Garlic and commandos part deux

So at the the risk of my explorations of the garlic and baguette planet fading rapidly from my memory, I now continue my epistle.

Thuir, the tiny village we stayed in, is home to Cusenier, who make Cinzano, Dubonnet and other alcoholic beverages, so it seemed fitting to do a tour of the factory to see the world's largest oak vat, and my word, it was worth seeing, as was the warehouse filled with bags of sugar that are dumped into said oak vat, which holds 1000 200 litres. Now, I'm not much of a drinker myself, so the smell alone was enough to have me weaving about like a drunken sailor...or maybe it was the vertigo...but whatever, I'd imagine that falling into one of these enormous vats would be a very happy way to go, if you like that kind of thing. And I did taste everything, so perhaps it was the ten little glasses chucked down my throat in rapid succession...

There is an abundance of vineyards and baguettes on this planet, and mingled with the doughy smell of freshly baked bread and fermenting grapes, a lovely scent of chocolates and pastry wafted down the little cobbled streets, like a gourmet Pied Piper, calling to me to follow. While I can resist the urge to drink my body weight in wine, I am usually far less able to resist the rows and rows of truffles, pecan pies and e-normous eclairs that are displayed artistically in the windows of the local chocolatiers and patisseries. Fortunately for my waistline, my bank account imposed severe limitations on the number of truffles I could purchase and scoff. But the garlic planet is stuffed to the gills with gorgeous food and shopping Auchan, the huge supermarket in nearby Perpignan, had me in raptures of delight.

Only the French can do food like this. A cavernous shop, the size of an aeroplane hanger and filled to overflowing with the most divine, succulent, pungent, delectable (you get the picture) jars and bottles of pates and pastes, fromages and fruit, mussels, crayfish,oysters freshly plucked from the rocks, crabs still smelling of sea water, a veritable crustacean cornucopia of delight. I'm salivating at the memory. And not just ordinary old cheddar cheese either, you understand. No, fancy creamy, smelly, stinky, old-sock-flavoured cheeses that were begging to be purchased and polluted the fridge for days to come. Wonderful! I think there's something about eating these cheeses with a piece of baguette ripped off a fresh loaf, on the side of the road in a picnic spot in the Pyrenees, that makes it all the more special and delicious. And I haven't even mentioned the local market yet.I'll let the picture do the talking shall I?
Food featured prominently in the trip, for me anyway, because it is all so wonderfully presented and what we on the New Planet consider exotic, to the baguette eaters is simply every day fare, and I say this with a Gallic shrug of my shoulders. Even pottering around ancient Carcasonne with its fairytale towers , crenelated battlements and the obligatory winding, cobbled streets, it was impossible to escape the chocolaty, fudgey, coffee-scented smells wafting towards me like an exotic dancer weaving her magic spell around her awe-struck audience. A trip to La belle France, would not be complete without a sugar covered crepe accompanied by a cup of molten hot chocolate (and nougat), that sticks to the top of your mouth and drips down your throat with a typically French attitude. Yum, and to hell with the diet!

I can honestly say that I fell in love; with the tree-lined streets, the old crumbling monasteries and churches, the villages perched like mountain goats on impossibly steep mountain sides, the people with their shrugging and lip-pursing and wonderfully melodic language, the exotic and foreign foods and the sense of being stuck in the past at every bend in the road. What more can I say? Vive La France. (And very happy to have finally uploaded photos...)

Reminiscing

Back in the Southernmost Colony, during my undeveloped years, I attended a Pedagogical Institution run along the lines of a fascist penal colony. At a time when hormones raged rampant and passions exploded without warning, we were subjected to the whims and draconian views of a purple-haired pedagogue, who seemed to think that the undeveloped beings in her care were there to be moulded into a being without instinct or creative thought of her own. Pity the poor girl that dared to disagree with anything that she was taught was 'fact'. Christian National Education did not encourage 'free spirits' and neither did my girls-only penal institution.

Dressed in apple green, we were warned of the dangers of 'under-wired brassieres',which, our purple-haired pedagogue was convinced, would lead the 'young Sir Galahad's across the railway line' into temptation. I often wondered exactly how these young Sir Galahads would know we were wearing such undergarments without removing our outer garments first, surely the very thing she was worried about in the first place. We were forced to wear 'sensible' knickers - navy or apple green and nothing else at all would do, and I seem to recall pantie checks to ensure we were in fact stuffed into these thick nylon instruments of torture. Wearing trousers was considered a sure sign that you 'batted for the other side' and that they at the very least 'encouraged' such inclinations.Huh? We were prohibited from draping ourselves over anything dressed in khaki (those famous sir Galahads-our brother school- across the railway line) and were banned from taking part in athletics as this was considered 'unladylike', never mind that we could run around the hockey field in short skirts whacking one another on the shins with a stick and somehow, that was not considered unladylike! And though were could not wear under-wired brassieres, we could however wander around in skin tight, wet Speedos in full view of the public and Sir Galahads and somehow that did not lead them into temptation.

Now, this may sound like fun to you, but I found it oppressive and they were the most miserable five years of my life and the day I left I swore blind that I would never return, that my shadow would never again darken the hallowed halls, never mind the 'middle stairs' of the Institution. And then the invites to the reunions began arriving. WHY? I ask myself. Why would I want to go back there?

