The Vol Abroad

Bill and Ted's excellent adventure

2011-07-17T21:19:00.002+01:00

The boy came home with the nursery mascot - Ted the Teddy Bear just before heading off to Scotland with his dad. Something about this didn't quite sound true to me, but apparently this is a common thing that school's and nurseries do now. Foisting responsibility for some raggedy stuffed animal on some poor parents and then forcing them to keep a journal of the various goings on.

Journal it? Crikey. And then I looked at what other parents had done. Lots of colour pictures. Pages and pages and pages of journal writing - Ted went to Venice. Ted loved the Cathedral of San Marco. Ted. Ted. Ted.

I was just going to print out a few pics on our black and white laser printer and maybe caption it. But the ViL balked. Something in his competitive spirit thought that wasn't good enough. Especially since he'd gone to all the trouble of actually taking the pictures (I was at home in London!)

But instead of doing that, I fired up a Mac app called Comic Life 2 and pulled together a picture comic.

OK, Northern Scotland ain't Venice. But I think this puts the handwritten, glued and taped entries of previous parents to shame. And that's what counts!

Bill and Teds excellent adventure

View more documents from Ingrid Koehler

Mouse patrol

2011-07-02T10:35:00.001+01:00

Mouse, originally uploaded by London looks.

We came home to find a wounded mouse in the corner. (Sometimes our cat doesn't finish the job - lazy!)

I pointed it out to Buddy and he goes wild. "Mommy, don't kill it. Don't kill it, Mommy!..."

OK. I had horrible visions of trying and failing to nurse the dang thing back to health.

"Mommy, don't kill it!" He said "I"m gonna kill it!"

And he did.

I really wasn't sure whether to be icked out or proud.

Metamorphosis

2011-06-24T08:15:00.003+01:00

Four-year-old Buddy and I saw this butterfly - a pretty thing. Orange. We talked about how we liked butterflies and whether I liked them. (I do). And whether I liked caterpillars (I don't, they eat my plants). And metamorphosis.

"Caterpillars turn into butterflies," Buddy said.

I was impressed. "That's right!" I said enthusiastically.

He was quiet for a moment. "And after they turn into butterflies, they turn into chickens. And then elephants," he reported with conviction.

The budding photographer

2011-06-21T09:15:00.003+01:00

When Buddy was a baby, he loved to pose for the camera. Now at four, like his mom, he much prefers to be behind the camera. He's always asking me to hold and use the camera. And he's fairly careful with it (although he still has a tendency to get fingerprints on the lens, grrrr)

On a visit to our local hospital (don't panic, it's on the way back from a local playground and there's a nice Marks and Spencers Simply Food there, too) he asked for the camera and decided to take pictures of people waiting outside. Relatives of patients, staff - I presume. I actually think these are pretty good 'street' portraits. I made him ask for permission to take the pictures. He loved it - taking the pictures and interacting with his subjects and so did these women!

Little Lord Fauntleroy

2011-04-16T20:44:00.002+01:00

We're off to America soon, land of cheap children's clothing (and cute). So we did a big old clear out of Buddy's closet. I've been putting off buying any new trousers for the boy thinking we could make do, but the poor lad has had several growth spurts so other than a couple of trousers he's been mostly wearing high waters.

But actually stuffed in the way back, back of the cupboard - and I can't imagine why this outfit wasn't in regular circulation - I found a little blue coverall set that just about fit. This is one of those classic outfits my mother simply cannot resist. Although she should. Not only is the boy guaranteed a drubbing on the rougher playgrounds of South London - but the back opening one piece is really beyond a little lad who needs to get to the toilet on his own.

Still these pictures should be handy for future blackmail. Do I feel guilty? Not in the least, especially after the boy packed the washing machine detergent tray full of dishwasher salt today.

Project potty mouth - help please!

2011-04-10T15:01:00.002+01:00

I swear like a sailor. I guess. I don't really know any sailors. Anyway, I use some pretty ripe language. I have for a long time. But in Tennessee there's little tolerance for such filthy communications styles. Perhaps especially from women in mixed company. And in front of children. I'm headed off to Tennessee in just over a week, so I need to clean up my act.

I'm a fairly indiscriminate swearer and I use words that the Federal Communications Commission would frown on. By and large, I'm an HBO level swearer. Lots of Fs but never Cs.

Still, as I'll be around elderly relatives and small children for much of the time time I'm in Tennessee I really need to curb it. I need some kind of behavioural therapy. A rubber band around the wrist. A swear box. Something. Anything.

I've already tried to stop and every time I utter a profanity I end up swearing at my slip. Resulting in twice as much swearing!

Descending into the Wandle Wasteland...

2011-04-06T21:07:00.005+01:00

...how a fun family outing turned into a Cormac McCarthy novel...

It's not my fault that the boy has a crossbow. I never wanted him to have one in the first place. And the crossbow that the Vol-in-Law ordered for Buddy turned out to be far more weapon like than toy like. It's black. It's metal. It can zing the little darts quite far and quite hard. But who am I to overlook a fun toy? So on the first warm day of the year, I took the boy and his cross bow down to the Wandle Wildlife Park - or as it actually is..and abandoned, filled in and overgrown wastewater treatment plant which sits underneath a major powerline pathway: the Wandle Wasteland.

We first fired the crossbow at the Ikea bag we'd concealed it in. But soon the boy tired of that and began shooting a wild. A dart went off into the rough. The boy began down some creepy path and soon found an abandoned supermarket trolley. What heaven for a small boy.

We dragged it out into the open and played around some more. Buddy was desperate to take it home. I resisted my natural inclination to bring home 'found goods' and said no. But I let him climb around on it and we shot at it with the crossbow.

At one point, a middle class man walking through the 'park' happened upon our fun (I think I was aiming at some crows) and seemed quite frightened by our manner. I could see him taking in the 'bulldog' t-shirt - purchased in a moment last year when I was feeling quite hopeful about England's World Cup prospects (i.e. before it began), but now looks more appropriate for an English Defense League rally. I could see him taking in the trolley and assuming we'd taken it from Sainsbury's. And the look of derision as he saw me hand the crossbow to they boy....I did feel a slight inward cringe of shame.

But then a couple of old drunks happened by. I would have said they were homeless, but I suspect they weren't. They did have two mutt like dogs with them, but no possessions. The had the tremor and pallor of long-time abusers. They didn't have all their teeth. They smiled at the boy's trolley antics and asked about the cross-bow. The woman asked me where I was from. The man wanted to see the boy fire the crossbow and cheered enthusiastically and Buddy insisted that the man have a try, too. Turns out he was raised in Indiana and had lived in LA for quite some time. He asked me if I'd ever been to Indiana. "Only driven through," I had to reply.

"Tennessee's a beautiful place," he said. "You just can't beat it in the spring or the fall."

And I had to agree.

School places

2011-04-04T19:38:00.003+01:00

I'm a school governor. Until recently, that school was rated as 'satisfactory' and has now been uprated to good. I'm not a particularly good school governor, but I've been doing it for a while and have given up a significant amount of my free time to a local school. I haven't made a major contribution, to be sure, but I have been along for the ride and I hope I've made some small contribution.

Looks like lots of places.

I put Buddy's name down on the list to go to that school. School governors don't get preferential places, but the school had never been oversubscribed before, so I felt pretty assured of a place. I wasn't thrilled about him going there. He's a smart kid, but he's not a good kid. From having observed classes there, I could see that it maybe didn't serve smart, not-very-good and high-energy boys well. He would have been an ethnic minority in the school - and whatever you may think about that, it can certainly make you more obvious, more vulnerable. Despite the school's improvement, I know they still face a lot of challenges. A school population of high churn. Kids entering every year who don't speak English at all, never mind as a first language. But it wasn't really a bad deal overall. I know the headteacher and deputy head and a lot of the staff. I know they're actually doing a pretty good job. I'm a school governor, so although the boy wouldn't get any special favours...you know, they'd look out for him, let me know if there was a problem.

School governors don't get preferential treatment when it comes to school places. And my boy didn't get a place at the school where I'm a governor.

Instead he was offered a place at the worst school within reasonable walking distance. A school which receives low ratings on outcome and on kids perceptions of their own safety. It's next to a housing estate that I know has some significant problems, because my husband sits on the local Safer Neighbourhood Panel. It's a school which, until last year, was in 'special measures'. It's a school that parents sometimes flee from to attend the one where I'm a governor. Sometimes mid-year.

I can't help feel a little cheesed off that I didn't get some good karma for my work, however just about ok it was.

And I can't help but feel a bit desperate. The school must be within walking distance or easy to reach by public transport. There's a nice looking private school that's not too inconvenient for us. But, of course, it's expensive. But I will pay. It doesn't help that I've just taken voluntary redundancy. Fortunately, we can pay at least for a little while - even in my reduced circumstances. And fortunately, my political principles mean that I don't worry about sending my child to a private school. I would prefer to send him to a state school, even if it's perhaps not the best option. But I won't send him if it's the worst option. I just hope the local private school still has places.

Small town America and the friendly neighborhood hoochie joint

2011-02-10T20:58:00.004Z

On the way home, I read an article in the free sheet Evening Standard about a new chain of strip/ lap dancing clubs that are aiming for a different, more 'up-market' clientele. The owner, Simon Warr, says he's setting out to be 'classy'. Generally, in my experience, if you have to use the word classy; it's not.

Warr's challenge is to change perceptions about what goes on inside his clubs. "I want people to have a good time. For women to feel they can come with their boyfriends and not be objectified. It's a fun, upbeat, safe environment. It's a highly charged atmosphere, and booze is important to us, but people will feel entertained. We want to sell an overall experience," he says.

Umm, yeah... And although booze is important to me, too - I can't imagine that I would find this particularly entertaining. But what really got me was this...

In America, lapdancing is mainstream. In some small towns, the local club might really be the best place to get a steak and a cocktail. "Often in the US there won't be a local pub. The club almost fulfils that role in some communities," says Warr.

Really? Really? OK, I know I was raised in the buckle of the Bible Belt...But I've never heard of a small town community where folks all head on down to the neighborhood lap dancing joint for a relaxing family evening of steaks, cocktails, nipple tassels and thumpa-thumpa hoochie music. Someone, please, correct me if I'm wrong.

Just get on back to Texas

2011-02-08T11:15:00.006Z

I was just followed on Twitter by a BBQ joint. That's cool, I like me some BBQ. "Best BBQ East of Texas" it promised. Cool. London could use another BBQ joint, I thought. But let me check this out...just how East is East?

I check the website. Oh, I see - it's as far east as Brentwood, Tennessee (suburb of Nashville, for those not familiar). Nashville is not a town short of BBQ joints the last time I checked. And the key selling points, the authentic Texas-ness of the owner...

Hook 'em Horns! Tending to the smoker, or inside the one-roomed restaurant, you will find one Aubrey Bean, whose credentials as a Texan are unassailable and extensive... He is from Austin, he is a sports-crazy jock, he has a degree in petroleum engineering and he learned to cook barbecue from his granddaddy. He wears a Texas Longhorns cap, and his Suburban (the standard Lone Star vehicle long before it became the preferred ride of Nashville soccer moms) sports the Longhorn logo on the back windows. For crying out loud, to be any more Texan...

Right...so not just a Texan (not that there's anything wrong with that) but not an SEC fan and a bit derisive of the hard-working mothers of middle Tennessee. Maybe it's some kind of reverse psychology marketing plan. I'll insult them ever so subtly, and they'll be hungry for some extra sides. Of course, it has tempted me to write about them...

But even the notion that a Texan would need to bring BBQ to Tennessee is a just a little bit laughable. Look, I like brisket. It's good. And it's a more than acceptable form of BBQ in the landscape of BBQ; I suppose a balanced BBQ diet can include beef. But it's not like Tennessee doesn't have its own multiple BBQ traditions. Or that BBQ isn't -well, pork. This strikes me a little bit like someone from the South coming to the UK saying "Hey, how 'bout the best fish n' chips on the planet. We know how to cook fish 'cause we're American." Right... But if someone brought genuine catfish and hushpuppies, a different take on deep fried fish and starch, and said "Yeah, we know your fish n' chips is awesome, but this another way of looking at it. It's not better per se; and we know you already know how to fry fish. Try it when you're in the mood for a little bit of change."

But hey, dude - good luck to ya.

Knights of the realm

2011-02-06T20:52:00.002Z

Buddy is very fond indeed of his Knights and his castle. The Vol-in-Law doesn't like me calling it his dollhouse, but that's what it is. A dollhouse of few comforts and a cast of tooled up fellows with barely concealed rage.

And the boy often pretends to be a knight or a king. He's a king a lot.

The other night he told me "I'll be the King, and you be a knight. And Daddy be a knight."

This sounded like a lot of standing around in mud in heavy armor in inclement weather and possibly some kind of physical danger. "I don't want to be a knight. Perhaps I could be a special advisor. Can I be a special advisor?"

"Of course, you can," he said. "You be a special advisor, after you a knight."

What's wrong with a little muscular liberalism?

2011-02-05T10:40:00.003Z

Liberty, if it means anything, is the right to tell people what they don't want to hear.

Let's forget, for a moment, the issue of Islamic extremism. If we can. There's a nuanced spectrum of people who mix anti-Westernism and/or self-loathing with standing against origin-based hate and people who support the liberal principles of Western democracy who rub shoulders with haters. There's a lot of ugliness in the Venn diagram of principled stands.

But I welcome Prime Minister David Cameron's speech on standing up for liberal values - at the very least here, at home where we live - and abroad, when we can.

I applaud his hierarchy of principles, though I might shuffle the cards a little, and his means test of liberalism.

Freedom of speech. Freedom of worship. Democracy. The rule of law. Equal rights regardless of race, sex or sexuality.

I recognise that many people I know don't believe in liberal democracy. But I do. Strongly. That liberalism starts first and foremost with freedom of speech. That's not speech without consequences or rebuttal, but it is speech without fear of losing one's liberty or property.

My freedom of speech does not end at the thin margin of your tender feelings. Nor yours, mine. So I support the right of people to say what, in my view, is pretty reprehensible on all kinds of matters. But freedom of speech is simply freedom, it's not a claim right of support from public funds or for ministerial support by sharing a platform.

And if we draw the line anywhere, in terms of supporting groups that are supposed to be good, we ought to draw at those who want to speak out against speaking out. Those who don't support rule of democratically determined liberal law. If that means not supporting with money or standing alongside those who don't support liberal democracy, then good.

If we want to have a tolerant society, if we want to have a society where different cultures can rub along then there are principles of liberalism which must be applied across the board. This means no platform and no public pounds to organisations whose views are the antithesis of liberal democracy - even if some believe there may be some expendiency in doing so.

I think it's unfortunate that many are focusing on just the wrong things in this speech. Implying Cameron is a racist, etc. I wish if they would attack him - they would do so honestly by attacking the principles on which he's standing - free speech, tolerance without acquiescence and making a stand against tolerating hateful things like misogyny and the most basic denial of rights to homosexuals and systems of law which enshrine inequality.

