The Words Bird

A barrel of laughs?

2011-11-14T17:41:00.000Z

Six years ago I bought a Dell laptop. Part of the package was 3 years' McOffee anti-virus protection. When the 3 years were up, I switched to a free antivirus protection system which worked perfectly well.

In January 2011, I bought a Toshiba laptop. The nagging 'activate your McOffee' it came with wouldn't disable but I thought I'd managed it. Then the payment went out from my credit card, and I could find no means to contact McOffee to get it back. But I figured I would just let it run for the year and then switch the Tosh to the free system.

In September 2011, McOffee helps itself to another $49.99 from my credit card. I waste ages trying to contact McOffee for a refund AND the credit card to explain why I’m not paying, in the meantime collecting a late fee from the credit card and today a letter warning about another late fee about to be levied.

Again I try to contact Bint credit card, whose 'press button 1' system again twice sends me to the Collections Department. On my 3rd attempt, and having acquired a Dreyfuss-like twitch in my left eye, I reach Collections again but it's a *person*. Progress! He transfers me to a Customer Disputes *person* and my twitch recedes a bit.

The Customer Disputes lady is very understanding. And firmly gives me a direct number for McOffee so I can get the refund out of them. Once that's done, she promises she'll cancel all the late fee nonsense on the credit card account. And she gives me the direct number for Customer Disputes. The twitch stops and I am now smiling, if somewhat grimly. Am I on a roll? We’ll see.

When I eventually get through, the McOffee person can't even pronounce 'McOffee' correctly. It's ‘McCaffee’, with the emphasis on the ‘aff’. This sounds to me more like either a hot beverage or an inferior Irish ale. But she's a person (I think) so she'll do. We have a few areas of disagreement about my account. The repeat-transaction (or 'help yourself to my money' as I prefer to think of it) arrangement is a new thing they have brought in, 30 days before your renewal date, to safeguard you from accidentally being unprotected. They call it Always On Protection. I point out that September is rather more than 30 days before January. I have my purchase confirmation to prove the date of purchase, lady.

Mrs McOffee pauses for thought, and it turns out that we disagree about my email address, too. She thinks it's one ending in ‘@hotmail.com’. Wow, that makes me feel nostalgic. This was my very first email account and I cancelled it years ago. I'd had to create my ‘@live.com’ account specifically because the new Tosh didn't come with any other means of having email. I spell out the live.com address to Mrs McOffee and she says: 'There isn't any charge on that account.' Hang on a minute… A penny drops.

What McOffee have done is Always On Protect my *previous* subscription, and steal my money without authorisation. Because guess what month it was when I got the Dell? September! Even better, next month they were expecting to do it again on my current (unwanted) subscription via live.com on the Tosh!!

Nearly there folks. McOffee will refund me in 5-6 days. They will cancel next month's planned robbery – sorry, protection – sorry, that’s the same thing isn’t it? Once the refund comes through, Bint will cancel all my late charges.

Soon as that's done, I'll be closing my Bint account for good.

My question to you is this: how long do you think it will take me to copy and paste all this on to Twitter, 140 characters at a time, thereby dissing a really shitty antivirus provider?

One final thought. I wonder whether it’s worth turning this saga into a song, a bit like the Hoffnung monologue about the Elfin Safety-challenged builder and the barrel of bricks which he thought he’d hoist up the building on a rope to save time going up and down the ladder with his hod.

‘…And halfway up I met the bloody barrel coming down…’

Contact me if you'd like the full lyrics of that song, by the way. It's even more fun
than taking the scenic route around Bint's customer dis-service hotline system.

The P-word effect strikes again

2011-10-04T18:00:00.001+01:00

I should know better by now. Planning ahead is an invitation to Fate to throw innovative obstacles in my way. Why do I still bother?

The idea was, to take the train to Scotland towards the end of September, and bring back Mum's car a few days later, getting home just in time for the weekly band practice. Urged by Mum to get the best possible deal, I bought my rail ticket and started warning colleagues and friends that I'd be offline for a few days.

Then the bombshell: my uncle had a stroke, and within 24 hours was dead.

Jock wasn't perhaps the relative I was closest to over the years, but he was the last of my Dad's brothers. Only five months ago, we buried Uncle Sam. It's only 3 years since Dad himself went. All far too soon, for all of us. And there's no way I wouldn't be going to the send-off, even though it meant another full day's drive north from Mum's, which is already a day's drive north from home.

There's no such thing as a train ticket refund any more. Believe it or not, there isn't even a way to cancel a seat reservation you don't need.

Anyway, Other Arf and I drove up to Mum's on a Tuesday, continued onward to Invergordon on Wednesday, all of us requiring a bed for the night on Wednesday night ahead of the funeral at 11 the following morning.

Oh, no you don't.

Ringing around on the Tuesday night, there was not a hotel or B&B bed to be had anywhere in the area. Not even quite far away, for that matter. Had Alec Salmond announced a population census which I'd failed to notice? Was the trunk road network about to be crammed with Scots heading to their birthplaces to be counted? Surely there must be a stable somewhere that could squeeze in a double and a single bed?

Well, there was a mass migration taking place. Ross County FC were playing host to a little-known footie side called Glasgow Celtic ... on the Wednesday night. Every bed that didn't already have a Ross County supporter in it was going to a Glaswegian in a green and white stripey top.

Fate finally took pity on me, and we did find a double room. The only billet left unbaggzed in the whole of Ross-shire was the most expensive double in a four-star country house hotel on the banks of the River Ness. I won't tell you how much it cost, but we enjoyed a genuinely warm welcome, views of the shore, palatial accommodation, the biggest bed I have ever seen, and a breakfast I still have fond dreams about.

Mum was put up by a friend of Dad's locally-living sister, whose deliciously friendly cat Andrea was the only possible luxury missing from our gloriously un-funereal accommodation.

We had fish and chips in Dingwall for our tea, then Other Arf and I repaired to the hotel to enjoy some telly viewing and a bottle of Rioja from the 'honesty bar' on the landing right outside our bedroom door. It wasn't the evening any of us had planned but it set us up perfectly for the emotional rigours of the following day.

Oh, and Ross County lost 0-2 to Celtic. But we don't talk about that.

Two weeks and counting

2011-08-12T16:11:00.000+01:00

Just two weeks to go before I sing at the bestest, quirkiest, silliest music festival ... and this year I'll know so many more people there because of Facebook.

The Blyth Power Ashes is a punk festival, centring around a cricket match between teams representing two very fine punk bands: Blyth Power (who usually 'win') and Eastfield, both named after diesel locomotives. (See? already I am making no sense. Stick with me.)

I will be singing on the Friday night, under my currently solo guise of Lying Scotsman. I used to be a band but I'm the only one who still goes out and makes noises with the name. And it is as Lying Scotsman that I sing a very rude song about a hedgehog, as mentioned on the front of this blog.

Last year's Ashes was the first time I'd ever attended without my punk friend John so I was nervous. I'd made friends with someone called Tim via Facebook, and he had promised to fix my laptop for me ... but other than him and Annie who organises the festival I didn't know a soul. I didn't sleep a wink the night before my Sunday morning slot ... but this year I get the 'business' part out of the way on the Friday night, which means I can relax the rest of the weekend!

And then there's the Facebook factor. In 2 weeks' time I will meet loads of people with whom I have struck up quite deep friendships in the past year. Including one whom I helped to talk out of suicide ... I am due several beers and a humungous hug from him. And with few exceptions I've not actually met any of 'em.

If you are likely to be in the Peterborough area at the August Bank Holiday, do look in. Lying Scotsman HQ will be clearly marked and you will be very welcome. I'll be the one who doesn't look at all punky but has the same stupid grin as everyone else there.

Should you make it there early enough to cheer and clap loudly for the Hedgehog Song, so much the better. Bring beer. No spitting please.

Why don't computers work better?

2011-06-08T19:35:00.000+01:00

Remember Tomorrow's World? Back in the 1970s, Raymond Baxter and Maggie Philbin promised us a future where computers would take the drudgery out of work and present us with a precious gift of extra hours and hours of leisure time.

Remember when Windows was launched? That newfangled word 'multitasking' went with the brand name, and somehow it was supposed to revolutionise how we did our desk-work. No more typing pools, no more wasted paper, no more boring repetitive stuff.

What happened? We have become a society of hunt-and-peck people who can't work a keyboard that is still laid out for the convenience of touch-typists. More and more 'buttons' adorn our screens, which we can only use by clicking with the mouse ... and more and more of us are getting Repetitive Strain Injury in our mouse-wrists as a result. Constantly switching our attention from keyboard... to screen... to whatever printed matter we're referring to... and back to the screen to find out what mistakes we've typed, is wrecking our eyes and hastening our crows-feet.

There is hope! Believe it or not, your computer is designed to help you speed up repetitive tasks, cut out typing errors, and avoid RSI from over-using your mouse. It's just that nobody told you how to do it!

Well, here is the news: If you want to, starting this week, you will be able to come here and find out how to spend less time on your computer!

A personal account of the NZ earthquake

2011-03-11T15:29:00.002Z

While we all struggle to get our minds round the unbelievable events in Japan, my cousin's partner Susan has just sent a personal account of how the Christchurch quake affected her and the immediate family. It makes me realise that those poor people on our screens are you and me...

The cast of characters are:
* Susan and Frank have a four year old, George. They live in a house in the country which they are doing up, and they grow veg and fruit on the land. They seem tireless. Susan's IT consultancy is in Christchurch, and they have a flat attached where they stay during the week.
* Bob and Margaret are Frank's parents, late 70s/early 80s. Margaret's reasonably fit for her age but Bob has some serious health issues, not all of which are understood or stabilised yet.
* Harry and Lucy are Frank's younger brother and his girlfriend who also live in Christchurch.
* CBD stands for Central Business District.

Hi everyone,

This email is in reply to the many emails I’ve received from friends and family who are concerned about our situation since the earthquake on 22 February. As most of you know we are safe and well and we are very fortunate to have our house in Waikari to escape to. While life as we knew it will never be the same again, we are accepting what has happened and are learning to adjust to the challenges presented to us. If there is a silver lining I guess it will be that we will have a new city to look forward to as Christchurch is slowly rebuilt.

What happened on the day of the quake?

The 6.3 quake happened just before 1pm on Tuesday 22 February. At first I wondered if it would be just another strong aftershock – and sharp jolt that might last for a second or two and send the willies up your spine with a tingly adrenaline rush throughout your body. But it went on and on and the shaking accelerated so sharply and quickly that everything around us was falling off walls and furniture. We couldn’t steady ourselves let alone save anything from crashing to the floor. We didn’t even get the chance to dive under our desks. The quake was far more frightening and damaging than the 7.1 quake on 4 September last year.

Me, my colleague Patricia, and our accounts lady Paula, were all inside my home/office at Avonside, Christchurch. George was at his preschool overlooking the Avon River and bridge in Burwood – normally 5 minutes drive away from the office. Frank was at his work in Rangiora, a town 30 minutes north west of Christchurch.

Immediately after the quake stopped we hastily said goodbye and ran to our cars to drive to our children and loved ones. Having been through the first quake we expected and experienced liquefaction, broken bridges and roads, and traffic pandemonium with no-one knowing which routes were accessible and safe. Negotiating fissures, potholes, rising water and silt in the road cut many journey’s short, with hundreds of vehicles of all shapes and sizes taking nose dives in craters in the middle of the roads. With no traffic lights we had to wait patiently and courteously in queues and hope for the best that the roads we were on would get us to where we wanted to go.

I was concerned for George’s and everyone’s safety, yet I wasn’t in a panic. My adrenaline had taken over – I was on a mission and in control. My plan was to first get George, then Gran and Grandpa (Bob & Margaret), then pass by the office to rescue my laptop and files, before fleeing to Waikari. I texted Frank in the hope that he would receive it, but got no reply. I was alone, without coverage, and without a clue how to get to George, as every road I took ended up being blocked by cars or trucks that were stuck in craters in the roads.

Looking back I should have gone on the pedestrian path on the first road I took and braved the bridge by George’s preschool, but I was scared as the area where I turned back had become a vast lake almost 2 foot deep and I didn’t know what the water was hiding. Cars and vans in front were also turning back.

After ¾ hr of driving without success, and with increasing angst, I ended up putting my 2WD through 4WD territory and crossed a bridge with my windows open and seat belt off in case it collapsed beneath me and I’d have to swim out. I made it. After that the road was surprisingly clear on my side – though it was nose to tail going the other way as people headed out of the city towards Brighton, one of the worst hit areas.

It took me over an hour to reach George’s preschool which from the outside looked undamaged (but the inside is a wreck, I was told today). The teachers had evacuated all the children to the nearby Burwood school playground. Even though they had children of their own, their first priority in an emergency was to the preschool children. None of the teachers had any news of the extent of the damage of the quake as they didn’t have a radio. As I arrived I heard on the car radio that there were deaths, which was devastating to hear. I began to worry more about everyone’s safety.

