expire.

Feet of clay - or more cheating bastards!

You'd expect those night-time dial-and-win programmes to cheat, and get people to call in at a pound a call and have no chance of getting through; You might raise your eyebrows at Richard and Judy doing it, but not be too shocked.
But Blue Peter - no, no, no - that's just wrong, all wrong!
Here's a winner we found earlier

untitled

This is one of those posts where I'm not exactly what I'm going to write. Rather, I'm allowing my fingers to caress each key, to follow the flow of the board until I get into a rhythm and then see what it reveals. I find that when I write, I eventually get into some kind of trance state and the words begins to write themselves. I even find I write more accurately - that is, my fingers become more sure of their stepping and I don't even have to correct my work as I go along. I read something by J.G. Ballard the other day, where he said that no truly great novel has so far been written on a computer.
Bollocks.
I bet someone said that a couple of years after the invention of the typewriter.
My own handwriting is utterly appalling - quite frequently, even I can't make it out. For that reason, I feel far more comfortable with a keyboard. I find it slows me down a bit, allows me pause for my fingers to catch up with the ever turbulent flow of my mind, until there's that sudden moment where they're working wonderfully well in unison and my conscious mind can sit back and marvel at what the rest of me is doing. The nearest analogy I can find is when I'm talking in Turkish at full flow, and the bit of me that's still thinking in English starts to give a running commentary:
' Hot Damn, boy, look at you do that whole Turkish thing! That's right, you're even getting the body gestures right!'
And so on.
It's something to do with an act of abstraction from the quotidian mental acts we all undergo, I suppose; A movement towards another place within that is somehow a sanctum sanctorum (Is that right?) from the usual experience. When I write at length, I withdraw further and further into this, a garden within the mind, that becomes wilder, denser, lusher the more I wander in. And the more I go in, the less I desire to come out again, yet at the same time I am aware of this other voice, my own director's commentary as it were, giving his opinion over what I'm doing.
Strangely, when I'm exploring this fecund jungle of my own imagination, he is largely positive; It is only when I'm stuck on the outside, lurching and limping through the mundanity, that he becomes an overwhelmingly negative voice, whether it be about me, or the apparent idiocies, folies and stupidities of others. Why this should be, I don't know, yet there it is.

Class

Panorama shot taken with k800.

in a fug.

ye gods, I'd forgotten how drained you feel. It's the sense of being in a permanent daze, of being a stupefied automaton at the thrall of something very small and very precious with a wail that is heartrending, soulrending, mindshredding and completely impossible to ignore. And the lengthening days, particularly the mornings, make it harder. Just like Angus, Sean is an early riser. I've spent the past few days wandering round in a haze of inattentive dullness, save for a few moments of clarity while, of all things, doing the shopping. Mind you, wandering round Tescos is enough to put anyone in a daze. Unpacking my things onto the conveyor belt before having them scanned and then repacking them (and before shoving them in the car, then dragging them home and unpacking them into new places, then unpacking them as and when and dumping the remains in one way shpae or form), it was as though all the sounds and voices came into sudden focus, as well as the colours and shapes around me, and I could almost sense the secret thoughts, worries, anger, anxieties, misery, joy and fears of those processing their shopping.
Anyway, I'm knackered.
Here's a pic.

Yes, this really is the large statue above what was the main entrance to Reading College. From the front, it looks fairly innocuous in a 1950's Socialist Realist kind of way. It's only when viewed from the west wing that it's revealed that he's having a quick one off his stone wrist.

With a statue like this...

What can you say about where i work?

post-inspection, all washed out

...which is pretty much all I have to say. The BC inspectors were fairly kind in their judgement on us: Certainly, the most important thing, the teaching, came out well. I'm now in the mood where I can't be arsed to do anything. Also utterly tired out as Sean had a v. uncomfortable night, thanks to a cough.

Angus

taken on, and posted directly from, my new sony ericsson k800. Good, isn't it?

wet sundays.

I am, quite simply, too bloody knackered. Let's hope son no. 2 grows up quickly so I can get a decent night's sleep. Time was I would have spent sunday mooching around, especially when it was a sopping wet one like today. There is a pleasure in stomping around the countryside on a wet day, but this is one of those where you need to be curled up in a chair with a decent book or three and a ready supply of wine. Crumpets may also possibly be involved somewhere along the line, as well as the smell of a roast dinner.
Nowadays, I can hardly move for the competing demands for my attention from various others - and indeed, just on cue, Sean has just woken up. Also, I have to make dinner for a guest who I drunkenly invited over after my mum's 60th birthday bash, and of which I had entirely forgotten until Nurel reminded me this morning. I miss those lazy, lounging days.

journeys.

Bug's Bottom to Shipnell's Farm, Foxhill to Middle farm, up to Kidmore farm then down to Toker's Green or Dyson's farm or maybe up to Chalkhouse Green and the back route to Emmer Green; Perhaps along to Kidmore end and over fields to Sonning Common, past the Bird in Hand and the route to Dunsden and from there back to Clayfield Copse; Possibly over Binfield Heath and past the stand of houses and past Hurley End, then towards Henley-on Thames; Or possibly just up to Balmore and look out across the broad Thames Valley, bowl of my birth, and think, as ever, of the possiblities and maybes and wherefores of the broad world without, of the lives I have met, or will cross, or will never encounter, and think, yes, there are worlds out there; And, as ever, I resent that I will never live long enough to encounter everything there is, or was, or will be. And here I am, at 39, looking at photos of my parents at my age, and remembering me as a 17-year-old, watching them and considering what it would be like to be their age, and who or what I would be; Now here I am. And of course, there is only ever now, and the fields and folds and paths I have ever and anon walked.

What was it?

Maybe it was having to tell a colleague, for the umpteenth time, how to install a printer on his computer, and knowing that I'll have to tell him again any time soon; Maybe it was having to pack all the stuff on my desk up, because they were moving my desk nine inches to the right and were worried about Health and Safety; maybe it was the second call from the exams officer, who couldn't work out a perfectly clear spreadsheet as to who should be put in for exams and when, because she couldn't be arsed to understand timetables; Maybe it was when one of my colleagues shoved her oar in, and started telling all and sundry that exams would be on days they weren't going to be; maybe it was another colleague who has studiousuly ignored the list of people who wish to sign up for a course, then called them to say that the course had been cancelled due to lack of demand; Maybe it's the colleagues who have had a go at me because of other people's incompetencies; Maybe it was the sense that I feel I have been marginalised and sidelined, both professionally and socially, for reasons that I don't understand; Maybe it was the realisation that the 'pay increase for sustained contributution to the university' has nothing to do with sustained contribution at all, but rather the number of letters after your name, another kind of box-filling, and the convictio that I am not paid as much as I deserve; Maybe it was the realisation of just how much I have contributed, and how little support I've actually received; Maybe it was this or that or the other, or an aching sense of loss; But I just realised, I really don't give a shit any more, and I am utterly sick of clearing up other people's crap for them. If people are so desirous of drowning in their own incompetence, then so be it. They deserve to drown. What I will no longer let them do is drown me alongside them. It is noticeable how, in any given organisation, the most competent are loaded up with work until they become functionally incompetent.

A very quick update. I've been busy on several fronts over the past week; the arrival of the laptop has proved to be, so far, a good investment on my part. Work on the Dip. has increased; I'm editing A Guide to Reading; and I'm experimenting with some other stuff too. I also downloaded OpenOffice, which I'd recommend as a replacement for Windows Office.
Booze - wise: 34 units over the course of the week.

Contingency Plan.

Everyone should have one. Currently, I'm plotting how I will deal with the predicted snowfall for tomorrow, in terms of how I shall get to work first, and then what to do when no-one turns up ofr class.

Not much to scrawl.

I haven't posted much this week, as you have probably noticed; In fact, I've been busy putting together, then rewriting, a substantial entry regarding one of the subjects I listed earlier. That, and I've been too busy. In the meantime, I didn't have any booze until last night, when I was driven from the house by my wife and her friend discussing clothes. Ended up having 3 rather dissatisfying pints of London Pride, and, on returning home, the last half glass of white wine in the fridge, and a single whisky as a nightcap. That still adds up to 8 or 9 units, however.

I kind of lost count of how much booze I consumed over the weekend, but I suspect it was at the high end of the forties, units-wise. So far this week, not a drop.
And I bought a laptop last night for £66!

Poverty.

