Well after 17 days of excitement, drama, disappointment, and dodgy scoring (how do you beat a chinese boxer - answer - knock him out ) the Beijing Olympics is behind us and we can look forward to enjoying four years of Boris trying and failing to be statesmanlike. Fourth in the medal table was a fantastic effort and of course this became first if you look at the medal table for sitting down sports. Yessir noone can sit down like the British, although we do struggle a little when we have to get up (its the pies).
With this in mind I have been thinking of other sports we could nominate for Olympic inclusion which could raise our position above those pesky russians and start to challenge the yanks. first i think there is more to go at in the cycling. Frequently we had two finalists in the events and this means we could easily win a couple more golds if tandem racing was introduced. Dominoes was another early thought, together with shove hapenny and snakes and ladders. This of course takes us into the arena of the public house, and I thought we might do quite well if drinking is included in the Olympics. To be honest we might struggle to medal in the men's event against the might of Russia, Poland and Germany ("its a powerhouse team from Bavaria"), but we'd have a good change in the womens...
Anyway regulars to this blog, the challenge is laid down, what sitting down sports currently unrepresented at the Olympics can we propose for 2012?
Before leave the Olympics - a couple of things need to be said. One is about our dear friends Australia (did they make the top 10?) who started the (admittedly funny) joke about sitting down sports. When they made this jibe they declined to comment on a certain other country who also take part in yachting, rowing, and cycling - yes australia. The lesson here is simple - if you are going to go in for "rugby union" sports - ie ones that only a handful of countries do because they cost a lot of money - at least be good at them.
To be fair the aussies were very good in another sport that requires serious cash, namely swimming. (I mean the kenyans were nowhere in the pool and jamaica had a terrible time in the yngling.) We have learnt from them now though and have our own star, Rebecca Adlington, which means we have another sporting Becks - only this one is the real deal.
Final point - Britain is still the only nation on earth that feels bad about winning. Apparently when it became clear we were going to win almost all the cycling golds, there were some comments that it was too much and becoming embarassing. Can you imagine any other nation feeling that way? I can just see the Australian cricket captain saying how embarassed he is that they have thrashed everyone else for the last 15 years, or Roger Federer and Rafa Nadal apologising for hoovering up all the grand slams netween then for upteen years - or - we now go live to the track where the Jamaican athletic coach is ready to say sorry to the yanks for beating them 5 - 0 in the sprints... nope I don't think so either.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Oxford v Cambridge - Part 2
After Oxford, Cambridge was better. Smaller, more compact, with less of the modern architecture, or at least better hidden. We started with Kings College which was simply out of this world. I have never been charged £5 to walk around a small nondescript chapel before. Yes it had a Reubens and yes the exterior was magnificent, but you could see the exterior for nothing, and the Reubens wasn’t that good. So visitors tip if you are in Cambridge, take photos of Kings College from the river, and save yourself a fiver.
Part of the problem with Cambridge was we were a bit tired after a lot of sightseeing the previous few days, and the foreign students did not help. There were hundreds of them, in the chapel, in the gardens, in the lanes and on the bridges. This was a particular problem with Matty as teenagers can’t actually see small children in a pushchair, with their parents. Their responsibility chip phases you out, and as a result they kept tripping over Matty: and he got really really annoyed.
Now let me be clear. Matty, and I know I’m biased, is actually a very good little boy – 98% of the time. However when he throws a paddy, he throws a paddy, and this was a Beijing Olympic winning effort. He made so much noise when his mummy disappeared to the toilet that several Spanish teenage girls actually noticed him and starting making what they thought were child placating noises. Unfortunately they were more like the noise you make when you are offering a cat some milk and Matty gave their efforts short shrift. When Ula returned they were so relieved they clapped her!
We decided it was time for lunch. We left Jolka and Mirek to their sight seeing and went to a local café called Tatties – or should I say as they do “the World Famous Tatties”. Having travelled to many parts of the world and indeed lived in Paris, I couldn’t honestly recall a Parisian chef saying “mais oui these oysters and beef bourguignon are magnifique - but you should go to Tatties in Cambridge”, but perhaps I never asked the question.