The teachers cried with worry when I told them what I heard on the radio. In hindsight I wish I wasn’t the bearer of this tragic news, as some struggled to hide their fear from the children they were clutching. George was one of about six children remaining in the playground from his preschool; he was fine considering what they all went through. But the others were scared and being comforted by the teachers, one was crying.

George slept through the first earthquake and didn’t really understand what had caused all the cracks in the ground when he returned to Christchurch. But this time he understood, and he talked about it all the way home and looked in amazement at the destruction and traffic around him.

A few minutes after leaving the school I spotted Frank in his work ute waving at me in the traffic heading the other way. We parked in the middle of the road to agree a plan – cars happily negotiated their way around us, everyone fully understanding the necessity of the situation. He didn’t know if I had reached George and was on his way to find out. He had received my text and sent a reply, but he didn’t get a response in return and needed to know if I had got there. I got his text over 12 hours later. We were very lucky to have met this way, as we had no communication and would both have driven aimlessly for many more hours otherwise.

We agreed that Frank would try to get his parents and then my laptop and files, and I would go to Waikari immediately with George. (We had no computer at Waikari and I needed to get the word out to family and friends that we were okay, as the mobiles and phone lines were out or overloaded). He had tried the roads I was originally hoping to take and said they were impassable. I didn’t argue and fled.

It wasn’t until 10.30pm when Frank, Bob and Margaret (following behind in their own car) managed to get out of town and arrive at Waikari. Margaret, who is unconfident driving in the dark as her eyesight is not as good at night, followed Frank in their Ford Focus and tackled both the flood that I dared not cross a few hours earlier, and the bridge by George’s preschool that was later closed by civil defence. She scraped the underneath of her car as she followed Frank in his ute and forced it onto the bridge to cross the river. The road leading up to the bridge had sunk causing steep and sharp inclines either side that even a 4WD would find challenging. We’re all still amazed that this 79 year young lady, who was badly bruised on her arms and ribs by falling crockery during the quake, made it across that bridge and all the way up to Waikari that night.

Meanwhile George and I had arrived in Waikari six hours earlier. We stopped by the local shop to get supplies, as we had nothing in the fridge to feed five people. I was the first townie to arrive in the shop (by then 2½ hours after the quake) and just broadcasted to everyone in the shop about our experience. They listened in stunned silence. They did feel the quake up in Waikari, but not to the same damaging degree as we did in Christchurch. I turned on the TV as soon as we got in the house and spent the rest of the day watching in horror as the true extent of the damage was shown on screen. George was too awake to sleep. I made a meal for everyone, but none of us had any appetite to eat, so we opened a bottle of wine instead to calm our nerves. Bob went against doctors orders and had a whisky.

The first few days

We were all feeling a little sick and frayed at the edges for many days after the quake. The news footage was constant, the death toll rising and the images of our beautiful city lying in ruins was shocking – too incredible to watch and too upsetting to bear, so we turned the TV off. We’d prefer to keep abreast of developments via the Internet and the 6 o’clock news.

That said the geonet.org.nz and Facebook pages were always on screen so we could track the aftershocks and updates from friends. At the same time we received multiple emails, texts, messages and phone calls from worried friends and family all over the world. We also contacted friends and family in Christchurch, as we needed to know that they were safe.

On day two Bob was restless and anxious and wanted to go back to their house to start tidying it up. The aftershocks were ongoing, some above 4.5. Gas stations had run out of fuel as a result of panic buying by the masses, and our tanks were nearly empty, not thinking to refuel on the drive home on the day of the quake.

Frank suggested that he and Bob go to Rangiora to buy a water tank, put it on the Liebherr trailer and fill it up with drinking water to take to Christchurch as we knew the Eastern suburbs were getting desperate - without water, power and phone. All our homes – Harry & Lucy’s, Bob & Margaret’s, and our own in Woodham Road – were also without all these services.

At Rangiora Bob began to feel very ill. He had had heart bypass surgery 10 years ago and we were immediately concerned, but we were told that Christchurch hospital was difficult to get to with the roads, and they were swamped with casualties. We agreed that I would go and collect Bob and take him to the Waikari medical centre to get checked, and if necessary he could go to Waikari hospital. By the time we got back to Waikari Bob was feeling much better. Perhaps the stress was too much for him. He told me while resting with friends in Invercargill 10 days later that he was still getting upset just thinking about the earthquake.

Day 4

I went to our house in Avonside for the first time since 22 February to clean up and make some sense of order. There was still no power and water, so it was an onerous task.

At 3pm I was amazed that the water came back on. Hope! But alas hope was dashed the next day when our tenants texted to say the water was off again. As our hot water cylinder had broken away from the wet back pipes and needs a plumber to fix, we turned that off. At least I could brush and wipe the acidic lath and plaster dust that had coated everything in the house, without wasting the precious drinking water that I brought with me from Waikari.

After 7 hours of cleaning, lifting and reorganising stuff off the floor the house looked reasonably presentable (apart from the hall and two bedrooms which need major structural work). I decided to drive towards George's preschool to see what the journey would be like if I were to return to work in town. Having running water was uplifting, but my hopes were dashed when I saw the state of the roads and cycle ways that I normally take to George's preschool. They were ripped to shreds and undulated beyond belief, and were coated in deep choking fine grey silt. The nearest access bridge was still closed. My back was in terrible pain from the tumultuous journey being shunted from side to side, up and down. On the positive I saw that the roading crews were already working hard to get Christchurch's main arterial routes flowing again - the work was impressive for what was only day four.

But the side streets and residential houses that once put on a brave face after the 7.1 quake are now annihilated and beaten into submission. Dallington especially is looking beyond hope. It took me 30 minutes of weaving sand piles, holes, unchartered pools of water and gaping cracks to get to George's preschool at 5-10km/phr through what should have been a 5 minute drive at 50km/phr. It was a ghost town, as few wanted to hang around and stick it out.

Later, on the way home to Waikari I was interviewed by a freelancer who asked me if there was a silver lining in the cloud for the IT industry in Christchurch ... I stumbled ...after what I saw and knowing that the CBD will be closed for months to come I said, "It's too soon to know. We're still coming to grips with the devastation that's happened.

“The CBD and many schools will be closed for weeks possibly months. Businesses can't access their offices and parents can’t send their children to school. Residential roads in the east of Christchurch are suited to quad-bike terrain only, and residents have abandoned their properties in droves leaving ghost-suburbs in their wake. It took seconds to bring Christchurch to its knees, and it'll take many years to bring a sense of normality back to our beleaguered garden city.”

I requested and forwarded the various accounts from our Canterbury Software cluster members on LinkedIn. Many of whom are either having to live and work from their broken homes or have moved out of the city, or relocated into temporary offices (some for a second time around), while waiting for the CBD to open to gather their business computers and assess the damage. Others whose homes and offices are in the northern and western suburbs are quite surprisingly unaffected. Perhaps an object or two fell down but that was all. They are extremely lucky and have been able to continue with their lives as normal.

It’s the CBD, hillside and eastern suburbs that suffered the most. Dallington, Avonside, Burwood, Brighton, Sumner, Lyttleton and other once beautiful areas of Christchurch have been turned upside down; homes and land are wrecked beyond belief.

"Give it time," I said to the freelancer. "This quake was considerably more destructive than the last and we're still feeling the aftershocks." He seemed disappointed as if he wanted something more newsworthy. I expect he was looking for a moral boosting, readership pleasing, good news story. Fair enough, I understand that. But four days after NZ's potentially most devastating quake; it was way too soon, and the wounds far too deep.

Today - Day 12

Well a lot has happened since we escaped to Waikari.

The power and telecommunications are still off at Woodham Road – we’re one of the last homes remaining that the lines companies have been unable to connect. In an effort to speed up reconnections damaged underground lines have been replaced by overhead wires – pulling out any and every stop to get residents in their broken homes re-connected. Everyone is shouting their praises for working round the clock to help.

Likewise the water authority has been working day and night to reconnect residents, though 25% are still without water today. Our water in town came back on 3 days ago – which is faster than we could have imagined given the damage around us.

With silt blocking every broken drain and pipe, the sewers will take many years to mend. Rain is already causing floods, as there’s nowhere for the water to go. With some people flushing waste down broken sewers instead of using supplied portaloos on the street, I expect it’s inevitable that raw sewerage in some areas will be seen floating in the floods.

Water will have to be boiled for a long while, and no-one will be allowed to swim in the sea or kayak in the river for years, but at least residents can survive with the basic services and a roof over their heads (presuming it’s watertight).

Pretty much everyone’s home in the eastern suburbs are damaged in some way. Our house appears to have come off pretty lightly compared to some of our neighbours. The two storey house behind us pancaked and collapsed, the brick one 10 houses down the road is smashed, others are split in two, or subsided, or wonky in some way. Many will be demolished.

From the outside our house looks like it did when we bought it. But inside the walls are clearly twisted with cracks top to bottom in every corner; the piles have sunk and the floors and doors now slope noticeably; doors are jammed shut and cannot open; and the 3 metre ceiling to floor remains of the internal brick chimney that was taken down from roof to ceiling after the 7.1 quake, had spewed more bricks across the two bedrooms that it divided. We were extremely fortunate that the quake didn’t happen when we were asleep!

We lost a lot of contents this time compared to the last quake. A number of ornaments, crockery, glassware, picture frames, an oven, the hot water heater, contents of the freezer, and more. As there’s no power we’re unable to see if our electrical equipment still works – i.e. the TV fell on its face and amazingly is still intact, but does it work?

But the most important thing in all of this is we are safe. It is estimated over 200 people died in the quake. And being such a close knit community, everyone knows someone either directly or indirectly who died. For example, we knew one woman from our antenatal group who was flattened in the PGG building that collapsed; she leaves a distraught husband and 4 year old son behind. Frank’s work mate lost his two aunts in the quake. Our favourite restaurateur lost his son. One of our client’s staff members lost his mum. And it goes on.

By day three Bob & Margaret were feeling noticeably restless in our Waikari home and with news of on-gong aftershocks in Christchurch, so we encouraged them to get out of Canterbury for some much needed rest away from the quake zone. They went to visit their eldest son and his family in Queenstown, and are now in Southland visiting old friends where they lived before they came up to Christchurch to be with their family four years ago.

After they left Waikari, Frank and I set about getting our lives back in order. He went back to work in Rangiora while I set up my office and computers in the sunroom in Waikari. It’s not ideal but it’s a start. With his preschool in Christchurch closed, looking after George while trying to get my business back up and running at the same time has been a challenge. So I found a preschool in Amberley that had a few afternoons available. So I grabbed every available time slot and George started on Thursday 3^rd March – much to his delight – he was getting very bored being with me at home in Waikari and needed to burn off energy running around with children his own age. He loves his new preschool and understands exactly why he is there. It’s a huge relief.

I have since learned that many families are moving out of Christchurch and rural schools are filling up fast with new temporary/permanent students. It’s interesting to see the change in demographics take place: the reversal of the rural demise as city folk take refuge in the country. Many are quoted in the local media saying they are committed to Canterbury, to Christchurch and will stay here and rebuild. They grew up here, have memories here, want to continue being with the people they know and love, and are here for the long haul.

During the first week after the quake I did heaps:

1. I applied for the government business assistance grant to ensure my business had enough money to be able to pay my employee for the next 6 weeks. Work has definitely taken a nose dive since the quake, but it is stumbling along as we all get back on our feet. Clients are also slow to pay their invoices and the Inland Revenue will need to be paid tax shortly (they understand they are not our top priority at this point in time, so I’m in no rush to sort my financial paperwork out!).

2. I contacted the Earthquake Commission (EQC) to file damage claims for our house and granny flat in Woodham Road, and our other rental in Wainoni – also left affected and uninhabitable by the quake.

3. I applied for a grant from the Red Cross which is providing help to people who have been displaced and/or have been without water, power for >48 hours. We felt it’s not fair to charge our tenants rent while they are not living in the property because they don’t have water, power and can’t flush the toilet. Other landlords aren’t so forgiving. We encouraged both our tenants to apply for the grants for themselves as well.

4. I talked with our bank to find out what they can do to help. They offered a $20,000 interest free loan for 2 months to help with costs, I accepted and asked if it could be offset against our existing renovation loan and they agreed. Every little bit helps.

5. I arranged for a plumber and a builder to come in and do emergency repairs on our home next week so that it can be made habitable again once the power comes on. This will eventually be covered by the EQC.

I went back into Christchurch on Thursday 3 March to get more files. The roads are being given temporary repairs to provide access and keep the city moving. But there’s a very long way to go. The Mayor announced that the CBD will likely be closed off for months, but is letting business owners and residents to go into the city one area at a time to collect their stuff that they weren’t able to grab after the quake and before the cordons were put in place.

I’m not sure if I will ever return to work at my office in town. Not because it won’t be functional or practical per se, but because I had a dilemma before the quake that I was brushing under the carpet - where will George go to school when he turns five in January?

