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.