Martyn Hooper

Two Thousand Years of Civilisation and we end up with things 100 things that I really dislike:

1.  Wooden sticks to stir your tea with – whoever thought of that?  They don’t work – you have to stir and stir and stir – and then you can taste wood in your tea.

2.  Foreign Sausages that have meat in them.

3. Hotels, Restaurants and Cafes that provide packed portions of butter, sugar, marmalade, Marmite, salt, pepper and milk and then don’t give you anything to put the empty packaging.  The result, a pile of paper, plastic and wood on your ‘empty’ plate.

4.  People using small ponies to haul their wooden caravan up steep hills.

5.    Hotels that use old photographs on their website to lure you into reserving a room only to find that the said room is damp, badly needs re-modelling and smells of stale urine…….

6.  Frozen Chips

7.  Oven Chips

8.  Non Free Range Chicken ‘farms’.

9.  People who order food by asking if they ‘can get’ ……..

10.  People who, when asked if they would like some tea or coffee reply “I’m fine thanks”.  I wasn’t asking how they were…..

11. Sports ‘news’ – it jus isn’t news yet takes up about half of a news broadcast.

12.  Those little packets of paper handkerchiefs – simply not big enough.

13.  Those oversized packets that contain just one artificial sweetener.

14.  People who litter.

15.  Spammers.

To Be Continued……….

LANZAROTE, 2010.

It has begun.  It’s the beginning of two weeks in the sun that I will have to endure to ensure that my psoriasis disappears for another eighteen months.  This is package holiday land that is refreshingly low on price and correspondingly low on quality.  I expect to meet many people who I will have nothing in common with and who will irritate me and amuse me.  I know what to expect – I’ve done too many of these little jaunts to embark on this little adventure with any optimism and enthusiasm.  I have a simple plan.  I will, on every available opportunity observe the behaviour and antics of my fellow holidaymakers from the shadows.  I will lurk, skulk and hide from the rest of humanity and carry out my surveillance covertly while I play the part of a loner: a sad loner: a sad lonely overweight middle-aged man who keeps himself to himself, reads far too much, and displays mildly eccentric behaviour.

This is going to be hell but I shall persevere with my self-inflicted cure for my mild skin condition and relax at the same time.  I have given up hope of my wife being able to find a cheap flight that flies out of and into the Cardiff and so will have fourteen days of solitude.  I will write a little every day about the various activities at the hotel, the inevitable characters and anything else that might possibly be of interest to anyone else.  Should I be able to find a wireless network that doesn’t cost as much as the flight out there I will be posting this on my blog where, hopefully, others might take a passing interest in my tale and while away an hour or two reading my adventures when they should be doing something far more constructive.

The holiday hell has already begun.  It meant a four o’clock alarm call and a forty-five minute drive in the dark to the airport.  The drop-off went without incident with Cheryl promising she will look for a cheap flight and will not hesitate to book the flight providing it is in and out of the same airport (preferably Cardiff or Bristol) and it departs and arrives during daylight hours.  She won’t find one, but she will continue to look.  But she won’t find one.

And so – to check in. Having picked up my ticket from the Tommy Cooky desk I identify the two long queues for the Arrecife check-in desks.  But wait!  What’s this?  A third check-in desk has nobody in front of it.  It’s the Tommy Cooky Priority Desk.  With a sign stating that, if you purchase extra legroom seats you can use that check-in desk.  To the desk where I was issued with a sort of chitty that I had to take to the Tommy Cooky Desk (not the Tommy Cooky check-in Desk but the desk from where I had picked up my ticket).  I paid her £30 and she gave me another chitty that I then took to the Tommy Cooky check-in desk and handed over said chitty to the lady behind the desk with a flourish that only Tommy Cooky Priority Passengers can execute.  The stares of the other queuing passengers made the back of my neck burn.

I walked up the stairs and straight through security almost forgetting to take my laptop out of my rucksack.  I have a great rucksack that I have had for around fifteen years.  I bought it when Timberland opened a surplus shop in the designer outlet near where I live.  It is made of really thick, but light, waterproof cotton with a leather bottom with some more leather on the strong, adjustable straps.  It has two really useful pockets on the outside one above the other with a little net pocket on the door of the bottom pocket.  The top pocket is perfect for holding my wallet and passport.  The bottom one holds my phone, charger and usually my little survival kit that I take when I’m out walking – but that has been ditched because of the knives and other sharp items.  The bag is big enough to take a 15” Laptop, can effortlessly carry four litres of duty-free spirits and has been used to carry things that somehow wouldn’t fit into a bag that looks twice as big.  It is a tardis of a bag and it has never let me down or failed to surprise me.  Wherever I have been in the past fifteen years it has gone with me.

I passed through security quickly and made my way to the airside lounge.  Since my last visit (about a month ago) no improvements have been made and so there was still just two places where I could sit that were near an electrical socket that I would need to charge my laptop.  I chose the chair in the coffee bar where I ordered a cup of tea that appeared quickly – well, a mug of hot water with an economy tea bag in it.  I squeezed as much flavour from the tiny little bag as I could and then stirred in one sachet of sugar and stirred it with an anorexic lollipop stick.  The tea tasted of wood.  It cost £1.80.

