Price Wars

I love using the self-service checkouts at supermarkets and other stores, but I just hate that woman's voice (almost as much as I hate the way anyone talks when doing the voiceover for reality TV shows – not that I watch them, of course). "Please scan your clubcard"; "Select payment type, or enter cash" etc. It really gets on my nerves when she repeatedly urges me to "Please remove your card from the card reader" when I've already done so and I just want to grab my receipt and get the hell out of there. That woman is the spawn of the devil, so she is.

However, today I witnessed her behaving with such insensitivity that I almost had to laugh. A young woman was in front of me in Tesco this evening and, having carefully scanned her various bottles of wine, shampoo, instant rice pack and other detritus of student living, she dutifully obeyed the woman's instructions to 'select payment type' and inserted her card. Imagine her horror and shame when the woman's voice boomed out for all to hear: "Please select another payment type. Card Invalid. Please select another payment type. Card Invalid."

Wouldn't it be enough to display this information discreetly on the screen of the card reader? Is it absolutely necessary to shout out this information so that the assembled (now hushed) crowd can't fail to hear it? Do we really have to witness this poor girl's shame and embarrassment, and watch as her body visibly shrinks in some desperate bid to disappear into a hole in the ground? I think not. It's a disgraceful invasion of a person's dignity.

So, I'm going to invent a new machine that starts talking back. It will respond to the bleep of the scanner and yell out some truths of its own. "Four pounds fifty for some blatantly over-priced washing powder"; "One pound thirty-seven for green beans that an African farmer was paid two pence to produce"; "Three ninety-nine for a bottle of wine which it is claimed has been reduced from an inflated price of eight ninety-nine, but which actually should retail at two pounds fifty." That sort of thing.

This could be fun. Do you think I will get this machine patented?

Weekend Fun

That was a nice weekend. I managed to drink quite a bit, yet not get drunk! That's always a good thing (unless, of course, you're the sort of person who only drinks to get drunk, then it would have been a failure). I was visited by an old, old friend who I was at university with many, many years ago. She's probably the only person whom I've seen continuously over the years for the longest time, if that makes sense. There are people I've known for longer, but they are people with whom I lost touch over the years and then became re-acquainted with after a long break. Oh, I'm forgetting about Gunnar who is my Norwegian friend and who I've known for even longer – since I was seventeen – and who I see regularly (like every couple of years). But anyway, it was really nice to catch up with Theresa again and to show her the fleshpots of Nottingham.

Not that I had enough time to show her very much – she wasn't here for long and all we had time for was a couple of meals, and a fabulous night out in the Chameleon to watch my friend Adam play a gig with his band Captain Dangerous (click on the name for more info). The Chameleon is rather amusingly dubbed as an 'Arts Café' but is really just a badly-decorated, somewhat sleazy bar that regularly runs out of beer. However, it's a good place to catch some really interesting live acts and Captain Dangerous, who have gigged everywhere in Nottingham (and elsewhere, before the crowned heads of Europe), are certainly that. Adam writes all their material (they don't do covers at all) and the music is such an explosive mix of sound that I - who knows nothing about music, except that I know what I like - can't describe it. One reviewer said this: "I can fully understand the fuss surrounding this band. Captain Dangerous make catchy, melodic, indie pop, with more than a hint of folk running through its veins." It's much more than that, believe me.

Anyway, I had a little soirée on Saturday before we went out to the gig. Adam called round for a few drinks with his brand new girlfriend, as well as several other people. It was all very civilized and we drank champagne and ate roasted vegetables before heading off to the Chameleon. The problem was that we waited for ages and ages for Captain Dangerous to come on (they were headlining, so we had to get all the other crap out of the way first) and so inevitably, we whiled away the time by drinking alcohol. Before the beer ran out, that is. It was a bloody good night though.