Maternal fears borne out

2011-02-01T13:17:00.003Z

I was randomly looking through my old posts when I found this one on my pre-natal fears that Buddy would have no sense of humor. My husband scoffed at my fears. But now we're coming to grips with the fact that the boy may well have inherited the no-humor gene from his father's side of the family.

When he was a baby, I longed to hear him laugh. He didn't. He wasn't a laugher. He laughs now. But mostly at slapstick. He laughs when someone else gets hurt. He laughs when we punch him. No seriously, the boy begs to be hit. He loves rough-housing. I avoid it as much as I can, 'cause it creeps me out. But he never laughs so loud or so gaily as when things have got out of hand. The only time I've ever heard him genuinely laugh at tv was at Tom and Jerry.

He sometimes laugh when we laugh. But it's a forced laugh. Ha, ha, ha. A laugh akin to the praising of the fine hues in a painting by the color blind.

He's missing some teeth, too. They just never came in. But that can be fixed with money. A lack of a rich, complex sense of humor can't.

I'm hoping that as his language skills become more sophisticated his sense of humor will develop, too. But I'm lowering my expectations.

Gone for a soldier

2011-01-31T20:53:00.002Z

I took the boy up to The Mall on Sunday to watch the annual march of civil war re-enactors. No, not the civil war that I grew up with, but that older one - Cavaliers v. Roundheads. I've been living in London for over a decade - but I'd never heard of this gathering (fourth Sunday of every January) which commemorates the execution of King Charles and the brief establishment of republican government in England. I couldn't tell if they were celebrating or commiserating (though some of them were laying a wreath) - but since I suppose there were some for both camps, they'd chosen to draw a veil over the old rivalries.

Buddy loves his knights, so I assumed he'd like some of these 17th century blokes who stand somewhere in between knights of old and modern soldiers in terms of uniforms. And since I'd been away for work for a couple of days, I thought I'd take him into town for a bit of treat.

When we arrived at Green Park station, it seemed a little more crowded than I'd anticipated and as we walked through the park I could see hordes of people around Buckingham Palace. Turns out it was changing of the guard time (I didn't even know they did it in the winter, but they do - every other day instead of daily in the warmer months). We hit The Mall just in time to see the guards arriving in all good pomp and playing a suitably militaristic tune.

The boy was enthralled.

And although he enjoyed it when one of the re-enactors showed him how a match lock worked, he wasn't as excited by the civil war stuff as I thought he might be.

We followed the march all the way down to Horse Guards Parade, but he lost interest as they milled around before ostensibly forming a square. (Inadvertently, and despite the steward's advice we managed to line up between opposing armies).

But he got excited again when he dashed into the museum of the household cavalry. I refused to pay for entry, as I've already had more than a lifetime's share of regimental museums touring around with his father and I wouldn't have wanted the Vol-in-Law to miss out on the opportunity. I had to literally drag him away from the displays.

He was intrigued by those standing guard as well, though he didn't want to pose with the sentry as many tourists do.

I couldn't quite understand why he was so interested a couple of bored squaddies, when there was a whole history parade going on outside with many of the members of the civil war society ready - eager even - to be nice and explain stuff.

But then I thought - even a three year old can tell the difference between a serving soldier and some middle aged, slightly nerdy, history buffs. And those household cavalry types are pretty intriguing. We saw some at the Wimbledon stables open day a few months ago - and those tall young fellows with their polished breastplates, snug uniforms and their thigh-high shiny boots...the boy could hardly tear his eyes away and to be honest, I had trouble looking elsewhere, too. Those uniforms were designed to make the girls swoon and the boys sign up.

And it looks like they've found a potential recruit.

I heard the call of Cthulu or how I cooked me up a mess of squid

2011-01-21T21:05:00.005Z

Growing up listening to national public radio there was sometimes a spoof spot with a furrin type chef with some kind of Adriatic accent who would answer your questions about cookery and entertaining. And no matter what the question, the answer was always squid.

Q: I'm hosting a children's party for 10 five-year-olds, what do you suggest serving?

A: eh-squid, keeds love-a the eh-squid

Indeed.

I do love squid. I'm not a huge fan of deep-fried or breaded calamari, but I'm often in the mood for squid. Partly, if I'm honest, for the shock value. And the more closely it resembles the original animal, the better.

But I've never prepped it from scratch. I've bought some processed squid from Portugese delis over the year (you can get frozen stuffed squid!) and I've been known to use tinned octopus on pizza. In fact, I've never once taken any animal from corpse to plate. Unless you count shrimp from the Gulf, which I don't.

But this week I saw a show with Jamie Oliver -- Suppers to Save Our Seas as part of the Fish Fight series about choosing more sustainable fish resources. One of his top 10 alternative fish choices was squid. He started with the cleaned body, did some scoring, added some lime juice, popped it on the grill - and blammo - easy squid. Out loud I said "Hey, maybe we should get some squid."

Buddy latched onto this instantly. "Squid! Squid! Squid!" he said. For a boy who won't eat anything unless it's breaded, I took this as a hopeful sign that maybe we could expand his palate. I mentioned the squid idea to the Vol-in-Law and he was almost equally enthusiastic. But I know he does actually eat squid.

So over the week there have been casual mentions of the squid thing and last night the boy asked if we were having squid for dinner. Wow! So I promised we'd go shopping for squid today. And he reminded me when I picked him up for nursery. And we did..

At the grocery store, they only had the one squid. A giant looking thing, that I'm pretty sure took down the Nautilus. I was starting to chicken out on the squid idea.

"Do you really want a squid?" I said.

"Yes, yes, yes!! Squid!"

So...look away now if you're on the squeamish side.

Squid unwrapped

I looked up instructions on squid butchery. Each step was described as easy. It wasn't. But honestly, it probably was easier than cleaning a regular fish. It's just that when I pulled and twisted the head, the guts didn't automatically all come out. Extra knife work was required.

And there were other surprises, too. For example, never did I dream that I'd overhear a conversation from our bedroom that went like this:

Daddy, look at this!

Is that from the squid?

Yeah!

There was an awesome bit of cartilage - looked like a bit of clear plastic. The boy was intrigued.

I forgot to take pictures of the cleaned, skinned squid tube - but here's the final product. And it was tasty.

Squid sauteed in olive oil with peppers and garlic. Fresh parsley. Served over linguine.

But you know what? The boy only nibbled a tiny corner from a bit of squid and then only because we made him.

Keeds love-a the eh-squid? Not around here they don't

The wrong kind of BBQ

2011-01-19T13:04:00.003Z

I work in a building that sees a steady stream of politicians. And the great thing about politicos is that they're never backwards about coming forwards. So a single word exchanged in the ladies' led to "Oh, is that an American accent? Where are you from?"

"Tennessee."

"Staying long?"

"Been here 15 years so far."

"Ah, the thing I remember about Tennessee are the BBQd ribs with all that lovely sauce."

Instant reaction: bristle. Was just about to explain that that I'm from Middle (or when I'm thinking about it differently East) Tennessee and our BBQ is usually pulled pork. And ribs are really associated more with the West Tennessee BBQ tradition, when I heard the door close on her way out.

Just as well, really - wasn't sure if she was ready to hear about the socio-bbq map of the Southern US and prairie states.

Reaffirming the patriarchy

2011-01-18T07:51:00.003Z

Last night I took the boy swimming, so we were a little late home. The Vol-in-Law was still in the salt mine of paper marking, so I turned on the tv and told Buddy that I was going to start making dinner.

"No!" he told me sternly. "Only Daddy tells you to make dinner."

What???

"Buddy, I can autonomously choose to..." my voice trailed away and silently finished with "make dinner for the menfolk."

It's true that kids say the durndest things, but where do they get this stuff? It's not like he doesn't come from a long and distinguished line of working women. From a "pop star" of the turn of the century to small business owners and factory workers and artists, his female progenitors have been hard workers and money makers - and I'm not even sure I've got enough fingers to count the degrees and certificates held by his grandmothers.

How do you even counter this stuff? Am I destined to have that resigned look that you often see in women who live in a household of men? I don't want to spend the rest of my life living in a frat house.

And that's not all. One of things he'll say regularly is "I got a penis. Daddy got a penis. You not got a penis. Ha, ha, ha." Bloody hell. Did Freud ever describe penis hubris?

Fireman Sam can't save the day this time

2011-01-15T12:30:00.003Z

Fan Fiction is a great tradition of the Net. Taking well known series from television or film and writing additional stories in line with the characters and setting. I've never done any fan fiction before, but the Vol-in-Law and I have always speculated on the back stories of the characters in Fireman Sam - a cartoon set in the Welsh Valleys in the tiny village of Pontypandy. It features the eponymous Fireman Sam, naughty (and fatherless) Norman Price, his mother Dilys and their extended families and co-workers. There's other Fireman Sam fan fiction on the net, but this story sees our characters imagined 10 years on.

-0-

Dylis sat in the courtroom with silent tears running down her face. She’d always feared it would come to this, but had hoped that her love for her boy would see him right in the end. Norman’s bright red hair had always been her secret pride, a legacy from his father, but now it hung lanky and dull over his face. The boy who, for whatever his faults, had always been full of the spark of life, a fire in his eyes, now stood defeated in the dock waiting to be taken down. Mummy’s little treasure, as she’d called him, didn’t look much of a prize now.

The solicitor hurried past on her way out. She had told Dylis to expect a custodial sentence, but Dyllis had let her hope triumph over sense. He wasn’t a youthful offender anymore, at 19 he’d be treated as an adult.

No one took much notice of Dylis in the long bus ride from the Crown Court in Swansea to the village of Pontypandy. She was just another old woman, clutching a plastic bag, bundled up in an old raincoat to keep out the rain of the valleys. She stared out the rain speckled windows as the bus strained against the steep hill roads.

A string of minor infractions, small fires set here and there, escalating to more serious events over the years had left him with a criminal record. His father may not have ever acknowledged Norman, but he had intervened on his behalf countless times. He’d put out countless fires for his son, literal and metaphorical. He had fixed his mistakes, covered for him, and tried to make things right. But maybe if he could have taken a stronger role, a guiding hand for the boy as Norman had been growing up things would have been different.

But that was never going to happen. She would still remember his shocked expression when she’d told him that the single night they’d shared had had repercussions. She felt foolish for letting him talk her into keeping it a secret for all these years. Maybe if she’d made him face up to his responsibilities then, things would have turned out differently. She could see now that he would never have made the offer of marriage that she’d hoped for, but he could have acknowledged the boy, surely. But she’d wanted to keep him sweet, to see how reasonable she could be and perhaps he’d see, one day, that they could have something more. Most of all, she feared that he’d leave Pontypandy for some bigger place.

Dylis knew she’d been no beauty even in those days. What few charms she’d been born with had faded away as she cared for her mother in her final years in that little flat above the shop while she’d kept that going, too. When her mother had finally slipped away, Dylis began to think of finding a new life for herself. But then there had been Norman on his way.

Norman’s father had been young, much younger than she. He’d just returned from Cardiff and there had been rumours of a failed romance. Apparently she had been some dark eyed beauty who had left for London, a boy from the valleys, no matter how handsome, had not been enough for her. In those long summer days after he’d returned and her mother had died, Dylis had been in the habits of taking long walks in the hills - grieving and planning what she might do next.

She’d found him on his own in an old stone and wood cabin, near the mountain rescue station. He was already a little drunk and had offered her a can of cider she’d remembered selling to him. They drank and chatted quietly as he’d tended the fire in the little hearth. After a little more cider, they’d begun to laugh together - laugh at their own misfortunes. She told him how she wanted to leave the valley, but didn’t know how. He told her about the girl who’d broken his heart. A moment of kindness, as she’d reached out to brush her fingers over his bright red hair, turned quickly to a moment of madness. He’d reached for her then tumbling her down against the old mattress. She’d accepted his fumbled embraces with fervour. She’d let herself hope it might be the beginning of her new life. But his pained apologies the next day had extinguished that spark.

That old cabin had long since burned down. No one had proof, but they’d all suspected Norman. Dylis had always wondered if it had been his father who’d struck the match. He’d been able to get to the scene fast enough.

Her steps from the bus stop to the shop were slow and heavy. Her brother had been minding it for her while she was at court, and he was eager enough to get away from it now. Those villagers who still came in to the shop eyed the Price family with silent pity. “Poor Dilys,” she could almost hear them say “left to raise that handful of a boy on her own with no man at her side.”

The bell on the shop door jangled, and she looked up. He was still handsome, though his red hair had faded a little with age and was now streaked with silver. He was still tall and firm of frame, and the uniform of fire chief suited him. His face with etched with worry. He had always cared for Norman in his own way.

“He’s been sent down for three years. My little treasure in prison.” she sobbed.

“I gave a good report for the sentencing recommendation. He’s a good boy at heart,” he told her.

She stared at him, her accusation plain to read in her eyes.

“Great Fires of London,” he swore. “I did what I could, Dilys.”

“Did you? Even though I never told him you were his father, he always felt close to you. Always wanted to be like you, a fireman. He just wanted your attention. Even what he did this time, burning down the fire station was just to be closer to Fireman Sam.”

Putting democracy in the cross hairs

2011-01-08T20:37:00.005Z

I roused from a late afternoon rest to see Twitter declaring the Rep Gabrielle Giffords of Arizona had been assassinated. Then I saw that maybe she wasn't dead. But quite a few other people were. Tragic. Absolutely tragic on so many levels. It need almost go without saying that murder is horrible. And mass murder is vile. But there's something particularly tragic about the slaying of people who were participating in our democracy - as representatives, as aides, as supporters and I dare say as dissenters. Without a doubt among those killed and injured will be someone who disagreed with the politics of Representative Giffords and was there to let her know. To spray bullets on such a gathering is an attack on orderly, peaceful representative democracy. To kill the chance of ordinary people getting close to their representatives. I hope that everyone injured in today's shooting recovers quickly.

But what I also saw on Twitter was quick condemnation of Sarah Palin and rhetoric which borrows heavily from text of Guns n' Ammo. Yep, Ms Palin is certainly one to rouse emotions. I'm not a fan of her approach generally and I disagree with her on pretty much every political stand she takes. But she didn't pull the trigger. Yes, apparently she put Rep Giffords in the cross hairs on her website. In retrospect, it seems more than inappropriate. But a target seat is still a target seat. Everyone uses language like that. Everyone talks about picking off vulnerable opponents and some talk of political hit lists. I don't know how common cross-hairs are for political maps, but I wouldn't be surprised to see flames and bulls-eyes. Maybe we need a slightly different discourse. And we mustn't tolerate anything which goes further than this.

It takes a nut job to actually carry even extreme rhetoric to action. But sadly there's no lack of people who are willing to step up to the plate. From the recent assassination in Pakistan, to the stabbing of Stephen Timms. Call for violent action loud enough and often enough, even in the guise of metaphor, and someone will hear the call.

For sure, politics is a rough sport. And I wouldn't for a second wish to curtail freedom of speech. But surely we can all do more to counter aggressive, violent speech. To shun it. To repudiate it. To not tolerate or cosset it. No matter whom it's targeted against, as it lowers the tone for all of us. And that includes harsh responses, labelling Sarah Palin a murderer and demanding retribution.

And a similar post from a local politician I've met.

Sara Bedford blogs as well.

