When is a cake not a cake?

For many this may seem a somewhat irrelevant question. However, when you have declared at the start of the year that you would give up the 3 C's - Cake, Crisps and Chocoalte, the distinction can be extremely important.

As is often the wont, in UK offices, when a team-member has a birthday, they often buy cakes to celebrate.

This may appear, to the uninitiated, somewhat back to front, but hey who said that life makes sense?

Today, was young Debbie's birthday - well I say young, I think that she may now be 44, which according to the Evening Standard is the worst possible age to be - and she brought in some "cakes".


Oat, cranberry and yogurt clusters - which clearly sounded healthy?




Rocky roads - which I've been on a few of in my life, and...




...Jaffa cakes




It was at this point that the conversation - seemingly in an attempt to deprive me of any enjoyment, or food - turned to the difference between biscuits and cakes. This was partly due to my insistence that a Jaffa "cake" was not actually a cake at all, but a biscuit.

Such was the opposition to this view that I was forced to undertake some detailed research and did in fact establish (this is true!) that: -

Under UK law, no VAT is charged on biscuits and cakes — they are "zero rated".

Chocolate covered biscuits, however, are classed as luxury items and are subject to VAT at 17.5%.

McVitie's classed its Jaffa Cakes as cakes, but in 1991, this was challenged by Her Majesty's Customs and Excise in court. This may have been because Jaffa Cakes are about the same size and shape as some types of biscuit.

The question which had to be answered was what criteria should be used to class something as a cake or biscuit. McVitie's defended the classification of Jaffa Cakes as a cake by producing a giant Jaffa Cake to illustrate that their Jaffa Cakes were simply minicakes.

They also argued that the distinction between cakes and biscuits is simply that biscuits go soft when stale, whereas cakes go hard. It was demonstrated that Jaffa Cakes become hard when stale and McVitie's won the case.

The issue was revisited in an article entitled 'Are Jaffa Cakes really, biscuits?' published in the Journal of Unlikely Science (Volume 1, issue 7,2005).

The article attempted to classify biscuits via a scientific analysis of various features (size, shape, filling etc.) and determined that the Jaffa Cake should be regarded as a biscuit, or 'pseudobiscuit'.

Now I think that it is rare that the HM Customs and Excise ever get (or admit getting) anything wrong, and so I decided to side with them and declared the Jaffa cakes to be biscuits are proceeded to take one to eat....

...until I was reminded that even if they are a biscuit, they are a chocolate covered biscuit, and that I had also pledged to give chocolate up as well...

Mmmm..anybody got a carrot to munch?

The curse of noise pollution

I have noticed as a long standing (albeit to be fair, usually sitting) commuter that the collective patience of my fellow travellers can be tried by the most simple of things.

Whilst on some routes maybe noise and laughter abound, on my regular 6.35am journey into London, the silence is only punctuated by the occasional snoring of already tired executives and the turning of newspaper pages.

These noises are generally classed as acceptable, as are the gentle tapping on laptop keyboards, as last minute presentations or briefing papers are prepared for early morning meetings.

However, there are unwritten noise limits, which if broken - such as by very loud snoring, or heavy handed thumping of keyboards - will bring a collective turning of heads that couldn't be better synchronised, if it had been choreographed by...by...someone famous for choreographing simultaneous head turning events - i.e. NOT Arlene Phillips!

Anyway, generally everyone stays within the rules, noise levels are low and eye contact generally avoided.

Every so often somebody new will join the carriage, which is sort of OK, as long as they don't sit in my seat, or opposite me and take up more than their half of the table (Not that I use the table, or that they don't need more than their half, but just that it is a line that shouldn't be crossed. In fact, it would be far better if the tables had permanent markings showing each passenger's personal working space or allowance !) or stretch their legs beyond their half of the floorspace etc etc.

These new people, especially if one of a pair and (not wanting to stereotype but, if they are over 60, female, wearing headscarves, slightly deaf, overly excited about going to London - most probably for the first time in their lives - and overly anxious about going to London - most probably for the first time in their lives...can you you see a theme emerging here?) travelling together, are invariably way too LOUD.

However, today's annoyance - which appeared to cause more frustration than yesterdays 6 hours of commuting time - was the fact that somebody was sending a text message, with the key "tones" switched on.

Had it been Beethoven in the carriage, bleep, bleep, bleep , bleeeeep, might (although I'm not totally convinced) have been accepted as potentially, the inspiration for something greater than a mere text message.

(For historians reading this blog (Ha!) I do accept that the above suggestion is somewhat unlikely given that Beethoven died in 1827, the first passenger train didn't arrive until 1833, and I didn't invent the videophone until 1969 but it was used for illustrative purposes only.)

Anyway, the musical texter in our carriage was no Beethoven, in fact he was more like Tolstoy (yes I know he's dead too - such a shock!) as his text was akin to War & Peace, with each letter emitting the same monotonous musical note.

How he got to the end of his novel/text message without having his phone implanted somewhere as dark as where both Tolstoy and Beethoven are buried I'm not sure, but survive he did, as did we.

However, I do think that tomorrow we should all practice our collective tutting, which over time has got slightly out of synch!

British Rail Network needs counselling

A week ago I started my day with an extremely pleasant walk across London (From Victoria to Trafalgar Square via Hyde Park Corner, Green Park & St. James' Park, in the early morning sunshine.

This morning I have endured what can only me described as total travel chaos!

The 6.35am train into London didn't arrive until almost an hour later. This was due, we were told, to "sensitive rail conditions".

Now the weather this morning was a little bit chilly (but not freezing) and it was quite foggy (but trains generally travel in straightish lines, without junctions to cross or roundabouts to manoeuvre around) but I'm not sure what additional difficulties this would have caused.

In addition, whilst Science wasn't by best subject at school, I had always thought that metal, and in particular iron, was a fairly "hard" substance, a relative "skin-head" of the material world, and not one that could generally be described as "sensitive".

(Whilst 2 previous blog entries have explored the question of "What is irony?", and whilst rail tracks are "irony", I'm not sure the articles will provide a great deal of assistance.) What might have caused this level of untoward sensitivity? Could it have been by an inability to "go off the rails", (given that they are the rails), or the fact that they are always on the "straight and narrow"?

Maybe this is just petulance, and a a sign of their need to rebel once in awhile. If so, one can draw parallels with the police, who with a "no-strike"clause in their contracts, took to the streets in a fit of 'police pique' last week by way of a 20,000 strong peaceful demonstration. I have no problem with the latter, especially as their protest was made in their own time.

For that matter, if the rail network wants to freeze up or melt down or take whatever action it believes is appropriate, at any time between the hours of 2am - 5am, then I would not mind. I feel the same about caravans - let them go where they like in the very early hours of the morning as long as they don't inconvenience me!

However, today's rail sensitivity contributed to a door to door journey time of four and a half hours to travel - in a straight line - about 40miles.

