Bad service from Autoglass

I always thought that when your windscreen got shattered, Autoglass would be round in a flash to fix a new one. How silly of me.
Poor service from Autoglass
This is the view from my windscreen.
It's not great, or am I over reacting as a hysterical female? Because a bored young man at Autoglass, who hadn't seen it, was very dismissive yesterday as I tried to get them to set up a third appointment with some degree of urgency.

I explained the damage was quite bad - more than "just a crack" as he put it, and it wasn't great that I have had to drive 600 miles with it. "It's laminated" he kept saying. Yes I know that, but if it is on the driver's side and you have to peer over the top of a series of cracks, it could affect your vision.

Anyway, I digress. Back to the sorry tale.

A week ago, I was on the M25 in the evening when I saw a speeding van throw up a large stone from its back wheels. It hurtled straight towards me, and, on the driver's side and right in front of my face. Bit of a shock I can tell you.

I rang Autoglass the next day (I have to use them under the company scheme.) They had to order the windscreen and would fit it the following day.

Unfortunately, and this was my fault, I had wrongly said the windsceeen had a rain sensor so the Walthamstow branch turned up with the wrong windscreen. The guy said they were fully booked the next day (Sat) but he would try to fit me in if I dropped the car down. Alas this was not possible. J was not available to do the conveying - and their depot was miles away in an industrial estate- and I had to make a trip to Lewisham hospital.

On Monday I made an another appointment, this time in Swindon where I was working for a couple of days. Again, another delay to order the windscreen (which surprises me as it's a very common model of car and their web site claims 24 hour service). To cut a long story short, I was told they would come between 1 - 4pm the following day and it would take an hour, plus an hour afterwards where I needed to let it dry.

By 3, when they hadn't turned up and it was raining, I wearily rang to rearrange and was told quite shirtily the appointment had been from "1 to 6pm". It hadn't, because when it takes you three hours to drive home, there's no way I would have agreed to that.

They then had to contact the Walthamstow outfit to make another appointment. Quite possibly piqued because I didn't go there on Saturday, they said they couldn't do it for THREE DAYS. This is when the bored young man was quite rude and dismissive of damage he had not seen. He didn't seem to think it an issue that by the time they finally fit the new windscreen in Swindon on Friday, I will have driven 800 miles and suffered a cracked windscreen for 9 days.

No doubt because they're used by fleet maintenance companies, Autoglass think the complaints of one individual mean nothing. Well, here's my report, and to optimise it for SEO I have mentioned Autoglass and poor service several times so that the search engines pick it up.

That's the great thing about the Internet. Power to the people!

Whacking mobsters

I have never been so popular. I am getting daily friend requests on Facebook. And the reason? A game called Mafia Wars that has really taken off and has a FB site with 13 million members.

It's a game that attracts both sexes and all ages. It really is beautifully thought out. Your friends become "your" mafia if they play the game; you give away "gifts" such as paintings for their vault, extra energy or weapons; you seek help when you're in a gang fight, and those who help get extra points.

My top mafia includes Karen who was my penfriend when we were 15 - we recently found each other via Friends Reunited (and she's very good, over level 200 whereas I am a lowly 23); Fred in Sweden who was a colleague 10 years ago and Taj,a colleague in Munich. My bodyguard is a stranger from the US, a level 233.

The basic premise of the game is to earn money from doing jobs (heists, robberies etc) which you spend on weapons, vehicles and properties. You accumulate loot and art works and fight rival mafia. As you progress, your character "improves" as you award yourself more points for energy, stamina and health. When you get really good you go off to Cuba but that is denied me at present.

J is not happy about this development of me becoming "a gamer" and has started timing my stints on the upstairs PC. He's actually relieved now if I'm using the PC to buy shoes. "Are you playing that game?" he asks suspiciously.

I have tried to explain some of the addictive features of the game which include unprovoked attacks and robberies by other mafia.

I quite often find that my mafia of 36 was attacked in NY by a mafia using a Really Bloody Mop, a sawn-off shotgun, three hand grenades and a lucky shamrock. And it's quite gutting if you lose. You're tempted to put the offender on the hit list rightaway but as Fred rightly said, "the hit list is for losers". Instead I must concentrate on the big ticket items like assassinating a political figure or invading a Tong-controlled neighbourhood. Why don't you join me?

Plague Island

It would appear that the perception of other countries is that the UK is an island in the grip of a pandemic of Plague proportions.

A friend in Hungary was told by a doctor that if his family came to the UK, they would be dead within half an hour.

We hear how badly some British school chidren were treated in France, hounded out of their hotel in swimming costumes, forced to wear masks.

And today on the news we discover that the new NHS Helpline has been swamped by calls and more staff are being recruited to deal with the volume.

We need a bit of perspective. Swine flu has killed 31 people so far. Most if not all of them had an underlying condition. Influenza kills around 60,000 a year, every year, in the UK. Flu is bad news for the elderly, pregnant women and people with "underlying conditions" (asthma for example). But for the vast majority of us, it's going to be an unpleasant inconvenience for a few days. Surely no need for most of us to panic or to phone any helplines. Stay in bed and drink fluids!

I'm also going to scream if I hear anyone else say "I think I may have swine flu." You know when you've got the flu. You don't struggle bravely to work and persevere. You are physically exhausted and have to drag yourself to bed. Most of the time it's a bad cold.

Perspective folks, perspective.

There goes summer

I bet they're a bit anxious at the Met Office. Having predicted a heatwave this summer, the terrible reality of July is probably evoking memories of the time when they said we wouldn't have much wind and then the country was flattened by what seemed like a hurricane.

June was lovely, yes, but July has reverted to form. In the midst of one of our normal summers, the type where you remember with nostalgia "May 21", a US colleague said to me: "But how can you stand it?".

I pondered on this. Being British the weather is something you get used to; it's a cross we have to bear. I am never really optimistic about the weather. So many times I have wanted good weather and it disappoints. My wedding day. The two occasions we went to a picnic concert. The first hotel holiday I had as a child, in Bournemouth (just one sunny day). And snow at Christmas? As rare as hen's teeth.

So when I go abroad for summer sun, I expect, nay demand! sunshine. It's what thrills me the most on the first day, looking out at a perfect blue sky. We have always had wonderful weather on holidays abroad, except for this year, when, in Mallorca, the first three days started off cloudy and chilly. I was beside myself! J was very phlegmatic as we sat on the terrace looking at the rain. To him it didn't matter if we were reading our books in the sun or on the hotel verandah in the rain. And fortunately the sun came out in the afternoon and it was just the first three days.

Let's hope it picks up here soon, for the sake of all those people who are "staycationing". I have decided to wing it as far as a picnic concert is concerned. I haven't booked yet but if it's nice on August 1 we may well go Back To the 80s at Audley End.

British men the most unromantic in the world

...according to a report in the papers today. Well no surprises there for most of us, eh girls?

The report says that while most men assume that being romantic means spending money on big gestures, actually women prefer unprompted romantic acts. Being brought a cup of tea in bed, or having a bath run for us after a hard day.

The paper carried a list of the top 10 romantic gestures, and J noted that he hasn't done any of them.

He has improved on the gift buying front. His presents (unsolicited) in the past have included a washing line, a peg bag (sounds like a theme developing) and a garden spade. But last year I was stunned when he brought back a handbag for me from Faro which he chose himself. It looks very designer-y and gets lots of compliments. And recently he bought me a DVD player which was a nice surprise, although it clears his conscience when he watches Sharpe and Hornblower because he knows I can watch a film upstairs now.

J is very good at is working through a list. A few Christmasses ago, I gave him a list of suggested things to buy me. I was amazed when he bought all of them. He still gets emails from The Glitter Pot where I sent him to pay crafting stash.

I suggested tearing out the "top 10 of romantic gestures" so he could refer to it, but his muttered response was something akin to "poke it" so I'm not expecting any cups of tea in bed or flowers sent to work anytime soon.

British men the least unromatic

All aboard the Michael Jackson bandwagon

There are 15 books about to be published on Michael Jackson. The first is published today and according to BBC Breakfast News, it's broken the record for being written and published in 2 weeks from start to finish. Apparently, and Harper Collins were quite unabashed about this, a freelance writer was incarcerated in a room until he had written "new material" so they could be the first to cash in on Jackson's demise.

I'm intrigued to know what new material can be generated sitting in a room. A "re-interpretation" of recent press articles I would suspect. Last night's Channel 4 documentary about "what really happened to MJ" was a waste of time. Some reporter who claims to have known MJ well, who had the most monotonous voice in christendom, took us to places where he rehearsed and talked to the people running AEG. And guess what? Nobody told us anything new. The title of the programme was grossly misleading.