We entered the house,my son and I. It was a birthday party for one of his friends. Everywhere, there were the signs of building work and house improvement. The hallway was half-stripped wall and bare plaster; a door for the living room was still encased in its plastic wrap; a toilet lay covered in dust, waiting to be plumbed in; the kitchen-cum-dining room, newly extended, was a hotch-potch of old furniture, dismantled panels, and packages waiting to become new furniture. Half the lights didn't work. In the year since we'd last been there, it seemed to me that little had changed, except that the hostess' eyes had more lines around them, darker circles of care. I couldn't help noticing a letter rack bulging with bills and torn envelopes. The party fare, laid out on a worn paper tablecloth, was of the kind of things that kids loved, but it was spread thinly. Cheap fizzy drinks clustered to the side; Value sausage rolls were cooling off on a paper plate, and setting in their own grease; Lurid pink iced biscuits were lumped on a tray uninvitingly.
While the kids entertained themselves, I asked the hostess how it was going.
'Oh, fine', she said, 'you know. It's a bit tricky at the moment, but it's a birthday; we have to do something for that.'
And everywhere about the place, there was that smell; the smell of clothes that had been left a little too long, a little too damp, on a dryer; the smell of bodies not quite looked after; cheap perfume, cheap room deodorants, cheap detergents, all with their bitter underscore in the nose; cheap food, exuding unhealthiness into the air like a plague; And worse, the smell of desperation, a need to rise above this seeming morass, a vast, hungry desire to make it, to be bigger, better, stronger, all of it expressed in the dust and damp smell of Home Improvement.

The United Kingdom is still, just about, the fourth largest economy in the world, a fact that never fails to stagger me when I look about and see how many people in this country are quite clearly living in poverty. Now, I'm not talking about the gut-churning, soul-wrenching horrors of the Brazilian Favelas or slumtowns of Nairobi, to name but two, or the abject existence of the average Chinese peasant (don't be fooled by the economic miracle there - most of the population still grinds out a living from the land) - no, I'm talking the poverty of lives that are truly unlived. It's a poverty that ironically takes its shape from having a glut of things, a riot of choices - all of which are placed in front of the punter with no information given as to how to use them. And without knowledge, all choices are necessarily bad, because we don't know what to do with them.
I've mentioned before my profound mistrust and, indeed, hatred of advertising, and the main reason why is because it sells nothing but dreams, and grinds our faces back into the apparent nightmare of our own existence - I say apparent, as all ads imply that without the product being sold, we are somehow inadequate. Adverts essentially exploit poverty, or the perception thereof, leaving people unhappy with their lot. This has become especially noticeable, in Britain at least, over the past twenty-five years or so,certainly since that nemesis of honesty and decency, Margaret Thatcher, pronounced that there was no such thing as society, and opened the floodgates of the morass of greed we find ourselves in now.
I have to go back here a little bit, and describe my family as we found ourselves in the mid-70s, and one particular incident that etched itself on my mind. It was, if memory serves me correctly, my mum and dad's wedding anniversary. My granddad and nan had bought them a pine welsh dresser, and I remember thinking then, as it was unwrappped and given pride of place in acorner of the living room, 'Wow! Nan and Granddad must be really rich!' Also, another incident, visiting one of my uncles, and being impressed not only by their detached house with large (to my eyes) garden, but also their top-of-the-range family tent, resplendent in 1970's orange and brown swirls.
I still have that welsh dresser; its base sits in my living room now, a rather nondescript piece of not very expensive furniture. Its top is in my shed, being used to house various garden implements. In other words, a rather cheap piece of household goods impressed me with its wealth way back then. And it is only in the past few years in conversation with both my parents that I have realised just how poor, in real finacial terms, we were back then. However, it was something I never noticed at all. I never realised that I was supposed to be counted as being one o f the poor, and I daresay that my parents never contenanced this either, at the time.
Yet things change. How would we define poverty now? Who do we see as poor in our own society, let alone in the developing world? It strikes me that the goalposts have not been so much shifted as raised to almost impossible limits. You MUST have that iPod, You MUST have that plasma screen telly, you MUST have those trainers, you MUST have the right kind of flooring, you MUST have white teeth, glossy hair, perfect tits, even more perfect sex, the best set of wheels, perfect abs, brilliant mates et cetera et cetera ad fucking nauseam.
And it's impossible to be that! In other words, we consign ourselves to an apparent failure, one tinged with that odour I mentioned at the beginning of this piece, the scent of poverty's desperation. However, it's important to remember this one important fact: The vast majority of us are born into 'poverty'. Look around you at the world: of the other five or six people born in the same second as you were, you are the only one of them, statistically speaking, who is actually even able to read this, let alone having access to the internet; two of them are almost certainly dead due to poverty-related diseases.
In reality, we must distinguish the different forms of poverty that afflict us all. Now, I could go on about Maslow's hierarchy of needs at this point, but I'm not going to - if you're interested, do some googling on the subject. Basically, there is objective, real poverty, based on a lack of those things that are essential - shelter, clothing, clean water and adequate food. This we all know, and I think it is fair to say that no-one in the UK can say that they lack any of these - or that should be the case. Notice, by the way, I say adequate food, not necessarily healthy food - that should cover some of the crap Brits are liable to consume. No, other forms of poverty haunt us: a subjective poverty, based on our measurements against how well or badly others are doing compared to us; Poverty of choice, being stuck in a rut or a situation that one cannot escape; A poverty of education, meaning we cannot exercise choice in a meaningful way; And a poverty of mind, a bleak outlook that informs us that we are defined by how we appear and what we consume rather than by what we really are.

two pints of Magner's, two glasses white, one glass red and a sleepless night.

half a bottle of white.

tuesday night: three small glasses of white. two single G&T's.
wednesday night: two and a half glasses of red and a single raki, plus an argument with the wife because I couldn't get Sean to sleep - 'You're worse than a Turkish man! You just think of yourself and no-one else! You're a lazy, typical man! You don't give me enough money!'
I suspect she was pissed off because Sean's crying interrupted her having a chat with her best friend on MSN messenger.

How are you?

Such a simple question; You ask it, and get the reply, 'Fine', or 'Not bad'. And most of the time, that seems to be enough. There's a peculiarly British dread of asking 'How are you?' and then being told in exact detail how the person is - their moans, their gripes, their various ailments and arguments with their families, friends and enemies. This is because the question has become debased to mean just 'Hello', and the reply - 'Fine thanks', 'Not bad', 'Mustn't grumble', and so forth - a mere acknowledgement of this. I have had many students left perplexed at how a question that carries notions of concern, sympathy, and love within it is regarded in such a cavalier fashion. Turkish people always reply with 'Thank you' to it, and depending on the level of relationship between the person asking and the answerer, leave it there, or go on to develop the conversation. The Poles I have taught tend to ignore its cognate - Jaksiemas? (any Polish speakers, please feel free to correct my spelling of it!) - as it is an invitation to spill all. A simple 'Hello' suffices.
Yet there are times when I want to say 'How are you?', or 'How are you?', or even 'How are you?', and mean it sincerely, and be interested in and sympathetic to the reply. I want to be asked the question in the same way, and be able to sincerely say what is in my heart, whether it be a burden or a joy - to say 'Today is not good, because of this and that and the other', or to look the asker in the eye and tell that person how I feel, how much I love them and what they mean to me, how my day has been lifted by the simple action of being asked such a simple, such a complex and fraught, question.
Such a simple question, yet so hard to articulate truthfully, in its asking and in its reply.
So I ask you: How are you?

edit: drank 1 bottle of red last night.

A crab wandering on sand.

So, after a day of feeling really crap, I should be in bed, sleeping soundly, ready for the travails of another day; Yet I can't. Instead, here I am at nearly midnight, scratching an entry out onto the page and drinking red wine. And as I write, I'm puzzling what it is I'm trying to say, trying to exude onto the pristine white screen facing me, like a child faced with a virgin parchment of snow early in the morning, wanting to implant his first footsteps before all others, only to leave random bootsteps going first this way, then the other, directionless. The night, the house, are silent; The boys and Nur are abed, nuzzled in warmth and sleep; even the vixens in the stand of woods at the valley's lip are quiet, their yowling silenced by the cold.
What should I write? My frustrations at the everyday burden? My 'humble' opinions on this, that, and the other? By the way, whenever I hear someone begin with the words 'In my humble opinion..' I feel a need to punch the pompous fucker in the gob.Opinions are never humble. I could write of my readers, the strangely scattered number of you who read this. I check you out, you know. I look at the meter to the right of these entries, and it shows me a map of who has had a look, and I wonder why some posts seem to be more popular than others. Why is someone in China having a peek? Why is my diatribe against Rolie Polie FUCKING Olie so popular? Who is it that finds my discussion on the need to vote correctly in elections so interesting?
Here is a list of some ideas I'd like to write about on this blog. Whether I'll get round to it is anybody's guess.

