The Red Zone

Dear zom,
An item you're watching is expiring soon. Don't let it get away.

Vintage quality pressed glass ships decanter
Current price: £8.99
End time: 28-Oct-2009, etc.

The kiss of death. A ten minute warning. £8.99. That is my bid. I am in "the red zone". What do I do? Do I enter a maximum bid to cover my intent? Maybe £15.00, just in case another bid comes along? 

Wait a minute. Another email, and it is not from ebay. It is a favoured client. Back to business. It is a reminder about thumbnails and back buttons for the web site. Hmm.  The thumbnails are straightforward. This back button thing has turned into a glacial problem. Still, it is less of a problem than ebay. I get called a geek occasionally about all this IT. Am I? ebay probably does not think so. I have organised ebay shops for people that do make money on ebay, but I have never even come close to winning a bid. Some geek.

9 minutes... 

 My bid is still good. ebay can wait. Right click, [reply]. "Real quick - on a tight schedule:
1. Thumbnails. I have had a bit of time to work on this on a couple of...etc. etc." [send]. It is not perfect news. Like so many emails, it is not perfect English, either. It is the truth, though.

5 minutes...

I like glass. I had a collection of 17th, 18th, 19th and 20th century bottles once. I found them all myself in old country dumps and bric a brac shops when bottles were just curios and bottle collectors were just geeks. Blues, greens, plain, reds, browns, bubbles here, flaws there. Always the flaws. Some pieces had crooked necks. Others were just crooked. Therein lies the beauty. The beauty is the flaw, the mark of individuality, unless you are you are dealing with something like Waterford. Speaking of which, a Waterford Lismore ship's decanter just popped up on ebay. £75 below list price, and it has the round stopper I like: the new stoppers look like a Flash Gordon spaceship. AND it is up for sale on a "buy now" button. Is the seller off his rocker?

4 minutes...

I am still in pole position in the red zone. £8.99. The thing is, the decanter is not cut glass. Why do I want pressed glass in my house? But, £8.99. Even £15.00.... how can I go wrong? It is novel. Nothing unusual about its height. It is reassuringly heavy, too. If it was not for one detail it would be nothing more than a facsimile of something grander. It is the decanter's base diameter that distinguishes it. The base diameter is proportionally smaller than you would expect for a conventional ship's decanter. That is what makes this piece unusual. It has value.

3 minutes, 30 seconds...

Oh - there's Terry on Facebook. I wonder if Terry does better at ebay than I do. "Hello, Terry! Have you made it to the Doyt this season?....."


Hmm. In between short sentences with Terry I find another Waterford with my kind of stopper. The seller doesn't even know what he's selling. He is in for a pleasant surprise, no worries, and I bet his decanter will go for more than the other Waterford I'm watching on a "buy now". That "buy now" price is just too good. It won't last long at all. Will it last two minutes?  What a beautiful shape.

2 minutes...

£8.99. There are still no counter bids for the decanter - dare I say "my" decanter? Why aren't there any other bids? Is this not what I always wanted? What am I missing? Survey says the seller is good for her word. Well, it is pressed glass. ...So?  Pressed glass dates from any time after 1850. An American developed the process. Let's see. What else might there be? Let's open a new browser tab and key "pressed glass history". Yes. Pressed glass fell from grace with the rush to crystal from about 1910. Then, the Depression brought pressed glass back. If it is pressed, then I could be looking at about one hundred years of remarkably good condition. It could be much more contemporary too. Who cares at £8.99? Everyone must be looking at the crystal on ebay today. The reserve is just so low on this. What kind of margin does anyone make on £8.99?

1 minute... 

Still no bids. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, perhaps? If there was a counter bid I could be decisive, roll my sleeves up, and raise my maximum to £15.00. Maybe £20.00. No, not £20.00. There is £5.00 shipping to consider. Or, I could drop it and pick up the Waterford. Someone else would have to beat my £8.99 bid, though. But.... I have never won on ebay. Everybody bids against me. And this "buy now" Waterford guy.... He is nuts.  I do need a dishwasher. Do I? No. Yes. Wait a minute, I've been buying white goods/brown goods since May. Sod the dishwasher.

30 seconds...

I would not even look at this in a shop for £8.99. At £30 it would catch my attention, but I doubt I would want it. At £8.99, it would cost me more just to get myself to a bric a brac shop or a flea market or a garage sale just to buy it.

20 seconds...

Maybe a bedroom. I have a 21 year old Old Pulteney. Scotch. It took three months to track down. It needs a decanter, but not pressed glass. I need a Waterford for that. Could I put this on my fledgling bar with a Waterford? Uh, no. By itself, maybe. It has to go somewhere else. Maybe upstairs.

