This was a few days ago and I forgot to post it.
As if the kettling and the tasering and all the other stuff they (the police) now consider is reasonable, isn’t enough.
They lost my trust some time ago but this just goes to confirm my worst fears. One wonders how many other things are ‘let’ go by ordinary people thinking that the police actually know the law and are ‘right’?
Dreadful, dreadful, dreadful.
This follows on from my last post. I also really fancy a Cadbury’s Creme Egg and, since some of my readers didn’t know about Hot Cross Buns and, almost certainly, won’t have ever heard of a Creme Egg, here are pictures of both:
Cadbury's Creme Eggs - yum, yum
Hot-Cross-Buns
In addition, some readers wanted pictures of the all-important birthday party and so, here they are:
When I walked in through the front door, there were balloons on the ceiling –
balloons on ceiling
balloons on ceiling2
……….and a banner –
happy birthday banner
………. and, of course there was the cake with the candle. Note the carefully placed bits of the ‘cake’ as decoration around the cake itself 
birthday cake
……….. and cake with the birthday boy quite eager (in spite of the candle flame) to get his mouth on it –
birthday cake and dino
……… and the birthday boy looking out from under the table –
the birthday boy
And, finally, although the balloons were up on the ceiling on Friday night, by Saturday morning they had started to drop and by Saturday night, most were on the floor and so a compromise was made with clusters of them all over the flat! –
more birthday balloons
And, there you have it. I hope you enjoyed the pictures of the birthday party.
….some Hot Cross Buns. I have the butter.
Is it time, yet?
“What sort of English do you want?”
I should ask this, really.
In any case, I wouldn’t get the right answer.
But I do try to explain. If I were to say “Me to go cinema this night”, I’m sure you would understand that I am going to the cinema this evening. Is it good English? Well, no, of course not if, by good English you mean to say ‘like a native’.
But even that is not quite correct. Take, for example, “If I was to come to urs ….” Written by a native speaker or some ‘useless’ foreigner? Of course, it would be made by normal English speakers in the UK. Therefore ‘like a native’ is a bit misleading, is it not, since it should read “If I were to come to your house …”?
So, exactly what is ‘good’ English? And, to live or converse with people in the UK, how good does it have to be?
This article, then, seeks to define how ‘good’ good should be and advises that ‘not very good’ is, in fact, good enough.
And I agree. And, anyway, it’s only by use, by reading, by listening (and, maybe, by having a good teacher/copy editor – ahem!) to good English that we can hope to improve our own.
In any event, English evolves simply because native English speakers adjust the language and grammar to suit themselves. I wonder, indeed, how long it will take for your and you’re to just become ur or their, there and they’re to become a singly-spelt word, maybe ther? Already ur is used, not only in texting but also in emails and, I guess, any time the word is written.
After all, with just the two lettas, its quicka, init?
Walk down any High Street in the UK and, more or less, you could be walking down any High Street in any UK city.
What’s wrong with that?
Positively, it means that, wherever you go in the UK, you can be sure there will be the same shops. It means that, if you buy something in, say, Nottingham, it’s more than likely you can buy the same thing in Exeter. This is a good thing, right?
Well, yes, of course. And also no.
The High Street is filled with the same shops everywhere. Individual shops, local to a town or small region have all but disappeared. It means that economies of scale can apply – the big shops buy larger amounts so can get better prices which, hopefully, they pass on to the consumer.
I remember when we first came here. I was shocked but delighted to see shops that weren’t the same in every town. How refreshing it was to find a small, independent jewellers, a stationary shop that had something different or unusual, etc? It was a little like when we went to live in North West Herefordshire and went shopping in Kington.
It’s a treasure that one should guard lovingly. Of course, in every major town there are streets full of High Street names, but mixed with them and in many side streets off them are the small shops. Let’s take cake shops as an example. Go to the UK and there’s Greggs. Probably there are some others but Greggs comes to mind. Greggs is in every town. Everything is ‘freshly made’. Everything is ‘the same’. You go to Greggs because you know what you’re going to get.
Here it’s not like that. Each cake shop (maybe with a café as well) produces their own stuff. Cakes are different. Some cakes you won’t get anywhere else. There’s a risk, of course, that you won’t like what they’ve made. There’s also the risk that it will be a unique experience and will be the most divine thing you’ve ever tasted – like my local cake shop does zeppole. However, I am informed (by F) that these are not quite the same as normal zeppole. They are not deep fried (as is common) but baked. They have ones filled with custard and ones filled with cream. If we choose them, we usually have one of each.
The UK used to be more like this but then it all changed. Competition was everything and, gradually, for convenience and, originally, price, we chose to use the big supermarkets and the national bakers, etc. And, so, the result is a High Street that is homogeneous and, to be frank, boring as hell.
