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".