I was hoping to show Theresa the delights of Nottingham Castle the following day - you can climb up to the top and view the whole city from above. However, we were way-laid by a rather strange ethnic market which had pitched up in the central piazza, where we spent far too much money on some (probably useless) ethnic items, and so we never made it to the castle. Still, we did have time to grab a vegetarian roast Sunday lunch at the Alley Café (click again if you want to know more) which was absolutely scrumptious. Now, that Alley Caff really is what you'd call an arts café - there's nearly always some really cool live music and if not, there's usually something pretty groovy coming through the speakers. I can't think of a time when I've entered the place and not found someone I know in there, too. A special place.

Anyway, I'm now watching television - a rare treat for me. It's David Attenborough's latest offering - strangely, all about death. Horrible, gruesome death too. The nicest thing we've seen so far is the sight of those adorable Capuchin monkeys cracking their nuts. Oh, life is so hard isn't it?

Meeting Sean Connery (Not)

Now here's a strange thing. I've been trying to sort out my mother's paperwork – of which there is at least two bin-liners' worth – and I've come across many strange things amongst all the bank statements, letters, insurance policies, photographs, invoices etc. One of the most surprising revelations was a letter written by my mother to my father when she was away in hospital at a time when I was only two years old. In this letter – full of general chit-chat about life in hospital and enquiries of my father about what was happening at home - she refers to me twice, and both times as "Ricky". This is extraordinary, because I can't recall her ever addressing me by, or referring to me as, any name other than "Richard".

This led me to wonder why my parents should have dropped this earlier (somewhat jaunty) sobriquet, in favour of the rather sober and proper name by which I have since become identified. It is almost like meeting another 'me'. Who would this 'Ricky' have become if the name had stuck, I wonder? And does the name change indicate a shift in affection on their part, or perhaps a swing in opinion of who their little boy was, or was to become? I'm quite puzzled by this, I have to tell you. It's quite disturbing.

Either way, it's a far cry from what my Great-Aunt Dolores used to call me. I can't recall her ever addressing me as anything other than 'boy', 'wimp', 'cur', 'idiot', or any other abusive term that might have sprung to her mind in response to whatever situation we had found ourselves in. I recall one particular incident when she actually threw her treasured ivory cigarette-holder at my head and yelled 'Congenital cretin!' at me (a foul slur on my parents, by the way, whom for some reason she despised).

This outburst had its origins in a near encounter with Sean Connery. It was the fact that it had been only a 'near' encounter that had incurred her ire. She'd been trying to blag an entrance for us both to the after-party for the premiere of the film 'Never Say Never Again' at Grauman's Chinese Theatre in Los Angeles. Dolores had somehow manage to persuade Rocky, one of the security men, that she was one of the producers of the movie whose limousine had been hijacked by Russian mafia in a protest against the anti-Russian image so often perpetrated by the Bond films. She could be a consummate liar when she had a mind to, could my aunt, but I think what had made Rocky so credulous was the way she had coquettishly squeezed his nipples through the blue serge of his uniform with one hand, whilst stroking his cheek (face, not arse) with the other.

He was about to lift the red-tassled rope to allow us to pass when I inexplicably blurted out something about how the real producers of the film would be very surprised to find us gate-crashing their party, and wouldn't it be a jolly good wheeze. Rocky's arm stopped in mid-air, still holding the rope, and the smile disappeared from his face.

It was as we both lay sprawled in the gutter on the corner of Hollywood & Vine – my aunt's knickers in full view of the assembled paparazzi – that she yelled those insulting words at me, and when my eyeball took the full force of her burning cigarette.

'I will never, ever, try to launch you into polite society again, you ungrateful little bastard! Never!' she spat, whilst trying to pull her dress down over her knees. Perhaps it was unpropitious of me to have responded with: 'But my dear great aunt – you should never say never again', because it was probably that which caused her to pick up the still-burning cigarette and stub it out on my forearm (which had become exposed because Rocky had somehow managed to rip the sleeve from the jacket of my hired dinner suit). Ouch! I still have the scar on my arm to prove it.

Methinks, therefore me am!

I've been having a good old re-think about my life recently. I'm currently drowning in mountains of paperwork, for all sorts of reasons, and yet I never seem to have the energy or enthusiasm to tackle any of it. I see everyone around me being so much more organized and so much more productive than I am, that it all adds further to my frustration.

