Why?? What!!

Why is Sharon Shoesmith (and others) suspended on full pay? What is Ed Balls going to do about it? When will we ever get these things right?

So.. George W's greatest regret of his presidency is the "intelligence failure" regarding Sadaam's WMD's 'cos otherwise, you know, he wouldn't have dreamed of invading Iraq.....

es un escandalo!

Was it xenophobia, patriotism or a strategic remark of Simon Cowell's ("proud to be British") which brought about the demise of Spanish rocker, the talented if jarringly named Ruth Lorenzo, on X Factor last night? Whatever the reason, it was a travesty given that, the stellar Alexandra Burke aside, we are left with the disappointingly one trick pony Diana Vickers who can't even hold a tune after her bout of laryngitis, well below average boring boy band, JLS, and Eoghan Quigg, an adolescent hobbit beloved of tweenies and grannies. If Alexandra doesn't win...well who cares? Brian and I are off to the States for a couple of weeks and by the time we get back the whole nonsense will be just so much recycling or, in these economically lethargic times, yet more landfill.

No One likes a Know-it-all

We have a new cat in our lives. Before you think Sir W has gone soft, the feline in question belongs to Daughter (and Boyfriend) Number 3 and therefore resides at a safe distance in Brighton. She is jet black and slinky and called Circe (pron. ser-say) after the sorceress in Greek mythology and not Fur Face, as initially and erroneously reported by Brian. When we met for the first time last weekend I immediately noticed that something was amiss with her right eye, an apparently malicious suggestion which was greeted with universal disdain. Last night Daughter and BF 3 shelled out £40 at the Vet's for eye drops and were placed on cat flu alert.

Last week I was urged to watch the Tuesday edition of Egg Heads because the new(ish) wife of the ex-husband of a good friend was one of the challengers. She Who Is not to be Admired and her team put up a good showing which impressed my mother-in-law who seemed strangely disinclined to believe that I, too, had known all the answers (who doesn't know about "langues de chats" yawned Sir W).

I have another good friend (believe it or not) who recently waxed lyrical on the gratification of being old enough to know everything. Well, at some 12 years her junior (a fact which, despite an otherwise razor-sharp intellect, she invariably manages to "forget") I sometimes feel I have reached a similar level of omniscience but without the universal acclaim. Of course, I haven't routed any builders or got the whole street a significant reduction on their Council Tax so I am not a local hero and, my recent CAB training aside, never expect to be. However, a little more appreciation from ones' own family members (Sir W excepted) wouldn't come amiss especially from Brian who, for the first time in 32 years of marriage, has taken to "popping" home at lunch time and daring to complain about the "state" of the house. Today, when leaving with a flea in his ear, he tripped over of the three pairs of his shoes which have been gracing the hall for the past 2 weeks. Perhaps my efforts are not going entirely unrecognised after all.

No Man. Date

So John Sergeant reads my blog! Well, perhaps not but good on yer, John, and I look forward to your farewell performance on Saturday night - no hard feelings. And last Saturday on X Factor decidedly dicey Daniel finally bit the dust so all is well in the world of reality TV except:

1. "I'm a Celebrity.." has just started - I barely recognise any of the "Names" and will not be watching, honest.

2. It has been rumoured - and, I believe, corroborated - that Peter (Lord) Mandelson is dying to be asked to participate in "Strictly" next year. This cannot happen.* I doubt even the lovely and infinitely resourceful Christina Rianoff could make a silk purse out of that particular pig's ear although Mandy's preference would presumably to be placed in the firm and capable hands of Anton du Beck or perhaps that nice new boy from California.

*Members of the Government should be barred from popular TV.
** The exposure of P. M. in a black see-through chiffon shirt? - let's not go there - ever!!

Potzamoney!

Brian, who has become very news conscious in recent weeks and not always in relation to the progress of the Icesave reimbursement, has pointed out to me a snippet about preparations for the 2012 Olympics. Apparently, pot plants, as opposed to flower bouquets, will be presented to medal winners. Not only is this deemed to be more "green" but has the added advantage that the potted plants should last longer, possibly even long enough to be taken back in triumph to the home country ( import restrictions may apply). You will not be surprised to hear that I have a better idea which is not only even greener but also more in tune with the spirit of the"Austerity Games". If we must have flowers, let's have a number of tasteful artificial bouquets made up, present them to the Olympians for the duration of the medal ceremony only, then claw them back for the next lot. When the Shindig is over, let Boris' mum/wife/mistress pick her favourite for the mantelpiece and distribute the rest to local hospitals, nursing homes etc. Brilliant, though I say so myself.

Aldi treats of the week:

Tilapia (frozen fish counter - almost as good as any eaten in Texas)
Stollen Bites (Xmas goodies - delish)
Goat's cheese Curly Crackers (nibbles - very goaty)

Also coming this Thursday- and only/mainly for the girls - a "Swarowski Style Laptop" in pink or white. Yours for a very competitive £499.99 and co-incidentally to within 1p of the amount allocated to Daughter Number 3 by her employer for the purchase of "I T Equipment". "How cool is that, Miss?!"

A little shop with Horror

Yesterday afternoon, for want of any other diversion, I took Brian into town with me. For one thing, we needed to find him a new shirt to wear to the wedding we are attending in Grand Cayman (whoo-hoo) in December. A suitable item was found surprisingly quickly, in fact surprisingly full stop, in our local M&S (it was the smallest branch in the UK in 1977 and I doubt it has lost that doubtful claim to fame in the intervening years). To be on the safe side, and despite their redoubtable returns policy, Brian decided to "try before we buy". Size "L" (anno domini and all that) was given the thumbs up and I left him to get back into his own shirt and jacket while I bagged a spot in the speedily lengthening till queue (note the singular). Five minutes later he was still in the cubicle while outside a coterie of elderly ladies waited patiently to try on acrylic Christmas twin sets. With seconds to spare he joined me as I was summoned to the till. "What have you been doing?" I hissed. "Putting back all the pins and plastic packaging - it's taken me ages" says he, proudly. As well as the shirt, Brian had also (self) selected a pack of colour co-ordinated sports socks (to replace the ones he insisted I had "done something with" which were later found slowly bio-degrading in his sports bag along with the rest of his kit from Tuesday's wet run). Size 6 - 71/2? chirped the cashier. Wrong - Brian dashes back to the sock aisle and returns triumphant. Size 11 - 13? Wrong again and the crowd is getting restive. "I'm sorry, I knew it was a mistake to bring him", I smile conspiratorially at the lady behind the till who is also the mother of one of Daughter Number 3's old school friends. Finally, socks in size 8 - 10 are found and purchased. Brian feigns insouciance but trails behind me like a naughty school boy. "I could have got it right" he mutters defiantly, "If only you hadn't put me off by finding that shirt!!"

