Fancy a trip to the magnificent Blenheim Palace?

So, let’s zoom back to last Saturday (yep, I have been a tardy blogger). My friend Sarah had come to stay for the weekend, and I was also desperately awaiting news about when (or if), my daughter Izzy was likely return home after being stranded in a French ski-resort because of the erupting Icelandic volcano.

After fragmented telephone conversations with Izzy’s father (who was the person who took her to France) I found out that they had managed to catch a coach to take them from the south of France to the north, but beyond that, there were no confirmed travel plans.

On top of that, some experts were predicting that the volcano could erupt for years, so there was a remote possibility that she would appear back on my doorstep at an age where she could earn a wage. Result.

Just quickly, as an aside; I have a theory that the volcano was named by someone who had a violent aversion to newsreaders. Otherwise it wouldn’t have been called Eyjafjallajokull. If that isn’t a name designed to piss someone off, I don’t know what is.

So back to Saturday (again), and Sarah and I decided to go and visit Blenheim Palace, the ancestral seat of the 11th Duke of Marlborough (one of the UK’s landed gentry), and located 30 minutes drive from Oxford.

The Duke of Marlborough actually still lives there, and for six months of the year he opens both his palace and grounds to the great unwashed……….. a gesture which seems to be the metaphorical equivalent of flipping the Royal bird to the commoners ……… ‘look what you haven’t got!’

Having said that, the palace was supposed to be a superb example of Baroque architecture, so we didn’t let the fact that we were members of the proletariat (and probably a target for the Duke’s shooting practice on a lazy Saturday afternoon), put us off.

Pic.No.2.5 Sarah and I had lunch on the terrace (who doesn’t?) and this was our view

Just in case you are interested, here are some other interesting facts about Blenheim Palace:

• The Queen commanded that the palace be built for the 1st Duke of Marlborough after he led troops to victory over France in the battle of Blenheim in the early 1700s (yep, England’s entire history seems to consist of the scrapping with the French)
• It only cost £300,000 to build the whole thing in the eighteenth century
• The palace is set in 2100 acres of land…… hang on a minute….. isn’t that most of England?
• The land on which the palace is built is still rented from the Queen to this day, and all she requires as payment is a Blenheim flag. [note to self: approach my landlord with a new proposition]
• Even though Sir Winston Churchill was born in the palace (he was the Duke of Marlborough’s nephew), in contrary to popular belief he never lived there. The palace always gets handed down from eldest son to eldest son……. and the rest of the heirs are left to face their fate.

So, if the the excitement of Blenheim Palace wasn’t enough, it would be rude not to drive to the nearby village of Bladon afterwards.

“Why?” I hear you cry.

Well, it’s because Sir Winston Churchill, Britain’s great World War II Prime Minister, is buried there because he was a direct descendant of the Marlborough family.

Did we go to the church? Damn right we did. And here’s the proof……………………

Roofing sharks

I walked down this road in Oxford today and thought I’d take a photograph of the shark, just in case you haven’t seen it before:

Telling it like it is

There may be swearing in this. If you don’t like that you can f-f-f-fade away…

Lunchtime today I dropped in to one of the public libraries in this county.

I browsed around and, after a while, found an interesting-looking book which I took off to a less-busy – indeed *quiet* – corner of the library.

I’d been reading for about 20 minutes when two late-teenagers (a boy and a girl) came in to the area to use the two public-access internet terminals near where I sat.

They talked to each other across the intervening gap (about 1m80) and they talked to each other across the gap *loudly*.

They had no consideration for me, or anyone else in the vicinity.

It wasn’t just the loudness of their childishly meaningless, inane and mostly monosyllabic chatter that annoyed the hell out of me (and why, for Heaven’s sake would they even think that anyone within 5 nautical miles would be remotely interested in them verbally relaying to each other what they’d just said on their Facebook chat sessions to their ‘friends’?).

It was their complete and utter disregard, their unthinking attitude, the total absence of consideration for anyone else.

That’s what I’m absolutely bloody furious about.

Because the noise they made went beyond ‘talking loudly’.