This isn't just about laziness, or even about incompetence. It's about my entire approach to my life. I've never addressed the really important matters; the things in life that would transform me into the real person I should be. I have failed myself, and everyone else I've ever come into contact with. Oddly, I've never actually examined exactly what it is I really want. There are four superfluous words in that sentence, by the way - I'll write it again: I've never examined what it is I want.

I don't believe what you read in horoscopes, but I was sitting reading my father's newspaper yesterday and a startling warning jumped out at me (as yes admittedly, it must have done for all Leos). Stop messing about with things you think you should do, and focus on the things you want to do. It made me realize that I've been making mistakes all throughout my wretched life. And that's why I'm having this re-think.

Some people might argue that I've had many achievements in my life, and to some extent I'd have to agree. I shouldn't be dismissive about everything I've done – that would be churlish and ungrateful. But when I stay still for a moment, and reflect upon my status quo, it comes to mind that I ought to be at a point in my life when I am - if not completely, then at least partially - satisfied. And yet I am not. Eckhart Tolle tells us that when we are on a journey it is certainly useful to know where we are going, but the only thing that is ultimately real about our journey is the step we are taking at this moment. Well if that's true, then I feel that I should at least be satisfied with this moment. And as I have said, I am not.

So, a re-think is called for. I can't tell you what will emerge from this, but if I don't report to you soon that some change has been brought about, then please shoot me. I'm not talking about a change in circumstances, although inevitably these should come about too – no, I'm talking about a change in approach. You won't notice this (presumably), because only I will know it is happening. What you might notice, however, is the smile on my face. And even though someone who is thinking hard is often portrayed as frowning, a smile is what you should see!

Slimming World

I was out on my bike yesterday (and yes, guess what? Pumping the pedals really does increase the counter on my pedometer – yay!), and I chanced upon a strange plaza by the side of the Beeston-Nottingham canal. Well actually, there's very little about the plaza that's strange – but my discovery of it was surprising because I didn't know it was there. I've been looking for somewhere to go roller-blading, somewhere that isn't too crowded or too public (I hate it when there's a whole load of people to witness me falling over). This is just the place I need, so next weekend I'm going to get my skates on and get a bit of exercise. What's more, I'll be interested to see whether the old pedometer thingy responds to the rollerblading, because this might be the way I achieve the magic 10,000.

Most people my age wouldn't consider donning a pair of blades and hurtling around the pavements, looking ridiculous. But looking ridiculous has become somewhat of a habit with me, so I really don't care. So people might laugh at me – so what? Do these people care about my health? My weight? The fact that I need to strengthen my thighs in readiness for the rigours of this season's skiing? No, they don't care a fig about any of that – so they can laugh away as far as I'm concerned.

In fact, I think I might try to make people feel uncomfortable, deliberately. It could be fun to wear some stupid outfit at the same time, so that people can't really decide whether I'm just an eccentric, or actually mad. Perhaps they'll feel embarrassed at seeing a pathetic old man making a fool of himself; perhaps their fear of the seriously weird will cause them to turn nasty and start throwing abuse at me, or worse – sharp metal objects. This could be fun.

As long as I don't fall over. Hmm, perhaps I'd better get some practice in first – I have a long, flat hallway in my apartment so maybe I should roll up and down in that, behind closed doors.

I'm very excited about this – it's a shame that it's only Monday. Roll on the weekend, that's what I say!

March On!

I bought a pedometer recently. It seemed like a good idea to measure whether I was walking enough to burn off the calories I'm forever consuming. I used to do masses of exercise at one time, and never needed to worry about how many calories I was stuffing into my body – but more recently, I've become somewhat indolent. I was reading somewhere that to maintain a decent weight, one has to take at least 10,000 steps each day. A magazine devoted to country walking recommends doing 12,000 steps if one wants to lose weight. How this is calculated, I don't know – I mean, doesn't it depend on the number of calories one intakes per day? Some people eat more than others – I'm sure you've noticed that.