"Effective, determined and committed" is how 60 headteachers in the London borough of Haringay have described Head of Children's Services, Sharon Shoesmith, in a letter asking that she not lose her job over the Baby P affair. How, I wonder, if he had lived long enough to formulate an opinion, would Baby P have described the lady and her team of social workers, many of whom were apparently deployed in local schools and not investigating the plight of a helpless toddler held captive by and at the mercy of the sadistic tormentors who, we now learn, had earlier abused his sister? Social work is not meant to be an easy option; it takes a certain type of temperament to do the job properly. I don't think I could do it and if I were a social worker in Haringay I know I'd rather be based in a school than going, possibly alone, into the dwellings of violent and amoral individuals to check on the welfare of their children. But I hope if I had had even a suspicion of what was happening to Baby P, I would have acted to remove him from that home, secure in the support of my department and its boss. Sharon Shoesmith held the top job, was paid top dollar to do that job properly and the buck stops with her. That's the deal. She should be deeply ashamed but not only has she refused to apologise or shoulder any responsibility for the belief-beggaring failure of her department, she now has her daughter telling the media to "stop picking on my Mum" - a signal lapse of judgement which Brian, in an uncharacteristic but nonetheless welcome intervention, pronounced to be "a sacking offence in its own right, in my book." My only hope now is that the Children's Secretary finds some balls and takes action to properly protect children at risk, not their parents and certainly not incompetent, complacent public servants - and then I won't have to get these heavy matters off my chest and can concentrate on bringing Brian to book instead.

Sofa Suffering

This week at CAB I met a very nice man who, through no fault of his own, was homeless and therefore "sofa surfing" at various friends' houses. At home we have a very annoying man who is sofa surfing because he is a pest! When GF was with us, Sir William and I allowed her to share our sofa (best view of the telly) and Sir W would happily settle down on his blanket between us, next to the TV remote and WW choc bars, while Brian seethed with jealousy from his very own, self-chosen sofa on the other side of the room. No longer! Now when I come in from stacking the dishwasher after preparing our delicious evening repast and look forward to an evening of well-deserved, uninterrupted viewing in the company of my Beloved, there is an interloper on the sofa, interfering with my pussy. I don't like it and neither does he. Worse still, if I manage to get there first, Brian has the cheek to insinuate both his cheeks between me and Sir W and interfere with everything, including the pouffe, all at once. Sir William has done his best to make Brian aware of his grave mistake, giving him The Look and then staring pointedly at the vacant sofa but to no avail. So last night, after several evenings' provocation, he lost it and if Brian has the audacity to sit on our sofa tonight, thick skin notwithstanding, he'd better be wearing protective gloves and body armour because between my elbows and Sir W's newly-honed claws, he'll soon find out who put the "ouch" in couch.

Beyond Shame

I was going to express my incredulity and dismay about the way in which the inquiry into Baby P's miserable little life and death has been handled thus far but David Cameron has beaten me to it - good on him. You will probably be relieved to hear that I find the whole topic too distressing to say very much anyway. However, if the controller of Radio 2 can resign over the Brand/Ross affair, then Sharon Shoesmith, Head of Haringay Child Services, whose staff had more than 60 opportunities to remove that 17 month old child from his sadistic "carers" and to whom she has issued only "written warnings", should be laying her own head on the block.

Come on, John Sargeant, you've had your fun and we've had some laughs, but it's time to bow out of "Strictly" and allow the programme to retain some integrity. The never was much integrity to preserve in "X Factor" so no wonder that's degenerated into a total mess with questions even being asked in parliament - another arena where there isn't very much etc etc. Next year, please let's get rid of Louis Walsh, neither use nor ornament. He had the chance to say goodbye to the distinctly creepy Daniel weeks ago but couldn't resist getting shot of one of Simon's proteges instead and now another media low life, Chris Moyles, has got in on the act. BTW, my money is on Diana (no knickers - inside info) Vickers and my track record in picking winners is very good. And if the above paragraph is all Greek to you - you don't know what you're missing!

Delight and Disgrace

So the Winds of Change summoned by Barack Obama himself have blown him into the White House on the back of an historic electoral victory. I heard the news with relief on the 7 o'clock radio news and several hours later enjoyed the TV scenes of celebration with tears in my eyes. However, my joy wasn't entirely unalloyed as I well remember feeling not dissimilar emotions in May 1997 as I watched Tony Blair bring his family to 10 Downing Street - and what a sycophantic, sanctimonious, self-serving slime ball he turned out to be! I don't have the same fears for Obama's presidency but I do hope, in the face of a very difficult task, he can keep close to his principles and I hope, in turn, Someone will keep him and his family safe.

While I was watching the TV, in dressing gown and slippers (yesterday's shopping expedition which turned into the hunt for the perfect LBD having taken its toll) Sir William was out front doing his own thing which I strongly suspect, despite provision of an indoor litter tray and designated outdoor earth bed, means polluting someone else's garden but what can you do? However, he was in his own front yard and took great exception to a miniature dachshund and a Chihuahua trotting past on leads but in the case of the little "wiener" showing a little too much interest in Sir W. Perhaps he said something he shouldn't, perhaps the pair just looked so totally contemptible in Sir W's eyes he had to act but his blood was up and he meant business - nasty business. A humiliating street appearance (nightclothes at 1 pm) from Yours Truly, profuse apologies to the owner and Sir W was called off at the 3 rd attempt. This is serious - not only disgrace on the House of Merchant but someone is going to get hurt, quite possibly Sir W on the end of an outraged dog-owners boot. If our house wasn't rented we could erect a fence. As it is, Brian is thinking on the lines of a harness and bungee rope. And the worst thing about it is, I might have to agree!

