Barcelona! It Was The First Time That We Met...

Well, actually we first met at Pisa airport and An declined my offer of a sweetie, which sounds kind of freaky in hindsight.  I was with my mother at the time so she should have felt reasonably safe...  Anyway this is not the topic of this blog!

Barcelona, a secret trip that had to be revealed when some work got in the way and then rescheduled, adding more than 120 Euros to the cost of the flights.  I fancied taking An off somewhere nice and at the same time fulfilling my ambition to go to a Dali exhibition. Not much of an ambition but I have failed to see any of his work exhibited (twice in London and twice in Brugge).

So we finally got to the point where all arrangements were in place and I had re-booked the hotel and was hoping it would meet the high standards expected of my better half (I am happy to stay at rather more austere accommodation as long as the price is right).  We decided to take the car to the airport and found that for a 4 day stay it would cost a mere 45 euros.  We elected to take the car because of the convenient strike being held on the Monday and we did not want to take any chances on our return trip being disrupted.  Sadly more was to follow on this, although the disruption came from a slightly different source.  We arrived in good time despite driving through the early rush hour on Thursday to get our car parked.  It was a relatively painless process to get to the airport and we made our way to Gate A as we had checked in online already.  We both took hand luggage and got through security without a hitch, we then settled for the first of many expensive coffees at various transport hubs during our weekend.

The flight was fine apart from being one of the last to board and therefore not being able to find room for my hand baggage, which was then subsequently checked into the hold.  I was asked if there was anything I needed out of the bag before the was placed into the hold, I thought she said it with a hint of 'it'll be the last time you see it' in her voice.  My fears were misplaced and I recovered the bag quickly at the other end.  I had researched the trip and decided that we would catch one of the regular trains from the airport to the city, the hotel was a couple of blocks from there.  In the event it was much more convenient as the hotel was just a 200 metre walk across the square from the main station, Barcelona Sants.  Incidentally we had not been required to show our identification documents at any stage, which felt a bit odd.

Checking in was ok, the hotel had 24 floors including the restaurant and we were on the 21st floor.  The room was quite large by most standards and the bathroom was split into three areas, sinks and bath, shower and toilet.  As you walked in there was a glass partition separating the toilet (and bidet) from the double sink set up.  An did not need to say anything, I knew she would not feel happy either using or someone else using the toilet within earshot!  The shower was further divided by another partition and you could fit a small Welsh rugby choir in there, there was plenty of room.

The hotel was conveniently located almost a kilometre from the Magic Fountain of Mountjuic.

We did a lot of walking during the weekend as my sore feet can testify, but then it was exercise and we got to see a bit more of the city that way.  A four day metro pass is around 44 euros per person, for a single fare on the metro to any other station it is 2.15 euros, not worth getting the pass in my view.

Anyway, back to the beginning.  We had decided (my ambition) to go to Figueres to see the Dali Museum.  In order to do so we had to get up early to avoid wasting too much time.  The journey would take almost two hours on the fast train and cost 32 euros each return.  It sounds a lot but it is worth taking the time out.  The cost to get into the museum was a further 12 euros each.  We were very lucky to get there early, soon the museum was mobbed by pensioners, young kids and annoying students.  It was quite a challenge to get around once the crowds started to build up and not only that the noise was something else.  To get to the museum it is a short walk through the town and as long as you have got your spatial awareness sorted out and know roughly where it is in relation to the station and town square then you should be ok.  There are also plenty of signs too.

I cannot explain why I find Dali so fascinating, I mean if you look at his work you have to wonder what on earth was going on in his head to generate such output.  As always I live and learn with each experience.  My attraction began with his more renowned work, which I could get.  In fact we bought a picture of The Girl at the Window:

As I made my way around the galleries of sculptures, paintings and sketches I tried to understand what was going on, I couldn't.  There is so much happening that to study any of his work in detail would take quite some time, I suppose this means that if you revisit you will not necessarily see the same thing again and this is enhanced by the changes to your own perspective in the interim.  A bit deep but that is as arty as I get!  What I did notice, which worryingly may be a reflection of my own perspective, was his apparent obsession with the anus.  One image, The Tower of Eternal Well Being, shows workers spiralling up to the top as if working towards building up the tower and yet when you get to the top it shows a man, who I take to be the owner, defecating.  To me this is a commentary on the masses being abused by those in power and I viewed it in the context of the Spanish Civil War, although the picture is dated 1973.  There were plenty of other images with explicit sexual references in them and there are definite phases of his work.  I was not aware of this until I had visited the museum but he also designed jewellery as well.  I have to say that I was first attracted by the surrealism and then I discovered his jewellery which I found to be a highlight of the visit.  I am not easily impressed by jewellery but this was something that even I could appreciate.

An's highlight of the trip was viewing the image below having climbed some steps to view it through a specially mounted lens carried by a camel.  A bit much isn't it?  Anyway she said she remembered when she and her sister had visited years before and seen the same view.

On leaving the museum we paid a visit to the shop and then I wandered for a bit to take some photos of the famous tower with eggs on top, again, what was he thinking and what did it mean?

Finally, I have to add that Dali reclaimed a war damaged theatre and re-built it as a museum.  The theatre was damaged during the Spanish Civil War.  He created a shrine from its ruins.

We left around lunchtime and chose to get some food.  We had tapas, and why not?  We found a restaurant off the main square and we chose two dishes each (but ended up getting served a bit more anyway).  I chose calamari with a Roman sauce and a kind of cheese croquet.  An chose brave potatoes (spicy) and king prawns.  We also got some bread with a tomato and buttery paste.  In all it was lovely.  The sparkling water we ordered did taste a bit unusual, although An said it was fine I could not quite identify the flavour.  When we made it back to the station we were just too late to catch the fast train back and thus we had to hang around for a much slower regional train.

On the train there was a man with an accordion, who was busking, An was not impressed and decided to move to another carriage.  When I stood up to follow the train jolted and I ended up falling onto this lady opposite.  She had such a look of utter disgust, despite my apologies.  I thought to myself, surely she does not think that I enjoy hurling myself uncontrollably at random old ladies?  An did not even notice as she was off pretty quickly.  With the mood now set a number of other factors came ito play.  To begin with, almost as inevitably as night follows day, the annoying accordion player moved into our carriage.  An protested but it was to no avail, he did not understand as I said as politely as I could that she does not agree with his music.  At this point my phone vibrated and I went to check it out.  Our flight back to Brussels had been cancelled and this was less than 24 hours after leaving.  The strike on Monday had caused the airline to review its plans and they decided to cancel our flight, even though it was taking place the day before. There was nothing we could do but mull over the situation as the train made its way slowly to Barcelona.  I tried to reason through the possibilities but this was not the time to do so.

We made it back to the hotel around 17.20 and the first task was to contact the airline to see what could be done about the flight.  Eventually I got through having waited for 28 minutes on my Belgian mobile calling from Spain.  We were offered an earlier flight and we had no choice but to accept.  There is compensation available, according to their terms and conditions, but this would require an email to their customer relations department.  Problem solved, better early than late I suppose and this now left us to enjoy what was left of the weekend.  We had lost around 5 hours from Sunday as a result of the changes and if the truth be told my feet were grateful!