Compare this to the fact that when not totally fit, and whilst somewhat overweight I managed to jog the 26.2 miles of the New York Marathon in 4hours 20 mins, and I may have identified a cheaper, greener and almost time effective method of getting to work!

Or maybe not.......

Sheila's Wheels

I have never known much about cars - and whilst having secret (ooops!) ambitions to own some flash red sporty number, (or even a car like a Aston Martin DB9) I have never been, nor will ever be, in a position to afford one.

My knowledge of cars is also confused by some of the terminology. Take 'brake horse power' as an example. If a car has 285 bhp - does that give me a lot of brakes? a lot of power? or enough horses to greatly enhance my chances of being the winning trainer of a Grand National winner? (and indirectly more likely to afford a DB9).

It appears to be a totally nonsensical combination, which could just as easily be - Stop, Cow, Go or Left, Pig, Right!

Consequently I have tended to own reliable, but somewhat boring modes of transport.

However, people's attitudes to cars differ greatly, and many years ago, some of our neighbours in Wiltshire used to seem to derive more satisfaction from mending, or "dabbling " with them, than actually driving them.

Not mentioning any names but, due to the above, some cars - often owned or driven by the wives of the above mentioned male "dabblers" - barely ever made it off their drives, with the respective Sheila (used in the Australian sense of one woman's name - Sheila - being an expression used to refer to all women, rather than anybody actually called Sheila!) actually having to use public transport, rather than be able to use her own "Sheila's Wheels".

Hopefully, the insurance company of the same name, hasn't based it's statistics on such individuals because a claim that: -

"Women make the safest drivers,
We could save a bunch of fivers"

could be found to be somewhat misleading given that its hard not to be safe when your car doesn't ever get on the road!

Havant a chance?...Oh yes they had!

Liverpool had to come from behind twice to beat Havant & Waterlooville and reach the FA Cup fifth round.

Havant, who in league terms were 5 divisions and 152 places behind Liverpool were not over-awed and played magnificently.

Given that they were only denied a third goal with a superb save from the Liverpool 'keeper, and that Peter Crouch was offside when he scored the fifth for the Anfield side, Havant could even have got a lot closer.

Richard Pacquette's header put Havant ahead before Leiva Lucas equalised for Liverpool with a superb 25-yard curler.

Alfie Potter restored the part-timers' lead with a deflected effort, but Yossi Benayoun made it 2-2 from 15 yards.

Benayoun drove in just after the break and stroked home from a rebound to complete his hat-trick before Peter Crouch tapped in to make it 5-2.

The Hampshire side earned the respect of the Anfield Kop who stayed behind to give the Conference side a standing ovation, need we say more - they will never walk alone!

A distant memory

It may surprise you, but when I first started writing this blog, one of the early comments received was along the lines of "...so little to say, so many words to say it in!", which to be perfectly honest hurt me a little.
However, I suppose that yesterday's blog entry was, some might say, another example of this.
The "passage" is repeated below, but this time with the lyrics of Memory, inserted at the relevant points, by way of a demonstration of how life can, at times, imitate art!

By way of a rather convoluted "link", it is sometimes quite amazing how our memory works, or on occasions doesn't.

Yesterday I was completing an 'on-line' form at work which required me to enter my home address and I instinctively started to type the address of the house (in Wiltshire) that we moved out of over 13 years ago!
Maybe our return there the other weekend had a deeper psychological effect on me than I realised.

There was also the time when someone close to me entered a competition to create a new slogan for advertising Marmite.

Her brilliant entry was "Marmite, the growing up spread that even grown-ups never grow out of!"
This creative, descriptive, succinct slogan could have spawned a new career in advertising...but for the fact that it was in fact the existing slogan for Marmite!

Memory can for some, or maybe it's just me, be triggered by smells.

Memories of a visit to my Aunt & Uncle's house in Beeston, Nottingham in 1970 (ish) can be triggered by the smell of a certain type of plastic, due to the fact that I was collecting 1970 Football World Cup England figurines at the time, and we stopped at a petrol station (Esso?) on the way to get some.

So I can remember an event 37 years ago just by sniffing a bit of plastic, but can't remember where I currently live!

Forgetting where you put things can also cause some problems.

A good friend of ours once took a chicken, that she was cooking out of the oven, to check on its progress, and then put it back to finish it off. When the cooker timer rang some time later she went to get it out of the oven, but it wasn't there...mainly because after she had checked on it earlier she had put it back...under the sink!!!

And as we end the week we can only wonder at: -

• the poor memory of Peter Hain, the former UK Work and Pensions Secretary, who resigned after "forgetting"to declare £100k of donor's money;
• the poor memory of the Societe Generale trader who appears to have forgotten what he did with £3.6 billion (I wonder if he's looked down the back of his sofa, because it is amazing what you can usually find there);
• the poor memory of Kevin Keegan, the new Newcastle United football manager who recently said that he would never return to football manager;
  

BACK TO YESTERDAY'S ENTRY

Unlike on New Year's Eve when we watched the London firework extravaganza surrounded by 700,000 other revellers, last night, as I went for a late night walk, [MIDNIGHT] all around me was quiet.

Not wanting to spoil this air of tranquility I walked slowly and silently. [NOT A SOUND FROM THE PAVEMENT] Up above, the moon [HAS THE MOON LOST HER MEMORY] shone in a hazy night sky with no sign of any stars [SHE IS SMILING ALONE] and I was even unable to make out the features of the man, (or woman), in the moon.

Whilst just after midnight, the streetlights still shone [IN THE LAMPLIGHT], with some old and decaying leaves from surrounding trees, (despite the fact that Autumn is theoretically long gone), still swirling around my feet [THE WITHERED LEAVES COLLECT AT MY FEET] , as a gentle breeze started to build [AND THE WIND BEGINS TO MOAN].

[MEMORY, ALL ALONE IN THE MOONLIGHT] Such solitude made thinking easier, and whilst life is so good now, I wondered if I'd ever look back with fonder affection of days gone by [I CAN DREAM OF THE OLD DAYS]. It wasn't that I couldn't remember happy, and some might say beautiful, times [LIFE WAS BEAUTIFUL THEN], I could, but I wondered whether such recollections were, or would, eventually become better than the present reality? [I REMEMBER THE TIME I KNEW WHAT HAPPINESS WAS] No doubt I'll dream about this walk one day and re-live these memories again [LET THE MEMORY LIVE AGAIN].

As I walked, the regularity of the streetlights in the distance appeared to flicker [EVERY STREETLAMP SEEMS TO BEAT] in the growing mist, like slow beating hazard lights, emitting some kind of fatalistic warning [A FATALISTIC WARNING].

It appeared as though I wasn't alone in the moonlight for as I turned the next corner a dog-walker (odd looking face) passed me and quietly muttered "'Evenin'" [SOMEONE MUTTERS] as the streetlight above us spluttered [AS THE STREETLAMP SPLUTTERS] and went out, plunging us into temporary darkness. His dog (who he called "Lord") apparently oblivious to the many cats that were silently roaming the streets at this late hour. [SOON IT WILL BE MORNING]

The close relationship...