10 seconds... 

I am on the clock - in the red zone! I have never seen my bids run down the clock like this. I like ebay's clock. I wonder if it is written in PHP or ASP? A tick tock noise would be a winner. Not hard to do, a bit of a problem when multiple bids are in...  Shut up man. Concentrate! No wonder girls go off you. Remember that night at the White Horse when she said how you rambled.. HEY! Focus on the bid.... 4. And 3. And 2. And 1. And....

SOLD to IP adress 82.xxx.xxx.xxx.

At last - a "red zone" conversion. My first ever "win" on ebay in 7 or maybe even 8 years of bidding.  What do you think of my trophy? Cute, isn't it? Let's call it Art Deco. You won't see it on my bar, but you might see it in a bedroom, or sitting on the landing on the pine table I restored. It will always be worth more than £8.99 to me. It is probably more valuable to me than even a Waterford. My first "win" on ebay!


Pressed glass, certainly not cut. Age? I cannot answer that right now. Manufacturer? Who knows? There are a couple of air bubbles, flaws to a pro, but that is all right. Flaws, not perfections, attract me.

What about the Waterford Lismore ship's decanter? I think the inspiration for the brand is Lismore Castle, situated just a few miles from Waterford's base in Ireland. Maybe I am a geek after all. Who else would know that? I have a thing about glass, you see. And what of it? What would I know about, let me think, how about... buttons? Not a chance.


Sorry? I didn't catch what you sai... Ah. The Waterford. Well, it was for sale on a "buy now" basis at about £75 off list price. What would you do? Oh, that's right. You want to know what I did. Well, let me tell you. On second thoughts, no, I will not tell you. I am a tease. Vintage zom. In my case, I think that is a flaw, but perhaps not enough of one to make me a collector's item. At least you know where to look if I did get the Waterford.  

The School Run

It is the first day back at school, and everything is back to normal. Mumsnet is overrun with newbie Mums, and not so newbie Mums for that matter, all in a flap about what to wear to school. No, not what their kids should be wearing, but what they should be wearing themselves.

For a maiden school run, perhaps this makes sense. Whether we are talking about child number one or child number four, the first day of school for junior marks a rite of passage. We're not talking kindergarten, here. We're talking real school. One with grades. The first day of school marks survival, for one thing. Your survival. Remember that day at the hospital when a nurse thrust the bundle in your arms and said "Here, you have it. Now get out of here." I do. Twice, in my case. What to do? Sure, Dad had fiddled with the baby seat, and sure he said he had it down cold, but today is T PLUS, not T minus, AND counting, Dad is all thumbs with the baby seat and next thing you're headed down the Atlanta highway with your jukebox money in a car that's as big as a whale, looking for that love getaway. That's right. The love shack, where there's glitter on the mattress, glitter on the front porch, and more, so much more, if big sister and or big brother have had the house to themselves for more than a day!

That's right. You survived all those years, and hopefully your kid outgrew nappies or diapers long enough ago that you cannot even remember how to change one. Hopefully. Apparently, the latest evolution of nappies is just so, well, disposably convenient that I have heard claims that more kids wear nappies longer now. When nappies are so convenient and disposable, why bother with potty training? Maybe there is a lesson for us all!

I digress. The first day at school IS important. Time to scope out all the other parents who you are going to be stuck with for the next decade, unless relocation is on the cards. Like it or not, these are the people whose kids are going to be partying with yours. In their house. In your house. This time, you don't pick your friends, your kids do. Unless.. Unless you engineer one or two "chance" social liaisons that help point junior in the right direction. Maybe. It is worth a shot. All of a sudden looks count, not because you want a new mating partner, but because you could be partying with this lot for some time to come. One wrong step and...

What to wear? Too dolled up - that's no good. Looks like you have too much time on your hands. Not dolled up enough - hmmm, I am all for honesty, but you never know who you might meet in the playground. There are the safe options, of course - jodhpurs and muddy riding boots will keep you in with the county set and it will snag some wandering eyes, too. Today, the UK national newspaper The Daily Mail says whatever you do, don't wear maternity clothes, your partner's clothes (like rugby shirts/sweaters), tracksuits, shoes by Ecco, anything that is too tight, odd socks, and lastly, but in case it is not obvious, yesterday's clothes.

