Flowers On A Friday

New Home

noreply@blogger.com (Flowers) — Wed, 21 May 2008 10:25:00 +0000

For one reason or another I've decided to return to my old blogging title 'The Burnt Maze'.

Last year I killed my blog. I actually deleted a whole year of posts and comments in one mental moment. I can't really remember why but anyway I've decided to reopen that box only this time over at Wordpress.

All the posts and all of your great comments have been imported so it's not a case of starting from scratch...thank God!

Here I am: The Burnt Maze.

I hope you enjoy my new home. Fingers crossed I will too!

The Tuesday Tune #28

noreply@blogger.com (Flowers) — Tue, 20 May 2008 19:54:00 +0000

Dominoes

noreply@blogger.com (Flowers) — Wed, 14 May 2008 22:26:00 +0000

I live inside a domino. Standing at the window and letting myself fall forward for a second I imagine my building starting a cascade towards the horizon. Will I pass through each building as the run goes on or will I end up peering into the foreign land that is another's apartment?

These buildings seem so out of place in the world. What other reason could there have been for placing them here in such close proximity to each other if dominoes hadn't been in mind?

In the neighbouring domino there is a man. There are probably many men but I share something with this one man. His television is never off. It flashes its passive messages past him and out into the world. A soundless light show through another television window of its own. I don't have a television so I watch his. At 4am or 5am he is still there, watching, sitting there doused in passivity.

I don't sleep well and spend more time than I would wish pacing the wooden floor of my apartment as my girlfriend is rejuvenated in the forests and streams of the land of nod. I look out across the city and, if I'm really unfortunate, see the changes the dawn brings to the carefully set dominoes.

What does he do, this man? Why is his television never at rest? Does he look out across the dominoes to mine and wonder why there is a man at the window? "Why doesn't he sleep?" asks the man. "Why doesn't he sleep?" I ask. Maybe tonight.

Oh, C'mon!

noreply@blogger.com (Flowers) — Wed, 14 May 2008 21:45:00 +0000

The Tuesday Tune #27

noreply@blogger.com (Flowers) — Mon, 12 May 2008 22:08:00 +0000

This is The Tuesday Tune #27 but it should really be entitled The Best Tuesday Tune Yet.

These Kiwi guys are fan-bloody-tastic so I've put a few choice videos up. I urge you to watch them.

Mixing The Rough With The Smooth

noreply@blogger.com (Flowers) — Mon, 12 May 2008 21:49:00 +0000

When you’re a child you have so much to do. So many important things to do like running around the garden, climbing a tree, racing through the streets or countryside on your bike. Everything is an enthusiasm and that energy propels you from your bed every morning like a tightly coiled spring of fun.

When you’re an adult you have so much to put off. So many important things to do like running around doing errands, climbing the career ladder, racing through things so you can prepare your work for the next day. Everything grates at the edges of your freetime and that erosion of energy keeps you strapped down to your bed every morning like something someone from Opus Dei would put upon their leg.

So is it possible to mix the two states, to combine that youthful, playful energy with the realities of everyday life? I’d love to know, as whilst sunny skies helped today I feel the extreme need for something more, something extra that can inflate my freetime bubble and wash away the gnawing, nagging feeling that accompanies work.

Reasons Not To Live In Britain - Part One

noreply@blogger.com (Flowers) — Fri, 09 May 2008 11:53:00 +0000

Traffic Wardens

Gordon Brown (aka Stalin, Mr. Bean, The Clunking Fist, a Joke) recently stated that traffic wardens would be called Civil Enforcement Officers. Pass the sick bag, please.

Anyway, here is a list of the ten most ridiculous parking tickets, according to The Times Online.

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1. Trucking ridiculous

It was a normal day for truck driver Michael Collins, who was on his way to collect a skip in London’s Belsize Park. But then, without warning, his truck lurched as the road beneath him collapsed. Unbeknown to Michael, a burst water main had caused the road to give way, creating a deep hole where the front wheels of his 17-tonne truck became stuck.

While he was waiting for his lorry to be rescued, a passing parking attendant appeared. To the astonishment of nearby residents and despite Michael’s protests, she stood on tiptoe and whacked a parking ticket on the trucks windscreen, uttering the immortal words, “You can appeal”. (See picture above).

2. Bad news comes in trees

If a tree fell on your car and you escaped death by mere inches, you might think that you would get some sympathy from your local council. Sadly, no such compassion was forthcoming when one family suffered just such a fate under the parking Taliban of Wychavon District Council

Nicky Clegg from Stoulton, near Pershore, was driving along the Bromwich Road with her 82-year-old mother and her 11-year-old son when without warning a tree crashed on her car. Miraculously they escaped death but the car ended up with a crushed bonnet, smashed windscreen and broken wing mirrors.