So the Friday evening was now kind of partially lost but we headed out anyway and up towards the Old Bullfighting arena that had now become a shopping centre.  This was pretty much like any other and after that we headed up towards the Magic fountain and the other water features up from the Plaza Espanya.

There were large numbers of people and along with the display of fountains there was also music too.  The views were impressive and if you did not feel like walking then you could go up escalators to get to the top.  These are some of the pictures I took:

We walked back to the hotel and had another meal in the restaurant in the hotel, which also has spectacular views.

The next day we aimed to hit Gaudi's Casa Batllo.  This was the highlight of the weekend for me and despite my initial baulking at the 21 euro ticket price, it was well worth it.  Again, I am not easily impressed but this building did impress me as soon as I set foot through the door.  It pains me to say that I did not take a photograph of the staircase, which I should have done.  I did take lots of other pictures, when tourists allowed me a clear shot.  I cannot do justice to the house by trying to describe it but every detail within the house has been carefully thought through from the ergonomic door handles cast from the palm of Gaudi to the innovative way light is appreciated and used throughout the house.  As an example there are two light wells that run down the middle of the house, their purpose is to allow natural light to enter from the top to the bottom of the house.  In designing these Gaudi has also used a stronger blue near the top of the well than at the bottom and this matches the strength of the light so that it appears evenly distributed.  The windows on the upper floors are smaller, again a reflection of the amount of light available in comparison with  the lower floors.  The theme is very much aquatic in nature and perhaps this also appeals to a deep affinity that I have for the sea.  I did not take any photos of the light wells either but I was conscious of taking too long on the tour.  I have given an example of some of the photos below.

Casa Batlllo Facade

The living room windows!

The living room with spiral design.

The spiral ceiling with chandelier ( not the original)

The 'back yard'

The somewhat more austere rear of the building!

The attic spaces

The serpent, or however you wish to see the roof!

More of the attic space!

After visiting the Gaudi house we then walked off towards the Gothic quarter of the city.  Our aim was to grab some lunch, which we did after wandering around bypassing most of the cafes that would have been quite suitable and then we ended up in a small square at a rather inauspicious place.  We chose more tapas, we had ham croquette, I had  goats cheese with a burger and An had a salad.  We did not want too much as we would be hitting the Hard Rock Cafe later on.  In the event we had even more after the Picasso museum! The food was very nice and I would recommend the place if only I could remember!

After missing the sign to the Picasso Museum we wandered the narrow streets, which all looked the same to me, until we basically ended up backtracking.  The Picasso pilgrimage was for An's benefit, I have no love or feeling for his work.  That said we paid our fees and went for it.  I have to say that part of the exhibition included a set of photos by an American photojournalist David Douglas Duncan, a guy who was lucky enough to befriend the artist.  So as a photographer myself, this was a bit of a bonus.  There were some interesting images, including a record of him engaged in producing his art, a diary if you like.  Picasso shows none of the eccentricity that Dali seems to do when photographed.  It was interesting to view the fact  that Picasso almost always seemed to wear a tie when working.  I got the impression that his wife tired of his work, but then there is only so much you can put up with!  what did I learn, well that Picasso did start off with traditional work and then went his own way, which is reassuring as his well known works look like a five year old produced them and, in my humble opinion, is a bit poor.  This point of view was to resurface in what must be the deepest conversation An and I have held about art, but that is later.  There was also a red and blue phase that Picasso went through and there was a fascinating photograph capturing his emotional response to the body of David's Marine friend killed in the Korean war.  Picasso, like most I suppose, reflected his experiences and the times in his work.  It was his record and commentary saved for the interpretation by others.  There were the crowds and kids as there were at Dali's museum.

I almost forgot, we paid a homage to the shoes, An managed to find some shoes that fit her.  In fact there was quite a choice so we had to take advantage.  She bought a pair and a bag (one or  the other was free as the cost was 200 euros).  One of the bags was a snip at 400 euros (we did not buy this), I was taken aback to say the least, I think it was made from the Golden Fleece...  I asked the lady in the shop if I could take some photos, some of which are below:

When we left I automatically steered towards the cathedral and when we got there we discovered a rather large market.  An did not fancy the crowds, so we made our way back round to where we had come from.  On our travels we had seen so many shops with lovely chocolate, cakes, fudge and nougat. Sadly, try as we may we could not find the same ones again.  We ended up stopping for a bit of cake, but the choice of venue was poor, the cheese cake was a frozen and did not resemble the delightful image on the menu and the coffee was overpriced.  We could afford to get some things wrong I suppose.  We decided to head back to the hotel for a break before the evening trip out.  This time we used the metro instead of walking.  It cost us 2.15 euros each, which I thought was quite reasonable.

After the briefest of rests at the hotel we headed back out.  I researched where the Hard Rock Cafe was and checked the opening times.  We caught the metro and found the cafe with little trouble.  The streets were heaving with people and the scene was very colourful.  At this point it is worth mentioning that the shops and restaurants have a siesta and open later in the evening and run on, it is like all year round late night shopping, paradise for some!

We got our table but were quite well fed from earlier so this meal was going to be pleasing my eyes and not my stomach, as my auntie used to say.  I ordered nachos, which both an and I picked at.  It was a rather large plate and too much for the two of us, considering the mains were coming too.  I had ordered chicken fajitas and An ordered a burger complete with chips.  

The two pints of beer helped me to engage in a rather deep conversation about what constitutes an artist.  I accepted after some debate that an artist differs from the average person on the street because they have: talent with materials, the technical skill to compose an image, a story to tell and they can get that across with their art.  An suggested that many modern artists lack the story element.  I have not done the debate justice in those two lines really.  It went on for about 10 minutes or so.  I suppose once an artist is established they can then do their own thing.  I saw Fleetwood Mac last year and they got across the message that basically musicians have to conform to the industry and then when they are established they can do what they really want to do, even if some of us find their 'true' work a bit less than impressive.  And so it is that my opinion of Picasso is that I am not impressed with his 'true' works of art.  He in fact has also been through a bizarre phase, where he seems to have been tormented by demons, at least that is what his sketches were telling me.  An pointed out the connection of his art with other well known pieces, including one by Diego Velazquez.  Now this raised an interesting point, a chain of connections between artists who have been influenced by others.  I have written earlier of how Henry Moore was infected by Picasso (I mean that in a derogatory sense), for years I wondered why Moore chose to produce such a style of sculpture and I found the answer in an exhibition in London.  He got his inspiration from Picasso!  Enough of the arty debate.

Back in Barcelona, we got out at the right time, the clients were piling in as we left.  I took the opportunity to get a t-shirt.  After a brief visit to Massimo Duti we headed back to the hotel.  The following day was our final curtailed day.

