writing, not drowning

The WWOOFer, the FiNZ and the chain gang

There is nothing that my Friend in New Zealand (AKA the FiNZ) and, indeed, many of my friends, and I like more than a tale of coincidence, synchronicity, or six degrees of separation. I'm never sure whether to attribute the fascination I have with these notions to my early love affair with the great Victorian novelists, many of whom thrived on the stuff, or the story I was told by one of my first bosses. As well as teaching me everything she knew about working with the media, she also kept me entertained with a plethora of Fleet Street stories and sayings, from the time when all our national newspapers were actually produced there - or as near there as makes no difference.

Given my predilection for the above, this was my favourite: 'There are only thirty-two people in the world and, sooner or later, you meet them all.'  I may not have the number exactly right; it is, after all, more than thirty years since I first heard it but you get the idea. The words are those of Louis Heren, one of this country's most distinguished journalists, who worked for The Times for almost 50 years.

Tales of coincidence are best savoured, I always think, when they come out of the blue, as the one I am about to relate did . . .

'We've got a WWOOFer* from New Zealand staying with us for a while,' said my Smallholder Friend, on our most recent weekly get-together, when we set out for a trudge across muddy fields a bracing walk with our Labradors, together with Basil, one of my canine guests. 

'Oh, whereabouts in New Zealand?' I asked.

'Somewhere near Nelson, I think,' said my Smallholder Friend.

'Ah, that's where the FiNZ is,' I replied, my Smallholder Friend having met the FinNZ when she was in England a couple of years ago. 'In fact, she was a sort of WWOOFer, when she first moved there. She went to stay on . . .' and I mentioned the type of farm where the FiNZ had lived and worked. 'What's his name?'

My Smallholder Friend told me and said she would ask her WWOOFer if, by any remote chance, he had come across the FiNZ and I said I would do likewise, although both of us thought it highly unlikely that they had met, Nelson having a popuation of about 60,000. Our questions were, we felt sure, going to receive a similar response to the one that travellers give when they are asked: 'So, you're from X? Hey, I have a brother-in-law called John Smith in X. I don't suppose you've come across him?' (For X, substitute the name of any city with at least several million inhabitants.)

But not this time.

The WWOOFer did, indeed, know the FiNZ and had met her several times . . .

This information arrived via email early on Saturday evening just as I was finishing my previous blogpost and I could hardly wait to tell the FiNZ, for whom it was already Sunday morning, and who - by chance, of course - just happened to be checking her messages. We exchanged a rapid flurry of questions and answers. Yes, yes, she knew the WWOOFer and his family, whose land just happened to adjoin the farm where she had stayed. She had fed their chickens when they were away and even, on one occasion, employed 'some fancy footwork and elaborate planning' in herding her farm's small flock of sheep to the WWOOFer's family land to graze.

We both agreed that what was needed now, at our respective ends of the globe was a pot of strong tea and a sit-down to contemplate the relatively small number of people and the equally small chain of events that spanned 11,000 miles of land and sea, connecting a woman, originally from Zambia - who had travelled from South Africa to live in New Zealand, and who had stayed on a farm in a very quiet valley, on the outskirts of Nelson - with a young man from the very same spot and who had travelled across the world to stay on a smallholding in a quiet valley in Devon.

Before we sat down with the tea, however, I mentioned that she might enjoy the post I'd just written because it was a subject close to her heart - dark skies, environmental responsibility, carbon reduction and so on. (At this point, you need to scroll down to the previous post or click on this link to see - and hear if you wish - the song that it includes.)

Fifteen minutes later she was back online: ' I read your blogpost and I'm in the kitchen making tea . . . listening to Radio NZ National . . . and . . . WHAT do they play?'

I suspect, dear readers, that you already know the answer. And you would be right.

*You can read more about World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms (WWOOF) here.

Notorious

 

Believe me, life is never dull here in the wild, wild West. Things happen that probably couldn't in, let's say Woking or Frinton . . . unless you can tell me otherwise.

Take yesterday, for example; I was expecting a visit from one of my oldest friends. And then I was tipped off that a local drug and porn baron pensioner was hosting the woodland funeral and burial of  the notorious one-time road manager of one of the world's most notorious rock bands. A band not exactly known for its quiet and abstemious lifestyle. A band that wrote the Rule Book of Excess. And then tore it up. Even the toned-down versions of what they did while on the road would put you off your breakfast - at the very least.

Said burial to be followed by wake at local pub. 

Not surprisingly, the old friend and I decided to give the woods a miss for our afternoon walk and took the dogs up to the moor. Even that didn't go entirely to plan, when the red-faced and portly husband of the dreaded Mrs Double-Barrel drove towards us at top speed. (Mrs D-B beside him, with her exhausted hunter no doubt being hurled around in the horsebox behind as their monster vehicle tore along, the day's hunting having finished.) Mr D-B was driving so recklessly that he forced us off the road. He is also notorious in this locality for, yes, reckless driving. (I don't think this sort of behaviour can be good for his blood pressure.)

Nevertheless, we had a wonderfully uplifting walk on the moor, relishing the afternoon sun on our backs, and set our mind to things higher than bonkers hunter-drivers and decadent rock bands and their managers. We talked instead of hairdressers, including Jingles in Baker Street which we used to go to c1974 (where, as my friend reminded me, I foolishly allowed a stylist to chop off my long, blonde hair, sob, sob), and how the nature of our days has changed in the past year and what we thought about A Book of Silence and so on. 

The dogs ran backwards and forwards along the moorland track, blissfully unaware of all the day's shenanigans, living, as dogs do, absolutely in the moment. A perfect canine example of the Buddhist concept of mindfulness.

The wake, by the way, went on until very, very late. 