Shopping Follies

A friend and I are going shopping tomorrow. We need to go further afield than Middletown to find a proper department store as we are both in search of "magic" knickers (or "solution lingerie" as it is more euphemistically known) to go under flimsy special occasion dresses and Debenhams website has revealed a goodly if somewhat intimidating selection. [Brian would like you to know that his NICS have been deemed too small and the Inland Revenue wants to inspect his P60 - he seems to find this funny]. We also need to visit Primark to avail ourselves of several more pairs of cheap reading glasses. I think I may go up a point this time as, when planning my weekly viewing from the Sunday Times Culture supplement, I came across a programme which appeared to promise "taking a look at herpes in romantic fiction". I'm afraid I pondered this unsavoury if enlightened oddity for quite some minutes before it finally dawned that the operative word was in fact heroes.

A prayer to the God of Politics: Please let Barack Obama be elected - and let him not disappoint.

Egg Shelled

Thwack! Thwack!! Sir William and I had our TV viewing rudely interrupted last night by the impact of 2 eggs making explosive contact with the living rooms windows. By the time we had alerted Brian to go outside and investigate there was no egg sheller to be seen but the man from a house across the road was also stood by his front windows, scratching his head. An early Halloween prank was his suggestion but we have been shelled once before - in February. At that time I put it down to a disaffected student who had recognised my car in the driveway. This time Brian has a new theory. As both we and the man across the road are renting our respective houses and stubbornly waiting before we buy, Brian's prime suspect is an eggsasperated estate agent.* Be that as it may, I have bought in a bumper sized tub of E numbers with which to appease the Trick or Treaters of Gazeuponafactory Est. Oh, and any tips for getting egg shell off leaded glass?

*Or perhaps it was Russell Brand and Jonathan Ross although I hope they now have more serious matters on their minds.

Sack Them!

OK, I've stolen this headline from the Daily Mail but it was also what I was shouting at the radio this morning. As you know, I have been a fan of Russell Brand in the past. I still think he is an original if sometimes outrageous wit but he knows no boundaries. As for Jonathan Ross, I've always been slightly mystified as to just what constitutes his prodigious talent and therefore justifies his ridiculously inflated salary. Their crudely puerile treatment of Andrew Sachs and the impugning of his 23 year old granddaughter is far more than the over-used and euphemistic "inappropriate"; it is frankly disgusting, especially from Ross, himself the father, I believe, of 2 young girls. Just as sickening is the support for their behaviour from sycophantic fellow "comedians" (Alexander Armstrong) hoping to emulate their financial success and BBC "spokespeople" maintaining that the publicly funded corporation has nothing to answer for. Ross, Brand and Co think they are above censure because their obscenely inflated salaries tell them so. It's time to send them the unequivocal message we so often fail to deliver not only in public life but also in our schools - a pathetically insincere apology and even a few flowers just won't cut it. Contrary to the doctrine I heard a secondary school head preaching on Midlands Today this week, actions do have consequences and a system of rewards (ie. bribes) is no substitute for the "learning opportunity" in allowing those consequences to be felt.

The Iceman Cameth

You may have wondered why themerchantstale seemed to have suffered a bit of a hiatus in recent weeks. Well, nothing very momentous - a 4 week visit from GF from Canada, a 2 week sojourn in Korea for Brian, an over-worked Daughter Number 3 and, oh yes, the Icesave debacle. This last occurrence wouldn't have had such a negative effect upon my delicate psyche had I not had one of my strange financial premonitions just days before the collapse and finally persuaded Brian to withdraw our money on the Monday only to discover on the Thursday that the B*****s had clawed it back on the Tuesday. Readers, I was not a happy bunny but we are far from alone and now I hear that we should expect to be reimbursed (with interest?) by mid November, much sooner than I had gloomily prognosticated. I've got my fingers crossed but I won't be holding my breath.

Following Brian's recommendation that I do something more constructive with my time, I have begun training as an adviser with CAB. At our introductory meeting there were lots of forms to be filled in, the first appertaining to the Christmas Dinner. Unfortunately, when I saw the date of this Very Important Event, I had to declare a prior engagement. I was going to leave it at that but, when pressed, was forced to admit that on that very day I would be attending a wedding in the Cayman Islands and thus, at this time of national retrenchment, rendering myself universally unpopular. Another form wanted to know about my employment status. A straightforward "unemployed" wouldn't do as this apparently implies active attempts to remedy the situation so I plumped for "economically inactive (pensioners etc)" - a description of my current non-productive situation with which Brian would no doubt heartily concur. However, a quick totting up of my recent expenditure under the influence of GF, mainly conducted in the premises of TK Maxx, (Paul Costelloe woollen jacket, Sketchers trainers and Vera Wang (size 12) dress, all for less than £120) tells a different story. As Brian is also very fond of telling me - it's all a question of perspective.

The Y? Factor

As regular readers of The Merchants' Tale will be well aware, I am a big fan of talent shows, Pop Idol, Britain's got Talent, Nancies etc. For some reason, however, I have never really got into The X Factor and after last weekend's offering it is right off the viewing agenda because:

a) Simon Cowell has gone soft and is letting through contestants, especially groups of siblings who, even to my untutored ear, simply cannot sing in tune. Message to future wanna be's - if you have no talent, whine, wheedle and weep for long enough and you will succeed.

b) I cannot bear to hear another self-deluded 16 - 25 year old announce that "singing is my whole life", "It's all I've ever wanted" and, worst of all, "If I don't get through, my life will be over!". It's bad enough from the 45 year olds.

But then I am the mean old mother who refused to let my very talented daughter leave university to attend BIMM (Brighton Institute of Modern Music - or something similar) and insisted she got a teaching degree instead.

On a slightly different (but not entirely unrelated) topic, a friend of mine who works in primary education told me she was non-plussed to witness a lesson where 6 year olds were being taught about "Rhyming Couplets" (pronounced coo-play). My astonishment was two fold as the vast majority of the 11 year olds whom I was recently employed to "supervise" would not have recognised a rhyming couplet/coo-play if it had sprouted wings and flown off the page to hit them smack between the eyes. The novel pronunciation was a total mystery, especially in a town where a ladies fashion emporium of my fairly regular acquaintance is almost universally known as "Bonn March".

Opiate for the 21st Century Masses?