Bad haircut

2011-01-08T08:37:00.002Z

Bad haircut, originally uploaded by London looks.

I know a lot of people give their small children home haircuts. Especially for boys. It's not supposed to be hard.

I have a long history of giving very bad haircuts. Disastrous haircuts. Too short. Uneven. Reminiscent of mange. Most of these unhappy experiments have had my brother as the victim. Once my husband. No one else has been so foolish to come near me when I'm wielding scissors.

When I was pregnant, I made the Vol-in-Law promise that he would never ever let me near my own child's head with shears. It was for the best really, I said.

Buddy was a bald baby and didn't have a lot of hair for a very long time, so it was easy for me to keep my resolution and my husband to keep his promise. The boy's first several haircuts were given by a relative and a brilliant Polish hairdresser who seems to have now moved on from giving haircuts to children.

Last summer, I had a go. We have a hair-clipping set that my brother had left here. And I didn't do a bad job. I didn't do a good job, but it wasn't shameful. Buddy sits quietly enough if you worked quickly.

This past week though, I tried again. And I'm afraid I returned to old form. A very bad haircut indeed.

I think we're going to need professional help.

Update: Hair Repair

After posting this, the Vol-in-Law took Buddy down to the barber's for a little repair job.

"Get your coat on, you're going to get your hair cut, Buddy."

"Where are we going?"

"To the barber shop. A man's going to cut your hair."

"What man?"

"The barber, he's a like a hair doctor. He's going to fix your hair."

"Mommy's not going to cut my hair?"

"No, she's more like the hair butcher."

He came back a little while later like this:

With gel in his hair. (I'm not too crazy about that) and informing us that only men could cut his hair. He thought a moment before adding. "But not Daddy."

This woman's work

2011-01-02T14:56:00.001Z

Scene of the crime, originally uploaded by London looks.

The Vol-in-Law is a squeamish sort of chap. He puts it down to being raised vegetarian. Whatever. Anyway his squeamishness means that corpse removal duty falls to me. And this is a regular job. Our cat Fancy has a respectable kill rate.

Fortunately for me, she leaves beautiful corpses. Or at least intact ones anyway, with maybe just a nibble or two from the tail. I don't really mind picking up these dead critters with a plastic bag and disposing of them. I'm not really freaked out by mice.

But we all have our limits. I mean RATS do freak me out. I screamed like a little kid when I walked out of our back door one day and saw a rat. I'm shuddering in remembrance.

I haven't seen a rat in a long time (thankfully!). But yesterday's New Year's gift of a dead mouse was enormous. It was really big. It was the size of a hamster. And as far as I'm concerned, hamster is just a little too close to rat. But I womanned up and dealt with it.

Buddy, isn't so squeamish. "I like it when Fancy kills a mouse," he said yesterday. But he did call his dad to deal with the thing.

"You need to call your mom," he said. "Mouse disposal is woman's work."

Buddy at three and a half is starting to be aware of gender distinctions and the difference between girls and boys. He questioned his father over what women did (rodent removal) and what did boys and men do? What sort of animal did males deal with?

"Your mother deals with the small animals. But if we see any wolves, it will be our job to get rid of it."

Yes. I can see that. Wolves roaming the streets of London. Not this century. (Though I note that he said nothing of foxes which are a regularly seen beastie.)

But the boy was excited and started planning his toolkit. "We need knives and hammers and swords!" he exclaimed.

A rare film review post

2010-12-31T12:52:00.003Z

I don't much care for film. Sad but true. Most movies could easily be packed into one hour, and so they should be. And it would be cheaper if they were on tv. So they should be. I mostly find films too long.

But Christmas is the season for watching movies, I guess. So this year I've relented and watched a few on DVD.

1. The Toy Story set:

I bought Buddy a box set of the Toy Story movies. I watched the first one. Meh. Napped through the second. And watched the third. Brilliant. Dang if that wasn't one of the most well-constructed, sentimental, and perfectly paced films I've seen in a long time. Funny, too.

This broke our one-family Disney boycott (for their support of more restrictive copyright laws).

2. In Bruges

After we went to Bruges (that's in Belgium), people kept telling me I should see In Bruges - a tale of two hit men hanging out in (yeah, you guessed it Bruges). Even people who know I don't like films told me to see this. When I saw the DVD going for cheap in a supermarket, I bought it and just finally got around to watching it. It finishes up pretty gory and there is certainly some silliness in props and plots, but boy does it capture Bruges. It was like a video memory of our little trip to Bruges - if we'd gone as Mr Pink and the rest of the Reservoir Dogs crew.

And it was well worth it for just for the Belgian joke (I won't spoil it) and a hilarious case of mistaken identity. If you've ever been to Bruges, I highly recommend this film - it'll remind you of all the precious moments you spent in the old town. Like - oh look - a gun fight where we had lunch or awww a suicide/murder moment where we stopped and let Buddy play. He had such a lovely time on that slide.

Things to do in London with time on your hands

2010-12-30T13:32:00.003Z

The writing has been on the wall for some time. It was in red, in parentheses and had minus signs out in front. The public sector purse has run dry. The money's all gone. It was fun while it lasted, but like a sailor on shore leave we blew through it all on fripperies and whores (i.e. consultants)*.

Of course, it's not actually as bad as all that. Projected spending cuts are only taking us back a few years in terms of public sector spending. And let's face it, when certain regions of the UK have over 70% of their GDP as public sector spending something is seriously unbalanced. It isn't sustainable.

But where I work, and I work on the public pound, they are taking an axe to the payroll. I haven't had my P45 (pink slip) yet, but let's just say I don't see where I fit in the new organisation. Which is a shame, as I'm doing some really good work and I am excellent value for money (I would say that, wouldn't I). That doesn't mean things can't change or that there maybe still isn't a place for me where I work, but it does mean that I'm not there for just any job. No individual is indispensable, but staying on the same path isn't the only way to achieve what you want.

So what will I do with time on my hands:

1. I will take a step back from public life to concentrate on spending more time with my family. And I mean that with depth of sincerity of any politician...

2. I will become a kitten farmer**. When we were in the market for a new cat, I couldn't believe how much a regular old cat went for in London. Or how hard it is to get a cat from a shelter. We had to go through a RIGOROUS interview process and pay for the privilege before we got our (excellent) cat from Battersea. All I have to do is drive to the regions and pick up a breeding pair and in a matter of a couple of months, I'll be raking in the cash. Plus, there will be an infinite array of cute kittens which I shall capture on video and post to my blog for advertising revenue. I hear that the Internet loves kittehs.

3. I will become a reality tv star. With more and more channels all the time, there's more and more need for reality tv. And I'm more than ready. The Vol-in-Law thinks we may be a bit boring for a reality show, but I don't think so. I'm sure we'll learn to play up for the camera. And we have a cute kid who I can teach some cute catch phrases - he's already saying "Watchyou talkin' bout?" and "Go on, go on" - two catch phrases that have worked well in sit-coms. Plus, all those kittens!

4. I will finally take the plunge and pursue my dream career of country music star. I will not let my lack of musical talent hold me back. I will be wearing a lot of fringe and beaded shirts and exotic skin cowboy boots. Oh yeah.

5. I will market my skills elsewhere. My passion for better governance is unabated. And since I love what I do and love working with a lot of the people that I work with - the passionate and inspired ones anyway - both inside and outside my current organisation, I want to keep on doing that. And I'll find a way.

__________
* actually that isn't entirely true - there was some genuine improvement as measured by the targets and PIs which were determined centrally as well as some good local stuff, too. But this performance was often bought at a high price without much in the way of sustainability if the money's all gone.

** an ethical kitten farmer, not a news-at-6 type kitten farmer.

He wants to be bad

2010-12-29T11:41:00.000Z

I used to be a performance management guru. No. Really. Anyway, one of the things that I really stressed was communicating performance expectations. You can't expect people to perform to a certain standard unless you tell them what that standard is. Too often there's an un-communicated ideal, and it's really no surprise when people fail to live up to that.

But I'm not saying that it's easy to articulate that, as managers or teachers or team members we often don't know exactly what we want. Or as parents. For the boy, on a day to day basis, it's hard for me to remember to spell out exactly what kind of behavior I want. But yesterday, I did and I was rewarded with a good boy.

The boy had been begging to see Peppa Pig's Party, a play for children staged in a central London theatre. Peppa Pig is a popular cartoon in the UK, featuring a precocious little piggie and her little brother George, Mommy Pig, Daddy Pig and a array of friends (Suzie Sheep, Pedro Pony, Danny Dog). If you haven't seen it, here's a nice bootleg clip from YouTube.

It was heavily advertised on buses and even a flier on the door to his nursery. I made some vague promises about going to see it, but the boy knows our track record on such things and continued to make a fuss. I finally caved in and bought tickets for the 28th of December (and just as well I did, as only seats with 'limited view' were still available). I showed him the ticket receipt. I marked it on the calendar. I think he was almost as excited about Peppa Pig as he was about Christmas in general.

The night before, I was set out my expectations. That we had to get out on time so we could pick up our tickets at the box office. And that this meant he had to get dressed without argument (a common problem). He had to be very good and not run off while we were in town. And that during the performance he had to stay seated and be quiet.

The next morning he begged to get dressed. He stuck with me through complicated Underground line changes. He stayed seated on the train. We arrived slightly ahead of schedule and picked up our ticket. He didn't run off when we got to Piccadilly Circus, although he did check out the map (his latest obsession). He did ask for a light up toy they were selling at a concession stand, but since he'd behaved so well through our labrynthian travels through the many stairs of the grand old subterranean Criterion Theatre.

We got to our seats so early, I thought there might be trouble, but the Peppa Pig spinner I bought for him kept him occupied for the half hour we waited for the show to start. Ridiculous amount of money well spent.

He sat quietly throughout the performance. A little too quietly perhaps, as there were many calls for audience participation and when I was singing and clapping he told me to stop. "Shhh, mommy quiet," and he held a finger over his mouth. And "Stop singing,".

Afterwards he asked for a Krispy Kreme donut when I stopped into a local store for some ibuprofen. (The performance was good but it was loud.) He was good in the bookstore and good on the long-ish walk to Green Park (a station from which we could travel without complicated underground changes). He had a tiny melt-down in Fortnum and Mason's (a luxury food and hamper store) which meant we didn't buy any over-priced fruit candy or Turkish delight which I'd had my eye on. But we had a lovely time opening all the sample pots of select teas and smelling the darjeeling.

We had a brief little wander through Green Park, feeding the pigeons with the leftover from my donut (too sweet and icky). And when the donut was all gone, we turned on the spinner and they took off with a woosh. It turns out that pigeons are very scared indeed of small boys wielding Peppa Pig light up spinners.

For a three and half year old boy on a big day out in town on the busy streets of London he behaved incredibly well. And I told him so. And later on that night, I told his dad, too in his hearing about how impressed I was. But that's when his conduct took a turn for the worse. He was clearly upset by this. It's as if he doesn't mind being good when it suits him, but he'd rather have the reputation of a bad boy. Can't imagine where he gets that.

Christmas lies

2010-12-26T10:43:00.004Z

ATTENTION: BIG CHRISTMAS SPOILER - if you're an under 8

I was never sure how I was going to handle the whole Santa Claus thing with a child. I like Santa as a concept in "Yes, Virginia there is a Santa Claus" kindness in people's hearts kind of way. But I don't like Santa in the "We must all tip toe around this great fiction and go to great lengths to preserve this collective lie or else it will ruin Christmas" kind of way.

It's clear that the nursery the boy attends has gone to some great lengths to fill their heads with tales. The boy has come back talking of "Father Christmas" and if he's coming and when he's coming and nothing at all of Santa. I have indulged in a little bit of "maybe Santa will bring it" when he pesters me over some longed-for toy.

Of course, I did issue some big whoppers this Christmas. One in particular over the Fisher Price Imaginext Space Shuttle that's been heavily advertised over the past several months. I did buy him the space shuttle, but unfortunately the boy spotted it and wanted it straight away. "Sorry," I said. "That's a present for another boy, but maybe you'll get one. Maybe Santa will bring it." There were a lot of tears, but eventually the boy gave up. "That's for another boy," he said a bit forlornly and eventually stopped mentioning it at all.

Except when I asked him what he was getting for me. "What do you think Mommy wants?" I asked. "A white space rocket," he replied confidently.

On Christmas morning the Space Shuttle was opened and I snapped the moment of reveal. I may be reading too much into it, but I think something on his face isn't just the joy of receiving the longed for toy. I think there's a bit of "I knew it! This was for me all along."

The biggest lie of all

I did tell another Santa related lie at Christmas. This was on a trip into town. We were riding the Underground. The boy loves to sit on the flip down seats on the Northern Line. And near the flip down seats by the sliding doors is the passenger alarm. It's red, it has a pull down handle and it must be down right near irresistible to a little lad.

Here's what happens if you pull the passenger alarm. The train stops. The driver must leave the driving box at the front and traverse the length of the train to investigate and re-set the alarm. And then he/she must weave back through all the cars and people and their luggage to get the train moving again. It causes delay. It makes the driver grumpy. It makes the passengers grumpy. You may be fined, and you might well be subject to some kind of withering announcement over the train loud speakers. And you will definitely be the subject of some under-breath mutterings of a most unpleasant nature.

But the boy didn't know all that. All the boy knew was that it was an interesting looking contraption which begged tactile exploration.

"Hey, Buddy - don't touch that!" I lurched forward and covered it with my hands. As he was trying to pry my fingers away, we were attracting the horrified stares of our fellow passengers who all wished to get to their destinations without any further delay.

"Why?"

"Well, uh - because..." and I faltered. If I told him that it would make the train stop would that just make it a more attractive proposition? Would he just long to pull it even more? All that power, making the train stop. I could see the worried looks around me as fellow Londoners understood my predicament.

"Because if you pull that, Santa will DIE."

Ice to the eskimos

2010-12-22T17:28:00.001Z

ice lit up, originally uploaded by London looks.

This morning I accepted a package from a failed delivery to a neighbour's house. Normally I'm happy to do this, but today it was against my better judgment given that package was HUGE and took up a substantial portion of my tiny house's entrance way. I had fears of it lingering in our house over Christmas.

The box said it was an 'air cooler' a little portable air conditioner, but obviously what was inside the box had to be different. After all, we've had record cold lately and although today was the first in a while that it's been above freezing for a bit, I'd hardly say it was tropical. I relented because it was probably somebody's Christmas present or a whole bunch of Christmas presents and I'd have hated for it to go back to depot turning me into the Grinch who stole Christmas.

Thankfully my good deed was rewarded when a few hours later my neighbour (who, this being London I would not have been able to pick out of a line up) arrived to pick up his giant parcel. He was surprised by the size and told me "I ordered this one because our house is very hot."

I must have looked at him strangely. "It's hot in our house," he explained "it's not good for me."

OK. Merry Christmas, I said.

It really was an air conditioner. Ordered in December and apparently to be used in December in the snowiest coldest December in London in living memory.

I was imagining that they're running some kind of marijuana/cannabis farm inside their terraced house to produce such heat. Otherwise, just open a window, my friend.