Of course there's always the lure of reuniting with old friends and perhaps an even older pedagogue who has not yet shuffled off her mortal coil, but even these are hardly persuasive. But, after a decade, on the insistence of my mater, I did indeed attend one of these events in the hope that I could exorcise the ghosts and heal the wounds that had been inflicted. And yes, I met up with some old friends, which was lovely, but what I also found was that, no matter how successful, happy and fulfilled we were now, we instinctively slipped back into the roles that had been created for us while being held prisoner there.

The bossy prefect types, STILL seemed to think they're prefects and that we should obey them without question, the teachers STILL spoke to us as if we were either a)the brilliant scientist/hockey player and therefore perfect scholar/person who could do no wrong, or b) the nerdy, swot who won the Maths Olympiad but had no social life to speak of (who then went on to crash out of University because of all the pressure), or c) the 'non-girl', who did subjects that weren't considered academic enough or who didn't play in the 'first team' and was therefore 'not good enough'. Included in this group were those who didn't join in with anything for the entire five years of servitude, kept their heads down and got out of there relatively unscathed, and d) the late bloomers; the artists and writers and designers, who at the time were labelled rebellious and underachieving, but came into their own once the shackles had been removed and have flourished outside the confines of the penal colony. And yet these girls were STILL treated like they weren't quite up to par and I know that no amount of protesting or evidence to the contrary, would ever convince those bossy prefects or disapproving over-achievers or bitter pedagogues that life has moved on and that we are no longer those same 18 year old girls who trembled in awe at the horned purple-haired dictator. Who needs this, I ask myself?

And so when the next invites arrived, apart from the fact that I've migrated across the galaxies and settled on the New Planet, I really have no desire to revisit those awful years. Why do people insist on trying to get us all together every decade or so? What purpose does it really serve except to bring up old memories? Maybe there are some that still have good memories, perhaps those years were the glory years for them and hence they feel the need to relive them over and over. I have very few good memories of the penal colony and finally I'm not too ashamed to say it out loud. So many years have now passed, so much water has flowed under the bridge, why should five miserable years be held up as so iconic, as the best years of our lives? It would be very sad if those years were the best we could do.

Thanks to the interweb, I am still in touch with those I WANT to be in touch with,and have sought them out on that website, you know the one, but sorry, there are some that I don't miss, don't care about and don't really want to see again. And why do the girls that I know hated me at school, that whispered nastily about me behind my back, NOW suddenly want to 'be my friend'. They should put an 'I don't Care' button on that website!

Garlic and baguettes

One of the best things about the new Planet, I have discovered, is now that I am in possession of a lovely maroon Interplanetary Wayfarer Permit, I am allowed to cross the small stretch of water between this planet and those on the other side of 'Le Channel', with nary a sniffy look or very-costly-long-waited-for-ridiculously-expensive visa in sight.

Imagine my delight at sailing through the Portation Gateway on the other side with only a polite 'Bonjour' at the border control man who barely even glanced at me or my Permit. I could have been a traveller with murderous intent, for all he knew, but the maroon document gave me instant access...or perhaps I simply don't look like an international terrorist bent on carnage and mayhem. I allowed myself a small smile (smirk?) at the holder of a blue Permit (I'm not sure what planet this poor soul arrived from)and the barrage of questions, not to mention the queue, that greeted him. And no sooner had I arrived in the great Baggage Claim Hall than my black and grey striped suitcase came trundling out of the black hole that had earlier consumed it on the other planet, and I was on my way into a glorious land of garlic and baguettes.

And what a beautiful place it is to be sure. From the tiny medieval villages perched on hilltops, the ancient, crumbling monasteries and churches, to the the tree lined roads and fluffy sheep grazing on mountain sides (obviously the legs on their left side are shorter than on the right otherwise they would roll down the mountain and land up in a mouton stew), to the vast expanses of golden sands and Blackpoolish tourist areas. It amazed me how no matter what planet you are on, a seaside town remains a seaside town, and apart from the language and the currency, they are all the same...rows of postcards, tacky hats, plastic 'crocs', hand-crafted shell ornaments (!) and plastic-tasting hamburgers. Why? Why, I ask myself, does this happen? Is there some vast warehouse in a distant galaxy that dispenses grotty stuff to be flogged on the seafront of every planet with a coastline?

And just as I was about to despair at the sight of tattooed, beer-swilling, socks-with-sandals-wearing tourists from the New Planet (so instantly recognisable it makes the stomach churn), I discovered a small fishing village uncorrupted by 'les Anglais', where the coffee was thick and pungent, where the food had been caught merely hours earlier, and where not a soul spoke the language of the New Planet. Here I was forced to speak in la langue I was certain I'd forgotten. But, to my delight, the natives on the planet understood me and, if they spoke slowly and didn't switch to Catalan, which sounds like Greek to me, they understood me too and I was able to navigate my way around the village and the menu with very few nasty surprises. Okay, maybe I did end up eating horse or cat, but if I did, I didn't know it. The sheer joy of discovering I had not lost 'it', cannot be adequately expressed, but has certainly resulted in a surge of desire to speak la langue a whole lot better.