Police dragged the wrecked car to the side of the road and told Nicky that it was fine to leave it there and she could pick it up the following day. But when Nicky came back the next day, she was astonished to find a parking ticket on the window.

3. Feeling run down?

Think that being badly injured is an excuse to park illegally? Think again. When Nadhim Zahawi of South London was thrown from his scooter and left lying in the road with a broken leg, a heartless warden from Lambeth Council slapped a £100 ticket on his bike.

4. Horse play

You leave your horse in the street and what do you expect to find when you get back? A small pile of manure perhaps, but not a parking ticket. Amazingly, however, this is exactly what happened to Robert McFarland, a retired blacksmith from Yorkshire when he left his trusty steed, Charlie Boy, for a few brief moments. On the ticket, the over-zealous warden had written the vehicle description as “brown horse”.

5. Daylight robbery

It started off just like any other day for Fred Holt when he went to his local bank. But the ordinary day turned extraordinary when two masked men burst into the bank brandishing an axe and a machete. In the terrifying raid, the robbers held a young cashier hostage with an axe to her throat. Customers were forced to lie on the floor as staff were made to hand over cash.

If being a victim of this horrifying event wasn’t bad enough, 77 year old Mr Holt had parked his car nearby, and by the time he had given a statement to police officers, his car had been there for 20 minutes longer than allowed.

Mr. Holt was not worried because the police officers who interviewed him said that traffic wardens had been told about the raid and asked not to issue tickets. But when Mr Holt got back to his car he was astounded to find a £30 parking ticket pinned to his windscreen – the reason: overstaying his allowed time in the street.

6. Bloody ridiculous

“Do Something Amazing Today” runs the slogan of the National Blood Service. In Sutton, a traffic warden did just that, though not along the lines of “Save a life. Give Blood” that the advert intended.

For four years, a mobile National Blood Service truck has visited Sutton, parking at the same spot outside a group of offices, so volunteers can give blood. But seeing the good citizens of the town turn up and exchange a pint of the red stuff in return for a cup of tea and a biscuit was too much of a temptation for one parking attendant. Whilst those inside were giving blood, the parking attendant gave in his own unique way – in the form of a parking ticket.

Sutton council eventually waived the fine, saying the parking attendant had made a simple error of judgment. Or to put it more aptly, a rush of blood to the head.

7. Bus(ted)

Picture the situation. You’re a bus driver. You’re driving your bus. You see a queue of people waiting for you at a bus stop. You pull over to pick them up. So far, so good. But wait, not everyone wants to buy a ticket. This chap in the queue wants to give you one instead…

This was the extraordinary scene that greeted Manchester bus driver Chris O’Mahony, when he stopped his number 77 bus to let people on. He and his passengers looked on in absolute disbelief as the Manchester City Council parking attendant joined the queue to prepare the parking ticket, deposited the £40 notice and then walked away. The bus driver’s crime? Parking in a restricted area.

The attendant said he'd been told to issue tickets to buses that park. Manchester City Council bosses cancelled the ticket and ordered the warden to be retrained. Hopefully, as something other than a warden.

8. Heart attack

Whilst David Holmes was driving along he felt chest pains. So he immediately drove himself to hospital. When he arrived he was forced to park on the road and was treated for a heart attack. A kind nurse left a note on the windscreen saying it was an emergency and that David's daughter would pick the car up later. Despite the note, a pitiless parking attendant slapped a parking ticket on David’s car.

Despite an appeal to the local council, the £40 fine was not cancelled.

9. Welcome to Warwickshire

Warwick is a beautiful part of England but it had no appeal for one man who received a parking ticket from the local Council.

Krister Nylander was dismayed to receive a parking ticket in the post for parking in Warwick. But he knew the parking ticket was wrong because he lives in Sweden and had not visited England since he was 16. The offending vehicle was his 20-ton snowmobile which had barely ever left his barn, let alone Sweden.

How did it get the ticket? We’ve absolutely no Ikea.

10. Driving you crazy

Driving instructors are used to the trials and tribulations of teaching people to drive. Three point turns, as we all know, can be very tricky to learn. So spare a thought for the driving instructor who got a CCTV parking ticket when his pupil stalled whilst attempting a three-point turn and could not restart the car. The offence? Parking more than 50 centimetres from the kerb.

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It's scary that such a large number of little Hitlers are drawn to the public sector. With the arrival of New Labour we've seen a creeping state that seeks to nanny us, record us and break us. I'm just thankful that it seems the death of the government is upon us. I look forward to their socialist, big government, authoritarian ways crumbling before their eyes. It'll make great theatre.

Update: Polish Drivers

noreply@blogger.com (Flowers) — Thu, 08 May 2008 11:29:00 +0000

I was chatting to a couple of Polish friends yesterday about their penchant for tailgating. No offence was taken and, in fact, they were quite blasé about the practice.