I was thinking how much the UK is influenced by activities in the US, when I was reminded of the following joke (?): -

A man was walking along a beach and stumbled across an old lamp. He picked it up and rubbed it and out popped a genie.

The genie said "OK, OK. You released me from the lamp, blah blah blah. This is the sixth time this month and I'm getting a little sick of these wishes so you can forget about three. You only get one wish!"

The man sat and thought about it for a while and said, "I've always wanted to go to America but I'm scared to fly and I get very seasick. Could you build me a bridge to America so I can drive over there to visit?"

The genie laughed long and loud and said, "That's impossible. Think of the logistics of that! How would the supports ever reach the bottom of the Atlantic? Think of how much concrete...how much steel. The Waves, The Wind, the Weather No, think of another wish."

So the man said OK and tried to think of a really good wish.

Finally, he said, "I've been married and divorced four times. My wives always said that I don't care and that I'm insensitive. So, I wish that I could understand women....know how they feel inside and what they're thinking when they give me the silent treatment....know why they're crying, know what they really want when they say 'nothing'....know how to make them truly happy...."

The genie said, "You want that bridge two lanes or four?"

Memories of a midnight walk...

Unlike on New Year's Eve when we watched the London firework extravaganza surrounded by 700,000 other revellers, last night, as I went for a late night walk, all around me was quiet.

Not wanting to spoil this air of tranquility I walked slowly and silently. Up above, the moon shone in a hazy night sky with no sign of any stars and I was even unable to make out the features of the man, (or woman), in the moon.

Whilst just after midnight, the streetlights still shone, with some old and decaying leaves from surrounding trees, (despite the fact that Autumn is theoretically long gone), still swirling around my feet, as a gentle breeze started to build.

Such solitude made thinking easier, and whilst life is so good now, I wondered if I'd ever look back with fonder affection of days gone by. It wasn't that I couldn't remember happy, and some might say beautiful, times, I could, but I wondered whether such recollections were, or would, eventually become better than the present reality? No doubt I'll dream about this walk one day and re-live these memories again.

As I walked, the regularity of the streetlights in the distance appeared to flicker in the growing mist, like slow beating hazard lights, emitting some kind of fatalistic warning.

It appeared as though I wasn't alone in the moonlight for as I turned the next corner a dog-walker (odd looking face) passed me and quietly muttered "'Evenin'" as the streetlight above us spluttered and went out, plunging us into temporary darkness. His dog (who he called "Lord") apparently oblivious to the many cats that were silently roaming the streets at this late hour.

With the mist coming down a bit more it was getting a little bit eerie and I decided to jog the rest of the way home.

It had been a pleasant walk, and it had cleared my head after a busy day at work.

For some, more creative types, such "free thinking time" could have been the catalyst for planning a great adventure; or the start of a book, or the lyrics of a song...

...But which song?

Whilst "breathless" after the jog home, there were no police to be seen, so it isn't "Every breath you take".

Blacker than black?

Further to yesterday's blog recounting the woes of "Black Monday", it appears that one Australian man has the answer to the question "How much worse can it get?"

In fact he has two answers!

The man in question was attacked by a crocodile and then shot by a colleague who was trying to save him.

Jason Green was bitten on the arm by a crocodile while he was collecting croc eggs west of Darwin yesterday. In an effort to save him, his colleague Zac Fitzgerald fired a pistol, and one round accidentally hit Mr Green in the elbow.

Mr Green's *estranged wife told reporters that she was surprised that he was even at the zoo as he was under notice of redundancy, and had just returned from the joint funeral off his parents who had been murdered the week before.

Having had his own home repossessed, due to severe financial difficulties caused by his drug addiction, Mr Green had at least hoped to move into his parents' home following their untimely deaths, however sadly it burnt down, after being struck by lightning in a freak storm.

Mr Green, who is known as "Lucky" to his friends remains in a stable condition at Royal Darwin Hospital.

* PLEASE NOTE: - from this point on the events are somewhat (OK totally) fabricated!

How black is black?

If I had to assign colours to the days of the week there is always a chance that Monday, depending upon the range of colours that I was able to choose from, would always be black, or at least a shade of grey.

Contrast that grey/black Monday morning feeling with a Friday afternoon in June which most definitely has a golden yellow feel to it.

Or the green of a Thursday, the red of a Saturday, the blue of a Sunday or...(as some would say) "whatever" colours work for you.

However, whether signified by an association to colours or not, one's views of how good or bad a specific day is, will also be dependent not only upon your outlook but also upon your circumstances.

If you are homeless, jobless, friendless, and penniless - every day may be grey or black (or yellow for that matter), and are less influenced by outside events.

A fall in house prices - matters little when your "home" is a cardboard box! A rise in unemployment - is potentially an increase in neighbours!

The 3rd Monday of the year (as yesterday was) being the day when apparently more workers are off sick from work than any other, has been scientifically"proven" to be the "blackest" day of the year.

However, this means diddlysquat when you are absent from work every day of the year, being one of the long term jobless, and would swap with anybody for just one day of paid employment to be able to buy a coffee or a hot evening meal.

As for the stock market crash and the prospect of recession? "Bring it on!" they shout.

A fall of 323.5 points on London's FTSE 100 in itself may be a source of warmth. More headlines and "column inches" dedicated to the world's financial woes, mean more newspaper pages and with them more protection against the cold as one lies in a doorway in a City somewhere.

So as you sit and moan about the reduction in your "net worth" or paper asset value, look around you. If you see four walls, a computer screen, a TV, a hot meal (or the remains of one) a friendly and familiar face and a glass of wine....then whine no more.

If you see a doorway, empty fast food containers, a cardboard box and a sleeping bag then...

...Well you won't actually because readership of this Blog has barely reached the affluent masses, let alone street people, and even if it had, you don't see many of them with a BlackBerry!

Cue music playing in the background - Ian Drury and the Blockheads -Reasons to be cheerful, 1, 2, 3....

You'll never guess who I (nearly) had in the back of my cab last week

Thankfully, due to the fact that there were no serious casualties from the crashed BA Boeing 777 flight at Heathrow last week newspaper headline writers were free to "play" around with the fact that the Senior first officer's name was Coward, and that he rather than the Captain (whose name was unhelpfully Peter Burkill) was the real Hero.

"Real Hero was a Coward", being the most common offering.

On first hearing of the crash on my car radio on Thursday afternoon, I was struck, initially with incredulity, by the comments of a taxi driver who had been on the airport perimeter road at the time of the crash and who had recounted that the plane had "...just missed the roof of my cab".

I imagined that this was both extremely unlikely and also a ruse to enable this London cabbie to be able to recount in future - in true cabbie style - "...You'll never guess who I nearly had in the back of my cab the other week....not only a Boeing 777 and its 152 passengers and crew, oh yes!..."

However, it appeared as though, having just missed the perimeter fence before crash landing, that this cabbie's tale was not as exaggerated as I first thought.