There was the wheeling over to each other’s terminal, the slapping, the pinching…

And the swearing. The constant litany of ‘fucking’ this and ‘cunting’ that, that came from the pair of them.

Yet less than 3m away was – get this! – the children’s area!

Did the close proximity of the children’s area stop our two future Jeremy Kyle stars from swearing at loud volume?

No, of course it didn’t.

Don’t they know how to behave in a library?

I mean, how old are these two?

Well actually I know the answer to that question.

The girl – Sileas Campbell – is 17 (going on a mental age of 9). I don’t know how old the boy is (but I fully expect that if you combined their IQs, the total score would still be in double digit territory).

How do I know her name?

Because she left her internet terminal to ‘play’ with her friend and she left her Facebook homepage in full, public view.

So Miss Sileas Campbell, not too bright are you?

In fact, you display the same awareness of physical computer security as you show awareness of the needs of anyone else in the library.

If I knew the name of the guy who was with Miss Sileas Campbell I’d name and shame him too.

Whoever he is, he displays the same emotional and mental immaturity, the same total disregard for anyone else and the same lack of knowledge for the correct way to behave in a library.

Their parents must be really proud of them both.

I, however, am not proud to be a member of the same species as this selfish little cunt.

Sileas Campbell on Facebook

Sileas Campbell on myYearbook

I do what with this now?

So, I went to work today.

Yup.

I was the one.

OK.  I exaggerate.  The Costa ladies in Witney were there way before I wandered in and dripped all over them at 8.15am.

Ah, yes.  I went to Witney Library to work.  Well, driving to Abingdon would have been suicide.  And homocide.

It’s annoying though, because Abingdon was closed due to staff not being able to get in.  So all the staff whose local library is Abingdon didn’t have to work.  Bah.

But it was fun.  There were two of us from Abingdon and many from Oxford Central and a couple from Witney itself, so we weren’t all doing everything wrong (I may have made the till make beepy noises, due to it being weird…or my not being able to figure it out…).

And can you believe it?  People came into the library.

In this weather.

We ARE an essential service after all! Huzzah!

But we closed at 3pm, due to weather and stuff.

Anyway.  I was really tired when I got home.  Nothing strange there, except I’d worked less hours than usual.

But walking in snow is tiring.  Yes.

So I polished off the blue cheese (no, it didn’t tell rude jokes) that was stinking the fridge, and therefore the house, out.

Which means I had a snack of 6 Ryvita smothered in butter and cheese.

Is it bad to eat blue cheese with a spoon because it’s too crumbly?

Shortly afterwards I washed the salty-smelliness down with many Christmas chocolates.

All while watching Channel 4 late afternoon telly.  Bliss.

Halfway through The Simpsons, I noticed my darling husband had closed his eyes and was breathing slightly heavier than usual.

And I thought ‘Hmm.  I would like some of that snoozing due to my over-eating in the afternoon’ and snuggled up under my fleece and fell very much asleep.

To be woken by the house phone ringing half an hour later.

I jumped up and ran over to where the phone is.

And looked.

And looked.

Until Bren said ‘Well, answer it then!’ and I remembered what I had to do.

I had a conversation that made no sense at all.  Luckily, it was with my Mum, who has had conversations with me while I’ve still been asleep, so she will understand.  Or she’s already called the men in white coats.

But I am slightly freaked out, because I was staring at the phone, but for some reason was looking for a hand-held phone, rather than our old fashioned corded normal phone.  And I was feeling the area around the phone as if I was missing something with my eyes and needed that extra sense to put the final piece into place.

Is that weird?  Because I do wonder if my brain is slightly…wrong, sometimes.

Can you get Early Onset Alzheimer’s at 30?

*Goes to interwebs to find out*

“I wouldn’t have thought libraries were a stressful place to work…”

…said my dealer doctor before handing over that magical bit of paper that provides (at a small price) access to seratonin/endorphin-enhancing pharmaceuticals.

So, here’s a small example of what we altruistic (ahem) library staff have to deal with.

This evening, three well-known (to us) young (mid-teen, perhaps) lads came in.  That’s fine.  So far, so good.  Apart from breaking the relative peace of the building they were doing no harm.