As my laptop charged I played three games of Solitaire and lost all three.  Well not lost, didn’t complete.  Then I started the people-watch game.  Whoa!  I was in real new trainer land here.  I have never fully understood why, when people go on holiday, they are overcome by some base need to buy a new pair of trainers.  But wait – there is a new take on this phenomenon.  The trainers have been replaced by what can only be described as plimsoles; just like the ones you had in junior school.  There were white, shining white, gleaming white plimsoles.  This is obviously a fashion trend to match other summer fashion trends such as three quarter trousers worn by middle-aged men a couple of summers ago.  I let that fashion faux pas pass me by and the plimsoles fad will suffer from the same standpoint. 

Tommy Cooky’s guests include the usual cross section of life.  The family with two children who you know the names of within seconds of meeting them; “Jack you little shit, come ‘ere”: “Brandy stop annoying that man” (usually said with an approving smile).  There’s the gaggle of young ladies with pink cowboy hats and t-shirts that announce they are part of a hen-weekend party, or, more probably as it’s a Sunday, a hen-week party.  The t-shirts also boldly state where the bride to be and her entourage will be celebrating the last days of her being single.  I never understand why they do this.  There’s a group of middle-aged men sporting golfing clothes who were drinking pints of beer and talking loudly (this is at five-thirty in the morning.  There are the infirm passengers in wheelchairs, the family with two teenagers who should obviously be in school but whose parents have taken advantage of off-peak holiday prices to take the family away for a holiday in the sun.  Education comes second to drop and flop to these people and their prioritising is probably correct.  The rest of the passengers are either late middle-aged or elderly.  I am not the youngest by far, but I am the only solo traveller.  

The flight is eventually called and as I make my way to gate four I note the aircraft is an Airbus 320 – the smallest in Mr Cook’s fleet.  I will be glad of the extra legroom I booked.  Then we go through the ignominy of the ‘boarding by seat numbers’ that allow the people supervising the loading to hurl orders to those waiting to board using their best Nuremburg Rally voices.  The also order the passengers to place their boarding cards in their passport on the page containing your photograph.  These orders are delivered with a tenor that threatens all manner of retribution if the order is not complied with.  One elderly couple approached the three despatchers only to be turned back because their seat numbers were not in the group of seats currently being loaded.  This sent one of the despatchers reaching for the PA microphone and, in a loud, annoyed and disbelieving voice once again heralded what row number were currently being loaded.  I choose my word carefully – loaded and not board or embark.  These one hundred and seventy people were being ordered around and generally deemed to be no higher than pieces of freight.  They may wear blazing white daps but they are probably hard working or have spent most of their lives working hard.  It fills me with despair how people are treated by most package holiday companies.  I once was ordered to get in line when returning to the U.K. by a young woman in a silly hat and a high vis jacket.  These two items of clothing alone can turn a polite customer focussed agent into a commandant with little or no patience and no regard for the dignity of others.  But it is the two-way radio that transforms the commandant into a true tyrant of the young, the old and those who think that such behaviour is part of the holiday experience.  When I was shouted at I quietly approached her and said in a calm but firm voice “Please do not shout at me as if I am a farm animal”.  She was genuinely shocked and almost dropped her radio.  Three people behind me exclaimed “good for you” loud enough for her to hear.  I never saw that same dictator again but perhaps she will be waiting to greet me when I return in two weeks’ time.

SUNDAY

I was not on the ‘Transfer List’ at the airport which meant I would have to find my own way to the hotel.  I found the taxi rank and the ten minute ride cost €10.  The hotel is a complex or aparthotel which is promising as these do not usually live up to clients’ expectations.  I was told that the room wouldn’t be ready for another two hours.  I had experienced this before.  They try to allocate last minute bookers like myself to the rooms that need renovating thus keeping their best rooms for their repeat guests and those who paid full price by booking well in advance.  I waited ten minutes and, when she was occupied with another guest approached her colleague and told him I wanted to check in.  He immediately gave me a room which is large, contains a fridge and cooker, a three-seat settee, two highly uncomfortable high back chairs, a table, a coffee table, a one seat lounge chair (the ones that have a cushion that slides beneath you when you sit on it at any angle other than ninety degrees), a sideboard and two single beds (with about eight inches separating them.  The room is quiet and spotlessly clean.  There is a small bathroom attached with a half decent shower.  All bodes well. 

The afternoon was taken up with buying, in order of priority, Cockroach Spray, Mosquito Spray, Water and ice cubes.  All sourced at the on-site shop.  I wandered down the hill and found a couple of bars all of which were broadcasting football matches to enthusiastic gangs of customers.  I went back to the hotel (we’ll call it a hotel even if it is an aparthotel) and went to the shop.  A sign in the window informed me that it closed at 2 pm on Saturdays and Sundays – the two days when most guests arrive.

I ate dinner in the restaurant and, although the quality was not brilliant, there was plenty of choice and I ate well.  I retired, watched two episodes of Fawlty Towers and started watching The Piano before the need for sleep took over.  I slept for twelve hours.

MONDAY

I awoke to find clear blue skies and the temperature was already well into the seventies.  I ‘phoned the office but there was nobody there.  I used Skype as there is wireless internet access available for just one euro for fifteen minutes.  I asked at reception what the hourly rate was.  He looked at me in a confused manner and told me four euros.  Then to breakfast – where things started to go wrong; badly wrong.  I have never been to a restaurant where I have had to find somewhere quiet to sit in order to regain my senses.  The majority of guests here are Spanish.  I don’t know what part of Spain they are from but they are all elderly – well, late sixties.  They move around in groups of between ten and twenty and they talk.  Boy do they talk.  I watched one group on Sunday night.  There were twelve of them and at one point seven of them were speaking at the same time.

