Penis envy

I was listening to Gardener’s Question Time the other day and it reminded me of the time when I went to one of their recordings and asked a question with a difference.

Have you ever been to a BBC radio broadcast?  It’s quite exciting but completely without glamour. The outside broadcasts are usually held in a village hall, where the local gardening society or Women’s Institute fills the room with plastic chairs, silver hair and diseased plants.  At one end of the hall there’s a table with a green ‘snooker style’ cloth over it.  This is where the experts sit. 

When the crew arrives with the recording gear the sight of the equipment causes a buzz of excitement in the hall. Then something extraordinary happens; it makes the people in the audience regress to 1950’s England. Everyone in the audience is obsequiously polite.  They all suddenly speak with clipped ‘BBC’ accents and they roar with laughter at the weakest of jokes from the panel. 

The members of the audience that get to ask a question go even further, just as the microphone approaches them you can see them nervously twitching and then on cue they revert to a language not heard since the days of black and white TV...“I recently purchased a flowering cherry tree...!” Purchased; there’s a word I haven’t used since, well the 1950’s.

Most of the audience are posh women, keen to show off their gardening knowledge by using as many Latin plant names as possible.  However they like to pronounce them slightly differently to everyone else.  At the recording I went to a very proper lady asked a question about her Scots Pine tree.  She of course used its Latin name of Pinus sylvestris. However she pronounced it as Penis sylvestris.  It went something like this... “I have a magnificent Penis sylvestris but it’s leaning to the left....” She didn’t even flinch.  Nor did the rest of the audience; I damn near wet myself.

This pronunciation tolerance got me thinking and immediately a plan hatched in my mind.  I had brought with me, two diseased plants and was hoping the panel could tell me what was wrong with them.  I knew what they were called but they didn’t know that. 

When the next question opportunity came along I shot my hand up and managed to get the attention of the man with the microphone and he came straight over.  “I’ve been given these two plants as presents but I’m not sure of their correct Latin names” I said loud and clear through the microphone.  “The friend that gave them to me says they’re called Biggus dickus and Sillius soddus, is this correct?” You should have seen their faces.

Living next door to Kate Winslet

I have a confession to make.  I have village envy.  When I first moved to Surrey I was 20 years younger and so wanted to be as close to the lights of London as I could afford.  Kingston-upon-Thames was about right.  It had cool bars, nightclubs, the river and crucially a late train home.  As I got older however and started taking trips into ‘the country’ at weekends I discovered what I was missing.  The hills, the views, the country pubs; I took one look and thought...this is what I want. 

I was ready to give up the busy north of Surrey and settle down in the gorgeous village of Shere.  I could keep pigs, wear wellies, have a shed, smoke cigars, write best-selling novels and who knows maybe bump into Kate Winslet filming ‘The Holiday 2’.  Apparently in Shere, it always snows on Christmas day and in the summer it only rains when everyone is asleep.  Just one small problem, I wasn’t the first to notice all this which made it a bit pricey.  Ok...I’ll just phone my elderly millionaire uncle.  Oh I forgot...I don’t have one.

Since then I’m afraid living in Shere has remained a dream and all the while the hands of time seem to turn faster and faster. As the great bard Rod Stewart once wrote, time is a thief when you’re undecided. 

I even toyed with the idea of moving away to the Cotswolds, where you get more for your money; so I really could keep pigs, wear wellies and, from what I understand, there is a much greater chance of actually bumping into Kate Winslet.  I drove up there one weekend with my family to see if it’s all it’s cracked up to be. And yes it’s beautiful.  But it was only when I started entertaining the idea of moving away that I realised just what I would miss right here on my doorstep. 

At the moment we can walk to the school that my son loves and which both Ofsted and I; think is outstanding.  I’ve got the nation’s most visited attraction, Hampton Court Palace just around the corner.  I’ve got the beautiful Richmond Park and Bushy Park a short car ride away, I’ve got The Rose theatre in Kingston, I’ve got the river and the boats and in the future my children will have the bright lights of London right on their door-step.  Not sure if they’d thank me for moving too far away from that in years to come.

So in fact I have more than I realise and ok I’d like a bigger garden or an extra bedroom but maybe there’s a valuable lesson to be learned here.  Too much of life can be missed while you’re chasing the next thing. And wasn’t it precisely that constant chasing that got us all into the financial predicament we currently find ourselves in? 

So maybe I’ll just enjoy what I have for the time being and...Miss Winslet if you’re reading this I’m afraid we aren’t going to be neighbours after all...sorry about that. 

