Wine – is it worth learning the difference between grapes, regions and climates or just go for what is reduced or most expensive?
Most of us have had that moment of panic. You are with a group of friends for a meal; the waiter hands you the wine list and everybody says that you should choose. You have no idea what people will be eating – does it matter? Do you go for the house plonk and look cheap? How about the expensive one at the end of the list – too flash and bound to cause an inquest when the bill comes. My wife maintains that she has never had a poor glass of wine from a bottle with a nice label, but wine lists rarely come with pictures of labels – Livin’ Italy being an exception to this rule. Maybe somebody there works on the same theory. Asking the waiter to recommend something is fine in theory but, in practice is fraught with risk. They may be even more clueless than you and could easily push you towards that bottom end of the list – dangerous territory. The obvious cop out is to pick a red and a white at random from somewhere in the middle of the list and cross your fingers.
Wine – Go by the label?
There is another way. Just a little knowledge can go a long way, the rest you can fake. So, you want to learn enough to get by, where do you start?
Whatever the subject, my first port of call tends to be the excellent Dummies series of books and, as you would expect there is Wine For Dummies. This covers all of the basics of wine varieties, regions and how to get the most out of tasting.
If you want something a little more sociable, wine is meant to be enjoyed with friends after all, why not try an organised class or wine tasting session? The Yorkshire Wine School run regular events at both the Radisson Blu in The Light and at Livin’ Italy on Granary Wharf. The Radisson sessions include lunch and introduce the world’s major wine growing regions and grape varieties. You will learn how to taste like a professional and where to buy. Best of all your tutor will guide you through tasting twelve wines As you would expect, two hour sessions at Livin’ Italy concentrate on the wines of Italy and how they pair with different foods. It is worth attending for the nibbles alone!
Livin Italy – The Deli
My advice with events like this is to drink water as well as the wine and take notes. The memory can prove a little unreliable after a few glasses. Some years ago, on a visit to London, my wife and I spent the evening at Vinopolis, described as a “wine experience” – they weren’t wrong. The huge building near London Bridge is a series of tasting rooms, each dedicated to a particular type of wine. After an introduction where you are taught the basics of tasting, you are armed with a charge card and let loose with detailed tasting notes. A swipe of the card and a machine dispense a small glass of your chosen wine. You then rinse and repeat as often as you wish, touring the worlds wines in the maze of arches beside the Borough Market. Afterwards, you can enjoy a meal in the restaurant and order any of the wines that you tasted earlier – very civilised. After starting out very seriously, reading the notes and comparing the warm and cool climates we started to sound as if we know what we were talking about. As the evening progressed, the notes seemed to be printed in a smaller font and unaccountably caused giggles. There was big talk of hitting the Absinthe room once the wines of the world were exhausted but for some reason we never made it. We did however enjoy a great meal and a terrific night out. We both remember to this day the difference between warm and cool climate wines but after that it is still a bit of a blur – remember to take notes!
If all this fails, you could always try buying what is on special offer at the supermarket! If this is your strategy, why not at least use an app such as Vivino to record your thoughts. It will help you remember what you like (and don’t like) as well as getting the views of others.
So, is it worth learning the basics? Yes, without a doubt. Just as you would with a sport, painting with oils or cooking. Grasp the basics and you open up a world of experiences.
As for that panic moment, with a little knowledge, you will realise that you can’t please everybody. Ask a few questions – do people want something light, fruity or powerful then set your new knowledge to work. If that fails – simply choose something that you will enjoy – the others can please themselves.
At this time every year the anticipation starts to build. Re-runs of past Grand Finals on Sky, half hearted pre-seasons friendlies and scanning the sports pages for last minute signings. Super League is back, or will be very soon. This year, there is one big difference. My beloved Bulls are no longer invited to the party.
Don’t get me wrong, I think relegation was deserved. Fans and players alike spent more time worrying if there would be a club at all to worry too much about results. With the odd exception, the results were pretty bleak. There were encouraging signs at the weekend that Jimmy Lowes’ clearout of the squad and rebuilding has gone well. Jake Mullaney looks like a real star in the making.
However, it all feels like I have been dumped; my ex is simply carrying on with life as normal, having a whale of a time and planning a weekend away in Newcastle. In fact, it is worse than that. An ex lover could be unfriended on Facebook and forgotten. But the game I love will be televised several times a week and I am compelled to watch. What’s more, I can’t resist wondering about future performance and who will end up on top! Of course the ultimate goal is to go off with new friends, batter them and get invited back by the ex for next year.