• Poverty - its various guises, not necessarily the lack of lucre
• Ignorance - its relationship to poverty, and why they are both my enemies
• Stupidity - let's face it, we're all guilty of this, but why?
• A deterministic versus a relativistic universe - why the former is deeply scary, and the latter even scarier
• creation myths - how they have been hijacked by idiots full of the top three discussion points on this list
• why all faiths are at the mercy of fuckwits
• booze - me keeping faith with the original ethos of this blog
• why all politics, which, after all, is only another guise of faith, is at the mercy of ambitious fuckwits
• my sons, my family, and all the other things that conspire to drive me completely bloody mad, love them though I do.

And this week's score is...

46 units! with an acceptable margin of error, of course. Better, but still 16 over target.

quick booze update

thursday: dad's birthday, so went round and had one small beer there, followed by another in the pub, then three glasses at home.
friday: one pint of cider, then three glasses of red.
saturday: one G&T (single) and three small glasses wine.
so far tonight, four glasses white wine.

so there.
I have also kitted out my shed as an office, so I shall be doing (hopefully) plenty of writing there.

Art Copying Life? Hrant Dink Murdered

Let it not be said that this blog has forgotten its roots in Turkey and things Turkish...
Hrant Dink Murdered
The story of the murder of Hrant Dink is strangely reminiscent of the end of Celal Salik in Orhan Pamuk's incomparable 'The Black Book', even up to the promise from the Prime Minister to hunt down the perpetrators.

Returning by bike at lunchtime to my normal workplace after a lesson at our other campus, I found myself not only blown to a standstill, but actually going backwards into the path of a taxi that clearly had no intention of stopping. Fortunately, I managed to get out of the way in time. Mad bloody weather. In another sign of madness, I saw a bloody enormous wasp flying groggily around the classroom.
The satellite was installed yesterday, and I can now get crystal clear TV pictures for the first time in about four years. Watched 'The Green Mile' on Film 4.
I also had three single shots of raki and three cigs.

waiting for the cable guy.

I'm not exactly feeling inspired at the moment. It's one of those times where I'm engulfed in a static cloud of ennui, making little movement forward or backward, like a fish in a still pocket of water. Still feeling ill and tired doesn't make it any easier of course. Right now, I'm working at home, waiting for the sattelite guy to come and set up a receiver for us.
Monday night saw the consumption of two pints of Abbot ale, and most of a bottle of red, plus six cigs, while yesterday was three glasses of red and two cigs. I hadn't originally intended to drink at all on monday, but as I was cycling home I wrenched the muscles in my back, which then started to spasm, and I had to sit down. A pub seemed much the best place to do this in, and of course beer is the best muscle relaxant. Well, that's what I told myself, anyway.

totting up.

Feel rather rough this morning, mainly because of a not exactly soothing night of sleep. Also, fun & games getting no. 1 son up and ready for school this a.m.
Last week, I had roughly 30 fags, and consumed 63.19 units of alcohol (conservative estimate, although I've tried to make an absolutely honest assessment of the size of the whiskies I had) - better, but still not good enough. The aim this week is to reduce this figure to between 30 - 40 units max, then drive the figure down until it is regularly below 30. As for the cigarettes - well, apart from one day last week, I have only smoked in the evenings, and cerainly over the past couple of days it's been more from force of habit than from any real desire.

processes.

I was doing process descriptions with my Academic English class, and these two images appeared out of things they said. The first is a commentary on the carbon cycle. It's meant to be that animals exhale CO2, which is taken up by plants; One student's description was 'rabbits breathe on the plants to help them live'. the second picture depicts a pair of students who work in the Purple Turtle, collecting glasses, and shows how they feel about halfway through the process of collecting glasses and taking them to be washed while negotiating a heaving, sticky, sweaty bar full of drunks.

Lets give this a try....

some students doing an ad for dog food, apparently...

Friday.

Always a good day, especially considering that I have no lessons and I get the opportunity to burn,er, deal with the great drifts of paperwork cluttering my desk. Also, my cold is subsiding.
Booze news: Last night was a bottle of Magners Cider on the way home, a bottle of Argentinian red (at 13.5% abv) and a large G&T, because I didn't feel tired. Also, six cigs.

I'm feeling rougher than a porcupine's bum at the moment. I'm also still simmering away with inchoate, frustrated anger, caused by stress and illness. And the fact that it's the middle of January.
Last night, turfed myself out of the house, as the wife had friends round, clucking over the baby and chit-chatting. Went up to my local. What excitement.
Had three pints of London Pride, six cigs and, on returning home, a shot of raki.

Don't you hate it when...

...you feel like crap, with all the symptoms of a bad cold; You have too much work to do, and someone is trying to lay more on; You do a professional job for amateur wages; You need to do further qualifications, but you can't get on with it because of previously mentioned workload; You hope to be able to work from home, but you can't, because of the demands of family chaos; And you never, ever, have time to be yourself, because someone or other is demanding to have a slice of your time, your life, your personality, save for the last few exhausted minutes before you close your eyes?
Welcome to how I'm feeling right now.
Last night, I had 1 cig (and felt horrible about it), and half a bottle of Mirool Creek cabernet.

waking.

How do you feel, as life ebbs back into your body as light filters through the edges of your closed curtains? Do you feel energised, ready to leap forth into the day? Or do you slowly become aware of the necessity of arising, aware of the aches here and there that did not exist before, but have gradually crept upon you as age has? Or perhaps you just feel grateful for having survived another night, or even the slow malaise of dread that yes, here is another day, with the same drudgery, the same quotidian of frustration? Or perhaps you wake, but not fully, not even truly aware that you are still actually tired, but long custom has made you inured to it.
I miss the days where I would literally leap out of bed, fully aware of who and where I was, full of impatient kinesis, with not an idea of how I would spend it. I miss the days where I did not wake with a dull sense of something aching, an almost imperceptible hurt. I miss the days where, if I woke up tired, I would know that I was tired, rather than shrug it off and accept it as one of those things.
Yet still, there are those rare mornings where I wake, blissfully relaxed and with a delicious sense of my body fully reposed, fully aware, then I coil into action and stretch every last muscle and sinew towards the ceiling, and I open the curtains and face the day, full of every possibility, and then I miss the days when this would be every morning.

edit: monday night saw me smoke 5 cigs, and have six single measures of Glenmorangie, 3 of which were in the shape of hot toddies, as my throat was aching like buggery. The other 3 just sent along to join the party.

And the results are in...

Over the past week, I smoked 21 cigarettes, and drank 1 large G&T, 2 double rums and coke, 1 double Jack Daniels, one and half glasses of Bordeaux, and two glasses of Spanish Cava, nearly two bottles of St. Emilion, most of a bottle of a decent chilled chardonnay, a small measure of raki, one pint of cider, and most of a bottle of chardonnay, one bottle of white generic at 11.5% abv, plus a glass and a half of something else white, and roughly a bottle and a half of wine. In total, I have consumed, at a conservative estimate and assuming that the wine was 13% abv, 77 units of alcohol. Holy Fuckeroo. And I've been doing this to myself for years. It's not even as if I'm a wino; It's just something that I do, come home, make dinner, pour myself a wine, then another, and another.
Anyway, the aim of recording what I've been imbibing is to drive that figure down, and to do so publicly. I'm not ashamed - I rarely get raging drunk, and please don't think I'm permanently staggering round with a bright red nose. I suspect that in fact I'm fairly typical of my generation. Nor do I feel particularly unwell - far from it; Thanks to regularly exercising and cycling to and from work, I'm actually fitter than when I was in my twenties. It's just that it's time to break habits that will, iof left unchecked, potentially become health-threatening later in life.

Peas.