Tentatively and logistically I had in my mind that it was going to be either Waikari School or one near the office in Christchurch that George would go to – until at least we had all renovations finished, our house in Waikari sold, and our dream property in Golden Bay purchased. Ha!

January 2012 is only 9 months away. My question is, is it worth rushing to get back into my office in Christchurch with no CBD to meet clients in, terrible roads to crawl along, demolition at every corner, choking silt dusts with every wisp of wind, and continuing aftershocks to fray the nerves? Or should I look at this earthquake as the silver lining – an opportunity or stepping stone to make the life changes I needed to make and accept, but couldn’t see a way through without angst and compromise.

With hundreds, possibly thousands of houses facing demolition and many more needing drastic repair, the rental market in Christchurch is at its strongest ever. All structurally sound properties are in huge demand for both commercial and residential lease. Construction firms are also seeking accommodation for their workers while they build temporary housing and fix the roads. We’ve already been shoulder tapped. So we’re seriously considering whether we should rent out our house in town. Whatever we decide it’s going to be a huge change for us all, and hopefully a positive one.

It’s now a waiting game. Waiting to see how the city picks itself up, how our clients and the business recovers, which schools will reopen, how quickly the roads and sewers improve, etc. Mother nature pretty much wiped the slate clean for Christchurch and presented us all with a chance to start anew. Only time will tell how it all pans out.

Update 11.06pm, 11 March 2011

By now many of you will have heard of the Japan 8.9 earthquake and tsnumani, and will - like us - be feeling numb with the images of the devastation and loss of life there. What we experienced in the last 4 months seems to be a mere playground attraction in comparison.

Mother Earth and her ring of fire are clearly angry and showing who’s boss. It’s just so horrid, and too frightening to bear thinking about. But of course we can hardly do anything less.

And to think that the Japanese search and rescue teams came here to help us. No doubt our teams will be getting ready right now to help them in return … but what a massive task they have before them.

…sigh …

Meanwhile here the aftershocks are continuing – mostly only in the high threes and fours in magnitude, so not as severe – but they are worsening the already weakened buildings – including our own.

A man from the EQC stopped by at our house in Woodham Road today and called me to say they’re sending emergency repair crews to take down our chimneys and fix our plumbing and will be contacting us in the next 24-48 hours. It was a shock as this didn’t happen last time, and their visit was totally unexpected, plus we have people already arranged to do the repairs. But they’re on a mission, so we’re working with them.

Bob & Margaret are still in Southland, but will be coming back to stay with us in Waikari on Thursday 10^th. Frank and his brothers do not want their parents to return to their home to all the problems in Christchurch (with traffic at a standstill, silt clouds with even the slightest puff of wind, local shops and malls closed an in need of serious repair, etc). So J&S are planning to visit friends in the north island next for a couple weeks in the hope that their area in Christchurch will have improved a little by then.

Some good news – the power and water are back on in all our homes now. In fact, to the energy and telecommunications company’s huge credit, most of Christchurch has water and power now -- even though about 10,000 homes in the eastern suburbs are destined to be demolished and the land returned to the swamp it once was). But it will take years before the sewers, drains and roads are fully repaired.

And some sad news. David the husband of our antenatal group friend and fellow mum who died in the quake just emailed to invite us to Penny’s memorial service on the 15^th. Of course we’ll be there.

The government announced that there will be a national day of mourning for the quake disaster victims in Christchurch on the 18^th March. About 100,000 are expected to attend the service in Hagley Park.

Well, I’ve about had enough of earthquakes for one lifetime and will call it a day. We will keep you updated with news as it unfurls.

All our love from a rather subdued and fragile Christchurch, New Zealand.

Susan, Frank and George

Giving up my Sundays

2011-01-14T17:59:00.002Z

I like lazy Sundays. After the Archers Omnibus is finished on the bedside radio, I'll consider getting up. But if the Desert Island Discs guest is interesting I'll snooze through that as well. Recharging my batteries on Sunday is an important part of my life's routine and anything that threatens lazy Sundays is to be avoided.

And then I was asked to be a singer with a Swing Band. Not just a couple of little alto saxes - a full brass section including, yes, an alto sax. But also a couple of proper tenor saxophones, a trombone, a trumpet, a couple of guitars, bass and drums. And other singers, so there would be opportunities for vocal harmony!

There's got to be a catch, right? And there is. It's a doozie. They rehearse every Sunday.

Guess what: I said yes to the band and gave up my lazy Sundays, faster than you could say jazz. I'm self employed and work from home... I can have lazy Mondays instead.

It's so important to plan . . . NOT!

2010-12-08T22:05:00.000Z

How was your summer? I missed you while I've been away ... and in fact I'm still missing you while I'm still away!

Plan A ... the regular job
Unfortunately, the regular work was very thin on the ground in the first half of the year, so I was open to other ideas. Another idea came along so...

Plan B ... the fixed-term contract
I'd temped for a month at the college before, so the offer of four and a half months' work at their busiest time of year was something I jumped at.Then I had to turn down three rather lovely freelance projects because I couldn't have fitted them in around a full-time job. And I was too exhausted all the time to arrange the 'Official Birthday Party' I'd hoped to hold in the summer, with live music and food out in the garden. Oh, well.

Meanwhile...
Lots of ceilidhs! We played weddings, anniversaries, birthdays. The main ceilidh band I'm in lost its caller and bass player. We regrouped, swapped some instruments around, and our leader Pete stepped up to be the new caller. The new format is leaner, fitter and works brilliantly - both musically and socially. We have a new mascot, Hannibal the Hedgehog, who's able to demonstrate hand-jiving and laughs at all Pete's jokes.

Plan C ... after the contract
Well, at least after the contract was over, I'd be able to crank up Lying Scotsman again, get back into appearing at folk clubs regularly, negotiate a new venue for my own folk club ... yeah. On the last day of the contract, just after I'd left my Mum a message on her answering machine - she got blown off her feet by a gust of wind, and landed up with a smashed hip.

The Monday after my last Friday, I was in the car on my way up the A1 to be a carer.

Plan D ... after the recovery
So, let's just get Mum better so she can cope on her own, right? Five weeks after I got to Scotland, Mum is getting around fine on just one stick, she's cooking, she can do the laundry, she can carry stuff using a trolley we've liberated for the purpose - and -

I'M SNOWED IN!!!

There's not that much snow where I am. It's mostly been hard frosts. But all my routes home are via snowed-up blizzarded gridlocked nightmare routes. I'd be mad to set off prematurely, on my own in an elderly car, only to end up shivering in a traffic jam all night - or worse still, abandoning the car to get in everyone else's way, with no idea how or when I would see it again.

And it hasn't escaped my notice that it's heading for Christmas. I've got 2 client meetings on Monday and ... well, you can see why I'm losing faith in the virtue of making plans, can't you?

An epic example of bluffing

2010-08-18T00:01:00.001+01:00

The night before I was due to be a solo Lying Scotsman I didn't sleep much. I wasn't partying, I wasn't even sitting up drinking, and the weather was fine so it wasn't even that. No, I was just lying there, eyes closed, rehearsing.

Have you ever tried a psychological technique called visualisation? The idea behind it is pretty darn cunning: the human brain is really stupid. It can't tell the difference between imagining something in a very detailed and thorough way, and actually doing it. Research has shown that (up to a point anyway) you can even 'exercise' muscles this way, by visualising yourself doing the exercise instead of doing it for real.

So there I was, in a tent at four in the morning, trying to remember what songs I'd planned to sing and how I was going to introduce each of them. Because that's always been the bit I find hardest about performing: being 'me' in between the songs! I feel such a prat up there, out in front of the band and being expected to introduce the next item. What can I say that's interesting and - oh even better - funny?

Because really I'm not a natural Front Man at all. What I love to do is backing harmonies, to make someone else who's really talented sound even better.

However, after all my visualising, it worked out all right. I made enough minor cock-ups to raise a laugh, managed to raise a few intentional laughs as well, and there is now an incredibly funny potty-mouthed gentleman in Worksop who would like to book the band for his club's acoustic night. Perhaps that last one will be enough to persuade at least one of the other alleged Lying Scotsmen out of sabbatical and into the rehearsal room: result!

And not bad going for a folk singer who thinks everyone is more talented than she is.

Here's a treat for those who enjoyed the hedgehog song … email me at lyingscotmusic@aol.com and I'll send you the words. Including the bonobo verse and two other previously unreleased verses!!

Tis a far far better go to, I come from...

2010-08-13T11:03:00.000+01:00

...than I have ever went.

What mad impulse made me agree to the bonkers suggestion that I honour Lying Scotsman's slot on the festival programme as a solo act?

What folly stopped me withdrawing the offer months ago, when I realised just how scary an undertaking this is going to be?

Yet here I am, on Friday the Thirteenth, packing and plotting ready for an early-afternoon departure for Norfolk. The weather is being suitably soggy for an uncommitted arriviste camper such as myself. The omens are poor. And I haven't been this excited since Christmas started losing its magic!

Wish me luck, dear reader. I am, as they so quaintly put it, bricking it - but with a huge happy grin on my face.

See you on the other side!

Woody or wouldn't you?

2010-07-25T19:11:00.000+01:00

Last night we were invited to join friends in a village hall celebrating their 40th wedding anniversary. So, what?

So, this. Woody and Maggie are kinda folk royalty around here.

They organise concerts all year round in their local village hall (The Barn at Baston) which attract huge names inthe folk world - and they tend to sell out quickly. They are both in a very successful ceilidh band called Waggonload of Monkeys, in which Maggie is the best dance-caller I know and Woody features on a hammered dulcimer. They know their stuff.

The Woodys also know everybody. And we were invited! Woody had even asked if I would sing 'a big chorus song' as part of the evening ... what an honour! A house band had been organised, and the rest of us players joined in a lot of the time. The sound was enormous - not loud, just really rich.

I loved playing with the house band. I know them all bys sight .. sort of .. but I don't know all their names. Doesn't matter. In the context of mucking-in and making a good sound, we all respect each other.

And Woody's introduction to my spot meant more to me than anything: apparently I am 'always cheerful' and a good place to turn when it's all going to hell in a handbasket. Huhh??? Well... I can't be doing with the prima donna attitude to things going wrong. The customer deserves the best possible rescue - well, wouldn't you, if you could?

Anyway . . . I feel good about last night. And there are pictures on Facebook for those who do that kind of thing. I'm there as Lying Scotsman by the way. See you there!

My love/hate relationship with ... open mic sessions

2010-07-19T13:51:00.000+01:00

Why I hate open mic sessions

1. Other people's sound equipment
It's never quite as easy to use as your own, and the person who has kindly loaned it for people to use during the session needs to be on hand the whole time to re-set it for every act. Otherwise you sound like a wally, as well as looking as if you don't know what you're doing. If that person goes for a fag break, or a loo break, or heaven help him just wants to relax with a pint for five minutes, it will be during your slot when the feedback loop kicks in.

2. That annoying delay between acts
Unlike in a nice all-acoustic pub session, where folks just sit around taking turns starting off the next song or tune, there's a great palaver while Act 1 extricates itself from the spaghetti on stage, and Act 2 gets itself plugged in. The usual 'one TWO.. one TWO' rigmarole follows, while Act 2 convinces itself that the equipment hasn't mysteriously stopped working since Act 1 left the stage. There is no point starting a conversation during the delay, because it'll be interrupted by 'one TWO' and then the over-loud opening bars of the next song. But there is nothing to look at; just some gormless would-be muso trying to attract the attention of the technically-minded bloke currently engaged in chatting up the bar staff with his back to the stage.

3. Always too loud
Why do singers always shout into open-mic mics? It's not necessary, and it doesn't make them sound any better. All it does is make them sing even more off-key because they don't have control of the voice and can't hear themselves anyway.

Why I love open mic sessions

1. It's always nice to please a crowd
Open mic audiences are usually made up of other performers waiting their turn to go on. They've heard it all before, so anything a) unusual b) done well will always get a reaction. I like to start with a filthy song to set the tone, then follow up with something sweet and soulful to show I've got some depth. Then leave them gagging for more, as I melt enigmatically into the crowd. Nipping back hastily to retrieve my plectrum which I've stupidly left on the music stand.

2. Popping those plosives
Being an acoustic-minded performer, I need all the practice I can get at not making your eyes water with my P and B sounds.

On balance though... give me an old fashioned folk night any time!

Culture shock

2010-07-02T13:55:00.000+01:00

When you work for yourself (for clients... well, you know what I mean!) you happily forget about the petty conventions of working in an office environment with other people.

I am blogging to you now from the hallowed environs of the staff lounge at Peterborough Regional College. It's a pleasant looking room, with big windows, plenty of space, huge potted plants, tea-making facilities, and a row of computers available for staff to make use of.

Having spent 15 of my 60 minutes' lunch time on actually getting myself fed, I toddled happily along to the lounge expecting to do some CPRE work online, and maybe have a quick look at Facebook.

Horrors! All 4 computers were occupied. Each and every one looked like it was being used for serious business too - there being no privacy in this place - rather than social networking. So, I sat at another table, made a couple of phone calls, as quietly as I could, and waited for someone to vacate a machine. She did, and I tried not to look too grasping as scrambled to fill her still-warm chair.