Imagine the joy of my companion and I when we found ourself in Collioure, the charming coastal town where the planet's commandos train. Not only did we get to see the magnificent fort where they are stationed, but we also got to watch handsome men in skin-tight wet suits with very large guns slung across their chests, practising their canoeing and swimming skills. What more could two girls on their holiday ask for? And once we had wrenched our eyes away from their well honed and taut bodies, I discovered that this was where the first ever commando unit was trained during WW2 and where the term 'shock and awe' originated. Wandering through the cobbled streets with its coloured houses and wooden shutters in pastel shades I found myself transported and enthralled. All those people that live and work there and I didn't know a single one and will most likely never see any of them again, although I'd quite like to meet up with one of the commandos on a dark night....


My friend and I stayed in a medieval town with tiny winding streets where we got lost every night while trying to get home, going round and round trying to find the actual street that led to our gite, hysterical with fatigue and fury at constantly finding ourselves going the wrong way up a one way alley that is only wide enough for a horse and cart. Fortunately the natives were friendly and shook their heads and waggled their fingers at us, saying 'non, non,' before ushering us backwards towards the right street, except in the middle of the night when we simply went round and round before giving up in frustration and going the wrong way up a one way road because we needed to get to bed...and the loo. And by day seven of our ten day holiday, we finally cracked the code and figured out the route.

I did not however, get used to the clock in the 16th century church two metres away from us tolling every 15 minutes, all day and through the night. Four dongs before the hour, then the dongs to signal the hour. And then, just as I was falling asleep dong, one dong on the quarter hour, which woke me in a fright with my whole body quivering in dread. And back to sleep only for dong, dong on the half hour. Once again the body jerked awake, but drifted off until dong, dong, dong, on the forty five minute mark, followed by four dongs just before the hour and then 10, 11, 12, 1, 2, 3,dongs...you get the picture. I won't even mention the dustbin men who trundled the bins down the streets at 4am, every morning. Have you ever heard a wheelie bin being dragged down a cobbled street in the middle of the night? The first night I was certain it was the Anschluss.

By the fifth night or so I could pretty much cope with the donging and no longer woke in fright, until one early morning, a siren began wailing at about 3pm. I woke in panic, dived under the bed, convinced we were being attacked, that it was an air raid, that the Germans were coming, but then it stopped and I took a breath only for the wailing, like a cat inside a washing machine, to suddenly start up again five minutes later, by which stage I was wide awake and convinced the Gestapo was about to arrive and carry me off to be tortured. The next day while at the boulangerie purchasing the daily delicious baguette (WHY can they not make decent baguettes on the New Planet?) the air was rent once more by the siren, which everyone else ignored, and I wondered if I was losing my mind and hearing things. So I asked the boulanger, to be told it was only the 'pompiers'. Obviously a local volunteer fire brigade being summoned to duty. What a relief....until it went of at 4am once more!

There's so much more to tell, I think I will curtail this epistle and leave the rest for another time...

Chivalrous or chauvinist?

Many moons ago, when I embarked on an expeditionary trip to the New Planet, I encountered something I'd not seen much of on the Southernmost Colony. I'm not talking about the mountains of steps leading out of the underground, although there are none of those on the Southernmost Colony, but the men that helped me lug my over-packed suitcase with wonky wheels up said steps, without so much as a, "Jeez, you wouldn't look very good in a bikini,' look on their faces.

Now to explain. I was friends with a beautiful woman back on the Southernmost Colony. The man-walks-into-a-lamp-post kind of beautiful. The kind of beautiful where every other woman within a five mile radius of her becomes invisible, because her beauty is not only skin deep but extends into her soul. And I was quite accustomed to being invisible. 'Ag shame!' I hear you cry, but no, that's not the point. The point is we all feel invisible from time to time, and we all know what it's like to be ignored by strangers who are so busy gawping at your friend that you don't even factor into the conversation.

And then I came to reconnoitre the New Planet, without my beloved friend. It must be something to do with the type of man I encountered here that made the difference. For there seemed to be a chivalrous streak within them that I personally found sadly lacking in the males on my home planet, who were more concerned about the size of my bra than the size of my intellect....or that's how it seemed to me. I can honestly say that not one man there (who wasn't a friend) ever offered to help me out in a jam. My beautiful friend, on the other hand, had men falling over their own feet to help her out. Attention that I don't think was always welcome. But when I and my suitcase fell out of the tube at Paddington Station, more than one gentleman helped me up and assisted me in carrying the offending case up the stairs. It happened more than once, actually and so the memory of this chivalry stayed with me for a long time.

Then I came to reside on the New Planet, and imagine my dismay when I discovered that men who behaved in a chivalrous manner were now accused of being chauvinists for daring to open a door or pull out a chair or allow a woman to enter a room first. Well, I confess, that having a man behave in this way does NOT make me feel like a second-rate citizen. Yes, I am perfectly capable of opening a door myself, but I rather like it when a gentleman does so for me. I can hear the feminists out there shrieking in dismay. Tough. I like it.