I am however waiting for the Green "lobby" (WARNING: - don't say this word over and over again, as you may end up in a retirement home with Noel Edmonds - Deal?) to draw the connection between this, near catastrophic event and the pollution caused by aircraft taking off and landing at one of the world's busiest airports.

Campaigners were out in force last week protesting (and presumably campaigning) against further airport expansion at Heathrow, claiming that both the noise and pollution from aircraft, particularly in communities within two miles of the airport, were having a damaging effect on both the people who live there (sorry, by "both" I don't mean to make it sound that there are only two people who live there) and the environment.

Once they connect their view with those of the Air Accident Investigation Branch's findings that all had gone normally until the aircraft was just 3km (two miles) from touchdown and at a height of 180m (600ft). At this point it appears as though the plane had lost all power.

So, it is therefore possible (almost) to land a plane after shutting off the engines in the final 2 mile approach, thereby significantly reducing pollution in the process. Had the plane been at a height of 700ft rather than 600ft, nobody would have known about the incident!

Now whilst this innovative idea, works for landings, it doesn't quite transfer as well to take-offs.

So I was thinking that we could either: -

• harness the power of prayer, (from those thousands of passengers that would in future be praying that their "gliding" planes would land safely), thereby utilising the theory that for every reaction, there is an equal and opposite reaction, or


• combining/joining together the red elastic bands that the UK's postmen discard in front of every house in Britain every day and making several giant catapults to project the planes skyward.

If the above "ideas" don't "prove" that necessity is truly the mother of invention, I don't know what does.

Some good job interview advice!

There was time when I would go to extremely long lengths (or as I'm not too good a swimmer, to extremely long widths) to keep secret anything embarrassing that I might have done or been involved in - whilst obviously being as open and sharing as one could be about the exploits of others.

Not any more - I have seen the light - and am also typing one handed with one arm being twisted behind my back, by her indoors, who has, by a combination of persuasion and violence, persuaded me once again to "redress the balance".

This "tale" occurred around the end of the 1990's when I applied for a job in an HR department in a large company in London. I was lucky enough to get an interview, and whilst I had been to the building before, and also knew the interviewer, decided to get there a little early to "prepare myself".

The job itself was in "employee relations" which would mean getting involved in disciplinary & employment tribunal issues, and also investigations into the wrongdoings and misdemeanours of the company's employees.

Shortly before the allotted time for the interview I decided that I would visit the "Gents" toilet, (or Restroom for my American readers) to make myself "comfortable".

Both the Ladies and Gents toilets were situated next to each other on the first floor landing, and could be visited before (or after) entering the working floor itself via a security pass.

I went into the toilet and entered a cubicle and (I won't go into all the detail here) sat down.

As I was sat on the toilet I heard the footsteps of another person entering the toilet. Nothing particularly unusual about that you may think, and you would be right up to a point as I had noticed that there were about five cubicles...but there was something that started to feel a little bit odd.

The footsteps were somewhat different. Not the firm, heavy footsteps of a man, but the lighter, "pitter, patter" footsteps of a woman in heels. Why had a woman entered the men's toilets? Maybe it was a female cleaner, not realising that one of the cubicles was occupied.

As I sat there waiting for - amongst other things - her to leave, I looked around me.

To my left was a tallish metal "bin", with a torn label on the top, with the only words that I could make out being "...tary towells". Odd. I then started to think about the layout of the toilets. As I have said there were about five cubicles, and.....no urinals!

Arghhhhh I was sat in a cubicle in the ladies toilets waiting to go for an interview for a job in employee relations!!!!!

Instead of being interviewed for a job, I could end up being interviewed as part of a sex discrimination investigation!

Now I could lie and spin out this story, but in reality I simply waited for the woman to leave and after a few minutes made what can only be described as sharp exit! I wasn't seen by anybody else and miraculously "got away with it".

However, to this day, I pause as I enter any public toilets, to check the sign before I go in.

So my advice if you're going for an interview, particularly in HR, would be...don't drink or eat for 3 hours before the interview, don't go to the toilet, before, during or after and if that is not possible - if you need to wear glasses due to poor eyesight, MAKE SURE YOU WEAR THEM!

Location, Location, Location

Reports appeared all over the press in the UK this week in connection with the fact that OFSTED - which I believe stands for the Office for Standing in the way of Education - have stated that children are being denied the chance to take part in geography field trips, and that as a result geography is in decline in England's schools as growing numbers of pupils abandon a subject they find "boring and irrelevant".

One key way to make lessons more exciting is through field trips, Ofsted said in a report. But teachers often decide not to take pupils on expeditions

In an extremely outrageous and stereotypical statement, Karl von Stubbings, Professor of Sexist studies at UCL stated that "...we all know that the staff sex imbalance is particularly stark in primary schools. The figures from the Department for Children, Schools and Families show that in 2008 just 15 per cent of primary school teachers are men, down from 20 per cent in 1986.

This fact combined with research undertaken by psycho-biologist Qazi Rahman, of the University of East London, which concluded that: -

"Overall, men are better map readers, and by quite a big margin."

Even with practice, most women can only improve their performance slightly.

This is because men and women navigate in different ways. Men take a bird's eye view of their journey to get an overall sense of where they are going, whereas women break it down into bite-size chunks, navigating in relation to where they are at the time. This is why women turn maps around to match the direction they're facing, and use landmarks to find their way.

Professor von Stubbings stated that his conclusion was that the reason why geography results are falling is not that female primary schoolteachers don't take their pupils on field trips, they do....it's just that they can't find their way back!!

A new language emerges....

As if the world doesn't have enough words AUSTRALIA appears to be continuing to invent words and phrases to reflect modern society and is holding a competition to see which should succeed. Here are a selection of some of the entries - with a few additional nominations.

Perhaps these will become part of our everyday language at some point in the future...albeit for some in many, many years time.

1. SMIRTING - developed as a consequence of the smoking ban... "Smirting" meaning chatting up a fellow smoker while having a sneaky puff outside: "Smoking + Flirting = SMIRTING".
2. BOSSTALGIA - nostalgia for the old boss when you've forgotten what a nightmare they were: see Margaret Thatcher, John Major, Tony Blair et al.
3. CARBON PAW PRINT - this is what is left by owners taking their dogs - in cars - to the park for a walk.
4. MONKEY BATH - a bath so hot, that when lowering yourself in, you go: "Oo! Oo! Ho! Aa!Aa!Aa!".
5. MOUSE POTATO - the on-line, wired generation's answer to the couch potato.
6. WIINJURY - injury sustained whilst playing on a Nintento wii.
7. GADGETRICIAN - one who embraces new technology and the host of new gadgets it brings.
8. SPROGINATOR - derived from terminator - child with tendency to destroy best laid plans.
9. PLEATHER - e.g. cheap leather 'look' handbags that are made of plastic.
10. PICNIC - Problem In Chair Not In Computer. Often seen on IT help-desk reports.
11. GLOBESITY - the problem of rising obesity around the globe.
12. FLOORDROBE - the use of the floor as a substitute wardrobe.
13. PASSWORD FATIGUE - Frustration caused by having too many passwords and failing to remember them.
14. TANOREXIA - An obsessive desire to have tanned skin.
15. CHINDIA - refers to China and India as a collective unit, in terms of economic power and strategic importance.
16. KIPPERS - adult children who fail to leave home - a contraction of Kids In Parents' Pockets Eroding Retirement Savings.