And now Italy is going down the same road. People here don’t realise what it will mean. It means that the small shops will close. It means that all towns will look the same. We will have to buy what everyone else buys because there will, in the end, be less choice – well, less real choice.
Of course, it’s being sold as ‘opening up the markets’ and the arguments are made that everyone will benefit. But, in reality it will mean that big business gets to own the market and the benefit will be, in a word, ‘grey’ – i.e., the same things sold everywhere.
I find that I can’t put into words what this change really means. But I’m not sure that the free market is actually worth the loss of what Italy has now (and what the UK HAD about 30 or more years ago).
Sure, it would be nice to buy aspirin and stuff at the supermarket. It would be nice that shops were always open. But that ‘nice’ is tempered by the fact that, as a result of allowing this to happen, we shall lose something that is most precious.
It’s not that I don’t want change or that change is bad. It’s not that I even like the rules and regulations here. It’s more that I don’t want to see, here, what happened to the UK. Nothing is perfect but I am fearful that Italy’s ‘localisation’ will be lost forever and it’s something I would not like to see.
After all, once the small places are gone, they are gone forever – there’s no going back.
Joni sang all that needs to be said:
(Joni Mitchell – Big Yellow Taxi)
I had a sudden thought, in the car, on the way to the airport.
What if V were on the plane? For some reason this possibility hadn’t even crossed my mind until that moment and for some other reason, it made me feel uncomfortable.
There were three things about this party:
1. Ay
It was her 21st. From a beautiful baby to a beautiful woman. How time flies. My meories of her are precious.
2. The Family.
They were my family for over 20 years. They still are my family. I still feel at home with them which, I thought, was strange, since I had believed it was because of V. It seems not.
3. V.
Of course, this was my biggest ‘concern’ And, so, on to the party ……..
I got to the hotel and watched some TV (see earlier post) and then decided to go down for a cigarette. There had been dire warnings about how cold it was in the UK, so I dressed up – hat, coat, scarf, gloves, etc.
In reality, it wasn’t that bad and I felt almost foolish being so well guarded against the non-existent cold.
So, I’m there, outside the hotel, having a cigarette and wishing I was home. I phone C to ask what time it will finish as I need to phone a taxi.
“Probably about 4″, she states. OK, I know it’s a family whose roots are Jamaican and, therefore, should have known – but, really, FOUR!?!
She tells me there is someone who wants to talk to me. She passes me to V. He seems quite pleasant. I tell him I will be there later.
I’ve brought a suit. I nearly changed my mind but, in the end, thought it would be better. I go up to take a bath but, whilst it is running, I see the water is yellow and full of black bits. I decide to have a shower.
It’s after the shower that I realise I didn’t bring my brush. Nor even a comb. Bugger!
I use the only thing I have which is a nail brush. It’s not good but it’s all I’ve got. Luckily the room has a hairdryer so that’s something. The result I’m not happy with but there’s nothing I can do about it.
I get ready and go. I could be a bit early but better early than late. I go to the taxi rank at the airport. I get in a taxi and we’re there about 10 minutes early.
I go to the door. Outside are some people I recognise in some way. I guess they’re V’s brother’s oldest children who are in their 20’s. They recognise me more than I them. I certainly couldn’t put names to them – well, I couldn’t at that moment.
One of them goes in to say I am here. C comes out and goes a bit wild. There’s lots of hugging and kissing and stuff. V stands in the doorway. We say ‘Hi’.
We go inside into the entrance porch. There is of course the ‘How are you?’s; the ‘You’re looking well’s, etc. V’s Mum and Dad are there. I was pleased that his Dad looked really fit and well – it meant that I could honestly be delighted to see him and shock was not obvious on my face, even if I had expected to see him thinner and ‘shrunken’, because the only shock was how well he looked.
It was wonderful to see them. Ay wasn’t there but ‘getting ready at home’. Obviously, she wanted to ‘make an entrance’.
V was going to pick her up in the car. He suggested that I come too.
V looked good. Almost like his old self and certainly much, much better than last time I saw him. He didn’t look so old either. We talked a lot. It was almost as if nothing had ever happened. He was (as he was before) fun to be with. I enjoyed our time together.
Of course, the difference was that I didn’t worry about what he said. I mean, it didn’t matter if it was bullshit or not. It isn’t like it matters to me – I mean to say, it doesn’t have any effect on my life, my day-to-day living, not like before. So he could be whomever he wanted and I didn’t know, nor need to know, anything beyond the shallow front. And that was good.
Even P, his other sister, was nice to me!