They explained it to me like this:

If you leave a space between you and the car in front then another driver will overtake you and fill it. Better, therefore, to prevent this by closing the gap.

Well, that's ok then.

I wonder how a psychiatrist would describe this kind of behaviour.

WARNING! Stereotypes Blocking Road Ahead

noreply@blogger.com (Flowers) — Wed, 07 May 2008 12:28:00 +0000

If God had wanted us to fly he would have given us wings, as the old Luddite-like phrase goes. I’ve always thought phrases in this groove were ridiculous and simply highlighted mental weaknesses in the speaker, however this is one I do agree with:

If God had wanted the Poles to act like dickheads he would have given them cars.

Although I am, in the organised sense, God-Lite I do force myself to take some solace in the thought that perhaps God is demonstrating something very important by giving to the Poles what is essentially a big metal machine with the ability through misuse to kill or maim. What his lordiness is demonstrating, I hope, is precisely how this big metal machine of maybe-misery should not be used. He is giving us highly visible and instantly recognisable examples as to the method of use that will result in the highest possible level of absurdity and danger.

The long and the short of it is that Polish people cannot drive. There, I said it. It’s out there in all its generalising gorgeousness.

May I present my first piece of evidence, m’lord.

1. They tailgate.

The Poles who are actually able to pass the driving test (and I understand that it’s not uncommon for people to fail upwards of five times) drive on your bumper. I’m not 100% certain why they do this but it could be for one, all, or none of the following reasons:

This is how they are taught to drive by the not-happy-with-their-lot driving instructors who until recently were open to bribery (until, that was, cameras were installed in the cars, I am told).

They are drunk and need to drive that close to the car in front as to drive at what normal people would consider a safe distance would result in confusion and possible mental paralysis leading them to drive off the road.

They are all enrolled on training programmes with the Polish Institute of Space Search (PISS) and are a bit over keen about practising their docking skills. Note: They really are very good.

They are environmentally friendly and are doing it to conserve energy by utilising the slipstream of the car in front.

They are unaware of the rear view mirror in their own cars and so rely on the one in the car in front. This confuses them as they see a crazed driver in the car behind so they drive closer still.

They are drawn like moths to the lights.

2. They rarely thank you if you do them a favour on the road.

Polish people do not look other drivers in the eye. Moreover, they don’t seem to see other cars at all. In four days of driving around Poland on my holidays only one driver thanked me for stopping to allow them through…and he looked foreign.

Research in Holland, Germany and (of course) Sweden indicates that if you take away road markings and all the associated road furniture that the number of accidents decreases – especially at junctions. This is due, in part, to drivers looking deep into the eyes of other drivers and assessing their intentions. It makes drivers rely on non-verbal forms of communication thereby reducing the breakdowns in communication that can lead to accidents. This wouldn’t work in Poland. There’s no way this could work in Poland.

3. They do respect speed limits / They don’t respect speed limits.

On certain occasions the Poles do respect the speed limit.

There are so many signs in Poland telling drivers of the speed limit. Driving along a straight piece of road the speed could be, for example, 80kph however as you approach a bend in the road the signs tell you to reduce your speed to 50kph. This confused me a lot, as surely the driver should be able to use his or her intelligence and manage the speed of the car so as to avoid missing the corner entirely and driving into a tree or pretzel seller. Not so, my girlfriend and very capable co-driver told me. If the speed limit remained at the higher level then the Polish drivers would obey it and hurtle around the corner or perhaps through the corner. Madness.

On all other occasions the Poles don’t seem to respect the speed limit.

Take residential areas as an example. When I drive through a residential area or built up stretch of road I am absolutely petrified of running over a small child. I think killing a child with your car is probably one of those situations that would lead to you to having to top yourself and so I am ultra careful.

Note: Rather bizarrely the introduction of speed cameras in residential areas actually leads to drivers watching the speedometer rather than the road thereby increasing the possibility of an accident.

I tend to drive at or under the speed limits in such areas due to this very real feeling that I mustn’t do anything that could endanger the life of a pedestrian. This is perhaps why I was so amazed to be overtaken in pretty much every town or village by a Polish driver.

From what I understand, Polish people have a very real aversion to authority. Perhaps this stems from them being dictated to by Moscow for so many years. Perhaps not. Anyway, this desire to buck against the rule of law seems even to override any sense of moral responsibility. Either that or they’ve all left the gas on at home.

Conclusion

At this point you’d probably expect me to ramble on about how much better British drivers are and how this kind of ridiculousness is uncommon in Britland, however I’m not going to do that. Instead I’m going to compare the Polish drivers to those who fill the roads of the Czech Republic just over the border.

During the four days driving around the mountains, villages, towns and cities of Poland we also popped over the border a couple of times. I can tell you, hand on heart, that during my brief time there the Czech drivers were considerate, sensible and safe. No tailgating, no thankless passes and no overtaking in built up areas.