Redressing the balance

As I never intend to offend others - well friends and family - with partially true stories from times gone by - I feel that it is only fair that I share stories about "yours truly", that if the boot were on the other foot, others might recount about me, (had they known about them in the first place that is).

Such as the time when I was invited to lunch with the Queen and arrived at her "country house" somewhat caked in mud. I had walked, rather than driven, to her house, which involved negotiating a half flooded lane to get there.

Thus, (for readers from overseas, we obviously still use words like thus and forsooth in England) I had to clamber up a muddy bank and half way through a prickly hedge to avoid either drowning (who knows how deep the water could have been?) or arriving with water dripping from the bottom of my suit trousers - which is never a good look, especially in the presence of royalty.

Now, whilst the above "facts" are almost totally correct, the only minor discrepancy is one of timing. The "lunch" in question took place about 18years ago, and the individual - Camilla Parker-Bowles - is unlikely to be "Queen" for another 15 or 20 years.

Why was I lunching with her? (and for that matter about 15 others) well mainly because we had so much in common.

She lived on a country estate in Wiltshire, whilst I lived on a housing estate in Wiltshire (we were also on the same charity fund-raising committee).

The lunch was actually put on for the press to officially launch the charity within the County, and was very successful.

All bar one of the committee members had contributed something for the event. CP-B's "cook" had, not unsurprisingly, done the cooking; others had contributed either wine from their "cellars" or food (most probably from Fortnum & Masons or Harrods) or something equally expensive. I had obviously considered taking either a bottle of Blue Nun or Liebfraumilch, but had decided at the last minute that it might be considered excessive by the "press boys" so not wanting to encourage any headlines relating to "elitism", I resisted and simply took myself.

After the event, I set off on the short, but potentially wetter, journey home in the rain, when Lord John Oaksey stopped to give me a lift to the end of the lane. As you may know Lord Oaksey is now a racing correspondent who began his horse racing career as long ago as in 1955 and went on to ride over 200 winners in the ensuing twenty years, including the Whitbread Gold Cup and the Hennessy Gold Cup( both races on Taxidermist).

With such a wealth of knowledge at his disposal I was so pleased that as he dropped me off he gave me two tips for the next days races, or so I thought. However, as much as I scanned the newspapers and teletext for a sign of these "racing certainties", I couldn't find them and I never go to know how much I could have won, if I'd managed to place the bets.

I do remember the two "tips" though:

"Different Class" & "Uptoyurneck"

Christmas Time, Superglue & Port...

The above title should be sung to the tune of Cliff Richards' "Mistletoe and wine..."

I have previously - albeit in the dim and distant past of Academia (where the words dim and distant where used in a more personally descriptive manner!) - been tasked to make up a story out of 3/4 words, such as Scalectrix, Superglue & Port.

Such exercises were meant to test both our creativity and literary skills, and usually left me "wanting" on both counts. Had I known of the incident that was to occur later in my life, such exercises would have been "...a breeze"!

The incident which occurred approximately 20 years ago at Christmas time actually involved the aforementioned items.

I received a call from good friends of ours, on (as I remember it) Christmas Eve. It may not actually have been Christmas Eve, but if I said it had been 23 July, the story would lose a certain degree of impact. But actually I do think that: -

'Twas The Night Before Christmas

(when the call was received)

and when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St.Nicholas soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;

Well actually I may digress because what was certainly in the heads of our friends' sons, was a brand new Scalectrix set!

What was the reason for their call you might ask?

Well, there had been a motor racing disaster that dwarfed the recent minor spat between McLaren and Ferarri, which in a similar way had also involved a misinterpretation of the instructions.

On our friends 'practice lap' - they had attempted to construct the track so that it was ready for their boys to play with on Christmas morning. A great "plan".

Unfortunately the instructions stated that to join the pieces of track together the tabs on the end of each section should be "...turned, twisted and snapped" into position. Having turned, twisted and snapped each tab on each section of track, our friends were lefts with forty unconnected sections of track and 160 seperate, twisted pieces of square plastic.

After some careful application of Superglue, we actually managed to re-fix the tabs back to the track and re-create the circuit so that - whilst not perfect, it was, in the short term, operational & so Christmas wouldn't be ruined.

What of the port? Well being a naive young (ish) thing, I hadn't actually drunk Port before, and therefore didn't realise that it wasn't drunk out of a tumbler - although I would have thought that my, more worldly wise host would have done. Most of the bottle of Port was consumed as we stuck the track back together.

I can attest that having left the house, the Port "kicked in" within the short time it took to get home...after which time I couldn't remember whether it was Christmas or Easter

A little mischief making

Having "lifted the lid" this weekend on my previous life in Wiltshire, I thought it would be a shame to close it again without further recollections of those distant days.

In fact "distance" is a somewhat relevant word, as not only does it "...make the heart grow fonder", but it also makes me, now safely ensconced back in Sussex, feel safer - from any potential threats of physical violence - should the "subjects" of my recollections, not wish such tales to be re-told.

There are many stories to tell, such as the tale of Scalectrix and Superglue at Xmas; or How to get a piano on a double-decker bus; or the story of Paul and his car repair (?) business - but more of these another time.

Today's tale from the days of "yore" concerns a holiday that we took with the our close friends the B family (alphabetic not insect).

Following the holiday, which had been in the south of France, I decided that there was an opportunity for little mischief.

Whilst away, although not exactly a case of "...when in Rome, do as the Romans do" - mainly because we were in France and not Italy- the "women" did partake in some topless sunbathing - please see Blog entry of 10November 2007 for photographic evidence!

Well at the time in question (which co-incidentally was around the time that Twin Peaks was on TV) both of the aforementioned "women" worked at the local primary school, which both children in both families attended, and where I was on the Board (bored?) of Governors.

Now, whilst not totally ethical, my position at the school, gave me access to school 'headed paper', which when combined with a topless photo and too much spare time equals "mischief"!

So it was that I penned a letter, purporting to be from the school Headteacher, advising S that (something along the lines of)

"...due to the fact that pupils had been circulating topless photos of her in the playground, the Board of Governors would have no option but to consider her position as a member of staff due to potentially bringing the good name (?) of the school into disrepute...."

I must say that the letter did look official and it was delivered (most probably under cover of darkness to S's house. I'm not sure how long we left it before announcing that the letter was hoax, but I know it wasn't long as I didn't want to risk any potential double-bluff involving claims from S that she'd already rung the headteacher to apologise.