I am not clear what you have to do to call yourself "World Famous", but on the basis of lunch at Tatties, my guess is it doesn’t involve a Michelin audit. There was nothing wrong with my baked potato and chilli but it tasted like I cooked it. The fresh coffee was more memorable; it tasted like burnt coal and was so bad it made me want to drink the house red, which tasted of nothing at all.
Still, Matty was placated and our Polish friends were happy on their return. They had seen London, Cambridge and Oxford in 4 days and taken about 3 billion photos (including one of my wine rack). In fact they had seen many things, although sadly the sun had not really been one of them.
Part of the problem with Cambridge was we were a bit tired after a lot of sightseeing the previous few days, and the foreign students did not help. There were hundreds of them, in the chapel, in the gardens, in the lanes and on the bridges. This was a particular problem with Matty as teenagers can’t actually see small children in a pushchair, with their parents. Their responsibility chip phases you out, and as a result they kept tripping over Matty: and he got really really annoyed.
Now let me be clear. Matty, and I know I’m biased, is actually a very good little boy – 98% of the time. However when he throws a paddy, he throws a paddy, and this was a Beijing Olympic winning effort. He made so much noise when his mummy disappeared to the toilet that several Spanish teenage girls actually noticed him and starting making what they thought were child placating noises. Unfortunately they were more like the noise you make when you are offering a cat some milk and Matty gave their efforts short shrift. When Ula returned they were so relieved they clapped her!
We decided it was time for lunch. We left Jolka and Mirek to their sight seeing and went to a local café called Tatties – or should I say as they do “the World Famous Tatties”. Having travelled to many parts of the world and indeed lived in Paris, I couldn’t honestly recall a Parisian chef saying “mais oui these oysters and beef bourguignon are magnifique - but you should go to Tatties in Cambridge”, but perhaps I never asked the question.
I am not clear what you have to do to call yourself "World Famous", but on the basis of lunch at Tatties, my guess is it doesn’t involve a Michelin audit. There was nothing wrong with my baked potato and chilli but it tasted like I cooked it. The fresh coffee was more memorable; it tasted like burnt coal and was so bad it made me want to drink the house red, which tasted of nothing at all.
Still, Matty was placated and our Polish friends were happy on their return. They had seen London, Cambridge and Oxford in 4 days and taken about 3 billion photos (including one of my wine rack). In fact they had seen many things, although sadly the sun had not really been one of them.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Oxford v Cambridge - Part 1
Fresh from our London excursion the weekend promised new adventures as we prepared for the ultimate tourist double header, Oxford v Cambridge, the old enemies, university rivals and rowing adversaries through the ages. We were also hoping that the weather would start to give a passable impression of summer, but Jolka and Mirek not to be fooled, packed a couple of jumpers just in case.
We started with Oxford on Saturday. My hopes weren't high. I had been to Oxford many times but never to the University part, so it is fair to say I had not seen the best of the place. Emerging from an underpass smelling fragrantly of stale beer and urine to the main shopping street did nothing to dispel this impression. Here, things had clearly improved in the 7 years since my last visit. They had pedestrianised it. Unfortunately they had not been very committed about it. The council had concreted over the road and then pretty much considered the job done. No plants or greenery of any kind, no fountains or statues, just grey concrete blending into slightly worse for wear grey buildings, with only the occasional fast food wrapper to catch the eye. The suspicion that this lack of artefact was deliberate and based on a view that certain members of the local community might nick the plants and pee in the fountain did nothing to improve impressions.
Walking along the high street I started to worry about what our Polish visitors would think. I wondered what the Polish phrase was for – where the hell has he taken us? Then we turned up a side street signposted to the University, walked a little way and suddenly, we were in a different place. The transformation couldn’t have been more stunning. It was as if we had stepped through a rift in the space time continuum and ended up somewhere entirely different. Grey drab concrete was replaced by warm golden stone, cladding ancient edifices of beauty and charm. Looking through gilded iron gates into the colleges we could see immaculate lawns, bordered with dense shrubbery and lofty trees.