I'm not going to buy any books on Michael Jackson until there is one that quotes definitively all the members of his family (including his father), the children and parents who were involved in the legal actions, his two ex-wives, his superstar friends Diana Ross, Elizabeth Taylor and Liza Minnelli, doctors who were treating him at the time of his death and the pathologist who did the post mortem. In other words, the only people who actually know the truth.

I won't be buying any books from tell lurid tales patched together from former mnagers, former agents, former dancers or former nannies.

Wendi was robbed

We were gutted that Wendi Peters lost out on winning Celebrity Masterchef. Jayne Middlemiss should never have won. Didn't the judges take into account all her histrionics and tears every time she had to step outside of her confort zone? I am beginning to wonder if Messrs Torode and Wallace are unduly influenced by female charm, given that last year's winner Liz McClarnon was someone who had never even cooked before she turned up in the contest --- and just happens to be a gorgeous blonde.

Alesha judged to be a bad move

I can't wait to hear the insights of the new judge on Strictly Come Dancing, the "washes and brushes" singer and one-time winner of SCD, Alesha Dixon.

Renowned choreographer and former dancer Arlene Phillips, whose ascerbic comments and ability to stand up to the other male judges were part of the show's success, has been elbowed aside to allow the show to appeal to a younger demographic.

Oh yes, the young people who no doubt sit around watching TV on Saturday evenings when by rights they should be out getting bladdered or watching the yoof channel, BBC 3.

I'd love to have been a fly on the wall when the other judges Len Goodman, Bruno Tonioli and Craig Revel-Horwood were told that Ms Dixon was going to join them. If Len specialises in dance technicalities, Bruno in the overall performance and Craig in the choreography, what's left for Alesha? Dresses, served up with her trademark Muttley laugh.

If the BBC seriously thinks that Alesha is their weapon to win the ratings war against the latest old rubbish from Simon Cowell (Popstars the Rivals, Britain's got Talent, The X Factor - who knows, they all blur into one hackneyed formula), they're mistaken. Alesha may be cool but only among the under-7s. She doesn't cut it against Queen Wag Cheryl Cole, or even Dannii Minogue and her amazing frozen face.

If the BBC had really wanted to jazz up SCD they should have got rid of Bruce Forsyth. Yes I know, national treasure and all that; I am after all a member of the "Why the hell hasn't Bruce Forsyth got a knighthood" group on Facebook. I was always a great admirer of this all-round entertainer, and saw his one man show when I was just 15.

But enough's enough: he's way past the retirement age and every year his chants of "doddery I am not" get less convincing. A really sharp male presenter (and not the ghastly Vernon Kay either) would do far more for the ratings than Muttley Dixon and her brushes.

John Torode's wig, more on stench pipes and is it cricket?

Now that I've mentioned stench pipes we're seeing them everywhere. Vaguely linked to the subject I am currently enthralled by my new book "The Big Necessity: Adventures in the world of human waste" by Rose George.

This is the last taboo subject, according to George, and her meticulously researched book challenges our assumption that decent sanitation is our right, whereas in many parts of the world it is still a privilege.

Does he wear a wig?


As I've mentioned before, Google searchers for Masterchef judge John Torode often end up here because I wrote about him many months ago. I notice that Google is still delivering but this time people are searching for "does John Torode wear a wig?"

Meanwhile Carol McGiffin (Loose Women) still delivers hits, both for her bare bottom and more recently for her engagement ring. Someone searching for "the biggest human bare bottom" also found themselves at my site and was probably sorely disappointed. No bare bottoms here.

It's not Cricket

It's not on that the England cricket team plays in Wales and the Welsh national anthem gets played. I guess it was inappropriate to play the British anthem, so in my view the match should have stayed in Old Trafford.

Kicking up a stink

It all started at the King's Head. Sitting in the window and staring out at the main road, and beyond it, two brand new semi-detached houses, I noticed a tall, old pipe similar to a lamp post, next to one of the houses.
"What's that?"
"Stench pipe," said J, authoritatively.
Well I had never heard of such a thing, although he assures me every house has one and they eliminate gases from the sewage system. I texted my mum Giz, who replied: "Cesspit? Dunno and don't want to know either".
I had to Google it and discovered that there are several Victorian stench pipes which are regarded rather as works of art and made Grade II listed buildings. Here is an example:

Although examples still exist, nowadays this type of stench pipe is now obsolete because every house nowadays has to have its vent pipe positioned discretely amid its plumbing. If the subject should intrigue you, as it does me, the Northern Echo has been writing about stench or stink pipes for a while.

My life in books

It's what old hacks call "the silly season," that period in summer when it goes very quiet except for the odd superstar's death. When I was a journo, it meant revisiting tedious stories about beasts of Exmoor.

In a nutshell it's a time when occasionally there's nothing much to write about.

I could tell you about our 10 day sojourn in Majorca except that it would be a brief post along the lines: 1) 8.30 had breakfast; 2) 9am bought papers; 3) applied suncream and sat on lounger; 4) went for lunch; 5) bought ice-cream; 6) sat in the shade reading; 7) had shower; 8) went out for dinner.

So instead I'm going to indulge myself by writing about my favourite books. They're my favourites of all time, so some may actually not be favourites now, if you get my drift, but were favourites a few years ago.

Not in any particular order:

1) Never No More by Maura Laverty
I have a weakness for whimsy and stories written from the guileless perspective of a child. This book combines both. Laverty was an Irish writer who was notable for cookery books. This is the charming account of life "in the bog" by 13 year old Delia who lives with her beloved gran who cooks treats like boxty in the pan. I've always thought it would make a wonderful film along the lines of Chocolat (perhaps because there are gipsies in the story.)

2)The Skin Chairs by Barbara Comyns
In a similar vein to (1), a child's perspective. Comyns was a wonderfully eccentric writer and hugely overlooked today (in my view). The chairs in question belonged to the Colonel, a gruff old gentleman living in the big house. And were they really made of skin, as the children had heard rumoured?

3) Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
I would happily consign all the Brontes to Room 101 except that I was crazy about this book when I was around 15. It's a real adolescent's treat, the idea of a plain but virtuous girl eventually winning the love of gruff old Mr Rochester (although he's blind by then so it's not a very good feminist message!).

4) The Women's Room by Marilyn French
When this first came out it had huge stickers on it saying "this book changes lives". It's a feminist tract about a woman from the 1950s, Mira, and how she overcomes the oppression of the life she chose for herself. You'll see by the way I worded that I don't have much time for the book now. I re-read it recently and wanted to shake Mira and tell her to get a grip.

5) Little Women by Louisa M Alcott
Predictable one this and boy did I adore it when I was aged 13 - 14, particularly as it was serialised on TV around that time. Although I too spent long hours upstairs writing stories, I didn't identify with Jo. I had a sneaking regard for Amy with her limes and her vanity (putting clothes pegs on her nose.) Re-reading the book, I am struck by how preachy and saccharine it is now that I am a seasoned old cynic.

6) The Long Walk by Slavomir Rawicz
The true story of Polish cavalry officer Slavomir Rawicz who was arrested by the Russians in 1939 and sentenced to 25 years' hard labour in the Gulags, for spying. After a three-month journey to Siberia in the depths of winter he escaped with six companions, realising that to stay in the camp meant almost certain death. They travelled on foot for over 40,000 miles in inhospitable places like the Gobi desert, and Rawicz saw the Yeti. A marvellous book.

7) The Elves & The Shoemaker (Ladybird)
Now I can still remember the first sentence: "Once upon a time there lived a shoemaker and his wife. They were very poor, and as time went on they grew poorer and poorer".
The reason it stuck with me is that this is the book that taught me how to read. I was a late starter (nowadays I would have been tested for dyslexia and no doubt sent to a special school) and it was my dad who taught me, painstakingly taking me through this book for weeks and weeks. In the end my mum reckoned I had memorised it, but one day I could suddenly read every word. After that moment, I became an insatiable reader and according to my teacher Mr Mogford, went immediately to Dickens (I doubt that myself although I remember clearly the next book I read which was about the tightrope walker Blondin and how he cooked an omelette halfway across Niagara Falls.)

8) Jude the Obscure by Thomas Hardy
I love all Hardy's books. To me they lack the twee rhythms of Dickens and paint breathtakingly realistic portraits of people rather than characters with silly names. I love Jude because we all know people like these: the shallow Arabella who ensnares Jude; his priggish cousin Sue; the well-intentioned but weak hero Jude. And the shock twist takes your breath away. It is also unrelentingly gloomy, another reason to cherish it.