He told me that everyone had been talking about me coming. That it was really important to them. It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not, it was nice to think they might have been.
But I didn’t scratch too deep. I’m not good with the sight of blood and what purpose would it serve anyway?
Ay looked fabulous. And, of course, to me, not 21. She looked like a little, sweet girl. But I love her still, even if she’s only my ‘niece’ by virtue of the relationship I had with V.
And I do miss the food – rice and peas, chicken, etc. It was really lovely to have some again.
And I do miss them all, even V. They make me feel warm and comfortable and, well, like being in a family.
So, the party was fine and V was very nice and everyone was very nice and Ay looked so beautiful and I cannot express how I feel now she’s turned 21.
And I got a little drunk and got a taxi back about 2 or 2.30 but that was OK.
I must have been out of my mind!
It’s the only explanation.
You may remember, when I went to the UK the last time, I was having a coffee with Best Mate and saw a croissant (brioche, here) that looked delicious.
I was thinking of the brioches that we have at our local café. What I got, of course, was the British equivalent, which is is no way equivalent except that they look similar. It was not fresh – out of the oven that morning but, rather, several days old. It was dreadful.
I had a lot to drink on Friday night. The next morning I was up early to catch the flight home. I needed coffee – even if I knew the coffee wouldn’t be that good.
After checking in, I went to find coffee. Costa Coffee in the departure lounge seemed the best bet. there was a queue – a long queue. The woman behind mentioned that she would like a bacon sandwich. Mmmmm, I thought. Yes a bacon sarnie would be just right.
I wait. The queue is NOT inching forward. Of course, there’s not a queue in an Italian bar but the staff are incredibly quick and they are, normally, very good at working out who’s next but, anyway, I’m used to it now so can usually get my coffee quite quickly.
I feel that some serious training, given by Italians to the British, would be useful. They are not slow – they are bloody useless. I look at my watch. My plane will be boarding in about 20 minutes. They finish serving the customer at the head of the queue. The queue inches forward. I count the number of people and realise that, at this speed, if I am lucky, I will get my coffee and bacon sarnie about 10 minutes after my plane has boarded.
Oh well, I think, I shall just go somewhere else.
I leave the queue.
The only somewhere else is Burger King or the pub.
I opt for Burger King. After all, I remember the burgers as quite good – well, better than McDonald’s anyway!
I look at their offerings. I wonder why we’ve always got to look up at these places.
They have a Bacon Butty. It includes egg, which I don’t really want and cheese, which I also don’t really want but, OK, I can eat it. I order cappuccino too. I pay £5 something. Normally, in our local bar, we pay €4.80 for two cappuccinos and two brioches. Ah well, who cares, I think.
I sit at the table and unwrap my Bacon Butty.
I will try to describe it.
First, it is small – no bigger than my palm. The bread is soft but not soft as in soft bread but more like hot bread that has been run under a tap. Soft in a wet sense. The egg is not, of course, a fried egg. Nor is it some scrambled egg. It is a burger made of an egg-like substance. I suppose you could say it was like scrambled egg except that it really isn’t.
The bacon is thin – but so thin it is thinner than Italians cut their meat. Wafers are thicker. It tastes of bacon.
I liberally spread tomato sauce over it all. I have to hold the bun carefully, just in case the wet bun starts to disintegrate with gravity. I am convinced that, if I squeezed the bun, I would get about a quarter of a pint of water from it.
It is vile and not really food but it is, perhaps and only perhaps, better than nothing.
The cappuccino is interesting. The froth on a cappuccino is supposed to be thick and creamy. It seems that, whoever has been learning about cappuccinos has heard the thick bit and accordingly, the froth is so thick that the plastic stirrer stands up. In fact, it is difficult to move it around. Well, at the end of it, it tastes vaguely like coffee.
I can’t forget the Bacon Butty though. The wet bun, the terrible egg, the whole experience.
But, I wonder at how the British people got to a stage where this was acceptable. Where slow service (Costa Coffee) and bad coffee and this Bacon Butty were considered to be acceptable. Indeed, where the Bacon Butty came to be considered food?
I don’t think I could go back and live in the UK, not least because of the food. I must have been out of my mind.
I mean, it’s so much better, isn’t it?
The Brits, who as F rightly says, are quite arrogant, think they have the best TV in the world. They scoff at American ‘crap’ (even though we all watch it); we used to have Eurotrash, taking the piss out of those horrendous foreign TV shows – our shows are just so ‘classy’.
I don’t go for Italian TV much. Not least because I don’t understand it all and so it is not really relaxing.
So, if I’m in the UK, I can’t wait to watch a bit of decent TV.
Except ………..