Last night, the wife was ferreting around on Ebay, eyes wide with excitement. She'd found a company that sold on goods at wholesale prices to her, which she could then sell on on Ebay. She seemed to think that she'd hit a gold mine, and that she would soon be making tons of profit. After all, that's what the publicity on the company's website said.
Advertising is a wonderful thing; In adland, everyone's smiling with perfect teeth, the weather's always just so, no one has grey hair, and there are large, luxurious houses with perfect kitchens and bathrooms, and broad, empty roads along which one can swish, wearing perfect sunglasses on perfect noses, going to perfect places where one will have completely fulfilling, perfect sex with one's perfect partner. A vertitable Tir-nan-Og. And it's all perfect bollocks, but it still makes us drool and wander off to the shops to stock up on this or that frippery in the hope that it will make our lives just a little less imperfect, a little more controlled.
I have hated and distrusted advertising since the age of five. I despise its promises, its lure and the ways in which it makes us complicit as consumers. I can date my loathing almost precisely. Picture then, a day in April. It is one of those days where the sky above the chalklands of my home is a silvered blue, and a lively breeze sends tattered sails of clouds rushing across from southwest to northeast; And in my house, the gas fire in the living room is on full, because it is cold, despite the promise of warmer days to come written in the burgeoning hawthorn and the first flowers of spring. Lying on the beige and white fabric sofa (This was the 1970's) is me, under a blanket, recovering from another bout of the bronchitis that plagued me when young. In the corner next to the large front window, the TV, a new Sony Trinitron colour television with a large black and silver dial with which one tuned into the channel you wanted to watch, is tuned to ITV, and it's adverts time. There is one for a powdered orange drink, featuring a couple playing tennis; another for some washing-up detergent, where a girl complains of greasy dishes; Then the next one. It is this that engages my attention. A boy, of around my own age, is sat at a dinner table, similar to ours. He looks like the sort of boy who does not like his greens. His mother is preparing his meal in the kitchen. She turns to a cupboard, and pulls out a tin.
A tin of peas.
'He'll never eat them', I think, as she opens it with a gleaming wall mounted tin opener, and tips the contents into a pan to heat up. By the magic of the ad, the peas are instantly ready, placed on the boy's plate, complete with a livid yellow knob of butter, and brought through. The boy looks at the peas dubiously at first, then tries one, then a forkful, and suddenly, the whole plate of peas is gone. Next, the boy is in the kitchen, tugging mum's apron.
'Mum!' he says, 'Have we got any more?'
And cut to the name of the tinned pea product.
I was staggered. I hated peas; This boy, my own age, and in a room similar to mine, hated them; His mother had bought these special tinned peas, had put said peas on his plate, topped by mustard-coloured butter; He'd eaten them and now wanted more!
Those must be damn fine peas, I think, or words to that effect.
Half an hour later, I ask my mum.
'Can we have those peas, mummy? I think they're tasty.'
And so, after the next weekly shop, there is the tin of peas. My mother makes dinner - fish fingers and mash, and opens the tin, warms the peas, puts them on my plate, and brings it through to the dining table. And I tuck in, making sure I get a forkful of these juicy, juicy peas. I take a mouthful, and begin to chew.
They taste like fucking shit. I spit them out, which of course makes mum angry, and she stands over me to make sure I eat up every last one of the fucking peas I'd specifically badgered her for.
And that is why I never will trust advertising.

I told the wife this tale, and she completely ignored the moral of it.

Last night saw me smoke 6 cigs and imbibe one bottle of white generic at 11.5% abv, plus a glass and a half of something else white.

12th night

..yep, the night Herne the Hunter is supposed to ride the skies with his hounds, picking up any souls that happen to be straggling around late. Also, the fun and games of getting all the xmas decorations down, packed away, and shoved back in the attic for another year. And now the dead grey days of January begin.

Last night saw the consumption of six cigarettes, one pint of cider, and most of a bottle of chardonnay.

futile.

That's just how today feels; A dead beat of time, no matter how much I might actually do during it. I can't even work up the energy for a decent rant.
Sean grows apace -he's begun the process of vocalisation, separating sounds into compartments of meaning. I can distinguish between sounds that mean 'I'm hungry', or 'hold me', or 'I'm bored', and there are the other sounds he makes as he stares intensely at me, where he's trying to convey something else I haven't learnt to fathom yet. And it is all interspersed with smiles, broad, gummy cheeky smiles, making his whole face radiant.


Last night, I had 3 cigs, most of a bottle of a decent chilled chardonnay, and a small measure of raki.

Booze.

I enjoy a drink or five, as anyone who knows me may have noticed. While I'm not an alcoholic, I still tend to knock back far more than is good for me. On average, a bottle of wine a night. I did a few calculations, and worked out this:
75cl wine x 7 days = 525cl of wine per week;
525 x 13% abv (typical alcohol content of the wine I drink) = 6865, divided by 100, = 68.65 units of alcohol per week, nearly two and a half times the recommended weekly limit. In terms of a standard beer, that's 34.32 pints over a week, or 1784.64 pints of beer a year, or 223.08 gallons of beer a year.
That's a bit scary.
That's why I want to write down what I drink on this blog - a public testament, and a way to cut down on the booze.
It's time I showed some mercy to my liver.

edit: I smoked 2 cigs and drank a bottle of St. Emilion.

Well, I paid for the mixed bag of drinks I had last night, accompanied by a lot of snacking and some late night cheese - I've had about an hour of sleep, so I'm knackered. Sean was saintly - hardly a peep from him all night. This has not made teaching all that easy today, though fortunately I had only a handful to contend with.

no cigs today and I had three and a bit glasses of St. Emilion.

New Year

It's on beautiful mornings such as this was that one has to praise God - mostly for Ibuprofen, vitamin pills and an English Breakfast. I woke with one of those sneaky bastard hangovers: That's the ones where you wake up, think 'Ha! I got away with it!', leap out of bed full of the joys of waking up without a hangover after having had lashings and lashings of booze the previous night, then sudden crumple up in a grey ashen heap as a screaming bastard behind the eyes suddenly assails you and tries to rip your stomach out via your oesophagus. One of those, anyway.

Today, I smoked 0 cigarettes, and drank 1 large G&T, 2 double rums and coke, 1 double Jack Daniels, one and half glasses of Bordeaux, and two glasses of Spanish Cava. I am, should I be able to keep this up to an entry per day, going to record my consumption, with the aim of driving it down.

Bland.

I've just re-read the last post and realised how sodding anodyne it is. It's all somehows. Where's a bit of fucking passion, a bit more clear-eyed intent? Let me think...

New Year!

A happy New Year (and Eid)to one and all. I haven't, as you might just have noticed, been blogging to much recently; This is due to a combination of too much work, too much booze and too much baby. However, I intend to rectify this. Since it's the time for good intentions, I'm going to share a few of mine with you. One part of writing on this more is to keep abreast of what I'm doing with them.
1. Stop smoking - yeah, yeah, cliche and all, but I need to do it for me. I stopped before, I can do it again.
2. Cut down on the booze intake: I will try not to drink unless in company. Then I'll get ratarsed.
3. Write more - not just on this blog, but in general. I have some serious editing of work to do, then I will find a publisher.
4. Climb some more mountains - and make my wife and sons climb some too.
5. Make more money somehow - not so much an intention as a need. With only my income coming in at present, we're only just keeping our heads afloat, and I am UTTERLY sick of having to count every bloody penny.
Next is to work out each step involved in making these intentions reality.

And what about this past year? Two highlights - the birth of Sean and completing the 3 peaks. At work, successfully negotiating and organising the exams for the entire department, and posting the best exam results I've had yet.

knackered.

ye gods, it's tiring looking after a mini-munchkin. On top of which, I'm snowed under at work, preparing exams for the final week of term. And generally feeling rather crap. Also, having a bottle of wine on a tuesday night and not going to bed till 2 a.m. due to 'Amistad' being on telly didn't help. My brain feels like mush at the moment. However, I'm going to try and keep this updated as much as possible. But not right now. Bluh.

slightly less safe...

..the unanimous not guilty verdict on Nick Griffin. How anyone can possibly say that what he said at a rally, secretly filmed by the Beeb and shown on TV, is not racist incitement, is beyond me. Mr. Griffin, here's a challenge for you; Do one of those DNA tests that reveal ethnic makeup. Odds on it shows you're a healthy melange of different racial groups, like a significant number of (nominally white) Brits. Then, after you've shown the results on TV and shared them with the slope-browed, slack-jawed, knuckle-dragging , workshy, pig-ignorant scum you're proud to call your followers, go home.
Wherever that may prove to be.
I am proud to live in a free and open country, even if it isn't perfect. I am proud that my grandparents and granduncles fought the shitty ideology you espouse during WWII.

Slightly safer.

..the world, that is. In covering his own cowardly simian backside, George W.'s done humanity a favour by ditching Rumsfeld - and good on the American Electorate, too, for putting the Democrats in charge.

two weeks old!

Mid-term elections..

..and a feed back to a previous entry, asking the question, what is a head of state good for?
vote well, American chums.

And Now For Something Completely Different..Does anyone know a good astrophysicist?

This is a serious idea, produced from my Science Geek side. Please treat it seriously. I came up with the core idea last week, and I've been bending it and testing it since. However, if it is true, the implications are genuinely enormous. If it is not, feel free to ignore it and mock me.