I don’t yet understand why the contrast is so apparent so if anyone can educate me then I would be forever grateful.

Disclaimer: Of course, not all Poles behave in the ways I have detailed but I guarantee that if you are Polish and are reading this that you will have experienced some or all of the above. If not, then I’d love to hear how I got it so wrong because, to be honest, I don’t think I have ;)

Next up: Broadly speaking there are two types of Poles who go hiking. I’m going to have a stab at describing both of them to you. Bear with me.

The Tuesday Tune #26

noreply@blogger.com (Flowers) — Tue, 06 May 2008 11:43:00 +0000

I'll be posting a little something later about my long weekend in the mountains and perhaps about the absurdity of the Poles (well, some of them, anyway).

Hurrah And Huzzah

noreply@blogger.com (Flowers) — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 23:34:00 +0000

As usual I'm doing everything at the last minute. My girlfriend packed and dumped her stuff at mine hours ago but her friend convinced her to go for a drink when I finished work. One beer is never enough. The first one re-energizes you apres travail whilst at least one more is needed for enjoyment. It's disrespectful to the beer otherwise.

Anyway, we're heading off at the crack of dawn to her parents' place so we can steal one of their cars for the northward journey to the Kłodzko valley area and the mountains for a few days. You would not believe how in need I am of some nature. The city, whilst all the better for the sun, is beginning to drain my reserves and I need some time gazing at something that isn't made from concrete or glass.

So. Enjoy whatever you are doing this week and weekend. I hope you too have an opportunity to do something you like. Beer, optional.

Crunchie Bar Vs The Death Ray

noreply@blogger.com (Flowers) — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 09:21:00 +0000

I don't usually talk about the dreams I have but I thought I would with this one as I burst out laughing the moment I woke up.

In my dream the Japanese had developed a green death ray and had been doing all kinds of naughty things with it. I don't think the fact that they were Japanese is significant in any way, it's more that I've been reading Stephen Fry's Making History in which the world (like in 1984) is divided into power blocks.

Anyway, I was in a laboratory and was under attack from a single Japanese man who looked remarkably similar to someone I knew a few years ago. I could see in his eyes that he was intent on destroying me with his green death ray but luckily I had something that would protect me.

Me: Did you really think you could destroy me with that?! The Americans have developed something that will deflect your death ray. I have a Crunchie bar, you fool!

And with that I brandished my Crunchie bar, deflected the death rays he was firing at me, walked up to him and knocked his ray gun to the floor thereby saving the day.

For those of you unfamiliar with sweet, sticky chocolate bars, a Crunchie bar is a milk-chocolate-covered honeycomb toffee made by Cadbury. Quite why that would save me I have no idea. In real life there are very few situations in which a Crunchie bar could be used in defence. Maybe to buy time whilst seeking to flee from bears, perhaps but that's probably about it.

Needless to say, you can't buy them in Poland. I wish you could. Look at it! It's gorgeous!

I do hope there's no hidden meaning in my dream.

The Tuesday Tune #25

noreply@blogger.com (Flowers) — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 09:09:00 +0000

This is classic and cheesy. Fantastic for group karaoke.

Golden Donkeys And Phrasal Verbs

noreply@blogger.com (Flowers) — Mon, 28 Apr 2008 19:55:00 +0000

"Come on to" - make sexual advances towards

Last weekend I headed over to one of the best refuelling spots I know - Złoty Osioł (The Golden Donkey), a fantastic vegetarian restaurant and perhaps the only one within 100km. I was ambling along with a Polish friend of mine and despite nursing a bit of a sore head caused by too much partying (if that's possible) the night before he was on great form.

He'd really enjoyed himself and was keen to tell me all the gory details and so I listened, as he recounted tales of drunken debauchery. It started with the usual chatter about places and faces but became more interesting when he suddenly got visibly animated. He's been single for about a year now since he split up with his girlfriend of five years. It hit him pretty badly, actually. Some people don't do so well on their own and he is one of them.

Anyway, what he'd wanted to say was that whilst he had been on the dance floor a good-looking woman had started chatting to him. Basically, she came on to him whilst he was dancing.

Only he didn't say that. He omitted one crucial word. I took his comment in isolation (what else could I do) and almost fell over. It took me a full minute to get out of him what had actually happened and, to be honest, I don't think it was my dirty mind in action here, as he seemed so incredibly energetic about the whole experience.

I don't think my day has ever been made by a phrasal verb and although it's close it has probably beaten the pasta moment I had in Italy in October. Some days I love living abroad.

The Garden of Cosmic Speculation

noreply@blogger.com (Flowers) — Fri, 25 Apr 2008 10:45:00 +0000

The Garden of Cosmic Speculation, created by the internationally celebrated architectural critic and designer Charles Jencks, covers thirty acres in the Borders area of Scotland.

I particularly love these views.