We spent a pleasant couple of hours just ambling around. We took in Trinity College and Christchurch (to get Matty’s name down) admired the library and University church and basically wandered about with our mouths open taking lots of photos. I heaved a huge inward sigh of relief. Mirek and Jolka were clearly having a great time; my fears had come to nought. It’s a pity though. Oxford could be one of the most beautiful cities in Europe, and parts of it can hold their head up with anywhere I have been. But those good parts are centuries old and the new doesn’t blend in – it’s just attached, like an unpleasant guest who has outstayed their welcome. It’s a shame, and with that thought I took our very pleasant guests to Blenheim palace.
We started with Oxford on Saturday. My hopes weren't high. I had been to Oxford many times but never to the University part, so it is fair to say I had not seen the best of the place. Emerging from an underpass smelling fragrantly of stale beer and urine to the main shopping street did nothing to dispel this impression. Here, things had clearly improved in the 7 years since my last visit. They had pedestrianised it. Unfortunately they had not been very committed about it. The council had concreted over the road and then pretty much considered the job done. No plants or greenery of any kind, no fountains or statues, just grey concrete blending into slightly worse for wear grey buildings, with only the occasional fast food wrapper to catch the eye. The suspicion that this lack of artefact was deliberate and based on a view that certain members of the local community might nick the plants and pee in the fountain did nothing to improve impressions.
Walking along the high street I started to worry about what our Polish visitors would think. I wondered what the Polish phrase was for – where the hell has he taken us? Then we turned up a side street signposted to the University, walked a little way and suddenly, we were in a different place. The transformation couldn’t have been more stunning. It was as if we had stepped through a rift in the space time continuum and ended up somewhere entirely different. Grey drab concrete was replaced by warm golden stone, cladding ancient edifices of beauty and charm. Looking through gilded iron gates into the colleges we could see immaculate lawns, bordered with dense shrubbery and lofty trees.
We spent a pleasant couple of hours just ambling around. We took in Trinity College and Christchurch (to get Matty’s name down) admired the library and University church and basically wandered about with our mouths open taking lots of photos. I heaved a huge inward sigh of relief. Mirek and Jolka were clearly having a great time; my fears had come to nought. It’s a pity though. Oxford could be one of the most beautiful cities in Europe, and parts of it can hold their head up with anywhere I have been. But those good parts are centuries old and the new doesn’t blend in – it’s just attached, like an unpleasant guest who has outstayed their welcome. It’s a shame, and with that thought I took our very pleasant guests to Blenheim palace.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Back after the break!
Its been a bit quiet from the Brodie blog over the passed few months as work went a little mental and I got out of the habit of keeping it up to date. However we are back now with an update on what we have been up to in the last month or so. Over the next few weeks I will try and fill in some of the gaps and also get some pictures on the blog as well.
To start off though here are some of the July highlights...
To start off though here are some of the July highlights...
London Calling
I haven’t been on a proper sightseeing trip to London since I was such a young boy that I would have qualified as Matty’s older brother. So the prospect of taking our Polish visitors Jolka and Mirek around all the famous landmarks filled me with a real sense of excitement. Jolka and Mirek our Polish friends had arrived 2 days earlier for their first ever week on holiday in the UK. They were looking for a week of sight seeing, good food and hot summer weather. I was confident I could deliver on two out of three.
If it sounds as if exciting is overdoing it a bit, bear in mind that this was a Thursday in July, and the alternative was doing HR stuff at work: so I was very excited.
Even the news on the radio couldn’t dampen my spirits. Along with all the usual stuff about the credit crunch, falling property prices and Gordon finding new things to tax (breathing, being called Brodie) was an item on the cost of visiting the top 9 sights in major tourist cities like Paris, Milan, New York, London et al. London had come top. The cost of visiting these top attractions for a family of four had come in at a wallet bursting amount equivalent to the GDP of Guatemala. Apparently several unwitting foreign visitors had doubled there country’s national debt on a weekend break to the capital. I kept my spirits up with the thought that as we were on a whirlwind visit we would not have to go in anywhere, saving valuable cash to spend on cocktails later. To my knowledge no one had thought of charging for looking at the outside of buildings yet, but you never know.