9) I Sent a Letter to My Love by Bernice Rubens
I was introduced to the work of Rubens with this novel which came my way when I was a book reviewer on the South Devon Times (one of my better duties.) Rubens wrote very dark comedies and showed the tragedy of unlived lives. In this novel, a middle-aged brother and sister living together start corresponding to each other, unaware who they're writing to, and a romance develops by letter. Poignant and occasionally bittersweet.

10) Dragonfly: NASA and the Crisis Aboard Mir by Bryan Burrough
I don't just read fiction and this one was a surprise hit with me. I love reading about astronauts and space travel and this book is about the ill-fated Mir space station at the end of its 25 year life. I read open mouthed about a fire and a near-collision, plus the hideously cramped conditions for the cosmonauts who included Briton Michael Foale.

Will there ever be a true version of events?

Sitting on my sunbed and wading through the UK papers today, I am struck by the contradictions surrounding the life and death of Michael Jackson.

One paper quotes a "writer" who was "close" to the singer for the past five months, saying that Jackson was an anorectic homosexual pill popper who had a lung condition and could no longer sing and was preparing to mime his way through the O2 concerts.

Another paper quotes the respectable married osteopath and former child actor Mark Lester who was godparent to Blanket and apparently a good enough friend to Jackson to speak to him every week. He claimed when he saw Jackson in March he was fit, lively and looking forward to the O2 gigs. He ate fish and chips and didn´t seem troubled or neurotic.

We also read that around 50 people saw a rehearsal of the show a few days ago and Jackson was apparently at his best, singing with his own voice and dancing like a good ´un.

So who do we believe? It´s going to be increasingly difficult as the weeks go on and the louses/lice start crawling out of the woodwork. Former nannies, former doctors, former chauffeurs. Maybe if we´re lucky, former wives and Elizabeth Taylor.

I can´t say that Michael Jackson ever made much of an impression on me. I was too much a David Bowie fan and I thought he was a bit naff, the white gloves and moonwalking and shrieking. But I did try to get tickets for the O2 gigs and I couldn´t because the Ticketmaster site was down on the first day and after that I lose interest.

What I feel about him now is immense sympathy. A hugely talented boy, he said he was was brutalised by his father and teased by his brothers about his nose, and being so sensitive, it wasn´t water off a duck´s back like it usually is with family teasing. Convinced his childhood had been stolen and never at ease with adults he regressed to a world of children and chimps, and plastic surgery to change the way he looked. His interactions with children probably were quite innocent, although I expect any number of his former "friends" will be emerging to say the opposite, motivated by cash as Jordan Chandler and the others were. He seemed to be a naive and childlike character who hated swearing or raised voices.

It seems this frail, gentle character was mightily conned and abused in a different way by his advisors: lawyers, doctors, quacks, managers. Nobody seemed to give him straight advice and tell him to pull himself together and come off the meds. And now they´re all circling and I fear we will never know the real story.

Greetings from Majorca

Finally figured out how to get "@" on the Spanish keyboard of the hotel PC, which means I can log onto Blogger. Well to be honest J figured it out in 2 secs so I should have asked him sooner (smart ass.)

So here we are in the old people´s home, as we call it: the Hotel Miramar in Port de Pollenca. It´s quite novel to be viewed as a youngster. Being witn an ageing demographic has its advantages: not too many raves or noise at night. But there is an undignified rush to the sunbeds every morning. I tell you, this lot could take on Linford Christie when it comes to getting the towels down at ungodly times of the morning. And they´re all British so no excuses about Germans.

The day is spent sitting in the hotel´s patio area. Sadly, no pool. The brochure painted a picture of a sandy beach, which is true except that it´s more like a marina and the sea is so shallow, with awful weed on the bottom, that swimming is virtually impossible.

In the evening we take it in turns to find a different restaurant. Unfortunately we peaked too soon by selecting the best 2 places early on (our hotel plus Iru). We like to try the Majorcan specialities. There was a real bonus on Tuesday night when we saw Elvis performing at the Hotel Danai. He wasn´t a great Elvis to be honest, he only briefly mimed to some of the songs. He was a comedian and mercilessly teased the audience and drank their drinks, prompting three stumpets with seven euro cocktails to stalk out in high dudgeon and two Germans to escape, the woman snivelling.

As you will see from J´s comment in my last post, we were considering going on the Orange Blossom Trail but I decided against it because of my unsuitable footwear. I´m now mulling over a trip to the Caves of Drac which includes (more interestingly) a trip to the Majorica pearl factory. Talk about "give and take" is so far hitting a stone wall with J who keeps saying I should go on my own. He is not a great one for coach trips and says one cave looks the same as any other, although when pressed couldn´t reveal when he last went to a cave.

Bit of a cloudy start today so will be sitting with the antiques on the verandah with a cappuchino and the papers until the clouds clear.

Y Viva Espagna

We're off to sunny Spain.

Except that the forecast was an alarming "chance of rain" for Saturday and Sunday.

We always holiday in June and have always been lucky with the weather. Fingers crossed.

I find the process of going on holiday so stressful I really need the holiday once I get there. There's a constant cry of "what have you done with the.....?" "Have you seen the....?" in the morning as J starts charging endless numbers of gadgets. There's the cat to capture and transport to the cattery (and this morning she escaped from my clutches and it took me a while to recapture her). Then there's the bins to empty and any perishables to destroy. Long life milk to buy, as I have to have a cup of tea the minute I get home. Roses to dead head, plants to water.

We won't arrive until the early hours and then I will have to get up early because according to Trip Advisor, the hotel's sun bed spot on the beach only has four umbrellas so you have to get up early to bag them (yes I know it's bad but I couldn't tolerate the sun all day. And I did score as "partly German" on a Facebook quiz.)

You may find that a post appears as if by magic while I'm away, but that will be because I've scheduled one. I've been persuaded not to take a laptop with us and J keeps telling me I can use his new HTC smartphone thing (it's like an iPhone) but really, who would use one of those tiny keypads for fun?

Have fun dudes, see you soon!
Y Viva Espagna!

Is there anyone else who doesn't get "Withnail"?

The texts have been flying between Plymouth and London as various members of my family express increduality about the Sunday Times giving away a DVD of "Withnail & I", (along the lines "would anyone want it?") and, I notice today, devoting the front page of the Culture section to "A Messy Masterpiece".

You see, we have all tried to watch - and like - Withnail but we couldn't last beyond 30 minutes. Pretentious old tosh was the general conclusion.

It's not that we don't have a sense of humour. Your middle class lip may now curl when I share with you that we love Monty Python, "Clockwise," "Carry on Camping," "Mrs Doubtfire" and "The Great St Trinians Bank Robbery". The intellectuals among you are probably now sneering about obvious humour and low brow taste. That's as maybe (to quote Python). I take a more robust view which is that Withnail has somehow reached cult status, not because it is bad, (which is irony, and a good thing) but because it's one of those "emperor's new clothes" situations ("ENC").

Thanks to ENC, many movements, genres, artists and writers with only slight talent and frankly boring films have been elevated beyond their feeble status because it makes people feel good to think they "get" something that someone else doesn't.

I have a whole list of what I define as ENC:
1) Goat's cheese
2) Banksy
3) Malcolm Gladwell
4) Martin Amis
5) David Starkey
6) U2
7) Withnail & I
8) Green & Blacks
9) "The Bloomsbury set"
10) Myleene Klass
11) Ralph Lauren
12) Beth Ditto
13) Peaches Geldof
14) Cirque du Soleil

What do you think? Can I expect to see some stout rebuttals and defending of Withnail?

A sip of holy water

I'm skating on thin ice, as J has already said he doesn't want to be a figure of fun in my blog, but I have to recount the story of what happened to the holy water today.

Now his mum Marie, who sadly died a few months ago, gave us a bottle of holy water in January after we were burgled and told me I should sprinkle it in the corners of the house. Being brought up a Methodist, I am not au fait with the doings of holy water, hail Marys or trips to Lourdes, but willing to learn.

Anyway, conscious that the pad was about to be redecorated, I left the HW (in an unprepossessing plastic water bottle) on the window sill, intending to sprinkle it when the smell of new paint was in the air.

I noticed this morning it was missing from the window sill.
There it was, empty, next to J's bottle of vitamin pills.

He had glugged it down with his glucosamine.

He tried to brazen it out at first saying the water had evaporated, but then came clean and was fairly distraught - "who knows what's in that water?".

I was more distraught about Marie's legacy but J then pointed out a couple of drops in the bottle "and there would be no harm in topping it up from the tap, it won't alter the net result". I can see Marie rolling her eyes. 