I went to breakfast.  Now the restaurant, Restaurante Latino, is more a cafeteria.  It is a very large room with no carpet.  It has no curtains and the walls are bare.  This means that the noise made by somebody dropping a fork gets bounced off the walls and is amplified.  Now fill the room with a hundred chattering Spaniards and you can only guess at the amount of noise that is created.  And this is what happened at Breakfast.  The noise of the constant chattering, laughter, clanking of plates and the jangle of cutlery all combined to make the most awful cacophony that led to me rushing my breakfast and finding solace in a corner of the hotel where it was relatively quiet.  I had never had such a noisy eating experience.  The noise around the coffee machines was worst.  You see, there may have been two hundred people in the cafeteria; but it housed just two coffee machines.  The queue stretched back to twenty people, most of whom held two coffee cups because they didn’t want to queue for a second cup.  The result was a line of twenty people moaning and desperately watching the person at the head of the queue filling his or her cup.  It must have taken twenty minutes from joining the queue to getting a cup of insipid coffee.  I didn’t bother and contented myself with the weak orange juice.

I hired a car with the intention of going to a beach further west on the island.  I had been to the beach before and it was one of a series of beaches in the area called Papagayo.  Papagayo forms part of an area of environmental protection and is stunningly undeveloped.  The beach I was heading for was Puerto Muellas – port of the molars – as in teeth.  I had approached the car hire lady who was to be found in reception but she told me she had no cars and so I walked one hundred yards to a car hire place I had passed the previous day.  I hired the cheapest car and, after some difficulty, managed to get my legs into it.  Then I headed off East first of all to visit the Lanzarote Airport Museum.  I have this theory that, if someone has gone to the trouble of creating a museum, we have the duty to visit it – no matter how small.  The museum was actually housed in the old airport building that had been deserted when the new airport terminal was built twenty years ago.  Entrance was free and I don’t think they had many visitors.  When I entered a small dapper German asked for my name so that he could enter it into the visitors’ book.  I couldn’t help noticing that the last visitor had been on Wednesday – today was Monday.   I spent half an hour wandering around the static displays and reading the photographs of the first aircraft to visit the island, the first mail plane and the first passenger flights.  All interesting – but only to an air enthusiast.  Then it was off to the beach on the Lanzarote equivalent of a motorway – the Lz2 which is a perfectly well maintained, efficient if uneventful road.  I found the road to Papagayo which is nothing more than a dirt track.  It ruins normal car suspension systems and you have to pay €3 for the privilege.  The car park to the beach I was visiting was outside an area that was intended to be a touring caravan park.  The entire infrastructure is there on a four acre site.  Every pitch had water and electricity hook-ups, and every space is clearly marked.  There is a large shower and toilet block and tarmac roads.  Why it was never used I don’t know – probably because the government had slapped an environmental protection order on it.

I spent four hours at the beach burning and then went straight back to the hotel.  I had to travel through Peurto Del Carmen and realised that I had been there before.  I found the hotel and returned the car.  Then it was time to shower and change before going for dinner.

Dinner starts at 6:30.  By 6:25 a small gathering had appeared around the entrance to the restaurant.  People of all nationalities stood, looking slightly embarrassed, staring at the entrance door.  6:30 came and people, including myself, started looking at their watches.  Some of the present started to tut-tut.  When the time reached 6:34 it proved too much for two German ladies who were at the front of the group and had started the movement toward the doors.  One of them pulled at the door and wrenched it open.  A waiter who stood the other side of the door pulled the door back.  The German lady then pulled it open again, and the waiter, said something loudly in Spanish and reclaimed control of the door.  The two of them, the German lady and the waiter, stared at each other through the glass of the door.  It was a classic stand-off situation.  The crowd fell silent.  After twenty seconds the Waiter opened the door and ushered everyone in.  The German ladies glared at him as they went past.  The waiter held his head high and stared into space.

TUESDAY.

I spent the day wandering around the town.  It took me two hours to walk from one end of the resort to the other.  There must be a thousand little shops selling the usual tourist souvenirs – some are of good quality most are the usual tack that is found in highly developed resorts.  Some of the merchandise is downright vulgar – especially the messages on some of the t-shirts on sale.  I returned to the hotel via a couple of bars and entered the reception only to find around a hundred elderly Spanish couples queuing to check in to the hotel.  The all seemed to have some similarities.  The ladies all had perfectly coiffured hair and were all of or around the same height.  The men wore grey trousers and perfectly tailored shirts – although the shirts were of different colours.  The noise was deafening as they all seemed to be talking excitedly at the same time.  They laughed and chattered away while patiently waiting their turn to check in.  I couldn’t help wondering what was going on.  They were obviously a party, a very large party, and they were all of the same age group as the people who must have obviously left earlier in the day.  At dinner the noise was unbearable, but I seemed to be the only person who noticed.  Everyone else in the refectory was having a swell time, laughing and chattering noisily.  One couple were so happy that they were dancing arm in arm. 

I ate even quicker than usual and returned to my room to read.