Then I realised I hadn't brought the password with me for the CPRE job I wanted to do. It's one of those random-generated jobbies that you can't possibly remember. My laptop remembers it for me at home, and if I need to look it up it's written cryptically in ... my pocket diary. Which is in my desk drawer. Going back for it means either leaving my work open and visible, so nobody will nab my vacant seat - or logging out, running to the office and back, then logging in again. By which time another 10 minutes would be gone.

(I glance at my watch and realise I have only 10 minutes left in any case.)

The other option open to me would have been to do 'my' work at the computer on my desk. But that's in a busy office, and if you sit at your desk people naturally expect you to be available for working. I know, I've caught myself making that assumption about other people. If you want a break, you have to announce it, check your temporary absence won't muck up anyone else's work, and then go away.

Perhaps next week I'll have adapted a bit more to this weird way of working, and be better prepared to make use of my lunch break. I have to. With a couple of books, a company newsletter, a brand new website and a festival brochure all waiting to be worked on, I can't afford to waste my free time on Facebook and blogging . . .

Mixed up feelings

2010-06-23T14:55:00.000+01:00

Sleeping on things always helps.

Yesterday I shouted an obscenity at the radio, when Mr Osborne sneaked in that little rise in VAT just before shutting the file and running away. I had to switch off for the rest of the day. The mere mention of the B-word had me close to tears, I was so angry that yet again the poorest will pay for the excesses of the richest. (I'd already done some picturesque seething about the mere £2 billion a year the new bank transaction levy will be bringing in ... hardly worth the bother, really.)

But then today it was officially announced that Community Spaces (a species of Lottery funding) has awarded £47,000 to our local playing field association to install a multi-use games area. On top of a £49,000 grant from PlayBuilder to pay for updated play equipment for our 7-14 year olds. There's even an allowance for a slap-up launch party in September, so the whole village can celebrate.

All this, despite us being a tiny little village, rather than in an area of more easily recognisable urban deprivation where there are lots of votes - er, sorry - deprived kiddies. You'd be surprised how many funds (that's you, Sport England) turned us down because 'not enough people would benefit'. We live in the country - what do you expect!

To further mix up my emotions, despite it being mid summer we're enjoying a spell of good weather. I am in fact blogging from a shady spot in the garden, whither the pale Celt in me has retreated to avoid a complete body-peel before the midges have time to eat me alive!

Ingerlund are about to play Slovenia in the footy world cup (sigh...) so even the busy road outside is relatively quiet today. And on Friday, after I've done my regular stint with the bloodsuckers, I'm hot-footing it across to Peterborough for a cosy chat with the information team at Peterborough Regional College, who are showing some interest in employing me again for a few months over the summer.

I still don't see how the heck we're going to cope with a building site next door when the neighbours move out, and how we're going to manage the 20% VAT ... but on balance my smiles are outweighing my frowns again.

Order is restored.

The Battle of Lumb Farm

2010-06-21T11:51:00.000+01:00

This song will make its first public appearance at a very special punk festival at the Goat Inn, Skeyton in deepest Norfolk on Sunday 15th August ... feel free to print it off, bring it with you and join in. Feel free also to rip it off elsewhere (ignore the copyright - I gift it to you!) and spread the joy that was the disappointment on the faces of the jolly plods as they realised nobody was interested in rioting...

The Battle of Lumb Farm

In twenty-oh-eight we packed guitars and drums

And set off for the Ashes at the farm that they call Lumb

There was coppers in the carpark, there was coppers in the sky

They were all expecting trouble and we'd no idea why

Chorus

We fired our buns and the coppers kept a-coming

But there wasn't half as many as there was a while ago

We smiled at them and they began a-running

Down the lane to Ripley and we laughed to see them go

Across the fields there was coppers on the gate

Cos the BNP were inside there spreading hate

The press were hoping that we would start a fight

But we were playing cricket and we couldn't give a shite

Repeat chorus

Someone said we can take 'em by surprise

If we offer them a coffee and a choice of veggie pies

They'd sent as many coppers as their coffers could afford

And they sat there eating crisps and looking bored.

Repeat chorus

While a 'copter full of coppers hovered high above the field

Our kiddies had a lovely game with the riot shields

They were ever so suspicious, we were too laid back and quiet

But we couldn't quite be bothered to go out and start a riot

Repeat chorus x2

Chat about clutter - on the radio. Now.

2010-06-09T11:10:00.005+01:00

I've just put the phone down after agreeing to represent CPRE on BBC Radio Lincolnshire this lunchtime.

They've seen an article on a CPRE website - I don't think it's my CPRE website - about countryside clutter and would like to 'talk to someone local' about it.

The chairman of CPRE Lincolnshire is John, so Gemma the lovely BBC researcher rang him. But John's wife had just hauled him in to help her with a work assignment, and he's up to his ears in deadlines. John rang his number two, Peter ... who is not answering his phone right now. This is not uncommon when you deal with volunteers, particularly when they're retired but still extremely active!

So, in desperation, John rang our regional coordinator, Caroline, to beg her to find someone else to grab this valuable media opportunity ... and Caroline rang me. Sometimes being known for working at home is a curse.

"But I can't give local examples of clutter, because I don't know Lincolnshire all that well," I protested. "All I can do is find the general campaigning message from national CPRE and put it into my own words. In a noticeably non-local Scottish accent!"

"Ah," smiled Caroline persuasively down the line, "but you're so good at that. I know you'll manage just fine."

So this is why, if you call me shortly after 12.45 today, you won't get a reply. Ring my doorbell, and the only answer you'll get is the hum of the traffic on the A43 or an occasional migrant Harrier jet.

Excuse me please, while I hie me to the CPRE website and frantically mug up a simple, 3-point message that even I can remember. And a headline to hang the whole thing on ... how about more signs, less time to read them as a start?

Want to cringe along with me?

You can listen to my frantic verbal flappage ... please tell me honestly what you think!

Duck!

2010-05-31T20:15:00.001+01:00

A leg fell on me today. Out of a tree.

Yesterday, I was out cutting the grass in front of the house. There's a tradition, going back perhaps as much as 5 years, whereby we and the neighbours take it in turns to cut in front of each other's house. I couldn't remember whose turn it was officially but with a heavy heart I decided I might as well cut theirs anyway - and I threw a baleful look at the SOLD sign as I nudged The Beast over the remains of my daffs and towards their verge.

It was gone! After only 2 days, the sign said FOR SALE again.

A far happier Words Bird completed the tidying up of our housefronts. I don't know whether the lovely neighbours are disappointed but I'm finding it hard to pretend that I am.

Lucy celebrated by fetching us yet another defunct baby bunny in the evening. Other 'Arf sprinted downstairs with admirable alacrity, having spotted her trotting houseward with the expiring critter in her jaws. His habit is to 'recycle' the grisly remains into a bit of disused ground adjacent to our house, in the hope that a scavenger will benefit from it and save some other critters for another day.

So there I was today, out with the long-handled loppers, knocking seven bells out of the ageing fruit trees at the bottom of the garden, and tidying up next door's (other side) trees whose branches hang over the wall and make cutting the grass on our side hazardous to the eyesight. I kept a close eye out for bird's nests - but there was so much dead twiggery in there, I need not have worried.

And then something five inches long, furry at one end and bony at the other ... plop! ... on to the grass in front of me. Luckily I ducked, so whatever it was didn't land in my hair. It was a rabbit's leg, severed from the rest of the bunny but nonetheless instantly recognisable - especially if you've been treated to the sight with rather more clues as many times as I have recently.

How on earth did it get up a tree? Our guess is a rook or a magpie was trying to take it back to the nest and dropped it. If we're right, Other 'Arf's way of dealing with the remnants is better than mine (triple-wrapping and in the bin out of sight as quickly as possible!) after all.

Good news, bad news time

2010-05-28T15:59:00.001+01:00

The good news is fantastic: my Mum's health scare came back negative. She's fit as a flea, it's official. So, the panic over finding somewhere supported for her to live down here near me is somewhat reduced - although, to be on the safe side, I will quietly keep my enquiries going just in case anything else happens.

So, don't get me wrong, I am celebrating the Good News big-time.

The bad news probably doesn't seem that bad to you: the SOLD sign has gone up next door.

It's bad enough that the nicest neighbours we've ever had are selfishly moving to some other house that has plenty of room for all the adults living there, and that has off-road parking less than the present 1/4-mile walk from their front door.

I can probably live with whatever new neighbours they're condemning us to. Over the years we've already lived next door to drug dealers, crack addicts and Hornblower the oboe player who never improved, so I have no doubt we will somehow adapt to whatever comes.

No, my big problem is what they'll no doubt be expecting to take with them when they go.

Lucy.

Next-door's cat was very stand-offish at first. Small and black, with a white 'locket' under her chin, she shied away from contact with us until a month or so after our own cat, Daisy, died. Around this time, next door's cat-disliking 21-year-old son came home to live, between university courses, and Lucy moved in with us!

It's been a comfort, while we were still grieving for dear old Daisy, to have Lucy dropping by for the cheapest cat-biscuits we can find. Each evening she spends a few minutes politely communing on the sofa with my Other Arf, before sprinting upstairs to our bed, where she sleeps most of the day and all night. It was less of a comfort when, just this Spring, Lucy started bringing us 'presents' ... cat lovers will know exactly what I mean here. She's certainly not lacking in the hunting instinct. Nor the skills, unfortunately for the bunnies living under our garden shed.

When the neighbours went on holiday last year, instead of requiring me to re-learn the security code to get past the alarm and feed her in their house, they smilingly brought me 2 weeks' supply of cat food and her dish. We all knew it was going to the beginning of the end of any pretence that Lucy was 'their' cat ... none of us minded.

Lucy was deeply unimpressed back in February when we gave a temporary home to Wilfred Pickles, a year-old kitten whose owners were spending a month touring Australia. She behaved as if the cheeky little 'tigger' had invaded her home, was pinching her food, and was distracting the attention of her people. Outrage. How very dare he?

In desperation, the competition to be Top Cat drove Lucy to try out this peculiar thing Wilfred did often: play-ing. It transformed her personality yet again, bringing out her Inner Kitten; not to mention her Inner Daft Bugger!

By the time Wilfred went back to his own home, Lucy had mastered the arts of the Mid-Air Change of Direction; the Flying Wide-Eyed Tackle; and of course the Circular Gallumph (I'm sorry but the last defies description ... it does however give the lie to that myth that all cats are light-footed).

So, having ruined Lucy as we ruin every cat that spends any time with us, now we have to let her go.

Bugger!

Identity crisis

2010-05-23T00:06:00.000+01:00

Sometimes I wander through a bit of a musical identity crisis. It's because I'm such a tart.

Leaving aside Lying Scotsman, the Jam Tarts and Fete Accompli, I now seem to be playing guitar in 3 (count them) ceilidh bands. Which isn't a problem, unless our glorious leader Pete is struggling to find people to fulfil a booking . . . and he currently is!

A text came through from Pete today, asking in his usual terse way: 'Are you available to play, especially Sharon?' It was for a date he and I had been discussing already, with a view to pulling in the Plan C lineup of Guthram Gowt (me, him and another melodeon player also called Pete, plus dance caller).

So, was he just letting me know that he was asking Sharon to play because the other Pete wasn't available? Or did he have another enquiry for the same night, which might be easier to fulfil?

Either way, I guess I won't be at home that night.

Muscle groups

2010-05-20T10:58:00.001+01:00

I was all set for a typical Wednesday night in.

On Wednesdays my Other Arf cycles off to bellringing practice in the next village (thus cleverly exercising first his leg muscles and then upper-body muscles) before going to the pub (and exercising his right elbow). Normally on these occasions I loaf on the sofa in front of the telly; if there's nothing to watch, I might languidly browse the internet for a while. OA comes home a little after closing time, and we'll share a glass or two before bed.

But that afternoon the publican had dropped off some posters for a forthcoming charity event ... and asked if I would be going. And then OA casually mentioned it'd be nice to see me at the pub, too. So, a little after nine, I too pedalled pubward - there being nothing to watch on the telly.

And I'm glad I did. An acquaintance was there - let's call him Jack. He was widowed a month ago, and last night he really needed to talk. His family are good to him and he has a good social life; he's finding purpose and pleasure in his new puppy ... but what he needs more than anything is to talk about his late wife. OA and I sat and chatted comfortably about the issues he's facing - among them, how to dispose of her ashes, and how to face the future without a woman to give him a regular toe up the proverbial.

Both Jack and I got a bit tearful a couple of times - who wouldn't? But we were in a quiet corner away from the youngsters playing pool, and nobody was embarrassed.

Now, assuming you're not a churchgoer who might expect pastoral visits from a vicar, or you're not in need of the regular attentions of a social worker, to whom would you normally turn for this sort of release?

Jack told me that most people find him talking about the future, or about the past for that matter, difficult to take.And I find that attitude offensively selfish. The bereaved have endless adjustments to make, plans to reformulate, losses to adapt to.