The letter had "worked", at least momentarily, and my life became a little less safe from that moment on!

PS I am ashamed at those of you who paused from reading this story to go in search of the topless photos in the 10 November entry - I know who you are!

As if I would do something as underhand as that...

Talent that knows no bounds.......

Talent, even if "undoubted" talent, is sometimes not enough to ensure that an individual achieves their potential, or rightful place in society.

In the 1940's Nat King Cole's success and star-billing in some areas didn't completely shade him from the industry's pervasive racism that simultaneously denied him access to certain venues and hotels.

In the 2000's Michelle McManus won Pop Idol and then failed to reach the top, not because of any vocal inadequacies (well not only because of...) but largely (!) because of her size.

You may say that that is"fat-ist", but as Jimmy Carr would most probably (and disgracefully) say "No, she’s fattest!".

So we are surrounded by people with skills and talents that possibly aren't appreciated as much as they should be...and this weekend we were reminded of another such an individual.

Whilst not a singer, he is certainly an entertainer, although when we "hired" him (can you "hire" someone if no money changes hands?) it was his "talents" as an electrician that we were interested in.

For confidentiality reasons I will call him Steve (his real name) Bush(as he lives in a White House). We had asked Steve to undertake some electrical work around our house (also in the aforementioned Tropenell Triangle) some 15 years ago.

This work included mending our front door bell. After some time working on the bell Steve announced that he had successfully managed to get it ringing again. And he had. Unfortunately, that's all it did - ring, without stopping!

Upon pointing this out to Steve he took the batteries out of the bell....but it kept ringing. After much consideration, and having drawn many technical diagrams (which with hindsight I now believe were nothing more than Steve doodling to pass the time) Steve established how to stop the bell ringing -by pushing the bell push.

This level of ingenuity and innovation should have propelled Steve to Trade Awards, and recognition amongst his peers, but I'm not sure that it ever did. We had a doorbell, which in its own “special” way let us know when somebody was at the door - because it stopped ringing!

As long as the ringing noise in our ears continued, we were safe in the knowledge that nobody wished to visit us!

This level of "talent" is so rarely seen - Praise be to God!

A step back in time....

This weekend we experienced an extremely enjoyable, albeit somewhat surrealistic at times, couple of days in Wiltshire. The primary reason for the visit being the (shhhh 50th!) Birthday Party of Sheila (who for confidentiality reasons we shall use the surname of "Savoy").

Prior to the party we had visited the picturesque village of Cranford, as seen in the recent TV documentary. It was clear that they were about to use the village for either a film or TV drama, as everybody was wandering around in costumes a million miles from those worn by Miss Matty Jenkyns and others, and had quaintly re-named the village "Lacock", so that people wouldn't know exactly where it was.

Upon visiting one of the local shops, which I'm not now sure whether it was real or part of the film set, I saw a sign on top of a stack of shopping baskets which read: -

"Please use a basket to help you select your shopping"

Being a compliant soul, I picked up a basket and held onto it for a few minutes but it proved to be useless in helping me to select anything, so I just had to put it down and leave.

It appeared as though "Lacock" was being "made" to appear in the film as though it was an island as they seemed to be flooding the surrounding area whilst we were still there, and rather than risk being trapped in the middle of the film set for some time we made a sharp exit back to Chippenham to prepare ourselves for the party (well relatively sharp, in that we had to have a quick drink in one of the film set's local "pubs" - which we thought would be a bit like drinking in the "Queen Vic", or "Rovers Return", but no actors were to be seen!).

Now, it must be said that there were a few reasons for me thinking that as we had entered Chippenham earlier in the day we had actually passed through some strange space-time continuum/"portal", that took us back at least 20 years in time. (Actually due to combination of a wrongly programmed SatNav, and the town's one-way system, we may actually have gone through the "portal" a number of times!).

At the party, most of the adults - especially "birthday-girl" Sheila Savoy - looked just as they had done when we last lived in the area 13 years ago. Sheila, in fact looked no different to when we had celebrated her 30th birthday with an impromptu party in our cul-de-sac, in 1988.

It's not as though I don't have proof - the following picture evidences how time has stood still in this area - which has become known locally as the 'Tropenell Triangle'. One thing that has improved over the years however is the standard of the catering. This weekend the food and drink was in plentiful supply, however it appears that in 1988, we had: -

• A birthday cake
• A bottle of port
• A bottle of gin
• A bottle of wine
• A can of beer, and
• a bottle of Ribena - presumably for the kids

which wasn't exactly a lot for 50 people. (Apparently, experiments had been undertaken with some water, barley loaves, and some fishes in the preceding days but these had been largely unsuccessful.)

Now what made this weekend somewhat strange was that whilst the majority of the adults had retained their youthful looks, their offspring had grown up into mature, intelligent, (as evidenced by their numerous university degrees) friendly, (what can only be described as) "adults". Thus appearing to narrow the gap between their own age and that of their parents - weird!

The evening was one of catching up with (not) old (looking) friends, with excellent entertainment, the aforementioned good food, and a few drinks...some dancing....and then a few more drinks....and then etc.

Debs & Steve (that name doesn't ring a bell!), Nigel (Five Sheds) & Sue, Paul & Sandra, Bev & Rob, Sue, John & Marie and many others who we knew were there all enjoying themselves - dancing (to the partial embarrassment of the "yoofs" present) - drinking , chatting and generally having great fun.

In fact the only person who I thought looked slightly older than he used to was Paul, Sheila's husband - until I realised that it wasn't Paul that I was speaking to, but Paul's father!

What defines being British?

After spending recent days musing on all things American, it is perhaps time to remind the listening (OK reading) world (OK not the entire world but this blog is now read in 18 countries!) what "Being British" is all about.

Being British is: -

Driving in a German car to an Irish pub for a Belgian beer, then travelling home, grabbing an Indian curry or a Turkish kebab on the way to sit on Swedish furniture and watch American shows on a Japanese TV.

Oh and the most British thing of all? - Suspicion of anything foreign!!!

Oh and......

1. Only in Britain...can a pizza get to your house faster than an ambulance.
2. Only in Britain...do supermarkets make sick people walk all the way to the back of the shop to get their prescriptions, while healthy people can buy cigarettes at the front.
3. Only in Britain...do people order double cheeseburgers, large fries and a DIET coke.
4. Only in Britain...do banks leave both doors open and chain the pens to the counters.
5. Only in Britain...do we leave cars worth thousands of pounds on the drive and lock our junk and cheap lawn mower in the garage.
6. Only in Britain...do we use answering machines to screen calls and then have 'call waiting' so we won't miss a call from someone we didn't want to talk to in the first place.
7. Only in Britain...are there disabled parking places in front of a skating rink.

So if you have a passport - I'm sorry that this excludes the majority of you Americans - why not pay us a visit!

2008 Christmas No1

After mentioning Obama's New Hampshire speech yesterday, I was interested to hear reports of some of its detail, which I hadn't listened previously listed to, but which appeared to reach out to the people, of all ages.