Despite the short time available we decided to give the Miro museum a stab, we caught the metro to the base of the hill that the museum was on and then slogged it to the top, through some rather suspect areas.  I had no idea who Miro was, but An pointed out a sculpture near the old bull ring and my comment of 'why has it got a banana on the top?' drew the response 'It's a moon!'  Of course it was, how silly of me, but then that is two different people interpreting art, one who knows and the other who is clueless, I shall leave you to guess which category I fall into.  As an added bonus, again, there was a temporary exhibition.  This one was about the first world war and contained photographs and artwork from the war years, An sat out this part reading a book.  I swept along, conscious of the time.  Miro, well, lots of colour and a bit of eccentricity, sorry to say that I did not get it and could not see the story he was trying to get across. We walked back down towards the Magic Fountain and caught the metro back to the hotel, where we had left our bags.  The plan was to catch a taxi back to the airport and as far as the onward journey went it was uneventful and nice to be back in our warm house.

On the subject of architecture and the Spanish cities, two of the most prominent features for both of us was the sheer quantity of graffiti and concrete.  On further observations An and I differed.  I find the buildings and streets quite scruffy and run down, dirty by far.  An on the other hand thinks it is a style on its own and made the comparison to any other city in the UK or Belgium.  I have to say I feel the same way about the club med countries, the buildings, apart from the special ones of course, don't appeal.  Barcelona has a lot of great buildings and architecture but by God they have built seemingly endless tenement blocks, which in my view are unsightly.  An is right though, the same can be said for London or Newcastle but it is only my opinion of course.

I would thoroughly recommend the city and the four days (3 1/2 we had) are not enough to do it justice.  I am hoping to go back again.

Manbag

For some time my wife has been keen for me to make use of a manbag in my day to day life.  Now, being a gentleman from the North East of England, the prospect of being seen with such an accessory in the windswept, if friendly metropolis that is the Newcastle conurbation, does not really bear thinking about.  However we are now talking about Belgium and London.

A manbag for those that are not acquainted, is a handbag designed to carry a laptop/ipad/convenient office stuff.  It is like it has evolved from the briefcase and is carried by lots of people these days.  My wife want me to use one so that I don't have anything in my pockets making unattractive lumps and bumps where there should be nice smooth lines.

As any woman will know, if you have a bag of any description you will generally fill it full of all sorts of useless and, in rare cases, useful stuff.  So likewise my manbag started to acquire its own assortment including: kindle, paracetamol, a book, iPad, pens, business cards, headphones, keys, wallet, hat, scarf, gloves, umbrella, security pass and tissues.

The advantage of having a manbag is that you can carry more stuff than you can in your pockets, the huge and I mean huge disadvantage is that you sometimes do not know what is in or out of the bag and thus I have left things behind on a number of occasions. Not only that but I have done a complete cavity search as well as had sniffer dogs trying to locate my wallet due to the fact that it has been placed in the bag and cannot be readily grabbed.  Now compare that with the age old tried and tested location for the wallet which is the back pocket of the trousers!  When I didn't have a manbag I knew where everything was and that I had it all, now, not so sure if I am honest.

Fasting 5/2

I have been on the 2/5 fasting diet for around 3 months now and I have come down from 90kg to around 83.5kg.  Perhaps I should expand on what the diet means in simple terms, I say that as I forget the benefits that I have read about. It is well worth getting the book and giving it a go and I will try and elaborate as to why I recommend it.

To begin with the diet involves restricting the calorie intake to 600 and 500 for men and women respectively, this equates to about a quarter of the intake you require.  The 2 refers to your choice of 2 non-consecutive days when you restrict your diet and the 5 is the rest when you can eat what you wish.  The most useful thing about this diet is that you can fit it around your social life it is not so restrictive and critical that you keep to a regime day after day for months on end.  More importantly it works, it is amazing given the lack of self control that I have exercised on my off days but the weight comes off and it stays off.

The book I read here is very interesting, in essence it is co-written by the TV presenter/doctor Michael Mosley and food journalist Mimi Spencer.  My personal opinion is that the Doc is good and the Journalist is spouting drivel, that is unkind I know but that is how I felt when I read it.  I don't want the information dressed up I just want clear and balanced information.  Don't let the suggested menus put you off, I would very much stick with practical convenient food that has a recognised calorie count.  This desire to have variety for what are two separate days in your week is fair enough but I generally stick to the same format for those days which is yogurt, black tea and 4 egg omelette.  Occasionally when I have been travelling I have popped into an M&S to get a pasta meal that falls under 400 calories, but beware this is difficult to find due to the misleading labeling that does not tell you the true calorie count for the meal.  You generally need to do some arithmetic to work out the content from the portion described on the label.  There is lots of great medical/science benefits, most of which I have forgotten so I will need to re-read the book. In essence time spent fasting allows the body to devote its resources elsewhere.

Despite the enthusiasm of the book about the effects of the diet I have not felt more alive, energetic or somehow sharper that before.  I think psychologically I have felt better because I can see the results and it works and I am much happier that this is the case.  I did think I would be less energetic or that there might be other side effects but in essence no.  If you are a healthy adult with no underlying conditions then you are fine, you can exercise and feel fine.  The most noticeable effect is that I pass water a lot more frequently when I am on the diet.  More to the point I absorb the water when I go out for a subsequent drink and do not pass water as readily as before.  Nice to talk about that eh?  Anyway, the point is that water retention can account for around 2kgs of movement in my case.  It is well not to be disheartened when the weight bounces back up as this is temporary.

The biggest challenge for me is the bit where I have to get through lunchtime without eating, by that stage my stomach is usually empty and mentally I am programmed to expect food.  It is a battle and often it is a case of, well what else do I do at lunchtime if not eat?  You can split the 600 calories into smaller portions to have a regular bite throughout the day but I think the fast is more effective the longer you leave it between meals.  Other side effects I have noticed is that I am feeling full a lot quicker on the off days, in fact if I overdo it then I feel nauseous,  I am now consciously taking smaller portions and regularly having my tea black, you get used to it.

I have to add that I still misbehave and have plenty of 'bad' things but it is open season on the off days and the weight is still coming off,  If I were better disciplined then perhaps it would go quicker!

A tip, and perhaps it is obvious really, don't have a drinking session before a planned fast day, that is too hardcore and a mistake I have made today in fact.  It is better to get the fast day out of the way first or leave it until at least a clear day after the drinking to allow a recovery.  I broke my fast today but plan to do either Friday or Saturday instead.  I have more often brought my day forward to Wednesday instead of Thursday (Monday is my other day)  I think it is more effective again when you have just one day between fasts but then that requires a little more willpower too,

One last point for now, beware the office cakes and biscuits.  It is a little anti social at times but then it is usually only a matter of holding out for a few hours extra and then you can have that cake.  I have found it easier to hold on in the evening despite the challenge of lunchtime.

I would recommend it to anyone, it is easier than you might think to stick too.