So, can I enjoy Super League as a neutral? As a lover of the greatest game, the obvious answer is yes. I am proud that I have attended every day of every magic weekend so far. I still have the frostbite scars from Edinburgh to prove it. The problem this year is – who do I want to win? I could say I don’t care but that is too much like school sports day where it is the taking part that counts. No, you have to pick a team, but how?
Having moved from Bradford a few years ago to the centre of Leeds, the Rhinos may be an obvious choice for most people. I can see the ground from my apartment window after all. But, come on, I am a proud Bulls fan. It couldn’t possibly happen. St. Helens are out for similar reasons – all those Super League Grand Finals and it wasn’t a knock on by Withers in 1999.
I have nothing against Wakefield, Hull, Hull KR or Salford but, let’s face it, we are likely to be playing them in the second half of the season so they are out as well. Actually, Hull KR – charging an extra two pounds for away fans to sit in an uncovered stand – not forgiven. I have a long if slightly selective memory.
I have always had a soft spot for Paul Anderson since his days as a Bull. He does the right things as a coach and builds success on the back of a good pack. My only reservation is that one or two of the Huddersfield fans still have a chip on their shoulders from all those years struggling. Please – enjoy the good times and start watching your entertaining team with a smile on your faces. Widnes are building in the right way but I am still scarred from working in Runcorn for a while – too close. Nobody said picking a team was based on logic.
Wigan at Old Trafford
Wigan were always a bit like the Man United of Rugby League so they are out, sorry Paul Deacon. I always enjoy a trip to Castleford and, with Luke Gale organising them they could go a long way this year. Obviously, there is a but coming. If Inter and Milan can share a stadium, surely Cas and Wakey could, making both of their fantasy stadiums a reality. Somebody should bang their heads together. I am not talking about a merger, thankfully that sort of talk is in the distant past, but sharing a ground should be easy.
Super League – Perpignan, France – Home of the Catalans Dragons
The best place to watch Super League has to be Perpignan, despite the torrential storm that soaked us to the skin a few years ago. The trouble is, each game would involve a couple of weeks away (too nice not to) and it is a long way on the bus – Catalan rejected. That leaves Warrington. Undoubtedly, the best fans in the game at the moment. They turn out in numbers and make a huge noise. They also take the prize for the best fancy dress turnout year in year out. Tony Smith has them playing attractive rugby.
So, is the answer Warrington? Well, no actually. They seem to have developed a nasty case of losing the play-off games that matter and I just can’t face going back to that. My only option appears to be to enjoy every game in Super League, picking a favourite for each based on any one of a thousand daft reasons and make sure that the ex takes me back next year. Roll on 2016.
When I was your age my passion was “Tin Can Squat”. Does this game still get played? Maybe you know it by another name? Let me explain. The rules were quite simple. Two teams, between two and twenty in a team, depending on who turned up. Each game started with a hunt for the equipment. A tennis ball was usually easy enough, there always seemed to be one around. We all scanned the street in search of ice-lolly sticks. You needed three, each being broken in half to give six pieces. Somebody, usually me, was then despatched to the dustbin to retrieve a medium sized tin. A baked beans tin was best but soup would do just as well. I sometimes had to go to Mrs. Parker’s bin as we mostly used family sized tins after my sister was born.
This size of tin can was perfect
The tin was placed in the middle of the street with the sticks on top. The teams stood at opposite ends of the street, twenty paces away from the tin. I usually counted the steps. We once let Lanky Colin mark it but his legs were so long we were standing miles away and nobody scored before it got dark. Each player took a turn to throw or roll the ball at the can. If it hit, your team had to rebuild the pile of sticks on the tin without being hit by the ball. The other team had to get the ball and hit every player before the pile was built. You got a point for hitting the tin, another for rebuilding the pile or one point if you stopped the other team. The team with the most points won. The game was over when the owner of the ball got called in for tea or it got dark or Dr. Who was starting.
Anyway, that summer we played every afternoon. Lanky Colin’s dad was a teacher and organised a five-a-side league. Each street on the estate had at least one team, sometimes three or four. By the third week in August my team had just edged out Smelly Ibbotson’s from Dacre Close to win the league. Lanky Colin and me were in the social club, looking at the league table when we saw the poster.
Tin Can Squat World Championship Final
August Bank Holiday Monday
3pm
England Vs. France
Tombola and cake stall.
“Wow!” I stared at Lanky Colin. “You never said anything about this.”