With his wife and daughter by his side and referring to Hillary Clinton's victory, Barack O (as he's known on the street) eloquently, and some would say lyrically, covered issues of race, diversity, decision making and choice as he recounted in his southern drawl what messages he had been delivering in the hustings.

He told the democrat supporters present: -

"...And I told about equality, an' its true, either you're wrong or you're right. But, if you're thinkin' about my baby it don't matter if you're black or white"

How prophetic!

Without wishing to over analyse exactly what each word meant, I believe that he has often referred to America itself as being his "baby", something he cares almost as deeply about as his own child. These selfless words reflect his desire for change and for the American people to decide between either him or Hillary Clinton, and that despite his personal ambitions it doesn't matter which of them they choose, because whichever one they choose, that choice is better than the Republican alternative.

The man is almost becoming a rock star, and is already the 6/4 favourite at Ladbrokes to be No. 1 in the UK singles chart this Christmas (presumably - and this is a prediction - beating Chantelle, from Essex who will win the fourth X Factor series after "amazingly" coming from behind (?) to beat Gavin, 21, a 17-stone, peroxide blond, gay, male Liverpudlian op/rock vocalist from a broken home and who only got to the final with the support of his"friend" Derek, 53 from Cheadle, and who will became famous throughout the series for crying more than singing - sweet!)

Ronseal approach is best

As I said only a few days ago, we have possibly just witnessed history in the making, as the American Democrat voters in New Hampshire signal their intent to help Hillary Clinton become the first female President.

Well I think that's what I predicted. OK, I admit that this paragraph will change many times between now and 'Super' Tuesday, with the words "black" and "female" being interchangeable from caucus to caucus.

I did mention the other day that encouraging voters to barack Obama, might not be the most productive means of creating the right kind of atmosphere for success, and having watched his post defeat speech (actually oratory is more accurate, for this man actually has the power to "engage" a crowd, more than any other American politician since Clinton - Bill not Hilary, or Kennedy) his campaign organisers should carefully consider whether Obama's campaign slogan - "We want change!" should be used after he has won the previous caucus.

In Iowa, Barack Obama won handsomely; "We want change!" chanted (or barracked) his supporters in New Hampshire, and they got it with a Hilary Clinton victory.

Now it's not rocket science, (Unless you work for NASA) but I always prefer the Ronseal approach ("it does what it says on the tin") and whilst not particularly pithy, Obama's supporters should "spice" it up and be asked to shout: -

"we'll tell you who we want, who we really, really want, a ziga a ziga, a Barack Obamahhhhhhhhhh!!!"

Technology - and a Prime Minister - gone mad?

Now it has to be said that I have more than a passing interest in the latest hi-tec gizmos, but I cannot quite understand some of the digital and wireless technology available in 2008.

Apparently, Geotherm Wireless showers are "...remote-controlled from anywhere in the house".

Excuse me?

Why, if you're in the shower would you want to control it from anywhere other than "IN" the shower.

I accept that if you have unwelcome guests staying with you, it might be fun to send them on their way to "freshen up" with a nice hot shower, wait downstairs until you hear them singing the theme tune from Disney's 'Enchanted' (a very good film by the way!) and then zap the remote temperature control down to minus 5 degrees, turning on (presumably by another remote control) the radio to a volume sufficient to mask their cries of pain.

Other than for this type of "high jinx" I can think of no other reason for the existence of this shower.

The previous 13 words also come to mind in relation to Gordon Brown's Cabinet whose latest offering of "health checks for everyone", at a time when you can wait up to 4 weeks in A&E just to see a hospital porter; when a visit to hospital usually results in you leaving in a less healthy state than when you went in, and when junior doctors still work on average for 32 hours per day.

(Please note that these statistics have been provided by the usual experts!)

The only people who actually go to their doctors are people wealthy enough in that they have a job and because they have a job are (sadly) deluded enough to think that they might be suffering from "...work-related stress" - that is to say, the "wealthy, worried, (but actually) well" - whereas those who are genuinely sick often can't either afford the prescription or afford to be able to take time off to see the doctor in the first place - even assuming they can get an appointment!!

Nice one Gordon!

Jesuits to vote for 'Black Pope'

One of the challenges that I face on a daily basis is trying to avoid being "sucked into" buying a London newspaper, by the ever increasingly misleading billboard(?) headlines.

However, the above headline which appeared in today's Telegraph initially led me to think that the Roman Catholic church had decided to abandon their historical conservatism, and decide to elect a new black Pope, ignoring the minor detail of having a living white Pope in the Vatican already.

Now I'm sure that a Black Pope would go down a storm in Africa, a continent that historically will have turned a blind eye to similar inconvenient truths, and creative enough to "lose" Pope Benedict XVI, in order to create a "vacancy" for a black Pope to be elected.

But one would have thought that Plan A - e.g. to bury the current Pope under a pile of eggs, in the style of Eggs Benedict - would have been "hatched" prior to announcing news of Plan B to vote for the Black Pope.

As you can imagine, the headline was nothing more than a misleading hook to attract readers (You'll never see me doing this, in this Blog!)

Apparently, the 'Black Pope' nickname refers to the simple black vestments worn by the Jesuits and to the power the leader holds. The Society of Jesus, which was founded in the 16th century by St Ignatius Loyola to be the "Pope's cavalry.

The outgoing leader, Father Peter-Hans Kolvenbach, 79, has served since 1983. He is the first head to ask to retire, a request granted by Pope Benedict.

Is Obama Sin Laden?

It must be extremely annoying - albeit totally avoidable - when after many years of striving to achieve political office, an individual's moment of glory is marred by the "gutter" press publishing damaging news of either prior financial ruin, sexual misdemeanors or some other act which succeeds in damaging their reputation before they've even had time to build one.

There have been plenty of examples of political indiscretions, of which the following are just 3 in a long list: -

Bill Clinton, the former US President, who, with reference to Monica Lewinsky stated - "I did not have sexual relations with that woman".

Charles Kennedy, the former Liberal Democrat leader, who in an interview with David Dimbleby declared - "Yes, I'm actually an extremely moderate and infrequent consumer of alcohol as a matter of fact."

Mark Oaten, the disgraced Liberal Democrat MP who stated - after being outed - that "...going bald and a mid-life crisis had led him to have an affair with a male prostitute.

[Clearly Bill's eyesight was poorer than we knew ("...AW sorry, I thought you were pointing at THAT woman"); Charles didn't have frequent spells of drinking alcohol, just one and therefore he was by definition an infrequent consumer of alcohol. However, the one time that he had drank alcohol lasted from 1988 to 2007!; Mark, on the other hand was simply a bald, gay man, who had been pretending to be a liberal democrat MP!]

So what is the position with Barack Obama? Does he have a past laden with sin, or is he as clean-cut and wholesome as he is being made out to be? If he has skeleton's in his cupboard, should he let them out now or risk having them let out for him in the future, thereby destroying his prospects of making US political history and becoming the first black US President, and also the first President with a name that invites those around him to "...jeer or shout at him".