Etiquette On the Tube

During my commute I have come to observe the habits and etiquette that should be in place for commuters who are crammed like sardines into the fast moving, if jerky, epitome of modern rail transport that is the Tube.

First of all you should give up your seat for those less able to stand than yourself, this is usually the case, however, often it gets so crowded that the elderly, pregnant and disabled often can't even reach the seats, we do try to accommodate them.  You should also move into the carriage and not linger about the door, this is something that most people fail to do and on my first trip in I came to grief with someone as I brushed past them.  I made the error of not saying 'excuse me', which is of course the correct way to request that someone should let you past.  I had already descended into the frame of mind where no one will move regardless of how you plead, and this is borne out of experience.  There is an unfounded fear of not being able to get off the train unless you block the doors by crowding in front of them.  Everyone secretly dreads the pushchair or large suitcases.  It is most inconsiderate to travel on the tube with such large impediments to mobility.  Most smile, but do not make any noticeable attempt to move or help.

I recently made note of the dreaded wet umbrella phenomenon, this is where you have to fold away your damp umbrella and be very careful to avoid it leaching onto some poor commuter as you are pressed up against them.  It is important to stress that there is no such thing as personal space on a tube, although not desirable, physical contact is sometimes maintained due to the crush.  Even in these circumstances, the kindles and, yes I mean this, the newspapers come out in force.  There is always enough room to annoy a fellow commuter by flicking a newspaper in their face.  What is also taboo but all too common is that the free newspapers are brought onboard and then dumped by their 'owners'.  Sometimes this is convenient if you need something to read but otherwise it is simply rubbish that someone else will need to clear up.

As well as the books, kindles and newspapers there are a healthy number of people who are busy playing games on their phones, listening to music or composing texts and emails.  All of this is really just a bid to avoid eye contact, which is the thing most are desperate to do.  There is no desire to form a bond with the fellow commuter.  If you do happen to exchange words then the ice is truly broken and it can be a happy distraction.  More often though, nothing is said and sometimes there are angry exchanges between frustrated people who do not relish their trip.

Unlike a lift, where breaking wind is the most embarrassing possible thing, ok almost then, you can do.  In the Tube at rush hour there is safety in numbers and I have, on more than one occasion, been the subject of someone's noxious emissions.  I have not perpetrated such a deed myself, which is commendable given my record at home.  A slightly lesser annoyance is the smelly armpit by the giant that I am normally stood next to on the train, sometimes I have nowhere to run to avoid this.  I am, naturally, very aware of my own delightful aroma and considering I usually overheat when walking from house to station, I try to make a special effort to keep cool and fresh.

One of the other things I have noticed is that some passengers with back packs on seem to forget or don't care that they are now almost twice as thick (maybe in intelligence terms as well) as they usually are when not carrying them.  They may as well be carrying a long plank of wood for all the consideration they have as they turn thoughtlessly in the confined spaces of the carriage.  It is very tempting to push their pack the other way and watch as they do an impression of an upturned  tortoise.

Another habit I have noticed is passengers who evacuate the train to cross the platform opposite in a bid to get the other train, which the announcer has said will depart first.  I mean, really, does it make so much of a difference the minute or so longer that their current train will take?  It is strangely satisfying when the original train departs ahead of the other one, although this does not happen that often.

When boarding the train the passengers are asked to let other passengers off the train first before attempting to board.  This turns to something like the scramble for lifeboats on a sinking ship as the beeping of the 'closing door' signal sounds.  Using your head or other handy objects to test the door safety mechanism is not helpful or recommended.

For all that I have said there are many helpful and friendly people who make the journey more pleasant.  In fact just observing the characters is enough to bring an occasional smile to my face. Delays never dull my experience of the trip.

Passing Time

As I waited for the tube to arrive I started to look about and make a concerted effort to appreciate my surroundings a bit more.  Commuting is not the most productive of time but usually I have been behind the wheel of a car and am concentrating on assessing the ever changing threats of the traffic whilst balancing the latest grumbles about work or home.  You don't get to see much beyond about 120 degrees to you front and some rather narrow cones of vision to the rear, of course not at the same time.  I read an article recently that said you only generally see things where you are looking and that peripheral vision is only good for seeing movement.  Bearing in mind that I am travelling at times up to 128kmph.  Anyway, I digress.

Back on the Tube platform I looked around and observed parallel lines, I don't know where it started but I noticed that everywhere I looked there were objects that had parallel lines.  I then thought on and noticed, to a lesser extent that circles are also another feature that is readily observed.  Of course these things to not occur in nature, or at least not commonly.  I switched from this to noting the curves of nature all around me, the trees, people's hands, arms, legs and heads  as they read their kindles, iPads and fired their text messages off to loved and not so loved ones.

On the Tube it was as busy as usual and as I stood there, this time not reading my own kindle, I watched over the shoulder of this girl who was writing a personal email to her partner about how they had argued and that maybe it was not good if they were together.  You could tell she was thinking through what she was writing but she was not angry or upset, she seemed to be quite at ease with what she was writing.  I wondered if she was the one in control and making the break or whether it was an olive branch that she was offering.  I never did find out and I thought it was not wise to inquire.

As I was making the trip I managed to get a seat, as I did so someone to my left gave up their seat for an elderly gentleman.  Unusually, we struck up a conversation, it is not common to talk to others on the Tube.  In fact most do their best to avoid eye contact, only the innocent and very friendly people tend to form momentary bonds of recognition at any given moment.  And so the bond was formed, this particular gentleman was a veteran from the Second World War, he was attached to the 6th Airborne Division, which dropped into Normandy on the 6th June 1944.  I asked him about this and he said that he had not joined at that point but that he did take part in Operation Market Garden in September 1944. I did make a mental note that the 1st Airborne Division was the one that jumped into Arnhem but I was not one to challenge the recollection of this man.  Instead we discussed his service.  He told me of his father who had survived combat in World War One with two near death experiences.  He survived a third when his home was hit by a doodlebug in the Second World War, his wife was buried in the house,but managed to survive.  I said how lucky he was to have gotten through the period with such things happening.  I told him of my recent visit to Kasterlee Commonwealth War Cemetery, where mainly Scottish troops were buried having been part of Operation Market Garden.  I pointed out that most had died on the 16th September 1944 and that it was the same day of the month as my birthday.  I then told him that I was still serving.

He was on his way to see the poppies at the Tower of London, he was making a brave pilgrimage to see this special tribute to the fallen.  I say brave, because he was quite frail at 88 and he also had difficulty seeing.  He kept asking if it was time to get off the train and he thought that I was due to get off after him.  His stop was four on from my own and I reassured him that there would be plenty of people who would assist him if he were to ask.  I was sorely tempted to go the extra distance and escort him, I do regret not doing so.  We parted, richer for having spent the time chatting and wishing each other a pleasant day.  Humanity does exist on the Tube, people do help when pushchairs need lifting and will help a stranger in need.  The brightness you bring by taking the time to assist or expressing a friendly salutation goes some way to restoring faith in human nature and always raises a smile and a thank you.