Yasmina to win

I haven't blogged about the Apprentice at all this season because it's become so old hat and formulaic. But allow me to speculate on the winning duel between Yasmina and Kate.

Firstly, imagine trying to manage either of them. Good luck to whoever on Sir Alan's team ends up with that unenviable task.

I don't find either of them particularly endearing and neither of them would be much fun in the office, but at least Yasmina seems to have some fire in her belly. She's already an entrepreneur, having set up a restaurant with her brother.

What I particularly dislike about Kate is the way she chose to highlight how different she is from other women in her CV. She played to the stereotypes that a lot of people have about women in the workplace and tried to put herself on a pedestal as a woman unusual for being unemotional, not whingeing and moaning, etc. She was so unemotional she was quite happy to stitch up the gormless Philip in the boardroom, with whom she is apparently cavorting.

Well I've got news for you Kate but having managed people for over 20 years, women tend to work harder and get on with the job, whereas some men - not all - have a mission to advance by grovelling to senior managers, and lack empathy and intuition.

I've only had two women managers and one of them was the best manager I ever had in terms of mentoring and coaching (Carol Hindes at BT).

Men can be just as emotional as women. They might not cry in the office but they sulk and become petulant. The upshot of all this is that no-one is perfect, although Kate Walsh likes to think she is. So I'm backing Yasmina. It will be a real battle of two iron ladies, and whoever loses will probably lose because she's got the numpties in her team (James, Ben etc). I fear however that Sir Alan will still go for Kate because there will always be doubt in his mind that Yasmina needs his job.

Apathy rules today, ok?

The year I was 18, there were two elections (General and council), and I was so proud and thrilled to put my X on the ballot papers. I even did some canvassing for one of the parties, so newly minted and optimistic was my political confidence.

I have never not voted, a legacy of Mrs Pankhurst (we owe it to her) and a view that if we're lucky enough to live in a democracy, we must exercise our democratic rights.

But I won't be voting today in the European elections. I believe apathy and an appallingly low turn out will send a better signal to Mr Brown and the rest of the crooks (sorry: MPs) than voting for the opportunists who have sprung up calling themselves UK Independents, Monster Raving Loonies or whatever else. Vote for them if you like but they will be toothless and useless.

It's not just MPs' expenses I'm angry about because that's nothing to do with Europe. But the MEPs are getting a somewhat generous 47% pay rise which hasn't had much attention, That seems overly generous, even if they do get paid in euros, when most of us in the private sector have had pay rises of zero.

As for the MPs and their expenses. Words have occasionally failed me. It's the brass neck of the bufton tuftons who say haughtily they haven't done anything wrong, the system allowed these claims. That says nothing about their moral responsibilities. Duck houses, wisteria trimming, non-existent mortgages, bath plugs and charity donations. It would be a comedy if it wasn't so tragic.

I imagine the turnout today will either be derisory (it's usually poor for the European elections anyway) or the Independents will score massive wins. Whatever the country's verdict, it won't come a minute too soon. The Labour MPs who resigned yesterday and today fell on their swords too late. They should have done the decent thing the minute the Telegraph started its revelations. We're all heartily sick of the lot of them, whichever denomination they are. It's time for a fresh start.

Assorted Ramblings and a Horse Feeds Sighting

My regular reader will know that I used to recount my twice or thrice weekly journeys to Swindon and how I amuse myself by a) looking for certain lorries and b) casting the biggest film of all time in alphabetical order, getting extra points for "forgotten" stars (Debra Winger - pictured - Theresa Russell, Sharon Maiden,) and old stars (Olympia Dukasis, Joan Collins etc) and of course aiming to get a good demographic across the age groups.

Set off on Monday, 5.50am, sunny start, felt quite cheerful. Then: a phone call near Slough. "You realise you've forgotten your laptop?" I'd actually sorted out everything I needed for work the night before and laid all the bags near the front door, but somehow I had forgotten that crucial bag.

So I had to turn round at Slough and come home, which meant going through the new M25roadworks again but on the wrong side ("delays until summer 2010." Thanks guys). And by now, at 8.45am, it was too late to set off again because it would take ages.

Yesterday, laptop went in car first, ahead of the all the other stuff - the coffee mug, blueberries, a card for a baby, magazines for the team, sports bag (it goes with me but doesn't necessarily get used).

And as I toodled through those accursed roadworks between junctions 18 and 19, I saw a rare sighting: a Baileys Equine Horse Feeds lorry. Horse nutrition in the bag. It's the same one each time and it traverses the same route as me - M25, M4. But lately I haven't seen it so assumed the driver had a new schedule. Oh joy, the old nags are getting their oats. All is well with the world!

My mind was pleasantly flitting around from one subject to the next:
1) Strawberries getting less popular? (News item). Not surprised if they measured it up to April. Those ghastly out-of-season apologies for strawberries. I don't know what all the fuss is about with strawberries. My berry of choice is the raspberry. Always delicious, even out-of-season. I'm obsessed with raspberries this year having discovered a particular type at Sainsbury's - Tulameen - which is to die for, with a dollop of Greek yoghurt.
2) Need to remember how to do that delegate thing with SAP before my holiday.
3) What will I have for dinner tonight?
4) Will I get to see Mary Queen of Charity Shops tonight or will J inflict Sharpe on me yet again? (The 2nd TV is out of action.)

All heavyweight intellectual stuff as you can see.

Journey passed uneventfully, 2 hours owing to earlier start time, 2.5 hours on the way home. No further sightings of Bailey's, Dentressangle or Wilkinson's. Didn't to see Mary, but Sean Bean wasn't the culprit. It was a dreadful film called "Fool's Gold" with Matthew McConnaughey who is the same in every picture. Avoid that one folks.

Life will never be the same for poor Susan

As Slumdog Millionaire drew to its close and we sat in a fairly stunned silence, as you do at the end of a marvellous film, I realised we might catch the last 15 minutes of Britain's Got No Talent.

We hardly watched any of it except for 30 mins earlier in the week when we wanted to see what all the fuss was about with Susan Boyle. She must have been very nervous because her voice was tremulous and lacked control for half of the song but then she pulled it together.

Anyway, I hadn't seen Diversity in that brief 30 min snatch, so I was amazed to see a group of dancers had beaten Susan. The boys were thrilled about their win and how it will change their lives, but I think, sadly, their moment of fame will be the Royal Variety Performance and then guest appearances in summer shows on various piers. I can't imagine Simon Cowell will be rubbing his hands with glee at the prospect of a group of male dancers.

Of course he will be rubbing his hands at the prospect of Susan Boyle. His work is already half done because she is already a global phenomenon. I expect he and his people have already mapped out what they expect to do with her, and the planned duration of her career. Maybe an album, a live tour? Then dropped like a hot brick.

Susan seems a confident jolly person on TV but the reality, as presented in various tabloids last week, is that she is vulnerable and coping badly with this sudden fame. Four letter outbursts and the police being called was one lurid story. I hope she has good people guiding her because fame the Cowell way is often fleeting and contracts are probably very unfair to the naive performer.

Can't move for poets

I've always claimed to enjoy poetry but if the truth is told, my knowledge is fairly sketchy and concentrated mainly on those we studied at school - Larkin was the highlight - and a few others including Ted Hughes, Sylvia Plath, Wilfred Owen, John Masefield and Paul Durcan.

So, shocking gaps (sorry Mrs Bush) and I certainly won't be making Faber & Faber rich. Coincidentally, upon learning about the BBC's Poetry Season, it seemed that suddenly poets were all around us, to quote Wet Wet Wet. In one issue of the Times, Chris Woodhead mentioned his favourite poet Geoffrey Hill. Alice Oswald was reviewed. Carol Ann Duffy became Poet Laureate. And there wss an obituary of one Ursula Fanthorpe, poet aged 79.

I was ashamed not to know any of those poets, not even Carol Ann, so I have requests flying out on Read It Swap It and I've been perusing Ebay. I've discovered dozens of poetry websites- whatever would we do without the internet! Poem Hunter has a top 500 poems and the top 10 is quite baffling, including a Roger McGough (brother of Lily the Pink?) and a Roald Dahl, and topped by Maya Angelou.

On the subject of the BBC's Poetry Season, there was a programme where children recited poems, won by an Iranian born boy for whom English is a swcond language. Heart warming indeed. But I don't think I'll ever be able to listen to Masefield's Sea Fever ever again. I will always remember the theatrical arm movements and earnest gurning of some of the competitors. "I MUST go down to the seas again".....