“Dad told me last night.”
“I didn’t even know they played in France.”
“Dad says these guys have been on telly and everythin’.”
“Let’s go tell the others.”
Slow Mo and Toast were in their garden. They hadn’t seen the poster but soon got very excited. It was Toast who realised the problem first.
“When did you say the match was?”
“Bank Holiday Monday” Lanky Colin and me said together.
“That’s no good. Tweedle went to Blackpool this morning. He’s not back ‘til after the game.”
This was bad. Tweedle was our best player. He could dodge the ball no matter how hard it was thrown and he was the fastest runner on the estate.
“Who else could play?” I asked, panicking.
“What about our Jen?”
“A girl?”
“She can throw a ball harder than you can.”
“True.”
“And she can run quicker.”
True. But a girl!”
I was quickly out-voted. Jen was in the team.
The day of the game was like all of the others that summer, hot and sunny. The difference was the excitement in the air. Lanky Colin’s dad had put red, white and blue balloons all across the front of their house. My dad was running the tombola on the edge of the field next to our garden. All of the neighbours had turned out and all the kids that had played in the league. They would all watch from the field, the match had to be played in the street and gardens.
The French team arrived in a minibus at half past two. Lanky Colin’s mouth dropped open as they emerged, in matching blue tracksuits. All were much bigger than we were. For once it was Slow Mo who spoke first.
“Look at the size of him.”
It was Jen who snapped us out of it.
“Come on you lot. They might be big but they haven’t got our secret weapon have they?”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Me, you idiot!”
Lanky Colin’s dad made a speech to welcome the French team. He said something in French that nobody seemed to understand, and then we all lined up to have the official photograph taken. The French team stood to attention, smiling at the camera. We shuffled about with hands in pockets. As usual Toast had a splodge of jam on his tee shirt. Only Jen stood up straight and smiled. The rest of us looked like a bag of washing.
The two captains were called forward. My nose was level with the cockerel on their captain’s tracksuit. He had his name, Pierre, embroidered on the chest. Lanky Colin’s dad produced a new ten pence and I called heads. It came down tails. Things could only get better. They chose to go first and I pointed to the cul-de-sac end. We took up our positions. The crowd cheered as the French team removed the tracksuits to reveal matching blue shorts and shirts. Slow Mo turned his baseball cap backwards and spat on his hands. I’m not sure what Toast said but it’s probably a good job his dad didn’t hear. Then there was a hush as the tall blond captain stepped up to start.
We crouched nervously behind our line. He rolled the ball, lightning fast all along the ground. It zipped within an inch of the tin but didn’t hit. My turn: two inches wide. The French number two was even bigger than the captain. He collected the ball and stared at the tin for ages. Suddenly his arm came back and he threw. The ball bounced an inch in front of the tin before knocking it in the air. The ball whizzed over my head and landed, first bounce, in Tommy Coleman’s garden. Toast leapt over the privets, the rest of us scattering to head off the French team. The tin was back on its spot by the time Toast got to the ball. His throw was good, keeping low; it struck the Pierre in the middle of his back. One down. I raced after the loose ball. Before I could pick it up I could hear the celebrations. The stack was rebuilt and we were two points behind.
Slow Mo and Lanky Colin both missed on their throws, as did the French. Jen was up next. She rolled the ball slow but straight. She hit the can right in the middle. It wobbled and took forever to fall. She screamed and made for the can. I shouted for her to stop but it was too late. The French team flew into action. Jen, Lanky Colin and Toast were hit within seconds. Toast had made for the cover of his garden while I got behind Johnny York’s Cortina. I ducked just as the ball fizzed over my head. I was round the car and managed to get the can upright with three sticks on it before the ball hit me just behind the ear. As I rubbed my ear, I realised the ball had bounced off me and under the parked car. Slow Mo raced in and got the last three sticks. We were back in the game at 2-2.
As the game progressed, the afternoon got hotter and hotter. Half time was signalled when the ice-cream man arrived at just after four o’clock. We were behind 6-5. Lanky Colin’s dad bought everybody a 99 and we sat on our garden wall to eat them.
“Look at the bruise on my leg” moaned Toast, just before his ice cream dripped onto his tee shirt. Jen inspected her arm.
“I’ve got one here as well. They seem to throw the ball as hard as they can. Look at ‘em. Sitting there with their matching shirts. Let’s make sure we win this.”
“Yeah, come on everybody, let’s do it.”
