Give Me a P...

Driving into work this morning, I was stuck for really some time behind another driver.

Now, let me get something straight. I have every sympathy for learner drivers. If I'm stuck behind an L Plate - that's fair enough. We all had to learn, we've all been there, we were all slow once. Some people still are. I'm mentioning no names.

But this person wasn't a learner. Quite the contrary, in fact. They were displaying a symbol upon their vehicle that demonstrated that they had, most certainly, passed their test and were a fully proficient and qualified navigator of the road.

The P Plate.

The P plate drives me mad, if you'll pardon the pun. If you don't know what a P plate is (you're not from the UK, you've been living under a rock, you thought it was a dyslexic learner), it's essentially a sign you put on your car which says that you are, not a learner driver, but you have passed and are a new driver.

These are not compulsory, like L plates are for learners, and so there is really only one reason why a new driver would want to put these on their Nissan Micras (they're always Nissan Micras), and that is that they might have passed their test but they're still not entirely convinced that they're very good at it.

You see, the P plate says, "Yes, I'm a driver, but I'm new, and I wanted to warn you about it because, frankly, I could go straight into a lamp-post/pedestrian/articulated lorry at any given point, and I thought you should know". Why else would you want to warn drivers that you are new at it?

The road is a dangerous enough place as it is. And if you have a P plate, I want to ask you something. If you are not confident enough to drive without feeling the need to warn others of your presence, DON'T DRIVE AT ALL!

You don't get P plates in other walks of life. If you're lying in hospital, and your surgeon appears next to you saying "I'm taking out your appendix later, but frankly, I've not been doing this long and you might want to tidy some things up now". A lawyer doesn't stand up in court and begin his case for the prosecution by saying "By the way, I might be wrong about all this evidence and points of law because I'm new!" Even with driving in other situations, it doesn't happen. A new bus driver doesn't say to those boarding his bus "This is my first day, you might want to find something to hold onto".

So don't get on the road and endanger me and my family if you're a rubbish driver!

Get the bus instead. And if the drivers new, hold on tight.

Baa-rking!

When I first saw this story, my mind immediately travelled to a good friend of mine who comes from Wales, but now lives in New Zealand (and I happen to know is a regular reader of this fine blog). I don't know why. He has never, to my knowledge (and although he is Welsh) co-habited with even one sheep. But isn't it funny how the mind works?

The web is a great source of fairly pointless, but endlessly entertaining news stories, quite a few of them about people living with an awful lot of animals, knee-deep in faeces. What I particularly like about this one is the fact that it involves sheep. We've all seen similar stories where people live with thirty cats, or lots and lots of dogs. But sheep? Well, they're...big. Where does he live? Whipsnade?

My favourite line of the story has to be "The sheep, which Mr Watts occasionally walked around the neighbourhood on a leash...". Nice picture. Imagine the pooper-scooper.

But at least he kept a sense of propriety about it. As the Sergeant quoted in the article says, "He lived upstairs, and the sheep were living downstairs". Oh, they were on seperate floors? I didn't realise! That's fine then!

I love Americans. And they love sheep.

Meetings!

Meetings.

Meetings. Meetings. Meetings.

Meetings. Meetings. Meetings. Meetings. Meetings.

I think you get the picture.

Oh - I just typed the word "meetings" so many times, it's beginning to look a bit odd. Ever had that?

Anyway, meetings.

I spend quite a lot of my time in them, for various reasons, and during the course of most of them (and I'm talking about work here) I spend the entire duration wondering when I'll actually be able to do some work.

Now, I realise that's the wrong attitude. Work meetings are work, and I know that, but I can't help wishing that I was back at my desk getting through the lengthening to-do list in my diary. The irony being, of course, that most of these meetings end up with me needing to add extra things to my to-do list. But now, I've got less time to do them, because I spent all the time in the meeting.

Sometimes, I chair them. And I still end up with more to do. Surely the fun in chairing a meeting lies with being able to delegate everything. Maybe I'm just not very good at them. Man.

A further layer of irony is added when you consider that the only meetings I enjoy are those where you spend most of the time messing around (these are rare) and therefore get very little meeting-based work done. These are largely more "creative", "brainstorming"-type meetings. I'm not sure you're supposed to say "brainstorm" anymore - something to do with political correctness, and offending people who...erm, actually I don't know. People who've got a meterological phenomenon occuring in their head? I can't think of any of those.