So there we have it. But.... maybe not. What about that breed apart - the single Dad with custody? Hmm. What about that type, anyhow? What does he wear? How do you fit one of these loose cannons into the frame? Well, he got custody, so he might not be too dumb. The kids live at home with him, so there goes the prospect of undivided attention. But maybe some of these Dads need looking at a little more closely. They don't do many coffee mornings, they don't have time to catch much sport on TV, and they seem to look after themselves. They work and (sort of) get the housework done. They don't complain. They just get it done, and they listen, before they disappear into the ether until it is time to pick the kids up. They listen because the hardest lesson anyone has to learn the hard way is that, and I say this without any personal regrets at all, you don't know what you've lost until you lose it. Sometimes, it is a lesson worth learning.

What do this mysterious breed do in between? Do they worry what to wear when school finishes?

What about those guys, anyhow? Well, let me tell you. You won't find me on Mumsnet. Too busy for that. I won't answer for the rest of my breed either. No, when I get ready for the school run in September, I stick with either the "Classic" or the "X" Jock by Priappe. But never in white. For one thing, once a martial artist, always a martial artist. It is a lifestyle thing. Second, no panty lines. Apart from that, if you care to know what I wear, just ask, and you shall receive.

All change

"I cannot tell if what the world considers "happiness" is happiness or not. All I know is that when I consider the way they go about attaining it, I see them carried away headlong, grim and obsessive, in the general onrush of the human herd, unable to stop themselves or to change their direction. All the while they claim to be just on the point of attaining happiness. My opinion is that you never find happiness until you stop looking for it."

- Chuang Tsu, 370 - 301BC (reportedly)

Chuang Tzu, or Chuang Tsu, or Zhuang Tze, or Zhuangzhi, or Chouang-Dsi, or Chuang Tse, or Chuangtze, or even just Master Chuang, was a 4th Century BC Chinese philosopher. Or maybe not. There is speculation that some of what Chuang Tzu wrote during China's turbulent "Warring States" period was written by someone else, or that it was even all written by someone else. In Chinese history, just about anything goes, it seems.

Who Chuangtze is or was is academic by 2,000AD. "Zhuangzhi", simply named after its enigmatic author, is a classic of world literature for its content rather than its writer. Perhaps Zhuang Tze would have liked it that way. It was written in the context of its times. About two and a half thousand years later it still has relevance today. I could pull any number of quotes or stories from this fellow's book - some of the anecdotes are tremendously entertaining. I like the passage above. I like it because it underlines the notion that even in times when Stonehenge had only just fallen out of use and the Roman Empire was on the rise, people were stuck with jobs they did not like, relationships they could not stand, friends who were not really friends at all, horses that needed trading in, houses that were too big to clean, and so on.

Like today, this was easily rectified. Even then, all people had to do was change.

There is that word. Change.

I am not going to go on about change. This is not an epistle about "ain't it awful". This is just a whimsical moment. I just want to say to Zhuang Tze that his passage above is a wonderful line with a hint of rather coy wit. It resonates. You are spot on, sir (whichever one you are or whoever you may be), I hear you, and the only reason this deuced change business falls over is because you imagine that the human herd wants to be happy in the first place!

The story behind M104

"On my last night in the now barren Oval Office I thought of the glass case I had kept on the coffee table between the two couches just a few feet away from my desk. It contained a rock Neil Armstrong had taken off the moon in 1969. It had been carbon dated to be 3.6 billion years old. Whenever arguments in the Oval Office heated up beyond reason, I would interrupt and say, "You see that rock? It’s 3.6 billion years old. We’re all just passing through. Let’s calm down and go back to work."

"That moon rock gave me a whole different perspective on history and the proverbial "long run." Our job is to live as well and as long as we can, and to help others to do the same. What happens after that and how we are viewed by others is beyond our control. The river of time carries us all away. All we have is the moment."

- an excerpt from "My Life", Bill Clinton

I have forgotten most of the rest of the book, but this passage from chapter 60 still rings crystal clear. Nice party trick, Bill. I think the rock was there for more than just a party trick, though. I think the rock enjoyed pride of place to commemorate Bill Clinton's role model, John F Kennedy. Kennedy's ambition was to put man on the moon before the end of the 1960's. Kennedy never lived to realize that ambition. If I was Bill, the story behind the rock in the glass case would be more important to me than the rock itself.

I do not know what prompted H to loan me the audio book, Bill Clinton's autobiography called "My Life". It was read by Bill Clinton himself. H would not have known that I have never read a biography or an autobiography in my life. Nor am I political. Perhaps H offered me the 6 CD set because we had spoken once about how she filled her time in her travels between Manchester and home. Music fan that she was, H did not confine her interests to radio or recorded tunes. H listened to audio books too. She probably wanted me to try a new experience: an audio book.