The game re-started with Slow Mo scoring again. The ice creams seemed to have done the trick and refreshed everybody. The points flowed and, by the time Lanky Colin’s dad blew his whistle, we were in front at 20-19. He explained that there was time for one more throw for each team before the game was over. It was my turn. I knew that two points would mean that we had won.
My team patted me on the back as I picked up the ball. The crowd cheered, then went silent. I could hear my heart pounding as I stepped forward. I had to hit. I steadied myself. Suddenly, as I pulled back my arm to throw, Pierre ran forward, waving his arms, trying to put me off. The crowd booed and Lanky Colin’s dad gave him a good talking to. I turned away and tried to concentrate. With the French team back behind the line, I stepped forward again. I went underarm, rolling the ball along the ground, straight as an arrow. I heard the ball fizz along the road, my eyes glued to it. I set off and ran towards the target but at the last second, the ball bounced up and over the tin. I couldn’t believe it. I put my hands on my head and stared. There was one throw to come.
Pierre stepped forward as I got back behind the line. Two points would win them the title. If he missed or we got the point for stopping them building the tower, we won. I forced myself to look as he lifted his arm. He sneered at me, and then released the ball over-arm. The tin bounced about a foot in the air, the sticks flying in all directions. The scores were level. Toast chased after the ball as I moved towards the tin. He got to it first bounce and let fly at the French team. The ball hit one of them in the back and bounced straight into his team-mate. Two down. I swooped in and picked up the ball. I reached out and touched the tall number four with the ball. Three down with four sticks already rebuilt. Slow Mo called for the ball from behind me. I threw hard. He caught it and immediately passed to Lanky Colin who hit the number two from close range. As I turned, Pierre placed the fifth stick on the can. If he got the last one they won. I called but the throw was too high. My fingers touched the ball but couldn’t stop it. First bounce it was in old Mrs. Smith’s garden. I hesitated. Nobody went near that garden. She would set her big dog on you if the ball went anywhere near. It was Jen who pushed past me and leapt the fence in one go. She shouted at me to get back to the tin. I turned to see the French captain scrabbling on the floor. The rest of his team were screaming at him but still he couldn’t find the last stick. Jen’s throw was low and hard. I caught it and threw in the same movement. The French captain dived to the floor, the ball missing him by an inch.
He was on his feet and searching again as Toast got to the ball. His throw was hard but again the target dodged out of the way. The crowd were cheering and Pierre was getting more and more frantic as he searched for the final stick. I picked up the loose ball. The captain was trying to escape. I passed to Jen who set off in pursuit. I watched in horror as she tripped over the kerb. It all happened in slow motion. Her left knee hit the ground first, then her left hand. Somehow, she managed to twist and throw. The ball missed its target but hit the lamppost. It rebounded and struck Pierre right between the eyes.
We went berserk. Toast and Slow Mo threw their arms around each other, and then remembered Jen who was lying on the ground. We all ran towards her. Her shoulders were shaking. I thought she must have hurt herself quite badly and was crying. She rolled over and we all realised that she was laughing so hard that the tears were rolling down her face. We picked her up and carried her on our shoulders towards our garden where Lanky Colin’s dad had set up the cup on a little stand. Everybody was clapping and slapping us on the back.
The French team were still arguing amongst themselves when I was presented with the trophy. We’d done it. We were world champions.
I think about that afternoon every week when I dust the mantelpiece. I still have the small silver cup. It sits in the middle, next to the photograph of Jen and me at our wedding. On the other side, in a little glass case, is half a lolly stick; the one they couldn’t find!
Can Leeds be classed as a big city without a Premier League team?
Bridgewater Place in evening sunshine
I always had a very hazy view of where Shropshire was. My knowledge of geography was largely based on following the exploits of Leeds United in the seventies. So, whilst I knew that Ferencvaros was in Budapest and Juventus played in Turin in Northern Italy, Somerset was a complete mystery, with no football league team. There was the odd non-league impact in the FA Cup but, largely, Somerset may as well have not existed. Maybe it didn’t exist – who knows? My knowledge has now widened, thanks to life experience and getting lost on the way to Devon, but also, Yeovil were admitted to the league in the nineties. There are other counties without teams – Cornwall at least and who knows what else is lurking down south? The point I am gradually rambling towards is that the perception of a large section of the UK population and, these days the rest of the world, is based on weekly TV coverage of the Premier League.