I'd stay and chat for longer but I've got to go to a....you get the picture.

Midnight Caller

Sometimes, if you're like me, you get ideas for things in the strangest places. Occasionally, something happens, and you think - I really must blog about that. But then, something else important distracts you (your baby is sick, the dinner's burning, Gladiators is on FTN) and you completely forget about it.

On some rare occasions, such ideas occur in the middle of the night. Normally, such times are a result of waking from a particularly unusual dream ("I know! I'll blog on Kermit the Frog riding a llama through my kitchen!"), but even if I do remember these in the morning, I soon realise that writing on such things would be a ridiculous idea, was really the result of being half asleep in the middle of the night, and would almost certainly lead to my being removed from my house under the mental health act.

But the other night, something did happen that I genuinely wanted to mention, and then genuinely forgot. We were having a difficult night with Lucy - she wasn't really sleeping. It was about 3 in the morning. The phone rang.

Now, when that happens it's always horrible. Who would ring now? Only someone with bad news. Good news can wait until the morning.

I have the dubious honour of having the phone on my side of the bed, and so I reluctantly answered it with a bleary "hello". I was careful to make the greeting as bleary-sounding as humanly possible, so whoever was disturbing me knew that they had awoken me. Even though that hadn't, really. Because we were struggling with Lucy.

"Hello", said the female voice on the other end, "Is that Tom?"

"What? Who's Tom?" I asked, blearyness deliberately increasing.

"Oh. Is Tom not there?"

"No. What?" (I added the "what" to really create the illusion of being half-asleep. I think it worked quite well).

"Dear, I'm sorry. I'm terribly sorry"

I had intended at this point to throw in another "what" for good measure, but she hung up, tail between her legs.

So, it was a wrong number. No bad news. Just a confused woman. I did go to sleep in the end, and promptly forget all about "Is that Tom" incident, and so I'm telling you now - three days later.

Have a good weekend. And if your name's Tom, I've got a call for you...

Crazy Weather

I'm sorely tempted to move abroad.

Last week was glorious. The sun was shining, the temperature was warm. Heck, I even came to work most days without my jacket. Amazing. I was struggling to find somewhere to secrete my iPod on the train.

This morning, it was snowing. Snowing, of all things. Quite a blizzard too. I could have been carrying one hundred iPods. I wasn't though, obviously. That would be stupid. I've only got two ears.

I don't mind cold weather. I don't mind warm weather. I wouldn't want it warm all the time, but nor would I want it cold all the time.

You see, that's the good thing about seasons. Sometimes it warm, sometimes it's cold, but generally speaking, you know where you are.

But then, when it's glorious one week and snowing the next, you have to ask yourself, when's the next flight to the caribbean leaving? I suppose we only have ourselves to blame. It's probably global warming caused by all this modern technology of ours, messing with the seasons. Mind you, it didn't seem very warming to me.

Anyway, regardless of weather, this evening I'm tucking myself up at home. Gillian's out, and assuming Lucy goes to bed ok (ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!! Sorry.), I will be relaxing in front of the new series of House which kicks off tonight. Lovely.

Either that or she'll scream and I won't get to see any of it. In which case, I might have to rely on a kindly, but copyright-busting, you-tuber.

Isn't technology a wonder? Apart from making it snow at funny times, obviously.

Phones & Credit Cards

There's very little as exciting as waiting for a new mobile phone to arrive.

It arrived at about 10.15 this morning, but it may as well have been the evening, such was the length of my anticipation. Then, of course, when it does arrive you have the agony of waiting while it charges before you can enjoy it in all it's glory. Eventually, the moment comes when you get to switch it on for the first time. Can I tell you that, so far, I'm not disappointed.

The most exciting thing about my new phone is really a very simple, low-end thing. The fact that it has (wait for it) - an FM radio! Wow! I've never had an FM radio on a mobile phone before. Even my iPod doesn't have an FM Radio! Much fun was had setting the presets, and no doubt much fun will continue to be had on my walks to the station from now on. Listening to my FM radio, of course. FM radio! Just said it that last time for the hell of it, really.

So that was one thing that brightened my day today. The other was a hilarious story which you can see here about an American guy who goes to extreme lengths to see if anyone will check his signature when he pays by credit card. Clearly Chip & Pin hasn't reached across the atlantic yet (or hadn't when it was written), and frankly, I'm pleased about that, otherwise his adventures wouldn't be there for us to read about. Oh, and make sure you click on the link to read the second one when you get to the end. It's equally great.