H's intuition about the book was well guided. I transferred the 6 CD set to iTunes and Bill's story unravelled in 61 chapters over the space of a summer week when company was a black 8GB iPod Nano. "My Life" was, maybe I should say is, a remarkable story. Only Bill can make the traumas of White House life play out like a normal day in the life of a normal person in a normal office. I suppose a problem is never any larger than the bubble you put it in. You just have to stand outside the bubble and stand back far enough to appreciate the perspective - Bill's "proverbial long run".

* * * * * *

As bubbles go, the Sombrero Galaxy is about as big as it gets. Astronomers call it M104, or NGC 4594. M104 is an unbarred spiral galaxy. It sits in the constellation of Virgo, and it is visible with nothing more than binoculars, although you need a 12 inch telescope to see the galaxy's trademark dust ring. M104's scale makes anything mankind does insignificant. I have not researched its age, suffice it to say that the picture here, captured by NASA's Hubble Telescope, is what M104 looked like 28 million years ago - the time it takes for light from that galaxy to reach us. It takes light 50,000 years alone to traverse M104's own diameter which harbours a mass commensurate with about 800 billion of our Suns. If you are wondering about M104's energy efficiency rating, then forget it. Its bulbous luminosity is outrageously over specified: over 2,000 globular star clusters, 10 times more than our galaxy holds hostage. Next, a supposed supermassive black hole at M104's epicentre vents enough x-ray emissions to suggest an invisible mass of a billion Suns. There is more. A 157,000 light year-long halo of dark cold gases, primarily hydrogen, ringfences the galaxy's colossal perimeter. Nor is M104 waiting for you or me. Nobody knows where M104 is ultimately headed, but wherever it is going, the celestial juggernaut is heading there at 1,100 kilometres per second - 683.5 miles per second, according to its redshift. You can look at the Sombrero Galaxy with X-ray, red light, or blue light. You can look at the Sombrero Galaxy mathematically or statistically. You can just look at the Sombrero Galaxy in plain white light with binoculars. Any way you look at M104, it is a staggering creation. Words do not do it justice - to understand its scale, all you can do is try to assimilate it.

Imagine having a moon rock on your coffee table so that family and friends could pause to reflect. It might not be impossible. Celestial fragments fall to Earth daily. I may even have handled or trodden on a moon rock in my travels. Bill Clinton would still have one up on me: his rock was hand delivered from the Sea of Tranquility. One thing I do have is a poster of the Sombrero Galaxy. M104. NGC 4594. U gave it to me. U gave it to me as a remembrance of a lazy and ambient Saturday morning three springs past when U and I sat on a hotel patio by the River Avon outside Salisbury. That balmy morning U and I pored over a book called Cosmos while a pair of swans idled their time in the Avon's dancing eddies and currents underneath a stand of willow. A neighbouring German couple asked politely about the black hardbacked book, about the same size as a briefcase. The front cover, sporting Hubble's award winning image of M104, had caught their eye.

The poster sat in a cardboard tube until this month. Now the poster enjoys pride of place in a clip frame on the wall facing the top of the stairs outside my bedroom door. The picture has a story behind it like the rock in the glass case on Bill Cinton's Oval Office coffee table, and as I suspect is the case with Bill's moon rock, the story behind my picture is at least as important as the picture itself.

This July 20th is the 40th anniversary of the day in 1969 when Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin touched down at Tranquility Base. Word is Neil and Buzz were a little short of gas when they landed. Maybe one day someone will be in the area with an oily rag and a dipstick to find out how much juice is left in the tank, and settle a detail for the history books. Within a few hours of that landing the rock that found its way to Bill's Oval Office was in either Neil's or Buzz's hands. Let's not forget Michael Collins, either. I have always thought the most difficult job of the Apollo 11 mission really fell to the astronaut who rode shotgun anonymously in the command capsule while Neil took his steps for man and mankind.

What a perfect opportunity it is today not only to remember those three men, but to say thank you to H for loaning me the book to fire my imagination and which I only returned yesterday and to U for the remembrance of the moment in Salisbury, which together have helped me emulate Bill's party trick in my new house. As Bill says, there is only ever the moment to live in, and now is the time to tie all these threads together - John F Kennedy's ambition - Bill's rock - H's book - U's poster.

Thank you for your technically oriented thoughtfulness, ladies. To bring things down to Earth, I think I will plumb in my new washing machine today. It weighs clothes and has a maximum spin cycle of 1,200 rpm: one statistic at least which exceeds M104's performance. Sigh.

A Revelationary SMS

SMS from Andrea, Sunday 12.07.2009, 9:51pm:

"F**k you. F**k you a** hole. I'm off to Australia. I'm working all day at the girls school. Not going to court any more. F**k you. Ps I hate you".

We'll see.