So, innocently thinking that my pedometer would be for research purposes only, I joyfully clipped it to my belt. But now, I have become its unwitting slave. Everything I do is in mind of adding to that mischievous little counter. I find myself almost deliberately forgetting things from the bedroom so that I have to walk back in there to collect it. I take the stairs whenever I can (the lift in my apartment building is often breaking down anyway); I rush to the shops when I don't even need to buy anything. I invent reasons to walk from one end of the office to another; I go for a walk around the lake in my lunch hour. I pace my apartment whenever I'm on the phone; I pound up and down on my little stepper when I get home from work. I'm a walking god!

So, you can imagine my disappointment when I check my pedometer at the end of the day and discover that at best, I've done about 8,500 steps – sometimes much worse; as low as 5,000 one day. No wonder I'm getting fatter by the minute. It really is quite a blow. I don't know for sure quite how the damned thing works, but I'm assuming that it must require some kind of rhythmic jolt before it flips the counter over to the next number. I've tested this by swinging it backwards and forwards, but nothing seems to happen. Only a firm stride will tease it into inceasing that magic number. This means that riding my recently re-discovered bike won't help increase my daily count either. Oh dear, what's to be done?

I have this elusive goal of 10,000 steps to reach and I'm running out of ideas of how to do it. What should be a simple task is proving to be more difficult than I thought. I must not lose the fight. Sitting here writing this is no good either – the counter remains as still as the chair I rest my fat arse upon. I must up and away! How many steps to my bed, I wonder? Will I be able to waddle there at all?

True Grit

The last couple of weeks have been rather hard, I have to say. My mother's death was so sudden, and such a shock, that I probably haven't really come to terms with it yet. Any of you who has lost someone special will know exactly how I feel. There's a strange dichotomy of emotions in the few days immediately following such an event. As well as dealing with the disbelief and the grief, there are also the many practical matters that need to be handled, and these present us with an odd, but perhaps welcome, distraction.

Amongst the many tasks that I had agreed to take on was to write a eulogy for my mother's funeral. The writing bit wasn't so hard – there was plenty that I wanted to say about my mother and of course, with a subject so close to my heart, it was easy to inject it with a depth of feeling not often so readily available to a writer. In the end, it seemed to write itself.

What seemed to be a more difficult obstacle was the prospect of reading the eulogy to the assembled congregation on the afternoon of the funeral itself. I rehearsed it several times in front of my daughter Imogen, and each time I failed to get through it without stumbling on the words, and breaking down in tears. Perhaps I had put too many personal memories into it; perhaps I was exposing myself too much? I became seriously concerned that when the time came, faced with my mother's coffin, and the no doubt tearful faces of my immediate family, I simply wouldn't have the composure to get the words out.

I knew that I couldn't let my dear old father down, nor indeed the remainder of my family, so I made a decision to treat the reading as a performance. I'm well-used to reading in public, so that part didn't worry me, but I needed to remove myself from the emotion and to imagine that I was reading someone else's words – for the sake of my mother. As the first hymn came to a close – and I knew that I was on next – my heart was sinking and I was astonished with myself for ever agreeing to do this. So, when I took the podium to begin the eulogy I had no idea what was going to happen next.

I took a very, very deep breath and lifted my head to face the congregation and as I did, an immense feeling of calm and strength came over me. I looked at my notes – which suddenly appeared to contain nothing but sentimental drivel – and began.

I'm happy to say that it became the performance of my life – everything came together and I delivered a lasting, loving, and much-appreciated tribute to my dear old mummy. Yes, there were a few faltering moments when I almost lost my nerve and when the tears almost threatened to overwhelm me, but I pressed on. I know now that everyone in the congregation was rooting for me and this must have given me the strength to deliver those words with the love and care that I did. I didn't let her down, and I hope that she would have been proud of me. I am (though I say it myself).

Even my Great Aunt Dolores might, for once, have curbed her usual disappointment in me. I'd like to think so.

Barbara Joyce Pilgrim (nee Thornhill) 1925-2009

You will recall that I put things on hold for a while because my poor old mother was in hospital. Well, in the end, she died. I had thought that this would just be another sojourn in hospital for her – one of many – but it proved to be more serious than that, and eventually she slipped away from us.