That's about it today.

FM Radio!

Sorry. I'll stop now.

Call Centres: Pros & Cons

Today, I had intended to have a bit of a winge on the subject of call centres, but then - just half an hour ago - I took a call that almost cancelled out in my mind the call centre horrors of the past weekend.

Allow me to explain: I have, for about two months now, been on the case of a certain, well-known, British mother and baby store. Their name would suggest they care about mothers. Their demeanour says otherwise.

For Christmas, we bought Lucy a little car that she sits in and either pushes herself, or gets pushed along in. It cost £50 and had a horn in it that Lucy loved to press. After about a fortnight, the horn ceased to work. We changed the batteries in it. Nowt. It was broken after two weeks, and hadn't been used excessively. Clearly, a faulty product.

The shop that "cares about mothers" has spent the last two months sending us here and there, promising to call us back, and then not (surely the international call centre motto - "we'll call you back. Honest"), and generally messing us around. Eventually, yesterday, I got them to agree to send a whole new vehicle for my daughter's enjoyment (after they offered to send me some vouchers that wouldn't have been enough to pay for the car park). Thank you to them for that, but it doesn't quite cancel out the last couple of months in my head.

Meanwhile, my wife has been on to a famous catalogue store (they like chaps that don't cost anything. That one's a bit cryptic, I'm afraid) who, also for several months, have singularly failed to pick up a large, chipped-upon-delivery, flat-pack toybox, whilst simultaneouly invoicing us for it. She's called them six times over the last few weeks, and they keep insisting they're coming. But they haven't. If they don't soon, I'm going to have a bonfire in the garden.

So, my rant was well-formed in my head, until a chap from a call-centre cold-called me. Normally, that's a recipe for a tirade of abuse on my part for wasting my time, but this lovely man offered me a free-upgrade on my mobile phone. Bearing in mind my mobile looks like it's been in a bonfire with a chipped flat-pack toybox, and then stamped on, I was very pleased to make arrangements for a new phone to arrive in my workplace tomorrow morning.

So, Boo for call centres. And Hurrah for call centres.

Or something.

The Verdict's In!

I'm hoping to be able to draw a line under the whole series of Reggae Reggae Sauce episodes today, by announcing that last night, I did indeed try the mighty condiment.

I'm very pleased to announce that it proved to be an extremely favourable accompaniment to my chips - the tang of brown sauce, with the excitement of barbeque sauce and the versatility of ketchup. Lovely.

I am now faced with another problem. I've got a great big bottle of it to get through before Wednesday ("once opened, refrigerate and use within five days"), so I'd better have a Reggae Reggae Weekend. Over to the Reggae Reggae blog for me, then

So, there you are. That closes the blogging chapter on condiments. Perhaps next week something equally fascinating will find it's way onto these pages. Toilet roll, perhaps, or ice cube trays.

Good weekend, one and all.

Hey - You ARE There...

An email warmed the very cockles of my heart this morning. (An odd phrase that. Does my heart have cockles? I do hope not.)

After my, well - not to put to fine a point on it, rant on the subjects of swedish furniture shopping and an complete lack of information in the area of recipes for my new bottle of Reggae Reggae sauce, I received a comment on this very blog directing me here - a veritable marketplace of Reggae Reggae Recipes. Thank you muchly, Mr. (or, indeed Ms) Anonymous. Nice name, by the way.

I might try one or two at some point.

Or I might just use it instead of ketchup. Because I'm lazy.

What A Load of Meatballs!

Have you ever been told that something was about to happen to you that has lead to you dreading the event in question for sometime?

That event for me happened yesterday. Furniture shopping.

I normally don't really mind furniture shopping, but yesterday we went to the worst furniture shop the world has to offer. I won't tell you which one it is, but I will tell you that it's Swedish and rhymes with pikea. Cryptic, I know.

Now, I do like the products. Solid. Dependable. Relatively easy to put up, even. But the experience of shopping there is one designed to make you want to take your own life in the car park. Mind you, it's so busy, even if you did, people would probably just think you were reserving a space.

I was pleased to see that the recent refurbishment in said store now means that you can actually take your trolley to your car, instead of having to leave the trolley (yes, leave it!) at the shop, go and get the car, and drive to the loading bay, realise you've left the receipt with the trolley which grants you access to the loading bay, go and repark the car somewhere near the Shetland Islands, go back to the store, collect the receipt and start again. So thank goodness that doesn't happen anymore. And they are good at catering for the kids. Lucy, my one year old, made some little friends over lunch.