Monday, 13.07.2009, Rhyl District Court, 9:45am. Rhyl's courthouse, pictured here, is a bland and unremarkable venue. District Judges must curse when their duty rosters flag a spell at Rhyl. Still, Court is Court. I headed up the stairs to the waiting room. I knew the routine. "Good morning", I announced, looking around for signs of Jon, my lawyer. "I am here for the 10:15. Directions hearing. Galloway. Who's sitting this morning?", I calmly fired at the security guard. "

"Ah, yes sir, you are the first here today. Are you acting for the applicant, 1st respondent, or second respondent?", came the reply.

What it is about me? When I partied with Andrew and his banking friends from National Westminster Bank and latterly Deutsche Bank in London, I was regularly mistaken for the maitre d' at London's finer watering holes. I have subsequently been mistaken for a head office manager of grocery store Tesco, a 5 star hotel manager, and a consular diplomat. The lowest common denominator appears to have been either a dinner suit or a lounge suit, and simply standing still. Today, I just needed to be recognized as a single father. One day maybe I will be regarded as an eligible bachelor.

"No", I smiled, "today Mark", I said glancing at his badge, "I am just a Dad."

***

Tuesday 14.07.2009, 11:30am, Lion Quays Health Resort, Oswestry. I never expected that one day I would be wandering around a health resort as a PE instructor. Rather, a martial artist. I am not sure if it is a step up or a step down, and I do not care. The tenure is immensely entertaining, and now that I am on the other side of the fence I imagine I might find out if PE instructors are as lucky with the girls as they are supposed to be. Not that I am bothered. By and large, the opposite sex is taxing me this month.

Monday did not go badly. Tuesday just had a better feel about it. Monday was business. Andrea avoided her obligations to the Court, and the Court explained to me that they were powerless to intervene. Really. I mean, really. A Court? Powerless to intervene? One judge, three lawyers, a social services officer, and Andrea was working her magic and running circles around them all. Suddenly, I did not feel so stupid. One thing about an alcoholic is that they can give anyone a run for their money.

I lost patience on Monday. I promised my girls I would do everything I could to help get Mum back on track. The Court was letting Andrea off the hook. Letting Andrea lampoon Her Majesty's Court Service was not going to happen if I could help it.

A couple of months ago Mountain Rescue passed me over for the solitary reason that I was a single parent, and if I fell off a mountain on night duty, the girls would not have a parent to wake up to the next morning. At the time I felt a pang of injustice. Meanwhile my ex, flouting court orders, obligations to her daughters, and now evidently planning a sojourn in Australia, had iced her cake by getting a job as a supposed role model to students for business, and was spearheading a government backed project in North Wales by visiting schools and advising children about lifestyle, self employment, and self motivation. Apart from the predictably appalling aptitude of those strange government vehicles called quangos the likes of which sponsored Andrea, just how could that be?

I did not know the full extent of Andrea's activity with children until I talked to the school nurse to get my facts straight after Court. I was highly motivated by her answers. Yes, Andrea was working at my daughters' school on the same day that she was supposed to be at Court. She was lecturing children about the virtues of alcoholic abstinence and self employment. Worse, she was due in school the next day, too.

Enough. This was a magnitude of revelation beyond my comprehension. I acted without the judge, without the lawyers, without social services. Just me and my telephone. Andrea will not be returning to my daughters' school again, and she will not be visiting any more schools, at least until she answers a few questions before the bench in October. A Court Order must be seen to have standing, whether a judge is prepared to enforce it or not.

Will Andrea show up in October? Doubtful. It would mean an admission of lies and perjury, to say the least. If Andrea shows up - well - the girls want Andrea to engage after all. What's another 6 months of psychiatric assessments? Career? What is a job but just a job? Some people would probably consider a position at Lion Quays a considerable achievement, ensconced among marble pillars and pristine trappings. Wealth. Wealth does not come from a wallet, though. It comes from the heart.

SMS to Andrea, Monday, 13 July, 2009, 4:45pm:

"Sorry you missed Court today. The school was mortified about the confusion. Your boss was mortified too. He says there will be no conflict with the directions hearing in October, and the Judge is writing to you to confirm the date. See you there."

A midsummer night's dream

"...To show our simple skill,
That is the true beginning of our end."
(A Midsummer Night's Dream, William Shakespeare, Act V, Scene I)

Taoists would like this quote. Taoists are fascinated with the concept of returning to the origin. Understand the origin, and it is possible to return to the origin. Return to the origin by stripping away our ego and those acquired states that contaminate our congenital nature as we age and, well, the path to immortality is there. It is a proposition, if you will, in reversing time. That said, Taoists do not see immortality as perhaps the western world sees it. Taoists see immortality in the sense that it is possible to merge our spirit with the source code of the universe - the Tao. Not a lot of people, even Taoists, ever get so far.