One of my lasting memories of my mother goes back – and this is perfectly true - to my very first day at school. I can still feel the sense of anxiety I had as school finished for the day, and I wasn't sure if anyone would be there to collect me. Imagine then, the overwhelming sense of relief and joy that I felt upon seeing her beaming face, with its famous toothy grin, waiting for me at the school gates. I knew at that very moment that I needn't have been worried – that she would never let me down; that she would always be there for me, no matter what happened.

But now she has left me, and I don't have a mummy anymore. The weekend when she became ill, I was due to go to London for a break. When I telephoned earlier in the week to apologize that I wouldn't be able to make my usual Saturday visit, she replied (as she always did in such circumstances): "Don't worry, Richard. We shall still be here next week." Well, I never made it to London, nor she to the next week, but that her final illness was so mercifully short is now some comfort to those of us she left behind. The staff of the Critical Care Unit at the City Hospital were all excellent, but in particular I'd like to pay a special tribute to nurses Vita and Yvette who both showed such compassion and such caring towards my mother, and to us all, and yet who both remained immaculately professional throughout. The Trust, the hospital, and the ward can all be proud of themselves and of these two exceptional young women.

In the end, the miracle that they and we had hoped for couldn't be delivered, but my mother's last days and hours were spent receiving such care and attention that when she died, she died with dignity and in comfort and peace.

However, the fact that we were able to hold on to her for longer than we'd been led to hope for, was a special joy to us all. Each extra year, each extra week, each extra day that she was to remain amongst us, was a delightful bonus. It is also a lasting pleasure that she was able to watch her seven grandchildren grow up, and to see each of them go out and make their own way in the world too. These bright and gifted young people were, I know, her very special treasures in life.

So, you are forever in our thoughts Mummy – and I hope that you will rest in peace.

In Abstentia

This blog - too often neglected recently anyway - is temporarily on hold while my poor old mummy battles and fights for her life in intensive care at Nottingham's City Hopsital. She's a tough old stick, so we'll see what happens. In the meantime, I have nothing but praise for all the dedicated and caring staff of the NHS. Despite this Government's best efforts, they all do a superb job.

Back soon.

Train Drivers Read Books

I was on a train yesterday and sitting opposite me was a youngish couple with a small boy. She clearly had a limited experience of train riding because, after we had left Nottingham station and were picking up speed, she asked her partner why the train was rocking so much (it seemed like normal rail motion to me). He replied that there was nothing unusual about it, and that it was just what trains did. "You don't think it's the driver wiggling the steering wheel then?" she asked. Laughing, he replied that trains don't have steering wheels. "What?" she seemed alarmed at this. "How does he keep going in a straight line then?"

I was closely watching her face (behind sunglasses) to see if she were perhaps taking the piss, but no – she seemed genuinely serious in her enquiry. "Well," he replied, "it's the tracks innit? The tracks. That's what keeps him in a straight line. Course it is." She thought about this for a moment and then asked if this meant that the driver didn't need to steer at all. He confirmed that they don't. "In fact," he said with full authority, "most of them read books while they're driving. The signals go green and they know they don't have to stop, so they read books. Train drivers read books."

Satisfied and reassured by this information, the young woman turned her attention towards remonstrating with her young son who was busily chewing on a book of matches. "No!" she chided. "Danger! Burn!" She continued, however, to look thoughtful – no doubt marvelling at the recent discovery that 'train drivers read books'; an occupation that she presumably considered even more of an achievement than keeping the train in a straight line.

Unfortunately, I had to alight the train at the next stop and so was denied the opportunity of witnessing any more of this young woman's elucidation. I'm still wondering what her reaction would have been to the tunnel at Redhill which was coming up next, after I left the train. I could imagine her perhaps asking: "How does the driver know when he has to go underground, then?"

I'm surprised that she has ever managed to work out that matches are dangerous when handled by young children. I was longing to tell her that on train journeys, a better distraction for children than a book of matches, is a book.