People have often asked me whether I prefer London or Paris. The problem with this question is I have lived in Paris but only visited London – if living in Paris can be called a problem. London benefits in this comparison from only ever been seen at its best: high days and holidays, weekends eating steaks with the boys and the halcyon weekend soirees when Ula and I had first met in 2003. I have always liked London and while I am not saying its better than Paris, I have always been tempted to live here for a couple of years to make a proper comparison.
Anyway back to the trip. As you will have gathered I am not over familiar with my native capital city. Despite being from 50 miles outside Warsaw, Ula is the expert, having lived in Notting Hill from 2001 -04. Warsaw, London, Paris, Ula is the cosmopolitan one; apart from my Paris sojourn I have always been out in the sticks somewhere. It was logical that she took over navigating us around once we had arrived at Euston and she suggested we use her encyclopaedic knowledge of London bus routes to see the sights. Sadly 4 years is a long time and things did not start well as we took 23 buses to reach Oxford Street. We decided to walk from here to our first destination, Buckingham Palace and here Ula redeemed herself by threading a great line through Green Park to arrive at the gates of the royal residence. As we had seen it before we left Mirek and Jolka to take photos and wandered back into Green Park in search of nourishment. Having stumbled on a coffee and hot dog van (joy) we repaired to a bench to enjoy the fine summer weather (it had momentarily stopped raining). Here we found that we became London’s 10th attraction. Little flaxen haired Matty trotting along in his bright yellow raincoat (Paris collection) was a magnet for the scores of Japanese tourists walking up towards Piccadilly. Matty put on his very best adorable child routine and the cameras flashed. I was just toying with the idea of setting up a board and charging when Jolka and Mirek returned, leaving the Japanese parties behind we strolled towards Westminster.
I have seen some special buildings in my time, Milan Cathedral, Notre Dame, the Black and White House in Hereford, but we often forget how special some of London’s architecture is when we can leave it alone for 5 minutes. The Houses of Parliament up close didn’t just take our visitors breath away, it took mine as well. It is absolutely majestic; huge and imposing but with a detail and delicacy of design that was stunning and quite beyond anything we seem capable of today. Some nearby buildings clearly designed to fit in with Westminster demonstrated this admirably. Why in a century of such huge strides in physics, technology, biology and yoghurt varieties have we seemingly forgotten how to design buildings?? It’s like when you put something in the garage and forget where. We have put our ability to design buildings somewhere, and need to find it again.
Gosh that’s a heavy thought for a day trip, so back on tour. Having circled Westminster we came to Westminster Abbey famous throughout the world as the place where Princess Diana got married and oh yes also where all the kings and queens of England are buried if you are interested in that kind of detail.
This was the one attraction I wanted to visit, a motivation that lasted right up to the moment that I got to the door. Notre Dame is free to enter, so is St Peters and numerous other historic buildings. Westminster Abbey is £12, and that’s just to get in. For the four of us it would have been nearly £50. For that price I would have wanted to be shown around by the Arch bishop of Canterbury and have lunch and photos with the entire royal family. I decided to give it a miss and just pay more attention next time it was on the TV for a state occasion.
Next we went to Trafalgar square to see Nelson and the pigeons and then took time out in a traditional English food place (TGI Fridays) so Ula and Matty could have a break and Daddy could sample the cocktail menu and eat Matty’s chips. Our friends meanwhile went to Piccadilly. On their return we went and visited Wren’s masterpiece St Paul’s (free to enter) and finished off a marathon day with the Tower of London and London Bridge.
Finally we had all had our fill; we headed home and reflected on the day. I like London. I like the atmosphere of the place, the energy of the West End, the bustle of Oxford Street and Piccadilly, the range and variety of food and culture on every street. It is vibrant and alive. Paris by comparison is a more beautiful city than London. But sometimes it feels like a monument to a bygone age when it was at the centre of things. London, flawed though it maybe, feels like the centre of things now.
If it sounds as if exciting is overdoing it a bit, bear in mind that this was a Thursday in July, and the alternative was doing HR stuff at work: so I was very excited.
