Where the money goes.

If you ever wonder where our taxes go these snippets of insider information will not reassure you.

The local RAF are decommisioning Nimrods. They did their final fly-past in the clouds yesterday. We are all grateful no bits fell off. The RAF will now pay an outside civillian company to dismantle the aircraft and then pay - yes PAY - the scrappies to take the bits away. None of this makes any sense as the RAF surely have personnel on site who are capable of dismantling aircraft and, since when do the scrappies get paid for taking scrap which they will then sell? True they may pick it up, but again - the RAF has big enough vehicles to take it to the yard themselves. Why don't they?

The daftness continues. One squadron want the tail fin of 'their' plane' for sentimental reasons. They will have to buy it back from the scrapyard!

A Nimrod was chosen to stand as 'Guardian' at one of the gates to the station. A nice simple symbolic gesture one might think, but, again, not so simple in terms of cost. Moving it some hundreds of yards from its hangar to the gate has clocked up a sum in the region of £20,000. How that cost arose is a complete puzzle. The plane had to be decommissioned, emptied of fuel and generally made unflyable so no-one could take a fancy to it and fly off in it. How difficult can that be? (Anyone wishing to fly off with it would have to be pretty stupid anyway given its geriatric condition.)

Impressions.

Seven hours in London left me with a wealth of mental snapshots. Not used to this overload of stimuli I tried to roll with it for once and not be resistant. Paddington is nice, bears and Paul's patisserie tht does an excellent Tourte Legumes and tarte au citron. Spent a happy hour there in comparative peace waiting for daughter to take me sight-seeing in Covent Garden (I've been before of course but long before she was born) The screeching, body-snatching tube journey pretty much did away with good intentions to stay cool and we got off much too early ta walk from Picadilly. grimness. London seems suddenly so small and scruffy. Whatvere do the tourists make of it. The Japanese girls taking Paddington's photo were happy but in this pidgeon-splashed nightmare of streets..? My lungs didn't like it. Everyone we asked the way (Sophie is like me, knows areas well but can't connect one with another even after several years in the city) was friendly. All were young (or are the oldies just invisible?) I sat on a step outside a shop that looked like a warehouse whilst she shopped for clothes then she took me to a nice, tiny, cobbled, square off Neil's Yard where we had a highly intoxicating drink with lots of lime and vodka and sugar which definitly helped my equilibrium though it shot Sophie's to pieces (these young just can't hold their drink!) Then she took me to a vegetarian restaurant where the food looks and tastes home-baked. Unfortunately it too was diminutive inside and I had my case and just after we arrived so did the rest of veggie London. I wasn't hungry anyway as I'd eaten well in Paul's but I was happy to have seen a place she frequents and to have found a tea shop (selling loose teas like jasmine flower which I haven't seen since the Belgian days, and everything you need for the tea ceremony so I was able to arrange my birthday gift for this year - as much loose tea as she can afford at the time.)

We took a taxi to Euston. Daughter was very resistant - real Londoners don't take cabs? - but saw I wasn't going to survive another tube journey and it wasn't very expensive IMO. We sat gratefully in an odd sort of cafe/diner with an open frontage outside Euston where Sophie gave £1 to a beggar who told us she was seven months pregnant. She looked at least my age and I wouldn't have known how to deal with her but supposed paying a bit was the easiest way out. How would I deal with being on the streets? I wouldn't last long is the answer.

After an evening with my friends who spend winters in India I came away with my mind darkened by horror stories of beggars. They say 'Slumdog Millionare' only showed the tip of the iceberg and it's all much worse than that. I'm glad I didn't see it.

Really I have to say I'm a coward about travel. At the same welcome-home-to-the-chilly -northern-climes dinner party were two ladies of my age who recently travelled to Tibet. One went in on the 'tourist' route with a guided tour starting in Lhasa (that's horribly high I believe) and the other going in with monks through China. Strangely the one who went in through China had the most hopeful reports on the lives of the Tibetans who she saw working their own fields, keeping shops and looking quite relaxed in their homeland. Only when they got close to the more touristy routes did she see Chinese guards with guns patrolling the streets and more repression.

More about books...

Writhing less comfortably through the last nights in my own bed I've read 'The Spy Game' by Georgina Harding which is every bit as 'elegant' and 'beautifully written' as the endorsing critical quotes say of it (which I generally ignore until after I've sampled the wares when I can snort with derision and wonder how much they were paid or what a good job has been made of editing out the rest of the quote.) It was, amazingly, just as gripping as promised too, though almost nothing happens. It took finding a W.H.Smith somewhere in London to happen across it, a fact which brings me nicely to acknowledge, long after it should have been acknowledged, a comment someone wrote on a blog entry long ago about the dearth of Phil Rickman backlists in book stores. I've never seen Phil's books in airport lounges, Tesco or train stations. If someone hadn't told me about him I might never have known. His titles hardly ever appeared in the boxes that came through the door of the bookshop which is an indication of how little they sell I imagine. They deserve much more exposure because they are well written, with rounded believable characters I can care about and, and for those who like the subject of the paranormal, some actual thought has been put into them. I only bought the Shakespeare thing because it was part of the poor choice at a railway station kiosk where the second book was half price. This will boost the sales of what should by rights slide silently into the slush pile and sink, never to be seen again.