So Mr Obama, if you have a drink, financial or marital problem in your past let us know now so that the American people can decide whether or not you are fit to become the most powerful man in the world.

However, if your problems are either intellectual or involve corruption, dishonesty or deceit, then feel free to keep them secret. George Bush has all of these qualities and he survived for 2 terms!

But how?

Hello Barack & Isaac, Goodbye Donald!

As days go, January 4th felt somewhat inferior to other monthly "4ths".

For example it never expected to get into the movies, and certainly not in a speaking part, as May 4th had done in Star Wars.

It was also not ready to leave home in search of independence as July 4th had done, prior to heading off for America.

January 4th was simply an ordinary day.

It wasn't as though it hadn't seen life (or death) it had and plenty of it.

Sir Isaac Newton was born on January 4th 1643 - well actually Isaac Newton was born, the 'Sir' bit coming some time later.

Wouldn't it have been a great piece of foresight if he had been christened 'Sir' Isaac, or, in fact an even greater achievement, if the honour had been bestowed upon him at birth for 'services to Science whilst in the womb'.

Just think, if the 17th century midwifery practice had changed at midnight on 3 January 1643, from encouraging women to give birth lying down, to giving birth standing up...Isaac could - albeit theoretically -have discovered gravity upon entry (and fairly rapid entry at that) into the world.

However, depending upon the actual speed of "entry", January 4th could have become renowned for the birth, knighthood and death of baby Sir Isaac, AND the discovery of gravity all in the space of (regal administrative prior planning permitting) a few minutes.

Anyway, sadly life didn't turn out that way and it was not until 1967 when January 4th saw a notable death, when Donald Campbell also discovered gravity as well as the fact that whilst at 0 mph water is quite soft...at 300mph it feels (although only very briefly in Donald's case as he was soon to end up permanently "in the soup") as hard as concrete!

However, there is a slight chance that January 4th may achieve the notoriety that it deserves and in the future be recognised as the day the world realised that America was soon to get its first black President!

Welcome Barack Obama!

APOLOGY - RETRACTION

Due to the difficulty in both creating content for this Blog whilst at the same time reviewing the many (OK two!) comments received, it is not always possible to ensure that the comments made are neither inappropriate nor offensive.

I must therefore apologise for the comment that briefly appeared after yesterday's entry, prior to me being able to withdraw it. The reference to Paul McCartney & Heather Mills proved too much for one person who sadly added the following comment:

Paul McCartney stated that he was surprised that Heather Mills was trying to secure such a large divorce settlement, as he had always been very generous to her during their marriage. He stated that the year before their split he had bought her a plane!

Although she still used IMMAC on the other leg!

Many apologies for anybody who was upset by this comment!

Life begins at 74!

Some people have limited expectations about the future, but today I had great expectations. These "expectations" were for overnight snow sufficient to render it impossible for me to make my way into London.

Let's face it, it wouldn't have taken a lot of snow to achieve this - the UK rail network is capable of grinding to a halt without the intervention of anything at all, whether snow, soggy leaves, or falling or jumping passengers - but not a flake fell anywhere near us.

You would imagine that in this litigious age I should be able to sue somebody, or something. I am sure that Carol Kirkwood, BBC's chirpy weatherperson, "promised" me snow.

Failure to deliver on this "promise" deprived me of a "lie-in", and caused me temporary depression - which for legal reasons I consider to be a disability.

That's the problem with looking forward to something that doesn't carry a cast iron guarantee with it, so often you end up being disappointed.

My work colleagues also said that they were disappointed that the lack of snow had enabled me to get to work, and I am taking this to mean that they were disappointed "for me". What else could they mean?

However, some people never give up hope and continue to look forward to the future. So if you have a birthday today, whether you are 60, 74, 80 or 102 just think of the example set by Eric King-Turner and his wife Doris who have decided to emigrate to New Zealand.

They are both looking forward to a long future ahead of them where Eric hopes to spend his time indulging in his passion of fly fishing, in a country "...similar to Britain, but less crowded.".

Not that unusual you might think, apart from the fact that Eric is 102 and Doris is 87!

So for any Birthday Girls (or Boys), having giving you hope for the future I will now share the (scientifically proven) world's funniest joke as my present to you.

Two hunters are out in the woods when one of them collapses. He doesn't seem to be breathing and his eyes are glazed. The other man whips out (...wait for it!) his phone and calls the emergency services. He gasps: My friend is dead! What can I do?" The operator says: "Calm down. I can help. First, let's make sure he's dead." There is silence, then a shot is heard. Back on the phone, the man says: "Okay, now what?"

Look out Eric, are you sure that that was a walking stick that Doris was packing?

Link betwen divorce and cheese discovered!

Once again we set out into the great unknown of a new year that is to be 2008 with confusing facts all around us.

Apparently, according to an article in this morning's paper, in 2006 the number of divorces in Great Britain was 18% lower than in 1992, the year that Prince Andrew and Fergie (of the royal, rather than black eyed peas variety) split.

This raises a number of questions. Firstly why do some statisticians take so long to produce their data and is this any reflection on their overall level of expertise?

I don't want to know about 2006's figures I want 2007's. Secondly, how do the UK's figures compare with the rest of the world.

Apparently the UK divorce rate is running at 53%, but, the experts (ha!) state that these are nowhere near as high as in Sweden (64%), Russia (65%) or Belarus (68%).

They go on to state that: -

"...one factor that has never been fully quantified is the temperature, since the highest divorce rates all occur in sub-zero temperatures."

I must say that my earlier concern regarding the aptitude of these experts is increasing. When faced with the serious issue of divorce rates - it is a significant leap across the statistical divide to create a link with temperature as the most significant cause.

Some ill informed individuals (of which I am clearly not one) might offer contradictory views such as "...Rubbish, what do you expect? Have you never seen a Belorussian woman?"

To which I would have to respond "...no, but I have seen Anna Kournakova so what's your point?" (Thank you Charlotte - but you don't actually have to point every time!).

Linking divorce rates with low temperatures is as useful or insightful as linking it with the number of stray cats in the country, or mice, or cheese. Come to think of it each of these items - especially in Belorussian 'cartoon-land - is related. There are (really there are!) large numbers of stray cats in Belarus, presumably due to a plentiful supply of mice, who can surely only survive in the low temperatures with copious supplies of cheese. (What do you mean mice don't really like cheese?)

Therefore, as valid a causal link as low temperatures and high divorce rates is that of cheese and high divorce rates. Whilst a somewhat bizarre theory, we should really try to persuade others that it may be true. Otherwise George Dubblya Bush, may try to use a continuation of global warming policies as a means of increasing the sanctity of marriage in the US.

In a another headline today, it was stated that: -

"Paul McCartney has operation on his heart".

Is it only me, or the vast majority of the population in the UK who immediately thought of the words "...after having been broken by Heather Mills"!