The one person who might have helped steer them through the morass of uncertainties and abandoned assumptions is the one person they can no longer consult.

Since my own Dad died 2 years ago, and since I started to recover the use of my brain after the world-shattering upheaval of losing my life's anchor ... I have found it much easier to find time for those who lack the opportunity to talk about their dead. It's such a comfort to indulge in 'she is... she likes...' instead of the strictly-correct and socially imperative 'she was... she liked'.

Am I the only one around here who thinks we need to treat the people we love who have died, less as traitors whose names must be expunged from the communal record, and more as people who've gone away on a very long holiday but who still matter to us?

Such is the life of a Words Bird, dammit

2010-05-18T13:54:00.002+01:00

So, Hannibal's Heroes has lost its chincello player, who would rather get some more orchestra experience with her violin ... that's fine. Our incredibly talented (not to mention gorgeous) viola player has generously offered to switch to chincello.

This means she not only has to learn to play all our bass-lines, on an instrument that looks the same but has a 5th string and sounds a lot deeper than a viola. Er..... like a cello, in fact. Oh, and all the music isn't in the alto-clef, which she'd had to learn in order to oblige us with the viola. She has to learn the bass-clef now.

...That's fine too. Sharon's a brilliant musician and extremely professional. She will do us proud. She'll have to, as our next gig is on June 5th and it's full of specially-requested unfamiliar Scottish dances and tunes that Our Leader, Pete, has had to arrange specially.

That is, arrange for guitar, flute, viola (er, a bit of a waste, that turned out) and chincello, as well as his own fiddle and melodeon.

We've managed to organise 2 rehearsals between now and June 5th, although we don't know yet where those will be. But luckily, there's a music session at the Red Lion in West Deeping which we can all get to, so that's an extra practice.

Or rather, it was. Because as chairman of my parish council, I have just been notified that the date has been set for our annual 'communicating with the district council' meeting ... and I bet you can't guess what night it's on. I can't even send my chairman of vice, because she's on holiday that week.

This doesn't look like anything worse than a mildly inconvenient diary clash, does it? Either go to the music session with your actively gigging band, or go to the meeting and give a well deserved ear-bashing to the district council mandarins, and whichever you do stop whingeing.

I'm not normally an indecisive person ... but this time I'm in a perfectly-balanced quandary. Enjoy the spectacle while ye may!

Bird tracks in the sand

2010-05-14T17:29:00.000+01:00

So, I've found out to share links to other websites with you. And most of them probably don't need explaining. But... The Beach?

All I can really say, in explanation, is that it's a wonderful blog-come-forum (therefore the regulars call it The Frog) which provides the best 5-minute holiday you'll ever have.

You do have to register on the BBC website to join in the silliness ... don't ask me why, the easiest way to do this is to visit the Archers website and register there. After that, just wade in and have fun with the other froggers.

You'll find me there under the name Fifi. If you'd like to make sure I'm there before you arrive for the first time, so I can show you around and introduce you to the mad bunch of Radio 4 listeners who frequent it, just drop me an email and let's synchronise our watches.

See you there sometime, I hope!

Dangling democracy

2010-05-10T15:27:00.001+01:00

I would have been content to let the parties haggle this out among themselves. We the public delivered them an ambiguous result, so we just have to leave them to do their best.

What I'm finding sad in all this, is that the gentlemanliness which characterised what I saw of the Leadership Debates on TV seems to be fading away.

A good friend of mine who voted Labour commented on Facebook today that LibDems are 'slippery and not to be trusted'. Now, I dislike the LibDems' policy on Europe. I'm not impressed that they want the organ donation scheme to be opt-out rather than opt-in. I agree with them that the electoral system isn't working properly but disagree with them that Proportional Representation provides the only realistic solution.

But does that make them 'slippery and not to be trusted'? I think not.

* * * * *

On an unrelated note, I see Nigel Farage, the ex UKIP leader, has been talking frankly and rather entertainingly about his brush with death in a light aircraft on polling day. I still dislike many of his political views ... but I was moved to smile when, during the lunchtime news, I had this thought:

Nigel Farage wants the UK to get out of Europe. Yet his surname is pronounced as if it were French.

What's that about, then?

The goldfish voter

2010-05-06T17:02:00.005+01:00

Would you have made your voting decision, based on a banner trailing behind a light aircraft this morning? I'm pretty sure I wouldn't. I've already explained here how depressingly limited my voting choices were. Even if UKIP had been available to me I still wouldn't have picked them, no matter how colourful the ribbon they twirled before my eyes.

So, unless a campaign planner somewhere honestly believed that the voters of Northamptonshire have the collective attention span of a bucketful of carp, what on earth was Mr Farage doing up in that plane anyway?

I'm sorry the man's had a nasty accident, and I hope he and his pilot (who certainly should have known better, if the suspected cause of the crash is proved correct) make a full recovery.

But seriously... the aerial equivalent of shouting: VOTE FOR ME! through a megaphone isn't exactly going to counteract what the media and other lazy thinkers are pleased to call Voter Apathy.

So, what would get more of us out from behind our computer screens and into the polling stations?

Political parties that didn't all look and sound like each other
It's harder and harder to tell the difference between the major parties. They all subscribe to the free market, to de-regulation, to privatised industry, to selling our fuel utilities to the highest (usually foreign) bidder, to private rather than state pensions, to business funding and influencing schools.
Candidates who are entertaining as well as persuasive
Am I the only one who wishes some of the comedians and actors who publicly support various parties would actually stand for them? Not since Screaming Lord Sutch (RIP) have we had a candidate who made us smile and turn the volume on the telly up so as not to miss any of his bonkers but strangely prophetic manifesto promises.
MPs who are allowed to be free-thinkers
When your party line is X, and you believe Z, you're supposed to keep schtumm. Which is great as long as Z isn't actually worth debating. The minute an elected government MP steps out of line, there are shrieks of: RESIGN! Shouldn't we instead wait and find out first whether the errant politico has a point?
A cleverer system for counting votes
I don't pretend to have an answer to this ... and before you ask, I'm sure it's not Proportional Representation. But the single large Labour-regenerated town in my otherwise rural constituency means the rural vote is swamped by its urban one. I love that we have constituency MPs who are accountable to voters - but mine doesn't feel very accountable to me. Surely there's a better way that brings the best of all worlds?
A voucher for beer/milk/sausages/socks for everyone who votes
Why not reward people for doing their democratic duty? So what if a lot of votes are cast flippantly by people voting for the wrong reasons! That would make the candidates sharpen up their act so as to get their attention. Which they should have been doing anyway.
Something interesting going on at the polling station
How about a petting zoo? or a storyteller? or a string ensemble playing soothingly in the corner? a local art exhibition? craft stalls? Morris dancing? a webcam feed from the red kites site at Fineshade Woods? a handsome contortionist drinking a pint of milk in ridiculous positions?

And no, I won't be sitting up till 6am to find out who's in. Even though this audio tour of the Radio 4 election night studio made me howl with laughter. I'm quite sure I'll find out the result when the clock-radio inflicts the Today programme on me in the morning. And hear wall-to-wall comments about what it all means, too, no doubt. Sigh.

At least the news has been obliged to tell us news instead of politics, today. Small mercies, and all that.

Yes, you can grin and whistle at the same time

2010-04-29T15:29:00.004+01:00

Great excitement here at WordsBird's Nest. After a rest of nearly a year, my monthly acoustic music session is about to be revived - at the pub where I'd always wanted it to return!

Easton Unplugged began life as 'Collyweston Unplugged' at a different pub in a different village, on a different night of the month. It was born less out of any wish to start yet another session in the area, than out of desperation to find a way to bring customers into a failing village pub that I felt was worth saving. If I could have talked anyone else into fronting it I would - I was pretty new on the local folk club scene and was not at all confident that I could pull this off.

Despite having one very busy night a month (ours!) that pub closed and the new management had fancy ideas about folk music not being upmarket enough. So we upped sticks and moved to the Blue Bell, Easton on the Hill - where Marilyn and Steve made us hugely welcome and we were very happy. And then they decided to do something else for a living, and the pub shut down till the brewery found new managers.

At our farewell session, someone handed me a very witty card saying: 'Fiona Cowan - closing a pub near you soon!' I took the hint and declared Easton Unplugged defunct.

And then Sonja at the other Easton pub rang to ask if we'd like to move there. I'm rubbish at saying no...

A few very happy years later, Graham and Sonja decided they were going to retire. I sounded out Alex at the Blue Bell ... but his restaurant was full every night and they simply had no room for us. I tried the original pub in Collyweston, but that didn't work out either. I accepted this was not meant to be, and gave up.

A month or two ago,, Alex approached me. He's got long term plans for expanding the premises - and in the meantime, the restaurant is shut on Sunday nights. Did I fancy starting a session up?

How that poor man is going to cook all those fabulous Italian meals now that I've bitten both his hands off, I have no idea. Because last night, under my new 'take more exercise' plan, I cycled into his pub and got out my diary. Five minutes later we'd both booked Sunday 6 June and had huge grins on our faces.

I'll let you know how it goes!

* wanders off, whistling happily *

Come back Lord Sutch, your country needs you

2010-04-26T19:34:00.006+01:00

I saw the list of candidates today:

Current Labour MP, currently famous for some of his expense claims but a pleasant chap.
Conservative young woman, might be all right.
Lib Dem, probably someone I'd like if I met in the pub.
BNP, a party upon whom I would not pass water, were it on fire.

Why am I struggling to know how to vote? Well, I take a keen interest in current affairs and this is my summary of our choices in this General election:

1. Labour thinks the way out of our national credit card debt is to keep raising our national credit limit. It squanders millions on the administration of means-testing those poor enough to consider applying for benefits. It gives teachers 10% of their time back from teaching, only to fill it up again with extra paperwork accounting for increasing amounts of pointless detail. They cleverly built new schools and hospitals, after the Tories starved them of investment, by putting the local authorities in hock with investment companies who, I suspect, will be much less generous when those buildings start to leak and wobble in later years.

2. The Tories' idea of living within our means is to cut public spending. That includes luxuries such as local schools, nurses, home care assistants and the people who sweep up the junk food containers from our pot-holed streets. They can't imagine why some people can't look after themselves without support, and don't see why society should provide it. And they were the ones who thought poor people should be helped to buy their own council houses - but wouldn't let the councils build any more for the (ooh, surprise, how did that happen?) other poor people who came along later.

3. The Lib Dems have grasped the bit about the economy. But they want us to get even cosier with those nice bureaucrats in Brussels - you know, from those European countries who don't, like us, slavishly obey the EU rules and do support their own industries in competition with ours. They'd change how we vote, so urban densely-populated areas would have more say than sparsely populated rural ones. Exactly how is that fair? And we'd have to opt-out of the organ donation scheme... rather than opt-in as we do now. The NHS can't cope with the workload it's already got, so how they're going to cram in all those extra transplants is a mystery. Although I suspect it might speed up our elderly relatives' demise if they still have any re-usable body parts still functioning.

4. The BNP want 'us British' (you English are all more than half German, by the way, and we Scots are more than half Irish) to pull up the drawbridge to stop Johnny Foreigner living the life of Reilly on our miserly benefits. Would they have let St George join the party, given he was from the Middle East and presumably somewhat swarthy of hue? Perhaps only if dragon slaying were considered a 'vital skill', eh? If our country starts discriminating against certain types of foreigner now, what other exclusion criteria will we come up with the next time we think there's too many people? ...red hair? ...women? ...the old? ...those who don't make enough money? ...people who didn't vote BNP?

I passionately believe in my duty to vote. Women allowed themselves to be ridiculed, arrested, force-fed, tortured and murdered so that I'd have this choice to make.

It's a bloody insult to their memory that the best my constituency can come up with is 1, 2, 3 and 4.

That warm inner glow... and a camellia

2010-04-19T14:18:00.004+01:00

I may not be rich - but when you're a musician with a sociable nature, fun and work start to blend together. Giving and receiving become the same thing. Life becomes rounder somehow; everything you do affects everything else and you just feel better.

On Saturday afternoon I got back from a few days doing family stuff: shinning up ladders to clear clematis off a trellis, taking junk to the dump, looking round sheltered accommodation. You can't really call that stuff fun but the weather was kind and all the fresh air and walking did me good.

On Sunday, when I would rather have indulged in a lie-in, the Archers, breakfast in bed ... I got up early, showered, organised instruments and music, band signage and maps, and set off for a village in Deepest Leicestershire. Fete Accompli was providing free music for a charity fundraiser, and it was up to me to coordinate things.

The sun was blazing down out of a cloudless and vapour-trail-less sky as I arrived. The grounds around the small village hall were busy with optimistic-looking people setting up stalls. The harassed looking lady who was my only contact there politely pointed me to a gazebo round the back of the hall, then turned back to deal with the latest crisis.