Photos: Not mine

Guilt

noreply@blogger.com (Flowers) — Wed, 23 Apr 2008 23:03:00 +0000

It’s natural that we think about others, think about how our actions affect those around us. These responsibilities, however are not singular moments in time ending with a parting of ways and our later realisation that perhaps we didn’t do all we could to ensure someone’s feelings is painful not only because we have failed ourselves but also because, more often than not, it is impossible to put things right, impossible to go back.

So often a deconstruction of past wrongs goes on unseen and we’re not aware of our working it through until it is dislodged from the seabed of our subconscious and has floated up to the surface and is on show for us to see in the brutal light of day.

Such debris broke loose at the end of last year and I have been rolling it over and over in the waters of my mind in the hope that I may see it and understand it better. I think I am almost there.

I suppose I should start from the moment that I first became emotionally involved in the situation. That would seem most sensible, yes.

As I walked down the stairs she was smiling and didn’t take her eyes from my face. I’m almost certain that her focus isolated her from the other people. If she didn’t return their looks then perhaps the helplessness of her situation wouldn’t be so real.

When I’d picked her up out of her wheelchair at the top of the stairs I had been more conscious of everyone’s eyes on me than anything else. They were looking at me with approval as though I was doing something that no one else could. I wasn’t. She had asked me and I had agreed. Not through any feelings of pity, you understand. Not through any feelings at all if I’m honest. At least none that I remember.

She once showed me a picture of herself in her early teens. Full-faced and smiling, as she prepared a meal in her family’s kitchen. I think she showed me the picture so I would perhaps see her as she was. Not as a frail, discoloured shell in a wheelchair but rather as someone who at the moment the photo was taken was full of hope and excitement for what lay ahead.

I looked back at her sitting there almost huddled in her chair her skinny fingers with their cracked skin cover clutching her new and fashionable mobile phone. I tried so desperately not to show anything negative on my face. I tried so hard not to look unhappy, not to show what we both knew: That she would probably be gone before her phone had a chance to wear out. This 19 year old.

I taught her once a week. What could I teach her? Her, a girl with more understanding about what it was to be alive, more understanding about how important every moment was than I could ever have imagined then. We talked. We talked about anything she wanted to talk about. We talked about her plans for the future and about what she would do when they found a cure for her illness. We ate her homemade cookies, as she talked in detail about how there was a group of doctors in Fukuoka who wanted to see her, wanted to help her. But after her words stopped there was always a pause, always a faraway look in her eyes. She knew. I knew.

One day she didn’t turn up for her lesson. I sat in my classroom fearing the worse. I found out much later that she had been rushed to hospital during the night as her lungs had stopped working properly. She had been resuscitated. It had happened before and her parents had had to move closer to the hospital so as to reduce the distance the ambulance had to travel. It was a desperate situation. I’d met her mother on numerous occasions and could see the toll it was taking on her.

One Thursday, I think it was, she contacted me and cheerfully asked me to visit her in hospital about an hour away. I went but unfortunately a day later than I had originally planned. I don’t remember why I was late but it made little difference as she had been discharged the day before. I was sad to have missed her but was happy that she was no longer in that place. I knew how much she hated it there.

I didn’t see her much over the following weeks. Her health deteriorated and the outlook was not positive. I’d almost given up seeing her again when she appeared at school happy and smiling. It was clear that all was not well but she shone when she entered the school. I’d been complaining about something or other to another teacher earlier that morning and it made me feel rather selfish when I considered that she was so debilitated and yet so outwardly happy.

She told me that she was going to Fukuoka to a special hospital where they would try some new techniques. She looked hopeful and so I went along with her enthusiasm as well as I could even though I was finding it difficult not to show how upset I was at her decline.

It was nearing the end of my time in Japan and I only had a few weeks left until I headed back to Europe. She asked me visit her in hospital. I agreed. She told me that she would let the school know when she was being admitted and we said goodbye. That was the last time I saw her.

As it turned out she wasn’t admitted until less than two weeks before I was due to depart. She sent me an email giving me directions to the hospital. It was a long way away but I sometimes wonder whether I use the distance as an excuse. Would I have gone had it been closer? I ask myself this question a lot. I hope I would have.

I explained to her that I still had so much to do before I left. The truth of it was that I had a lot of goodbyes to make and a lot of partying to do. Here was a girl who was looking at an uncertain future and I was worrying about losing a day in going to see her.

She called the school to ask me to reconsider. I stood there in the manager’s office with three of them listening to my conversation as I gave her the frankly rather weak excuses for why I couldn’t go. She was upset and as we neared the end of the conversation I felt a lump in my throat. I was finding it difficult to maintain my tone. I turned away from the staff, made my goodbyes and then pretended to continue the conversation whilst I regained my composure. I felt like a bastard. I was a bastard.