They went and sat by one of the radiators, tucked away in a corner.  They were a bit loud, but not enough that anyone had cause to complain, so I left them to it.  I was busy with some highly important library-detective work.

One of the lads beckoned me over to ask where the ‘Where’s Wally’ books were.  I showed him.  All is well, still.

Ten minutes passes.

One of the young lads decides it’s time to run around throwing teddy bears.

Obviously.

So, T, a young lad himself (but a ‘nice’ young lad), who is one of our Casual staff, asked them to pack it in.

I went over and looked at them, and said that if they continue to mess about, they’ll be back out in the cold.

The one lad looked at his mate and said “that’s a bit cuntish, innit?”

So I said “OK, now you can leave.”

To much protestation from all.

I went on to say that “you can’t talk to people like that” and “I’m not arguing with you – out!”

I didn’t shout.  My voice may have been slightly raised.

But, oh, the injustice.

“I never said anything – it was ‘im!”

“Well, you should choose your friends more wisely.  If you stay, he’ll just come back.  Off you go.”

And that was that.

I wonder if I was a bit harsh.

I mean, I swear.  In fact, what I wanted to say was ‘You don’t FUCKING talk to people like that, you little shit!  Do you understand? Now fuck off back to the gutter’. But of course, I didn’t.

Perhaps this is just their way of speaking.  I mean, earlier in the day there were a couple of girls who can’t have been older than 15/16 who were talking about ‘fucking this’ and ‘fucking that’.  Not even trying to curb their language while I, or anyone else, was in earshot. And it was just natural conversation – I don’t think they were trying to appear more adult or cooler or anything like that.

And it’s just words, I know, it’s all the evolving language that is English.  Personally, I don’t care what sort of language people use amongst themselves.  But surely in a place of work there has to be certain rules – especially when that place of work is a public library.

The other thing is, he was probably just saying it to get a rise out of me.  And I guess he did.  I validated his presence by acknowledging him.  Maybe that is how it works in his house.  Perhaps he is only acknowledged when he plays up.  And that makes me sad.  But that doesn’t mean I have to put up with him calling me ‘cuntish’, to my face, in my place of work, does it?

Twat.

Do unto others?

I worry about Soph. Or, more accurately, I worry about how The Great British Public treat Soph in her workplace.

To me it seems wrong that people can (and do) go in to a library and treat the staff in a manner which, if the treatment were reversed upon them, would cause them to complain and (rightly) say such things are unacceptable.

To me it is wrong that teenagers can verbally abuse librarians, call them names like ‘Fucking slut’, can swear at and be disrespectful to the staff and yet, just get away with it.

To me it is wrong that my wife has to endure this on an almost daily basis.

To me it is also wrong that the staff in the library have no sanction – or are not permitted to take any sanction – against people who behave in this manner.

To me the county council (the employer) is being negligent; is certainly not protecting staff from abuse and harassment.

To me it is strange that if a member of the public should abuse or harass a member of railway staff, the abuser is automatically ejected from the premises, automatically charged with a public order offence, automatically sent to court and, if found guilty, automatically banned from using that service as well as gaining a conviction and a fine.

To me there is no difference between a member of railway staff or a member of staff in a library; they are both public servants and therefore of equal value.

To me, if an employer (either via a combination of weak, ineffective management and a blinkered attitude) fails to protect and support their staff, that employer is being (there is no other description that fits) grossly negligent.

It seems to me that a grossly negligent employer is open to all manner of legal action.

Does it seem that way to you?

Oxford cyclists

Oxford cyclists.

Aren’t they amazing?

Last night as we drove in to town – in the pitch black and the pouring rain – we encountered many members of that unique category of the human race, road users who believe that not only are the laws of common sense something that can be completely ignored, but who also believe they are above the requirements of the Road Traffic Act (1988, as amended by RTA 1991).

What an amazing breed they are.

• No lights (front or rear)
• No hi-viz clothing
• No hardened headgear (p.s. wooly hats actually don’t count!)

Away they trundle, bobbing and weaving unsteadily in and out of lines of traffic in a manner that would earn a person taking their CBT (the most basic moped driving test) an immediate fail for being dangerous.