It was around nine o’clock that I heard music.  Not the usual rock or disco music but proper music, played in strict time by, what sounded like, a real band.  I had to investigate.  The music floated on the still night air and shrouded the hotel in a cloak of harmonies and strict tempo.  I female voice slid through the cloak and peppered the air with refrains that haunt me still.  I followed the sounds until I came across a large building covered in beautiful blazing red climbing flowers.  The bouquet of the flowers mixed with the music and they complemented each other perfectly.  I peeked inside and saw one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen.  The large ballroom was brilliantly lit with a magnificent glitter ball that shone tiny rays of light around the brilliantly white walls.  A small stage housed a ten piece band together with a female vocalist.  A conductor waved his arms enthusiastically whilst keeping one eye on the attendees.  On the dance floor a hundred elderly couples danced cheek to cheek rotating around the room with amazing precision.  The men wore their open necked shirts whilst the ladies, all with still perfectly coiffured hair, moved elegantly around the floor in the arms of their partners.  Whilst this spectacular was beautiful in itself, the most beautiful aspect had nothing to do with the music, the dancing or the lights.  The most beautiful part was that everyone there on the dance floor was wearing the most beautiful, serene smile.  Nobody spoke.

WEDNESDAY

An uneventful day.  Everybody seems to be settling in to a routine.  I decided to go to Arrecife for the day using the excellent public transport system.  I queued for around five minutes with twenty other people and hopped on the bus paying just one euro twenty cents.  Ten minutes later I got off the bus with everyone else – I was at the other end of the resort, same place as I had been yesterday.  I had caught the wrong bus. 

I decided to walk back to the hotel.  It was a misty day and so I didn’t wear a hat.  I stopped off at a cafe for an hour and talked to a couple from North Wales.  He assured me that there would be the first ever St. Patrick’s Day parade ever held on the island at just after 12.  At one o’clock I left them and half way back I discovered that there would indeed be a parade – but at 4.  It took just over one and a half hours to get back to the hotel and when I arrived I realised that I had burned myself badly.  My right leg, nose and forehead were bleeding.  I hadn’t worn a hat because it was so misty – but I burned all the same.  I have nearly finished my first book – the second collected series of Somerset Maugham’s short stories.  I intend to finish it tomorrow.

THURSDAY

This was the most boring day yet.  I am hobbling around, in quite considerable pain. Because of the blisters on my feet caused by the new walking sandals that I brought with me that I hadn’t ‘broken in’.  There is nowhere in this hotel that is quiet.  Everywhere you go there are groups of people all chattering away – very loudly.  If I walk into the resort there is continual boom-boom music; and Heart FM – the heart of London – seems to be the preferred radio station to be foisted on customers of almost every bar. 

Thankfully there is one place where I can peruse the Telegraph and attempt the crossword without having my audio senses battered by some disco-jockey wishing for better things.  It’s a tiny little restaurant/café run by an elderly Spanish man who is probably as bemused as me why potential patrons pass his little sanctuary on their way to ‘Jugs’ bar or ‘The Swingers’ or ‘Topless’.  Anyway, I shall be retiring there again.

Yesterday (Thursday) as I am unable to sunbathe (my right leg is just a mass of puss covered sores caused by sunburn, my nose is like a pineapple that has been torched and my forehead is a mass of scabs and bright red dried blood) and I am unable to walk far, I caught the bus into Arrecife.  Once there I hobbled around in considerable pain before calling it a day and heading back here.  So I found a bar where at least they played music I had heard of and finished off my book.  Of all Somerset Maugham’s short stories, The Verger is my favourite.  I kept it until last.  Now it is Pillars of the Earth which, I am told, is an excellent read.

Today I shall do nothing but write and read.  Ho Hum.  Halcyon days.

Friday – nothing happened

Saturday – nothing hapened

Sunday – even quieter than Saturday

Monday – it rained for all of ten minutes.  Then, nothing happened

Tuesday - back to nothing happening

I give up

I want to go home

It’s awful. Like so many other things the British railway network has been infected by a practice that has found its way over the Atlantic. Forget about the need for massive investment in the railway infrastructure; forget about the exorbitant fares and the bewildering array of ticket prices. This is all about the nature of customer care and satisfaction and lies at the heart of the train – the buffet car.

I do not understand why Johnny Foreigner has such a problem with making and presenting a cup of tea; it is, after all, an international beverage with universal appeal. Go anywhere south of Dover and you are immediately forced into abandoning the most civilised of brews and adopting ugly coffee as your preferred refreshment; not out of choice but because tea that is served abroad has only one common feature that it shares with a domestic cuppa and that is its name.

Whilst you can anticipate that once you leave the White Cliffs behind you will not get a decent cup of tea until you return to the sceptred isle it is most disturbing to find that repugnant continental and north American attitudes towards tea in general, and the making of it in particular, are embedding themselves in British institutions – the rail service for one. It’s a disgrace.

Making a cup of tea is not difficult. You need boiling water – that means water that is or has just been boiling. Not water that is really hot or water that has been boiled. I remember explaining this to a really helpful waiter in a Cracker Barrel restaurant in the U.S. to whom I explained that in order for the tea to release its true flavour it has to be scalded. Only boiling water will release the full flavour of the tea and water that is any less than boiling will simply turn into a weak version of a true cuppa. That’s it. The only rule you must follow. Pour boiling water onto tea leaves or a tea bag, though why anyone wants to taste paper in their tea is beyond me. You can pour the boiling water onto tea leaves in a cup, or in a kettle or, preferably, into a warmed tea pot (metal ones should be avoided as they go cold quickly). That’s it – just one rule to follow – pour boiling water onto the tea.