So, can Leeds be classed as a big city without a Premier League club? The obvious competition is not encouraging. Birmingham, Manchester and Liverpool all have two each, whilst London has six, admittedly including QPR and Crystal Palace which will probably prove temporary. As you would expect, these top four cities in terms of population dominate the league. Leeds is fifth, followed closely by Sheffield, Middlesborough (Teesside), Bristol and Bournemouth – all outside the Premier League. It is only Stoke at 11 that has representation. Punching above their weight are Hull (24th in population), Burnley (43rd).
Kasabian at Leeds Arena
I admit that my view may be a little narrow. How does Leeds rate on other facilities associated with big cities? As a music lover, the most glaring omission was a large concert venue. Of course, the Arena has more than made up the shortfall in that area. Some of the biggest names in entertainment (and McBusted) have been drawn to the superb venue. As a result, large numbers flock to the city to spend their money rather than the flow being to Manchester, Sheffield and even Nottingham.
There are many wonderful places to eat in Leeds but not a single Michelin star between them. Obviously, the list is dominated by London but Bray boasts four, albeit with a rubbish football team. It is probably in one of those counties that doesn’t exist.
The Grand Depart as Leeds puts on a show
I could go on and quote numbers of museums and the like but, you know what, I don’t care! The very essence of what makes Leeds special is that its size is manageable. I can walk across the city centre and be anywhere in 20 minutes – try doing that in Manchester or London. I like the fact that I can walk into bars and restaurants and be greeted by name – you don’t even get that in most workplaces in the capital. The city is vibrant and constantly changing – just look at the number of cranes on the skyline. A large student population keeps it young at heart with a lively live music scene. We still have a thriving, independent retail sector, not relying on the large chains that make most town centres replicas of each other. We need to cherish places like the Corn Exchange and make sure it sits comfortably alongside Trinity and Victoria Gate. We know how to put on a show – just look at the Tour De France. Think what kind of show we could put on for the European City of Culture. Leeds Loves Food, Live At Leeds, Leeds Festival, The Waterfront Festival – all firmly established as part of the calendar alongside many more.
It is not perfect, far from it. Manchester’s tram system would be great, but would it be worth the years of disruption to achieve? Rather than a headlong rush to be the biggest, let’s embrace what makes Leeds a great place to live and, until United allow us to live the dream again, maybe the Rhinos and Yorkshire cricket will continue to fly the flag. (As a lifelong Bulls supporter that last sentence was really difficult.)
They say that fashion is temporary but style lasts forever. I like to think my first work suit fell into the latter category but suspect not.It was a brown, three piece job, a bargain at £14.95 from Hepworth’s, one of the many tailoring chains then based in Leeds. I complemented the ensemble with a knee length, corduroy overcoat – again in brown. With matching suit and tie, I looked like gravy in human form. The coat proved to be pretty much useless at its primary function, namely, keeping the cold out. I remember being picked up from work to travel to Hartlepool for an FA Cup tie. It was January 1979 (just looked it up!) and Leeds won 6-2 but the wind off the North Sea must have been the coldest thing on the planet that night.
The journey to work each morning involved an hour on the 56 bus to Dewsbury. (I could have pretended another form of transport to refer to the gravy train but decided against). A few weeks into my glittering career disaster struck in the form of sitting on some chewing gum. After an hour, steaming on the damp bus, I was well and truly stuck to the seat. I tried to stand (frankly the alternative of life spent riding endlessly between Bradford and Dewsbury was easy to resist). There was a moment when the velour seat and brown suit seat fought a battle to see which could hold the gum longest and the trousers won. I walked slowly around the corner to work, dreading the inevitable piss taking.
In that situation, everybody is an expert. I now know that putting the trousers in a freezer for an hour would have worked but not very practical in a bank, particularly when wearing only two thirds of a brown suit. Eventually, I was despatched to Boots to buy a bottle of carbon tetrachloride, the fluid used by dry-cleaners. Remember, this was the seventies and many dangerous things were freely available! I suspect this is not possible now in a country where paracetamol is only allowed in tiny packets. Another thing to have disappeared since the seventies is the role of bank messenger. Donald, chief messenger, was a lovely bloke, fond of a show tune in the afternoon and teller of the filthiest jokes I had ever heard. He was tasked with scrubbing at the offending spot with the evil smelling chemical. He insisted on doing this in open view of the entire office with a running commentary that left me blushing many weeks later. The final piece was removed to the refrain of ‘gotcha, you little fucker’ and a spontaneous round of applause broke out in the bank.