I get to the hotel about 5. I remember the news is on at 6 but it’s too late to go into Birmingham (which was my original intention) and so I lie down on the bed and switch the TV on.
I flick through some channels. There’s some kid’s stuff but most of the main channels have game shows. I’ve heard of some of them. The Usual Suspects. I’ve read about that, so I linger on that. What a pile of trash it is. Then there’s Deal/No Deal with the great Noel Edmundson (that was a joke – the ‘great’ bit). I’m watching this with some disbelief since it is, in fact, an English version of some show over here. Which is also mind-numbingly dreadful – I mean I have watched it because I can understand it – and if I can understand it, it has to be of fairly low quality.
Then there’s the news. I was addicted to the news when I lived in the UK. Now, it seems too shallow, too much in the way of soundbites, too sensational ……. or quite dumb.
In the past when I’ve been back to the UK, I’ve watched it but this time I realised that every time, without fail, it just disappoints me.
Great TV? No, it’s not great TV. It’s the same as TV the world over. Shallow and pointless and, to be frank, boring. We used to sit in front of the television for hours. It was one of the reasons I never got satellite TV over here. I didn’t want to spend my whole life in front of the box. And now, after time without TV (if you see what I mean), it’s just so very disappointing.
I admit to being a little apprehensive.
Amongst other reasons it’s the flying. I mean I love to fly – I just don’t like all the security and time-wasting crap that goes on, as I have mentioned before. It makes me anxious. Really it’s about the most horrible people doing all this. I mean to say, sometimes they are nice but often they are not nice and sometimes downright rude.
Then there is the going to the UK. I find myself disappointed, usually, these days. Disappointed with the people, the weather, the food, even the coffee. Of course, it’s not ‘home’ any more, which, for certain is part of it.
Then there is the meeting with people who I haven’t seen for at least four years – some even more than that. It’s not that being with them again is the problem it’s the different circumstances. I relied on V to remind me who all these people were. This time, I will have to rely on my own memory.
Not for all of the people, of course.
Then there is the ‘what to say’ thing.
Indeed, what to say?
I will be asked how I am. For some, it won’t be enough for me to say ‘Fine, thanks’. But, how far to go? I don’t know that they want to hear ‘Fantastic! Never been better’, or some such thing. But it will be difficult to keep it in check.
And, then, of course, there is V. Since I have no idea (well, very little) on the reality of his situation, I guess that much of what he will say will be bullshit. And, even if it weren’t to be bullshit, I would think it were so, which is a great shame.
Still, there is the slight concern that he will want to get back together again. And I don’t want to be cruel or hurtful but, quite obviously, there would be no chance of that, even if I weren’t with F now.
So, although I am looking forward to the party, I am very much looking forward to Saturday evening, when I will be back home and it will all be over and all the things that have worried me will be in the past.
Yes, I am a little anxious. But I guess it will all be OK really.
RBS, the bank that made some rather serious mistakes and was bailed out by the UK Government (read by the UK people), are in the news almost every day. Especially in the Daily Hate Mail, who blame the bank for everything.
They’ve not lent money to a business! So the headline screams. Although, of course, if they HAD done it and the business had subsequently failed the headlines would have read “RBS throwing tax-payers money down the drain” or something similar.
For a few weeks now, they (amongst other media) have sought to have the knighthood, awarded to Fred Goodwin (for services to the crisis, I suppose), the ex-boss of RBS and the leader at the time of the disastrous investments, revoked. They asked how it was possible that he kept his knighthood when the bank had to be rescued by the British taxpayer.
The call to strip Mr Goodwin became louder (in the media, that is). And, eventually, the deed was done.
But, one has to ask, without the shrilling of the media, would it have happened?
And, what purpose does this [revoking of the honour] possibly serve?
The media have a part to play in our life but, surely, not to run the country? This is similar to the call for the ban of dangerous dogs; ‘Sarah’s Law'; and a thousand and one other laws and decisions made on the back of the ‘call from the media’. Things that often, quite frankly, are wrong or, at the very least, waste time and money on something that does not work or is irrelevant.
But, I suppose, it distracts the average Joe from looking at real issues.
To me, not only is this trial by media wrong in every case but it also highlights a weak government, one that is reactive rather than proactive; one that thinks publicity (and good publicity, in particular) is everything.
As it is being pointed out (but more quietly), surely, if Mr Goodwin’s knighthood is ‘shredded’, so too should the honours and awards given to other bankers. After all, it was their industry as a whole that got us into this mess, not the actions of a single man.
I hate the idea of the world being run by the media who are, after all, there to sell papers or subscriptions or raise market share for their advertisers. No business really does something for the public good (unless there is money to be made from it) and the media are no exception to the rule.
But they seem to be the new rulers.