Inspired by David Attenborough

Here we go again.  January, the monday morning of the year. I have only one word to say about January....Bleurgh!   I know we’re all supposed to be positive and eager to greet the challenges of a new year but if I’m honest I hate January. My New Year’s resolution doesn’t help much either, it’s the same every year and I’ve never managed to keep it.  Maybe ‘buy a flat in the south of France’ is a bit unrealistic.    

It’s not just the weather and the dark nights of January I struggle with. Finding things to occupy young children at this time of year can be especially difficult.  And then I had an epiphany.  I discovered the delight that is The Educational Museum in Haslemere. In the depths of winter this place is nothing short of a miracle.

My children of course, love visits to the Natural History Museum in London but sometimes the thought of getting them all packed up and organised for a train ride and then a tube ride is more than I can face, especially when everyone is coughing and sneezing.  So to discover a mini version of their favourite museum, only 20 minutes car ride away was a joy.        

It was only seven years after the natural history museum itself was opened that this ‘little brother version’ in Haslemere was set up.  In fact next year (2013) sees its 125 year anniversary, where they’ll have all sorts of exhibits and ways of celebrating.  For details about events and opening times look at the website www.haslemeremuseum.co.uk. 

For a small museum this place punches well above its weight.  It is full of fascinating things to engage inquisitive minds. There are 4 billion year old meteorites that date back to the beginning of the earth and loads of stuff about the solar system. 

My children love the animated film Madagascar so to see zebras, giraffes and lions displayed in there, really captures their imaginations; for them these exhibits come to life. Like all children they also love big stuff so the full size Siberian bear was an instant hit. And I’m convinced the giant Japanese spider crab is bigger than my first car. 

There’s a great little interactive dinosaur feature, where you put your hand into a hole in a wall and all of a sudden a dinosaur starts roaring and stomping it’s feet.  Even though my children have done this plenty of times, they never tire of it. And that’s the point.  Little museums like this are enormously important to young minds.  Only a few months ago I went to a similar museum in Leicestershire where the great Sir David Attenborough was giving a talk.  He first visited this museum over 75 years ago when he was a little boy and he still remembers that first visit to this day.  This was the place that inspired him to follow his chosen career path. So take your children to the Educational Museum in Haslemere, who knows it could be the making of them. 

Remembrance Sunday

The biggest day in November has to be the 11^th.  At 11am the nation stays silent for two minutes.  These two minutes are particularly poignant for me; I know what it’s like to worry about a family member in the armed services.  I remember very well the first time my young brother left for active duty in Afghanistan.  Waving to him as his car drove away, not knowing if that would be the last time I saw him, was tough.  A tour of duty is usually six months; it feels like six years.  Every time you hear a radio report or see something on TV about casualties, you tense up. 

His involvement with the army has meant I have more empathy with soldiers and their families and it’s that empathy that made my recent experience so moving.

A few weeks ago I visited somewhere I’d been meaning to visit for ages, the lovely National Trust house and garden, Polesden Lacey.  What a treat it is.  The views alone are enough to make it worth a visit.  I sat on one of the benches right up against the house with my wife, while the children were running around on the lawns. Through the window we could hear someone playing Debussy on the piano, it was perfect.

The lawns by the house are terraced with quite steep grass banks, which of course the children were enjoying to the full.  As I stared at the view, in a way that only parents of young children know how, I could see a small group of men and women doing some sort of exercise on the grass banks.  I was curious; what were they were up to? The banks are steep but they aren’t that challenging.

Before I had a chance to investigate further, my 4 year old son gave me the answer.  He was playing near the group and shouted at the top of his voice “Daddy why has that man got robot legs?” Oh the joys of parenting.  As usual he was saying it like it is; the man did indeed have robot legs.  How do you answer that?

I simply looked at the man, smiled and said to him “I feel a glittering career in the diplomatic corps awaits him” pointing to my son.  I think he could sense my anguish and luckily he laughed. 

I went over to the group and started chatting to them. Two of them had lost both legs and another had lost his legs and an arm, and yet here they were walking around trying to master what we take for granted. Simply walking up a steep slope; it was truly inspiring and humbling.

One sees servicemen with missing limbs on TV but to see them up close makes it more real. I'll certainly be attending the local ceremony at the war memorial in Thames Ditton this year, and if those guys I met at Polesden Lacey are reading this; I’ll be thinking of you.

London Symphony Orchestra; tested to the limit

If I were a concert pianist I’d definitely have floppy hair. It's crucial for adding drama. During the energetic parts, when you're really putting your back into it, the hair flies all over the place; which looks great. The brilliant young pianist Daniil Trifonov is clearly in agreement with me; his is perfect. I saw Trifonov recently playing Tchaikovsky with the London Symphony Orchestra at a brand new venue in Guildford. 

The hair, I could do; it’s the genius piano playing I might struggle with.  What I could do, however is the cymbals. Now there’s an instrument I could master to the standard required of the London Symphony Orchestra. 