So, while the US and UK, the kissing cousins of the Western World face "Financial Armageddon" in the banking sector which, make no mistake, will exert a powerful tug in the purse strings of Everyman, but especially the poorest and least financially savvy among us, Gordon Brown has put together a comfort package: free loft insulation, internet access and theatre tickets. Yes, the One with the Experience and Expertise to steer us through troubled waters (albeit in an unseaworthy vessel of his own design) wants to ensure that we will be both snug and entertained (ie distracted) until the inexorably advancing moment when we lose the insulated roof over our heads and the power supply dies under an avalanche of unpaid bills. Not so long ago Our Leader expressed a wish to be compared to Emily Bronte's fictional romantic anti-hero, Heathcliff. Well, let me stretch your limits of incredulity and derision just a little further and suggest, with apologies to Karl Marx, Father of Socialism and therefore the more conventional role model for a Labour Prime Minister, that Gordon now seems to have jumped into bed (nobody tell that nice Sarah) with one of history's most unfortunate and blinkered of royal spouses, Marie Antoinette. Free oat cakes anyone?

Mean Streaks

This past week has been one for encountering unpleasant behaviour. Is it the effects of the Credit Crunch or are we just not very nice to know these days? I can understand, if not sympathise, when an estate agent hangs up on me while I'm still in mid-sentence as soon as they hear the words "not making an offer" but is it necessary for anyone to cross in front of my car, twice in one day, when the lights are quite obviously green for cars and red for pedestrians and give me the equivalent of 2 fingers to boot? Was it necessary for 50 something long time employee at our private swimming club to be quite so rude to Brian about his failure (due to zero notification) to intuit the 20p price hike in his Guest Swim? And what had I done to the dental receptionist who begrudging unlocked the door to admit me for my 2 o'clock appointment and then let it slam in my face? No less then 3 friends/family members who work in education have suffered stress this week not, as you might imagine, due to the antics of their charges but because of the insensitive behaviour and thoughtless actions of fellow staff members. Never have I felt so blessed to stay at home and commune in blissful symbiosis with my cat.

Last Monday Brian and I attended the funeral of the husband of a lovely couple who were our very first neighbours in Middletown. It came as a shock to realise that he and his wife were, at that time, slightly younger than Brian and I are now and of course we thought them over the hill. Courageous wartime service (of which he was justifiably proud) apart, Neville could have been said to have lived an unremarkable life spanning a pre-retirement retail career in groceries and later bathroom fittings leavened by an abiding love of his garden and radio comedies. He was also one of a fast disappearing species as one of Life's true gentlemen; honest, conscientious, loyal, responsible, respectful (but never obsequious) charming (but never insincere) kind and modest. During my few minutes of reflection at the end of the service I felt I was mourning more then the passing of one good and gentle man.

Definitely Not Sav

Have you heard the one about the two Korean engineers who came to Middletown for some training and on their day off decided they would visit the birthplace of the Bard? They programmed the Sat Nav with their destination and some two hours later found themselves, disappointed and confused, in one of east London's less picturesque boroughs, plaintively bleating about "Slatford upon Affon". Boom Boom or Tom Tom or some other piece of repetitive assonance. We don't have a Sat Nav. In fact, contrary to popular expectation, given Brian's professional calling, we don't have many gadgets at all - no ipods, no wii, the amplifier on our stereo started its job in 1973 and it took me 20 years of persistent nagging to persuade Brian of the merits of investing in a power driven lawn mower, after which our back garden went from wasteland to parkland virtually overnight. We have taken trips in the cars of friends who have invested in computerised navigation devices (we call them magical mystery tours) and have had first hand testimony from others who have narrowly missed driving over a cliff while Sat Nav searched for a National Trust car park. Brian's preferred method of finding our promulgated destination is to give the initial impression that he knows what he's doing, then, with no prior warning, throw a map at me just as I've stowed my specs safely in the bottom of my handbag, while heaping opprobrium on my head on account of my rubbish navigational skills. Strangely, this strategy has proved 95% successful - I've only been forced to expose my apparently perfectly acceptable female ignorance to total strangers on a handful of exceptionally stress-laden occasions.

I was highly gratified to read that Minette Marin (Sunday Times, 7th September) shares my views on the McCain/Palin presidential bid. Despite his heroic past, McCain is simply too old, too naive and plainly too easily swayed to be in command of, whether we like it or not, what is still the most influential country on the planet.

Much as I adore Russell Brand (albeit in a spine-shivery sort of way) I don't think he will have won any fans in the Democratic camp for his inappropriate if heart felt endorsement of Barack Obama at the recent Music Video Awards. The sight of a semi-rehabilitated Britney Spears shrinking from the British Loon whilst being driven away from the scene of the crime on the back of a golf cart was well worth the price of a TV licence.

Palin Comparison

I was horrified to hear that the 17 year old daughter of Sarah Palin (Republican John McCain's running mate for the White House, although "mate" is a bit strong as they had apparently met only once prior to her Vice Presidential nomination - electoral expediency by any chance?) is 5 months pregnant. Mine is not a moral objection, not against poor Bristol anyway, but a furious incredulity that any mother of 5 children, one only a few weeks old with the added complication of Down's Syndrome, should put herself forward to be Second in Command of any country, let alone the USA. That the regrettably named daughter is "going to keep her baby" apparently makes it alright with the vast majority of McCain/Palin supporters. Well, of course she's going to keep it - what other option is open to the daughter of such a high-profile pro-lifer? Has anyone even asked what she would like to do or why, at 17, she had fallen pregnant in the first place? Sarah Palin wants to "break the glass ceiling" (where have we heard that one before?) and prove that women can have it all. Well if they can (and the jury is still out on that one) it comes at a price not always paid by the ceiling breakers themselves. At best, Mrs Palin is putting her country before her children (one is already on his way to Iraq) at worst she is casting her family by the wayside as she marches, seemingly insouciant, along the stony path to self-aggrandisement. I could never warm to a woman who had her official photo taken while ensconced on the hide of a bear shot by her father, anyway.

At the opposite end of the Spectrum, on Sunday I found myself reading Rosie Millard's advice to the broad-sheet reading parents of little children starting school for the very first time this September. Helpful hints to avoid last minute stress:

Make the lunch boxes up/sign forms/lay out uniform the night before.