I realise that some motorists are below the acceptable standard, but at least they’ve passed a test somewhere along the line. I find it impossible to believe that a large proportion of Oxford’s cyclists have passed their Cycling Proficiency Test.

Take the girl out on her bicycle last night.

Three quarters of the way down the street in which I was driving, I saw a parking space on my side of the road.

I checked the mirrors, nothing there, switched the indicator on and gently braked in a text-book position to begin the parallel-parking manoeuvre. I checked the mirrors again, put the car in to gear and began to reverse in to the vacant space.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a sudden movement behind me. Instantly I stopped the car in the middle of the road and got out to check what I had seen.

About 24 feet behind the car, on the ground, was a young girl – early teens – on a bike that was plainly too big for her. Her preferred method of dealing with the common situation of cycling towards a reversing vehicle is, it seems, not to apply her brake to reduce speed and come to a halt, or to manoeuvre out in to the road and pass the vehicle, but to throw herself off the bike and in to the road.

Amazing.

Why didn’t I see her in the dark and in the rain before I began the reversing movement?

Because she had no lights and no hi-viz clothing and yes folks, it was bloody dark.

Doubly amazing.

Yes, she could have made a loop out to the side of my car, there was sufficient space for her to pass easily (a car’s width), but instead she threw herself in to the road.

Mind you, talking of ‘could have’s’, she could have put a fucking light on the front of her bike and worn a hi-viz vest.

But then again, common sense seems to be in short supply in some people.

Like, for example, the other two Oxford cyclists we saw who ignored a red light at the start of a set of road works, and rode down the middle of the single alternating lane of traffic right in to the face of oncoming vehicles.

Amazing once again.

Increasingly, there are voices in the media being raised against the recklessness of the cycling fraternity.

Is it any wonder?

My Weekend

By Brennig, aged 12-1/2

Where the hell did it go?

One minute it was Friday night and Soph and I were sitting in front of our Microphones, giggling (as we do). The next moment there’s GMTV on the bedroom TV, Soph’s in the shower and I’m lying in bed wondering what I can do to avoid getting up.

Hmm….

Saturday:
First thing in the morning I drove to a place just outside Chippy (as we locals call Chipping Norton) to walk a cross-country course where Tom and I were scheduled to compete the following day. It was a very long cross-country course walk: an hour and 20 minutes.

The fences were all fairly straightforward and included drops, steps, hedges, walls and the usual assortment of cross-country obstacles; there was a nasty little timed section that began after fence 3 that included a gate to be opened and closed whilst mounted, but that was the only real technical obstacle.

I came away – if not bursting with confidence, at least – thinking that Tom and I could have a good crack at it.

Then I drove to the train station to pick up K who came out from Oxford to ride Vin and then Tom.

While she cracked on with Vin, Becky and I went up to the yard’s cross-country course to watch Sammi schooling her youngest, prior to a one-day event.

I don’t know what happened precisely, but whilst watching Sammi something in my head started wibbling at the thought of taking Tom around a course of cross-country fences the next day – so soon in to our relationship. It was only a little niggle but it definitely began then.

When Sammi and her ginger ninja had finished working, we all tottered back to the yard. K was finishing with Vin so I untacked him, groomed him and rugged him up while she tacked up Tom.

It was very interesting to watch K work with Tom, he’s a very different stamp of horse and a very different character to The Vinster, but it was lovely to see how hard he tried for her.

Afterwards we cleaned and oiled the saddles and both bridles, then sat and drank tea and generally gossipped (about Vin and Tom obv, K’s recent trip to southern USA and her overall progress on her Doctoral thesis).

I dropped K back at the train station and made my way home where Soph soon joined me from her day in Stratford with friends.

We went to bed and were very rude and then we fell asleep. I got up later, made us mugs of tea and we sat on the couch in our bathrobes and watched Harry Hill’s You’ve Been Framed, Harry Hill’s TV Burp and Harry Hill’s X-Factor.

Sunday:
I woke up and the wibble had grown overnight. I did not feel confident about the cross-country.