 As I sat listening and watching this magnificent orchestra I couldn’t help noticing that the whole team were working hard, except one.  The conductor was flapping furiously, the violins were working up a sweat, the pianist nearly falling off his stool with activity and then there was the guy at the back with the cymbals.  Every now and again he’d drag himself off his stool, take the cymbals off their stand and bash them together on cue. Then he’d sit down again for another 10 minutes. I reckon I could do that.  

You could imagine him at dinner parities couldn’t you... “Oh you’re a musician with the London Symphony Orchestra, how marvellous” and then they’d ask the killer question “what instrument do you play?”.... Ah.

Despite my obsession with the cymbals guy the music was quite incredible, the pianist looked completely at one with his instrument almost not aware of his surroundings with his eyes rolled, just showing the whites.  Which was just as well because right at the part of a particularly dramatic crescendo all the lights in the concert hall went out plunging us all into total darkness. The musicians couldn’t see their music or the conductor and yet they didn’t miss a single note.

Was this supposed to happen? No.  I had to fight hard to resist the urge to shout out... “never mind a doctor, is there an electrician in the house?”  There was at least 5 agonising minutes of music in the dark before the first light appeared on stage. One of the lady violinists somehow produced a small clip on light to illuminate the music in front of her.  Quite where she was keeping it in that dress is a mystery. Then there was the unmistakeable scuffling sound of stage hands squeezing past musicians carrying whatever lights they could muster from backstage.

I don’t know how they managed it but they continued to play out the first movement until the interval.  At which point the audience roared with admiration for the sheer professionalism of the musicians.

Trifonov however then decided to do a ‘Cliff Richard’ and started up an impromptu recital to entertain the audience who were all still sitting in the dark.  If it had been me, I’d have chosen something easy, but no.  So again without music or light he played a brilliant rendition of Listz’s minute waltz.  Not a single soul left the auditorium to rush to the bar; they were all transfixed by this brilliant 20 year old pianist playing in the dark.

The gremlins however were not ready to give up just yet.  When finally we all shuffled into the bar for a drink, the lights went out in the whole building amid screams of panic.  Why do people scream when lights go out? Luckily, this being middle class Guildford there was no looting.

Up to this point the ‘management’ had been very quiet, so no-one knew what was going on.  Were we under attack from extremists? or had they simply not paid their electricity bill?

Eventually there was a quick explanation but the second half of the concert was carried out with the house lights on rather than the stage lights, which wasn’t quite as atmospheric.  At this point I was rather glad my tickets had been free press tickets.  Had I paid the £41 ticket cost I might have been a bit irked.

At the end of the concert the management however, pulled out their trump card to smooth any ruffled feathers and announced there was a complimentary drink in the bar for everyone after the performance. Nothing like a free drink hey, everyone has their price.

I blame Jeremy Clarkson

There are certain events and people in a young man’s life that will never be forgotten. Three of the big ones for a teenage boy are: first car, first girlfriend and the day you pass your driving test. For me, these three were all connected with disastrous consequences. 

If I ever get invited on to BBC TV’s Top Gear, I’ll have one hell of a story for Jeremy Clarkson’s ‘car history’ line of questioning.  I see it going something like this.

Clarkson: So Nick...First car?

Me: *claps hands together smugly* 1972 VW Beetle.

Clarkson: Oooh something for the cool wall, very nice....Top speed?

Me: About 69mph...I never got caught speeding.

Clarkson: *laughs out loud and asks me to present the next series with him*

For a 17 year old boy a VW Beetle was uber cool.  I saved all the money I’d earned doing my gardening round and bought it for £150 when I was just 16.  Even all those years ago this was still a good price; needless to say it needed some work.

I spent the next six months bashing out dents, welding on new parts and generally making it roadworthy.  I took my driving lessons in it. I passed my test in it.  I loved it. The other boys were green with envy.  The summer of 1988 was one of the best for me, I used to swivel the windscreen washer points around so that when I drove past cyclists I could squirt them with water.  I was 17 and not only had I passed my driving test but I had a car ready to go.  As is often the way in life, just when you think you’ve got it sorted...you know the rest. 

I wonder what the Guiness world record is for ‘the fastest time between passing your driving test and being involved in a road traffic accident’. I think I might be a contender for the title. I took my test at 9.00am in the morning. By 9.50am I was listening to the words every young man wants to hear “That’s the end of the test; you’ve passed”.  By the time the rest of the school was out on their morning break; my car had crashed into a concrete post.  Not just any concrete post, but the post that held up the school gates and what’s worse...I wasn’t driving it.

