To the slight irritation of my wife, I have been a fan of F1 since doing my tour of duty in Iraq with the Royal Navy in 2008. I used to find the sport (controversial to say that I know) extremely tedious and boring, the droning sound of the cars going round and round, I mean what is appealing about that? I became acquainted with the sport out of boredom and a desire to share some social time with my shorebased shipmates. My sympathies were almost immediately with Lewis Hamilton, then driving for McLaren and my dislike of his evil Machiavellian teammate, Fernando Alonso. I found his somewhat naive honesty and behaviour. Anyway, after many seasons watching Hamilton and his ups and downs, I have been a follower since.
Hamilton has matured and is much like the other drivers in terms of ambition and drive but I still believe that he is a fair player at heart and that is why I am a supporter. An decided to get me a ticket to my first Grand Prix, I cannot remember if I used any persuasion or not. This is my blog of the weekend and experiences of the event.
Friday 25th August - First and Second Practice
Prior to the event I did my research, booked my parking space and decided to take a packed lunch and my camera. I was in the main stand opposite the pit lane at the La Source hairpin end of the track. I had no idea what to expect, just that the traffic would be busy and it would be noisy and full of fumes.
The first thing to point out is that although I booked my parking, I ended up in three different car parks some distance apart on the weekend. No one scanned the ticket, as warned on the printout, so presumably anyone could turn up with something that looked like a parking ticket and then get themselves parked.
I set out around 07.25 from Leuven and got to Spa around 09.30. I rather annoyingly drove past the queue of traffic on the slip road and snuck in towards the end. Junction 10 was the exit and there were a large number of marshals and police officers directing traffic, in what was clearly a well drilled routine, to the relevant areas. It was not too much of a hassle to get in, which was deceptive as both Saturday and Sunday were considerably busier than Friday.
At this stage the other thing to highlight is that, understandably, the majority of visitors are complete and utter petrol heads. The range of international vehicle registrations along with the ratio of twin and quadruple exhausts provided enough evidence of the character of their drivers. This was to provide some frustration on the last day when trying to leave the farmers field (car park) with any kind of order and respect.
So upon arrival in the car park I grabbed my bags and started to follow the crowd through the woods and down towards the loud growing sounds of engines. You could not see the track at that point and it was a lovely walk in the woods, save for the out of place engine noise. I arrived and began queuing at the Steyr Gate, this is the main gate that leads to the F1 Village and associated food, merchandising and fleecing area. Your ticket is scanned and your bags are searched, the first of many searches and checks. It is worth saying that it can be easy to lose your ticket if you have not got a special holder or keep it safely secured in a pocket. I picked one up for a lady who had not noticed that she had dropped it. Imagine if you are drinking as well.
On the subject of drinking, I was alone and therefore I did not drink alcohol at all. The choice, from what I could see, is pretty poor. Heineken and Johnny Walker, two sponsors of the event. For a county that has a reputation for quality beers, it is a bit of a let down to find such poor beer on sale. However, everything is overpriced as you would expect and the sponsors get to dominate and pay their respective fees to the FIA. I succumbed to the merchandising and bought a golfing umbrella and Hamilton t-shirt. I also took a ride in a F1 simulator which cost an extortionate 15 euros for 2 minutes of a simulated lap of Silverstone (with others in the module).
What I did not appreciate is the amount of walking that I would be doing both to and from the car parks and around the trackside. Friday was relatively boring so I used that day to explore the F1 Village and to watch the practice sessions. The practice sessions, for me, are much of a muchness. I left before the end of second practice and headed home, beating the exit from the car parks. There is a full programme with the Formula 2 and Porches, so for those enthusiasts it is worth staying.
It seemed surreal that I was there, so often having seen things on the TV. I spotted TV personalities and I could see the better end of the pit lane with the Ferraris, Red Bulls and Mercedes teams. You did not get to see the team principals or drivers (save for their helmet covered heads). I took the opportunity to get some photos in and get a feel for what I could or could not reach with my camera.
Wednesday, 30 August 2017
Thursday, 27 July 2017
Dunkirk - Spoiler Alert - Do Not Read If You Have Not Seen The Film
I put out a call on Facebook to any friends that may have been in Manchester to ask whether they would like to go and see Dunkirk. A wit replied, "Are you going by ferry or Eurostar?" My response to this was, "No, by small pleasure boat". I had been eagerly awaiting the release of Christopher Nolan's film and, when no one answered my call, I took it upon myself to go alone.