Am I a Taoist? No, no more than William Shakespeare is Taoist and no more than I am either Taoist or Church of England. "C of E" as we say around here. "Anglican" as others might see it. Although, maybe by my very insouciance, I am. Would it matter? That is for another blog. I just thought that this midsummer night, one that coincides with Fathers Day, a quote from an aptly named play written by Shakespeare might embellish the aspirations of his prescient ancient Oriental Taoist counterparts. For my part I am happy with my new watering can. On this midsummer night, I am dreaming that maybe the beefsteak tomatoes growing behind me will bear a tomato that I might actually enjoy come August or whenever they ripen. Did I say dreaming? Maybe dreaming is a bit of a stretch. Wondering, perhaps. There are better things to dream about.

My way or the highway

- "It is just too big!"

- I beg your pardon?

- "And heavy! You can't get it up!"

Oh. The same old topic. Again. Haven't I written about this before? Speak for yourselves, girls. Can't you be happy with what you have? What do you mean, "can't get it up", pray tell? It goes up fine for me. It takes seconds. Effortlessly. Without you having to handle it, touch it, even. If you can't get it up you are just going to have to try another way. Get creative. Make my day.

...

What is it about girls and vacuum cleaners? A vacuum cleaner is just that. A vacuum cleaner. Do I really need one for each floor of the house? We moved into this house in the full knowledge that there would be direction from the top. This house was to be a model household. No parental confusion. Order. As a famous American football coach said, "my way, or the highway". So far, so good.

This time last year the prospect of furnishing a house from ground zero was a laughable nightmare. Yet, here it is, and I am not finished yet. Three sets of bath towels, hand towels and facecloths just went into the airing cupboard: one in oatmeal, the second in light chocolate, the third in burgundy. A single bed, a double bed, and a solid oak king sized bed (shown here after the fact) will be delivered this coming week. I like wood. The following week will see non survival components arriving - washing machines, dryers, and perhaps dishwashers. Even those with real spending power rarely acquire household furnishings at this kind of rate or on this kind of scale. It is predominantly the end game for those fortunate enough to recover from ruin.

Yet, despite all the structured progress I have made and all the visits to web sites and stores who need me in their own moments of ruin, the house still feels half furnished. Metaphorically, if my house was considered against the "OSI", a conceptual reference model that Internet kingpin Cisco sends its employees to bed with every night, and which some "Ciscoids" would have us believe is fundamental to creation itself, then my house is indeed not yet operating at "layer 7". For one thing I do not have a telephone landline yet, and cabling is strictly layer 1. More generally, though, it is the same feeling you might experience when you are at the half way point over the Atlantic: all the anticipation of the trip is still ahead of you, you are far enough away from home so that it is behind you, yet you are still far too far away from your destination to enjoy the excitement that comes with being in the moment when you finally arrive. With a house, does one ever arrive?

Which brings me back to the vacuum cleaner. There is one. It is in the house. It works. A second vacuum cleaner is a luxury. It is at the bottom of the current wish list. Or is it? My way, or the highway: what of it? So far, my approach to girls has vicariously landed me in the family law courts and variously earned me solo return trips over the decades from London Heathrow and Manchester airports on the M1 and M56 respectively - highways to be on indeed! I may be undone by a vacuum cleaner yet - when it comes to girls, there is evidently room for another way and although size may not be determinative, it is nevertheless significant.

A school run

Tuesday evening, 5:04pm school collection as Henry finishes gym club:

Dad: Hen-reeee!! So, what happened at school today?
Henry: Not much, really.
Dad. Oh.
Henry: ....
Dad: Well, let's start with classes. Did you have any?
Henry: Yes.
Dad: Did you have lunch?
Henry: Yes.
Dad: OK. Did anything interesting happen?
Henry: Not really.
Dad: Did anybody die?
Henry: No.
Dad: Oh.
Henry: Dad, what's for dinner?
Dad: Spaghetti.
Henry: Dad?
Dad: Yes, Henry?
Henry: Would you like to see me do a cartwheel?
Dad: Did you do cartwheels in school today?
Henry. Yes, Daddy. I can do them with my legs straight. They're part of my routine for the show we're practising for.
Dad: Gosh, Henry. Yes, let's see you do a cartwheel.