All Change

I have almost been in my work placement for two weeks.  On Friday the 24th October I was in Belgium handing over to my relief, right up to the wire and on Monday the 27th I was in London beginning an induction into a new and exciting world of banking.  New and exciting for me and, for some people, possibly a somewhat unattractive profession given the events of recent years.

I am working in the area of Finance and in particular in connection with compliance and controls, for good reasons I cannot go into any details but I have found it an eye opening experience and it is offering me the opportunity to learn new things and meet new people.

Due to the infinite kindness of my best mate, his wife and his young son, they have allowed me to lodge for the six weeks of the placement.  I am occupying the spare room and trying to do my best to fit into the routines and cause as little disruption as possible.  I traveled over from Belgium on the Sunday evening, in a bid to spend the last few hours with An.  By the time I got round to my mates house it was after 19.00 and I had yet to get myself settled in.

In terms of kit I brought 5 shirts, 3 suits, two pairs of shoes, four ties, sports kit, badminton racquets, wash kit, a towel (just in case), my laptop, iPad, Kindle, 3 books and some ancillary stuff.  My preps for the following day was to iron the shirts, a change from the white ones to a variety of colours, now I have to co-ordinate my wardrobe!

Bathroom time was my first challenge and also assessing how long it would take to do the commute.  The other challenge was to determine the best type of ticket to buy for the travel.  In the first case it was not so difficult as both my mate and his wife did not need to use the bathroom first thing in the morning, now however, I am settled into a routine of getting up at 6am and then being clear of the bathroom by about 6.25.  This gives me time to get my breakfast and then read my Kindle newspaper.  I now set out at around 7.30 and this gets me to work before 8,30 which is half an hour to spare if needed.  My mate gave me a top tip, which was to buy a monthly season ticket, this is a considerable saving and cost me £142 (I have been allowed £228) for the days that I travel but this ticket allows me to travel at the weekends too.  I would recommend this as an option (it is based on zones 1-3 in my case but it is a clear winner.

The actual commute is not too bad, very crowded and a bit warm, with all of those bodies generating heat.  I also walk fairly briskly and so I heat up quite quickly.  I need to strike a balance especially now the weather is turning a bit colder.  I have to change once, which is a matter of crossing a platform most of the times.  I find the commute an opportunity to read although initially I did not find it easy to do.  What I am not looking forward to is the round of coughs and colds that must be inevitable from travelling with so many commuters in close confinement.  I do occasionally look around and try and work out what people are like.  I note the details of their books, shoes, expressions and reactions, it passes the time.

So far I have been to badminton twice and thoroughly enjoyed it.  I have not really begun to get into a proper fitness programme but there is time.  I have also bought more shirts, in fact my first pink one, which I quite like.  So far I am due to come home to Belgium twice and once to my native North East, so almost every weekend is planned, not much time to rest and it comes at a cost too!

Hopefully I will have a job to show for it at the end but if nothing else it is a nice decent time to spend with my mate!

Scotland – The Independence Referendum

I have done my very best to keep out of the “debate” on whether Scotland should be an independent country or not.  However, I did watch the televised sessions between Salmond and Darling, which then got my interest if only in despair at the lack of properly presented and reasoned discussion.  I am not naïve, if I want an answer the last people I would speak to would be the politicians or indeed the baying hounds that represent the scandal seeking media.  So on the eve of the vote and, as you may surmise, without any intention to influence or inform anyone, this is my 10 pennies worth of what I would regard as quite reasonable and thought out concerns.

First of all I am English and I do not care whether or not the people (I say people because not all of the eligible voters are Scots) currently living in Scotland choose to become independent of the rest of the UK or not.  It is their right to choose and I have no truck with that.  My family and many friends are Scottish and I believe that most of those do not have a vote in this case, I have not discussed my views with them or sought to get theirs.  It is not that I am concerned about causing divisions in relationships, I think we are far too mature and sensible to allow that to happen, no.  In fact I have probably, like most of those in the rest of the UK, been rather complacent and arguably arrogant about the whole thing.  I have thought, Scotland would never vote for independence, surely?  They get such a good deal from the partnership, what possible benefit could there be to breaking away?  The realisation has occurred, far too late and I would still not do a great deal to attempt to influence things even if I could.

I have lived and worked in Scotland and, for an Englishman, there is something that borders on harassment and intimidation when engaged in so called ‘banter’, unfortunately this has rather tainted my view and driven me to the point of exasperation at the continued grudge that seems to be held over events from hundreds of years ago.  I have got to the point where I just want the griping and abuse to stop and shout ‘get on with it, one way or another, just stay and shut up or go and play on your own’.  If I hear cries of ‘you don’t understand, you have never been oppressed!’ or whatever, then yes, you are right I don’t understand because I am living in the 21^st century and I would prefer to focus my energy on solving the problems we have and not reflecting on the bad things of the past. 

This might be a good point to interject that on a family holiday to Scotland when I was very young, maybe 9 or 10 years’ old, we visited some of my Step-father’s relatives in Kirkcaldy, in the Kingdom of Fife.  There were two girls about the same age as my brother and I and they were most ardently anti-English and made no bones about telling us (that said they still played games with us too).  We went to pains to explain that as soon as you cross the border you don’t get given 100 acres of land, a pack of hunting hounds, horses and then go and chase foxes, with your attendant surfs and slaves (foreigners of course).  They did not seem to appreciate, albeit at such a young age that there were normal people across the border, living below the poverty line and with the same sort of trials and grumbles as they had.  In fact you would think by the way they described things that England was some kind of utopia (the kind it would appear an independent Scotland thinks it will become) and that we did not in fact live under the same unpleasant and anti-social government run by that dream lady Mrs Thatcher.  I have to add at this point that none of the political parties thrill me but I would never describe myself as a Tory, a kind of swear word if uttered by the Nationalist campaigners.  My views have moderated over time from being socially supportive ie we should subsidise and support UK industries to one of compete and survive but look after those who genuinely cannot look after themselves.  Anyway I digress.  The point is that in England and in fact the rest of the UK it is not some kind of oppressive wealthy regime that kicks the poor in the nuts and denies the rights (as ludicrously compared to apartheid) of different sections of society.  No we have problems and these will remain challenging whatever the state of the nation is post the vote.

Moving on to what it means to be a Scot, I make these comments of course as an observer, it has been said that you are not a Scot if you vote no to independence.  Really?  I will put it to you that wherever you go in the globe it will not be long before you come across a Scot and should you have the stupidity to question their sense of identity then you will be quite rightly put back in your place.  I have never met a Scot who has denied their belonging to Scotland.  On the contrary I have met many other nationalities who go out of their way to exaggerate their affiliation, association or direct lineage to the wonderful land that is Scotland.  You just have to see how often bagpipes make an appearance at a wide and varied range of events to see this overt display of brotherhood with Scotland, you cannot escape sometimes it really can be a pain…  There are nations that are united by these distant hereditary connections as well as other associations or forged friendships either in battle or shared history.  Whatever happens you cannot deny these and although you may try to re-write history, it does have a habit of getting out in the end.  What I am saying is that once a Scot always a Scot, and even if you were never a Scot I have never known anyone to be rejected from this very friendly (usually) group of people.  Of course that has been slightly called into question by the divisive Yes campaigners but I feel it will survive this ‘blip’.  As an afterthought but in no way reflecting the importance and value of these people, the Welsh, Irish and English are equally as welcoming in my experience (although the English tend to be a tad more reserved about it).