And more annoying than the feminists who object to mere men daring to assist them or behave politely, is the fact that I have observed it is mainly the old men, those older than sixty, who still think it is their duty to behave like a knight in shining armour, whereas the younger men seem to have descended the evolutionary ladder and become pushing, grunting beasts with no care about the 'weaker sex', not that I in any way consider myself weak. A very dear octogenarian friend, was telling me last week how he recently opened a door for a young woman struggling with shopping bags and a toddler,and she turned to him in a fury and remarked, 'I am perfectly capable of opening a door on my own, thank you!' to which he replied, 'And I am perfectly incapable of not opening it for you.'

Another thing I have observed of late, is that now, when I go out with another friend who is approaching eighty (I do have an awful number of very old friends I confess) I have noticed that now it is her who is invisible. When we are in a restaurant or pub or the garage, younger men tend to talk directly to me, avoid looking at her and act as if she's not there. I wonder if she notices? It is something I suddenly realised last week when we took her tyre in to the garage and the 'man' spoke to me, telling me what he would do, how much it would cost etc, and pretty much acted like she was a senile old dear that couldn't possibly understand what he was on about.

No doubt the time will come when I once more become invisible, but for now, I quite like being spoken to as if I'm not an idiot, or treated like I don't exist because I am not endowed with physical beauty or have a creased face and crooked back. I do wish there were more chivalrous men out there, just to balance the inordinate number of chauvinists that lurch about in pubs and shopping centres ignoring those that are precious, just because they do not live up to some unachievable standard of beauty or have skin that doesn't quite fit any more and walk with a stick. Come on, you men! It's time to remount your white steed (or white Skoda) and rescue a few damsels, even if they don't want to be rescued.

Zero to Hero?

For the main part I find life on the New Planet relatively crime free, especially in the area where I reside among the sheep and nothing more vicious than the odd spider or mosquito intent on draining my last ounce of blood. Now, of course I realise that it's not like this everywhere, and events of the last months have brought this home to me.

Back in the Southernmost Colony, I was quite accustomed to hearing terrifying stories from friends and family who had been hijacked, tied up and robbed at gunpoint in their homes and raped while out jogging, and I confess I barely raised an eyebrow and apart from the appropriate expletive or gasp of horror, carried on in the sure knowledge that one day it would be my turn. Living with such acts of violence day by day, one somehow becomes immune to them. It was only after living on this planet for a while that I realised how bad things were and have many a time heaved a sigh of relief at the safeness of Old Blighty, and the freedom to wander down leafy lanes or through mysterious woods without fear of attack.

And then, in the last few months, this New Planet has been disturbed by two men rampaging with guns in quiet rural settings, leaving death and destroyed lives behind them. The question of why a seemingly normal, 'nice' man would pick up a gun and go on a rampage killing and maiming will no doubt be debated for years to come, and I am sure his family will never fully understand why it happened.

And, almost more horrifyingly, the second gunman, who by all accounts was driven by revenge and anger, and evaded capture for some days before taking his own life, is now being hailed a 'hero' by vast numbers of deluded New Planetarians.

They have set up 'pages' on a certain social interaction site, where they extol him as 'a legend', expressing their delight in his rampage and evasion of the police, like he's some kind of modern folk hero escaping from an evil sheriff. Now excuse me if I find this completely inexplicable and just downright wrong! Since when did killing innocent people out of spite and jealousy become an heroic act? What's the matter with these people? Has television/film violence so eroded their sense of right that they are unable to comprehend the true cost of such behaviour? What of the brave law man that was shot in the face and blinded for life? What of his family and friends and the family and friends of the man murdered for daring to date the gunman's ex-girlfriend? Why is killing and taunting the police a hail worthy act? How did their way of thinking become so warped?

It just does not make sense to me. This was not a desperate man killing for food or stealing in order to survive, it was cold blooded murder and it disturbs me greatly that there are people on my lovely New Planet who think he's a hero. I'm sure those communities will take a very long time to recover and they aren't helped by the nitwits who post admiring comments about the killer.

And don't even get me started on the yobs in the great capital city who think that knifing someone is the best way to settle a grudge...

Flags at half mast...

So, it's taken me a while to recover my good spirits and rejoin the normal world (well actually I've started watching the tennis instead where some hope remains) and so I won't say much about the ball kickers from the New Planet!

Except...at the risk of repeating everything that's already been written about 'them', I'd just like to add my two cents worth...they were rubbish and not in the good 'it can easily be recycled for the good of mankind' type rubbish. No, just plain old smelly garbage. From the time the first ball was hoofed over the line to the last one that screamed past the head of Mr James and shattered the dreams of an entire planet, those supposedly brave and valiant warriors who were going to lift the trophy and make us all proud, were ru-bb-ish! But I'm not bitter, really I'm not. Despite the you-know-what actually going over the line and being disallowed. Actually, they deserved to have their underpants and other clothing stolen from their hotel rooms, s'not like they can't afford more is it? And you didn't see them being flown home economy class because that would have been plain silly as they can actually afford to buy the whole plane...so spare a thought for the underpants stealers who will now languish in a prison for three years for daring to touch the soiled undergarments of our demi-gods (hah!).

I am however, very happy indeed to say that I am immensely proud of the Southernmost Colony, who have put on a spectacular show for all planets everywhere, with very little reported crime or catastrophe, though that will no doubt be revealed in due course. And even though our ears are still bleeding from the vuvu-what-cha-ma-call-its, and 'the boys the boys' didn't actually get beyond the first round, at least they played with some panache and thrashed those petulant continental pouters and sent them back to their garlic munching planet in disgrace.