I wouldn't really have given any it another thought, had I not been half-listening to BBC R4 this morning, when the announcer introduced a programme about one of the most notorious album covers of the 1970s, created for . . .  one of the world's most notorious rock bands.

So I sat bolt upright and listened and it did, indeed, include a barely-veiled reference to one of the most stomach-churning episodes in the above-mentioned road manager's time with said band. I pondered the inexplicable synchronicity of things. As you do.

Anyway, if the village ever finds itself strapped for cash, perhaps it could organise guided tours to the last resting place of Mr X. Once the dust has settled. It could be our answer to Jim Morrison's grave in Père Lachaise.

 

But if you go down to the woods today, be warned. It's no place for teddy bears. 

Less is more?

There appears to be a growing body of evidence that dispensing with traffic lights reduces traffic accidents. The absence of traffic lights means that drivers approach road crossings more carefully and make a point of checking that it is safe to turn left, right, cross etc, instead of frantically trying to beat the lights - often with disastrous consequences. And there are fewer traffic jams, apparently.

So I was wondering . . . would parliament function more efficiently and the public be better served if we simply dispensed with MPs? Or maybe just got rid of this lot (yes, all of them, with one or two honourable exceptions) and voted in replacements who can do sums? And read rule books. While we're at it, we might as well also recruit eagle-eyed accounts clerks who can spot dodgy expenses claims at 50 paces and are upright enough to send such dodgy claims straight back, with the words "Do again" writ large in red pen across them.

I've been watching this whole sorry saga unravel and have decided to keep a tally of how many MPs justify their actions with the words: "It was a simple mistake." Yeah, right. The thing is, if they haven't got the basic skills required to fill in an accurate expenses claim, how can we trust them to determine and manage our national budget? (Well, yes, that's out of control too.) Either they're too dim to fill in a form or they have acted duplicitously. Whichever it is, the present incumbents are clearly not fit for purpose.

I was listening to BBC R4 news yesterday and one interviewee got it in one. He was talking about former minister, Elliot Morley, who continued to claim for mortgage payments long after his mortgage had been paid off. As the interviewee remarked, paying off one's mortgage is a major achievement for most of us. It's not something you simply forget about. It's not a simple mistake.

The other toe-curling aspect of the dodgy expenses story is that we would be naive to assume that milking expenses is confined to MPs. Years ago - under a Tory administration - I worked for an organisation that came under the umbrella of a government department. Although theoretically independent, we were - for all intents and purposes - civil servants, paid out of the public purse. The complexities of the civil service expenses system were notorious, so new recruits were tipped off to go and have a quiet word with a very senior and highly regarded civil servant, who could be relied upon to guide them through the maze - and claim the very maximum that they were entitled to. Whether or not they had actually spent the money . . .

The system was wide open to abuse and was taken full advantage of at every opportunity. It created a false sense of entitlement that went way beyond expenses and which was epitomised for me in a telephone conversation I once had with someone in another department. I'd asked to speak to one of her colleagues and was told that he was on sick leave.

 "I'm sorry,"I said, "I hope he'll be better soon."

"Oh, he's not ill;" came the reply, "he's just using up his sick leave allowance."

Really, sometimes I felt like Alice in Wonderland. The irony is, that had I spent the rest of my career there, I would have enjoyed a substantial salary, with annual increments, excellent promotional prospects and a socking great index-linked pension at the end of it. Not to mention very generous expenses . . .  it's not like that when you're self-employed: no paid sick leave, no paid holiday entitlement, and no employer's contributions to your pension pot. Then there are the Inland Revenue and the VATman snapping at your heels and scrutinising every move you make. Submit a form a day late and you'll get a £100 fine - at the very least. Leave it longer and you'll probably end up in the Tower.

There may, of course, be one unforeseen consequence of the MPs' expenses scandal: we'll probably have a bit less pontificating about benefits scroungers. For a while at least. As they say, a week is a long time in politics.

Snouts in the trough

Spot the difference

Zara Phillips

Er . . .some pigs

So let me get this right. RBS, the bank that the British taxpayer is bailing out to the tune of billions of pounds, is paying Zara Phillips (horse-riding grand-daughter of the Queen and 11th in line to the throne, if you care about that sort of thing) £90,000 (128,00 US$) a year in sponsorship. Part of the deal is that she is expected to act as a "brand ambassador" for RBS. Mmm, wonder how she will be doing that.

Funnily enough, her brother, Peter Phillips(10th in line to the throne) works in the bank's sponsorship department . . . what an amazing coincidence.

Even the Daily Telegraph seems shocked.

But let's not rush to judgement. International eventing doesn't come cheap and I expect that the Land Rover advertising deal she picked up was barely enough to keep the horses in hay.

You're looking for what ... ?

Mr McGee, sans front tooth

There are moments in each blogger's life when the wonders of the internet become fully apparent - the moments when you scan the search terms that bring people to your blog. Some are intriguing; some are perplexing, and some leave you almost speechless. A visitor arrived on 60 Going On today, via the following:

i have a front tooth missing how do I get it repaired 

Er, don't they have dentists in England's North West (where the enquiry originated)?  

Wait a minute. Didn't I read something about England footballer (and famous North-Westerner), Steve Gerrard, allegedly knocking out  a front tooth belonging to DJ (and not very famous North-Westerner) Marcus McGee in a night club affray at the end of December? 

I'm sure that this is nothing more than a coincidence. And I'm sure that my mystery visitor wasn't Mr M. Makes you think, though.

What is it about the North West and missing teeth?  I have good friends from that part of the country, none of whom would dream of knocking anyone's teeth out and none of whom would go around with any front teeth missing. I wonder what they have to say on the subject.