I am on a train. I have just been parted from £1.30 that I gave to the man in the buffet car in exchange for a cup of tea – albeit a cup of tea served in a paper cup and with the now ubiquitous strip of wood that serves as a stirrer. I knew what to expect. It would be less than perfect but hey, compromises have to be made when travelling at 125m.p.h. I could see the steaming shining stainless steel tap that rose out of the kitchen worktop. I could hear it hissing as pressurised steam escaped from it. £1.30 was a price well worth paying for a jolly good hot cup of tea. I took my eye off the ball after I had ordered and was presented with a paper bag that held the tea. I popped in the stirrer and one of those fiddly sachets of sugar and paid the man.

I made my way back to my seat and took out the cup that had a plastic lid on it. I set it out on the table and sat back to let the tea stew. After five minutes waiting I could hold back no more and I took off the lid. I was greeted by a cup of hot water. No tea. No teabag. Just a cup of hot water. Peering into the paper bag I found a teabag. I dropped it in the water and sighed. Can you imagine that happening ten years ago? It is time to make a stand. If you get such service don’t do what I didn’t have the guts to do – ask for a refund!

This is Gandalf
Isn’t he a charmer. Look into those eyes. One of God’s most beautiful creatures. Loving, friendly, affectionate. Look at the cute little bell around his neck. Notice how well he looks and how he is obviously well looked after.
Look at those cute little paws. The paws that can turn into murderous pin sharp razors at the flick of a tail. Note the rip in my favourite chair that was caused by little old Gandalf when he was dreaming one day.
Gandalf is no more my cat: He never was.
The story begins in late May of this year. This pitiful white feline turned up in the garden absolutely soaked through. It was raining steadily (and still is) and I made the serious error of making eye contact with him and, as I opened the conservatory door, he ran up the steps and made straight in. He immediately started to make himself at home, stretching out on the carpet and pulling himself along using his claws – the cutlasses could also be adapted to grappling hooks. He was wet through and obviously very hungry.
I am not a cat person. I don’t dislike them but neither am I particularly fond of them. They have their world and I have mine. And as long as they keep to their world the can be assured that I will not interfere with that world. This was how it always was but no longer is. The cat decided to make himself at home. I went to buy some cat food. When I returned it finished off a whole tin of cat food as if it had never eaten before. It then curled up on my favourite chair and settled down to sleep for the rest of the evening and night. In the morning it ate another tin of food and then decided to leave.
When I returned hom in the early afternoon he was sitting on the wall near my front door. It was genuinely glad to see me. I wasn’t particularly glad to see him. I say him because I now know it is a tom but at the time I didn’t know what its gender was. I had a suspicion that it was a female because of the pink collar around its neck. I called it simply “Cat”. Cat ate another tin of food and then settled down to sleep. Outside it was raining hard and I couldn’t simply throw this defenceless animal to the mercy of the weather. It slept and ate for the next week. I came home one day and found it cowering from the rain underneath the bushes in the garden. It had no shelter other than my house. I began to make enquiries as to what one does with a cat that is obviously homeless. “Take a picture and print off some ‘cat found’ posters suggested one friend.
“Excellent idea” I thought and immediately set about discovering how useless it is to try and reason with a cat to co-operate in a photo shoot. They don’t obey! They are pointless! You’d swear this was his house and he was doing me a favour by allowing me in its presence. Eventually I got a picture and printed off some ‘cat found’ posters, laminated them and started to distribute them in local shops, tied them to lamposts and even got one displayed in the local police station. The posters had the picture of the cat, an appeal for its rightful owner to get in touch and my telphone number. I waited for the call.
It came during the evening of the second day that the posters had been distributed. It was from a lady whose friend had telephoned her to inform her that there were pictures of Gandalf (for that was his name) posted everywhere with an appeal to the cat’s owner to telphone my number.
“Do you live locally?” I asked.
“Just around the corner from you” she replied.
“Have you been wondering where he or she has been?” I asked
“It’s a he and I’ve been wondering why he has not been eating his dried cat food” she responded.
“You mean he’s not lost?”
“No – he keeps on doing this to people. He just invited himself in and takes advantage. You are now the fourth house that he visits regularly. Please stop feeding him and just ignore him”.
“I will” I assured her as I caught sight of the cat preening himself on my chair. “But tell me, why has he got a pink collar on if he is a boy?”
“Because of the bell. We needed a big bell to warn birds and other stuff that he is around. The biggest bell we could find was pink. Has he brought you any presents yet?”
“Presents?”
“Yes, dead mice or birds” she explained.
“No” I replied.
“That’s his next move” she explained. “If you refuse him entry he will start bringing you little gifts”. I shuddered.

The cat stared at me as I made my way towards him. “Well Gandalf” I said, “The game is up. Off you go” I opened the back door and put the cat out. It was the first time I had picked him up. He looked at me as if to say ‘what the hell do you think you are doing?’ It went away. This was the third week of June. It was the start of a battle of wills. He has sat on my garage roof in torrential rain. He has greeted me almost every time I got home, he has cut a pathetic sight by scratching at the conservatory door. He has mewed incessantly in my garden but all to no avail.
This week he has tried the bribary. Two dead birds, three disbowelled mice and one vole have all been deposited outside my garden studio door. As I write this he is looking at me – no, staring at me, through the vertical blinds of the sliding doors.
He will not come in!