You see, if you’re in the dressage phase of a one-day event and you screw it up you just get a barrel-load of penalties, but you get to go home safe and sound at the end of it.

If you’re in the show-jumping phrase of a one-day event and you screw it up you just get a bundle of jumping penalties as the timber falls in the arena, but once again (usually) you get to go home and have a cup of tea at the end of it.

But if you’re in the cross-country phase of a one-day event and you fuck it up you get very seriously damaged, and so does your horse. Those fences don’t move and hitting the ground from a significant height at a speed of 30mph can break bones and do more soft-tissue damage than you can shake a stick at. As I can testify.

So I wimped right out of the cross-country.

I don’t know why, I just felt less than 100% confident and that, believe me, is no mental frame to go cross-country in.

We bumbled around the house, eventually leaving to forage in Costa for Latté. How the times of being a hunter-gatherer have changed!

While Soph sat and sipped and read I may have fallen asleep whilst listening to The Bitterest Pill.

After a while we packed up and headed down to the Little Chef just north of Oxford which surprised the hell out of me by listing on the menu: ‘Mushroom and Pepper suet pudding, served with a vegetable mash and peas’.

As a vegetarian, how could I resist? It was excellent winter nosh.

When we were stuffed to the brim with food and hot chocolate we drove down the Oxford ring-road towards the cinema.

We were ridiculously early, so we detoured to the garage to clean the car and briefly considered calling around to see if Mike and Jenny were in. They had a lucky escape though because we decided they didn’t deserve such punishment.

We sat in the cinema car-park and read for 45 minutes before going in to see an Over 18s showing of UP.

Can I just say here that surely – surely – that’s the only way to see this film?

A cinema-full of kids would surely ruin the experience completely? And they wouldn’t get half of the gags.

And was it wrong of me to start fancying the adult ‘Ellie’ character around the time she got married? (only people who have seen the film will be able to understand the magnitude of this question)

It is, though, a very good film. Do go and see it. Without kids, preferably.

When we got home we had an episode of Angel before falling in to bed and instantly becoming unconscious.

Neither of us wanted to get up when the early morning alarm went off, but we did. Eventually.

So yes, it was a nice weekend; restful, peaceful.

But no cross-country games because I had a crisis of confidence.

On that score, I have decided to take Tom on a cross-country course this Thursday. Hopefully this should get my confidence back up to where it used to/should be.

I have also decided that Tom and I are going to ride out – at least once – with a local Bloodhounds hunt.

And now I need to write, otherwise my deadlines won’t be met and I won’t get paid and all manner of nasty things will happen.

But while I’m writing I’m wondering about digital photography and whether I should upgrade or stay with my current set of hardware.

Anyway, that’s me.

How was yours?

Something for the weekend, sir?

Hairdressers. Barbers. Places where a chap can get ones hair shortened and not have the wallet lightened by too much

Usually I get ‘done’ by the very attractive Romanian girl who works at Clipper which is next door to New Scotland Yard, but not having any great need (or desire) to be in London, yesterday I tottered in to Witney to find a place to get my barnet done.

Lurking around the corner of one of the town’s main car parks was just the place. Newish, shiny, clean, light, airy, appointment not necessary, straight in, sit down, get done, get out. Brilliant.

Except during the usual ‘mopping up’ exercise, while the hairdresser person fannies around, removing stray follicles with a pony grooming brush, he asked me if I’d like to have my eyebrows trimmed.

WTF?

Do I look like a shaggier relative of Milo O’Shea?

And when did barbers get on to the eyebrow-shortening bandwagon? Where’s it going to end? What other bits of my bodily hair are up for the chop the next time I sit in the red leather chair?

Scary!

El fin de semana

Here we are, halfway through the weekend (because you knew what el fin de semana meant, right?) and it’s already time to sit down and take stock.

Today’s been cool, hot, interesting and a number of other descriptives.

This morning I drove in to Oxford to meet half of inLight – the Oxford-based Indie band of musical goodness.

Because I’m a little OCD about time-keeping and travel-planning I arrived an hour and a half early.

So that’s just a little OCD then.