Bank holiday mixed fortunes

That's mixed fortunes as opposed to mixed fancies, a la Blenda Blethyn. For J it was a very good weekend. He ran the Hatfield Oak 10k in a record time and believes the older he gets, the faster he gets. So there's hope for everyone.

It was a good weekend too for the cat. She managed to bag both a mouse and a bird yesterday, although I was a bit distraught to find the blue tit still in its death throes. Both were carefully parcelled up and removed (by me).

It was an OK weekend for me: I did manage to get J to go to a carpet store and, thanks to the fact that I generally make up my mind very quickly when shopping, made the purchase in record time so he didn't have time to start huffing and puffing.

But there was also a lot of toil involved: tidying, ironing, shopping, hoovering. Buying and planting some goodies for the garden. Clearing out the spare room. Trying to find homes for everything that was in the spare room, without the house looking like Steptoe's Yard.

To his credit, J did spend most of yesterday in said spare room installing power sockets. Now he is in "research phase heaven," the most prized state of existence for a man. It's when they've been given the go-ahead to research getting a new electrical appliance, and means he can start surfing the web in earnest and looking at all the reviews. This will hopefully keep him so preoccupied I'll be able to watch Springwatch without a fight.

Justice for the abused children in Ireland

It's a terrible, depressing story: endemic sexual abuse across boys' institutions in Ireland. Girls supervised by orders of nuns, chiefly the Sisters of Mercy, suffered much less sexual abuse but frequent assaults and humiliation designed to make them feel worthless.

The enquiry has taken nine years to complete and it's probably too late to bring to justice a lot of the perpetrators.

But let's not forget that these vile inhuman people claimed to be Catholics, so under their own system of beliefs, those who sin burn forever in Hell.

I wonder if they thought about that at the time?

Carol McGiffin's bare bottom

The traffic stats for this blog make amusing reading in terms of the search words that sometimes bring visitors here.

Some poor schmuck arrived after a hopeful search for Miss McGiffin's bare bottom. I once wrote about how she would make a great dinner party guest. It seems she has a tantalizing effect on the male. Many seekers of "Carol McGiffin naked" have also found their way to these pages.

I was sharing some search word secrets recently with Bill Blunt on the tags that really pull in the visitors. Real crowd pleasers. For me it's Elizabeth Hurley's Indian wedding and John Torode. Check out Bill's blog where he shamelessly featured both of them in a most amusing post.

Torode doesn't seem to have a website of his own so hapless searchers find themselves looking at my scathing review of his restaurant, Smiths at Smithfield. As for Hurley, I remember writing about the overkill nature of her nuptials but wasn't expecting it to be such a rich source of page views. My prediction for Hurley is that she and Arun will probably not be together this time next year. Then I shall write about Liz Hurley's Indian divorce.

As for Torode, he was eclipsed somewhat on the recent Masterchef "professional cooks" variation where Michel Roux Jnr joined the "ingredients expert" (grocer) Gregg Wallace. Torode does a good line in smacking his chops and nodding but Roux was more knowledgeable about the technicalities. So I predict Torode may be spending more time in the kitchen.

Other search words that continue to deliver are: Sharon Maiden (who featured in the seminal comedy "Clockwise," and is often Googled by people who've seen the film and wonder what happened to her); single men with cats (as if it's a nasty illness), bottle stalls, and the world's largest horse circa 1968. Whose name still escapes me. If only I could get the answer.

It's a bit depressing really. Hardly Goethe is it? For eternity my blog ramblings will be posted, espousing on such superficialities as the Eurovision song contest, single men with cats and conundrums like why do teapots always leak. Actually I've never written on the latter but it does trouble me, so perhaps this is my next topic de jour.

Eurovision Yawn

For the 3 years in which I have tirelessly kept a weblog, I have become known as an expert on the Eurovision Song Contest. The one blogger bold enough to challenge the voting system and to declare the UK entry rubbish each year.

So my silence on the 2009 extravaganaza has surprised my reader. In fact my brother texted me indignantly to say he had missed the first semi-final, having been unaware it was on - because I hadn't told him via the esteemed pages of this blog.

To tell the truth I will miss the final on Saturday so I have gone cold turkey on the whole thing. I won't be watching the second semi tonight, and I missed the first one.

In terms of our chances, well, the song's a dirge, performed by a screamer, but at least it was written by someone famous so the East Europeans can't sneer. And I gather that Jade Ewen (pictured) has been on a European tour to try to boost our chances. Plus there's a change to the voting so countries will have panels in a return to the good old days, but there will still be a phone vote so the money comes gushing in. And let's face it, BT needs the revenue.

Anyway, let me share this nugget from the first semi-final. The following countries are through!
Turkey
Sweden
Israel
Portugal
Malta
Finland
Bosnia and Herzegovina
Romania
Armenia
Iceland

Unfortunately that does mean Belgium is out. Sorry Kurt and Nicky. Of course we, Germany, France and Spain go through automatically because we pay for the damn thing. The Netherlands feature in tonight's. May the best dirge win.

The Renee Award

As they used to say on "That's Life!, I am indebted to Melissa at Smitten by Britain for awarding me a new blog award, the Renee Award. It was created by Bella in Japan in memory of her friend Renee and is intended to "honour someone who is incredibly inspirational in her intelligent and witty writing."

Well, I will pass the baton to Maddie Grigg at The World from My Window, life in rural Dorset with wit and panache. Maddie and I trained together as journalists in another life and we're seeing each other next weekend for the first time in seven years. There will no doubt be much reminiscing about the house we used to share in Plymouth with its outside toilet (not much fun when it snowed) and the curious shower in a cupboard.

And I will also award the Renee to my friend Lucy at Thoughts and Worries from the Wrong Side of the Hill. Lucy writes in a mouth drooling way about restaurants and food - and thanks to her I discovered the wonderful restaurant Caldesi in Campagna (Bray) which knocks spots off The Fat Duck, also in the same location.

I am perched on a shooting stick

I'm in the forest sitting on a shooting stick (surprisingly comfortable) with a monopod between my legs, waiting for the runners to come by. Perfect weather for the Orion Harriers Summer Handicap, a five mile run. J actually won this two years ago and it was a proud moment when he collected the cup at the prize giving event.

But this year he did too well in another race (came third) so his handicap was reduced. I've advised him to be rubbish at all their other races so he gets the best possible handicap. He was fifth when he came past me, with a mile to go, so a good performance anyway.

I'm not sure how J would judge my performance with the camera, normally his role if he doesn't run. I thought some of them were quite good but he muttered very darkly about how I had positioned myself near horse poo and he had to edit it out of every photo. And some of the runners weren't in focus (sorry Ann) but I blame the camera for that. More photos here.

As always J turned to me at the end and said "they're a nice crowd aren't they? You should join," which is his eternal plea, but there is one drawback: I would have to run. And after being told that I run like Tiny Tim, ie on tip toes, this is as likely as a snowstorm in June.

Silly Commuting - a guide for beginners

I mentioned to J last night that I would be blogging about the cycling hierachy and the way he and cycle-to-workers (male) go to extraordinary lengths to overtake each other.

He was adamant that he shouldn't become a figure of fun in my blog, but I insisted stoutly that he has the right of reply in the comments section.

J is obsessed about his cycling and recently used his cycle-to-work purchase scheme voucher to buy the hybrid bike of his dreams, a Cannonsdale Bad Boy. This decision was made after weeks of vacillating between the Bad Boy and the Boardman, and briefly, another brand whose name escapes me which fell out of favour when the salesman told J it was a "sit up and beg bike, not the high peformer he should be looking at".

Equipped with his new bike J has since purchased some strange and to my mind lethal shoes which attach themselves to the pedals. When he stops, he has to release his feet from the pedals. Some weird sunglasses arrived today. Then there is the fancy gold standard lock, the helmet with a prism mirror that enables him to see who's approaching from behind; shorts with what looks like a nappy in the bottom, and a whole raft of fluorescent bits and pieces, water bottles and ruc sacks of various sizes that he carries his work shirt in.

Apparently there's a known hierachy in the cycling world depending on the type of machine, the way the cyclist is dressed, how hairy their legs are, their age and the way they're cycling. It's known as Silly Commuting Racing and you can check it out here. The whole purpose is basically "to attract birds." J describes himself as an 8 and sometimes comes home cock-a-hoop having raced a 2 ("a roadie with shaved legs") and emerged the victor.

As he painstakingly explained in the King's Head last night, there are certain rules to this informal challenging. You can't go on the pavement (a relief for we pedestrians) and you can't use the traffic lights as an excuse to pull away faster. And very important, you shouldn't show any pain (unless your face looks that way anyway.)