Even the news on the radio couldn’t dampen my spirits. Along with all the usual stuff about the credit crunch, falling property prices and Gordon finding new things to tax (breathing, being called Brodie) was an item on the cost of visiting the top 9 sights in major tourist cities like Paris, Milan, New York, London et al. London had come top. The cost of visiting these top attractions for a family of four had come in at a wallet bursting amount equivalent to the GDP of Guatemala. Apparently several unwitting foreign visitors had doubled there country’s national debt on a weekend break to the capital. I kept my spirits up with the thought that as we were on a whirlwind visit we would not have to go in anywhere, saving valuable cash to spend on cocktails later. To my knowledge no one had thought of charging for looking at the outside of buildings yet, but you never know.
People have often asked me whether I prefer London or Paris. The problem with this question is I have lived in Paris but only visited London – if living in Paris can be called a problem. London benefits in this comparison from only ever been seen at its best: high days and holidays, weekends eating steaks with the boys and the halcyon weekend soirees when Ula and I had first met in 2003. I have always liked London and while I am not saying its better than Paris, I have always been tempted to live here for a couple of years to make a proper comparison.
Anyway back to the trip. As you will have gathered I am not over familiar with my native capital city. Despite being from 50 miles outside Warsaw, Ula is the expert, having lived in Notting Hill from 2001 -04. Warsaw, London, Paris, Ula is the cosmopolitan one; apart from my Paris sojourn I have always been out in the sticks somewhere. It was logical that she took over navigating us around once we had arrived at Euston and she suggested we use her encyclopaedic knowledge of London bus routes to see the sights. Sadly 4 years is a long time and things did not start well as we took 23 buses to reach Oxford Street. We decided to walk from here to our first destination, Buckingham Palace and here Ula redeemed herself by threading a great line through Green Park to arrive at the gates of the royal residence. As we had seen it before we left Mirek and Jolka to take photos and wandered back into Green Park in search of nourishment. Having stumbled on a coffee and hot dog van (joy) we repaired to a bench to enjoy the fine summer weather (it had momentarily stopped raining). Here we found that we became London’s 10th attraction. Little flaxen haired Matty trotting along in his bright yellow raincoat (Paris collection) was a magnet for the scores of Japanese tourists walking up towards Piccadilly. Matty put on his very best adorable child routine and the cameras flashed. I was just toying with the idea of setting up a board and charging when Jolka and Mirek returned, leaving the Japanese parties behind we strolled towards Westminster.
I have seen some special buildings in my time, Milan Cathedral, Notre Dame, the Black and White House in Hereford, but we often forget how special some of London’s architecture is when we can leave it alone for 5 minutes. The Houses of Parliament up close didn’t just take our visitors breath away, it took mine as well. It is absolutely majestic; huge and imposing but with a detail and delicacy of design that was stunning and quite beyond anything we seem capable of today. Some nearby buildings clearly designed to fit in with Westminster demonstrated this admirably. Why in a century of such huge strides in physics, technology, biology and yoghurt varieties have we seemingly forgotten how to design buildings?? It’s like when you put something in the garage and forget where. We have put our ability to design buildings somewhere, and need to find it again.
Gosh that’s a heavy thought for a day trip, so back on tour. Having circled Westminster we came to Westminster Abbey famous throughout the world as the place where Princess Diana got married and oh yes also where all the kings and queens of England are buried if you are interested in that kind of detail.
This was the one attraction I wanted to visit, a motivation that lasted right up to the moment that I got to the door. Notre Dame is free to enter, so is St Peters and numerous other historic buildings. Westminster Abbey is £12, and that’s just to get in. For the four of us it would have been nearly £50. For that price I would have wanted to be shown around by the Arch bishop of Canterbury and have lunch and photos with the entire royal family. I decided to give it a miss and just pay more attention next time it was on the TV for a state occasion.
Next we went to Trafalgar square to see Nelson and the pigeons and then took time out in a traditional English food place (TGI Fridays) so Ula and Matty could have a break and Daddy could sample the cocktail menu and eat Matty’s chips. Our friends meanwhile went to Piccadilly. On their return we went and visited Wren’s masterpiece St Paul’s (free to enter) and finished off a marathon day with the Tower of London and London Bridge.