Spacetime and dark matter interaction hypothesis

I started this idea a very long time ago, as a child, ever wondering whether I’d ever be able to travel to other planets and times, a la Dr. Who. I entertained fantasies of exotic engines, warp speed and so forth, until I began to think that there might be a way of doing it without accelerating. About a week ago, an idea came to mind that I have been bending backwards and forwards every way I can, and I can’t find a problem at the moment, apart from the fact it uses a form of matter that is only just on the verge of being described. What is more, my idea seems to resolve a whole raft of complex issues regarding astrophysics and quantum physics, plus some other issues relating to religion and philosophy. It also implies a way to travel that could cover infinite distances and times, but without breaking any laws of physics. I know this is an outrageously enormous claim; This is why I must put this idea into the public domain, where it must be pulled every which way to see if it’s just crackpot or not. Let’s begin.
My current round of thinking about this concept began with the question ‘what would a universe look like if it did not have time?’, the answer, quite obviously, being absolute bloody chaos; everything would happen instantaneously. However, it also implies that a universe without time could not have a cogent space, as distance of any kind implies time between events. In other words, a timeless universe is an absurdity – it could not possibly have shape or substance. Rather like the singularity that led to the Big Bang. So far, so basic; I also started thinking along the lines of ‘what does time and distance look like in a universe devoid of sentience?’ – I wanted to understand what the absolute definition of time is, rather than the mathematical limits of seconds, hours, days, months etc that we place upon time. I also asked myself ‘what would the universe look like if it were smaller/bigger?’
It was this last question that set me following the white rabbit down the hole, or rather, an extremely large, at least light-year-wide, invisible bunny through spacetime.
Dark matter and dark energy have become increasingly accepted features of the universe over the past few years, even though we don’t know what they are, how big they are, or what they’re doing loitering around, being invisible. Dark matter does not seem to interact with the visible universe; we can’t see it, touch it, taste it, hear it or weigh it, which pretty much renders an impossible thing. Yet it must be there, because the universe and the structure within could not possibly exist without it. It is a thing that we simply do not have the capacity of perceiving, yet we can infer its existence.
And it does not interact with the visible universe.
However, what it does do is interact with spactime, simply because it is a fundamental part of the universe, just like gravity, mass, and electromagnetism.
Now here’s the idea:
The universe is far, far smaller than we actually consider it to be.
The reason it looks larger is very simple: dark matter dilates spacetime.
In other words, dark matter somehow acts as a kind of lens, distorting the actual fabric of the material, visible universe.
How on Earth is this provable?
Well, I’m still working on that one, but a couple of thoughts come to mind. Basically, dark matter may pervade the universe, but it should clump in gravitational centres, i.e. in galaxies and around black holes. The greater the amount of dark matter, the larger (and longer) spacetime appears to be. In other words, someone standing at the heart of the galaxy would see space, and the distance between stars, as being far more stretched out than someone standing at a point outside a galaxy. Not only that, it would also appear older than it is. So, you could send some people off on unimaginably long journeys to the centre of our galaxy and outside it, the compare their experiences, although might take a teensy-weensy bit too long – by several million years. Or you could try bouncing some kind of signal towards a system towards the centre of the galaxy, and another equidistant towards the outside, and measure the length of time it takes the signal to return. If my idea is true, it should take marginally longer for the signal aimed at the heart of the galaxy to return. Or you could try with the Pioneer probe, now hurtling away from the solar system and into deep space. If my supposition is correct, then our solar system should appear smaller than it does to us as a spacecraft enters deep space and less dark matter.
Now, dark matter appears to consist of enormous structures – current ideas suggest that a single particle may be more that a light year in dimension – but this helps the notion of the way it dilates spacetime. Although it affects the visible, material universe, what it does not do is affect matter at the subatomic, quantum level, simpy because of its sheer size. This could explain ‘spooky action at a distance’, or the way subatomic materials appear to have an effect on other subatomic particles regardless of distance and time. This is because the distance and time are the byproduct of spacetime dilation through dark matter. Dark matter behaving as I suggest would also explain why the Universal Constant appears to have changed, and why the speed of light possibly isn’t what it used to be. In fact, they have remained the same; what has occurred, from our perspective, is movement of dark matter, giving the illusion of change.
What are the implications of what I’m suggesting?
I’d argue that they are possibly enormous. Firstly, it suggests that we are capable of travelling vast distances without expending much in the way of energy. Quite simply, if you understand what dark matter (and dark energy, too) is, and how it behaves in relation to the visible universe – how it moves, how it clumps and so forth – then, in theory, and with an extremely fast computer and an extraordinarily accurate map, you should be able to avoid it – in other words, to warp through ‘real’ spacetime, rather than the dilated version. In terms of the kind of vehicle you’d need to do this, think more in terms of the Tardis than the USS Enterprise. This is because you would be able to move through time as well as space – hence the need for a really good map.
It also gives an insight into certain philosophical and religious ideas that the universe we live in is an illusion – that’s because it is: Our sense of space and time is a necessary illusion. I say necessary, because our senses have evolved to perceive spacetime as it appears to be, in its dilated state. This also implies that the rate of dilation would be relatively constant.
One thing I also suspect is that, not only does dark matter clump, the amount of it in the universe gradually increases as the universe ages. This would gradually increase the rate of spacetime dilation, leading to the visible universe appearing bigger and older.
Anyway, that’s the idea, in short – I have a few more suppositions that can be added to that, some of which relate to other spheres of science, but I want to work them through. This is a serious idea, and I’d like other serious minds to look at it. If it’s wrong, please tell me and explain why it’s wrong. If it looks right, please test it to destruction.

Here's Sean!

..sleeping soundly just about an hour after birth. Although it's ridiculous to talk about first impressions of a child that's only been out in the open for two and a half days, it's already remarkable how much more settled he appears to be compared to his elder brother at the same stage.

9.40 a.m.

...saw a rising wind, and the beginning of rain - proper autumn rain, carrying a chill in its wings. It also saw the birth of Sean Dogac Paul Gallantry, coming in at seven pounds on the nose, looking remarkably like his brother eight years previously, bawling for all his might for the want of a bit of food - after which, he settled into determined, peaceful sleep. And all my doubts melted like hoarfrost in the sun's steady glare. Photos to follow.

still tired.

...and about to get a damn sight more so. In 36 hours or so, I will be a father once more. Now, I know I should be positive about the whole thing, and in some ways I am - it won't be quite the rude shock that Angus' first appearance was - I find it difficult to work up any enthusiasm. No matter: it is one of those things that one becomes accustomed to. Whether this is good or bad, I don't know. I feel very, very uncertain.
Well, I've wrapped more or less everything up at work, including sorting out a rather complex situation involving exams for the ESOL students, and marking 40+ sets of papers today, on a variety of topics; letters to a friend, descriptions of countries, descriptions of graphs. Some good ones:
'The people og Togo are famous for their love of sport, particularly football, hanball, and athletics. Even though that most Togos are afraid to swim.'
' South Africa has wonderful views of magnificent waterfalls and spectacular mountings.'
'Mortality has been a matter of concern to many countries for some time'
'Since 1960. people have died more dramatically.'
'Many countries have joined the EU in the past twenty years. For this reason, infant mortality is under the control of Brussels.'
These are the kind of things that make my job worthwhile.

Before going to work, I drowned some tomatoes in oil - or rather, stored my dried tomatoes, the last of this year's crop. Here's the recipe, variations of which can be found all over the place:
OVEN DRIED TOMATOES
Cut tomatoes in half - if big, quarter them. place side by side in an overproof dish.add garlic, finely chopped, plus sage, thyme, oregano and basil. drizzle with olive oil and add plenty of salt and pepper. Then, put the dish in an oven set to its lowest possible setting - 50 degrees max. let the tomatoes dry out; for the small plum tomatos I used, this took something like five hours, but it can take up to 24, depending on the size of your tomatoes. They're ready when the jelly has evaporated. Let cool, then pack in a sterile jar with chnks of garlic and fresh herbs, then cover in olive oil and store in the fridge. Taste bloody delicious and last up to two months.

Tired. Hungover.

I can't do this any more. The regular nightly necking of a bottle of wine that is. It takes me longer and longer to recover these days, and increasingly I notice how much of my time boozing has occupied. Last week, I didn't touch a drop for five days: I found myself at a loose end each evening, not wishing to watch crap TV, and so free to get on with all the other stuff I should be doing. However, I didn't. I more or less sat in a state of mental doodling, flitting from one idle activity to the other. It illustrated how much time is taken in pursuit of doing worthless things. Sure, I sorted out my email inbox, but so what? Yep, I did a bit of mass recycling - yeah, whatever. What I didn't do were the things I value - read a book, do my diploma, create new class materials and above all, WRITE.
And now there is the impending birth of sprog no.2; This wednesday, to be precise. How much more of my time will have to be sacrificed, doing all the newborn stuff? As I said in a previous post, I am most certainly not looking forward to all the mind-numbing boring crap that comes with babies and toddlers.

and the prize goes to...