And I have even, I confess, felt some slight pangs at not being there amidst the frivolity and eardrum shattering noise and flags flying from every lamp post in sight. According to my dear friend who still lives in the Southernmost Colony and attended a couple of matches, the spirit that abounds everywhere is a wonder to behold and I do wish I could have seen it and joined in...well, maybe it'll be the same on the New Planet in 2012, eh? But kudos to the people and organisers on the Rainbow Colony who have done such a brilliant job, despite the freezing cold and torrential rain at times. I had a good chuckle at the shivering reporters exclaiming in disgust at how cold they were since they 'thought it was always hot here'. I have one word for you lot. Winter.

And now that the red and white flags that were flying proudly have been ripped down or urinated upon by drunken and disappointed fans, I have only one thing to say. We'll try again in four years time, and we'll all get whipped up into a frenzy about our team, who will hold the weight of the entire planet's hopes on their shoulders, and maybe, just maybe, they'll actually score more than a couple of feeble goals.

And one last point to ponder...did no one notice that we actually defeated a certain planet from Down Under in another sporting event? Why was so little mention made of this, the gentleman's game, I ask you? But I'm not gonna even go there, and rant about how I can't even watch this wonderful game on my telly since I don't have SKY. No, I'm not going to mention that at all.

Vuvu...what?

It might have escaped the notice of some, although they would have to be on an abandoned planet in the depths of nowhere with no electricity or contact with the rest of the universe, (or in the United States of America) that the Southernmost Colony is hosting a massive sporting event from today onwards, an event that will be beamed across the galaxies and into the homes of gazilllions of people, fans of ball kicking or not.

And if one thing is sure, it is that beer swilling will increase exponentially, but in the Southernmost Colony only hops-juice from a certain 'we're not really interested in saa-cker' nation, may be consumed at stadia, in stadia, near stadia or within reach of stadia, much to the disgust and dismay of the makers of said beverage who actually make a better brew than that sponsored by 'you know-who'. And so I won't mention Castle or Lion Lager...or the hundreds of ice-cream sellers, biltong sellers, koeksuster sellers, cool-drink sellers and flag sellers who are, for the duration of the great event, banned from making a living by 'you-know-who', who have a monopoly on all goods and services offered at stadia, in stadia, near....you get the picture.

So the Southernmost Colony has burst forth into a cacophony of sound and colour and national pride, and long may it last, I say. Despite the pretty poor odds of the national team doing anything other than going out in the early stages, to a collective groan and blaring of trumpet thingies, at least they'll all have a stonking good time while it lasts. Not only that, they will forever be the team that scored the first goal at this event, even if all they could manage was a draw...not bad at all Bafana.

I wonder if the waving of multi-hued emblems and flags and the fluttering that abounds along every road, highway, dirt track and pathway will indeed do something to repair the fractures that exist in the Colony, or if it will simply fade away into memory like the glory days of Invictus.

Once the last whistle has blown, the final ball has been kicked and fans from the New Planet have returned in despair or jubilation, depending on how many more players fall over, break a metatarsal or an ankle or tear a ligament, what happens to the Rainbow Colony then? I fear that the rich will be richer and the poor will be exactly where they are today, but in possession of a vuvuzela and for a moment the thrill of possibility...but maybe I'm wrong. I hope so.

Undeveloped beings...

This week we reached that time on the New Planet when undeveloped beings are released from their shackles for a while, and allowed to run amok...I mean free...in the malls, shops, High streets and parks. Yes, half-term!

Now, it's not that I don't like undeveloped beings, I do, especially those to whom I am related. It's just that there are others who seem to have little or no respect for those of us that are well developed and grumpy and who like their peace and quiet and don't appreciate having chips and beans flung at them while trying to have a gentile cuppa in a coffee shop. And even more annoying, is the parents of said delinquents who sit there with a silly grin thinking that their darling pouring the tomato sauce onto the table and drawing pictures in it with a snotty finger, is awfully cute, innit?

The thing is, there are happily, a number of little darlings who smile politely and respond to my feeble middle-aged jokes without taking offence and trying to impale me on the end of their i-pod, and I don't mind them. In fact, I've even been known to strike up a conversation of sorts with one or two while in the pool, which segues nicely into my next point. Why, I ask myself, do they, the others, have to leap and splash and smack me on the head with their pool noodle (known on the New Planet as a woggle) and get in the way of my 'serious attempts to get fit' while their mother sits in the hot tub oblivious to the watery mayhem ensuing around her? And before you go thinking I'm just horribly unreasonable, I'm not the only flabby one that has finally taken themselves back to the changing room/sauna/steam room in a huff to wait until the undeveloped ones have run out of puff and departed, often wailing loudly because they 'don't wanna go home', leaving our pool in the serene splendour that we (the well developed beings that go every day and not only during the holidays) enjoy and expect.

Of course, having once been a pedagogue, I do understand a bit about undeveloped beings and I know that's what they do, leap about with unbridled passion and enthusiasm for life, and no doubt I did the same, although that time is now shrouded in the mists of time and I can barely remember it...or my own name half the time. It's simply that I object to them being unsupervised and unruly and often downright rude. Or am I just getting old?