I parked in the underground car park in Gloucester Green and made a mortgage payment on a three turret castle, this being the fee to leave my car there for three hours.

As it was lunchtime I thought I’d pass some time by having a sandwich. Cheese and Pickle. And a Latté.

The first place I tried in St Giles was a little café.

‘I’ll have a cheese and pickle sandwich please’.

‘We don’t have any pickle’, said the dull woman behind the counter, in the most unhelpful manner possible.

‘OK, I’ll just have a Latté’.

‘We don’t serve just drinks during lunchtime’.

I gave a little ironic laugh and walked out.

The second place was just a couple of doors up.

They didn’t have pickle either.

WTF is this? Is there some kind of pickle conspiracy going on? Do the good people of Oxford consider themselves too posh for the humble pickle?

Or have the good people of Oxford not yet been introduced to the wondrous properties of said pickle?

‘But we can make you,’ said the woman from the kitchen of the second shop, fetched out by the mere stripling of a boy behind the counter, in response to my quest for the Holy Pickle. ‘A cheese and caramelised [something] sandwich’.

Where [something] is a thing that I didn’t quite catch.

Anyway, it had cheese and a pickle substitute so I said yes please, took my seat and waited for my sandwich and Latté to be delivered.

The cheese and caramelised [something] sandwich was Ambrosia; food fit for the Gods. If the Gods have a taste for cheese and pickle, for that is what it tasted almost but not quite entirely like.

I sat, ate, read, drank, read some more and then left.

Still having 30 minutes to kill, I sat out on a bench and read some more, thoroughly enjoying the sunshine as I worked through American Gods – an interesting piece of fiction from the very readable Neil Gaiman.

Five minutes before the appointment I sauntered in to the pub where we’d agreed to meet, got my book out and read some more. This rock’n’roll lifestyle is just so exciting!

About fifteen minutes later Charlie and Mike strolled in; they’d been waiting outside, I’d chosen to wait inside.

Oh well.

We sat and talked, like the Walrus and the Carpenter, about many things. But not about ships and shoes and sealing wax, obv.

I hope the meeting was helpful to them, it was to me.

Then K, the American D.Phil student who occasionally rides Vin arrived – I’d arranged to meet her there.

Charlie almost drooled over her.

The four of us chatted for a while and then she and I said goodbye, we walked to the car and drove to the yard where I did much gossiping with various girls whilst K groomed, tacked up and rode.

I watched her and Vin in the arena.

Vin looks more relaxed since his visit to the physio on Monday. Max had diagnosed a tightness in Vin’s point of near shoulder which he corrected; there was nothing else that needed attention. In fact Max was very complimentary about the general state of Vin’s physical health.

Anyway.

It was interesting watching K ride him, he stretches easier now and is far more relaxed on the right rein.

Afterwards I drove K back to Oxford, then came home.

Being the complete pair of total culinary experts that we are, Soph and I instantly decided on a Chinese takeaway.

Woo yeah, go us!

Not long afterwards we sat, ate, watched X-Fuctup and followed that with a triple set of Angel episodes.

While we were watching Angel I managed to type up the notes of the meeting with inLight, and emailed them out to the band. I seem to have some actions against me. How did that happen?

And now it’s bed, at 23.30.

Tomorrow I’m off to watch the third and final day of Blenheim Horse Trials; I’ve blagged myself a pair of VIP tickets.

Soph is off to the Christening of a friend’s offspring and, faced with such a difficult choice, it was only after a long and fierce internal debate that I decided the Christening would have to give way to the VIP tickets for Blenheim.

As Soph will be out of the county for the day I’m taking K. It’s very exciting, the horse owned by the woman who owns the yard where Vin lives (if you see what I mean) is currently sixth after the dressage and cross-country phases.

Under those circs, to have a VIP ticket for the show-jumping is a very special opportunity.

And so that’s it.

Tomorrow I will walk the cross-country course, watch a bit of CIC *** dressage and some CIC *** cross-country, and then watch the CCI*** show-jumping.

All very exciting.

Oh yeah, and eat much bad food – that’s a given at a horse trials.

So how’s your weekend going? And what do you have planned for Sunday?