..Orhan Pamuk. Congratulations on getting the Nobel. Actually, I'm curious as to what the reaction will be in Turkey to it, especially considering his recent trial (and its subsequent collapse on the grounds that it was bloody stupid in the first place) for insulting Turkishness, just for having the temerity to mention the deaths of Kurds and Aremenians. I suspect that the reaction will be one of proud bafflement; pride for the fact that a Turk has won a Nobel, baffelemnt as to why anyone would read, and prize, his works. I'm a big Orhan fan - he's an absolutely superb writer, although I think he took his eye off the ball a bit in Snow.

Following the last post, I've received a bit of stick, quite rightly actually, about women who choose to wear hijab or more, rather than having to because of pressure from anxious misogynists. And I apologise for not having thought through what I was writing carefully enough. Fair enough, of course one can choose to wear what one likes, from the tiniest thong through to the most accommodating burqa - but it must be free choice. Two things strike me though: If the Creator made everything, and everything that the Creator makes is essentially good, why is it then necessary to cover it up? Secondly, if there is an injunction to dress 'modestly', surely this applies equally to men? In other words, in a land where the burqa is king, shouldn't men and women both wear it?

Oh Dear. Another week, another labour politician getting into a bit of bother about Islam. And, of course, a few attention-seeking shouty hotheads calling for his resignation. I do understand his point of view though: It is difficult communicating with people when you can't see their faces - try talking in a foreign language on the phone. When it comes to hijab, obviously there has to be a personal choice involved, although my personal opinion is that stuff like the chador and burka is utterly absurd. Also this seeming fear of a woman presenting their face to a man who is not a relative or husband - this strikes me as saying far more about a father's, brother's or husband's fears, weaknesses and sense of low self-esteem than anything; The need to utterly control another's life because you can't control aspects of your own. This is peculiar, as Islam means 'submission' (to the Will of Allah). In other words, trust in the Creator because you can't stay in charge of your own destiny all the time. If you are willing to submit in such a way, why then should anyone feel that they have the right to take absolute control of another's life?

In Death, as in Life...

...Naff rules. Look at this list of the top ten most requested songs for a funeral:
TOP POPULAR FUNERAL SONGS
1. Goodbye My Lover - James Blunt
2. Angels - Robbie Williams
3. I've Had the Time of My Life - Jennifer Warnes and Bill Medley
4. Wind Beneath My Wings - Bette Midler
5. Pie Jesu - Requiem
6. Candle in the Wind - Elton John
7. With or Without You - U2
8. Tears in Heaven - Eric Clapton
9. Every Breath You Take - The Police
10. Unchained Melody - Righteous Brothers
Source: The Bereavement Register
Dear God in Heaven. Who'd want to be sent to the harp farm to the strains of James 'Rat-faced posh tit' Blunt? why would I want the dull thud of earth on my coffin lid be accompanied by some really, really bad 80's pop song? why? If I played these at my own funeral, and by and large it is the deceased's choice, you would have to kill me if I weren't dead already. It just proves the generally utterly execrable taste of most people in this country, and their sentimentality, which is the last bastion of those with no sense of emotion. Instead, they are encouraged to think that love, hate, pain, sorrow, the whole gamut, is expressed through some shoddy three minute songs; Readily-available emotions on your iPod.

Eat, Drink and be miserable.

Mnnurggh. Monday morning. I have had three hours’ sleep, so I am not exactly the shiniest-eyed bunny in the warren this a.m. I woke at 3.30; Nur still hadn’t come to bed, although she did so shortly afterwards, leaving me to turn first one side then the other until light started leaking through the curtains. In fact, I haven’t slept well for the past week or so, mainly because of this bloody student-induced cold I’ve had. That, and I’ve felt generally rather miserable over the weekend. The sense of melancholy was triggered by, of all things, drinking too much fresh coffee. Now you might think I’m joking, but I have become increasingly aware over the past few years of how certain foods and drinks can affect my brain chemistry in spectacular ways. Too much coffee leaves me anxious, aggressive and depressed (although decaf and instant do not have the same effect); certain lagers and bitters can do the same, and just for good measure, fuck up my guts for a fortnight - but ale and spirits I can drink with impunity; Certain foods leave me grouchy and miserable, and so forth and so on.
The point is that there is a very clear link between my moods and what I consume – well, no shit, Sherlock! – but I cannot see what is the exact link between the things that leave me feel shitty. If I could identify exactly what chemicals are involved in causing that, in particular the hideous, temporary bouts of depression (and I really do mean temporary; they can come and go in five hours), then I’d be a happier person.
Fortunately, when these moods appear, I am now much more aware of them for what they are, and know that they will disappear, meaning that I’m far better at handling the situation than I used to be.

Old Times in Bakirkoy

An old colleague from my Istanbul days emailed me today, praising the accuracy of an old post that related a typical day for the gang of teachers in Bakirkoy, circa 95-96. Jimmy was, at first encounter, a tough, hard-drinking Irishman. He used to go round with Kevin, the former DOS at Antik English, the pair of them getting spectacularly drunk. Kevin would sing folk songs of his own making at some point in the evening, before going home to his long-suffering Japanese wife, Keiko. He once set fire to Jimmy, mistaking him for his sofa - this is what led to him being fired.
Jimmy once related to me one of his more bizarre jobs he'd had whilst travelling round Europe; hurling stones at children.
'So you see', he said, sipping a konyak and coke, which was the winter drink of the time in the Cicek, ' There was I and my mate in Italy, no money at all, when this circus appears. A proper fucking circus, all horses and performing elephants and all that. They also had, as it happens, a tiger. A female tiger, she'd just had cubs, so all these wee kids from the town they were in are trying to sneak up and have a look at them. Anyhow, me and my mate pitch up and ask your man if he's any jobs going, and he says, 'yeah, look after the tiger. If any of those little bastards try poking their nose near the cage, heave a bloody stone at them.' And I did.'

Anyway, Jimmy, in honour of days past, here's a few more descriptions of times and events back then, including a vignette of Kevin in full throttle. They're extracts from a book I started writing but then gave up on, thinking that there were quite enough novels and memoirs written by TEFLers already.

THE FISH BAR
The Dilhan was the pub we d frequent in my first year in Istanbul. It was situated over several floors above a fishmongers, hence us always calling it the Fish Bar. It stank like it, too. Actually, it stank of all sorts of things. Fish was probably one of the nicer smells. Inside, the decor was decidedly on the basic side, although the fishy theme extended as far as the odour did.There was netting festooned on the walls and ceilings, along with the odd pufferfish, floating blankly in a sea of booze, nicotine and fried things, as well as one or two stuffed lobsters and fishing buoys. There were also cats. One tabby had made a nest somewhere on the top floor, and seemed to be continually having kittens. In the evenings, the kittens would stare at us from the stairs, like naughty children who can‘t go to sleep until theyve seen what the adults are doing. The bolder cats would actually race across the netting, running across our heads from stair to wall and back. We ‘d occasionally play cat racing, where we‘d bet on which cat could go fastest round the nets. The furniture consisted of long wooden tables with benches and stools. This meant that whenever we were drinking, we all sat on one big, long table, shouting, singing and banging our glasses, which meant we‘d inevitably have up to forty people on the same tab, which inevitably led to huge bills, which inevitably led to huge arguments .
The place was definitely on the unsanitary side. Apart from the smell, there were the cockroaches everywhere. I wouldn t touch anything apart from the booze. On the top floor were the toilets, which didn t work, and whose rank stench would ooze and dribble down to where we were sitting. These toilets were, however, preferable to the one down in the basement, in the kitchen. This one was a hole in the floor type, stowed in a kind of cupboard under the stairs. It was pitch black inside, and the smell was indescribable. It was better to try and piss in the dark: once I lit a match to try and get a better aim, and saw cockraches, shit and fish heads and guts everywhere. One look at the kitchen made me swear never, ever to eat there. Despite the smell, despite the cockroaches and cats, we all quite liked it, because it was dirt cheap, and it stayed open later than most other places. The staff were generally friendly, although the owner, Toad Mehmet, was a fat old bastard. He looked a bit like Jabba the Hutt with a moustache. He d sit in the corner of the first floor, all lardy and constipated looking, a cigarette forlornly dangling from his mouth at all times. He hated foreigners, I think: He looked at us with a bleary eyed contempt, but we paid well. You d be lucky to get a good evening out of him.