We’ll call her Claire, shall we!  She had been on my radar for a while; all I had to do was ask her out; something that would be infinitely easier, if I was driving my super cool car. As soon as I passed the test I drove straight up to school to ceremoniously remove the ‘L’ plates from the car bumper and lap up the praise.  A small crowd gathered and a few of the girls climbed inside.  Claire pleaded with me “Oh let me take it out for a spin; I’m a really good driver”. “I didn’t realise you’d passed your test”. I said.  “I haven’t yet but I’ve had loads of lessons; I’m really good”. I can’t believe I fell for such an unsubstantiated claim.

 So off we went, a small convoy of the chosen few who had cars went out to ‘hit the town’. It wasn’t a good decision. However in my defence, it was made by my ‘other’ brain and they’re not as good at decision making are they.  I was sat in the passenger seat and contrary to her claims of ‘I’m a really good driver’, I found I had to change gear for her as she ‘hadn’t mastered that bit yet’.  This was alarming.

After what seemed like an eternity of driving around the local high street, squirting cyclists and beeping horns we headed back to school. The school was on a busy main road which meant a right turn. 

I can still see it today. We approached the turn too fast, swerved across the other side of the road, up onto the pavement *loud scream from Claire* and straight into the school gate post...which we knocked down.  All this happened while the rest of the school was out enjoying their morning break; far too many spectators for my liking.

Luckily no-one was hurt.  There was of course the trifling matter of: she hadn’t passed her test, she wasn’t insured and we didn’t have ‘L’ plates on the car. I did what any other 17 year old upstanding member of the community would have done...I sped off as quickly as I could. If I remember correctly, there was some cursing on the way home. 

It took all my powers of persuasion to calm the situation down. The worst bit for me however was not having to face the music with the headmaster or the police but having to walk back to school.

Crippling Fashion

I can’t believe it’s happening so soon.  That thing I swore wouldn’t happen to me, well it’s happening already. It must be my age...I’ve started looking at what young people wear and asking myself; “what the hell are you wearing?”

I was in the outdoor cafe in Richmond Park the other day and I could see a wedding reception being held in a sectioned off area. It’s a beautiful location with a great view so unsurprisingly it’s popular for weddings. Although sectioned off, the guests are still very much in view to the general public.

There’s something intriguing about seeing guests arriving at a wedding and clearly the rest of the cafe were enjoying the relaxing art of ‘people watching’. The guests at this particular reception clearly had money.  Money yes, grace and style...err, no.

It was a warm day so fake tan and skimpy dresses were everywhere. They all seemed excited about the big event. Then a car pulled up and out got a very beautiful girl.  She was helped out of the car by what I assume was her gallant husband and she started walking across the car park towards the venue.

I immediately took pity on the poor girl; I could only see her head and shoulders but from the way she was walking she looked as though she was recovering from a bad accident that had rendered her without the use of her legs for a while. I naturally assumed the poor thing was still undergoing intense physiotherapy as she gradually learnt how to walk again.

“Good for you girl” I heard myself say, I admired her pluck amongst all the glamour pusses. However when she cleared the car park and came into the open the full horror of her ailment became clear.  She wasn’t in fact wearing callipers or correction shoes or anything of that nature.  Her hobbling gait was completely self- inflicted by the most ridiculous high heels I’ve ever seen.  She presented such an obscene spectacle that everyone in the cafe stared at her as she painfully walked by. She had all the grace of someone walking barefoot on a pebble beach.

Initially I was prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt; there’s always one who doesn’t quite get the whole fashion thing and takes it too far but then even more girls showed up wearing exactly the same heels.  They were all hobbling along with their expensive dresses and their fake tans, it was quite a sight.

For the record I’m not one of those men that likes women to look like they belong to the Amish sect; I love to see a woman in high heels; they’re as sexy as hell.  But surely the point of high heels is for the wearer to look and feel sexy, beautiful, graceful or elegant; take your pick from any of those.  These things make women look anything but.

What I don’t understand is before they left their homes’, they must have looked in the mirror and thought they looked great. How could they have missed such a massive flaw in their appearance? These girls were obviously under immense peer pressure.  

As a society, how have we arrived at such a ridiculous state of affairs, where young attractive women will wear something that forces them to walk like cripples just to fit in? Why did none of them question the fact they could barely walk, never mind how fashionable these shoes are.

The designers of these shoes appear to be missing something.  When they first trial them on the catwalks around the world even the models fall over and they are people who walk up and down for a living; they’re paid to do it, they’re professionals.  You’d imagine they would be experts at walking and yet even they can’t work out how to walk normally in them.  And yet still these shoes go into production, do the shoe designers not care about the people who are going to buy their products?

I know a lot of women have a ‘thing’ for shoes but isn’t this entering into ‘emperor’s new clothes’ territory?