Finally we had all had our fill; we headed home and reflected on the day. I like London. I like the atmosphere of the place, the energy of the West End, the bustle of Oxford Street and Piccadilly, the range and variety of food and culture on every street. It is vibrant and alive. Paris by comparison is a more beautiful city than London. But sometimes it feels like a monument to a bygone age when it was at the centre of things. London, flawed though it maybe, feels like the centre of things now.
Matty’s Birthday Part II – Summer etes arrive!
Having found the missing granny and survived the rest of lunch time without further loss we prepared for the Toddler tea party. For those of you who don’t have children this is when your little son has his little friends around for tea, cakes, chocolate, crisps, party games and above all, total mayhem. A few highlights stand out. The ability of small children to transfer sand from a sandpit into their hair, nappies, dresses and your house has to be seen to be appreciated fully. The pass the parcel was not an outstanding success either. Apart from the fact that getting little kiddies to sit and play a game makes herding cats look like an easy pastime, the games master (oui c’est moi) managed to get the prizes the wrong way round and the 7 year old got the picture book for a toddler. The poor kid didn’t know what to do with either it or himself until a tactical swap saved the situation.
The piece de la resistance was of course the cake. A magnificent creation in the style of Noah’s Ark complete with pairs of animals made from icing sugar, and two candles stuck as funnels in the top. Matty face burst into a big smile at the sight of this and with only a little help blew the candles out. This ceremony was thankfully far less eventful than the last time I organised a birthday cake - for Paul Wood ( he was 44 recently) - which had left a few mental scars on all of us, but more on that later.
When the little kiddies had departed – we prepared for the big kiddies party. Undeterred by the frequent showers during the afternoon I decided, to hell with it, I was going to barbeque whatever the weather threw at me. For our evening soiree we had mum and dad of course but also Paul and Alison who sadly arrived just too late to make the toddler party (I had told them when it was finishing).
The last time Paul and Ali had joined us for a barbeque had been that infamous night of his 44th birthday and I think it is worth a little digression. As a surprise we had bought him a cake and decorated it with 44 candles, more than I had ever seen on a cake before ( yes: ok: now I know). We had a wonderful evening; the weather was fine and warm, the steak kebabs a triumph and the bottles of good Aussie Shiraz were smooth and velvety: it was time for the cake. Finding a pretext to get Alison and Ula into the house, I lit the candles and prepared to take the cake into the garden. Unfortunately at that moment Alison rushed over with the news that Paul was in the toilet; unfortunately at the same moment the candles decided to burn more as 1 unit than 44, and started generating a heat reminiscent of the Saturn V rockets that took NASA to the moon. I was told in no uncertain terms to get the cake outside before we burnt the kitchen down. Carrying the cake / blast furnace gingerly, I set it down with relief on the patio table from where it lit the garden and western areas of Milton Keynes.
Unfortunately we still had no birthday boy as he continued to meditate pensively on the khazi. In the meantime the three of us watched helplessly as the candles were consumed by the inferno. Paul emerged finally with a look of shock on his face, understandable for an inebriated man presented with a birthday cake that was, to all intents and purposes, on fire. He blew out the blaze manfully and we inspected the carnage.
What can I say? The birthday cake remained but the candles were gone like they had never existed. All that remained of them was a waxen mixture of charred chocolate and icing solidified into a lava like layer on the surface of the cake. Despite this Paul confidently proclaimed that it was fine (I said he was drunk) and that all it needed was the top 2 inches removed. Indeed despite our protestations he even took it home with him, I never asked if he ate it.
There were not such mishaps at this birthday barbeque and in fact miraculously the weather smiled kindly on my foolhardiness by delivering a beautiful summers evening. Matty tired out from his exciting day played in the garden with everyone for a while but finally succumbed to sleep. With good food, wine and company the six of us sat outside for hours, in fact Paul and I could not understand why the others finally wanted to go in, until it was pointed out that we were sat either side of the barbeque and therefore protected from the chilling evening air. We chatted long into the summer night, the perfect end to a hectic day; we even offered Paul some birthday cake….