Ah, but it's only for a brief period and next week they'll all go back to torture their pedagogues once more, the streets will be quiet, no more will I be in danger of being run over by an out of control skate-board or have the back of my heels irreparably damaged by a supermarket trolley being driven by a Louis Hamilton wannabe. Until the next half-term or looonnnngggg Summer holiday....at which time I shall remain cloistered indoors or take myself off to some exotic place where undeveloped beings are banned.

Sunshine on my shoulder...

There's special something about a new season on the New Planet. After months and months of whinging and complaining about the cold, the snow, the rain, the foggy roads on a freezing night and the lack of salt to spread on said roads, suddenly it all changes.

The buds begin appearing, the rape bursts into flower and now we get to complain about the hay fever, the heat and the million to one chance that the next Bank Holiday will arrive amidst a late flurry of snow and gale force winds. But then the sun finally shines and we are able to go out into the sun like lizards, to slough off our Winter scales and stock up on that all important Vitamin D.

Now I have observed over time, that when the sun does shine, it sets off some kind of abandoned glee within the breasts of the New Planetarians. Bursting free from the well maintained environments of office blocks and pubs, they find a patch of grass, remove their clothing and lie exposed like pale slices of bacon on a griddle pan. But not those of us from the Southernmost Colony, who already have enough skin damage after childhoods spent in the pool, with no sunscreen on at all because we never knew about such things as skin cancer and melanoma back in the olden days.

As the pasty faced New Planetarians ignore all advice about sunburn and skin cancer, they lie sprawled in parks and village greens, their flesh exposed for all to see and admire (!) and allow themselves to slowly cook, changing from flabby white to puffy pink to lobster blistered red,because 'it's much better to have at least a bit of colour than none at all'. Isn't it?

Sensible dressing also becomes a thing of the past, and at last we get to admire the middle aged men in their colourful long shorts, their vests and most intriguing of all, the socks... with sandals. This is a unique fashion found on this planet, one I have yet to understand, because surely the point of wearing sandals is so that your feet can breathe, so what's the thinking behind wearing them with SOCKS!

Happily, there also seems to be no such thing as what we called 'skaam', as females of the species, no matter what size or shape or colour, feel that a bit of sunshine is just the opportunity to display their arms; sleeveless tops/dresses with bra straps showing, legs; short shorts or mini's that are shorter at the back than the front due to the size of the posterior, and my personal favourite, the stomachs, which cascade over waistbands like the Augrabies Falls, flopping about at will, unrestrained and unashamed. Even the soon-to-be-mums, display their swollen bellies with pride hoping to get a bit of a tan before the big event...or perhaps it's just that they're wearing the wrong size t-shirt?

Would that we all had the confidence to appear in public like this with no care about the sniggering that I know from personal experience goes on behind the hands of sun bed tanned nymphets who wear headbands as skirts and display slender shining legs squeezed into lethally high heels as they totter down the High Street looking down on those of us that keep our batwings and hail damaged thighs well hidden behind flowing skirts and dresses with sleeves.

And we get to exchange comments with strangers like 'it's a gorgeous day, innit?' or 'cor, it's proper sultry like today, eh?'. And we all know that the glorious weather isn't going to last very long, no matter how enthusiastically the weather forecasters predict 'scorching temperatures', and the 'hottest day of the year' and that we will have an Indian Summer, where we will spend our evenings strolling down country lanes picking blackberries or barbecuing (not to be confused with braaing, because somehow pork sausages and beef burgers aren't quite the same as proper wors and sosaties) and anyway, we all know it's going to chuck down rain on the very day we planned our BBQ.

I do miss being able to run out to the pool and plopping into the cool water whenever the heat becomes too oppressive though. Sadly, that can't happen here, mainly because most pools are all indoors and any sort of 'plopping' or 'bombing' or 'splashing' is frowned upon...I mean, what on earth would Health and Safety think about such frivolity?

But the lovely long evenings and the soft pink sunsets are indeed wonderful, and sitting outside on a balmy evening is rather special, even if you do have a bunged up nose, a fit of sneezing every five minutes and scratchy, red-rimmed eyes.

Ah Summer, don't you love it?

Oh what a circus...

The Big Top has been erected, the clowns are giving their final performances and soon we will all flock like willing sheep to the nearest school or church or town hall to make our little cross. I have never in all my life seen such shenanigans as those that I have witnessed recently as the New Planet begins its search for a new leader and change of governance.

The one thing I am assured of however, is that here, voting will be based on critical analysis by the voters and will not take place along tribal lines as it does in the Southernmost Colony, where, no matter how good, bad or indifferent the ruling tribe actually is, the voters seem incapable of placing their cross next to the name (or picture as most of them are illiterate) of a worthy person for fear of the 'eye in the sky' seeing who they have voted for and violent retribution being meted out. Or maybe not...

Watching the live debates (obviously not the entire thing or I might have gone completely off my head and taken to drink) and the manic walkabouts by the hopeful candidates, it strikes me that beneath the civilised facades, there beats in fact a primal, primitive heart in the well-covered chests of the voters. One has only to witness the pushing and the heckling and jeering and downright nastiness of some to wonder if they actually care about hearing what the poor chap has to say, or if they are more intent on grabbing their fifteen minutes of fame. Anyway, despite the rhetoric and name calling, they all seem inclined to vote for the very same tribe they voted for last time, the same one their parents and grand-parents and great-great grandparents voted for. You get the picture.