A local singer-songwriter's band alternated with Fete Accompli to provide half-hour sets of music. The 'audience' was mainly stallholders ... and the man flipping plump burgers on a barbcue set cruelly close to our playing area. One by one the other players arrived, and we eventually were ready to start making a noise. No fanfare, no announcement, no spotlight ... I just nodded to Tracy and her trio started doing their thing.

Half an hour later, Pip and John and I took over. And this pattern filled up the whole afternoon. Occasionally a tired grandparent would persuade an energetic toddler to consent to sit down in front of us while we performed for them. More often, I'd spot the lady on the bottle stall mouthing the words to 'Hi Ho Silver Lining' or 'Wild Rover' and realise we were actually making a difference.

We were plied with free tea and as much cake as we could eat. We bought raffle tickets and sneaked over to the pub next door for a cold beer. We met up with old friends, and chatted with new ones, between singing some of our favourite songs. It was like being at a fair and being allowed to play music as well!

It was only as we were leaving, when I said goodbye to Lenna the organiser, that I got any real feedback about how we'd done. "You were brilliant - I loved the music! Is there any chance at all you might agree to come back next year?"

Driving home with a camellia plant I'd won in the raffle, I reflected that life as a musician can be very good indeed. Even if you don't get as many lie-ins as you might like.

I'm back and I'm dishing the dirt!

2010-04-07T23:00:00.000+01:00

My internet provider suddenly stopped providing. It was as if a tap was turned off somewhere. So, I tried the helplines.

Provider: What router do you have?
Me: It's called D-link.
Provider: So it's not one of ours then?
Me: No, it was sent by the computer supplier, when I bought your broadband as a package with their laptop.
Provider: You need to talk to your computer supplier.

Computer supplier: Who is your internet provider?
Me: It's [name with-held to spare their blushes]. But you supplied the router.
Computer supplier: You need to talk to your internet provider.

Guess what I did next!

I researched other providers, including one who offers great accessible customer service via Twitter. I asked friends in my village about their experiences, and thought about when I installed broadband at my Mum's house up in darkest Scotlandshire.

And then I negotiated a great deal for an 18 month contract, with a far more uptodate router and better speeds, for £5 per month less than I've been paying for the last 4 years.

What did my original provider do wrong? Apart, of course, from turning off the interweb pipeline. That wasn't awfully clever, obviously.

Well, it provided a package for my preferred computer supplier and then did zero followup.

It established no relationship with me, other than taking money off my credit card every month. It didn't ask itself (or me) whether the service I was getting was the best to suit my needs. It didn't give me an easy way to get in touch. It didn't offer to upgrade my ageing router, which I now suspect just gave up the ghost out of sheer antiquity. Nor did it revisit my tariff and either suggest a better one or give me reasons to stay.

Provided my new supplier delivers what I asked, what it promises, I will be happy. I have been promised that before the discount ends it will contact me and discuss what's the right deal for my needs at that time.

This is the same company of which I used to complain that they are a communications company that hides from its customers behind the communications technology... the worst communicators I have ever met!

I'll let you know how it goes from here.

"I'm not a guitar player"

2010-03-22T10:16:00.003Z

It doesn't matter how often I assert this. I'm forever proving how incompetent I am on the guitar. It seems however that most people (including musicians) value even my guitar playing for its 'other qualities'.

At gigs I turn up early (because the Sound Man's my other half), unload connect and help test kit. I help keep some of the band members from squabbling during set-up, and do any additional liaising with event organisers if we need to ask anything about the venue. My guitar-tuner gets handed around the lineup as it seems to handle more than just guitars.

Once the playing starts I act as communication go-between between Our Leader, Pete (who sits next to me on stage) and the Sound Man (who forgets to watch Pete but should at least be admiring me!). It can be fun watching me pull faces, trying to get Sound Man's attention whilst both my hands are occupied playing guitar craply...

Between gigs, I have started creating laminated name-boards to display at gigs, so that audience members remember our name and contact us later. My listings website promotes our gigs, plus everyone else's, as well as Pete's listings website which includes things such as morris dancing and a guide to organising a successful barn dance.

None of these things makes my guitar playing any less crap.

This weekend I spent two lovely afternoons sitting in a marquee acting as rhythm section for a tunes-playing quartet at a woodfuel fair. Most of the time I was either improvising chords to unfamiliar but understandable folk tunes, or slavishly following the correct chords in a book and desperately trying to change my hand-shape quickly enough for the fast-gallop that the lead player (Woody) always sets.

Especially on the second day, I was better organised but tired and slower-witted. I winced at every chord shape I botched or chord change that I missed altogether. I gave up even trying to double-strum, and instead did the best I could to emphasise instead the off-beats and stop-start fun parts of tunes I knew to make up for the pedestrian tumty-tumty that was all my exhausted right arm was capable of mustering.

Audiences didn't care. My fellow players smiled quietly and then praised what I managed to get right. The organisers were thrilled and there is ugly talk of repeat bookings. Pete made suggestions about flyers and posters for "next time". Woody, who leads an excellent and very popular ceilidh band, commented how nice it is to play with just one guitar and no amplification.

...but I'm a singer. Not a guitar player except in emergencies. Why is nobody paying attention?

Being helpful ... being a mug ... being helpful ...

2010-03-05T17:25:00.004Z

Ever since that first traumatic moment when I realised I'd agreed to run a folk club but had no idea whether anyone would turn up ... I've run a live music listings website where people can find out what's on in their area. Mine covers the whole of the East Midlands now, mainly because I'm rubbish at saying no when someone asks me to add their event.

At my own folk club - and sometimes at other people's - I would put a printout of the next couple of weeks' local sessions on each table in the pub, to remind people what's on. This was well received, and there were always complaints if for any reason I didn't do this.

After a while I added an extra page, giving links to other similar websites around the UK. Some of these, such as Peterborough Folk Diary, overlap with mine - but who cares? We're not in competition with each other so it doesn't matter a bit.

Recently I started compiling a page of venues, listed A-Z by village or town, for those who know they like to go to the session at, say, Oakham - but can't be bothered scrolling through the whole listings to find out where and when it's on. This is still a work in progress, and I haven't decided yet whether it's useful enough to be worth the faff.

And then I thought: why not a page of Bands? I'm in several myself, so are several of my friends. For some reason I get 3 or 4 calls a year from people wanting to book the Rusty Relics; actually, I know why. If you google 'charity ceilidh' the 2nd item is an event I helped organise for a friend suffering from cancer - and the poster was really good!

I put together a list of the bands I'm in, other stuff I know Pete the ceilidh band leader does, and some trad jazz chums, and sent the layout round Pete and a couple of other people for comments.

Two out of the three expressed gratitude and were completely encouraging. GO FOR IT! Pete had another point of view: what if people go to my Bands page, and keep booking bands I'm not in for gigs I could have done?

First instinct: I'm not doing this for the personal glory or to advertise for gigs. Like the listings, it's a service I provide because I believe passionately that pubs are useless at advertising the live music they host - and if someone doesn't help then live music in this country will fizzle out.

Then I slept on it. And my second instinct is: Pete's right. I've imposed this job on myself for one set of reasons (helping live music to thrive) and am 'improving' it out of sheer professional habit.

A much more practical solution would be to list the bands I'm in, plus one or two involving friends which are totally different ... and add a line offering to suggest other bands (from my cleverly-compiled Master List, kept securely tucked into my bra) if none of these seems suitable.

This still allows me to indulge my crazy urge to ask lots of other bands to send me their details if they'd like me to suggest them to casual enquirers ... but doesn't require me to list them all in A-Z order on the website.

My question to you is . . . . . am I being a big old meanie? Because for once I really don't know!

Tumty tumty tumty tum...

2010-02-28T18:31:00.004Z

So there I was, in a shapeless old jumper and gardening trousers, on all fours, sweeping cobwebs and brickdust out of the cupboard under the stairs and hoping to find a secret stash of plastic food containers. It's Sunday, so Poirot was detecting on the telly, my other half was napping on the sofa, and I had the usual vats of cook-ahead meals bubbling gently on the stove.

The phone rang.

No chance of Other Half actually answering it. We have 2 landlines, and even if his does ring at weekends he won't answer it because that would be a work call. Sigh.

I reversed inelegantly out of the glory hole and grunted as I hauled myself to my feet. Wilfred Pickles the foster-kitten lurking on the stairs took one look at my pained features and refrained for once from shredding my knuckles as they clutched the bannister from below. The caller ID number wasn't familiar, as Other Half helpfully handed the phone across.

'Hello?' I said, picking something inorganic but unpleasant out of my hair. And then smiled beatifically, as my favourite Archers scriptwriter introduced himself with an apology for disturbing me. 'Not at all!' I beamed, suddenly the very picture of sophisticated rural living (inside my own head at least). He doesn't know I don't have an Aga or a cleaning lady and that I'm chronically short of plastic food containers...

KD had been asked by the BBC to rewrite a tiny bit of his latest batch of scripts, to make a mention of something David Archer would be asking Jennifer Aldridge to put on the Ambridge website more specific ... had I any ideas? Five minutes later, I'd given KD a plausible suggestion that apparently fitted perfectly into what he'd already written, and I was back up to my hips in cobwebs and paint tins.

Leaving a somewhat mystefied Other Half on the sofa ... I like to maintain an enigmatic air by not always telling him what I'm doing ... I then crawled back into the cupboard under the stairs. (The enigma lasted less than half a minute. I am devoid of willpower.)

No money in it for me of course ... fear not, your licence fee will not be contributing to my expensive G&T habit ... but I like to think there's now one Archers scriptwriter whose weekend has been rescued from a nasty rewrite because one day he asked Twitter for help with a parish council scene and @Fiona_WordsBird replied. We've been having these little chats roughly every month since.

Oh, and the soup I made today should last till Friday, so do drop round any lunchtime this week.

Bring gin...

Trying not to land myself 'in it'

2010-02-25T17:02:00.007Z

Today I have struggled to blog elsewhere about something we all face at different times ... what it can be like when the people we're having a meeting with seem wilfully determined not to see our point, because they might have to actually DO something.

That blog is a pilot for what I hope will become the online voice of our parish council. Currently, access is restricted to the serving members, and the Monitoring Officer at the district council part of whose job is to ensure we don't stray from the Code of Conduct or transgress any other laws.

The struggle was because if it had been a 'live' blog, I would not be able to identify which individuals said what at the meeting (because till my report is minuted and the minutes approved, it's not in the public domain). Also it would be wrong to identify what today's meeting was about, because it's a very sensitive subject and must be recorded and handled very carefully.

The meeting was with a planning officer, a planning enforcement officer, a district councillor, and two neighbours. I'd been asking for this meeting, as a matter of urgency, since late last year.

We all stood in the same place, on the same street, looking at the same property. I think we were all in the same time-space dimension, although hindsight suggests we maybe weren't.

The three locals among us saw a preventable problem, which hadn't been prevented despite the parish council's consistent and timely objections, but which should be relatively simple to put right now.

Two of the other three present, apparently standing right next to us, saw a problem that was 'no worse than other places' and 'expensive to do anything about now'. One of them kept trying to re-define the problem in terms that were factually inaccurate, as if by endlessly churning out wrong descriptions we would get tired of correcting him and allow the 'mistake' to become the justification for doing nothing to put matters right.

In the end, two minor concessions were agreed. I seriously doubt whether either of them will actually take place because I can immediately foresee how those who would be expected to foot the bill can get around doing anything.

[...shrugs shoulders, looks sorrowful, mutters: 'Times is tight... ask me again next financial year...']

We three locals had taken an hour off work this afternoon to be there. The two officers were being paid to be there; it's part of their job. And the councillor, who was being helpful by stepping outside of the patch he's been elected to represent, presumably would be claiming his mileage allowance.

Were we locals foolish to put ourselves out like this? Was I naive to imagine it would make the slightest difference in the long run? Could it be argued that those three men travelling to our little village at the far northern boundary of the district were in effect wasting council taxpayers' money doing so?

No!

Today is an example of exactly why people should have a go at being a parish councillor, and why people who see unfairness being practised upon a community (as they see it) just to line someone else's pockets should stand up and demand to be heard.

If we don't hold these people to account ... if we let those with already-deep pockets fill them even more at our expense ... if we don't make officials taking decisions affecting where we live come and see the consequences of their actions when our local perspective has been ignored ... then we shouldn't grumble when our world goes to hell in a handcart.

So, now that my blood pressure has dropped back to what passes for normal around here, I shall quickly email the officers and the councillor, and the neighbours, summing up what we discussed and my understanding of what was agreed.

If anyone later tries to twist or ignore the outcomes of today's meeting, I will produce that email (and every one of the read-receipts which I will file just as carefully) as evidence that they did read it, and did not take the opportunity to disagree.

Being thorough may leave me open to accusations of being anally-retentive or obsessive-compulsive... but it doesn't half save headaches and dents in brick walls, I find.

But it raises a question I am going to address another day: how do you write an authentic, interesting, relevant local blog without libelling people who can be identified from your words?

Answers on a postcard, please. Or a comment on this blog, if you prefer!