Apparently it doesn't apply to women cyclists unless a) they have hairy legs and b) they're Nicole Cook.

I'm glad to see Gordon Brown is worrying about the cyclists on our roads, but it seems they have a kamikaze streak in their DNA. It's always a relief to me when I hear the ping of J's bell as he signals his arrival when he gets home at night.

Readers: do you spend a fortune on books?

I read all the time. I even carry a "spare" paperback with me to ward off the nightmare situation of being in any sort of delay with no reading matter. At night while J watches Sharpe endlessly, I read.

Not only do I read a lot, but I read very quickly. People are sceptical about this but I stoutly contest that if we both took a GCSE on the subject matter, I would do as well as the plodder who takes weeks to finish a book.

I study reviews in the papers and sometimes order a book based on what I've read, without having seen the book in question. This quite often applies to hardbacks I just Have to Have, the most recent being The Book of the Interwar and Edwardian House, Wetlands (couldn't wait for the paperback) and The Pleasures and Sorrows of Work.

The trouble with all this reading is that it's an expensive hobby. But let me share my three Top Tips for getting hold of books and reducing your EU Book Mountain without spending a fortune.

1. Swap your books. I do this informally via colleagues at work. I hit a rich seam in Nicky but unfortunately she's in Belgium and our travel restrictions mean that we rarely see each other now. I have a huge pile of her books to return. I also use Read It Swap It, an excellent UK swapping website.

I'm now a "super swapper" on there, having swapped over 100 books. I don't keep my book list activated all the time - only when I want a particular book or if I'm starting my holiday pile. For a two week holiday, I need a book a day, unless it's a huge book, so I start gathering books and piling them up in readiness.

I can't bear books that look shabby or well thumbed so I only opt for swaps where the book is described as "like new" or in excellent condition with no damage. I once went for a book described as "acceptable" and it was so disgusting it went straight in the bin.

It's amusing to put a hot new book on there and see what a feeding frenzy you start. Be very picky then about the book you want in return - you'll have plenty of choice.

If there's a book you want, and it's just come out in paperback or airport edition, add it to your wishlist and then you'll be notified when someone has it to swap.

Make sure you get very good quality wrapping supplies. I recently bought some cut price brown paper and tape and one of my books was damaged in transit. I always use bubble wrap on hardbacks because their edges pierce brown paper.

And on Read It Swap It, make sure you communicate to the swappee if you're going to be late posting. People can get surprisingly antsy about this and hand out a bad rating. I've had a couple of "oh no!" moments where I realised I no longer have a book that I've just agreed to swap, but I find that if you're quick to make contact and offer them another book, people are satisfied.

2. Sell your books. I use Amazon to sell pristine hard backs. Quite often, reading the book once is enough for me. I don't need to keep it. So I sell it on Amazon. A very easy process and you'd be surprised what prices certain books can command.

3. Give them away. I like the idea of Book Crossing, where you leave books on public transport and in cafes and track their progress, but I find it a bit irksome having to buy the labels and register the books. Instead I just take them to the charity shop, although some of them don't like getting books so you have to make sure you choose the right one.

I'm conscious there's a fourth option which is go to the library, but while I used to do this, I've never joined the local library. I was put off when they insisted on three forms of identification. I'd taken my driving licence and passport and couldn't believe they wanted to see a utility bill as well. But my mum is an avid library goer and when I'm going down there for a visit, she accumulates her own pile for me.

Much needed revisionism for Anne of Cleves

I have long been fascinated by Henry VIII's fourth wife, Anne (or more correctly, Anna) of Cleves. The famous Holbein portrait, which captivated the fat middle-aged king, hangs in my dining room much to J's chagrin.

Most people know the story: enthralled by the portrait, Henry agreed to marry Anna, a German princess, without ever having seen her. She came over to England in a long journey, was rapturously received by the public, and then rejected by Henry for being ugly, smelly and dull witted, as told by various historians.

I have always pondered though on the fact that Anna stayed in England, was given several palaces and continued to dine with Henry. In those times of political skullduggery and intrigue she must have had great skills of tact and diplomacy.

When Henry abruptly divorced her, she wasn't sent home but as his "sister" was given lavish homes including Hever, which belonged to one of her predecessors Ann Boleyn. She made sure she didn't offend Henry by sending him a sweet note after the divorce which flattered him to think she actually loved him.

Anna became an expert cook and gardener, befriending Henry's two daughters Mary and Elizabeth. She even graciously received Katherine Howard, the foolish teenage girl who followed her, and became a confidante and friend of Henry.

She was laid to rest in Westminster Abbey, not hidden away, as befits a queen. And she remained, along with Katherine of Aragon, the only queen of Henry's that the English people loved.

So I was thrilled to read a book by one of my favourite writers, Mavis Cheek, who explores Anna's life and the injustices served upon her by the mostly misogynistic
male historians, one of whom saddled her with the description "Flanders Mare".

As Cheek recounts in the novel Amenable Women, partly spoken by Anna, she had been very positively described and received by dozens of courtiers and ambassadors before she was rejected by Henry. She very quickly learnt English and some of the skills needed at court as she travelled over to England. She was equally as repulsed by Henry as he appears to have been by her. He was vastly obese by this stage and had a suppurating leg. A far cry from the Henry served up by Jonathan Rhys Meyers in The Tudors.

The Holbein portrait of Anna is one of the most marvellous pictures, full of hidden language and signs. It is far more evocative to me than the portrait of the Mona Lisa which only draws our eye because she is missing her eyebrows.

I hope that future historians will start to get the story right as far as Anna of Cleves is concerned. She was the great survivor, the queen who kept her head despite displeasing the king, and who went on to win the hearts of many. Sadly she died at 40, but as Cheek's novel explains, she was honoured 40 years later by the elderly Queen Elizabeth. A wonderful read.

Uproar in the allotments

If you think Facebook and Twitter are the current big thing, well you're sadly mistaken. It would seem that gardening, allotments, bee keeping and chickens are what's hip and happening. I've lost track of the number of people who have mentioned they indulge in one or more of the above. I would love one of those cute little Egloos, but so would Molly (pitured). Bee keeping will be my retirement pastime. Let's hope bees are not extinct by then.

Gardening does delight me, or rather, the buying of plants and containers and the photographing of results. Digging and weeding is less appealing, as is pest control (spraying, slug removal etc). My gran used to snip the slugs in half with a pair of scissors but I'm far too squeamish for that. I'd like to say that I use nematodes but you can't beat a good handful of slug pellets.

With gardening becoming so trendy, there is naturally quite a lot of snobbery. Apparently a lot of the old guard, who use Latin names when snapdragons would suffice, are up in arms about the new format of Gardener's World, where we are now shown how to sow seeds and create raised beds, and, gasp, there was even a feature on gnomes.

My solution is very simple. Keep Gardener's World the way it's always been, for the serious gardeners, and branch out with some new gardening progammes for novices. There will be more of us growing vegetables, so why not get in early?
My vote is to bring back Charlie Dimmock. We haven't seen nearly enough of her lately. Just Charlie, though. We don't need Tommy Walsh, decking or water features. A few veg, some raised beds and how to grow blueberries and goji berries would be very appealing. And maybe one or two gnomes.

TV cruelty

I chanced upon the first programme on ITV of "Britain's Biggest Loser," and boy do I wish I hadn't.

In Victorian times people paid money to watch bearded ladies, the morbidly obese or people with afflictions like The Elephant Man. We now use TV as our medium to gasp and point, but now they don't get paid, unless you count the miserly £10k prize for whoever loses the most weight. And we call it progress?

The concept of the show is just awful. These poor people have heart rending stories like having footprints on their skirts because of being kicked in the street, and not going on holiday because of the potential embarrassment of aeroplane seats.

Instead of being treated with dignity and respect, and given counselling to overcome addiction, they're bullied and humiliated by two ferocious personal trainers, one of whom screams "you've treated your body like a dustbin all your life and now your body says it's payback time!" When they're weighed, the men have to take their shirts off to give the viewers additional titillation.

There doesn't seem to be much in the way of nutritional advice either. It's all about gruelling 4 hour training sessions resulting inevitably in vomiting and hospitalisations that allow the trainers to sigh and roll their eyes about the weakness and sloth of their charges.

Of course at the end of eight weeks, when one or two of them 'triumph,' it'll be smiles and hugs and talk of journeys.

But eight weeks is nothing --- if you're 26 stone you may lose, what, five? You're still be morbidly obese. And it's not long enough to handle the psychological issues or to change the habits of a lifetime.