Every office should have a Donald
Every office should have a Donald. It was his instruction that enabled me to make a round of drinks for over thirty people with every conceivable combination of coffee, tea, sugar and milk that was humanly possible. I got it right every time – the consequences of error were just too terrible to contemplate. Today’s trainees get it very easy! I also got to help Donald with a job that would definitely be banned today. The banks in the town had an informal agreement that if one was running short of cash on a particular day, the others would help out. Donald soon twigged that walking around town with briefcase full of used tenners was eventually going to draw attention from some of the many local villains. Instead, the two of us used to set off with pockets stuffed full of cash – sometimes as much as thirty grand. This was very exciting for a 17 year old in a brown suit.
Apart from the show tunes, one of Donald’s favourite topics was dog shit, the volume of it on the streets of the town centre and what he would do to the owners of the culprits. You can imagine. That brings me to the point of this ramble, if indeed there is one – PooPrints. What a brilliant idea for a business! Just in case you missed it in the papers this week and your mind is off on some bizarre Jackson Pollock weirdness, hang on a second. There is a company (American obviously) that offer a service of matching DNA found in dog poo to a database of dogs – genius. Apparently, where the scheme has been rolled out, dog poo has completely disappeared from the streets.This would make Donald very happy. But why stop there? A human database would mean we could be freed from bogeys stuck to the underside of desks, people who don’t understand the curtesy flush and, of course – chewing gum on pavements and bus seats.
Let me know if there are any other service my new company can offer!
Not being an online gamer, I wasn’t affected by the problems that beset Sony and Microsoft on Christmas day. I can see how it would be very frustrating, unwrapping the latest console or game and then being unable to blow the online world to pieces because somebody had hacked into the network. The solution was simple, at least if you were a millionaire who knew a thing or two about programming. Apparently, Kim Dotcom simply bought off the hackers with credits on his latest website. The culprits turned out to be teenagers who admitted that they had done it just because they could. Sounds strange as most teenagers are more likely to have not done it because they couldn’t be arsed.
According to The Times, one of the hackers was traced to a school in Kent. They tried to contact his mum for a response but got nowhere. However, this opened up a line of thought for me. Why can’t all master criminals be dealt with via their mums?
“Ah, Mrs Moriarty, do sit down. It’s about young James, turns out he has been up to his old tricks again.”
“Sorry, he’s been a right little bugger since his dad ran off with that barmaid from the Duck and Blowtorch. What’s he done this time?”
“We’ve had another complaint from Mrs. Holmes.”
“That old bat? What’s he meant to have done now?”
“Something to do with a waterfall. Apparently there was a bit of a scuffle that got out of hand.”
Or…
“Don’t tell me, he’s done it again hasn’t he? Wait till I get hands on him I’ll wring his bloody neck.”
Perspective makes all the difference to a story – here’s an alternative view of our adventures on Sunday night.
Bruce (of Bruce’s Taxis) brought us home from the hospital, sun shining, radio playing, all well with the world. Turns out my Grandma was right – things always look less scary in the daylight.
Doctor Dave (a very suntanned version of the Swedish Chef from the Muppets) had prodded me, held my hand reassuringly and told me that these things happen to middle aged women, not to worry unless I fainted again, Happy Holidays…… off he wandered spreading good cheer throughout A&E.
The two hours before that are a bit foggy – machines that went beep waking me up each time I dozed off. The nurses were great – lots of admiration for my accent and my frilly cotton nightie. I think we all decided I was going to be ok when they offered me the alternative of removing my nightie myself or having it cut off me so they could put me in a puce-coloured hospital gown.
On balance I suspect ambulances are more fun riding up front than in the back. Roy was playing with sirens, I was in the back being hooked up to yet more machines and watching the road disappear behind me.
The hero!
My husband is my hero. He sat calmly while alarming machines beeped, heart monitors flashed, needles were inserted and removed, blood pressure rose and fell then rose again. He gathered together clothes so that I didn’t have to come home in my nightie. He remembered that it’s 911 in the US instead of 999. He chatted with the Sheriff about college football / baseball (we realised afterwards that the Law were there in case he was a wife-beater). He even found me some clean underwear so that I was carried out to the ambulance with some modesty intact.
A great place to recuperate
The medics were fantastic – only in Florida would they describe the ride on the trolley / chair as being better than Disney because there was no queue.
All in all, my advice would be: when you get up in the middle of the night, do it slowly; when you feel dizzy, sit down before you fall down; if you do fall down, do not under any circumstances stand up again by yourself – it is the second fall that does the damage. If you decide to ignore all of the above then make sure you are in paradise, where your recuperation can include sunset walks on the beach, time by the pool and gentle bike rides.