TizzyLeaks

2010-12-21T11:51:00.000Z

Julian Assange, founder of WikiLeaks and its most visible champion, is under house arrest on a beautiful country estate in the east of England. He's wanted for questioning in Sweden in relation to complaints of sexual assault.

In my day to day work life, I'm a proponent of open government. More open data, more open governance, more open, more open, more open. But clearly there are limits*. But where those limits are is not clear. People like Julian Assange and other open government activists are playing an important role in campaigning for more openness. They are muck-rakers and there can't be significant change without stirring up a little muck.

But how much muck is too much? And oughtn't there be a little discrimination in the muck that's stirred? When millions of cables are released, there's no way either the leakers or the publishers of leaks can have read them all or made a decision about the value, importance or rightness of releasing the information. My natural instinct, even as a proponent of openness, was that this was wrong because it lacked thought. And wikileaks has a history of publishing data without sensitivity, failing to redact individual names, even in cases where being identified might mean death.

Having listened to an interview with Julian Assange this morning on BBC Radio 4, I can see how the organisation is, as ever, a reflection of its leadership. Mr Assange apparently lacks discretion or sensitivity.

I don't know the details or the truth of the allegations of sexual assault. But I do know this: Julian Assange is a prick. A prick either without much sense of irony or a supreme sense of irony (my organisations does not encourage leaks, he says - and that organisation is called, ummm - WikiLeaks). When Mr Assange and his legal representatives complained of his personal information being leaked by the Swedish prosecutors, I had to do a double take.

But his claims this morning that having to be electronically tagged as part of his bail conditions was 'emasculating', really took my breath away. Yes, that's right - the primary concern here is his healthy sense of masculinity. And he seems to dismiss the seriousness of the allegations by suggesting this is all just a big misunderstanding - that his alleged victims were in a 'tizzy'. Silly women. Clearly, they must be confused, don't they know what a privilege it is to be assanged? After all, many other women have been very 'generous' to him. How many we don't know, as a "gentleman doesn't tell." As one Tweeter observed, a gentleman may not tell or count, but a gentleman DOES wear a condom when requested.

All heroes, perhaps especially revolutionary heroes, are necessarily flawed characters. It does take an enormous sense of self to take audacious risks like those Mr Assange has taken. I still believe that openness is important and work to support it every day, but I can't help but think that the more the founder of WikiLeaks exposes himself, the less helpful he is to the cause of openness.

___

*and yes I do recognise the irony of preaching openness from a pseudonymous blog. But this isn't a secret blog, it's just an approach I take to help me keep my work and personal lives a little separate.

Frosty's on his way

2010-12-19T12:11:00.002Z

We went out in the garden today with grand aspirations of snow man. It was pretty cold out there, so we settled for a squat, evil snow robot instead.

But even though freezing conditions and more snow are predicted for the coming week meaning that Frosty the evil robot snowman might have lasted til Christmas or beyond - his life, as well as his stature was short. "Let's kick him!" the boy said. But I held off the tide of destruction just long enough to grab the camera to give our creation some digital posterity.

Then we (well, mostly the boy) threw snowballs.

This one didn't get me:

But this one did:

snowy walk

2010-12-18T18:35:00.001Z

snowy walk, originally uploaded by London looks.

The heavens opened and dumped a truck load of snow on London. Again. The perfect day for staying home or perhaps only venturing as far as the local cafe. But we had agreed to meet the boy's grandparents at the Imperial War Museum. Since they'd come down all the way from Scotland* it seemed churlish to cancel.

Actually the Underground was running ok and the boy was a little trooper through the snow. And he loved seeing the rockets and planes and tanks and stuff.

___
*not sure how they're going to dig their way back into Scotland

Tech-monster

2010-12-18T09:37:00.005Z

The boy has a natural sense of curiosity that we wish to foster and nurture. But there are limits to what we will encourage. These are experiments where we've had to draw the line. Although sadly, lines were drawn too late.

1. Plastic forks AND crayons in printers
2. CDs jammed into a PC drive
3. Two DVDs at once into a combi TV-DVD player*
4. Milk on a laptop keyboard
...and the latest...
5. Poker chips in a wii disc drive**

*when we finally bought a new and multi-region DVD on the cheap and hooked it up to the tv-dvd combi machine it took great offense at being supplanted and coughed up both the jammed DVDs - a minor tech miracle.

** UPDATE: After one failed attempt to fix the wii - I gave it one last try and it seems to be working. Turns out there are about 8 screws in a wii console that you really don't need at all.

The Cowboy Knight

2010-12-15T17:11:00.001Z

The Cowboy Knight, originally uploaded by London looks.

It's the nursery's Christmas party today, and they demanded that the children arrive in 'fancy dress' (American translation: costume). I knew I had two costumes I could pull together at short notice - cowboy and knight. I could have done pirate,too - but that would have taken ironing - so that was immediately ruled out.

I asked the boy "Do you want to be a cowboy or a knight?"

His response: A cowboy knight.

Well, of course.

Never mind that he looks a bit like he's headed to a costume ball of a white supremacy group raising money for 2nd Amendment rights protection, I'm sure it will be a lovely Christmas party.

As you are not

2010-11-07T16:53:00.005Z

Thanks to the wonders of Twitter, I caught the story about the little boy who dressed as Daphne before it made the headlines. When there were 20 comments on the blog, not 15,000. And they were all supportive.

My initial response was to be positive, too. If the kid wants to be Daphne - then what do I care? But then I thought, hey - wait a minute. The boy was having second thoughts and the mom was pushing him to go ahead and do it. She's thinking tolerance and "accept me as I am"- but part of a parent's job, too is helping children to traverse the minefield of cultural expectations. To know when it's worth going with the flow and when it's worth saying 'screw you'. Or whichever choice of vocabulary you want your five your old to use on such occasions.

And my next thoughts were since when does Daphne wear a pink dress? And pink boots? Eh? Since when? And since when is Daphne's hair the color of a traffic cone? Only through

the wonders of Google image search did I realise that this woman had dressed her child in the live action film version of Daphne, not the purple frocked, cuban heel wearing Daphne (sexy, yet deceptively practical). Tsk, tsk. What kind of message is that to give to a five year old? That old school Scooby is to be disregarded, passed over? Where is this woman's respect for the classics? I asked my boy whether that was a boy or a girl - and he instantly identified

the child in the picture as a boy - but though he's watched far, far, far too much Scooby for a middle class parent to admit comfortably - he did not recognise this as a Daphne costume. He said 'pumpkin hair' - when I asked what the boy was wearing.

But more disturbing than all of that is the sexualisation of the whole debate. A little boy wants to be Daphne and people are worried that he'll be gay or people are worried that people will be worried that he's gay. Hello, he's five. I don't care whether sexual preferences are innate, partly innate or partly acculturated or if you can turn gay by wearing a pink dress, five is too young to be even thinking about stuff like that. Why are we sexualising kids so young? My son sometimes wears my shoes and says "I'm mommy." It means nothing. At least nothing sexual anyway. And if it did, it's likely that he'd become a lesbian - as I wear nothing but flats and shoes with plenty of toe room. Comfort is everything.

Like the boy in the blog post, my boy also loves Scooby. Sometimes he pretends to be Scooby, sometimes Fred - and yes, sometimes Daphne. I don't make a big deal out of it. It's just pretend. But I have noted that he never pretends to be Velma or Shaggy, the two characters I've always closely identified with. Kids may not pick up on the sex thing, but they sure as heck can start picking out status stuff early. He's an Alpha type, I reckon. And the sweetest thing is that he doesn't realise yet what his mom and dad are really like. If my husband wants to be Shaggy or I want to be Velma as we play along with the boy - we're reassigned as Fred or Daphne. The well-groomed, well-dressed, popular types. We're gonna come a long way down in his eyes one day - and it may be soon.

But I also thought about my own son and his costume preferences. He likes being a pirate or a knight. Really anything that carries a weapon. Is this an indication of what he'll be when he grows up? Probably. He's clearly headed for a life of crime or maybe a brilliant career as a corporate raider.

Stand and deliver...

Time out

2010-10-31T07:30:00.003Z

The clocks went back last night in the UK, so perhaps I did get to sleep in just a little bit before the three year old stomped into our bedroom and threw himself into our bed, and said "Wakey, wakey". He twitched the curtains above our head to let in a smidgeon of damp, gray light.

Daylight savings have been controversial for a number of years and the rhetoric is ramping up. A growing lobby is urging that the UK should go to double summer time in the summer and GMT +1 in the winter. A permanent shift of an hour. Folks are even saying a change would combat global warming. (I'm unconvinced).

Euro-sceptics will have noticed this would put us on exactly the same time as Brussels. A conspiracy of closer alignment by fiat rather than treaty.

The Scottish contingency and farmers have been vociferously protesting against the double summer time idea. Let's dismiss the farmers first and out of hand, because farmers raise more complaints than heads of cattle or bushels of wheat.

But the Scots may have a point. It's darker up there in the winter and in the summer is stays light quite late enough already. A +1 shift would mean it would be dark til mid-morning in the winter. Which you don't need a policy review to know would suck.

Personally, I'm against the change. I hate, hate, hate getting up in the dark and this would mean more days of getting up in the dark. And since, I - you know - work. I still wouldn't get to take advantage of more daylight in the winter as I'd be - you know - working. But most people I know here in London are in favor of the change.

A modest proposal

If folks in London want to change so much, let 'em. Let northerly parts of the UK like Scotland or Northern Ireland or westerly bits like Wales stay on GMT or BST in the summer. You see, that would work. Devolution of the clock. An overthrow of the tyranny of time.

I grew up in a state with roughly 10-15% of the population of the UK. And we had two time zones - Eastern in East Tennessee and Central and Middle and West Tennessee. It didn't result in perpetual confusion. It was fine.

You know it makes sense.

A heart of enormous proportions

2010-10-30T11:39:00.003+01:00

Since I've decided to publish a book (self-publish, don't get excited) about the floral tributes of Lambeth Cemetery in June 2011 (in time for the annual cemetery open day). I've been a bit more rigorous about getting to the graveyard once a week to photograph any interesting floral tributes.

Today, there wasn't much of interest. But there was a heart of enormous proportions. I'd never seen one quite so big. My three year old could have easily placed himself in the center and made chrysanthemum angels. (Not that I'd have ever allowed such a thing).

It was truly giant. But from a photographers perspective, not so visually interesting - especially since I failed to actually place my three year old next to it for scale. But the roses on it are normal sized. So the arrangement would have actually made a good sized table center piece.

But what did catch my eye was the lettered inscription.

I'm not a grammar nazi by any means. My own work is littered with such homophonic mistakes. But these things are expensive. Each of those mums has to be hand inserted into the oasis foam. (At least I think it does - correct me if I'm wrong). And presumably that thing was on show to quite a few people. And the mistake would have been easily fixed. Those letters are relatively cheap. But no one caught it. Not the commissioner, not the mourners and not the funeral director. Or maybe they did and the person who bought it insisted on keeping it like that. Maybe it was an inside joke. I don't know. But I can't help thinking it was just a terrible and visible spelling mistake.

Bless there hearts.

double rainbow

2010-10-24T19:05:00.003+01:00

This video made the viral rounds of the Internet not so long ago. If you haven't seen it, well - it's interesting to see someone get so excited about natural phenomena. Probably not without the aid of some herbal enhancements I'm guessing.

I reserved judgement, though - as I've never seen a double rainbow before.

But today I did. We left the playground slightly early as someone ran off and out of my eyesight (any excuse really, I was ready to go and given that he didn't put up much of a fuss, probably so was he). I was thanking my good fortune as it started to sprinkle after we were in the car for just a couple of minutes - and then the skies opened and the winds blew in a sudden squall. But the sky was still clear elsewhere and the sun shining - so I looked around for a rainbow - and then I saw it. A double rainbow. Pretty darn cool. One rainbow is much more distinct and perfect and then there was a slightly more elusive twin. Yes, very cool.

But not as amazing as the guy in the video makes out.

A history according to cabbies of the north west

2010-10-06T06:23:00.003+01:00

I've been away for work. Up to a gritty northern town, it didn't really seem that gritty though I suppose they wouldn't thank me for saying so. A work colleague and I arrived at the train station after dark, greeted by the shining steel industrial tanks of some kind of factory. It was a small station, one of those that's basically a few platform linked by grim cinder block subterranean passageways and a minimal station entrance. No cash machine. But there was a giant queue of taxis and we duly made our way to the first cabbie in the rank.

We gave them the name of our hotel and he told us that it was too close for a taxi ride, that we should just walk. The hotel was just around the corner and gave us a garbled set of directions in which there was a right and a left and probably another one of those.

We were game enough and set off. The first right we saw was a road with an unappealing name - something like Scumshaw, but it might as well have been called Serial Killer Lane as dark and uninviting as it was. We consulted our map and saw that there was a probably another way - one that led through inhabited areas. But what the map didn't show was that the obvious route had been blocked by steel fences and the only path ahead of was an mossy, overgrown route through Ax Murderer Underpass.

But we made it alright to the hotel, which was on a retail park, the kind where no one ever arrives on foot.

The reason we'd stayed overnight was so I could arrive nice and early to the venue where I was one of the morning speakers. We duly ordered our taxi to a Fire Control Centre for a nice and early time. But the taxi was late, very late. And then we our cabbie negotiated heavy traffic through the town to our destination. We noticed an historical plaque on some beamed cottages from the car and managed to read only the words Oliver Cromwell. The cabbie noticed us craning and informed us that his great-great grandmother had owned that cottage or had a shop there or something. Oooh, we said. Awaiting a tidbit of interesting local history - though he said nothing more. Prompting him - my colleague asked if Oliver Cromwell had lived there. "Nearby," said the cabbie - in a building that had since been torn down. "So was there a big battle here?" I asked.

Oh, there was a war, said the cabbie. A civil war. And proceeded to give us a potted history of the English Civil War when Oliver Cromwell and the Parliamentarians wanted rule by the people and King Charles I had disagreed and it had led to his execution. But nary a word of what had happened locally. Oh really? You don't say. Thing is, most of that happened where I live. In London. Today, depending on my route, I may well walk in front of Parliament and the statue of Oliver Cromwell.

And then he dropped us off at our destination. In we came, to a receptionist who had never heard of our event. And we surmised, just as the cabbie was beyond site, that we were in completely the wrong place - although it was a place that did have the name Fire in it. But it was a commercial fire research centre. And yet the cabbie had seemed so certain.

Another taxi ordered, another cabbie - this one covered in tattoos from professionals and amateurs alike. Armed with an address, the cabbie seemed a bit uncertain - as we were being taken to an industrial/office park that was apparently huge. I told him I'd seen a picture of the building and his tone was as scathing as I'd ever heard "A picture? That won't help. Every building there looks exactly the same."

We arrived late. Quite late. Introductions to the day were being made. I slotted in to a seat in the back. But it was all ok. I came up and did my bit. And in a break I ordered a taxi to take us back to the station.

We waited. And waited. Taxi was late and we had a specific ticket for a specific train. But then another taxi turned up. He had a different name, but didn't seem fussed. No one else was there. He seemed to say "You're here. I'm here. Let's make beautiful taxi music together," and we hopped in. We worried about our travel karma for stealing someone's taxi, but we figured we'd had enough bad luck so far it would probably come out in the wash.