Well Duh. What does it mean when you are beginning to feel that you've already lived too long - and you're only 54?

J.F.D.I.

I'll have to let you work out this particular acronym for yourselves or Blogspot will be showing me the door. It came to my attention only a couple of days ago when a friend was telling me about a recent marriage of her acquaintance which had patently lost its initial gloss, although I also have it on good authority that it is common currency in government circles - yet another indicator that Gordon is out of the loop. If you're struggling, let me tell you that it is a command which leaves the recipient in absolutely no doubt that he (or she) had better comply - pronto! I made the mistake of letting Brian in on the secret and ever since he has been rehearsing it around the house with adolescent glee. I'm not sure who, if anyone, is his intended target but Sir William has told me, through his six remaining, tightly clenched teeth, that if he ever hears it directed at either his Good Self, or his Beloved Mama, there will be a blood-bath which will make the Yorkshire Terrier Incident look like the Teddy Bears' picnic.

Eye-watering

I've just returned from having my Viking throw back eyebrows waxed at a beauty parlour on the outskirts of Middletown. Again the results are unsatisfactory: despite my clear request for ruthlessness, my white blond and, let it be said, ginger caterpillars look like they've been nibbled by a very polite gerbil and here I am once again, tweezers and magnifying mirror in hand, doing what I've just paid the equivalent of £84 ($168) an hour not to have to do. In the Vietnamese-run Walmart franchise in Houston, I enjoyed a merciless pruning for just $5.00 plus $3.00 tip and didn't have to repeat the experience for at least 8 weeks, despite the growth promoting effects of extreme humidity. Nor did I have to give an account about what I did/will do at the weekend - an exercise I'd hoped to leave behind in primary school. So I've got my pink and furry eyes out for a new venue and my requirements are few: it doesn't have to be posh, you can cut the tosh, just know how to quash and charge less dosh! Any recommendations?

Moleman and Dobbin

Last weekend Daughter Number 3 and Boyfriend called in on their way back from The Green Man Festival in Wales - mountains, mud and some music. The next day I invited my cousins over for a family tea. In the kitchen, adorning some shop-bought goodies (M&S, not Aldi on this occasion) with home-made garnish, I was somewhat taken aback to hear my Cousin's Husband greet Boyfriend Number 3 with the immortal words, "By Jove, you look just like [our] Mole Man!!". I should explain that my cousins are the proud owners of a beautiful park-like garden on which they spend a lot of time, energy and money, not least in the area of (destructive) wildlife eradication - no rabbit, squirrel, fox, mole or magpie shall be allowed to pollute the shades of Dorridge, not on their watch anyway. To his credit, BF 3 took the unverifiable (my cousin not wishing to be drawn on the point) comparison on the chin and we all adjourned to the tea table on which I had laid the proverbial magnificent spread.

One bite of the of the home-filled, shop-bought pastry cased quiche confirmed my belated suspicion that the crust was intended for a strawberry, and not a mushroom, flan. No-one said anything (least of all moi) and my Cousin's Husband had 2 pieces, not counting the one which BF 3, possibly still bearing just the slightest grudge over the Moleman episode, flipped business side down on the tablecloth. Then, obviously feeling he had not made his antipathy sufficiently clear, he up-ended his wine glass and baptised both the tuna fish mousse and my Cousin's Husband with special offer Sauvignon Blanc. "What's in the vol o vents?" enquired Daughter Number 3 in a thinly veiled attempt to turn attention away from her hapless consort. "Oh, nothing to worry about", I blithely assured her, beaming at Buddhist, vegetarian BF3, "I bought, I mean made, them especially!" Two minutes later, I was being severely taken to task by my youngest child on account of the bacon bits discovered in said French delicacies while BF3 discreetly, and only very slightly reproachfully, disposed of his most recent mouthful in his napkin. Humble pie, anyone?

Who could fail to warm to dear, sweet Boris Johnson as he made his extensively pre-publicised but nevertheless fascinating ancestral discoveries on "Who Do You Think You Are?" (BBC1 Wednesday 9pm). Not me certainly. I even found myself fancying a bit of the old fossicking around with such a funny, cuddly, erudite and well-connected polar bear - Cripes!!

Aldi Gone

I popped into my favourite "low rent" food store yesterday afternoon but the locusts had been there before me. No 68p fruit and veg specials, no granary bread and, more significantly, no smoked salmon or cream cheese stuffed olives either. Ever since the Media woke up to the "Credit Crunch" (whose bite has been pretty toothless so far, although the incisors are getting sharper by the day) there have been incessant articles and features, notably in the broadsheets, about how to survive an economic downturn without lowering your standard of living and Lo! firms such as Netto, Lidl and especially my beloved Aldi are suddenly flavour of the month (although one columnist, who had obviously not taken her own advice, only recommended the latter for the bulk purchase of tea bags and loo rolls). Now I am no Joanie (or Sloanie) Come Lately at Aldi having been an aficionado since 1997 (and of Primark several years before that)and I resent the invasion of the Chelsea Tractor crew who had too much dosh and not enough nouse to shop there in the years building up to the Credit Crescendo. So, hands off the Plebs' pate and the Proles' prawns - and our loo rolls too, come to that!

Dumb and Dumber

I know we're in the middle of the "Silly Season" as far as the Media are concerned but, connoisseur of any time telly as I am, it seems to me that any time is silly time these days. At no point was this more apparent than during BBC Breakfast TV last Thursday morning. Squawking in the background of our Travel Lodge bedroom as Brian and I donned our finery in preparation for Daughter No 3's graduation, we soon became aware that the same Top Tips for a variety of life events were being regurgitated approximately every 15 minutes. These were:

Top Tips for what to do if you come across a turtle stranded on one of Britain's bleaker beaches (on no account allow it back into the water).

Top Tips for what to do when bitten by an adder (sorry - must have been in the bathroom or using the hairdryer but feel quite safe in Twitcher's Turning backyard)

Top tips for minimising our rapidly escalating energy bills. This item was particularly and hilariously irritating as a scarily hyperactive presenter burst into various rooms in "your average 3 bedroom home" and in turn admonished innocently computer game- playing teens and kettle- boiling grannies to switch off, turn down, or invest in a low energy model - advice he would have been better off applying to himself.