I had a memorable birthday on Sunday. I got to read the Sunday Times from cover to cover, a ten mile bike ride, a trip in an ambulance and dinner at the best restaurant in Anna Maria. Oh yes, the ambulance bit. Everything is OK now but we did have a bit of a drama.
Reading the paper always makes me feel like I should be doing something else but it was my birthday. The advent of the iPad edition means that, wherever you are in the world, you have the latest copy (internet permitting).
The bike ride was a pleasure. Compared to the mountain bike last summer that tried to kill me, this one is much friendlier. Built in the northern shipyards with a seat that is kinder to the ‘gentleman’s area’. We looped around the northern tip of Anna Maria Island then headed south before a left turn took us on Key Royale. I suspect this is where the majority of the million dollar plus houses are but not a shop or a bar for miles. The car definitely rules in the US.
Man and machine in harmony
My only regret is that I passed on the best photo op of the day. One house had supplemented its normal garden display with some Christmas figures. We saw Mary and Joseph (presumably carrying an infant) but standing next to a three foot long cannon. Well, you could’t be too careful, it was the Middle East after all. I am very tempted to cycle back later in the week for a furtive pic.
With a Florida thunder storm brewing, we almost regretted our decision to do without a car for this holiday. We needn’t have worried. The rain held off and the driver of the brilliant free shuttle bus dropped us off almost by the door. The Beach Bistro is quite formal for this part of the world but the food is amazing. The waiter managed to up-sell us a couple of times (even though I was ready for him). I suspect we were meant to recognise the couple next to us who were something in TV but, sadly for them, we didn’t. Just when we would normally settle in with a second bottle, we realised we had to set off for the last bus! The gods were with us again as the rain had stopped.
Now then, the ambulance! We commented on the fact that we were in bed by 11 and relatively sober for a birthday. Previous birthday celebrations have been known to enter a third day but we won’t talk about that. All went well until about 3am when I woke up and realised Ruth was no longer beside me. I did what most blokes would do at this point, rolled over and tried to get back to sleep. At this point I heard a muffled shout followed a second later by a series of loud crashes. Like a cross between Mr Blobby and Hong Kong Fuey out of the filing cabinet, I was across the bedroom and found Ruth sprawled on the floor just outside the bathroom. She was shaking violently and I can honestly say I have never been so scared in my life. I managed to get her turned on her side and grabbed a pillow from the bedroom to support her head. Two strides and I had the phone, somehow remembering it was 911 not 999. By the second ring, Ruth was calling that she was OK and still capable of giving orders! I hung up and went back to her. At this point the phone rang, the emergency operator following up the suspicious hang up. Anyway, we quickly decided she wasn’t OK and could we have an ambulance please. Less than 5 minutes later, huge ambulance, flashing lights and the sheriff (or at least one of his boys). The paramedics were brilliant and quickly established that the likely scenario was that something had caused Ruth’s blood pressure to drop sharply, she fainted and cracked her head and knee on the way down. It was only later we realised the sheriff was probably there in case it was a domestic. After half an hour they decided she needed a trip to hospital. I wasn’t allowed in the ambulance so would have to follow by car. What car? I am sure they thought we were a bit weird for not having a car in Florida. The upshot was, Ruth refused to go without me so rules were bent and I got to ride up front. I resisted the urge to turn on one of the three sirens (called cycle, yelp and fek off out of the way, interestingly).
The next few hours was mainly sitting around listening to machines that go beep, waiting for blood pressure to stabilise. The doctor decided that there was nothing serious and we could go home. Wheelchairs were wheeled and a short taxi ride later we were home and preparing to go back to bed for most of the day.
Ruth is feeling better today, sore head and ankle with a massive bruise on her knee. Obviously, the stairs to the basement are out of the question so I get to keep laundry duties. Certainly a birthday I won’t forget in a hurry.
Please leave comments if you have ridden with emergency services!
I knew it was coming but, here we are, I am now fifty four. This is not earth shattering or newsworthy in itself but, given the title of this blog, fairly significant for me. After a week of unbroken sunshine at our rented holiday home in Florida, the clouds have gathered so a good time to sit and do some navel gazing, a kind of audit of where I am and where I am going.