Michael Parkinson was wrong when he wrote scathingly about Jade Goody representing all that was bad about modern TV. It's shows like Britain's Biggest Loser, which vilify and allow others to feel smug. Jade may not have known where East Angular was but she made a better living than she ever would have done as a dental nurse. For some of the people on Britain's Biggest Loser, this crass show may be their only chance to live beyond 30.

We should be looking seriously at ways to stem the obesity epidemic. Top of my list would be reinstating cookery lessons and PE in schools and stopping retailers and fast food outlets from supersizing everything.

Top five footballers

Now here's a turn-up. Curious Girl Writes About Football shock. I was intrigued when a friend, Fred Landergren, published his Top Five Footballers of All Time on Facebook.

I had a think about it and came up with: George Best, Ruud Gullit, Thierry Henri, Sepp Maier (pictured now, aged 65), Paul Gascoigne. Now I wouldn't say any of them are on the list because of their footballing skills per se. No, it's more of a charisma rating. I couldn't comment on footballing skills because I find football so deathly dull.

It wasn't always so.

Back in the radio years, I was a bit of a pioneer because I was one of the first women to broadcast about football. The reporters' box at Home Park (ground of Plymouth Argyle FC) was an all-man zone until I turned up, and the first time I did my tentative first report, there was a sudden hush as they all listened to me. Over time they came to accept "the bird," and even to share the half-time broken biscuits with me.

I started doing the match reports at home matches and the Thursday "what's the team news?" report. I got to know the two managers of that time, Bobby Moncur and John Hore and even "broke" the news of Moncur's sudden departure.

I was sent to Plainmoor (Torquay United) to interview their new manager, Dave Webb. He kept me waiting for ages, on a Sunday when my shift had finished, so when he breezed in saying "do you know anything about football love?" I testily replied (mindful of their position at the bottom of the table) "yes, do you?"

Anyway, the football reporting came to an abrupt halt when PAFC reached the semi-finals of the FA cup and I was bounced from doing any match reporting in favour of The Guys.

Phrases like "sick as a parrot" or "game of two halves" were never to fall from my lips again. And I haven't watched the game ever since.

A great time and a great day

London Marathon, the aftermath

Firstly, J has told me to 'fess up and report that he was right, the elite runners' drinks station manned by his running club IS a brilliant vantage point.

I found it with no problems this year thanks to Google Street Map.

There were just a few elite runners' drinks to deal with, and they're simply laid out on the table, not handed to the runners (phew). Some of them have all manner of decoration to make them stand out to their gasping owner. This extravagant tinsel number unfortunately went unclaimed.

Sorting out the drinks
I was able to see J twice from this position and because he knew where I was, he waved and danced around, looking slightly unhinged in some of the photos.

He did a great time considering it was hot and he'd been injured a few weeks ago, and even managed to beat his brother-in-law Don, below, a hot shot runner, by a minute.

After seeing J the second time, at 35km, we then set off for Horseguards and the "family repatriation area". J had already finished before we got there and was leaving me breathless voicemails giving me different locations for his whereabouts. But eventually we were reunited and the final picture taken with the medal.

J said (somewhat inscrutably): "I was in a great pen and we had a fast start. I kept my pace and finished higher in the field than I ever have before. The pressure's off now that I've done my four hours and the world's top 10, so I just wanted to enjoy it".

He's now having a snooze before hitting the Royal Forest tonight for a few well earned beers with the other finishers. Well done to everyone who crossed the finish line!

London Marathon day

It's the big day! J has been gorging on pasta for several days like a goose being fattened up for foie gras. I've just dropped him off at the running club where they're getting a coach to the start.

His bag is packed, he's got his number, and I've activated the SMS runner tracking service on my phone.

I'm pretty confident that this year R and I will find the elite runners' drinks station where we will see him at 14 and 21 miles. I followed the actual route from Shadwell DLR station via Google Street Map. So that's one reason why it's useful.

You might catch a glimpse of me if you're watching the race on TV because the elite runners' drinks stations are separate to the normal drinks stations and if the TV cameras are focusing on the elite runners, they're usually out in the lead (the nature of the beast). I will be wearing a bright pink coat and jumper.

The weather is good for spectating - it's a sunny but cold start, with temps forecast to reach 17 to 19. A bit too warm for the runners though. Better than last year, when it rained quite heavily and I couldn't put my umbrella up.

Time now to make the sandwiches.

Back with photos later.

Clothes Crisis

6am: woken by pitious miaows of cat outside bedroom window, on roof of lean-to. Foolish beast, she refused to come in last night. "Out ratting," suggested J, whose view on the cat is that it belongs outside at all times.

J had a day off, getting ready for the London Marathon on Sunday. He rushed off to the expo as soon as it opened to get his number and to peruse the overpriced London 09 branded sportswear. It's the only time he goes into a clothes shopping frenzy. I have seen him buy, oh, three sports tops and as many as five pairs of socks.

He forgot to get me any socks, even though I texted him. (To which he will reply: "But I got you some dirt!" And yes, he did buy me a bag of compost which he always mysteriously calls "dirt" so Mustn't Grumble I suppose, even if it would be up there on the Chris Evans list of strange presents).

Meanwhile I was preparing to go into town (London) for a meeting and having a fully fledged Clothes Crisis. These are particularly likely at crossover times, eg when the seasons are changing or the one or two days that constitute summer are happening earlier than expected. Eeek! Suddenly it feels too warm for opaque tights and black, but it's not warm enough for the full summer panoply of cream, florals, bare legs and exposed toes.

The crisis was compounded, ladies, by all my trousers mysteriously becoming half mast overnight. I had several pairs shortened recently at the very helpful dry cleaner's, but I fear they mistook centimetres for inches and now my trousers are all the cropped variety, which as Trinny and Susannah will tell you, do nothing for those below 5'11.

Anyway, eventually I set off in "greige" suit and the brown high heeled shoes I told Wendy I never wear to London (too uncomfortable), and resolved to go shopping tomorrow. Yes, there's nothing for it - Bluewater it must be. Wish me luck!

Chef Talk

I don't know about you but I'm finding The Apprentice a tad dull this year. Do you know, last night I didn't even watch it...I was with Hell's Kitchen and the surprisingly touching departure of Bruce Grobelaar. You may have noticed that I haven't been blogging about each episode of The Apprentice as I did previously (hello Katie!).

It's just too much the same. Same challenges, same type of people and same conclusion.

Having mentioned Hell's Kitchen I'm staying with kitchens and chefs to report on one programme I am enjoying, The Great British Menu. It's a delightful little daily soupcon.

The premise is: the nation's finest chefs compete to honour the men and women from all three forces serving in Afghanistan with a glorious homecoming dinner that captures the authentic tastes of home.

This week's Northern Ireland regional heat is particularly fascinating. The two competing chefs are worlds apart. Clare Smyth is head chef at the Michelin three starred Restaurant Gordon Ramsey in London, and Danny Millar runs a gastro pub called Belloo House. He was the winner of this heat last year, but this is Clare's first time and her classical training and use of luxurious ingredients shows her pedigree.

The fascinating thing to see will be the judging tomorrow. Even Clare seemed thrown by Danny's delicious looking (and apparently tasting) steak, oyster and ale pie yesterday. I would have preferred it to her spring lamb on a solid bed of Irish stew. Tonight it's desserts and he is preparing an interpretation of rhubarb and custard (not a favourite of mine), while Clare is preparing an intricate Irish coffee. That's more up my street.

Marathon Madness

This time next Sunday I will not be sat complacently at the PC in my dressing gown. Oh no. I will be fearlessly traversing the Docklands Light Railway to find my vantage point for J's 19th marathon here in London.

Of all the marathons he's done - and they include the world's top 10 - London ranks as My Worst One.

Last year he attempted to install me and R (his daughter) at an elite runners' drinks station, courtesy of his running club. The logic was that we'd only have to hand out a few elite drinks at the start of the marathon and then we'd get to see him twice and have a great vantage point for pictures.

Problem was, I was vaguely pointed in the direction of the drinks station and I never found it. We found many other drinks stations but not this particular one. And by then it was time for the marathon so it was too late. From my POV we had an excellent situation near a pub, which meant there were Quavers and Facilities on tap.

But J was furious and still brings it up to this day. So next week I fear we will set off at 5am just so he can deposit us at the drinks station. And then I will be terrified that I'll drop the special drink for Paula Radcliff or the other elite runners.

After we've done the elite drinks bit, we're under strict instructions to make our way to the finish, where we've very little chance of seeing anything, and then to meet him in the "family reunion area," which you can find easily because of a strong prevailing smell of embrocation.