And this from the BBC no less, which, like all broadcasters, seems to have espoused the National Curriculum dictat of manageable blocks of "sound bite" teaching, repeated ad nauseam for the duration of the programme/lesson. Last night I watched, and listened with mounting incredulity to "Dangerous Jobs for Girls" (Channel 4, 10 pm) the premise of which was the introduction of 3 high-achieving British Career girls to a logging camp in the wilds of NW Canada where they would be "trained and tested" over a 2 week period to see if they were good enough to fall (sic) a tree; a process, which, for a mere man, normally takes several months. Poor little Tracy, in a high-up but ill-defined position in business, was a no hoper from the get-go, PhD (Gender Studies) student Helen offered the most promising temperament and physique while Army captain, Anna, understood not the slightest thing about female emancipation and richly deserved the kick up her pert little backside which most of the non-plussed loggers were practically queueing up to administer. The very worst thing about this ill-conceived and patently fraudulent project, however, was not the token females but the voice-over by Matthew McFadyn: infuriating repetition was a given but the lugubrious gravitas with which he intoned his fatuous commentary would have knocked the late Richard Dimbleby's discourse on a state funeral into a cocked hat.

When did Britain get to be so dumb? About the same time universities started awarding "Certificates of Post - 16 Compulsory Education" to capped and gowned recipients at degree giving ceremonies. I was prepared to swallow my indignation (on behalf of those students, and their parents, who had studied, worked and paid their way through 3 or 4 years to achieve an honours degree) until, only minutes after receiving her degree and before her lips had even touched the "complimentary" glass of champagne, the gown was almost torn from our daughter's back by a stressed out hiring agent who complained, quite rightly, that such was the vastly increased volume of today's "graduates", he hadn't been allocated enough time to prepare for the afternoon session. One of the enduring memories of my brief career as a secondary school "Cover Supervisor" (one of the Government's more mendacious euphemisms) is the flabbergasting (ancient Brit. slang for "gobsmacking") egocentricity of a frightening number of our schoolchildren, most of whom labour under the illusion (apparently created by their parents and perpetuated by the Government's insistence on "equality and inclusivity") that they are all Super Stars deserving of the greatest indulgence and respect whilst showing none and, tragically, learning next to nothing because, like Clever Clogs Captain Anna, they think they already know it all - at 11 years of age. Was ever a Minister for Education more aptly named?

Depressed, Deflated and Delusional

Today I stuck another pin in the already rapidly deflating balloon of the estate agency "profession" and I almost felt sorry for them. As "liquid renters" Brian and I are currently the Holy Grail of the property experts who are, despite all indications to the contrary, still labouring under the illusion that we are desperate to buy and quit our very comfortable rented house. Not so.. and I am finding it difficult to keep patience with the falsely cheery chappies (and chapesses) who ring me up to see what they can do for me (frankly nothing I couldn't do a hell of a lot better myself) when really they are crossing their fingers, and toes, that I will be doing something for them ie. buy one of their uninspiring and still, incredibly, overpriced properties. Despite the recent closure of no less than 5 estate agents' office in the centre of Middletown, it seem that message is still not getting through that Estate Agency is now as sad, flat and out of time as a dropped pancake on Ash Wednesday. Let the lean times roll.

Control Geek

It has recently come to Sir William's attention that Brian has, apparently unwittingly, introduced an unwelcome innovation to The Little House on the Patio. Some weeks ago, while I was in Crete and therefore unable to protest, Brian decided that the Little House should be furnished with a removable door which could be installed at night to prevent the pollution of the above by any marauding nocturnal wild beasts - or insanely jealous neighbourhood moggy. So far so anal (I had found pushing the front of the house up against the fence a perfectly adequate protective measure) however, said door was duly engineered and carefully put in position each night to be removed the following morning. On weekend mornings, however, removal can sometimes be a little delayed as happened just yesterday while Brian, William and I were enjoying the precious and increasingly infrequent sun on The Bench (see Darling Buds, themerchantstale.com). The temperature in the (now) unventilated Little House mounted unnoticed until there was a muffled implosion followed the a nerve-jangling clatter as the little door of the Little House was catapulted onto the patio. After he'd regained his composure - and his perch - William dealt Brian "The Look" which, on this occasion, plainly said (here please imagine the dulcet tones of Charlie Croker aka Michael Caine) "You've only gone and blown the bloody door off!!". William and I retreated to the kitchen to partake of our respective medications (Happy Pills for me, steroids for him) leaving Brian to ponder this unfortunate flaw in his control system. I suppose he'd be drilling ventilation holes next, but for the fear of infiltration by a passing earwig.

Turning the Corner

What a difference a day makes... Just 12 hours after my last post we received notification that Daughter Number 3 had not only passed her degree but been awarded First Class Honours. Jubilation all round, not just for her excellent result (and we are very proud of all our daughters' achievements) but because it brought to a very satisfactory close the decade during which all our offspring progressed through Higher Education, one of them twice. So we are now the parents of no less than 3 "Young Professionals" either in or about to be in permanent paid employment commensurate with their qualifications. Phew. That very night I dragged Brian out for a celebratory meal complete with champagne.* The girls deserve their success but so do we for all the many types of support freely given over the years. We know it's just a bend, and not the end, of the parental road but it is great to have got them all safely on to the freeway at last.

Better news for Sir William fans too. After 2 nights' hospitalization we brought him home demanding to go private next time as there was far too much scrutiny of his personal bodily functions. We are no further forward in finding out what has caused his most unpleasant indisposition - best guess some unknown virus. A combination of antibiotics and steroids have brought about a noticeable improvement: his botty is definitely looking better which is a great relief all round as neither of us fancied being on either end of the cream and rubber glove with which I had been optimistically issued. We are not impressed with the prohibitively expensive prescribed diet which looks - and smells- like small dark brown cardboard circles and makes him so thirsty he has to wake me up 3 times a night to drink from the glass on my bedside table. I've definitely got the best deal though, as there were two small dark brown circles on Brian's side of the duvet this morning and I'm pretty sure they weren't edible.

* Despite my dereliction of WW and celebratory nosh, loss to date 18lbs.