On the way to the station, he asked us what we thought of the town and we admitted we hadn't seemed much of it. "It's very small," he said. "Oliver Cromwell seems big here," my colleague prompted. "Yeah," he said. Apparently that kind of thing didn't interest him at all.

I was blessedly reassured by the site of the factory by the station. I asked him what it was.

"They make washing powder there. It's very historical." Historical, we reflected, as we gazed the corrugated cladding and the chemical tanks and pipes from the station platform. I guess the 70s is another century.

Warm life

2010-10-04T05:47:00.002+01:00

A couple of weeks ago our refrigerator seemed not to be cooling so well. And by the following morning, it was clear it wasn't working. The light was on, but no one was home. Disappointing, given that it wasn't that old - but old enough to be out of warranty. It certainly lived up to its brand name. Hotpoint.

Since we'd ordered that fridge, the cooling market has moved on. You can either buy really short 'under the counter' fridges or tall 'American' style fridges. But nothing that fit into the space we had. Or not much. Only a premium brand German fridge - Liebherr - a company which seems to have entered the domestic market only recently from the industrial market and a scarily cheap one.

We decided to go for the German one, but were told that we'd have to wait for while as it had to be special ordered from the manufacturer. Disappointing. I could have probably lived without a refrigeration as I can happily live without milk, but the husband and the boy need their milk. So we bought a tiny little student fridge and waited patiently.

We bought our fridge from the Co-op and they said they had it in much quicker than we expected and we'd be informed of our delivery slot on Friday evening for a Saturday delivery. Normally, I'd expect to pay extra for a weekend delivery, but it was free. On Friday evening, the Vol-in-Law received a text that the fridge would arrive between 9:45 and 11:45, but that was 'just a guess'. I thought this was an interesting way of managing customer expectations. But there was a knock on the door a few minutes before 10. The old fridge was gone and the new one in place by 10 past.

The boy was excited by the new fridge, especially after a trip to the grocery store.

Other people's weddings

2010-09-27T06:25:00.001+01:00

If you have a camera in hand and there's a wedding nearby, it's hard not to take a snap. They're just so darn photogenic, the folks in their finery.

At the weekend, we were in Richmond Park and parked at Pembroke Lodge which now hosts many a wedding. In fact, there are often two weddings at the same time, and as lovely a venue as it is - I'm not sure I would choose it, given that you could easily find yourself mixing with hikers in muddy boots or a small messy child who does not follow directions (like mine). When we were there, a wedding party was taking up the picnic area. It was a beautiful day, but a bit chilly. Standing around doing the chit chat may have been uncomfortably cool.

On our way back to car, the wedding party seemed to have broken up and we caught the tail end of a photo shoot with one of the nuptual couples. Richmond Park is beautiful and it looked like the photographer was getting some good shots. As they were reviewing the thumbnails on the back of his digital camera, the bride must have shivered or complained of cold. The groom shrugged off his coat and gave it to her. How wonderful. What a lovely touch.

If you ask me, I think that photographer missed a trick but not turning around and shooting that. On the bad days, for all marriages have them, it would have been a lovely reminder to consider each other in the small things that make a big difference.

Checking the score: Tennessee and the Labour leadership contest

2010-09-26T17:45:00.004+01:00

Cos where else do you get Tennessee football and British politics in the same post?

I meant to do two things yesterday when I came back from the park. Check up on the Tennessee v. UAB game and find out who won the Labour leadership. I did neither til late in the evening, when I checked the score.

Tennessee squeaked through - against a team that we really shouldn't have had to squeak against. If you're of a mind, go and check out what a squeaker it was at this animated drive chart. UAB missed an astonishing number of field goals and with a score of 32-29 and two overtimes - it was only by the slimmest of margins and perhaps a shift of the wind that made the difference. I think I'm kinda glad I didn't see it, especially through the long (and what must have been miserable) second half.

As Vol blogger Will writes:

Any Kool-Aid that was left in the orange solo cup was spilled on the floor in disbelief today. And while it's exponentially less painful to see in victory than in defeat, today was a stunning and very real picture of where Tennessee Football is right now.

Still, nothin' like a nail biter.

Labour leadership

I didn't even manage to check the Labour leadership scores until this morning. But I don' t really have a dog in that fight. I've maintained only a dim interest in contest over the summer - and it seemed David Miliband was a dead cert, until - well, yesterday. When his younger (shorter, dimmer?, less attractive) brother became the bookies' favourite and then finally won it after four elimination rounds.

The voting process itself - somewhat reminiscent of X-Factor or American Idol - see the votes tallied on first preferences first. David wins. Diane Abbot (perhaps the most entertaining of the lot) was eliminated. All of her 2nd, 3rd and 4th preferences are re-distributed and then... wait a minute. That doesn't sound right. Eee gads that must have been a headache counting all that up after each elimination round - what a complicated system. Anything that crazy surely would never be foisted upon the British public. Anyway, David came out the 'winner' of each round, right up until the end. He musta felt just about like UAB, if not but for one missed field goal - i.e. glad handing with union reps or lurching just slightly to the left. I shouldn't like to be at the Miliband house for Hanukkah dinner.

Anyway, brilliant news for the rest of us. Ed Miliband won't be as spectacularly bad as some of his opponents would have been for the Labour party. But y'all just keep drinking the Kool-Aid from your red solo cup. I suspect he'll have a lovely honeymoon period and then his true colours - whatever they may be - will shine through.

Photo credits: Valerie Everett and Arvind Grover

And bombs bursting in air

2010-09-19T19:19:00.004+01:00

Last week, the boy and I went to the Wimbledon Stables Open Day expecting to get into the windmill museum for free. A commenter set me straight and informed me that the 18th of September would be the Windmill open day. And chided me for my cheapness. So, we headed on down to the Windmill for our free entry after many years of standing outside and wondering whether it was worth the price of entry.

(Photo credit Adrian Short)

And now that we've been in...

Anyway, there was a lot more to the windmill museum than I imagined. I didn't get to poke around all the exhibits as I spent most of my time chasing the boy around the upper level above the treacherous stairway to the workings of the mill. But there were working windmill models of all types and diaromas featuring threshing men and moth-eaten cats.

The boy had a wonderful time. He enjoyed the hands on opportunity to grind some wheat using two handy-sized millstones and he loved the pully. Pullies are fantastic for kids - demonstrating how a small machine can turn you into a weight lifting super hero.

And, of course, he loved climbing up into the workings of the windmill.

I think there was probably a lot more to see than I managed. But I will remember one thing - writ large was the fact No one ever built a windmill if they could have a water mill. Surely, these are words to live by.

And the Vol-in-Law spotted another bit of history. You know the bombs bursting in air from the Star Spangled Banner? Well, apparently back during the War of 1812 (the last time we were at war with the Brits) those particular munitions were a bit of an advance and those bombs were developed by a Wimbledon resident and were tested right there on Wimbledon Common in the shadow or future shadow of the windmill. (Not sure when the windmill was built - the model above shows it was in operation in 1825).

They had a pretty good turnout for the open day, but I'm quite sure it would have been better had the visiting Pope not been staying across the street with the attendant police presence and full parking lot of Pope well-wishers.

So all in all, I'd recommend stumping up the cash for a visit to the Windmill Museum. I've certainly paid a lot more to see a lot worse.

Arrrr

2010-09-19T12:38:00.003+01:00

It's International Talk Like a Pirate Day!

Avast ye mateys. The Good Ship Vol Abroad has been taken over by pirates.

Florida time

2010-09-17T09:42:00.003+01:00

Oh, dear. It's Florida time. I'm not holding out much hope. But for me, this is when football season truly begins - and not just because it's the first SEC game but mainly because a 3:30 kickoff means that I can actually watch the game (by hook or by crook) or at least listen to it. I love my Vols, but I'm already working on a sleep deficit so when a game starts at midnight my time. - I'm just dreaming of a win.

At least Buddy seems happy enough about the prospects.

Let's hope we're smiling on Sunday morning - if not over a win - at least over a decent performance.

Not being on the ground, it's difficult to tell what folks are thinking of Derek Dooley. Vols fans are notorious for the grumble-grumble. But for me, I want to be behind him. I like what I've seen of his style. I want him to be a legendary coach for Tennessee and I'm willing to wait for that to happen.

Former coach Phil Fulmer has given an interesting (ahem) interview about the current state of things. Didn't really expect a giant mea culpa, he says he supports Dooley, but he's working like heck to lay the blame at the feet of 'the other one'.

Simples!

2010-09-16T07:53:00.004+01:00

I've been collecting images of floral tributes - sculptural floral displays at funerals for several years. These range from simple hearts and stars to complex constructions depicting Royal Mail vans or football shirts or crests. When the boy was very small, we took daily walks in the nearby cemetery and this period is from when most of the images I have originate.

I've been in a bit of dry spell regarding floral tributes. I haven't had a good image in ages. This is partly because I'm haunting the graveyard with much less frequency and partly because summer isn't a good season for floral tributes. Probably fewer people are dying, but also when they do the floral tributes aren't lasting as long and so even really good one may not be worth photographing after it's wilted in the heat of the sun. And the really complex floral tributes seem to be fading out of fashion. It may be the recession - these things are apparently very expensive.

But when I checked Sunday - jackpot - I spotted this one.

A meerkat.

Meerkats are always quite popular and are the symbol of many a neighbourhood watch. Including ours.

But they also feature in a long-running and quite amusing series of tv ads in the UK where the meerkats are used to peddle insurance with the catch phrase "Simples" which has insinuated itself into everyday language. And this has made them even more popular. Anyway, first time I've seen a meerkat depicted in chrysanthemums.

The Pope is coming to town

2010-09-15T19:46:00.004+01:00

I noticed police presence on Wimbledon Park Road the other day. And could see they were standing in front of some big swanky house (not that most of the houses on Wimbledon Park Road aren't super swanky). And when I passed by there again today they had blocked off the sidewalk in front of the house, closed the road, and there were cops galore. With guns. Very, very big guns. And bored expressions.

I had noticed there was a sign on the entrance pillar, but couldn't manage to read it. Today I slowed down just enough to read it...or sort of...I thought it said "Apostolic Nunciate" which basically made me none the wiser. But then I put 2 and 2 together and realised the Pontiff was comin' to town tomorrow for the first Papal state visit to the UK in over 500 years and that the sign probably said Apostolic Nunciature which probably means Pope Hotel.

-0-

One of the Pope's pals won't be coming with him. Apparently he said that Britain is like a 3rd World Country. In darker moments, I may have occasionally said the same thing. Don't kick me out.

According to The Telegraph, Cardinal Kasper Walter made some disparaging remarks about the UK including that it was an aggressive new atheism was rife (which I think may also be true). In an article headlined “A Third World country” he was quoted as saying: “When you arrive at Heathrow you think at times that you’ve landed in a Third World country.”

Well, exactly. Heathrow is skank. It's better now. But used to be you'd think "Look, I bought a ticket, I told you I was coming - along with the tens of thousands of other people who are arriving today - the least you could have done was tidy up a bit. Run the vacuum, maybe? But really, it's ok, don't put yourself out on my account." I've been in genuine 3rd World airports that were cleaner and classier.

But in order to clarify his comments, it's apparently because of Britain's "multi-cultural diversity". Really? Yes, don't let the UK think you're just a snobby German neat-freak, make a comment that could be interpreted as just a teensy bit racist.

Who's handing the Vatican's PR these days? 'Cos I want me some of that media goodness.

But it's not because he's so 'plain spoken' that he's not coming, but rather because Cardinal Walter has gout.

-0-

All this puts the dodgy memo about possible activities for the Pontiff by a junior member of Foreign and Commonwealth office staff in a new light. This young fellow 'brainstormed' that an ideal papal visit* could include a special edition brand of condoms, sacking of dodgy bishops, ordination of a female priest and apologising to the British people for Spanish Armada (which received both papal blessing and Vatican cash). Then he was foolish enough to actually distribute that as a memo. And even though the then Foreign Secretary David Milliband made a 'grovelling apology' apparently that was not enough:

A well-placed aide in the Vatican said: 'This could have very severe repercussions and is embarrassing for the British Government - one has to question whether the action taken is enough. It is disgusting.'

Oh really? Like a Cardinal making some seriously off colour remarks just days before showing up (and then not). One has to question whether the action taken is enough.

___

*OK, all the other ones are clearly a no-go and trashy. But I always thought the Armada apology was inspired.

(Photo credit filip1)

Wimbledon Common Open Day

2010-09-13T08:19:00.001+01:00

We were a bit lame yesterday, but suddenly, and after an embarrasingly large number of Sponge Bob episodes, I remembered that it was open day at Wimbledon Common. Hurrah. For years, I've wondered what it looks like on the inside of the windmill at Wimbledon Common and this was my chance. A daunting entry fee prohibited me from entering all these years and when last year - the price doubled to £2 (about $3) I knew paying entry was not likely. But on an open day, I'd have free entry, free to gambol in the 20 square feet of history of the windmill display.

Imagine the shock and horror I felt when I saw a sign which dashed my hopes of free entry. I was pissed. But then, much to my amazement, the wide field on the left hand side of the long drive normally full of kite flyers and dog walkers was full.of.cars. I couldn't imagine why that many people could have made the same mistake I did about the windmill, so there must have been something else going on.

And indeed there was! It was a village fete, with tents and stalls and masses of people and what looked like pony rides. I couldn't believe I hadn't realised. And then I had a sinking feeling, fetes mean lots of spending small amounts of money at stalls. And I had very little money in my pocket (I thought we were going to have a free look-see at the windmill and leave, remember) - and there were two young soldiers guarding the parking lot and they were holding a bucket. For the wounded. Of Afghanistan. Really, you can't say no to that. And thus went a good proportion of my cash.

Danger boy

The first thing the boy wanted to see was some tractors parked up. A whole gaggle of children were climbing on one of those extendable platform utility vehicles - something I would call a cherry picker. It looked quite unsafe. I even saw a boy about the same size of my three year old climbing on the extendable arm.

Which I think made me allowing him up onto the platform which was at least 6 feet off the ground look quite reasonable by comparison.

We made our way to a recruiting stand for the Household Cavalry. Now, let me tell you something, I am no longer a young lady in the first blush of youth, but I nearly felt a swoon coming in the proximity of these fine young men in their dress uniforms and their high boots with a deep shine. The boy was impressed and told me he wanted to be a soldier, too. I wanted to tell him that those who administrate also serve. But given the chance to try on the regalia, I doubt if it would have carried much weight.

And the sword.

I could not believe it when the man handed my 3 yrd old a sword. Since the boy had the hilt I figured he had more chance of endangering others than himself. I stood well away.

More fun and frolics

The Wimbledon and Putney Common Open Day had loads more to see. Birds of prey. Endless tug of war. An ambulance you could go in and poke around. Intubation and choking dummies. Waggiest tail on a dog competitions. Horse grooming demonstrations. The boy went mad for horse named Chance and demanded riding lessons. I was very pleased to discover that he was still a year too young for that. Among children's hobbies, I'm not sure if you can find one that costs more.