Now I suppose no politician is to be trusted, or so I am frequently told, but there is something a little bit unsettling when a man makes a comment in the privacy of his car (or so he thinks) and finds himself reviled, ridiculed, and lambasted from a dizzy height by the sanctimonious and mean spirited who have themselves never made a rude comment or proffered an opinion about someone they have met and who rubbed them up the wrong way. Is the man not entitled to his own views or to get annoyed upon occasion? Is he not human? Why is it that every Tom, Dick and Muhammed now has the right to savage and tear apart the mans' character, and that of his wife/partner/child as if perfection is the norm and not the exception? And don't even get me started on how they've been trotting out the wives with all the razzmatazz of a great spinning firework, while commenting cruelly on their fashion sense or smile or unguarded gesture...I said don't get me started!

So, one of our possible Prime Ministers appeared on telly, where he wooed the public, slew the females of the species with his good looks and dazzling smile and became more popular than Winston, and for an entire day was lauded and congratulated in the national press, spoken of as if he'd just walked on water and fawned upon by all and sundry. And then the very next day, his character was attacked when 'irregular payments' in his personal bank account were brought to the notice of the millions of voters who had fallen for his charming manner and eloquent speech. And it makes me wonder....how the hell did 'they' get hold of his private bank statements? What ever happened to privacy I ask myself?

So with only a week to go, let's hope no one says anything else that will reveal that they are not in fact pod people programmed and operated by a giant head on a distant star in a far off galaxy, but are simply human beings with the same failings, idiosyncrasies and emotions as the rest of us.

The sky is closed

For the last couple of weeks the skies of the New Planet have been closed to all incoming and outgoing craft due to a plume of ash from an erupting island you'd think was too far away to have any effect on us (apart from the banks of course).

Travellers have thus resorted to ingenious ways of returning to the home planet via trains, buses, hire cars and minivans, small craft, the Royal Navy, an extremely expensive taxi ride by one celebrity and one chap buying an old rusted car to drive across the 'continent'. Just think of the adventures that will be regaled over the Christmas roast for decades to come.

When ferries began refusing foot passengers,some clever sorts (who of course come from the New Planet) toddled off to the nearest supermarket to purchase a bike that they could then cycle triumphantly aboard. I wonder if expressive hand gestures were produced for the benefit of les bureaucrats. Most inventive and once again that good old 'Dunkirk spirit' raised its head with one intrepid historian rounding up an armada of small craft, sailing them across Le Channel, only to be stopped by French police who feared he was was planning on smuggling illegal immigrants back to Blighty. You'd think the maroon passports, the piles of dirty luggage, the tearful, exhausted children, newly acquired tans and television cameras might have been a clue that it was in fact a rescue, but non, he was allowed to rescue but a select few...mainly attractive females with taut little bodies I might add. Sacre bleu!

And now another great tradition raises its head on this small planet. Blame. Whose fault was it that hundreds of thousands of voyagers were stuck abroad on other volcanic islands, in heaving ports and deserted airports? The clamouring voices and finger pointing has begun. 'They' over-reacted, 'they' were irresponsible and ridiculously panic-stricken, cost the country and airlines millions, failed to anticipate for such eventualities and on and on, trying to find a scapegoat.

And yet I wonder what those same judgemental people would be saying had a plane been allowed to fly, become clogged with volcanic ash and crashed causing hundred of deaths. Then who would they blame? God?

This constant need to find someone to punish for an event that could never have been predicted much less controlled once it happened, is very tiresome, to me anyway. And it has certainly highlighted the reliance we now have on air travel. Let's hope then that no more 'natural events' occur that will inconvenience and disrupt our perfectly ordered little lives, but at least if we do get flooded or blown over or if our street erupts or the village green collapses or our town slides into the sea, we can then then spend the next few weeks and months finding someone to blame and hold accountable and 'demand' compensation and maybe that will make us all feel better...until the next time.

But let us not forget what lies ahead for the planet in the next month or so....and the debates and character assassinations have only just begun...

At the end of the week

One of the delights of living on the New Planet, is participating in the little rituals that take place in every small market town at the end of the week.

In my small town, a market is held every Saturday in one of the car parks and it is there that one can buy such delightful things as roast pork rolls, home made dog food, extra extra extra large flowery cotton knickers, jumpers knitted in just the wrong shade of pink and CD's of yodelling cowboys. One can also purchase nuts, bolts, out of date calenders, soggy pot plants and assorted hand made jewellery (the kind with cheap beads, wonky wire and unmatched colours). Now lest you consider this an event only to be participated in while under the influence of elderflower wine, let me elaborate.

On such occasions, there is much more than the smell of roasting pork and candy floss in little plastic buckets. There is the social interaction that takes place. For no matter how long you've lived here, you are certain to bump into at least ten people you know, or who your friend knows, or who went to school with your nephew's sister's father. And even if you're still a relative newcomer, there are plenty of folks with whom you can have a discussion about the weather.