I’ve gone over this a lot since the thoughts resurfaced. I don’t think it was so much selfishness as cowardice. I didn’t want to sit there by her bed and pretend that everything was ok. At the time I justified it on the basis that I didn’t want to make things worse for her. Surely it would be better not to see me at all than to see me for a few hours, to enjoy the time but then never to see me again? To a certain extent I think this is true (arrogant, granted) but the more I consider my actions, knowing myself as I do, the more I think it was simple avoidance of a situation that would upset me and unnerve me. I put my feelings before hers and there’s no way around that fact.

I hope that it is my arrogance that has led me to believe that she would care deeply about my choice but I can’t escape the pleading tones in her voice when I said I wouldn’t come. I still can’t escape the pleading tones in her voice.

I don’t know if Haruka is alive. Something in me tells me that she is not. I doubt I will ever know what happened to her. Perhaps that’s as it should be.

We must learn to see in the present that which only hindsight can usually provide. It is a difficult task but one that, if kept in mind, should help us thin the cloud cover of guilt that obstructs our view on days like today.

The Tuesday Tune #24

noreply@blogger.com (Flowers) — Tue, 22 Apr 2008 21:45:00 +0000

Gorgeous.

Gwyneth Dunwoody Dies Aged 77

noreply@blogger.com (Flowers) — Sat, 19 Apr 2008 21:52:00 +0000

Gwyneth Dunwoody, the longest serving female Member of Parliament, has died aged 77.

A woman with a strong sense of justice, and a woman with a family background in getting stuck in, both of her grandmothers were suffragettes, her father, Morgan Phillips became the General Secretary of the Labour Party, and her mother served as a minister in the House of Lords before being made the Lord Lieutenant of London.

With the exception of a couple of others (Fields, Benn) she ran contrary to the directionless, spin addicted excuse for a government that makes up the ruling party in Britain today. She was one of the Labour party MPs who was rare in that, when necessary, she verbally kicked the proverbial out of her own side. And rightly so!

There can be no greater proof of her success as a scrutineer of her own government's policy than that of their desire to oust her from her position as Chair of the Transport Sub Committee.

One of the few politicians with guts, honesty and a heart-felt understanding of the people she represented. With her passing, politics has edged that bit closer to the black hole.

She was the mother of a daughter and two sons, and has ten grandchildren.

10 Commandments

noreply@blogger.com (Flowers) — Fri, 18 Apr 2008 09:13:00 +0000

Recent events in my working life have led me down the path of negativity. Kinuk served up some welcome and gratefully received advice and now I'm much more my usual self. I've always been amazed at how much 'action' can alter a mood. Inertia is never a good thing and now that I've made a decision about what to do I feel, well, like the me of last week.

All of this kick started my befuddled morning brain and got me thinking about the last time I was this down about my job. Amazingly it was quite a long time ago. Back in 2005 when I was spending every available moment planning my escape from the world of finacial advising and all the shallow people devoid of any morals.

Rather bizarrely it was the following list from the book Hello Laziness written by Corinne Maier, an economist at state-owned Electricité de France, that galvanised me and made me feel the most positive about the need for change. She wasn't telling me anything I didn't already know but, as is so often the case, it's nice to know that other people share your views.

Anyway, here are 10 Commandments for working in the modern workplace:

You are a modern day slave. You work for your pay-check at the end of the month and nothing more, e.g. feelings of fulfilment.
It's pointless to try to change the system. Opposing it simply makes it stronger.
What you do is pointless. You can be replaced quickly by anyone. So work as little as possible and spend time developing your personal network so that you're safe when the next company restructuring happens.
You're not judged on hard work, but on whether you look and sound the part. Speak lots of jargon and people will think you know everything that is happening.
Never accept a position of responsibility for any reason. You'll only have to work harder for what amounts to a small amount of money (peanuts).
Try to work in the most useless positions, (research, strategy and business development), where it is impossible to assess your 'contribution to the wealth of the firm'. Avoid 'on the ground' operational roles.
Once you've found one of these fantastic jobs, never move. It is only the most exposed who get sacked.
Learn to identify people who also believe the system is absurd, e.g. through subtle signs (differences in clothing, peculiar jokes, warm smiles).
Be nice to people on short-term contracts. They are the only people who do any real work.
Tell yourself that the absurd ideology supporting this corporate bullshit cannot last forever. Just like communism it will fall.

Today, I Don't Like Poland.

noreply@blogger.com (Flowers) — Thu, 17 Apr 2008 10:17:00 +0000

I've been distracted recently. My energies have been directed away from doing the things I love (writing and visiting blogs) to something all together negative.

I've recently discovered that my company has been screwing me financially and I'm beginning to realise that language schools in Poland are almost beyond dishonest in their methods of increasing their profits.

I was deemed a translator last year even though my Polish would make a baby look like a genius. This was so my company could pay lower taxes across a couple of areas. I'm 99.99% certain that they taxed me at one rate and pocketed the difference. The other issue is that as a teacher (for the first two years in Poland) I could have paid my tax not in Poland but in England, which would mean I'd have saved a LOT of money.