THE OLD MANS PUB, EARLY 1996
I got into the Bakirkoy birahanesi, nicknamed the old mans pub, a little later than the others, due to sharing a raki in the cicek. This wonderfully horrible place is closed now, but suffice to say it is what disrespectable spit and sawdust pubs strove to escape from. It stank of stale beer, sweat, millennia of fried things, piss, and rank stale poverty: the ideal place for the average EFL teacher, then. The toilets, whilst not so bad as the fish bar, were pretty rank. There was one for the blokes, a waterless urinal, then another, locked, toilet for the occasional female visitor, which in effect meant the women English teachers. There were ten of us around one large table, made from a beer barrel with a disc of wood shoved on top: Myself, Graham, Carol, Launa, Craig, Mel with her boyfriend Luke(y-wukey), Cath and Tabby, and Matt. The talk was, as usual, quite varied. Grimbo was chatting about football with Matt and taking the mickey out of Carol, I was vaguely talking philosophy and applied bullshit with Craig, While Mel was loudly declaiming on how we weren’t fit to kiss Antonias boots. Of COURSE its hard for us, she said. Were in this country, we don’t know the language, everyones trying to rip us off....
Another round of drinks arrived at the table.
...quick, mark it down as nine, not ten, hell never notice, cant count can he?, but you imagine what its like for Antonia! I mean, she went to OXFORD, didn’t she? It must be just absolutely ghastly for her!
This was greeted by exclaimations of disdain from the blokes, but quick, defensive yeses from a couple of the women.
What the fuck has where you went to University got to do with anything, Mel? Come on!, said Graham.
What I mean is, said Mel, holding on to the edge of the table and rocking back and forth on her bar stool, is that shes used to a more privileged life than us. Shes been to balls and everything! We don’t have a clue what her lifestyles like- I certainly dont.
As she said this, she was leaning further and further back on her stool, while still clutching the table top. Lukey-Wukey picked up his pint, upsetting the delicate poise of the top, which we suddenly realised wasn’t fixed to the barrel. Mel went further back then and began crashing to the ground.
Im goiing! She squealed, and fell over backwards, bringing the table top with her. All the drinks on the table queued up to fall off and bounce off her skull , covering her with beer, vodka and raki. Everyone in the bar turned round to see this sight. Ayhan, the barman, rushed over with a bucket of sawdust, and began to scatter it all over her, so that she became covered entirely in wood shavings. The only drink to survive unscathed was Lukes, whod been laughing his head off. You alwight love? Cmon Ill help you up....
He extended his hand whilst still sitting on his stool. Mel took it.
Here you gooo.. He pulled her up, then himself fell backwards, pouring his pint directly over himself and pulling Mel diretly on top of him. More silence in the bar, more sawdust.

THE SCHOOL PARTY AND ITS AFTERMATH
…by this stage, we were all pretty horiibly drunk. Andy was having a difficult time staying upright: Mad Mark and Dappy Mel had disappeared, Mark yelling something about scoring some cannabis up in Beyoglu: John was staggering around the tables, bellowing ‘Right, who’s got it? Who’s got my fucking TAPE? I am SERIOUSLY unamused….c’mon you cunts…I mean it!’
The Turkish members of staff, those who’d remained, looked on bemused and disgusted. Finally, there were only a few drops of wine left. What now? The pub, of course. Ann, the two Grahams, Simon, Phillipa and my good self all lurched into the Cicek and clomped upstairs. Fehmi immediately cleared a table for us.
‘Beer, Fehmi…..and food, lots of food’.
‘Yesyesyesstraightawayanythingelseohandhowareyou?’
‘I’m fine’
He scurried away.
‘What the fuck did he just say?’
‘Nothing much’.
He came back, carrying a tray of beer and a tray of mezes and nuts. At first, we could hardly drink. Evening was drawing on and slowly thunderheads began to crowd the sky. The air closed in too, and soon became oppressively humid. We chatted feebly of this and that, or watched the football on the tv perched dangerously in the corner.
Even the cockroaches didn’t want to move. Strangely the beer seemed to bring sobriety.
It was at this point that Martin weaved his way to the table.
‘Well, hello lovecats, what’s going down tonight?’
Talk moved on to what everyone was doing that evening. A couple of people had to get the seabus back to Kadikoy, two others decided to dolmus it to Taksim, and someone else was almost unconscious. Martin looked at me.
‘What about..?’
‘Oh no, oh no no no..’
‘Oh go on, we can get tooled up on gin and eat loads of food’.
‘Martin, I’m too pissed for the casino’.
‘C’mon, we’ll go there for just an hour or so’.
‘We’’l need to go home and get togged up first’.
‘No problem. Then a taxi, then booze and food’.
‘just for an hour, yeah?’
‘Only an hour.’
Picture us, then lurking by the casino bar at 2.30 in the morning. I had very nearly been picked up by some overdressed middle-aged woman who looked like her hairsyle had picked a fight with a hedge and lost, while Martin had been casually propositioned by some fat businessman over the electronic geegees. We were deep in our G & Ts and eating out third breakfast.
‘right’. Said Martin, ‘I think it’s time to go.’
‘Yeah…….right……….good idea’
‘…After we play a teensy bit more. I think I’ve cracked the roulette…c’mon’.
3.30. I was still at the roulette table, having lost loads. Martin weaved his way across the floor, his tie somewhere around his waist, spilled G + T, whisky, red wine and vodka over his clothes, and lunged at me.
‘the bastards, the thieving, perfidious bastards!’
‘Calm down, what’s the matter?’
‘Some CUNT has stolen my POT OF CHIPS!’
‘Sure you didn’t leave it somewhere?’
‘Course I fucking left it somewhere! On a fucking table! Next to a fucking machine! I go for a leak, I come back, there’s a pot-shaped fucking HOLE where the fucker should be! They’re a bunch of thieving bastards in here, they all are!’
He stared around balefully, with the mad, paranoid and above all red eyes of the terminally drunk.
‘ Course they are mate, it’s a fucking casino, you daft tool!’
‘I’m not staying in the same ROOM as these, these..fucking fucks…..it’s all a SACK OF WANK!’
He stomped off towards the exit, muttering oaths and curses, and swearing never to come back again.
5 minutes later, he returned, wearing a sheepish grin and holding his pot of tokens.
‘They found it for me! I was going out and I told them, and they produced it out of nowhere. Aren’t they great!’
By now it was nearing 4 in the morning.
‘Martin, we should get going. We’re teaching in the morning’.
‘Yeah, in a minute’.
‘OK’.
The minute passed, as did lots of others.
‘Paul’
‘Uh?’
‘Shit, man, it’s 6.45!’
‘Uh?’
‘Shit!’
The kind of sobriety that hits you only when you’re really, really pissed and have been up all night hit me. Repeatedly.
‘We’re teaching at 9.30..’
‘I think, perhaps, we should…’
‘..go?’ I hazarded.
‘Yes’.
We oozed down the stairs and into the lobby, where bright shining lights and a crisp dawn mocked our wretched state. We retrieved coats and passports and were poured into a taxi by unnecessarily gleaming, shiny, smiling casino personnel. We got home by 7.
‘Right, quick hour’s sleep and then class’.
‘Yeah’.
....
‘Paul’.
‘urg?’
‘Paul, its 9.10 man! C’mon!’
‘bluuhh’
Another taxi boarded, another day beginning.
How on Earth did we survive that day?
Sunglasses, aspirin, the odd shot of whisky and some mouthwash helped.

KEVIN AND THE GYPSIES
........I Saw Kevin, The DOS from Antik English, staggering up the road towards the Yesil. Hed been on the wagon for several weeks, on strict orders of his wife, Keiko: He had now most emphatically fallen off it again. His jacket was mired and dusty, and torn at the elbow. His hair, wild at the best of times, was utterly tangled and bespattered with whatever hed been drinking. He was also in the terminal state that required him to sing at somebody. His target was the gypsy flower sellers outside the cafe. Great banks of flowers in every colour were being bundled, tied and sold by the gypsies. In front of them, Kevin did a vague kind of dance, and then started on some kind of folk song rendition.
OHHHHHH LOL de ROL
YOUR flowers ARE
COOOOOK GUUUUZEEEL
ON A fine SunnY DAAAY
COOOOK GUUUUZEL
CICEKLERRRRR
YOUR FLOOOOOOOOOwers are
VERRRY beautIful...
This went on for five minutes, to the general amusement of passers by. He danced and jigged, staggered, tripped over and rolled in the dust, singing and pointing at the flowers in a drunken spastic ecstasy. Afterwards, he weaved off in another direction.
I saw him again about half an hour later, while I was tucking in to a pide and ayran in the Karadeniz pidecisi. He was walking in a trance state down the road, eyes gazing at the rooftops, while behind him was a small wake of cars, beeping horns and trying to get past. He remained unaware of them, until the car directly behind him actually nudged into the back of his legs. Heturned round, smiled beatifically, then climbed on the bonnet, and began licking the windscreen. The driver sat and cursed, then got out of the car and chased Kevin down a side street.
The next day, I heard about his further exploits: Hed found a bar that would let him in, and he continued to get increasingly pissed up on raki.There was a match that night to decide the championship. Fenerbahce won, and The meydan was crowded with supporters. Kevin apparently staggered into the middle of this, and started shouting Fenerbahce are fucking shit! Boring, boring Fener! Chelsea, Chelsea.... He was lucky, apparently, to escape with only bruises.
Such was the Director of Studies for Antik English.