The boy demanded a horseshoe (£1), a piece of ginger cake raising money for wounded soldiers (£1) - which made me think of the old saying:

It'll be a great day when education gets all the money it wants and the Air Force has to hold a bake sale to buy bombers. ~Author unknown, quoted in You Said a Mouthful edited by Ronald D. Fuchs

But I'm not sure if bake sales in support for returning soldiers quite qualifies.

And then he wanted a donkey ride (£3), which lasted about 45 seconds and made the riding lessons or paid entry to the windmill museum seem a really good deal. And that was the end of my cash.

It really was a fantastic day out and I imagined that it was quite like attending a village fete, but without having to leave the comforting embrace of the M25.

Of all the things we saw though, I think I liked this best:

Sarah Palin talks smarts

2010-09-09T19:05:00.003+01:00

I've never been one of the people who were tempted to slam on Sarah Palin for being an idiot or denigrate her achievement at becoming Governor of Alaska (oh, it's only a small state population wise), which seems a bit ridiculous unless you yourself have served as the governor of a larger state, and if you have it's still not classy.

But it's fair to say that I agree with her on practically nada. But today I do: In the Daily Mail, she was reported as saying about the proposed burn-a-koran day at a Florida church.

Book burning is antithetical to American ideals,' she wrote.
'People have a constitutional right to burn a Koran if they want to, but doing so is insensitive and an unnecessary provocation - much like building a mosque at Ground Zero.'
She finished by saying: 'We don't need to agree with each other on theological matters, but tolerating each other without unnecessarily provoking strife is how we ensure a civil society.
'In this as in all things, we should remember the Golden Rule. Isn't that what the Ground Zero mosque debate has been about?'

And on this I tend to agree. Burning Korans, deliberately insensitive and provocative. Building a mosque near Ground Zero, probably not deliberately insensitive - just in the fact that I bet suitable properties in Manhattan aren't super easy to source and that's where that happened to be - but it strikes me as a touch inappropriate all the same.

That's one dead duck

2010-09-09T11:32:00.002+01:00

Here's a lovely image of canard a l'orange from Flickr user franziskas garten. That is for sure one dead duck. Let's hope the resurgent UT can cook up a similar dish on Saturday against Oregon, with some extra zingy orange flavor on top. Chef Dooley (fingers crossed) can provide the instructions for gutting and roasting.

Turnover here is key and notice that in this recipe, you don't.

Citizenship criteria and starting off on the right foot

2010-09-06T07:33:00.003+01:00

Although I've lived in the UK for a long time, I'm not a citizen. I've never quite taken the plunge. I've been meaning to, but just never got around to it. The previous Labour government had made it harder to become a citizen - introducing a test on life in the UK and a citizenship ceremony. In essence that can only be a good thing. Citizenship is a big deal and should be treated as such. There should be a moment of celebration where the mutual duties and obligations of state and citizen are marked publicly, rather than just a letter in the post.

And they were about to make it harder still, introducing a kind of 'good citizen' requirement - a probationary period of volunteering. I was against this. Not so much in theory - it's a good thing. And not so much because of personal impact, as I've been serving as a School Governor for almost four years (for American readers, it's kinda like a school board, but without any real power and every school has one) and I've volunteered for a political party which also counts. But I was iffy about it because of the bureaucratic nature of it. How would you prove that you'd done work? Would there be spot checks to make sure there wasn't some kind of weird black market in the volunteering certificates? But these requirements may be scrapped by the new Coalition government (Telegraph)

And apparently there's going to be a shakeup in the quiz, too. Good. Although the Life in the UK was as a big a phone book in a medium sized city and packed full of Battle of Britain and parliamentary procedure and Magna Carta and so forth, the quiz emphasis was on quirky etiquette - What does one do if one spills someone's pint on them in the pub? Offer to duke it out the car park or buy them a new drink? - and navigating the benefits system. Really. Navigating the benefits system. Now, it's good to know that sort of thing I guess, but that's a bit like setting down rules for your matrimonial partner to be on just how much cheating you'll tolerate before you call it a day. I'd like to think that at the beginning of a relationship, there's a slightly rosier view of the role of the productive citizen rather than assuming that they'll be taking more than they'll be contributing.

Privateer Lad

2010-09-05T21:30:00.004+01:00

Alright, so we promised to take the boy to the beach - and we'd already chickened out from finding and driving down to a real beach and decided to take him down to some pollution blackened sands on the south bank of the Thames and let him play amongst the rubble.

The boy was so excited. He made me round up a bucket and spade and found a beach shirt and some shorts and some 'beach shoes' and got dressed almost on his own. He was literally skipping down the pavement and asking at every stop on the Northern line if this was where we got off for the beach.

Before we arrived at the sand, we soaked in some of the festival atmosphere of the South Bank. There were Morris dancers and we stopped to watch some acrobat cum magicians doing a bartending based routine complete with flying ice and glasses performing for free in front of the National Theatre.

But when we arrived at the beach I'd spotted from the boat the other day, the gate down to the sand was locked. Sure there was an artist down there building sand sculptures, but he'd successfully blocked access to the beach with his demand for money literally written in the sands and his clearly hungover girlfriend was lying on the top steps sleeping off last night's gin. The boy was grievously disappointed and cried and moaned and raised a racket. We promised to move on down the Southbank to see if we could find access to the shore some other way, but I inwardly assured myself that if we couldn't get down there, I'd push past that booze-soaked floozy and the access hogging sand artist and let my boy frolic in whatever the Thames had coughed up onto the shore.

Fortunately, we found an open gate at Gabriel's Wharf - and though it looked like civilians weren't allowed - for there was a collection of sand sculptors at work and not very good busker, there was no way we weren't going down there. The boy took off down the treacherous stairs to the sands below. And he had a blast!

After we'd had enough sand play, we had lunch at Gourmet Pizza which was only just up the steps to the Southbank. We hadn't been in ages - in fact, I'm not sure we'd ever been there with the boy. But it was still as good and they have very reasonably price, nice pizzas for children.

We walked on down the Southbank to the Tate Modern, housed in an old power station, where we had a bit of wander and like every child of a certain age, the boy had to roll around on the turbine hall floor like a work of performance art. The Tate was crowded and the boy was in his finest crowd dodging, 'do not enter' sign ignoring best. In fact, he wandered through one room singing. "Bad art. Bad art. This is bad art." And although Tate Modern has its share of really bad art, he was singing his disparaging verse in a room Rothkos and Calders.

So we decided to head out, but not before stopping in at the RSPB (Royal Society for the Protection of Birds) peregrine falcon observing station just outside. Some falcons have taken roost on the towers of the museum. The RSPB volunteers were very enthusiastic, but apparently the falcons were out for the day. We still thought it was worth looking through the scope which was trained on where the birds normally hang out - and sure enough no birds, but you could see the smear of falcon poo.

On the way to our departing station, London Bridge, we came across the Golden Hinde. Sir Francis Drake's privateer galleon. They boy demanded that we go on the ship, but it had been hired out for a wedding reception. And no matter how much he screamed and cried, the wedding party did not soften and let him aboard. Imagine! In order to placate him, we took him to the pirate shop nearby and bribed him into quiet with some pirate swords and a hat.

He was so excited he forgot about the ship and continued pointing his enormous pirate pistol at passers by and duelling with his father in front of Southwark Cathedral.

I'm sure the bishop would not approve..

It's football time in Tennessee

2010-09-04T19:59:00.002+01:00

After some disastrous seasons and some meh seasons, the firing of one coach and the midnight flit of another, we're ready for some football. OK, we've got a new coach - and this one might be a keeper. He seems a better fit.

I hope he is. I'm ready to go the long haul with Dooley.

Go Vols.

An idea

2010-09-03T20:05:00.005+01:00

The boy is not the best talker, but he's making rapid improvement. And he's surprising me with introductions of new concepts - like "maybe"

Today I was talking to him about what we'd have for dinner, and he said that he wanted to go to a local cafe. Well, really a caf, a greasy spoon. We go there pretty regularly because the food is good in that greasy spoon kinda way, but really we go because they've always been amazingly welcoming to the boy - from the breastfeeding infant days to the squalling times, to the days when he couldn't manage being at the table without spilling - and even the time (when I was reading a tabloid paper instead of paying attention) when he scrawled on their formica table top with a ball point pen. All that, and they always greet us with a smile. Not only that, but when we gave them a Christmas card with his picture on it - they displayed it - and again the following year. They're still up. They have more pictures of my son prominently on show than we do.

But they close at mid-afternoon. And when they close, their windows and doors are shuttered with metal, so you know they are really closed. So I had to tell him that we couldn't have dinner there. He was disappointed, but seemed to accept that maybe we could eat there for breakfast or lunch sometime this weekend.

We'd moved on from talking about dinner to talking about animal sounds.

And then he turned around, raised a finger as a kind of point of order and said "I have an idea." I had to ask him to repeat himself - as he'd never said "I have an idea," before and I was a little surprised.

"Ok Buddy," I said "What's your idea?"

And he went into a quite convoluted explanation, complete with hand motions of sawing and sounds and actions.

His idea was to break into the cafe. Great. His first ever proposal of a plan was a heist. Criminal activity in the pursuit of fried eggs. It looks like it's gonna be fun years ahead.

A trip to the beach

2010-09-02T21:03:00.001+01:00

The boy, all of sudden, has decided that he wants to go to the beach. And since this is an island, a beach isn't too far away. But it could take an hour and a half or even longer if the traffic is bad. And all the nearest beaches are pebble beaches. Which suck. It all seems like a lot of work for a bit of seaside frolics.

-0-

Yesterday, I had a meeting near London Bridge and then decided I wanted to head on over to the RSA to do some work (nearest tube Embankment). There's not really a super-duper easy way to get from one to the other. But there is a boat. And since I'd overshot the cut-through from the south bank to London Bridge station and the boat was pulling up and it was a beautiful day. So, even though it was the more expensive option and I'm not clear if it was the faster option, I took the boat.

And out on the back deck of the boat (is that the stern?), it was gorgeous. Beautiful views of London, Tower Bridge, HMS Belfast and the Houses of Parliament as I reached my stop (port? landing?). Oh, and I also saw a beach. On the Thames. I guess somebody from Southwark or maybe the mayor's office has dumped a bunch of sand on the muddy banks of the Thames and opened the hitherto shut gates down to the river.

So, looks like the trip to the beach might be a little more handy and convenient. I feel the slight guilt of the slacker parent, but being a slacker parent - it doesn't last long. Not sure how I'm gonna keep the boy out of that filthy ol' river, though.

Bad Romance

2010-09-01T20:19:00.002+01:00

Tate Britain was once known as The Tate. A magnificent old building overlooking the Thames with views across the river to the big spy building (MI6 or MI5, I can never remember). But then the The Tate expanded, and there was Tate Modern - housed in a wonderful old power plant and Tate (insert regional city name here which you probably wouldn't want to visit) and so forth.

Tate Britain specialises in British artists and rather confusingly includes modern works. But most of them are too good for the Tate Modern which specialises in spectacular rubbish mainly - with occasional pools of really good pieces in their collection. And even though I walk past Tate Britain regularly on my way to work meetings, I rarely ever go in. In fact, I haven't been since their Hogarth Exhibition, almost four years ago - except for stopping in to use their loo.

Since we currently have a visitor, I can use this as an excuse to do the tourist thing. He's never been to Tate Britain and I'd been meaning to go since they re-organised their collection of Pre-Raphaelite works. But somehow we ended up in the Romantics section which was being billed as a new exhibition- an easy to mistake to make, since I tend to view the style of pre-raphaelite art as romantic.

But no, Romantics at the Tate means Turner and associated artists. Which I had forgotten. Which put me in a very bad mood.

Confession time: I hate Turner

Turner is one of two British artists whom the Brits hold most dear. Him and Constable. Whom I also hate. To me they produce stuff like a camera with a white balance gone horribly wrong. I hate Constable's speckiness and cutesyness. I hate Turners smudgy figures and white shwooshiness.(You can see a whole bunch of that here, if you must) I can't really explain quite why I hate them so much. Or rather, I can explain why I don't like them. Maybe the hate seems to spring mostly from the fact that I just don't get them or why they're so loved. And perhaps after having lived in a country for so long and just not getting why everyone else loves them but I think they're rubbish, it makes me hate them. It's a sign that no matter how much I acculturate, I can never truly fit in.

It's not that I hate all British painters. Not at all. I can wander round Tate Britain and find much to admire and some to love. But not Turner and not Constable. Blechhh.

And I'm afraid I didn't hold back. I grumbled about Turner and demanded that we move on. People looked at me like I had spit on the Queen. Except that there are some republicans in the UK and people who hate the monarchy, but it seems that everybody loves Turner.

Wyeth

Some things go both ways. I've generally found that Brits don't like the works of Andrew Wyeth who I think is a genius.

Who's still in the neighborhood?

2010-08-31T06:25:00.004+01:00

For folks who've been reading my personal blog through Facebook, you might be wondering what this new thing is - or maybe not - maybe you hadn't noticed at all. But anyway this was my first blog, and I blogged here for four years - about whatever took my fancy. I blogged about life and fun and sports and politics. And then I took a year off - well, in fact, I'd meant to quit blogging here altogether.

I didn't really give up blogging. I just gave up blogging at the Vol Abroad. I blog a LOT for work, about work stuff. I blogged a little about personal stuff. I blogged not.at.all about political stuff, which I missed. Especially since there was a British General Election in my blogging hiatus. It about killed me not to blog on that. But my work role is a-political in the sense that I have to work with politicians of all stripes and opinions can sometimes offend. I know I can work in a non-partisan way and that I have done. To me there's a clear difference between working with a politician that I may not agree with, supporting them in a professional capacity and having very different political views.

But the worst thing about my Vol Abroad blogging hiatus was my disconnection from the Tennessee blogosphere and even the expat blogosphere. There was no reason for that, really. But I reckon that blogging is as much about reading as it is about writing. If you're not part of a community of blogging - then you may as well keep a journal. In a diary. With a pink flowers. And an easily forceable lock. And as I wasn't writing as the Vol Abroad, I wasn't really reading either.

So I'm taking off my jacket, changing my shoes, putting on my cardigan and checking out my blog roll here to see who's still in the neighborhood.

Ariedana's link gives me a 404, but she's one of the few I've kept up with. So, I know she's over here now. As far as either of us can remember, we've never met. We only know each other through the Internet. But we both reckon we've been to the same family re-unions, so I know we must have inhabited the same real life space at the same time. She is my cousin.

Big Stupid Tommy is still going. But I knew that, 'cos I found him on Twitter recently, where he has one of the best Twitter bios going.

Busy Mom - is still keeping pretty busy.

Joe Powell - still here and talking about squirrel hunting and frog gigging and how nasty squirrels taste.

Fore Left blogging strong - ahhh, I remember when that blog started. One of the things I loved about the TN blogosphere, at least when I left it, is that there was a strong geographic pull which straddled political lines. I'm not sure if that's still the case. But this is an example of someone who's politics I don't generally agree with who I was happy to link to.

Haiku of the Id - a gal from my home town, my brother's age and someone I've known all her life has kept plugging away on the blog frontier. She blogged recently about her daughter's first haircut and reflected on her own childhood 'do.