It is one of the social conventions on the New Planet this. While studying the pleated tartan skirts and neon yellow builder's vests, it is practically compulsory to make such comments as 'Nice day, isn't it?' or 'Weather's pretty rubbish today, isn't it?' or 'Isn't it glorious sunshine?' or even 'How have you coped with all the snow?' And this of course can lead to all manner of further discussions about the quality of the roads, the latest sex scandal or the state of the nation.

And then, just as you move off with a friendly smile and a warm fuzzy feeling, you bump into an actual friend, with whom you can gossip and chat and sometimes, if time allows, pop into the local coffee shop (which incidentally is run by a man from the Southernmost Colony) for a 'cup of chino' (according to one waiter from the previously mentioned colony), or a delicious treacle flavoured latte.

Wandering through the little streets and precincts of the town, past the second hand book sellers, the gypsy penny whistle player and the friendly dogs in woolly coats tied up to the lamp post outside the supermarket, once the chores are completed and the shopping bags are full, one is certain to bump into at least five other people that you know or sort of know. And once again you can vent about the sogginess of the snow, the lethal ice, the budding daffodils...there are endless topics to discuss on a sunny/snowy morning in the market town.

So, to my relief I have discovered that there is never a need to feel lonely on the New Planet if you don't have any real friends yet, you simply take yourself off to market and you are certain to find someone to chat to.

Into the blue

One of the many delights on the new planet, has been the friends I have made and with whom I have shared many an adventure. The last being a recent trip aboard a large craft that travelled across the great waters to other places unknown and exotic.

The craft itself is due some comment. Large-ish, carrying up to 900 passengers, it was sleek and beautiful, but to my mind, dated in its appearance and more particularly in the entertainment it provided. But then, considering that the average age of my fellow travellers, most octogenarians and many I suspect reaching for their century, I am not surprised. Now, fun though it might be to these grey-haired creaky-limbed travellers, afternoon tea dances and lectures by fading stars of stage and screen could have been deathly and I feared the worst.

To my surprise however, I found that listening to an ex-detective inspector who was one of the original investigating officers of The Great Train Robbery was in fact fascinating. But though I sat through a few of his rambling anecdotes, I did draw the line at watching second-rate dancing girls trying to stay upright as the ship tossed and rolled upon the rough waters. There's nothing graceful about a long-limbed dancer lurching out of control across the stage while trying to prevent her ample breasts from popping out of the top of her costume. Such events are guaranteed to get the giggles going and how could I do this to the poor girl? I could also not bring myself to chuckle at the stale jokes and out-dated comedy styling of the resident comedian...but that is all of little significance in the great scheme.

It sounds as if the adventure was dire, and yes, it could have been, especially as 75% of the travellers, including my friend, succumbed to a nasty bug that the vigorous cleaning and hand washing at every possible opportunity was unable to prevent. I escaped the horrors for some reason and spent time instead standing on the decks gazing out to sea, hoping for a sight of dolphins. No luck. I also encountered some beings from the Southernmost Colony, which helped enliven a few minutes. But truly, a highlight was getting to chat to the ancient and decrepit co-adventurers I chanced upon sitting in the sun or in one of the many lounges scattered about the craft. So easy to slip into a conversation over a cream bun and a nice cuppa, even if I did hope to spend some time in solitude reading my book. I eventually gave up this hope, and surrendered to the long, involved, repetitive and unbelievably fascinating tales of my fellow voyagers.

From the twinkly-eyed missionary to the one-legged Welshman with a hamster called Blondie, I have realised that this is the reason one takes a watercraft and cruises off to worlds unexplored. For it is in listening to their stories of daring-do during First and Second world wars, and the wealth of experience that they are so willing to share (often more than once or twice in the space of ten minutes) that I understood that there is so much more to life than worrying about whether or not my apparel was suitable for dinner. These wonderful well-developed beings, are stuffed to the eyebrows with wisdom and wit and seem completely oblivious to the petty little things that seem to occupy so much of our time. For these men and women have survived two global conflicts in which they lost friends and family members, have seen technology accelerate at frightening speed, and have watched as today's youth repeat the errors they too made in their own early years. Yet they remain calm and focused and have moved beyond the cares of childhood and middle-age-hood into their twilight years.

It was with shame that I consider how often these genuine gems of humanity are shuffled off to cold places where they are forgotten, as if they have always been old. But they are so much more than this, they are more than the wrinkled skin and the rheumy eyes. They are more than a burden to state and family, they retain their wit and intelligence (sometime a bit addled it must be said) and they deserve respect and awe.

To be so at ease in one's skin that appearing in front of 800 other diners in high heels, ankle-high socks, short shorts showing of the saggy legs in all their splendour and a skimpy vest allowing more than a peak at the drooping mammaries, without batting an over mascaraed eye, is surely a wondrous thing to behold. As is an 80 year old fake-tanned body shoe-horned into a sequinned lycra evening dress with no sleeves and plunging neckline and let me not neglect to mention the leopard-skin Speedo worn confidently by the overweight, antique Lothario who strutted about the pool deck leering at the 'younger' damsels -younger than 70 that is. Aah, that is a picture to summon up when in need of some light relief.

I count myself privileged to have met some of the wonderful old men and women on board, and had I not embarked upon the craft and given myself over to its old-fashioned charms, my life would be infinitely the poorer.

And this all before even stepping ashore on moon-like landscapes...