Ill.

The students have returned, dragging knuckles and viruses in their wake, plus the peculiar odour of stale biscuits, BO, and neglected body that only teenage British bodies have. Of course, everyone's started to go off work ill. I have contracted the first cold of the year - actually, I'm glad in a perverse way, as it means I'll be unlikely to contract another for at least a few months.

Watch Out! Watch Out! There's a (mad bombing Jihadi extremist bloke) bogeyman about!

...or not, as the case may be.
For the love of God, or however you wish to name your creator, what the Hell is John Reid on? His speech and the subsequent heckling are the last thing needed right now. How idiotic:
"These fanatics are looking to groom and brainwash children, including your children, for suicide bombings, grooming them to kill themselves in order to murder others."
Sorry, but this is just another, new variant on the Scary Bogeyman line. You could take this bit from his speech, amend it slightly, and apply it to paedophiles, catholic priests, members of any given cult or opposition political party, or indeed anyone who just happens to look a bit weird, and to pretty much any given epoch in history. After all, the Romans said pretty much the same of the early Christians.
So, how do you look out for a neophyte Islamist fanatic? Apparently, the signs include dropping out of studies, changes in appearance, and hanging out with new friends. Well, that's more or less every single teenager in the UK packed off th Guantanamo Bay, then. I dare say that'd please the average Daily Mail reader.
It is, to put it mildly, deeply irksome to see political leaders who are supposed to know better spout idiotic garbage about subjects on which they are poorly informed. The same, by the way, goes for certain leaders of organised religion. Holy Joe's apparently bumbling lecture, quoting from a medieval Byzantine emporer, helped to push back Christian-Muslim relations by at least a decade, and looks incresingly like a deliberate ploy by a man more than well-crafted in the arts of Vatican sophistry.
As I have mentioned before in this blog, I would far rather see a priestless God than all these Godless priests; That would save us all the collossal fuckups we endure from people who assume their view of the world is infallible, and all other comments are anathema. Have you ever met a faultless person?
Thought not.

Lest We Forget...

All hands to the pumps!

It's a very busy week - enrolments and queries rolling in, queues of sullen-looking teenagers loitering in the corridors, the sudden smell of old biscuits that appears at this time of the year, people flapping around with bits of paper to no apparent purpose, a small mountain of work appearing on my desk, to stay there ignored till I can safely file it away in the recycling bin at the end of the year - and so, not much time to blog with impunity. I must also say that there is a hiatus in my thinking process at present. I have stuff to say, I just can't seem to squeeze it out.

Genius?

Took part in the BBC's Test The Nation quiz on saturday - got only 6 wrong, putting my I.Q. at over 146. Apparently. So if I'm so clever, how come I earn bugger all?

Fatherhood once again. Bluh.

As you may have seen from previous photos, my wife, Nur, is pregnant, not overfed on pies. Proof of this is the pic on the left, done by 3D tomography, of the incipient homunculus. Modern technology - marvellous, innit guv'nor?

This young person, of whom I shall reveal more around the event, is due in November, but because of size restrictions (the baby is BIG, while Nur is tiny) will probably be delivered by C-section on or around October 25th. A welcome sibling for Angus, who is excited by the prospect: A complete family for Nur, the standard model.

You may have noticed by my tone that I do not seem entirely ecstatic at the prospect of fatherhood second time round; This is because I'm not. I dread and/or resent the following:

• sleeplessness and not getting a decent night's sleep for the next 3 years;
• crying, puking, childhood illnesses and nappies;
• five more years of penury - new children are bloody expensive;
• the prospect of trying to find somewhere bigger to live, and not being able to afford it;
• the mind-numbing boredom of playing with young children;
• the terrible Twos phase, followed by the Tiresome threes, Fearful Fours, Feckin' Fives etc etc.
• Having to watch, over and over, until my brain crawls out of my ears and finds somewhere to hide, the same episodes of Teletubbies, Thomas the Tank Engine, Toy Story, Tweenies, Fimbles, and especially, Roly Poly FUCKING Olie (see previous entries)
• Not getting a moment's peace, EVER.

However, a life is a life, and a child is a child, and still precious, and despite all the pety miseries and tribulations that lay ahead, I will still love and cherish the little wotsit.

I'll just have to get a job that means I spend very little time at home.

Who was Ismail Kara?

Ismail: the Mr. Fixit of Dilko. The Guy who was sent to the airport to pick up new teachers, fresh off the plane, they not speaking a word of Turkish, he only knowing a smattering of words - 'Welcome! Hello! Come!' - delivered in a voice that was deep and cigarette-stained. His face was a dark ruddy colour, forged from years of sunlight, fags and way too much raki. When he wasn't pootling round the school, generally avoiding work, or delivering things to the teachers' accommodation, he could be find in the spit-and-sawdust reeking pit of a birahane next door. When you wanted something done, or sorted out, or a bill paid, it was Ismail who would sort it out, one way or another, usually by finding someone else to do the legwork. A cigarette usually dangled from his mouth, which was largely set in a lazy, benign smile. A kind man, by and large, with a good word for everyone. Behind that, though, there had been tragedy in his life; problems with relatives, a daughter killed in a car crash, another one said to have been born with severe disabilities. Yet he ploughed on in a lowly, not very well-paid job, sweating his life by, largely trusted, even though he could be lazy and dishonest to his boss. Someone well-liked, loved even.
I found out when I went to Bakirkoy that he died of a massive heart attack while at work last year. Ruhuna Fatiha.

Bored.

The weather is grey, and threatening rain; I need to wake up early to ferry Nur to work, and wait until the evening, when she is ferried home again; Angus is in constant need of entertainment; Daytime TV has not made any significant strides towards being a more entertaining of edifying spectacle since Easter; And I am twitching around, seeking to keep myself occupied. Yes, it's the joy of the summer holidays, when I seem to spend all my time being chauffeur, entertainer, home repairs specialist, cook and bottlewasher. Oh joy!

Politeness on the bus.

...or in other words, 'get your lazy feckless arse off this seat and let the coffin-dodger rest their bones'.
It's good to see examples of old-fashioned orders disguised under layers of implication and suggestion still around. This from the 197 bus on Saturday night.

I went to Lee and Kate's new gaff. The original plan was to have a Not the Reading Festival Festival, but in the end there were ten of us, hiding from the rain in the conservatory, eating barbie food and listening to loud music, and, of course, getting totally rat-arsed.

yet more pics

How did it feel to be back, after four years?
Well, it was strange, to be honest; in many ways, I felt right at home again, as though I had never left Bakirkoy and Istanbul. It was as if I had tapped into another version of me, one who had stayed behind. I could see myself, walking the same streets, teaching the same lessons, involved in the same humdrum routines. This character, Turkish Paul, descended on me the moment I arrived in the airport. I found my Turkish suddenly sharpened, the way I behaved slightly changed, even the way I walked altered ever so subtly, and this persona departed only on the last day, as I packed him into my suitcase with all my other stuff. On the other hand, I remained observant of things I only half-remembered; the manner in which tired souls walk down hot night streets, with a rocking, rolling gait; the general rudeness of the street - think the way people are on the streets of London, but without the sense of encroaching on personal space; The breathtaking beauty of young Turkish women, their sense of poise or their languid sensuality; And the way that that the eye, amidst all the ugly, soul-grinding tower blocks and new buildings, yearns and strives towards a patch of beauty.
I also noticed the new. Whatever the shortcomings that Istanbul has, it is undeniable that it is making steps forward. The roads were perceptibly better, and there has been a clear attempt to make the general environment much more livable. There is still a long way to go, but it is moving in the right direction.

Walking down the main drag in Bakirkoy, Angus turned to me and asked, 'Dad, if twit isn't a swear word, then why is twat?'

holiday pics...

...boring to many I know, but irresistable to share. A greengrocer's; Nurel and Nuran; Nurel and Hasan; Angus in the Yesil Cafe, Bakirkoy; View from the roof of Gul and Hakan's villa.

tanned and peeling.

....and letting my liver recover from a frenzy of raki consumption. I have had a fantastic ten days of doing pretty much bugger all, lazing in a friend's 3-story villa overlooking a sparkling Marmara Sea. Just what I needed. I'll post more later, photos included.

Here it is - the first tomato of the crop, and just in time for Lammas, too.
Well, I'm off to Turkey tomorrow, and I suspect blogging possibilities will be limited, as we'll be traipsing round relatives and drinking far too much cay. However, if I manage to get to a cybercafe at some stage I'll post.