First of all a big thank you for all the birthday wishes. I don’t usually celebrate birthdays and even though this is a milestone occasion (I was born in 1959) I still won’t be having any over the top celebrations.
I have had, however, the best birthday present ever……. after years of hinting Mrs. H has just presented me with my very first, and the very best Train Set. Hornby OO guage Flying Scotsman. Excellent. Now I have to make a board that will somehow fit on the wall of the Music Studio. This is going to be the start of something big!
Just because it is my birthday doesn’t mean there will be any lapse in the work I do for the Society. I’m off to London at 10 to attend a meeting of the Prescription Charges Alliance that has been campaigning (hopefully we will hear today whether it has been succesful) to abolish prescription charges for those with long term conditions. It’s ridiculous that those members in England that don’t use the services of the nurse at their surgery and either self inject or get somebody to inject for them have to pay for their B12 injections. This applies only in England as Wales has abolished prescription charges accross the board and Scotland and Northern Ireland are following suit. It remains to be seen whether the alliance has been succesful but the indicators are that they have been.
Thankfully my now weekly commute to the Capital will be with Kirsty – so at least I will have some company. Thanks for all the messages of congratulations on me reaching my half century.
Two trains in one day!

I took a telephone call on Thursday. I was in the office on my own when the call came through. Nothing unusual in that other than it was quite early - 8 am and that the caller was an elderly Australian gentleman calling from his home country. The gentleman was seeking information about B12, wanted to know more about the symptoms and enquired about any alternatives to injections.
He was not a member and admitted that he would never be able to use a computer and access the internet. He was originally from Scotland and had been sent a copy of the article on Andrea by his sister.
He was an easy going gent with one of those unusual accents that had a broad Scots dialect as its base iced over with the Australian timbre. I gave him all the information he needed and wanted and then the conversation drifted and we started talking about cricket, the state of the world economy (and banking in particular) and I found out that he was a great supporter of Lady Thatcher. He was positively delighted that he shared a vitamin deficiency with the Lady.
We have these really neat telephones in the office that display how long the telephone conversation had lasted. Fifteen minutes had passed, then thirty and as we passed the 45 minute point he asked a rather strange question.
"So where exactly are you in New South Wales?"
"Oh we're not in New South Wales" I told him. "We are based in old south Wales - in the U.K."
The phone went dead.

Today was Councillor Don Care’s birthday.  The pompous little man was excited because he was going to play a trick on his family. He had worked out this hoax over the past year, and what had started as a germ of an idea that would embarass his family had developed into a carefully planned plot over the previous twelve months. 

The plan was to intercept the postman who would be delivering his birthday cards.  He would stop the postman well before he entered the street where Don and his family lived and, as he was a well known member of the community, the postman would recognise him.  Don would ask if he could have his mail for the day.  He would tell the postman that he was in a rush to make a very important council meeting and that he was expecting an important document and it would be useful to have that document to take to the meeting.  Then he would take the household’s mail - including his birthday cards. 

Don planned to embarass his family.  He was going to leave the postman, take a different route home and enter the house via the back garden gate.  Then, he would make sure that his family were aware that he was eagerly watchinng the postman make his deliveries in the street.  “I wonder how many cards I’ll get this year” he would ask in a false excited manner.  And then, because he had already intercepted the mail, he would pretend to be disheartened that nobody had remembered his birthday when the postman failed to deliver any letters to the house.  And then his family would try to reassure him that there must be an explanation why he had not had any cards (apart from the ones they had given him by hand).  They would reassure him that he was still popular but that you couldn’t rely on the post these days and everything would be alright tomorrow when he would probably receive a sackload.  Only then, after all the fuss, would he produce the cards that the intercepted postman had given him.  “Tarrrrraaaaaaaaaaa”! He would say, as he flourished the cards in the air.  Then they would all have a laugh at how clever he had been. 

He had carefully noted the time that the postman delivered the post to his terraced house each morning which was between 7.10 and 7.20.  Some mornings it was earlier and some later, but 90% of deliveries were between those times.  He had observed the different postmen’s behaviour.  One postman left his bag of letters at the entrance to the cul-de-sac, taking out the letters and completing the deliveries to the street before picking the bag up and walking to the next street.  Another postman would start at the higher numbered houses and work his way to number 1.  More importantly Don had also observed the route the postmen took before entering the street.  All of them approached the cul-de-sac where the Care family lived from the west after they had delivered to the houses and shops of the High Street.  They turned right into Don’s cul-de-sac and either started delivering to the house on their immediate right or, as one postman did, crossed the road and started the round with the house with the highest number.  All of this had been carefully noted as intercepting the postman before they started delivering was a critical part of the ruse.

For the past year Don had been planning this.  He had even told a few of his fellow councillors who had told him it was a wonderful idea that would make a marvellous birthday surprise for his family.  They even joined in the fun by promising to contribute by making sure to send him a card – it would add to the fun of the idea. 

Today was Don’s birthday.  It was 7.00 am and time to put the plan into action.  Don’s wife was in the kitchen starting to prepare breakfast.  His daughter, Tammy, was in the shower.  It was raining hard.  Don told his wife he was going to the local shop to buy a newspaper.  It was Thursday, the day the local newspaper was published.  He asked her if she wanted anything.  She didn’t.  Don took his coat from the coathook in the small hallway, put it on and slipped out of the door.  He was smiling to himself as he made his way out of the cul-de-sac and turned left into the High Street.  He scanned the street for the postman.  There he was, about fifty yards away.  Don bought the local paper and went back into the High Street.  The postman was a few yards away.  Don approached him in the heavy autumn rain.

“Hello” he said, wearing one of his false ‘an election is looming’ smiles.  The postman stopped delivering letters and looked at the short balding man in front of him.  “Sorry to be a pain but I’ve got a really important meeting that I’m on my way to”.  The postman said nothing. 