The most obvious thing at the start of my fifty fifth year is that I have no job. A couple of weeks ago, after one too many sleepless nights, I finally took my wife’s advice and quit. While I am still officially on the payroll until the end of the year, the long-planned holiday means that my last day in the office was last week. This situation unlocks a couple of powerful emotions. Firstly, quite frankly it scares the shit out of me. Secondly, and the one I want to embrace, it is quite liberating. I could put into practice any of those “one glass too many” ideas that we all get. Over thirty years ago, I decided to move to Spain and start a rental business for those new fangled VHS video things. Nobody else was doing it. Instead, we had another pint and the rest is history. Actually Blockbusters – the laugh is on you cos it didn’t last forever did it!
A good place to sit and think
I think it is fitting that I am using this time in the land of the free (unless you were born somewhere else) to do a kind of mental detox. I am opening up to new possibilities and ways of looking at things. Just today I tried a new tooth brush. I have been a committed electric brush user for a number of years but, since it switched itself on inside a suitcase once (airport security not known for a sense of humour) it has stayed at home, replaced by a good old manual. However, this time, I accidentally chose a completely new animal – the vibrating brush! The cynical Yorkshireman doubted that I would work but, having parted with a couple of quid, I wasn’t going to throw it away. In the spirit of openness, I have to report it worked well. Teeth feel zingy but now a bit worried I will develop vibrating white finger.
The new experiences are coming thick and fast. Just an hour ago I was despatched to the basement to put the wet washing into the tumble drier. This is something I can do quite confidently at home – simple. The thing in the basement was a whole different beast. It has more knobs and dials than were used in the Apollo mission control room. Feel the fear and do it anyway. What could possibly go wrong? Quite a lot apparently. We had a hasty refresher course on the instructions and I found myself back in the basement.
I digress. The biggest plus of the job situation i.e. not having one, should be that I have more time to do all of those things that I have always wanted to do. I am a world class procrastinator (thank heavens for spell checkers). I have just spent the last five minutes stopping myself going to make a second cup of tea since I started this. Now, if I went onto App Store, I am sure there would be a dictation app. That way I could make a cup of tea and continue writing. Damn, just looked at App Store and there are eight updates waiting for me to install them. Resist, resist.
Actually, this cup of tea is probably better than the first one.
So, next year is a blank sheet of paper with so many possibilities. Most people seem to be expecting me to go straight back into IT but I would rather keep this as a longer term option (unless a prospective employer is reading this in a few months time, in which case, I have always dreamed of being a project / software development manager with Asda / Morrisons / Yorkshire Building Society *delete as applicable). I already have a number of options starting to formulate, a couple of them are even quite grown up and responsible. I would start the business cases now but it is getting dark and the Beach Bistro awaits. Well, it is my birthday (assuming the tumble drier hasn’t shrunk all of my clothes).
There are many advantages to flying off to Florida for some winter sunshine. One of the least expected was discovering the Sky Mall magazine. Basically, it is the catalogue for skymall.com I must admit that I started out smirking at some of the stuff but, every now and then, thought – hang on a minute, that would be very useful. So, in no particular order of usefulness, smirk-ability or cost, here are a few suggestions for last minute gift buying. All prices in dollars.
Christmas tree
Get festive with the towering, inflatable Christmas tree. It is over ten feet tall and comes with a remote control to change colours. Just 199.99.
Horse and unicorn
Faced with a dull Christmas afternoon falling asleep in front of the Queen’s speech? Not any more. Half a dozen of these little beauties and you have your own Grand National in the making. Basically a space hopper dressed as a horse. The party will be descending into a fight in no time. Includes pump (well, there are sprouts on the menu). 79.99 each. You could even go mad and buy some for the kids at half the price (or you could just send them to wash up while you get on with the action!).
Yoda
A life size talking Yoda. Come on, what more do you want? It will even do the end of year performance reviews at work and fill in your dreaded balanced scorecard for you. ‘Do or do not, there is no try” 119.95
Portable hot tub
How about a portable hot tub? No more turning up at Glastonbury and not showering for a week. Fill this beauty up and get the party started! It has even got a drinks holder. It may take a while to fill but – it has a drinks holder!!! Just 3999.95.
Serenity pods
Don’t get me wrong, I would love my own Serenity Pod so I could float away, on a cloud-like bed into a blissful state, with calming, colour changing light, relaxing music and soothing vibration – who wouldn’t? It’s just that I can’t help but think the cat looks a bit traumatised and not there of its own free will. Having said that, when does a cat do what its told anyway? 10,000 dollars for yours and a grand each for the pets. Go for it.
I know, like me, you fancy all of these. If it came to the crunch, which would you put at the top of the must have list this year?