Craptrap

OK, I know, I've been a poor correspondent of late but I've been away again, in Brighton helping to facilitate Daughter Number 3's move from Hanover student house to young professional's single flat in Kemptown. And very nice it is too, small but perfectly formed with excellent and uplifting sea views from the front windows. In fact, if you ignore the cars, estate agents boards, scaffolding and a gas pipe repair, it is not impossible to imagine that the view down this charming Regency backwater has not changed so very much in the last 200 years and I'm seriously thinking of co-opting it as my South Coast pied a terre whenever the tenant is out of town. The move went surprisingly well thanks to a very efficient man with a van and also to Brian who dismantled and reassembled like a Good 'Un. He departed early for Middletown, truck laden with student cast offs (a very nice cream metal bed frame,[for the grandchild we don't yet have]a wicker coffee table[for the conservatory we have yet to acquire] and a wooden kitchen chair which we bought in the first place. I stayed on and scrubbed and polished, washed and ironed, shopped and cooked, at the end of which Daughter Number 3 regarded me thoughtfully and announced, "Don't take this the wrong way, but Gillian (teaching mentor) told me that when her Mother died, she experienced a huge sense of liberation." After I'd finished laughing like a drain, I managed to riposte that she'd better hope someone comes up with a mobile network which reaches beyond the current terrestrial bounds or she'd be up the creek without Mum to find the paddle.

Back in Middletown, the news of Sir William is not good. His indisposition has gone on for almost 4 weeks now and he is not getting any better. Five visits to the vets, several injections, faeces and blood samples and £200+ later, we are no nearer finding out what's wrong. Always the most fastidious of all my very clean male cats (drawing a veil, or more often, a pile of kitchen towels over the less delightful habits of Ms Georgiana Paw) he has not been able to avoid the odd accident and is obviously mortified, spending most of his time either outside or under the spare room bed. Brian and I are united in our concern; the house has a melancholy air and there is a sad gap on the sofa of an evening. Yes, GF has finally returned to Canada and we are all bereft ( but especially me). Today it is pouring down from dawn till dusk. A property company I had engaged to manage a small rental property for me has gone out of business owing me money. After considerable persistence, I have finally coerced them into reimbursing me only to find that they have deducted a management fee for their inconvenience. Ye Gods!! If it wasn't for the unexpected but nonetheless gratifying discovery that, despite the indulgence of a toasted mozzarella and tomato ciabatta with wild rocket and peach chutney whilst slaving away in Brighton, I seem to have lost no less than 3lbs in one week, it would be, in most respects, a pretty s****y day.

So, Nicole Kidman has called her baby girl Sunday despite the irrefutable fact that she was born on a Monday and Gordon Brown wants to be compared to Heathcliff. Beam me up, Scotty, and lose the damn phone!!

If it's Saturday it must be ...Middletown

Apologies are due for the last 3 weeks of no blog. I have been gallivanting - to Brighton, Crete, Brighton, Prague and back to Middletown and it's been great. The trip to Crete was a post-graduation treat for Daughter Number 3 and me, whilst Brian (resolutely untreatable) held the fort in Middletown. Of course he was ably assisted by Sir W and also by GF who kindly cooked a few meals and ironed a few shirts. The past weeks have developed into a very pleasant, mutually advantageous Menage a Trois although we are rarely "a trois" all together and there is definitely no irregular sexual activity (nor much of the regular kind, I think I heard Brian mutter from the bowels of a homeward-bound Korean Air 747). Crete was just what the doctor ordered - a picture-perfect, not too commercialised Shirley Valentine-esque fishing village, lots of lovely swimming opportunities, delicious food and drink, although at a slightly unpalatable price. The strength of the Euro has brought about something of a recession in Greek tourist trade and while the near empty bars and beaches were a delight to me and non-party animal Number 3, the locals were decidedly unimpressed. Our hotelier, the "charming" (according to some obviously out of date internet review) Manos, was a miserable so'n'so who insisted on holding on to our passports for the whole week without reasonable explanation, was most reluctant to hand over an extra pair of threadbare holey sheets and neglected to carry any of our bags up the twisting staircase to our apartment. We got our own back by spending our precious Euros elsewhere after finding not one but 2 springy dark hairs in my first morning's "Full Eenglish". A couple of lightly education excursions were undertaken, first to a former Leper colony (and after the mossies had finished with my feet and legs I began to fear apprehension as an escapee) and then to Knossos, of greater interest than it might otherwise have been to the new qualified teacher who has to deliver Greek Myths to her Year 5 class next term. On this tour we were accompanied by an impressively multi-lingual guide who divided her charges into 2 groups - The English Speakers and The Francophones (sic) - each of which she addressed separately, banishing the unwanted group to "have a photo opportunity". Each spiel for the benefit of the English Group began with, "Here on the island of Krit-i" (just in case anyone was suffering from a "senior moment") and ended with the phrase, "And thees I shall also be telling to ze French", giving the distinct impression that we had strayed into a re-run of 'Allo, 'Allo. Later, back at the apartments, Number 3 and I were enjoying a rather over enthusiastic re-enactment of the Knossos experience whilst simultaneously attempting to maintain our balance on one of Manos's airbeds when it suddenly struck me that we were not larking around in the privacy of our backyard pool in Houston but under the disapproving scrutiny of a trio of boys from Bolton, a couple from Croydon, our (un)genial host and his rather dishy bartender son. Later that night, when one too many gimlets caused me to momentarily lose the use of my legs en route our room, Manos, alerted by uninhibited laughter and the screeching of the sunbed which broke my fall, opened the little square window in his bathroom, peered out toothbrush in mouth then slammed it shut again without even the most cursory enquiry as to my state of health. Next time, and there could be one, we'll stay with the truly charming and solicitous Georgio next door.