Back to the debate I suppose.  I would like the United Kingdom to stay together, even if it does mean more unrelenting moaning from those who seem unable to move on.  That said the whole situation is a no win situation either way it is bad.  Whether we like it or not the world is watching and wondering why the hell this small island group would want to break up what is otherwise an extremely successful and productive relationship.  We have and will continue to lose credibility as a nation whether we are together or apart, the reputation has been damaged and continues to suffer damage.  If we ‘divorce’ it will be expensive, distracting, painful and arguably will knock the UK further down the world order in terms of influence and respect.  It is going to be an absolutely mammoth task to split institutions, invest in new facilities and quite frankly duplicate unnecessarily a huge range of structures.  No disrespect, but just look at the state of governance in Belgium and you might get an idea of the kind of duplication and waste that could occur.  I have probably offended and alienated my Belgian family and friends with that statement but I am sure they will forgive me…hopefully.

If on the other hand the vote is a no, then it merely deters the debate for a period of time but then presents the politicians with the issue of implementing Devo Max, whatever that turns out to be.  It has been a bit of a mistake not to have defined this, but then no more than the lack of detail that the Yes campaign has thus far provided.  My concern is what about England and the considerable number of Scottish MPs that vote on purely English (and occasionally Welsh) matters. My view is that Scotland has been chomping on the cake and are about to get more cake at the expense of the rest of the country, I feel slightly aggrieved at this.  Of course we will lose because in all likelihood we will set up another bureaucratic sponging government to look after English affairs, this is why we all lose whatever the outcome.

Now, I thought I might end with some ‘observations’ in the event of a Yes victory announced on Friday morning.  I have thought about this and I was wondering, will all non-Scottish people in Scotland get dual nationality?  By that I mean if I was living in Scotland as an Englishman would I have both Scottish and British nationality and what would that mean vis a vis employment, EU etc?  If you are a Scot (anywhere in the world) would you again be granted/confirmed British nationality or have the option to obtain Scottish nationality (which if I were a Scot then I am damn sure I would want)?  Moving on from those inconvenient aspects, what about the status of EU nationals, for example students, they would no longer be studying in an EU country.  What would their status be?  What would the status of a British student be?  Surely they would be EU as far as fees are concerned?  Either the EU students would lose their funding and status or the British will be allowed to claim free education?  I am not holding my breath on that one… 

We know that the EU has ruled out membership without having established a banking system and currency and the UK has ruled out a currency union (in so far as such commitments can be made).  An independent Scotland will find itself outside the EU and NATO, are they going to welcome in the Russians like the Ukraine?  Okay that is a step too far but quite frankly I would not be surprised if some novel relationships were established with other nations in a bid to move forwards.

It is maybe important, no crucial, to mention that Scotland and indeed any group seeking autonomy can and will set themselves up.  I have no doubt that an independent Scotland will be able to successfully survive and progress as would any new or reborn nation.  The main issue here is that some believe it is a giant leap backwards in order to obtain power and others seem to think that once the leash is off then utopia is just round the corner.  The reality will be a mix but harsh decisions will have to be made and reality faced up to make no mistake.  It is not a threat, it is what is inevitable and there may be blame games afterwards but that is the pain of divorce.

The last thing before I wrap up.  What happens to all of the Scots in key positions across the rest of the UK?  To put this into perspective and regardless of trust and loyalty, quite frankly we will have ‘foreigners’ operating at high level in key areas of our organisations.  In some cases this is simply unacceptable.  For example, access to intelligence and nuclear assets is, surprisingly, restricted.  Overnight there would be foreign nationals (not in NATO or the EU) that have access and control over quite a bit of our infrastructure and sensitive information.  I hasten to add that I am sure it will not be an issue in terms of sorting it out but it is a novel and unusual situation to resolve especially given that most of them have not had a vote and would feel aggrieved that they have been stuffed by the Yes campaign.  Talk about rubbing your face in it!

I want to finish simply by saying that I think we are better off together but, if we split then we will just have to get on with things and make the best of it.  Maybe there will be a ‘special relationship’ or maybe Scotland will be the despised ex who we visit every now and again to ‘see the kids’.  I feel sad and disappointed that it has come to this and that the divisions created may have a lasting and destructive effect on those that have to put up with them.

Breakfast Annoyance

Stille Tocht

Slowly they began to gather, coming together from the side streets, old, young, men, women, children.  There was no rifle or bayonet prodding the unwilling residents of Aarschot on this the 100th anniversary of the atrocity that saw 173 inhabitants killed at the hands of the German army as they swept through Belgium at the beginning of World War 1.  I cannot say whether the townsfolk on that evening of 19th August 1914 knew what was going to happen or not, I don't know if they struggled or just simply cooperated with the orders of the soldiers.  This time, there were no orders, we were shepherded into the main square by our memories of the relatives that were lost.

We waited, probably much the same as they did 100 years ago, not quite sure of who was in charge or when things were going to start.  We milled around, some of the people recognising each other.  Edie, my mother-in-law whose grandfather was killed, is my particular connection to this act of remembrance.  Her sister and brother were also present along with her sister's husband and my wife.

There was a big difference with our gathering, apart from the time and the circumstances of course, we knew where we were going and how things would end.  We also knew for certain that we would be in the protection of our homes in the warmth and shelter at the end of the evening.  Did the victims know that this would be their last evening?

Someone took charge of us, instructing us with gentle encouragement to file in rows of three abreast, we were getting ready to set our along the same route.  There was no wind or rain, it was a pleasant summer evening, quiet too.  For us there was no emotional goodbyes, no clinging onto loved ones, no tears, yet.  I don't know if the victims a hundered years before had any idea that they would not be returning and if there were scenes or struggles.  I do know that Edie's grandfather gave a purse to his son to keep hold of it, perhaps he knew or perhaps he was afraid of the Germans robbing him.  It was a significant and powerful act that had an enduring impact on the young boy who took it.

We started off, ironically, escorted by the police.  It was a somewhat solemn affair as we filed quietly on our way.  This time the women and children came with us, I say children, there were children as young as 14 who were victims of this atrocity.  Our column was maybe 100 metres long, as it wound it's way down the streets on out to towards the site of the first memorial.  I cannot speak for the others but I felt very much like it was a final walk, gazing up at the windows and taking in the route in the most minute detail, more so than at any other time when I have passed, busily and thoughtlessly through the same streets.