Plugging another blog

2010-02-20T17:22:00.005Z

Quick posting this time ...

What I like best about networking online is the variety of people you meet - and how much more you get to learn about some of them very quickly, compared with meeting in 'real life'.

I'd like to share with you a blog called Bullied by the Boss. 'Eva' (not her real name) pays the bills by working as a legal secretary. Her boss is in an unhappy marriage, and he makes himself feel better by relentlessly bullying Eva in the office. Like many of us, Eva can't afford to leave without another job to go to - and by the way there's a recession on.

If you've ever wondered how it feels to be a victim, how angry and frustrated and violent and impotent and scared that feels, read Eva's blog. Please.

She's kept her sense of humour (just!) and is not self pitying at all. But by golly that woman is up against it with this sad excuse for a colleague. Meanwhile, her other colleagues just smile, make excuses, and are glad it's not happening to them.

Ask yourself: is anyone in my workplace behaving like this?

Business meeting with a difference

2010-02-18T13:52:00.004Z

Today I had a business meeting with my erstwhile associate, Jo Parfitt. It took an hour, started and ended with a hug, and we each went home the richer for it.

When Jo and I started working together (on the 2nd edition of her book A Career In Your Suitcase) she lived in my village, just along the road. We were both working from home but she was lonely; a colleague she could see was just what she needed.

Working by email and phone, we still liked having meetings. Gradually a new routine evolved: we would go for a long power-walk around the village or in the grounds of Burghley House. Or she would drive us to the country club where her family had health spa membership and we'd have a swim, hot tub and sauna - talking business all the while.

I discovered that I talk best in the hot tub, think best in the sauna, and have my best ideas while unable to speak for huffing and puffing in the pool. Jo and I got fitter, and so did our businesses.

Then the Parfitts moved to the Netherlands and all that stopped. My 'soft' waistline is testament to how much I miss our meetings, and I know my business has suffered from missing our talks. So, when Jo was over for a visit and suggested a walk, I jumped (well, my heart did) at the chance!

In thick fog, we set off through the nature reserve next to which Jo used to live. It took from the car park to the first drystone wall to get through the family-members catchup chat. The recession has had an effect, our families are going through huge changes, but thanks to optimism underpinned by a strong practical streak we are both surviving.

"I just wish I knew what I'm going to charge for my new bookwriting package," she wailed. So many of our meetings had begun this way, I had to laugh. It's like she's never been away.

By the time we'd crossed the nature reserve and the cricket field, plodded down the muddy lane (greeting a daft puppy on the way), picked our way through the neighbouring village and back along the road to the car park, we'd thrashed out a pricing policy for the package, hashed out the marketing strategy and were well on the way to solving World Peace.

The ten-minute car ride back to where Jo is staying covered what my business is doing, and all sorts of exciting writing and editing projects she would love to judge in my direction.

I was back at my desk in time for lunch, with not a jot of guilt for the time spent out in the fresh air. And now I'm sitting here with a few new items on my To Do list and the warm knowledge that another source of work and contacts has been renewed.

Doing business should be more like this!

Music - who needs a brain gym!

2010-02-16T11:36:00.004Z

Last week I agreed to contribute my guitar playing to a scratch foursome providing live acoustic music for two days at an outdoor event near where I live, celebrating wood as a craft and as a fuel. There would be pay, and I would be in excellent musical company.

Then Pete, who'd got us the gig, sent me 24 pages of tunes that the other two players (whom I know but haven't played with before) would expect us to be able to play. The notation we use for guitar chords doesn't take up a lot of room: those 24 pages account for around 300 tunes!

After the smelling salts had been applied, and my printer had cooled down enough for me to slot the pages into my suddenly very fat ceilidh music file, I noticed an email from Pete. 'Why not come along to my traditional tunes session on Monday? You can get your ear in...'

My nerves suddenly got a lot worse. I think of myself as a singer, not a guitar player. I quite enjoy playing chords by ear while others are carrying the tune ... but surely this would be like an audition!

I arrived at the unfamiliar pub at the same time as an established ceilidh band member who was a regular at my own folk nights ... and spotted another, who had criticised our last band performance as visually boring, as soon as I got inside. No chance of blending quietly into the background then. Rats!

A few easy tunes got me into my stride, and my self consciousness faded somewhat. As a 'backing' instrument, I was not asked to suggest any of the tunes - the fiddlers and melodeon players took care of that. Once or twice, when it was clear I had no idea about a tune, Pete or Woody would lean across and whisper: 'G and A-minor!' or some other equally helpful hint.

I did leave before the finish, only because my brain felt like a wrung-out dishrag and I knew I still had a long drive home. But I think I'm still in the lineup, and with a few more practice sessions with Pete should be able to stumble through four hours' acoustic playing without my ears bleeding or my strumming-arm dropping off.

My now-supercharged brain has rewarded me, this morning by squirting out two blog postings without any effort at all.

Tonight, I will drive to a friend's house and start reviving our folk-punk band Lying Scotsman. We will be playing at a festival, as a duo, in August, so we need to get cracking.

Tomorrow, I will drive to another friend's house and revive our comedy duo the Jam Tarts, so beloved of the sheltered housing circuit in the East Midlands, as we have a Blind Club gig to rehearse for.

On Thursday, yet another friend's house will resound to the dulcet tones of Hannibal's Heroes, as we practise for our next ceilidh - which is on the same weekend as the woodburning gig.

Don't look for me on Friday. I will be under the duvet, nursing my bleeding guitar fingers...

Karaoke hell - and why I ran away

2010-02-09T16:02:00.005Z

Last weekend I met up with some friends in a hotel in Bournemouth.

We know each other from the PM blog on the BBC website, particularly a hedonistic thread called The Beach. Two or three times a year some of us meet up in real life, and when it's at Bournemouth our host Jonnie links us up with CCTV and his camstreams chatroom - so those who can't make it to the real party can still join in.

One day, remind me to tell you about this bunch of friends. Most of them have teenage children who heartily disapprove of their otherwise sane parents travelling to meet strangers off the internet...!

While bass player John and I were taking a well earned break from entertaining the troops, Jonnie suggested a karaoke interlude using some fancy kit involving 2 mics (one for lead vocals, one for backing) and a system that tells each singer how well they are doing.

I've learned to be a bit less sniffy about karaoke in the last year or two. It can be excellent singing and performing practice.

Not, however, Bohemian Rhapsody in the hands of a tone-deaf IT geek from the West Midlands. It was so grim, I had to vacate the room muttering something about shooting myself. Alas, the sound travelled - and anywhere it didn't reach had a computer in it, tuned to chatroom where the same thing was playing on a 30-second delay!

What strikes me about it now is that there were two people in the room itself, and another two listening via the internet chatroom link, who were in danger of suffocating through laughing too much to breathe. If you listen to the recording, you can hear one of them cackling uncontrollably.

Clearly we did not share the same experience. Were we even witnessing the same event? I'd love to know what you think!

You did ask...

2010-02-02T11:02:00.004Z

Recently the ceilidh band played a charity fundraiser, attended among others by musicians and technicians connected with less classically-heavy ceilidh bands. Our Esteemed Leader asked them for comments.

'To see ourselves as others see us' is hard.

1. We are boring to watch
I agree, we must be! Four of the five players are bound to be scowling while we carefully follow our music. All five sit down the whole time. It's impossible for the flute player to smile while playing. One of our number has the modern (get me, the old woman!) habit of texting during those fallow times when the caller is explaining to dancers which is their left foot.

2. Other bands stand up and jig about more
Try doing that while attached to a music stand! It's bad enough you can't see us past those stands, if we are on any kind of raised stage. In any case, classical players have no idea how to 'stand up and jig about' while playing ... they can no more do that than you or I can do aerobics while checking our emails.

3. The word 'dirge-ish' was used of our overall sound
Again, I wonder if this is inevitable given that 3/5 of us are classical players. I guess that's something I, as the nearest thing we have to a rhythm section, will have most effect on.

I'm working on some ideas about all this - which is basically visual presentation more than anything. We have a rehearsal planned tonight, and no doubt opinions will be expressed... I know some egos have been badly bruised, which makes me wonder if our Esteemed Leader didn't drop a brick when he circulated the unedited comments to all of us!

But here, before I get shouted down by m'colleagues, are my immediate suggestions:

* the fiddler and I could stand up sometimes - a bit less boring to look at

* when we play tunes between dances, we could swap instruments around and play in a more relaxed manner perhaps

* fewer players at a time playing each 'in-betweenie' should mean less reliance on the sheet music to hit the 'corporate version' of a tune, allowing more physical expression during ad-lib sections. (If one of us goes wrong, it all goes pear-shaped!)

* while the caller is describing moves the dancers are struggling with, 2 of the players could demonstrate from the stage

* we could bring props to play with, while the caller is explaining ... watching us quietly muck about would be less boring for anyone not struggling to learn the dance

Don't get me wrong - we did get compliments too! And it has been noticed that we are trying to do something different with ceilidh music, by playing it on classical instruments.

But you know what it's like with criticism: you only remember the bad reviews.

And we did ask...

The two-headed blogger

2010-01-27T17:19:00.002Z

I know I'm going to regret this...

While still struggling to make this blog as amusing and interesting as possible, I have stupidly suggested that my authorise me to pilot a blog for them, too.

What a dummy!

Its objective is to raise local awareness of the work the parish council does, dispel a few myths, and encourage more villagers to have a go themselves. We've got a vacancy at present, which has motivated us to try something new.

But what a minefield ... I can't give away any information that's not yet in the public domain. I can't be too specific about local issues lest it become 'gossip'. And in the interests of the privacy of the other members, how much should I even give away about our location?

I'm being very cautious to start with. Only the other members, and the clerk, know where I've hidden it. Even you, dear blog visitor, can't be initiated into the mysteries just yet! However, I can give you one little taster: the subject is a meeting I attended today, and I have included a picture that relates to it.

How brave does that make me?

* hides behind sofa *

I can't wait to be older

2010-01-26T16:18:00.003Z

Getting away from music as a theme for once, a few days ago I enjoyed my quarterly treat: a meeting of the East Midlands regional group of CPRE (Campaign to Protect Rural England). And yes, I did say I regard this meeting a treat!

On the face of it, you might not regard a whole day spent with a bunch of people who tend to be a bit older than you ... a bit deafer than you ... a bit less au fait with Twitter and blogs than you ... and an agenda that includes more reports than you can shake a stick at, plus a guest speaker who's an environmental campaigner as something to look forward to.

I can't get enough of it!

There's something about that gathering of experienced minds that makes me feel very lucky. Each one has family, health and money worries just like the rest of us. Yet they manage to think beyond themselves, beyond their immediate 'patch' of English countryside which they are sworn to protect, beyond even the sad fact that such things need protecting at all.

These people are old enough, and canny enough, to have seen much of it all before.

They remember when that new Minister was a local MP and what campaigns he or she turned out for. They can trace an individual's career path to date as easily as they can rattle off their grandchildren's family trees.

Being volunteers, they are fuelled by passion for the campaign. Many of them being retired, they can choose what subjects to spend time getting their heads round - such as understanding all those stupid government acronyms that even the Ministers themselves often find baffling, or spotting the fatal flaws in the latest consultation document.

These are the people we should be listening to, not just the younger shiny so-called 'sharper' talking heads we see on TV every day.

Compliment or cliché?

2010-01-15T18:06:00.003Z

I have been asked to participate in some charity music-making ... on Burns Night.

Now, despite being a Scot I can never even remember when Burns Night is, could not recite his poetry if my life depended on it, and cheerfully enjoy haggis all year round (has to be free range though).

And as usual, this being a charity gig, I will not be paid for my endeavours - although I may well be fed some haggis neeps and tatties (yum!).

It's a funny thing about us folkies, though ... we nearly always say YES to this sort of deal. Here's my tip for the week: If your event is for a good cause and there's no money to pay the players, rustle up some folk musicians. They'll show up, do a first rate job, call the raffle for you, and probably help sweep the floor and put the chairs away afterwards.

Luckily, I already know that the jazz/blues player who asked me to stand in for another player who can't do the gig, holds my playing and especially my singing in ridiculously high regard.

It's just slightly unfortunate that his opening gambit was: "So I thought to myself, there's Fi of course... she's Scottish."

Snow business like show business

2010-01-11T17:11:00.003Z

Best gig in the world! A very nice lady called Marj was throwing her own [ahem!]th birthday party. She'd forked out £300 for our ceilidh band, booked caterers, hired a lovely village hall, and invited family, friends and groups she works with. In any other circumstances I'd have stayed sensibly at home ... but when someone has booked you to play, it is only they who have authority to cancel the gig.

The call never came. Uncertainly, my other 'arf and I drove on tip-toe through the dark, out into the wilds through falling white stuff, hoping it wouldn't freeze before it was time to come home again. Whenever that might be.

One of the invited groups consisted of half a dozen people with special needs. Marj explained to us while we set up the sound equipment that she wished to play a CD during the evening so that this group could do some line dancing. So we were prepared.