The managers of my school have great English but since I've brought up this issue suddenly they've lost the ability to speak English. Strange that.

I'm really not sure what to do here. Do I continue my demands for the situation to be rectified or do I let it slide? There's the equivalent of one month's wages at stake but equally I don't really want to go up against a company that is clearly so adept at operating illegally (it's been doing so for years, I understand from sources). I could come off worse and I think the chances of me getting a reference from them are already shot to pieces.

It pisses me off that I have to spend time thinking about this. That I have to give over my energies to trying to sort this out. Why are so many companies dishonest? Surely it only hurts them in the end.

Today, I don't like Poland.

The Tuesday Tune #23

noreply@blogger.com (Flowers) — Mon, 14 Apr 2008 23:26:00 +0000

A Polish Hug

noreply@blogger.com (Flowers) — Fri, 11 Apr 2008 20:19:00 +0000

My Polish is shocking and even though my bathroom is papered with A4 sheets with phrases and words useful to the often faddy foreigner I'm as lost as Gordon Brown in Windosr Castle.

So, today I bought a couple of beginner books to help me shrug of the embarrassment of being a typical Englishman abroad.

From the information on the sealed pack the first one looked professionally put together and offered just the right kind of language for me: Basic, brief and bar-based - at least in part.

Having got it home and spent some time stipping it of its customer-proof plastic packaging I opened the book. Unit One: Age - Wiek.

Naprawdę podobał mi się ten portret mężczyzny w średnim wieku przytulającego swojego wnuka.

I was expecting short, punchy phrases that I could trot out here and there in conversation with the Polanders I know not long scary-looking sentences that would leave me gasping for air and scanning for the nearest exit. The incredible length of the above sentence was not what knocked me sideways, however. What really confused me was what it meant:

I really liked the portrait of the middle-aged man hugging his grandson.

What the? What use is a phrase like that going to be to me?! And I don't think it's just me either as I'm pretty certain that most newbies are more concerned with shopping, transport, bars and restaurants and meeting people NOT with banging out phrases about art.

John: So, we're meeting Grzegorz inside, yeah?
Sarah: That's right. Ready?
John: Bugger! Hang on a minute.
Sarah: What?!
John: Well, it's a surrealist exhibition.
Sarah: So?
John: So how exactly are we suppose to talk to Grzegorz if there aren't any portraits of middle-aged men hugging their grandsons?
Sarah: Ahhh. Good point. Pub?
John: Pub.

Let's hope the other book I bought will prove more useful and less, well, irrelevant.

Dog Pâté Or Dog Kebab

noreply@blogger.com (Flowers) — Thu, 10 Apr 2008 08:54:00 +0000

The streets of London are paved with gold, as the old tale goes. Of course, it's not true but what is true, what can be verified, sworn to and recorded on pain of death is that Poland's streets are paved with doggy-do-do and spit. A lovely image.

Like New Zealand with sheep, I'm pretty certain that Poland has more dogs than people. Huge, shaven headed brutes with meat-fists walk tiny little pointless dogs (the kind that you usually see in Louis Vuitton bags in Japan) whilst the women, not content with one, walk two dogs although they'd be better off riding one of them for all the good the lead does.

You never see these purveyors of dog pâté ever allowing (or encouraging) their dogs to deposit their unwrapped package, however. I'm pretty sure they all come out at dawn, marching purposefully out of their apartment blocks like ants from their hill. They probably draw up detailed plans well in advance of their operation so they can 'hit and run', returning as quickly as they arrived, to their concrete pods.

There is another reason for their dawn raids, however and that is the weather. If it looks like it's going to rain then they don't bother, however if it looks like it's going to be sunny then it's bomb doors to manual and away! I'm pretty certain that on grey days they package and freeze the present from their dogs so they can bring it out on a sunny day to maximum effect. Don't they have anything better to do!?

The only reason I can think of for this behaviour is that the sun distracts or blinds people so the chance of slippage increases significantly. I'm almost certain that there are old ladies who spend their days huddled on balconies with biscuits and binoculars keeping score on how many people fall into their traps.

Old lady with green beret: Well done, Iwona. That's four points to you. Here, have another biscuit to chew on. Don't forget your teeth this time.

Old lady with beige beret: Hmm?

They tell me Poland is a beautiful place and I'd agree with them about the countryside and, in fact, I'd go so far as to say that it's stunning. As for the cities, well, I couldn't tell you, as I (like just about everyone else) spend my time looking at the pavement and making the necessary adjustments so as to avoid these little islands of dirt and water. Professional dancers have nothing on me and I can side step and suzie Q with the best.