“I’m a councillor” he continued.

The postman nodded.

“I’ve an important meeting that I’m on my way to” said Don.  “It would help me enormously if I could take a document along that you might well have in your bag”.  Don was breathing quickly, the butterflies in his stomach were flying, his palms were sweating.  “Is there any chance I could take my mail from you?” he asked.

The postman suddenly realised why Mr Pomp (as Don was known) had stopped him.

“No problem” said the postman.  “Number 18 right?”

“Yes” said Don excitedly.

The postman reached into his bag aware of a trickle of water just starting to run down his neck.  He hated being asked this, especially when it was raining and he just wanted to finish his round.  He fumbled around.  Don strained his neck to look into the bag.  This was all going to plan.  It was beautiful.  Don was already glowing with anticipation of the charade that would be played out back in number 18. 

The postman produced a bundle of letters that were all meant for Don’s cul-de-sac.  They were tightly bound by a thick red rubber band.  Don estimated that he would receive around ten cards, maybe more.  There were at least eight from his fellow councillors.  The postman pulled off the rubber band and started to sift through the letters.  Don could see three or four birthday card sized letters.  The postman muttered, “12, 14, 16.” There was a pause.  The postman looked at Don’s eager little face that was slightly blushing.

“Sorry sir”, he said quietly.  “There’s no mail for number 18 today”

Don’s fellow councillors had laughed at his plans and told Don that his plan to embarass his family was a wonderful idea and that they would join in the fun by assuring him that they too, would send him cards.  That’s what they told him.  What they told each other was different.  They didn’t like Don.  He was not popular with his fellow councillors because he was pompous and considered himself above his peers.  They didn’t like the way he strutted around the corridors of the council offices.  They didn’t like the way he produced vague facts about trivia that he thought made him sound intelligent but only made him look more of a buffoon.  They didn’t like the way he totally ignored his constituents other than at election time.  And they didn’t like the fact that he only bothered with them when he wanted something – like a birthday card.

Don stared at the postman.  “Are you sure” he asked.  The postman nodded.  “Nothing at all today sir” he said.  Don was confused.  This was not expected.  He said nothing but strode past the postman without a word.  The postman grinned.  Don made his way over the small patch of common land in went into the garden through the unnlocked back gate and then into the house.  His wife and daughhter were at the table eating their breakfast.  His daughter looked up at him but didn’t smile.  “Happy birthday” she said.  “Happy birthday” said his wife.  A single card was propped against the salt and pepper pots.  “We bought you a combined card this year” said the younger woman.  “We know how concerned you are for the environment and cards are made out of trees” she said. 

“Here comes the postman” said Don’s wife looking out of the window as the postman walked straight past the house.  “Oh well, nothing for us today” she continued.  “I expect you’ll get a sack load of cards tomorrow, the post is so terrible these days” she said.

Don said nothing.

I know that different people have different views as to what makes a great hotel.  And, similarly, everybody will have different values that they would like an airline to have.   This makes this blog open to criticism but nevertheless I have to share with you the details of my most recent trip.

I had to go to North Wales to meet with Jon the Webmaster from Tastic Multimedia.  It was he who was going to make slight alterations to the website and also to set up this blog.  The quickest and cheapest way to travel from south to north wales is via Highland Airways who run a twice daily scheduled service between Cardiff and Anglesey.  The return trip is just £104 and takes between 30 minutes and an hour depending upon the route they choose to fly.  I always choose to fly to north Wales not for reasons of economy and time – two compelling reasons on their own – but because of the experience the flight offers.

It begins with a remarkably simple online booking service.  I only decided to go to visit Jon at 2 pm on Tuesday afternoon.  The flight was due to depart at 4.15.  All was booked within five minutes.  Then it was home to pick up some stuff, then a forty minute drive to Cardiff Airport.  Check in time is just 30 minutes before departure which means you don’t spend hours wandering around ‘airside’ looking at the same sad fluffy sheep that have been on sale for three years.

Twenty minutes before departure you are walking across the tarmac to the 18 seat Jetstream31.  Entering and exiting the aircraft with dignity is impossible but once inside you buckle yourself in to a leather seat with adequate if not ample legroom. 

Then comes the fun bit that diistinguishes this airline from most others.  The cabin crew (of one) clears her throat and, making eye contact with all of the passengers welcomes you on board, tells you where the life vest is, points out the emergency exits and tells you how to buckle and unbuckle your seat belt which, she advised, should be kept buckled at all times when seated.  Excellent.  Then, pulling back the curtain, she murmers something to the flight crew and the turboprops start spinning.

The noise in the cabin is more than that found on modern jetliners, but it is bearable and the magnificent spinning propellors start to sigh and groan as they cut into the air.  The taxi is comfortable and once cleared to take off the engines start singing in harmony as the plane gains speed and climbs in the air.

The lady in charge of the cabin asks if anyone would like tea or coffee and then busies herself making the beverages.  There is no video, audio or any form of entertainment except for the wonderful views of the west Wales coast with, at one point, Snowdonia 12,000 feet below. 

There is something very puzzling about the route taken by the flight.  The scheduled time from Cardiff to Anglesey is one hour and five minutes.  On Tuesday from the Departures gate one of Highland Airway’s Jetstreams could be seen with its Propellor unndergoing repairs on the airport apron.  The airline had flown in a replacement aircraft and while this was being prepared a thirty minute delay developed.  The usual route is to fly north up the Marches before turning west to follow the north Wales coastline.  On Tuesday, because of the delay, the pilot announced (by sticking his head into the cabin from the flight deck that “We’ll be there in thirty minutes – we’ll fly up the west coast”.  I don’t understand why they don’t always fly west then north, thereby saving thirty minutes of flight time (and fuel).  I’m sure there is a reasonable explanation but I cannot think of one.