My real problem with the place is that, you wander round the showroom, noting the furniture you want, then to get to the warehouse bit where you collect the goods, you have to go through the "marketplace" full of stuff that you don't need but almost always buy. I got a cheese grater. I don't need a cheese grater - I've already got one. And the one I've already got IS FROM THE SAME SHOP!!!

Then you get to the warehouse and realise that the item of furniture you wanted is out of stock. As happened to us yesterday. So you then hike the seven miles back to your car. With a cheese grater.

Mind you, the meatballs are nice.

Speaking of food, after making an apology last week on this very blog regarding this, I was wondering around the supermarket yesterday (before all the furniture shennanagins) and saw some Reggae Reggae Sauce on the shelf. Before I knew it, it was in my trolley. I suddenly had an overwhelming compulsion to have some in my house.

Now I've got it, I must confess to not being at all sure what to do with it. Perhaps an accompanying recipe book is in order. Reggae Reggae Recipes, anyone?

I wonder what it would be like with meatballs.

Let's Get Digital! Digital!

Followers of my life and work (yes, both of you) will be aware that you will find me on Premier Christian Radio.

Well, I have some news!

From Easter, you will be able to get Premier in lovely digital sound, via DAB, in London.

I have a DAB radio, and am exceeding pleased with it. So if you're in London, and haven't got one, then get one. Now. Go on.

Though I should point out that some areas may have trouble receiving because that's DAB for you. We'll have a postcode checker on the website in the next few weeks.

Lovely.

Have a good weekend.

A Confession

Alright, I admit it. I was wrong.

A while ago, I mentioned on this fine blog, my love for top television show, Dragon's Den. I happened to say that, while I found it to be an extremely entertaining piece of TV, I was unconvinced of it's credentials in the area of launching new products into the market.

Well, how wrong I was.

Forwarded onto me just moments ago was this link referring to the excellent Levi Roots (who, in one of the funniest events in the show's history, we discovered was really called Keith). It appears his product is taking to the shelves. I may just buy some.

So there we go. A confession. Although, I still maintain that one product on the shelves in the whole history of the programme is a pretty poor show. I'm still waiting for an umbrella vending machine at my local tube station.

Perks Of The Job

One of the things you find when you work in radio is that you get sent free stuff. I used to work in places where the free stuff was incredibly exciting and desirable. That's not really so much the case anymore. But now and then, something interesting and useful lands on my desk that I didn't part with any cash to receive.

Most of the time, though, the freebies are utterly and totally pointless. Just the other day, I noticed a little grey package in my pigeon hole. After checking it wasn't ticking, smelling of ladies perfume, or leaking a fine white powder, I proceeded to open it.

Inside was something that momentarily made me slightly excited. It looked like a little, grey radio. It was a package sent to me by a radio organisation that we do business with and we're about to use a new download of theirs, and this little grey radio with their logo on was sent to me to promote this new product.

Now, I own radios. I own several. Some of them (alright, one of them) are digital. But there's still something passably diverting about receiving a little one, for free.

So, imagine my consternation and disappointment when, upon ripping open the plastic wrapping that surrounded it, I discovered that it was, in fact, fake.

A fake radio. Made of sponge.

I imagine that it's meant to be some sort of stress relieving thing to squeeze, but is fundamentally pointless. In retrospect, it was always going to be so, as a seconds thought on my part would have concluded that it would be ridiculously expensive for this company to send out real radios to all their clients. But still, it was disappointing.

Ironically, I had to defuse my slight anger, by squeezing the radio in response to it only being a squeezable radio.

Ho-hum.

Return of the Astra

Yes, it's back. And my wallet is approximately six hundred pounds lighter. Well, my wife's is. She paid for it.

The car is back from it's two day excursion, and I'm sure that so much of it is new, it's practically a different car. I could have got one for the amount that we paid.

I mean, who really needs brakes anyway? Can't I just chuck an anchor out of the window when I want to stop?

I should stop moaning really. At least I have a car and it's working.

And that's it for a year! Hurrah!

Can You Lend Me A Tenner?

At the risk of depressing everyone, today is worse than yesterday.

Turns out it's gonna cost me more than I thought, for reasons I neither know nor understand.

That's it today.

Donations welcome.