We go through a curious ritual where I have to wrest his clothes off and force feed him bananas and Gatorade, and depending on his time, he will either smile and do a little dance or bark at me "hurry up! Stop messing around!" when I take the traditional photo of him with his medal.

I've often contemplated doing the marathon myself just to get revenge. Let J find out how tiring it is skimming thousands of runners to identify him as he trundles by for a fleeting second! And then to make sure he takes a perfectly focused picture. And not just once, but in several locations!

But after two jogging sorties in the past fortnight, I am now nursing Runner's Knee (which made J snort with laughter) so I'm unlikely to be challenging him in the marathon stakes.

Thrilling discoveries

It's been a while since I had a good old nose round the blogosphere. Lately it's been enough just to read the updates of a handful of my blogging friends (some of whom I've never met, but they seem like friends). A year or so ago though, I was an avid surfer, forever scanning Technorati and other sites to try to find intelligent and humorous UK blogs.

Well, yesterday I stumbled across all kinds of riches, simply by visiting one of my blogging pals, checking out her blogging pals and so on. It's like peeling an onion.

So let me introduce you to:
1) Private Secret Diary or, Norfolk village life exposed (a rival for Maddie Grigg). Latest posting: "I go to the village shop".
2) Menopausal Old Bag, who writes beautifully but is, darn it, far too well known in the blogosphere with dozens of followers and awards;
3) Non-working monkey, who lives in French Canada but is English. I love his "genuine plaudits" which include "Daddy wants to spank the monkey", Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber, and "I would," Nigella Lawson;
4) The Gossamer Woman, whose posting about how she visited her grandparents, made an effort to look nice but was told that short hair on a woman was manly, made me smile because it's exactly what my grandma used to say to me. "I don't know why you don't have a perm" she would say, and now I cringe to think that it's the type of thing I long to say to teenagers who have spent hours straightening their hair.

I also tapped into a rich seam of granny bloggers: Nuts in May and Granny on the Web.

These blogs are so well written and in many cases amusing. It's a privilege to get these insights into the lives of other people.

Groundhog Day

I must confess to never having seen the film Groundhog Day but I know roughly what it's about and today, Easter Monday, was my Groundhog Day.

I'm not saying it hasn't been a great day: a walk in the wood, finding that the secret bluebell wood is in full flower, and having lunch at a country pub.

But it's exactly what we did last year, as I created two scrapbook layouts at the time.

The trouble is, J can only really tolerate one bank holiday and a weekend. Two bank holidays seems excessive for his puritan streak. Any suggestions of going to Southend or dare I mention it, Hampton Court to see the new Henry VIII exhibition, and I get a wince of Victor Meldrew proportions. Neither was he keen to wield a paint brush, tidy out the shed or go up in the loft (all manly pursuits).

But getting him to go for a walk to the Owl and to check on the progress of the bluebll wood, well he was out like a shot.

I did make sure I was dressed differently for this year's pictures.

The best time of year

Easter is a lovely time of the year. Two delicious days off seem to creep up on us without much warning and it usually augers the start of warm weather; the opening of attractions and stately homes for the summer season; the smell of grass and a feeling of optimism.

I much prefer Easter to Christmas. Easter has not been spoiled by over-commercialism, despite Sainsbury's efforts to only stock the giant Easter eggs this year - they are determined to supersize everything, at the expense of the nation's girth, to boost their profits.

Easter doesn't have the "gimme gimme" baggage which Christmas was blighted with many years ago. It's a relaxing peaceful time.

I often wish Easter had more traditions going for it other than hot cross buns, Easter eggs and simnel cakes (I bought my mum a wonderful cake from the famous Betty's of Harrogate). I saw a beautiful Easter wreath in one of the magazines but unfortunately it has sold out. And I regret the fact that religious TV programming has all but disappeared. No wonder the kids of today have no idea about why they get two days off. Schools are forever trying to be so "PC" that any traditions or religious or cultural nuances attached to this country are frowned upon.

So whatever you're doing this Easter, may it be going to church, gardening, crafting (!) or trying to keep querulous kids amused, have fun!

Mind the Gap

I have long been fascinated by the architecture of Britain's houses. Not the "Grand Designs" type of architect designed one-offs, but the roads of terraced houses, Victorian and Edwardian houses; the different gables, the stained glass, the tiles. I've been looking for a book that explains all the history and traditions for some time and have finally found one, a new book, The Book of The Edwardian and Interwar House by Richard Russell Lawrence.

Our house dates from the 20s (or so I thought, but a neighbour told me they were flattened in the war and rebuilt in the 1950s). I was thrilled to find similar looking houses in the Interwar section known as "tooth and gap" houses. These were built speculatively in developing areas and feature overhanging eaves above bay windows. The plan of the house was asymmetrical but, built as a semi-detached pair, it developed into the pattern which would become known as "tooth and gap".

Despite its more recent heritage our house retains some of the original stained glass in a side window (pictured).The last owners attempted to replicate the design when they selected new windows but the result is not very sympathetic.

There are no other original features except for a ceiling rose. I would love to turn back the clock and reinstate a black and white tiled hallway and appropriate fireplaces, but given that the "drawing room" now looks like an extension of Comet, (J's description) I fear this would also look unsympathetic.

(NB. On the subject of "Mind the Gap," do you think the woman who was hired to deliver the message in the tube stations gets paid royalties?).

The Barack & Michelle Show

What a week, with the G20 Summit in London and pictures everywhere of Michelle Obama hugging people and (joyously) upstaging the uptight Carla Bruni. Not to mention the Queen and her celebrated dismissal of Italy's Berlusconi who apparently screeched "Mr Obama! I'm Silvano Berlusconi!"

The Obamas seem an amazing couple, so warm and friendly and always knowing the right thing to say. When she met a young woman with cancer, and her young children, Michelle immediately pulled them close for a hug.

I hope they didn't get the wrong impression of the UK with the protesters and riots in the City. It was mainly an excuse for the crusties or anarchists, whatever they call themselves, to have a go at the police. When you saw the close-ups of bloodied and snarling faces it looked very much like the scene in I Am Legend when the zombies are trying to break into his car.

The moment when Gordon Brown and Barack Obama took the stage together in a press conference looked very much like that scene from Love Actually where Hugh Grant (UK Prime Minister) suddenly stopped playing best friends with the US President (Billy-Bob Thornton) and said Britain wouldn't be pushed around. Fortunately Mr Brown didn't go off script but he was smiling a lot (most unusual) and YES IT SUITS YOU MR BROWN DO IT MORE OFTEN.

Sarah Brown came across really well: she has a natural touch and seems like the sort of woman you'd like to have tea or dinner with. A far cry from silly Cherie Blair. Her dinner party for the leaders' WAGs was criticised because of the "bizarre" collection of ladies who attended, but I thought choosing some of her favourite women, among them Naomi Campbell, Martha Lane Fox, Dame Kelly Holmes, JK Rowling and Dame Tannii Grey Thompson - was an inspired idea. Who would you have chosen? I would have invited Vivienne Westwood, Zandra Rhodes, Joan Collins, Lily Allen, Doris Lessing, Carol Vorderman and Rebecca Adlington.

Here In My Car

Friday afternoons are never a joy on the M25 so I made sure I left early yesterday (3.40pm) for my journey from Swindon to home (East London).

Finally got home at 10.30pm.

As you've probably guessed, there was an accident on the M25 and junctions 17 to 20 were closed. Unfortunately I was trapped on the stretch between 16 and 17 and it took about 4 hours to creep along the 3.1 miles to leave the motorway.

To start with the sun was shining and people were relatively good humoured, with men doing that mir cat thing they always do, leaving their cars and wandering around looking puzzled. Then people started cruising along the hard shoulder to try to get out of the jam - very bad. Plus a lot of cars started over heating, with owners attempting to pour in the contents of little bottles of water.

I was tempted to get a book out of the boot but instead listened to the radio. Simon Mayo was OK but after 7pm on Radio 2 you go into a hiatus. Desmond Carrington or Lee Mead from Joseph or some such nonsense. The Archers was entertaining although I never listen to it normally so had no clue really about the story lines. Then there was a play which was very bad about an Australian detective. I gave up on that.

Finally got to junction 17 and the sat nav was telling me to go back on the M25 anti clockwise. I ignored it to start with but then thought about it and agreed that she was right, it was probably the best way to go. Plus I was too exasperated with the nose-to-tail traffic. So I turned round and managed to get home in an hour. Treated myself to the programme about the rescue of Woolworth's in Dorchester ("Wellworths") which was very enjoyable. Memo to self: try to avoid the office on Fridays.