Thirty five minutes later we are on final approach and the arrival at Anglesey has to be one of the unique experiences in flying because, as you taxi to the terminal you pass row upon row of RAF Hawk aircraft, all lined up in regimented rows.  You pass signs saying “WARNING – ARMED AIRCRAFT BEYOND THIS POINT”.  The airport that serves Anglesey is RAF Valley – home of three Squadrons of Fast Jet Trainers and Search and Rescue helicopters.  The noise the jets make as their engines spool up is earshatteringly beautiful and makes the walk from the aircraft to the terminal building different from any other airport I have used.  Highland Airways may be small, but running scheduled services from the Highlands to the inner and outer Hebrides must mean that their pilots fly over and to some of the most stunning scenery in the world and must be envied in the aviator world. 

I wanted to spend some time watching the antics of these trainee fighter jet pilots and so I had pre-booked a room at the fabulous Cymyran Hotel which is located about half a mile from the airfield.  Pay ten pounds more for the Superior room and you get a view right over the airfield.  Whilst the noise might not be to everyone’s liking at first, it’s amazing that after an hour you just don’t notice the scream of the jets as they take off.

The hotel owner has offered to meet my flight and I throw my rucksack into the back seat and hop into the working Land Rover.  I love this hotel, it is so wrong in so many ways and so so right in others.  There is no attempt at branding and no hint of developing a brand.  Therefore there is no uniforms, name badges, routinely asked ”is there anything else I can do for you” or “is everything ok?” and no signs telling you what to do if everything is not 100% satisfactory.  What you do get are genuine people with genuine personalities.  There’s the charming, if a little hard of hearing receptionist (I’m almost deaf and refuse to wear my hearing aids in public so you can imagine the conversation we had), the bar staff who regularly desert their post to check if everything is ok in the kitchen (well that’s what they said) and the rather clumsy waiting staff.  In short, the hotel is staffed by real people who, free of the drudgery of hiding behind a false, corporate personality, are able to befriend the customers rather than interface with clients.

Mollie

The friendliest of the staff has to be Mollie.   Although she continually looks as if she is on the very verge of bursting into tears she always has time for all visitors to the hotel.  She doesn’t say much, but is keen to establish a relationship with all visitors as soon as she greets you at the entrance to the hotel.  Mollie’s on a perpetual diet in an effort to reduce her weight, and maybe that’s why she is always so tearful.  If you visit the hotel, (and you should), please say hello to Mollie for me and tell her it won’t be long before we can have another deep meaningful chat about the meaning of life.

The food is exceptional.  I chose the Lemon Sole from the extensive Specials Board that came with divine fresh vegetables – and at £7.50 it was exceptionally good value.  Everything is home made and takes advantage of any local seasonal produce that becomes available.  As I ate I looked out of the vast windows and down upon a horse jumping arena where a girl who was no more than six years old cajoled a rather large pony over increasingly high jumps while an instructor shouted instructions and encouragement.  A unique view from a special restaurant.

The next day, after an unhurried breakfast I made my way down into the bay a few hundred yards from the hotel.  After a few minutes it appeared, from the South West, screaming and with landing lights blazing.  Just maybe one hundred feet directly over my head the Hawk jet landed just a few yards from me just over a sand dune.  They continued all morning;  some landing, others flying low over the runway, while others were practicing touch and go.  Occasionally you get to see American F15s from Lakenheath, Tornados from Lossiemouth and Eurofighter Typhoons, but today it was just wave after wave of Hawks practicing and honing their pilots’ skills.  Oh, and a great big yellow SeaKing helicopter hovered above the waves fifty yards away. 

The winchman waved.

I waved back.

http://www.hotel-anglesey.co.uk/

http://www.raf.mod.uk/rafvalley/

http://www.highlandairways.co.uk

Yesterday afternoon I joined former colleagues from the college where I taught for an end of term get together – or more accurately an end of term drinking session!

I hadn’t seen any of them since I had my first infusion in April.  Every one of them commented on how well I looked and how much brighter I seemed.  One ex colleague couldn’t get over how my skin had improved.

This morning we had our first telephone call from a member seeking advice before 8.30.  It was the usual tale of Doctors refusing treatment.  In this case after having three monthly injections of Hydroxocobalamin for many years, the doctor has suddenly told her that because her Serum B12 was very high he was not going to let her have any more injections in case she overdosed…..

What made matters worse is that the lady shows all the symptoms of having Sub-Acute Combined Degeneration of the Cord Secondary to Pernicious Anaemia.  She has peripheral neuropathy, cannot walk in the dark, is constantly falling over and bumping into things and has problems thinking clearly and has a rapidly failing memory.

Her doctor has suggested that, because she lives alone, she is dwelling on her B12 deficiency because she has seen a neuro physiotherapist who has reported no neurological damage.

It is so difficult to advise her what to do next.  She is in danger of losing her job, well, she is about to lose her job and without a diagnosis of Sub-Acute Combined Degeneration she will not receive any benefits.  This is as clear cut case of medical negligence as I have seen and yet the options for the patient are very limited.

I anticipate another two or three calls in a similar vein by the end of the day…