The piece de la resistance was of course the cake. A magnificent creation in the style of Noah’s Ark complete with pairs of animals made from icing sugar, and two candles stuck as funnels in the top. Matty face burst into a big smile at the sight of this and with only a little help blew the candles out. This ceremony was thankfully far less eventful than the last time I organised a birthday cake - for Paul Wood ( he was 44 recently) - which had left a few mental scars on all of us, but more on that later.
When the little kiddies had departed – we prepared for the big kiddies party. Undeterred by the frequent showers during the afternoon I decided, to hell with it, I was going to barbeque whatever the weather threw at me. For our evening soiree we had mum and dad of course but also Paul and Alison who sadly arrived just too late to make the toddler party (I had told them when it was finishing).
The last time Paul and Ali had joined us for a barbeque had been that infamous night of his 44th birthday and I think it is worth a little digression. As a surprise we had bought him a cake and decorated it with 44 candles, more than I had ever seen on a cake before ( yes: ok: now I know). We had a wonderful evening; the weather was fine and warm, the steak kebabs a triumph and the bottles of good Aussie Shiraz were smooth and velvety: it was time for the cake. Finding a pretext to get Alison and Ula into the house, I lit the candles and prepared to take the cake into the garden. Unfortunately at that moment Alison rushed over with the news that Paul was in the toilet; unfortunately at the same moment the candles decided to burn more as 1 unit than 44, and started generating a heat reminiscent of the Saturn V rockets that took NASA to the moon. I was told in no uncertain terms to get the cake outside before we burnt the kitchen down. Carrying the cake / blast furnace gingerly, I set it down with relief on the patio table from where it lit the garden and western areas of Milton Keynes.
Unfortunately we still had no birthday boy as he continued to meditate pensively on the khazi. In the meantime the three of us watched helplessly as the candles were consumed by the inferno. Paul emerged finally with a look of shock on his face, understandable for an inebriated man presented with a birthday cake that was, to all intents and purposes, on fire. He blew out the blaze manfully and we inspected the carnage.
What can I say? The birthday cake remained but the candles were gone like they had never existed. All that remained of them was a waxen mixture of charred chocolate and icing solidified into a lava like layer on the surface of the cake. Despite this Paul confidently proclaimed that it was fine (I said he was drunk) and that all it needed was the top 2 inches removed. Indeed despite our protestations he even took it home with him, I never asked if he ate it.
There were not such mishaps at this birthday barbeque and in fact miraculously the weather smiled kindly on my foolhardiness by delivering a beautiful summers evening. Matty tired out from his exciting day played in the garden with everyone for a while but finally succumbed to sleep. With good food, wine and company the six of us sat outside for hours, in fact Paul and I could not understand why the others finally wanted to go in, until it was pointed out that we were sat either side of the barbeque and therefore protected from the chilling evening air. We chatted long into the summer night, the perfect end to a hectic day; we even offered Paul some birthday cake….
Matty's Birthday Part 1 - Where's nana!
England in summer. Tarpaulins being scraped hastily across Wimbledon courts, the charred ashen smell as over optimistic men cremate sausages in their gardens, the squeal of noise akin to a jet landing as several million children (and that’s just in Old Stratford) break up for holidays, and of course , in the middle, Matty’s birthday.
These last few weeks barely a weekend seems to have gone by without kiddies’ birthday parties that make the Henley Regatta look like a sideshow. Everyone seems to have children in July. I don’t know whether there is any significance in this, although I guess there is nothing much on the TV in November and it is cold.
Matty’s birthday on the 12th is right in the middle of the month, and as this is the height of summer, you can expect good weather: unless you live in England of course when you can’t. It really is anyone’s guess, particularly the weather men. Take this 10th July vignette from Radio 2, “today the weather will be cloudy with a south-westerly wind, cool with some sun but a chance of showers later.” So that’s blizzards ruled out then. We thought about the party organised for his little friends and wondered what the 12th would be like.
Matty woke early, seeming to sense that something was up, and we found ourselves downstairs, my parents included, at about 6.30, unwrapping presents. We scored an early hit with the electric train for his brio train set which occupied a couple of hours as he found that the train also worked on his new car garage, the kitchen floor and his fathers face.
Matty was impressed by the balloons that his mother had put up the night before (yup, useless at that kind of thing) and liked all his presents. However fatigue set eventually and he retired for a well earned power nap before the partying started, leaving us to get the food and entertainment organised. At least that was the plan. Then we lost his Nan.