I noted the occasional shifting curtain and slightly open door as the curiosity of the residents got the better of them, they tried to discretely catch a glance at us as we made our way past.  I wondered whether the same had happened to the victims, indeed, did the women and children follow or were they kept away?  I doubted whether many people outside our group even knew of the event or were aware of the lasting impact.  The most powerful onlooker was a child looking through an upstairs window, no emotion in his face, just looking.  I thought of the last time I had hugged anyone and I was grateful that I would get the opportunity to do so again, it would mean a little more than it had before.

As we made our way, the limited traffic was brought to a halt and made to wait for us.  I wondered whether they knew what was going on or why.  Perhaps they were irritated or were happy to patiently wait.

It was not long before we arrived at the first memorial and gathering in this cramped residential street seemed to be several hundered people around an otherwise inconspicuous monument.  I was glad to see that someone had removed the broken rail and replaced it with some new posts that would protect the monument.  Presumably someone had carelessly reversed into the old one and simply left it there.  There was a short service and the names of the victims at this location were read out along with their ages.  Arthur's name was read out, this was where Edie's grandfather had fallen, one of 75 to do so.

We filed on towards the second monument, where a chapel had been built as well as the memorial.  Instead of standing outside we all filed into the church and a more lengthy service was held.  This was the location where a further 25 were killed, including the mayor.  At both services I paid particular attention to the details of my surroundings and observed the expressions of those present.  Most were solemn but not tearful, maybe hardened by the years that have passed.

Although the services were given in Dutch, I knew enough to understand the meaning and impact of the event and I recognised the continuing importance to remember them.

I am glad I was there and I was glad I could hold the hand of An as we walked comfort that could be provided where I could.

Suicidal Slugs and Snails

Once again I geared myself up to commence some sort of exercise regime and the latest target was to cycle for at least an hour at a reasonably high intensity.  I donned my special lycra padded shorts, my luminescent top and, perhaps more importantly, my not too often used heart rate GPS watch.  I always feel like I am strapping on a bra when I put the sensor round my chest.  I then wait for the tell tale beep that it has been recognised by the watch.  I had got my Ipod out of the car earlier on and loaded up some 'cycling' songs.  Some of these songs are quite pacy, others are not really suitable but I like them, Insomnia by Faithless being one example and The Race by Yello another.

The bicycle is a purpose built hybrid bike complete with not so trendy shopping panniers.  I pump the tyres up to a good hard pressure, which does not quite seem adequate when I mount it.  I should wear my helmet but my route does not take me along too many roads so I just put on my Gran Canaria cap, there is a story in itself behind that but it is much too off putting to write it in a blog.  I make sure that I have paid a visit to the toilet before departure, there is nothing quite so annoying and uncomfortable as getting caught short whilst on the move.

Opening the garage door, as though preparing to launch Thunderbird 4, I may as well be playing the tune as well.  I don't of course that would be a bit too much...  I also have the pregnant pause of waiting for the GPS to register on my heart rate monitor before I begin.  The GPS records, distance, time, elevation, speed, heart rate and calories burnt.  It is really a bit of a motivation tool to help me compare my performance with future trips.  Once the satellites have been picked up I have the odd timing event of starting the music and the timer to make sure I don't lose any time, not that it makes a vast amount of difference.

The weather had been rather wet and it was still coming down a bit every now and again, but not so heavy.  I turned right out of our street and then left towards the bank.  This first kilometre or so is all road/cycle path and, as this is Belgium, I have a status on the road akin to the Man of Steel (Superman, in terms of invincibility), cars, lorries, buses and any other motorised machine on the road trembles at my sight and had best not get in the way!  To fellow (more serious) cyclists I am Mr Magoo and I need to keep my wits about me as I fight the herds of lycra clad wilder beast that stampede their way along the paths and roads.

The aim of the exercise is to keep going, burn calories and get fitter and so as my journey continues I make my way to the riverside path, this entails passing under the railway line and then running parallel for a while before I get to the River Demer, there is a decent cycle path that runs alongside and for some considerable distance.  There are several interruptions to the path in the form of bridges and, when I have run the same route I have only ever got to the third bridge before crossing and returning.  That run is approximately 10kms.  This time however my aim to was to get to the fourth bridge, which was some considerable distance further along, almost level with Rotselaar.  The distances get progressively further between the bridges with the first two fairly close together.  I have to cross the road to get past the first and this is still in Aarschot, near the industrial estate.  The second I can sweep beneath the bridge and it is one of the two fleeting climbs on an otherwise flat route.

The real work starts as I get on towards the third bridge.  Mentally, both for the run and the cycling, this is an aiming point, a marker.  I am constantly thinking of my muscles and how I will cope, whether I am going too fast, if I will get a cramp or, for comedy value, trying to concentrate on the unlikely event that I would fly off either side of the bank and end up swimming or in the trees and bushes on the other side.  It is a sharp drop on either side and with the disdain that other cyclists show you, there is the possibility that you could be pushed off the path in some Last of the Summer Wine moment.  My field of view is quite narrow as I focus on the hazards immediately ahead of the bike, it is not a leisurely ramble through the countryside, I have no time to view the sights as I go by.

It was whilst keeping my head down that I first noted the suicidal slugs and snails.  The wet conditions had clearly given them the opportunity, perhaps more so than they could otherwise take, to cross from the non-river side of the path to the river side of the path, but with it came the hazard of cyclists and remember, they stop for no one and would not hesitate to hurl their fellow cyclists into the nettles.  I on the other hand was swerving in a vain and fruitless attempt to allow them just a few more moments of life.  As I came close I was oohing and aahing as I narrowly flashed by their antennae with the force of a high speed train, comparatively speaking of course.  To be honest they may as well have been doing pyramids in front of me and been lining up end on end.  Eventually I just did my best but no doubt some ended up a little bit flatter and wider than they had started.  The birds were enjoying the mashed slugs and snails and at least they could get out of the way in time!

By the time I had made it to the third bridge my bottom was getting a bit sore and I started going numb in the tips of my fingers, which then turned to pins and needles when I tried to exercise them (in my fingers not my bum)!  I had the sure knowledge that the fourth bridge was some distance off and in fact was the longest stretch.  This time, not caring for the lifespan of the gastropod molluscs, I buttoned down to reaching the final marker before crossing and turning for home.  After what seemed like ages, the Bailey bridge came into view.  This bridge was laid down, presumably by British forces in World War Two at Rotselaar and has stood the test of time since.  There are a number of such bridges in the country and the website at the last link is a bit of a spotter's guide.

Having crossed the river I now doubled back along essentially a dirt track.  It is a good track with only one or two muddy puddles, but narrow due to the grass growing in the middle of two shallow furrows made by cars.  Psychologically this was now easier as I was homeward bound, but the conditions were a bit more difficult due to the lack of smooth surface.  By now my legs were getting tired but both the music and my recent reading of an exercise book gave me the motivation to keep going. I have recently read The First 20 Minutes - The surprising science of how we can Exercise Better, Train Smarter and Live Longer, I thoroughly recommend it to you.