Conspiracy theory alert. We are being manipulated. AAAaargh!

It was so good to hear one of the Booker prize readers, who I have always felt sorry for in recent years, complaining about the doom&gloom misery in most of the books she has to plough through. Almost every book, she claims, begins with a rape and that is the fun bit, it's downhill all the way thereafter. It reminds me why I stick to crime novels - at least they aren't pretending to be Literature and there's often a laugh or two along the way. (Though that reminds me of another grumble - the other book I read in my away time by Quentin Jardine. I so wish someone would teach that man how to write dialogue that isn't wooden and totally unbelievable. Presumably he is one of the happy band well-publicised at stands in airports and train stations, which again was where I found him and bought him in desperation for entertaiment I have already almost forgtten.)

There's anough misery in the world without getting more of it splurged over us by -usually - women out for a cheap pull. No matter how cathartic Greek tragedy may be these dreary wallowers just don't match up.

Travelling horizontal is definitely the best way. I slept very peacefully on the way down to London and on the way back too. Better train on the homeward run and better complimentary 'comfort pack.' Sadly there is no sleeper between Paddington and Hayle so I read 'The Shakespeare Curse' by J.L.Carrell on the way there. The less said about that the better except that the writing style is slightly more supportable than the Da Vinci Code. Then 'The Sunday Philosophy Club' by Alexander McCall Smith on the homeward run, which I enjoyed much more than the African series, probably because I find it easier to envisage Edinburgh than Africa. I like his style; unobtrusive but classy.

Whilst in the family home I was accomodated on the best bed as the puppies were in the spare room and the owners felt it only right they should sleep alongside these squeeky morsels. The Best Bed has a wonderful memory foam mattress, so good that I almost stayed for ever.(No good for those who want to get rid of mother-in-laws in other words!) My back felt really good all week. Memo to self - start saving. At present I sleep on an old mattress on the floor. There is a bed available, I just prefer the floor, but would be coaxed off if I had such a sublime sleeping place offered. I stayed awake ach evening just long enough to get through Sarah Waters 'The Little Stranger' by skipping huge bits of it. Felt it was much too long and she should learn from the masters, James and Poe, that spinning a story out doesn't make it more spooky once the troublesome spirit is perceived, just irritating.

One day you too can be as big as me but your trousers will still fall down.

Theo models for GAP.

Still seven?

Poor mum - imagine having seven children when you weren't prepared for even one. She kept rushing into the kitchen wih its nice cool tiles and flinging her poor tummy flat. The pups don't always latch onto the right spots and evidently suck really hard so she's covered with love bites!

All seven will make non-allergenic pets. Dad is a minature poodle of good breeding (although the breeding papers are lost...) and mum is half poodle half crested something-or-the-other so slightly bigger. Both parents are very laid-back characters and love the cat. I fear the huge rabbits may eat the puppies once they get into the yard, but so far so good.

Home again.

Home for two weeks in fact but only just getting my ducks in a row here. It was really good to go away. I needed the perspective holidays give and it was so nice to be with the Cornish branch. Didn't see much of Cornwall predictably, but lots of animals. Seven puppies entered the world more or less as I arrived. Photos soon.

There will be a brief intermission whilst I visit the Cornish branch of the family. I don't think I'm clever enough (or have the right equiptment) to keep the journal whilst I'm away, sadly for me. It's a good therapy sometimes!

Back 16th March, creek don't rise.

New temptations

It's a pity the bread has to be in plastic but that's the Health & Safety police. We are not allowed to sell anything that isn't packaged at source. I hope I become immune to the scent of fresh bread rather quickly otherwise - XXS will not be big enough! The loaves have interesting names like 'Shipton Mill White' 'Golspie Brown' 'Trevor Spelt' and Highland Rye. I've been told that Golspie is one of the oldest mills in Scotland and can be glimpsed on the Black Isle, across the Moray Firth as the seagull flies, on a clear day. Shipton Mill is the oldest mill in Britain, has been milling grain since the Domesday Book was written and is near Frampton-on-Severn where some friends live. Not sure about Trevor. They are all made from organic flour natch.

....gone!

The empty bookcases remain (soon to be sold also) but the garage echoes weirdly.

Mixed feelings echo too. I miss the books but am relieved not to have the responsibility for them. I wish their new owner much joy and profit from her new venture: Black Bear Books somewhere near Dumfries.

Going... going...

It took one poor lonely packer all day to get the books into boxes.