Yes I know. You shouldn’t let them out on their own at that age, but these pensioners can be so stubborn. With the help of Ula and Alison, mum had arranged some beauty treatments in Olney for 11am and despite offers, insisted she could get their all by herself. Olney is about 30 minutes away and I drew mum a map of how to get there through that Mecca of roundabouts, Milton Keynes. We were sure she would be ok, not only did she have her mobile with her, but she had remembered to turn it on as well. She left slightly later than intended at 10.30, but I thought she would be at most 5 minutes late.
At 11.15 the salon called to ask if she was coming, I assured them she was and though a little concerned thought she had just had trouble parking. I called them back at 11.30 to check. No sign. Nor at 11.50 am. At this point we were getting worried. Either she had had an accident, broken down somewhere, or was on the M6 north of Birmingham heading for Carlisle, but she definitely couldn’t have taken 80 minutes to get to Olney. I decided to track her down. On the way there I couldn’t understand why she hadn’t called, perhaps her phone was dead? Then I had a thought….wait a minute... what if there are two salons in Olney…what if she was in the wrong one?
I got to Olney without incident or indeed coming across stranded Sexagenarians in Mondeos with a dodgy phone and sure enough found my dear mother patiently drying her nails - in the wrong salon. They had taken her in without a booking sure that it was there mistake. Interestingly though both Alison and Ula thought that this was the place they had booked! We still don’t know where the other place was.
These last few weeks barely a weekend seems to have gone by without kiddies’ birthday parties that make the Henley Regatta look like a sideshow. Everyone seems to have children in July. I don’t know whether there is any significance in this, although I guess there is nothing much on the TV in November and it is cold.
Matty’s birthday on the 12th is right in the middle of the month, and as this is the height of summer, you can expect good weather: unless you live in England of course when you can’t. It really is anyone’s guess, particularly the weather men. Take this 10th July vignette from Radio 2, “today the weather will be cloudy with a south-westerly wind, cool with some sun but a chance of showers later.” So that’s blizzards ruled out then. We thought about the party organised for his little friends and wondered what the 12th would be like.
Matty woke early, seeming to sense that something was up, and we found ourselves downstairs, my parents included, at about 6.30, unwrapping presents. We scored an early hit with the electric train for his brio train set which occupied a couple of hours as he found that the train also worked on his new car garage, the kitchen floor and his fathers face.
Matty was impressed by the balloons that his mother had put up the night before (yup, useless at that kind of thing) and liked all his presents. However fatigue set eventually and he retired for a well earned power nap before the partying started, leaving us to get the food and entertainment organised. At least that was the plan. Then we lost his Nan.
Yes I know. You shouldn’t let them out on their own at that age, but these pensioners can be so stubborn. With the help of Ula and Alison, mum had arranged some beauty treatments in Olney for 11am and despite offers, insisted she could get their all by herself. Olney is about 30 minutes away and I drew mum a map of how to get there through that Mecca of roundabouts, Milton Keynes. We were sure she would be ok, not only did she have her mobile with her, but she had remembered to turn it on as well. She left slightly later than intended at 10.30, but I thought she would be at most 5 minutes late.
At 11.15 the salon called to ask if she was coming, I assured them she was and though a little concerned thought she had just had trouble parking. I called them back at 11.30 to check. No sign. Nor at 11.50 am. At this point we were getting worried. Either she had had an accident, broken down somewhere, or was on the M6 north of Birmingham heading for Carlisle, but she definitely couldn’t have taken 80 minutes to get to Olney. I decided to track her down. On the way there I couldn’t understand why she hadn’t called, perhaps her phone was dead? Then I had a thought….wait a minute... what if there are two salons in Olney…what if she was in the wrong one?
I got to Olney without incident or indeed coming across stranded Sexagenarians in Mondeos with a dodgy phone and sure enough found my dear mother patiently drying her nails - in the wrong salon. They had taken her in without a booking sure that it was there mistake. Interestingly though both Alison and Ula thought that this was the place they had booked! We still don’t know where the other place was.
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