As I got closer, there were more suicidal slugs and snails and even less room to avoid them, I had waypoints that signified that the ride was almost over.  Passing each bridge on the return, going under the railway line, passing the school and the Knoet, getting to the bank and then finally drawing up to the house and quickly stopping the timer.  Time to get my breath back, return Thunderbird 4 to it's 'hangar' and disrobe (not in the street I should add).  I checked the watch and it indicated 1700 calories burnt over 22kms and the time of 1hr 2 mins.  The last run I did I came in at 57 mins, so I am already improving.  I will need to extend the distance as the good book tells me that to do endurance training you need to keep it up for more than an hour.  The trick now is to keep the activity going and not let life or work get in the way of it!  My last run was done after coming home from work before eating, it takes a bit of self discipline to do that.

Swimming PT

A Moment of Reflection

I was just thinking, a dangerous pastime if ever there was one.  I was reflecting upon the microcosm that is my life, along with the trials and challenges that I face.  No matter how trivial something may be, if you do not look beyond the boundaries of your own life then you cannot put it into perspective and learn to accept the situation for what it really is.

I have faced a rather stressful time at work recently, family challenges, the prospect of finding a whole new career in 6 months and a host of other bits and pieces.  I have laid plans, as far as I can.  I have taken account of what may or may not happen so that I can avoid threats and take advantage of opportunities.

We had a rather lovely family birthday party this weekend, with a small dark cloud which cast an unfortunate shadow on the event, but still we braced ourselves against the weather and made the best of it.  Some of us laughed so hard, it has been such a long time since I have seen such laughter.  I got mixed up between David & Goliath and Samson and Delilah when I asked if my wife could cut my hair.  In my version David was clearly a hairdresser and Delilah was chucking stones at Samson...  We played a fun game where we had to choose a cartoon character and the others had to guess who it was, this turned out surprisingly well and is a good game for a multi-lingual party!

Putting it into perspective and bursting free from that bubble for a moment.  I think of the Malaysian Airline that has been shot down and the 298 people who have lost their lives.  More so I think of the people of Ukraine, both sides, who have also suffered and lost their lives.  The pain that spreads across the world from the loss of that one aircraft, people who were, in all likelihood, going to have a birthday party this weekend and laugh as hard as we did as they played games and said silly things.  But they won't now.  I suppose the other advantage is that they will not have any more trials to face, except that is for their loved ones who are left to pick up the pieces and are reflecting themselves upon the challenges they faced, how their plans have been shattered and how they regret that the last thing they could have said was 'I love you, you are so important to me and I want you to know'.

What I am trying to say I suppose is that I am eternally grateful for the things I have, for the people I know and for the time I have.  I aim, in so far as possible, not to let myself get hung up on the challenges of life, but I am human and I will err from time to time.  I have recently learnt that breathing deeply can help to calm the tension, it is something I have really known for a while, but I did not know the science behind it.  It is handy because, quite frankly, you need to breathe and so it takes no real effort to do it!  I choose to reflect during those periods and I am sure it helps.

A serious one for a change, but then life can be quite serious at times.

Circuits!

As I find myself struggling for breath and straining to push just one more repetition out I fleetingly wonder why I allow myself to be put through this torture week after week.  For the most part all I have in my head is the determination to physically muster the strength to keep going and the knowledge that the trial can only last for an hour at most.

The subject to which I am referring is mandatory physical training (PT) that is held every Tuesday morning between 08.30 - 09.30.  The session is led by a fully qualified and trained gorilla who is fully versed on how to drive the last vestiges of energy from your body and to ensure that muscles , which only ever get called upon in such sessions, are strained to the point of exhaustion and take upwards of a week to recover.  The Geneva convention prevents the signatories from inflicting such treatment upon captives.  It is almost like we are prisoners with the psychological gun against our head, and we endure it too.  Mutinies have begun over lesser pain and grief.  Am I overdoing it?  Well there is always a bit of exaggeration but I am being deadly serious when I say that on most occasions I cannot physically lift a cup of tea to my lips, so tired are my arms.

Normally the session begins with the dread of not knowing which particular gorilla is running the session, we more commonly call the gorilla Clubs, in reference to Club Swinger.  The Royal Navy PT branch has two crossed clubs as it's emblem, presumably from days when they used to do displays and before we moved to more technically advanced items of equipment such as the kettle bell (a cannon ball with a handle)!  Other popular names are 'tit swinger' and 'muscle bosun', for obvious reasons.  Some gorillas are more preferable than others but they are all experts at inflicting discomfort, only some do so in a polite if deceptively cunning way.  Usually Clubs has set out the gym with their instruments of torture and this generates disquiet among the victims whilst we wonder what we will be asked (told) to do and how long it will last.  Sometimes the equipment causes intrigue and sometimes we are completely wrong in anticipating the pleasure that will follow.  For some it is obvious, I mean what else can you do with a large tractor tyre other than roll it end on end?

There are in essence two types of circuit, the first is one where there is a set time for each exercise and the other is where there is a given number of repetitions that must be achieved.  I prefer the former as that means I can go all out and it does not matter how fit or unfit you are you can get maximum benefit from the workout.  If you have a set number the fit people are finished well before the not so fit and the not so fit do not get a chance to recover before moving on to the next element of the torture.

The circuits start off and end with a warm up, which is almost a pleasurable experience.  The gorilla offers motivational encouragement which is unintelligible to most but has somehow been indoctrinated into those of us who have endured this over the years.  Before we engage in the main activity we are briefed as to the number of exercises, repetitions, time frames, whether we are acting alone or in pairs, how many times through the entire circuit, whether we have any injuries or missing limbs and finally if we have any last wishes (questions).  Once ready the music is turned on and you usually begin and change exercise to the whistle blow of the tormentor.  During the circuit the evil one is heard to berate the victims as a whole, but, in this world where bullying is frowned upon, rarely does the individual get a good blast.  We hang on his every whistle blow as we fight our way through the circuit, more than most probably think he has forgotten the time or is in a bad mood as he prolongs the pain.  I think for the most part this is all in our heads but then club swingers are not known for their mathematical genius or ability to read.  In my case a pool of sweat often develops around the area where my head comes into contact with the mat or indeed the area over which my sagging head hangs over the mat.  Some people do cruise but if this comes to the attention of the tormentor, then they just add to the agony as they let the time run or think up an impromptu additional exercise that seems 'fun'.

The circuits usually finish with a decent warm down and stretching exercise, which I am sure helps but still does little to prevent the cramps and stiffness over the following days.  Maybe it is just me getting old?  Apart from the health benefits, about which I am somewhat skeptical, the greatest benefit is that it takes you out of the office and away from the pressures of the job if only for an hour.  Once you are engaged in PT, the priorities shift to very simple physical endurance and survival instincts and you share a common enemy for a while, which gives the team a sense of purpose and belonging.  In the military you face lots of trials and experiences together, which separate you out from others and generates an understanding and sense of ritual.

I value the concept but I hate circuits!