I should note that growing up my sister and I had terrible Dorothy Hamill bowl hair cuts. We had uneven bangs in the shape of a rainbow from where Mom cut them for us. (I can remember her taking us to the hair dresser, who would look at us with a sad face while Mom explained that she just gave us a little trim...) If that wasn't bad enough, strangers always thought we were boys. Boys.

Least said the better, really. But puts paid to the notion that kids just accept the poor fashion and grooming choices that their parents inflict on them.

Newscoma is doing lots of online stuff for work these days, but her personal blog is still going well and always full of profound reflections and amusing anecdotes. And the glimpses of connections that can be made in used bookstores in small towns.

I was gonna try to go through my whole roll - but I couldn't manage to do that in a single go. So I'm publishing now - and I'll catch up with the rest of you later.

Part of the reason I quit blogging here is that I set standards I could no longer maintain what with working and parenting and all that. I'm coming back to the Vol Abroad and I'm gonna be a little easier on myself this time around.

Anonymity

Another reason I quit blogging here is that I work with people with a lot of Internet smarts now, and 'cos I'm sloppy I couldn't really be anonymous. It takes a lot of work. So, now I'm blogging pseudonymously. I'm not using my real name on this site, mainly because I have a pretty big digital footprint under my real name - and that's mostly about work stuff. It's not a secret (hence why it's being fed through Facebook), but there is a separation.

Why come back?

Well, partly because I want to use the web address that my personal blog is on currently for something else. And partly because I missed my old alter ego, the Vol Abroad. She's a little bit meaner than me, but she seems to have more fun.

Tap, tap, tap

2010-08-30T20:29:00.002+01:00

Hey, is this thing on? I've been thinking about reviving the old Vol Abroad. But this time, I'll blog more on the pseudonym kinda thing rather than anonymous.

I've missed my old alter ego.

It's blogging time in Tennessee.

The end is not the end

2009-07-28T07:01:00.002+01:00

Faithful readers...I'm hanging up The Vol Abroad. Over the last nine months or so, I haven't been able to maintain my blogging presence here, so I'm pulling the plug.

My online footprint is too large and I'm too sloppy to maintain an anonymous blog. I'm now working on daily basis with people with a lot more Internet smarts than me who could rumble me out in a heartbeat if they wanted to (which they probably don't, but you never know)

However, being someone with a pathological need to blog, I'm setting up a new blog.

Here's its adress:

www.myfirstname + mysurnameinitial (that's all one word) .wordpress.com

There's not much there now, it takes time.

If you don't know my name...and you blog, look out for a new expat Tennessean in the blogosphere - I'll be linking soon to a blog near you.

The worst part of my self-imposed blogging hiatus has been losing touch with the Tennessee blogosphere. I'm looking forward to jumping back in.

Azaleas along the stream

2009-05-11T07:28:00.001+01:00

Azaleas along the stream, originally uploaded by London looks.

Truly one of the horticultural delights of the world - the azaleas in Isabella Plantation at Richmond Park in May. There are hundreds and hundreds of azaleas planted along stream beds and meandering paths - colors and varieties merging into one another, most of them 5 or 6 feet high.

It's hard to pick a peak day, as the different varieties bloom at slightly different times. But if we didn't hit it that golden moment, we came pretty close.

The nail game

2009-05-05T09:02:00.001+01:00

The nail game, originally uploaded by London looks.

While we were off to Knoxville, my mother took Buddy out to see some family friends. He got to use the shop vac to pick up saw dust and they made a toy out of an old board and nails using the drill press.

The object of the game is to put the tiny, sharp nails in the holes. And then to take them out again.

Do not try this at home. Although he loved this toy - it was summarily donated to the City of Lawrenceburg landfill project.

G20 madness

2009-04-01T11:53:00.001+01:00

I'm about to head into the belly of the beast that's London today. Anticipated disturbances and general G20 protest merriment. I've armed myself with water, a camera, and three forms of identification including my Royal Horticultural Society membership card which seems to have a calming effect on authoritarians everywhere.

An old friend in Seattle wished me luck and reminisced about the WTO meeting when he was accidentally teargassed.

Bankers in the City (where protests are centered today) were warned not to come in suited and booted. Apparently all of London is participating in a kind of fabulous dress down April Fool's Day (We should do that every year) My own sartorial statement tries to blur the boundaries between scruffy and respectable. No change there then.

Hopefully I won't have too many colorful stories to share later on today.
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And the PM smirked on

2009-03-25T18:44:00.000Z

Love the quick flash to Gordo's smirking face.

Hen pecked

2009-03-21T14:36:00.002Z

I probably should've taken the matter more firmly in hand. He was much more wary of the animals after that. He returned to the chickens later to throw bark chippings at them.

Pork shoulder roast

2009-03-16T18:23:00.001Z

Pork shoulder roast, originally uploaded by London looks.

My first experiment with pulled pork. I think I cooked it six or seven hours. Seasoned with paprika, garlic and salt and pepper, slow roasted peppers and onions. I probably could have done a bit more seasoning, but the meet itself was perfectly done.

Delicious/vol_abroad

2009-03-06T15:02:00.001Z

Delicious/vol_abroad

Doodle While You Listen « The Squirrel Queen

Posted: 01 Mar 2009 03:25 PM PST

It's all true. I knew it all along. Helps in meetings and seminars, too.

Suburban Turmoil: Mommyblogging 2.0: It's Not What It Used to Be

Posted: 01 Mar 2009 03:19 PM PST

Ok, here's the thing about 2.0. Honest to god, it's about authenticity and transparency. And if you're in it for greed - then that WILL come out. And if you're cool with that, then fine. Not me. I mean on my work blog I trade for stuff, but not here.

Noble Savage » Blog Archive » Overheard in the high street

Posted: 01 Mar 2009 03:14 PM PST

Buddy, a boy of few words

2009-03-05T23:16:00.006Z

Buddy's still not really a talker. He's a toddler of very few words. On all the developmental benchmarks the boy is behind.

Of course, it's said that Einstein didn't talk until he was three and look what happened to him (dead-end job as a patent clerk, hounded from his own country, and a head full of messy hair).

Still, even with very few verbal skills - the boy clearly knows how to change the subject.

Presidential style

2009-03-04T22:11:00.002Z

This may not have been big news in the US, but the Sri Lankan cricket team was attacked in Pakistan.

Some of the English speaking officials are complaining because they were promised "presidential style security" by the Pakistani government.

Rather churlish of them, given the health and safety record of political leaders in Pakistan. Seems like Presidential style was exactly what they got.

Delicious/vol_abroad

2009-03-04T15:00:00.001Z

Delicious/vol_abroad

Newscoma » Blog Archive » Funny Valentine’s Day Cards

Posted: 14 Feb 2009 02:28 PM PST

Wow, a Darwin themed Valentine's Day Card. That would have been nice. Heck, any card would have been nice.

Weblog Geertwilders - The speech Geert Wilders would have given

Posted: 14 Feb 2009 09:30 AM PST

I'm not sure I entirely agree but he should have been allowed in to make the speech. Certainly he cites some nastier folk who've addressed the Lords

so long, freedom of speech

Posted: 14 Feb 2009 07:37 AM PST

the beginning of UK vs. Geert Wilders saga via Anglofille. Scandalous.

Delicious/vol_abroad

2009-03-02T15:10:00.001Z

Delicious/vol_abroad

Doodle While You Listen « The Squirrel Queen

Posted: 01 Mar 2009 03:25 PM PST

It's all true. I knew it all along. Helps in meetings and seminars, too.

Suburban Turmoil: Mommyblogging 2.0: It's Not What It Used to Be

Posted: 01 Mar 2009 03:19 PM PST

Noble Savage » Blog Archive » Overheard in the high street

Posted: 01 Mar 2009 03:14 PM PST

Bring on the Jubilee

2009-03-01T22:42:00.000Z

Delicious/vol_abroad

2009-02-27T15:16:00.001Z

Delicious/vol_abroad

University of Tennessee Salary Database - Knoxify

Posted: 27 Feb 2009 04:48 AM PST

They make what?

FGF-Cornbread and Butterbeans « Collie’s Corner

Posted: 27 Feb 2009 04:24 AM PST

Yeah, you know it! Raisin' heck and writin' checks - it ought to be unlawful.

Small talk

2009-02-26T21:57:00.002Z

I was on a seminar panel with a midget today. I think that's the first time I've actually ever met a little person, which is kinda odd considering how often they're on tv.

And the midget really knew his stuff and he was a good speaker and pretty funny - or as funny as you can be when you're talking about the dull stuff that we have to talk about.

Foxy

2009-02-25T22:53:00.001Z

Foxy, originally uploaded by London looks.

It's not unusual to see neighborhood cats lounging around on top of my shed. It must be pretty cosy up there. Today I looked out and saw a rather unusually and attractively colored large cat. I looked again and realised it was a fox.

This isn't my first vulpine/feline mistake. Not too long ago I was walking along the streets of South London and saw a gray cat hiding under some privet hedges. It had an unusual coat which wasn't gray after all - just a weird affect of the street lights. I was reaching down to stroke it before I realised it was a fox.

I remembered what happened to the gingerbread man and drew my hand back fast.

Loss of functionality

2009-02-23T23:35:00.001Z

Why can't I just drag and drop photos from Picasa to my Flickr Uploader like I used to could.

Is this some kind of Google v. Yahoo thing.

Seriously, grow up and return my functionality.

Failure of supervision

2009-02-23T08:22:00.001Z

Failure of supervision, originally uploaded by London looks.

From the other room I hear my husband say "Buddy's father wasn't watching him as well as he should have."

He is the father.

So, with all that first person/third person displacement of guilt I was a little concerned.

The damage appears to be purely cosmetic.

crocus colony

2009-02-22T22:58:00.001Z

crocus colony, originally uploaded by London looks.

Finally, a bit of sunshine and the crocus open to face the warmth. Sadly our warm-ish and sunny day on Saturday did not extend throughout the weekend.

Reprise

2009-02-21T22:45:00.004Z

I blogged this almost a year ago.

I need some career advice. I'm bored with mine.

I'm looking for something that:

* starts late
* finishes early
* sparks my creativity
* allows me to expound (love to expound)
* exposes me to a significant degree of adulation
* has lots of new technology toys
* allows me to dress flamboyantly

I know the job for Wizard of Oz has already been filled, so if anyone has any thoughts on anything else.

-0-

So far I haven't managed to get anything that starts late and finishes early, I've been working like a demon. Has it paid off yet? We'll see. I'm getting some adulation. I'm the number two _________ in the field of ____________.

The flamboyant dressing hasn't really worked out, but I could probably afford to take a few more fashion risks these days.

snow drop

2009-02-20T22:03:00.001Z

snow drop, originally uploaded by London looks.

The bulbs are starting to come up in my garden, but it's been so overcast I've been struggling to get many good shots.

Delicious/vol_abroad

2009-02-19T15:11:00.001Z

Delicious/vol_abroad

Knoxville rocks the Great Backyard Bird Count | KnoxViews

Posted: 18 Feb 2009 02:36 PM PST

And the grackle wins!!

Why Kellogs (and possibly the rest of America) Has It’s Head Up Its Ass « Just Another Pretty Farce

Posted: 18 Feb 2009 02:35 PM PST

Compare and contrast recent crimes and misdemeanors

David Toube: Unite Against Fascism may be the UK's leading campaign against the racist far right, yet its record on opposing antisemitism is dismal | Comment is free | guardian.co.uk

Posted: 18 Feb 2009 02:24 PM PST

More examples of the blatant hypocrisy of the British Left

Hellebore Winter Moonbeam

2009-02-19T09:40:00.001Z

Hellebore Winter Moonbeam, originally uploaded by London looks.

On the one hand, I thought I paid too much for this. But on the other hand, it's been blooming since the beginning of January and I've left in the pot on a table just outside our back door where we can easily see it.

Much cheaper than cut flowers and it will last for years.

Perspective

2009-02-18T22:18:00.001Z

Sometimes, try as hard as you might, it's difficult to persuade people to take on a new perspective.

Delicious/vol_abroad

2009-02-17T15:25:00.001Z

Delicious/vol_abroad

Cup Of Joe Powell: A Hint To Tennessee: Take The Money

Posted: 16 Feb 2009 10:26 PM PST

Mmmmm......go on , take the money and run.

Another term for Chavez

Posted: 16 Feb 2009 02:28 PM PST

I've always had mixed feelings about term limits, but I don't think this is good news for Venezuela

How Does the Endgame Look for the Lady Vols? - Rocky Top Talk

Posted: 16 Feb 2009 02:19 PM PST

Predictions for the Lady Vols. It's only by comparison with past glories that this season doesn't look so good.

Tractor in the sun

2009-02-17T08:07:00.001Z

Tractor in the sun, originally uploaded by London looks.

I'm not sure what it's like elsewhere, but in London day care providers have you over a barrel. Places are hard to come by and expensive. Very, very expensive. We were not altogether satisfied with our day care provider but attempts to get in to a great nursery practically on our doorstep have failed (we've been on the waiting list for over two years) We turned down another more expensive but better place, because we felt intimidated by the nursery staff. Very bad chemistry and too far away and an unpleasant long walk to get there.

Key to our dissatisfaction was not enough activity. Buddy has to be run and run, lest he turn his hand to destruction. He's good enough when given something constructive to do, but too often he came home with all too much pent up energy.

A recent change in personnel seems to have turned things around. And here's some evidence of activity - a painting he did at nursery.

I know that the tractor stencil is probably an indication that it is a collaborative work. But since Buddy's named for my grandfather who sold tractors for many years I quite like it anyway. And my granddad would have been most pleased that it's a tractor in an appealing Ford blue.

Delicious/vol_abroad

2009-02-16T15:59:00.001Z

Delicious/vol_abroad

Shades of Me | by Kelly Brown » Star Wars retold by someone who hasn’t seen it

Posted: 15 Feb 2009 09:41 AM PST

Pretty funny and only a few minutes

1,000 Photos of Knoxville and Counting - Knoxify

Posted: 15 Feb 2009 08:13 AM PST

Fab photos of Knoxvegas

chez bez: How My Kid Sees Me

Posted: 15 Feb 2009 08:04 AM PST

awwww - lovely

Stimulus Agreement: Gutting Violence Against Women « The Crone Speaks

Posted: 15 Feb 2009 08:00 AM PST

Stimulating cuts and increases in the big spending package.

Delicious/vol_abroad

2009-02-15T15:13:00.001Z

Delicious/vol_abroad

Newscoma » Blog Archive » Funny Valentine’s Day Cards

Posted: 14 Feb 2009 02:28 PM PST

Wow, a Darwin themed Valentine's Day Card. That would have been nice. Heck, any card would have been nice.

Weblog Geertwilders - The speech Geert Wilders would have given

Posted: 14 Feb 2009 09:30 AM PST

I'm not sure I entirely agree but he should have been allowed in to make the speech. Certainly he cites some nastier folk who've addressed the Lords

A failure of anticipation

2009-02-14T22:52:00.001Z

By the bridge, originally uploaded by London looks.