When Marj invited everyone to join in the dance, the flute player (who can't dance for toffee) and I (who feel towards line dancing as I do towards karaoke ... yuck!) decided we might as well join in the fun. After all, our playing wasn't needed.

While cooler musicians took the opportunity for a fag break, L and I strutted our uncertain stuff in a line of normally physically unconfident indiiduals who were suddenly the most-rehearsed people in the room. They, who often have to observe life from the sidelines, were on equal terms in the thick of it showing the rest of us a clean pair of heels, elbows and hips!

Later in the evening, a young man who had clung to his carer all night, stood up and tottered with great care up to where we were playing. His body was twisted round like a corkscrew, his face a picture of concentration as he made his way unaided, under the watchful gaze of his carer. This lad stood, wobbling a bit and swaying, while we played a whole dance - I think it was a Strip the Willow.

Afterwards my other 'arf (working hard on his first solo night as our Sound Man) told me he's sure the lad was dancing to our music.

Isn't that worth risking a night in a snowy ditch for? Don't you wish you'd been there, now?

In the hands of others

2010-01-09T13:26:00.002Z

For weeks I have followed the 'Only If Your Journey Is Really Necessary' advice. I've crept out of my cosy burrow only for essentials, and despised those on TV news footage slithering around in their vehicles on presumably trivial errands. They couldn't all be taking women to labour wards or delivering meals on wheels to the frail elderly, surely?

But now I find myself falling foul of that other category of Essential Journey: the band!

On Tuesday we cancelled a rehearsal because of the weather. The viola player's house is up a hill in a remote village and it was too risky, we all agreed.

Tonight's gig is up another hill, in a village hall in another remote village. The weather is if anything worse (snow actually falling as I type). But unless the organisers cancel the event, every member of the band is morally bound to get there or die in the heroic attempt.

So, self-empowered freelance at-home worker that I am, for once my no-brain decision whether to venture out to a hop in the deepening snow dunes, and face a dangerous journey home across snow and black ice in the dark when exhausted from a night's playing and putting away of PA kit ... lies in the hands of someone else.

At lunchtime, with the sun suddenly shining between blizzards, my other half wallowing in a lovely hot bath and myself about to disappear into steamy clouds of lavender scented shower water, it all seems rather exciting.

Will I be so sanguine later, when I'm trudging out to the car with the instruments and leads, and pondering a route devoid of the usual backroad shortcuts...?

Whatever happened to true grit?

2010-01-07T16:48:00.005Z

Once upon a time, people knew how to drive on snow. They knew when not to. (This was before they lost the use of their legs and before all warm clothing was confiscated by the government, remember.)

They cleared the snow in front of their houses and shop fronts, and in front of their neighbours if anyone was a bit poorly or elderly. By the way, for legal advice on why you can clear the snow from in front of your house, listen to the first 10 minutes of the Jan 11th YOU & YOURS on BBC Radio 4!

The few people who had 4x4 vehicles actually knew how to employ four wheel drive in difficult conditions. Those in ordinary cars had heard of the 'start off in the highest possible gear' rule and knew about carrying things like a shovel, warm clothing and a flask of something hot in the car just in case.

It was a time before mobile phones. People would tell someone where they were going and when to be expected. They would not undertake ridiculously ambitious journeys in stupidly bad weather on the assumption that all the roads would be miraculously ploughed and gritted ahead of them, as if local authorities were Moses-like in their ability to clear a path wherever the fancy takes any driver at a given moment.

Ah. Time for my medication again. Thank you so much...

Busking in snowy conditions

2009-12-22T19:54:00.002Z

Yesterday my Kiwi pal Curly and I were booked by Fenland Arts to busk at the Christmas market in Wisbech. Having left good and early, we fetched up just the right side of being late, thanks to the snowy conditions and parking difficulties. We quickly set up the be-tinselled music stand and tied on our glitzy cowboy hats.

Curly had cunningly picked out a spot with a handy bench for setting our stuff on out of the snow, and surrounded by hot food stalls which could be relied on to have queues of people waiting.

We had prepared a mix of upbeat folk and festive songs, in the expectation that there would be no PA (there was none). What I hadn't done was double-check that I'd put in my capo and plectrums for the guitar (I hadn't). So, I improvised my strumming with a 1p piece (only twatting one string's wire coating in the process) and we made do with singing in the keys I could play in.

This meant there was a bit more 'harmonising' going on than we had planned, since either Curly's deep voice wouldn't reach the high notes, or my slightly girlier voice was coming out growly in places.

A handsome policeman came over for a chat. Afterwards, Curly said: "I thought he was coming to challenge us about our right to busk in the street!" I replied: "That's exactly what he was doing, but in a lovely friendly way."

A lady who might have been already tipsy (it was midday) requested the Fairytale of New York ... not in our planned repertoire but we gave it a go. In return, she gave us a donation - result!

Several people took our photo, and my frostbitten guitar-fingers lasted until just after the end of our one-hour allotted slot. As we were packing up to leave, several stallholders and shoppers stopped by to thank us personally for our 'lovely music'. I felt as if we'd done a kind of festive public service - and at some point we'll even share a modest payment for doing so. Hey, just for once, folkies aren't out of pocket after playing a gig!

Happy humbug everyone. See you all in the New Year!

Third world villages

2009-12-20T14:39:00.003Z

Some of us have been blessed with snow in the slither-up to the festive season. So, how come instead of tempting us all to run outside and play, it's turned us all into stay-at-home humbugs?

I have seen streets near me, where householders have cleared the snow to allow their own cars out - whilst piling up the snow in front of their neighbours' gates. Walking on pavements is impossible. Walking on the roads is always a risky option.

We all seem to expect 'them' to do everything for us - and then grumble when we have to pay 'them' to do it. The result is that our streets look as if nobody cares about them, and our communities feel as if nobody cares about anybody.

One likely reason for this is that people have become afraid to clear the snow from the pavement in front of their own home. What if someone slips - wouldn't they sue?

Well, actually, no they won't. Only if you can be proved to have deliberately made the public footway more dangerous, might there be a case. And in clearing the snow safely off the footpath, and throwing down some salt to keep it from re-freezing, you've done the opposite.

As I write this, the snow has started falling again. As a result, I'm not sure whether I dare trudge through the un-cleared snow for the half mile to our village church for the lovely candlelight carol service tonight, in the dark.

Happy humbug, everybody!

@Fiona_WordsBird
Lying Scotsman on Facebook

Cold-calling (aka carol singing!)

2009-12-18T16:33:00.002Z

Last night, before the snow arrived, a bunch of us soppy traditionalists walked round the village singing carols. I love doing it, but by gum! it's good when it's over.

Someone had remembered to bring carol sheets. In practice, this meant nobody would embark on singing anything unless they were standing under a streetlamp and could see the words. Even though they probably know them all by now.

It was too cold to play guitar. The trombone, however, sounded great. The sound carried well and the touch of 'sally ann' was appreciated by listeners.

Singers had a lazy habit of not standing close enough together, so the sound was diluted. This was a problem when I was trying to add a harmony line to the singing, as without critical mass some of them were distracted and started singing my line!

The two 'runners' knocked on doors to collect donations - in our case, for the village church, although I'm not sure they made that clear. Many of our recently-built houses are occupied by young families, and the children (mostly ready for bed) were thrilled by the singing; a few of the parents looked utterly charmed and even a little teary, too. That, for me, was the real joy of it.

After an hour or so's music-with-menaces, we retreated to the pub. Many donations consisted of small change, collected throughout the year, so there was a grand collection of 2p pieces. The total however was more than £130 ... had we been collecting for our own benefit, that would have meant we could each have afforded 2 drinks afterwards!

Happy humbug, everyone.

Being an audience for a change

2009-12-15T15:27:00.003Z

I'm just back from a traditional nativity play, at the primary school in the next village. I knew only 2 children in it, but one of them has been promised guitar lessons next year so I was specially invited as his guest sitting next to Granny.

Let me say first, the play was great fun. Head teacher had adapted the story to bring it a little up to date, the songs were a mix of modern and oldfashioned, and the children were of course adorable and cute.

Afterwards, a Dad who knows of my musical doings asked why I wasn't involved in the production. But... why would I be? I have no children, I'm not a teacher either, and despite being a singer I am still able to sit passively and enjoy other people performing.

It's not compulsory for those who can perform to perform! It would be annoying if they always did, wouldn't it?

Mind you, I didn't say out loud that my inner critic couldn't resist making a few notes: the CD backing tracks were effective but a little bit of live music might have been even better. The 2 narrators were excellent but, even standing on a chair, they were too far from the stage to be seen properly. With the carefully numbered seats, one of the raffle prizes could been allocated for a ticket-number draw.

In fact, perhaps the puzzled Dad had a point. Drat!

Village life is a sitcom

2009-12-14T11:08:00.006Z

One thing about performing is that you have to concentrate. Any other worries must take a back seat, otherwise you'll be rubbish. So, yesterday (a Sunday) I took time off from worrying about friends in distress to fulfill two freebie music gigs.

At the first, a bunch of disparate amateur musicians took turns assailing the immaculate oil-painted ears of Holbein's famous akimbo Henry VIII portrait in the Picture Gallery of Belvoir Castle - and some hardy members of the public - with a mixture of folk music and festive songs. We do this every year, purely for the pleasure of being allowed to enter the castle without paying, via the back gate, and singing in such unusual and grand surroundings.

Some of us (not I!) were even in medieval fancy dress, which with Henry as backdrop lends a surreal touch to what is otherwise a pretty routine matter of making sure there are no gaps in the programme and that all the musicians have had a turn. The trick, from our point of view, is to be warmly dressed and wear extremely comfortable shoes. Castles are very draughty, and everywhere you want to get to is a loooong way from where you are.

In the evening, after a 45-minute turnaround at home in which I ate 3 sausages and re-packed my bag with percussion instruments for the revellers, I entered the pub for the next carol singing session. As soon as my guitar and I were over the threshold, we both felt welcome and valued, as people I didn't recognise (this being not my village!) expressed pleasure and even some relief that 'the turn' had got there.

One lady in her early 70s beckoned me over to her table. "Has anyone told you that Bertie died?" This being a little out of left-field, it took a moment to realise she meant an old friend who had left my village to be nearer his grown up family abroad, and who had been devastated by the death of his wife. "For the best," we both sagely agreed, smiling sadly.

Still reeling from this news, I fought my way to the bar. There I was embraced with unexpected warmth by the chairman of a nearby parish council, who cheerfully informed me that she would send me her village cemetery charges this week.

My mental gears shifted yet again, audibly grinding. One of the things they don't tell you about living in a small community is that, if you get involved with it, you will find yourself switching hats faster than the shopkeeper in Mister Benn. The only preparation for this is to watch lots of bad sitcoms, where no attempt is made to pad out the comedy with unnecessary plot or character development.

Urban life, I firmly believe, is a soap opera. Village life is a sitcom.

Avoidance can be productive

2009-12-11T17:51:00.003Z

Putting off yet again the pile of unpleasant admin I have promised myself I'll do before I even start on the Christmas cards... note the lack of festive bonhomie or even the word 'writing'... I spent today clearing my To Do list from last night's parish council meeting.

I've invited neighbouring parish councils to time their own Spring 2010 litterpick for the same weekends in April, so we can join forces and make it more fun; one harassed clerk has already emailed back saying she'll ask but "Don't hold your breath!"

The district council monitoring officer has already sent me an 'out of office' reply to my request for a meeting to discuss the issues surrounding setting up a blog for the parish council. Imagine the exasperated expression on her friendly face, when she switches on her computer on Monday and sees the latest crackpot scheme dreamt up by her favourite parish.

To save our seriously overworked clerk a job, I had agreed to draft a letter in support of CPRE's campaign against the inexorable march of electricity pylons across our lovely countryside. That proved surprisingly tough to write, considering CPRE helpfully provides all the info you need. Perhaps it's because we don't actually suffer from pylonitis here. Anyway, did that.

I wrote a paragraph for the Minutes of last night's meeting, which the Clerk couldn't clerk because of a conflict of interest. Then I went back through it and took out all the sarky comments that had somehow crept in. Hee hee.

And this all looks laudable, I'm sure. Clever Fiona, she really cracks on, that one! Except that my accounts are still not done, and the accountant's Christmas is going to be spoiled because he'll be doing my tax return between the turkey and the Queen's Speech.

Always a bright side, eh?

'The difficult first posting'

2009-12-11T14:42:00.001Z

It's that tumbleweed moment.

Never before has it seemed so important to get words right. This is my very first blog, an experiment before I dare try blogging on behalf of other folks. I know I will forever be judged by what is on this page. (Must be mature... insightful... funny... different...)

It's tempting to tell you how I'm feeling. My intentions. What this blog is about. Do you really want to know that, though? Or in the future, when this moment is just a toe-curling memory for me, will you even read this far? ...Hello??

My instinct is to shut up and go back to fiddling with how it looks. A good thought.

(Final read-through to check for mistakes, then... SAVE NOW.)