All of this has led me to think that the soil quality problems of some countries could be solved almost overnight if some international agency could transport all the dark matter from the streets of Poland to the soil of these nations. Actually, forget that. Scrub it from your minds. We could end - actually end - the hunger of the world if we exported the dogs of Poland (sounds like a band) to countries with food shortages. Wah! I hear you exclaim. Well, it's probably no different from what's served up by the world's kebab shops at a weekend. Ug.

Have a nice day. I'm sure wherever you are you are free from the neckache of dog poo avoidance.

The Tuesday Tune #22

noreply@blogger.com (Flowers) — Mon, 07 Apr 2008 22:13:00 +0000

There are three of them this week, as I just couldn't decide between them. They're all from the same group though so I suppose if you like the first one then you might watch the others.

What Exactly Does 'Friend' Mean?

noreply@blogger.com (Flowers) — Mon, 07 Apr 2008 12:37:00 +0000

What exactly does ‘friend’ mean?

I think it’s fair to say that definitions vary from person to person. You need look no further than the social networking sites for proof of that. So, with such sites in mind, I suppose I’ve come to realise that my notion of friendship may well be different from that of some of the people I’ve come into contact with over the years. I should add that I’m saying this as someone who’s recently chosen to have his Facebook account expunged due to this very obvious difference in attitudes.

So. When does a social networking site become an anti-social networking site? Well, if you’ve ever found yourself making audible noises followed by a pursing of the lips when someone has poked you or vampire bitten you or invited you to join a group (the membership of which should mean an automatic bar to civilised society) or has merely prodded you to browse photos of their latest DIY project, office party or rainy caravan holiday in Wales then you’ll understand what I mean.

I was, at times, overwhelmed by the number of ‘friends’ I had on Facebook and, in all honesty, that I really did give less than two hoots about. People that I had known for a couple of years at school or had met via a friend of a friend at a party, for example. People I had actively avoided in person were now able to interact with me, able to see what I was doing in my life and more disturbingly were able to comment on it. In truth, I never should have accepted their invitations but, for all my moaning, curiosity and politeness rule me.

What also unnerves me (and, in fact, leads me to question my own value as a social animal on occasion) is that there are people I spent a lot of time with in England who I barely keep in contact with. Even then when an email drops into my inbox I feel pretty much nonplussed. No waves of elation or giddy feelings of joy wash over me. Invitations to parties, weddings and other such gatherings are all politely passed up by me, as I, time and again, play the ex-pat status card for a soft social landing and people-pleasing answer in the negative.

I sometimes worry about my capacity for isolating myself from some of the people I know. Is it possible for one person to change so much that they no longer feel a connection with some of the people who were once such a part of their almost daily life?

It’s unlikely that I’ll ever meet any of you, dear readers. Unlikely that we’ll ever sit down over a drink and chat about everything and nothing but that’s ok. I’m all right with that. It’s enough to read a little about your lives, your thoughts and, on occasion, your doubts. It’s life at its most honest, unencumbered by the pressure of people’s previous assessments of us.

The problem with ‘friends’ is that so often in their eyes we are static. We will forever be the person they met at the beginning. Our desire for growth, for personal development and all the associated eye-opening pleasures that it brings will be wasted on them. We know this and it restricts our openness with them. It makes many of us not so much dishonest as less honest.

So, I’ve come to realise that we must spend less time on these ‘friends’ and instead focus solidly and unwaveringly on our true friends. The people who make us feel more than we are. The people who contribute and comfort and, with us, weather the odd shower that passes our way. Friends are the people we think of and worry about. Their happiness and life is important to us and we celebrate with them in times of happiness and support them in times of sadness or upheaval. For true friendship distance is not a measurement of quality and neither is frequency of meeting. Many of the people I consider to be good friends (people who make me feel alive and who I am always overjoyed to hear from) live nowhere near me: There is Tim in Morocco, James and Marie (who got married on Saturday – sorry I couldn’t be there!) in Japan, Samantha in Canada and Greg and Toco in Thailand.

The point I’m trying to make is that my mood is always lifted when I see a message from them in my inbox. I’m always keen to see their pictures and to read their words that describe the comings and goings of their life and that paint pictures that stay with me.

We are all looking for a tribe so perhaps social networks serve the most important purpose. Perhaps they bring into focus what is really important to us, what we look for in friends and what we in turn hope to bring to the friendship party. They show us what is undesirable and cross out what deep down we don’t want thereby leaving us with a clear image and list (for lack of a better word) of people who are important to us.

I’m happy that I’ve binned the Facebook club. It’s made me less lazy in keeping in contact with my real friends. It’s true that there is no longer the safety net of a social network but this can only be a good thing, as real friendship requires thoughtfulness and contact not a slapdash comment and a glance at someone’s status.

Life after Facebook can be no bad thing. After all, everything in life should be about quality not quantity and that’s an adage that’s stood the test of time.

So. Which of your friends will you contact today?