Just 2 days after my return home, GF and I were off to Prague but not before my ever-alert maternal gaze had registered that Sir W was having trouble with his er willy or at least his waterworks which can be a very serious, even fatal, condition in male cats. So it was straight off to the vets for an examination which happily revealed that he had not yet reached the critical condition of "blocked tom" but a couple of injections were administered just in case. Early next morning GF and I set off for the airport leaving a non too thrilled Brian in charge of a very disconsolate moggie and a special litter tray kit which, allegedly, would enable him to capture a feline urine sample for analysis. (I was later to receive an email communication from Sir W reporting that Brian had been "very busy" in his (William's) litter tray which was not only disgraceful but totally unnecessary - was 4 toilets all to himself not good enough?). The flight to Prague was full but uneventful - thankfully no stag parties, just a lanky young Czech whose somewhat tenuous grasp of English caused him to miss the opportunity of swopping his cramped window seat for my (very slightly) more spacious aisle position. Most probably, GF and I decided, he was still overcome after having been awarded a First Class Honour's Degree in Communications from one of our newer universities. A thorough digestion by GF of the DK Guide to Prague meant that on arrival we were able to repulse the advancing hoards of unregulated taxi drivers and, armed with our 26 Kron (less than £1/$2) transfer tickets, hop on a number 100 bus to the tube station and several stops later alight at Namesty Republiki and then hoof it to our delightful hotel in the Old Jewish Quarter. I'm sure many of you (my 3 daughters included) will have beaten me to this most delightful, pedestrian-friendly, visually-stunning East European treasure so I won't go on. Suffice it to say that it was everything we anticipated and more. We walked our Birkenstocks off, GF took literally hundreds of stunning photos and we only succumbed to dumplings once. There were some intriguing degustatory experiences on offer. On our very first night we could have supped "Wet Pussy" cocktails on one side of the road and dined upon "roast piggish knee" on the other; as it was GF played safe with the goulash while I experimented, most enjoyably, with the "Prague Sparrow" - braised pork on a nest of pickled cabbage- to you and me - washed down with some very acceptable Moravian wine.

Back at home, our potentially Blocked Tom was now suffering from a very unsightly and obviously very uncomfortable Baboon's Bum following a violent and prolonged attack of the runs (can't spell diarrhoea). To Brian's credit he was, for once, more concerned about a loved one's suffering than the state of our rented carpets and had even been popping home from work every couple of hours to monitor developments. Two return trips to the vets later things are a little better and a sample(poop proving considerably less elusive than its liquid counterpart) has already been sent to the lab. - thank goodness for the pet insurance I was talked into last year when I was still feeling guilty about abandoning poor William for a life of sloth and indulgence in the bad ole US of A - ah, those were the days... However, as my Dear Husband (aka GF's Other Husband) would certainly concur, I'm not doing too badly and the very good news is that, finally, we have all 3 daughters in (or about to be in) gainful employment and in posts which they hopefully will find personally satisfying as well as the all important financially remunerative. Next week we are off to help Number 3 move into her very own (rented) flat in upmarket Kemptown, a move which, I feel, could mark a new and exciting chapter in the Merchant Family saga. Now if only Brian and I could find that dream house...

Little House on the Patio

I bought a house today! I rang Brian at lunchtime and said I was going to do it and he said, "Okay, whatever you think best." No, really. So I did and it is just perfect - not too big, not too small, great location and totally maintenance free as not only are the windows plastic the roof and walls are too. Of course it is for Sir William and although the official description was "small dog kennel" he has lost no time in colonising it. In fact, so enamoured is he of his new toy - much like a toddler with a Wendy House or tent that he was snoozing in there from 2 pm until 10.30 pm, the latter hours on Brian's watch while GF and I were out seeing "Sex and the City, the Movie" (Q. should Big have been forgiven? Discuss). Obviously Brian had forgotten the maxim that you never let a baby nap too long in the day in case they are up all night... And so it was that as Brian retired to bed in a sulk, GF and I had our re-run of "The Apprentice" ruined by William in Werecat mode, venting his spleen on the upholstery, examining the chimney as a possible escape route and, worst of all, pointing his rear end at the mirror on my Grandma's washstand and vibrating his tail in a very suspect manner. Talking of suspect, if ever a reality programme was rigged it is "The Apprentice". Who in their right mind would waste time on any of them - one tells lies and can't spell, another thinks the fact that he is "only 24" should be a passport to the top and another is attempting to break the glass ceiling with the sheer force and volume of her tongue. They are all foul-mouthed and certainly do not have "great fluency in English" as claimed in one CV. Post interview, they are all worried that they didn't "articulate" or "convey " themselves as well as they would have wished. Well here's another transport metaphor for you - "Gerr on yer bikes!!"

Oops La La

As you might anticipate from my earlier post, this week I have been assiduously following the semi-finals of Britain's Got Talent and Good Friend is a very willing convert. As well as alternately marvelling and cringing at the mind boggling variety of acts, another, unexpected reaction has enhanced our nightly viewing - we have both, despite his startlingly chemically enhanced teeth, fallen in love with the re-constructed Simon Cowell! No longer the unfeeling, robotic, high-waisted, life-sized Barbie consort, he has morphed into a charming, sexy (especially when collar and tie batten down the chest hair) sympathetic man who is kind to children and animals and, most importantly, respectful of Amanda Holden's right to an opinion. It now falls to Piers Morgan to fulfil the role of condescending ageist misogynist who can also add spectacularly ill-informed to his CV - Bleeding Heart, my a***.

And so to the finalists... GF and I liked Signature, the dancing Sikhs and also clever collie, Gin, plus the shy chorister Andrew Johnston but not kiddie ballroom duo, The Cheeky Monkeys (Simon's soft side was positively flaccid where they were concerned). We adore inspired dancer George Sampson (to the point of actually picking up the phone and voting for him) and who would not admire the poise and talent of 12 year old Faryll Smith? We do not rate string ensemble Escala, however, who may be brilliant and gorgeous but are not innovative and would not attract nearly so much admiration if their collective and amply displayed pins were not quite so lissom. Martial arts duo, Strike, are far from a knockout in our book and what happened to the fabulous Hoop La La? I'm quite sure Prince Charles would have enjoyed them. But who cares? Our boy has won - for his Mum - and there wasn't a dry eye in the living room, the newly returned Brian having, predictably, beat a retreat to an early bed.

Many congrats to Blackpool's Jodie Pregner, victor in the Battle of the Nancies. The Lord and his side-kick, Cameron McIntosh, made it quite clear they didn't want her with the ennobled gargoyle even stooping so low as to make a sizeist remark (hey, what about a remake of that other Victor Hugo Classic, The Hunchback of Notre Dame?). They didn't like being over-ruled by "the people", seemingly forgetting that it was the plebs who made them their multi-millions in the first place.