Wednesday morning, 8:44am, "in the slot", systems nominal, school drop point ETA T-minus 1 minute:

Henry: Oh yes. Dad?
Dad: Henry!
Henry: Mr Whittaker wants to know if I can go to Germany with his special choir.
Dad: ... Which one is that?
Henry: You know, he's only taking ten students from the whole school..
Dad: .. Gotcha. Wasn't the school doing three or four cities, and then some pan European school competition in Berlin?
Henry: Yes, Daddy.
Dad: Well, you are a dark horse. Nice one, Henry - we better snap this one up!
Henry: (meltingly) I know!
Henry: Are any of your friends going?
Henry: Nobody else from the first three years is going, Dad. Just me and the seniors. They're really nice to me.
Dad: Oh. Gosh. When did you find out about this?
Henry: Yesterday, Daddy!
Dad: I asked you yesterday and..
Henry: I forgot. Please can I go, Daddy?
Dad: How could you forget that? When is it?
Henry: The week before the trip to France and...
Dad: !! Whaa...?
Henry: Yes, Daddy, there isn't much time. He wants to know this morning and its going to cost..
Dad: Wait a minute - that's the beginning of July - that's like 6 weeks - you're supposed to be going to Fra..
Henry: Yes, Daddy. Germany will be Monday the 6th, and we're back on the 10th, and I'm going to France with my class on the 11th. Can I go?
Dad: ?? (mild alarm)..Uhh.. wh..
Henry: Thanks Dad - I have to see Mr Whittaker before classes start!
Dad: Hey! Wait a minute - Hen..
Henry: Bye! (car door shuts. Dad gazes at the school building and randomly wonders what the border control officers see on their computer screens when they scan a passport, and then hand it back with a knowing smile. The driver behind honks her horn).

Of television and mayonnaise

A television. A stash of mayonnaise. No compromise.

At some time in your life you have asked yourself, or your partner, or your children, or maybe your children have asked you, "if we had to start all over again and pennies mattered, what would be the most important things for the new house"?

Survivors have had to face that question. Survivors whose personal landscapes have been irrevocably changed by forces of nature, war, and personal tragedy. Most of the rest of us whimsically speculate with the fleeting interest that comes and goes with those in-car "I Spy" moments. My circumstance is more to do with what I deserved than elemental cataclysm or divine intervention, however like real survivors I find myself answering this question for real too.

As the undisputed head of our new household, decisions are mine to make. My job is simple. I do not have to agree with a partner. I do not have to contest a partner's ego. I just have to draw up a list, and prioritize. Everything will happen. It is just a matter of time. Without Legal Aid, sooner. With Legal Aid, later. Where to start?

My eldest daughter has managed without a wardrobe to hang her clothes in for a year. Her immediate reward for enduring my patient pursuit of judicial sanction is a matching wardrobe, chest of drawers, and dressing table and mirror. She is not effusive about polished mahogany, on the other hand her lady logistics are in place. My youngest daughter "shotgunned" her room the moment she saw it, so she is happy too. It features two "walk in" closets. Walk in closets? Such a claim would be a bit of a stretch for most grown ups to imagine, but she really can walk in to her closets, and her extravagant imagination has mapped her lady logistics down to the very coat hangers that her clothes will hang from.

From this point, the rest of the household inventory must be acquired. Where from? Car boot sales, stores, hand me downs, and even from what might once have been such seemingly indulgent frivolities as antique shops, and those warehouses with acres of fixtures and fittings stripped from households with stories of their own and priced with no evident reason at all. Perhaps I have to turn my hand to some furniture restoration. I can do that. In short, it is a time for ingenuity. It is time consuming business. Sometimes you make mistakes. You probably do not make as many mistakes as you did the first time you put a house together.

So much is irrelevant, though. Let's cut to the quick. What matters most? What is the lowest common denominator that makes a home? As it happens, two things are sufficient to make a home. First, foremost, and without compromise, is a television. Second hand will not do. Reconditioned will not do. Size is negotiable, but flat screen LCD is the minimum standard. HDTV ready, of course. Second, the kitchen. The girls uncompromisingly require fridge, freezer, microwave, toaster, kettle, rice maker, bread oven, complete stock of herbs, spices and condiments, and a complement of utensils that really only can be acquired over a lifetime. As a family of culinary afficianados, we never used the knives that you buy at grocery stores, and it is a credit to the girls' humility that they will (momentarily) tolerate Tesco's branded knives.

They are prepared to sleep on the floor. They will contrive seated comfort. They will indulge their father's profligacy and allow him his first king sized bed in four years, in polished oak. They are even prepared to live without broadband for a couple of weeks. They will wash dishes (?). They will happily survive. With a new television set.

The next time you ponder the question, now you know the answer. Whatever they say in-car, or at the dining table, when the chips are down, dignity is an LCD flat screen television, HDTV ready, and if I am asked again whether I have stashed Hellman's mayonnaise (in a squeezy bottle) in the kitchen cupboard in time for the May 1st launch I am going to go off on what is colloquially known as a bender.