Not a great shot of the little guy, but this is the last one I took before he took an unplanned dip in the Wandle River. (River on the map, but smaller than a creek in the geography of my mind, barely a brook).

We were picking up willow switches to hit the tree and then he decided to pitch them in the river. I kinda thought it was a bad idea to get so close to the edge, but I thought it would probably be ok so long as I remained vigilant.

But, of course, it only takes a second and he fell into the water. I fished him out by his hood and stripped him of his wet clothes right there and put him in my sweater and fleecy vest. (It's pretty darn cold out there today, barely breaking 40F by guess). He was screaming at first, but then he seemed to take it pretty well. Better than I might have.

I didn't think he noticed how ridiculously he was dressed, but as soon as we got back in the house he demanded that I remove his sweater dress.

Delicious/vol_abroad

2009-02-14T16:33:00.001Z

Delicious/vol_abroad

so long, freedom of speech

Posted: 14 Feb 2009 07:37 AM PST

the beginning of UK vs. Geert Wilders saga via Anglofille. Scandalous.

a proud day

Posted: 14 Feb 2009 07:36 AM PST

Britain turns its back on the principles of free speech. By the way, you can Google it, but save 15 minutes of your life. The Fitna movie is crap. Would have worked much better in about 6 minutes of film.

Johann Hari: Why should I respect these oppressive religions? - Johann Hari, Commentators - The Independent

Posted: 13 Feb 2009 03:55 PM PST

I didn't think much of this guy until he wrote this. Damn the UN. Shame on those who acquiesce. There's a time to be polite, but there's never a time to sell out our rights for free speech.

Johann Hari: Despite these riots, I stand by what I wrote - Johann Hari, Commentators - The Independent

Posted: 13 Feb 2009 03:53 PM PST

A man whom I thought I agreed with on nothing makes a powerful defense of free speech. Amazing.

Harry’s Place » Jesus! I’m turning into a Jew!

Posted: 13 Feb 2009 03:51 PM PST

The rising tide of anti-semitism in Europe. Scary stuff. But in the comments section something that made me think slightly more charitably about Donald Trump. And Johann Hari. Not something I ever thought I'd do.

Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated

2009-02-13T23:56:00.004Z

Ok, where have I been? Same place as usual. And frankly, I've been blogging and micro-blogging like a demon. But it's all been about work. Work, work, work.

All work and no play makes Vol a dull girl.

But there are just some things that I can't blog about at work. Cause it's not relevant. Or 'cause, you know, it might get me fired. So maybe I'll blog about them here.

Like, for example, today I showed pictures of my garden to a suspected terrorist.

Oh yes, you read it right. But this co-worker and suspected terrorist is very into gardening and you know I can't resist showing off my flowers.

And don't worry, this suspected terrorist isn't from the current lot of Islamist terrorists, and isn't even as romantically wrong as a former suspected IRA terrorist (with whom London must be packed). This person is one of those Weather Underground types. And this person was acquitted, and what can I say against the verdict of twelve good and true English men and women?

But let me just say this...as I was showing this person my flowers, I felt a stirring sympathy for the position of Barack Obama vis-a-vis his relationship with Bill Ayers. You can find yourself sitting next to someone like that for a very long time and only discover later how they spent their youth. It makes me sick. But what can I do? Times are tough. Jobs are hard to come by. I like to talk about flowers.

I'm not saying Barack Obama didn't know about Bill Ayers. I definitely didn't know about this person before. But now I do.

The measure of things

2008-11-25T07:42:00.003Z

My granddad was pretty indulgent to his grandchildren on the whole, but not when it came to retracting tape measures. He said that he'd never seen one in the hands of a kid that didn't get torn up.

Unfortunately, his pronouncement only made already very attractive tape measures practically magnetic to me.

Right now, Buddy's tearing up a tape measure - and I'm just letting him.

snow patrol

2008-11-23T11:24:00.001Z

snow patrol, originally uploaded by London looks.

It's frosty cold in London this morning. We awoke to freezing temperatures and the threat of snow. Within the hour it was snowing. I got the Vol-in-Law to help me dress Buddy in some reasonably warm clothing and out we went into the garden.

I managed to capture a few pics in the snow before Buddy decided that it was too cold and that he didn't much care for snow. When I asked if he wanted to go inside he headed straight for the back door.

Just as well we took some photos when we did, as within a half hour or so all traces of the snow were gone - replaced by a miserable, cold rain.

Where I've been

2008-11-13T09:44:00.003Z

Last Friday I had laparoscopic surgery. I've been in pain of varying degrees basically since I went into labor over 17 months ago. Turns out my pain was probably due to a dermoid ovarian cyst that was stuck in an awkward position due to adhesions which were a result of the c-section. So a variety of complaints. I'm now down one ovary, but apparently it was in pretty bad shape. But on the plus side, my other ovary is now freed up - it was also stuck in awkward position from the adhesions - and was probably also causing me pain.

It's too early to see if the surgery worked as I'm still in pain from having my insides mixed up and being puffed up full of gas to give the surgeons room to do the keyhole surgery.

I had considered spending the weekend in the hospital to avoid the rigors of toddler care while recovering. But I discharged myself in a hurry on Friday evening when the hospital staff tried to move me from a private room to a four bed bay. Most of the people in that hospital I wouldn't care to share a taxi with, so I'm not sure why they were so surprised when I decided to leave instead of taking my chances with random strangers and their even more random visitors.

I've been spending the week watching crime shows and Maury DNA test specials while doing needlepoint.

Spode in administration

2008-11-13T08:23:00.003Z

If there's anything I'm addicted to more than coffee it's tableware. A beautifully designed ceramic bowl, an elegant glass, a well-weighted fork. Divine. Two of the most sparkling occasions of my life were visits to the Iittala/Arabia factory outlet in Helsinki.

This morning I hear that famous English tableware companies like Spode and Royal Worcester have gone into administration (the beginnings of British bankruptcy procedure). The traditional ceramics industry around The Potteries of Stoke are under threat. The latest victims of the credit crunch? A failure to innovate in terms of technology and brand development? Both?

Taking joy at the misery of others demonstrates a poor character, but I couldn't help but have a frisson of excitement at the thought of taking a trip up to Staffordshire to tour the increasingly desperate factory stores.

If the online store is any indication, fine China can be had at low, low prices. For example, this Christmas themed deviled egg tray can be had for less than a third of its original recommended retail price!!

What a bargain! And if I regularly made deviled eggs during the Christmas season, I would snap this up. And just think of the fabulous deals that might be available in Stoke itself.

The Vol-in-Law was not as excited by the prospect. He said that we didn't have room to store more crockery and if we did use it, Buddy would only smash it.

That's not really the point.

Happy Fifth

2008-11-05T21:49:00.003Z

In the wake of the American elections, the Fifth of November, an important English holiday celebrating the complete failure* of domestic terrorists to actually explode their bombs and cause mayhem has almost been completely overshadowed.

It's a celebration with bonfires and fireworks. Though tonight it's been wet and drizzly, which also sort of puts a damper on things.

_____
* plus ca change, eh? Let's hope all the terrorists are ineffectual.

Bitch, bitch, bitch.

2008-11-05T09:29:00.004Z

I think it's good Obama won. Better than the alternative. But I don't feel bittersweet about the election results, I just feel bitter. To me this election says less "Anyone can grow up to be President," than "Forget-about-it, little girl. Not in your lifetime."

I don't think Obama is the uniter that folks are hoping he'll be. I say this as a disenchanted Hillary Clinton supporter. I never felt that he reached out to me or acknowledged my concerns. I never once saw that he understood women's issues. If anything, his expression was derisive and dismissive if sexism was mentioned. He dissed female reporters as "sweetie", he embraced misogynistic music (99 problems, but a bitch ain't one), he was disrespectful to Hillary Clinton and Sarah Palin in a way that he didn't react toward his male opponents Democratic and Republican and his support for "choice" was continually caveated by how women need to consult partners and pastors*, the men in their lives. I simply could not vote for someone who accepted, used, manipulated and promulgated this nasty culture of women-hating.

We saw in this election that racist rhetoric is really unacceptable. Good. But we also saw in this election that sexist rhetoric is not only acceptable but mainstream. From Clinton to Palin, too much was put in terms of gender and too much criticism rested on their sex. I don't like Palin's political views. But as I saw her represent the often schizophrenic Republican views of the role of government, these contradictions were laid at the feet of her being a stupid, ditzy woman rather than the inherent hypocrisy of the GOP position (i.e. subsidies and gov spending bad, unless it's on things I like - roads and wars and stuff). Too much was made of Palin's perceived fuck-a-bility and too much was made of Hillary Clinton's perceived lack of same.

I suppose that some could feel optimistic that at least this rampant sexism has been exposed. But I'm not sure that it has. Obama supporters on the left denied it, accused us often of making it up, or of not understanding the bigger picture. Well, to me, the sexism that's been exposed is the bigger picture. I'm not sure if we will see change that we really believe in so long as it's built on the same old prejudice.

_______
* I'm not saying you shouldn't, but I'm definitely not telling any woman that she should. Being pregnant is something that is really done alone.

Lame update

2008-11-04T18:19:00.003Z

Well, the election is almost over - so now I can start blogging politics again. I didn't really want to blog against Obama, but as you know - I had no enthusiasm for him and was disgusted by the sexism in the primary. I hope he wins. I think he's the better choice. But I just couldn't vote for him.

Phil Fulmer is going. I feel a bit blah about that. I guess it was becoming inevitable.

Stop Phil Fulmer

I have a nasty cold. I feel like crap. I put on a Columbo DVD and slept the afternoon away.

Halloween costume tips for the fashion aware

2008-10-30T09:20:00.005Z

There's been an uptick in visits to the site lately on the search term - "how to dress like a terrorist". I wondered what that was all about, but then I remembered it was Halloween. Really people, the 29th is waaaay too late to be planning a great costume, but I'll help if I can.

Here at The Vol Abroad blog, we love to give fashion tips - but sadly the post people are landing on may be disappointing. It describes the time that my husband was stopped and searched under the prevention of terrorism act.

If you're curious, here's what he was wearing:

He took a record of my physical appearance. I'm an IC1 Male (white male), my height and described my clothing which was a blue shirt, dress trousers and black shoes. Which sounded quite smart, so I was glad I had dressed decently.

I'm sure you've all got something like that in your wardrobes. But if you find that a bit stifling for a festive occasion, you can always wear what the 7/7 bombers wore on their scouting trip of the capital. Thanks to CCTV and the BBC, you now know that ball caps, t-shirts, jeans and combat trousers are just the thing. Note well, the New York Yankees insignia. The NY theme comes up again just two weeks later with the unsuccessful 21/7 bombers. (Image from the Daily Mail)

I hope y'all find that helpful. Basically, you can pretty much wear whatever on a day out of mass murder. But I'd definitely go with the ball cap. Four out of seven terrorists agree.

Toothless Buddy.

2008-10-30T06:18:00.003Z

Poor old Buddy is nearly 17 months old and he still only has four and half teeth. But now his gums appear to be swollen in the molar area and it looks like he maybe, just maybe, he might be adding to his dental tally.

Never a good sleeper, he's been having some rough nights recently, which, alas, means we're having some rough nights, too.

But not tonight. At least not for me. Tonight I'm spending my first night away from him as I have to travel on business. I had been dreading be away from him, but after several nights of nearly hourly night wakenings I'm quite looking forward to sleeping in the hotel.

I just hope it's a comfy bed in a quiet corner and there are no early am fire alarms.

rumor mill

2008-10-28T08:11:00.003Z

Has Phil Fulmer coached his last season at Tennessee (or almost)?

Vol blogger Rusty Stanton outlines what he hopes will happen if Fulmer is to leave.

This season has been a disaster, but there have been other disaster seasons recently, too. Something clearly has to change in Vol-land. But at the same time it's kinda sad.

Although there have been three head coaches in my lifetime, I've only been aware of two. I can still remember when I heard that Johnny Majors got the boot and the surreal atmosphere on campus that night. You could tell by the looks on people's faces whether they'd heard the news. And although there had been grumblings against Majors for years, and Fulmer seemed a refreshing change, it was still a bit of a shock. And I guess when Fulmer goes, as it seems he probably will, there will probably be some strange emotions then, too.

A lot on his mind

2008-10-26T06:02:00.000Z

"It's just a special rivalry and a special game to all of us involved in it in different ways. I'll be back up tomorrow. I'm not down. I just got a lot on my mind right now," Fulmer said.

Yeah, I bet he does.

Bronze

2008-10-25T06:28:00.002+01:00

There's a men's clothing store at Tooting Broadway which sells an amazing array of fine clothing. It's called Taki Casuals. Really. I'm not making it up.

Here's the pictorial proof.

In the window recently, I espied a gorgeous suit in bronze lame. Now, you don't often see anything in bronze lame, but most especially not a fairly traditionally cut man's suit.

I wanted that suit. Not being a man, I wanted that suit for my husband.

I suggested that he could wear it to his lectures. The Vol-in-Law, who usually favours your charcoals and your blacks and when's he's feeling adventurous will wear some navy, was a little dubious about the suitability of bronze lame for the edification of young minds in the subject of statute and case law.

I could see his point, had it been say a silver or a gold lame. But this was bronze, which is downright respectable in its muted glimmer.

Eventually, we reached a compromise. If my brother announced his engagement while the suit was still there, I could buy the suit and the Vol-in-Law would wear it to the rehearsal dinner.

Well, the VolBro's relationship turned rocky and the suit is gone from the window. And I'm just sick, sick that the opportunity is lost.

The love of money is the root of all peace

2008-10-24T10:00:00.000+01:00

At the British museum yesterday we saw an exhibit about the changing culture of the Assam region. The knobbly extra bit in the North East of India, tucked above Bangladesh. Apparently, there a number of different tribes who are rapidly becoming exposed to the wider world. SOAS - the famous School of Oriental and African Studies (I think that's what it stands for) have been documenting the changes.

One of these groups was apparently a fearsome bunch and prone to feuding and raiding. Their furry fiber war capes (which also keep off the rain) were displayed in a case. Museum goers were informed that this tribe (perhaps the Atapani?) were no longer quite so warlike.

The explanation read:

With the introduction of a cash economy and the ability to purchase supplies, bartering was no longer necessary and feuding became obsolete.

Now, I'm no SOAS anthropologist, but I'm not too sure about this explanation. Has no one explained the concept of extortion to these poor savages? Have they not figured out that cash is thievable?

The Vol-in-Law, who grew up in Belfast, was especially derisive. He experiemced a culture that was both based on a cash economy and infamous for feuding.

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bad day and I'm a geek

2008-10-22T12:44:00.003+01:00

No sleep last night.

Finally got caffeinated enough to head into work.

My underground line was shut down.

Decided to work at home, on the way back I was nearly hit by a car. Seriously, within inches.
%*&6ing &*^%!! I had the right of way - though in matters of mass X velocity that matters little.

Taking a little lunchtime break to watch Monk - hoping I might catch a little sleuth sleep.

Adrian Monk is all upset because he gave a ten year old boy a rock polishing kit as a birthday gift. Apparently, this was recognised by all as a bad gift. A gift worthy of deep disappointment.

I always wanted a rock polishing kit.