A beginner martial artist's diet

What does a beginner martial artist feast on? Since January 20th I have been vegetarian, caffeine, alcohol, and ice cream free. This is no small feat for a dedicated omnivore. Nor is it a big deal. If you need to do something you just do it. "Trying" to do something implies an advance admission of failure. My only hankering three weeks into this experience is diet cherry Coke.

Back to my theme. Vegetarianism. I like porridge. I like porridge with blueberries, cream, honey or maple syrup. That takes care of breakfast. I like porridge a couple of hours before I run my class, too. I like Greek yoghurt with things in it like honey and a very special muesli I found that is made with dried blackcurrants, blueberries, cranberries, cherries, Chilean flame raisins, and raspberries. My daughters zeroed in on that find in about a minute so I have to be quick on that draw. What about hot food, though? Well, for someone without any Italian in my blood I do a pretty good job with Minestrone soup, although bacon makes the difference. Pasta is another easy solution, but I have to be careful with those kinds of carbohydrates. Whatever I have eaten over the last three weeks, it has gone well and I am glad to say that it has been a rather fun kitchen adventure.

For instance, here is something I made tonight. I found the recipe in one of the daily "National" newspapers called The Daily Mail. The Daily Mail called it "Spiced chickpea and potato fry-up". Anyone with experience of Indian cuisine should almost immediately recognize a hybrid of Bombay Potatoes and Saag Aloo (a Northern Indian dish made with spinach and potatoes) with some chickpeas thrown in. Just a minute, though: if I peeled and chopped a few tomatoes, added finely chopped chilli's (or not) instead of that insipid recommendation of chilli powder, and my hybrid becomes.... let's see, how about "Bombay Spinach"? So, boys and girls, aprons at the ready, ladles at dawn, and ready - steady - cook!

Zom's Bombay Spinach

Ingredients:

500g/1lb potatoes (mashing/baking, though new potatoes would work), peeled and cut into about 1" cubes

2 x tbspn olive oil
2 x onions, thinly sliced (cut from top to bottom)

5 x cloves garlic, crushed (recipe called for 2)
4 x peeled/chopped tomatoes (or 1 can of same) (my idea!)
2 x tbspn tomato purée
2 x tspn ground coriander
1 x tspn turmeric
1 x tspn mild chilli powder (or finely diced chillies to taste)
2 x tspn cumin seeds
1 x tspn garam masala (my idea!)
1 x 110g can of chickpeas, drained/rinsed
400ml/0.75 pint of water (hard or soft!)
salt & pepper (maybe not if you are opting for a hot dish)

200g/8oz fresh baby spinach
small bunch of fresh coriander

Method

Boil the potatoes in salted water until just tender.

While the potatoes are cooking, soften the onions in the oil using a large saucepan or a wok for a few minutes. Caramelizing might help flavour. Then, add the garlic, the spices, stir in, and add the chickpeas, tomatoes, tomato purée, and chillies. Add the water, turn up to a low boil, and bubble for a few minutes.

When the potatoes are just soft, drain them and add to the sauce. Cook for a few minutes until the starch in the potatoes thickens the sauce, stir in the spinach and when the spinach begins to uniformly wilt scatter with the fresh coriander and serve with any warm crusty bread (or warm chapatis/naan/pita), perhaps with some Greek yoghurt, and/or mango chutney on the side.

Tips

Indian Restaurant goers will know this dish as one of two recipes depending on the mix of potatoes or spinach, and invariably the spinach is overcooked by the time it reaches the table. This recipe would easily make enough side dishes for about a dozen people. Or, it makes a surprisingly hearty meal for four adults in its own right.

Remember to salt the potatoes when you are boiling them - salting the potatoes afterwards risks making the rest of the dish too salty. You can use frozen spinach, but this produces something of a "next day" taste to the dish - if you can use fresh spinach and wilt it without "sliming" it you will get a much fresher flavour. The same goes for the spices - fresh chillies and a fresh coriander garnish just make that little extra difference. Lastly, garam masala is really only used for fragrance, so if you cannot source this easily, it is no great loss.

I am glad to say how pleasantly surprised I am at my foray into veggiedom. I will not be giving up meat. One or two traverses across some difficult snowbound terrains last week left me a little famished for a decent pint of bitter and a t-bone or fillet steak (rare/medium rare) in the absence of my loved one. I am much more comfortable with the idea that it is possible to turn out some great food and still cover important nutritional needs without having to rely on meat daily. I have just had to step outside that box called habit, and at this point in my life, it is neat to try something different. It is not a bad place to be at all.

That is not the point, though. The point is, will it improve my chances of becoming a martial artist?