It is difficult to know where to start with this, perspective is everything and an individual watching the movie will judge it from their own level of knowledge, experience and understanding.
The film lacks context, it is rather focussed on a group of individuals and their role in evacuation. The scene is set initially, when a group of British soldiers are seen walking through a deserted street and read leaflets dropped from the sky outlining the position they are in. The simple image is of a map with Dunkirk and the menacing red of the German army surrounding the remaining allies. Okay so we now know that we are surrounded. There is no lead up, explanation or context. You do not get a taste of the Phoney War, the frantic and unsuccessful fight to stop the Blitzkrieg advance of the German armour and the atrocities that are committed by troops and aircraft against the civilian population and prisoners of war. The context is further enhanced by the scene between Commander Bolton and Colonel Winnant on the Mole, Bolton states that they aim to get 30-40 thousand off the beach and Winnant replies that there are 400,000 on the beach. We have the scale and so we then turn to the story.
The audience will experience different feelings depending upon the attributes of their perspective. I know the history, what happens, the context and so I understood from the outset. I have also studied military history, I am ex-Royal Navy and therefore I have a view on the action that was to follow. I did, however, put the situation into a more modern political and economic perspective as I was viewing.
The group of British soldiers came under fire and in sheer desperation and panic fled from an unseen enemy. The gunfire and ruthlessness of the slaughter hit home and, as the last survivor of the group ran, he came across the sandbag walled defences manned by French soldiers. Initially he came under fire from the defenders but was soon recognised and allowed over the barrier, the look of disgust from the French soldiers as the British soldier cowered and ran for his life brought thoughts of Brexit to mind. The context of the British sacrifice, both on the ground and in the air was missing. Our investment in the fight to that point and onwards was not recognised by the film. On he ran, to the beach and was met with the sight of queues of soldiers patiently waiting to evacuate.
One of the striking things about the film is it's gritty reality, fear and shock. The scenes that follow are desperate, in fact one could argue that the desperation is playing to the fear that the men will not make it, it is utterly hopeless and each attempt is almost fruitless. We see the loss of ships and aircraft, the killing of men but no real success and no scale of the numbers being evacuated. It is definitely not gory and in the same stomach churning league as Saving Private Ryan or The Fury. But then it does not need any of that to convey the depth of feeling and struggle of the situation.
There is a refreshing lack of GCI and the ships and aircraft seem frighteningly real, the feeling of being trapped and about to drown is gripping, even to the point where you are desperate for breath as you sit in your seat.
There is a determination against what can be regarded as common sense and self preservation and perhaps this is another reference to Brexit. The determination to fight through and survive is evident.
During the many, and perhaps over-compensating, air battles, it is clear that shooting down an aircraft is not easy and takes patience and skill to do. You can almost feel the learning experience of the fighter pilots as they try and shoot the enemy down. The RAF were not particularly visible during the evacuation and this does not come through as strongly as it was felt by the men on the ground. It is interesting to note that one of the three Spitfires in the formation is shot down without much fuss. Some in the audience would not have realised that this was a common tactic of the German air force against a rather flawed choice of formation by the RAF. Many German Aces scored easy kills this way and we do not even get a chance to see the doomed pilot in any sense.
We do not see or hear from any Germans, but you feel the presence of these anonymous aggressors and the shocking impact of their bullets and bombs. In fact you only really see some Germans up close in the very final scene but no context again and no opportunity to understand their point of view.
The film is very patriotic and comes to a close as the remaining Spitfire runs out of fuel, having elected to shoot down an enemy Stuka dive bomber rather than turn for home. You can feel the pilots dilemma about whether to stay and fight or to head home to re-arm. Again, maybe a PR exercise on behalf of the RAF or an attempt to show that it was a difficult decision to make. The aircraft then proceeds to glide majestically above the beach, the pilot desperately cranking the landing gear down before he runs out of height. He does manage to bring the machine down, well away from friendly forces and then proceeds to burn it and watches as it goes. This is the first time we see the pilot's face (Tom Hardy). Is this our history we burn, our links to Europe, our last hope? There are many perspectives that can be taken from this, act as the stirring version of Engima Variations and Nimrod play to the excerpts of Winston Churchill's famous 'Fight them on the Beaches' speech being read out.
What is not so clear is that although we have run, we will return and we can stand alone against the threat facing us and we do so in the name of freedom and what is right. Very stirring, but in my mind reflections of Brexit again came to mind.
When the film ended I waited until the end of the credits before I left. I left in a deep mood of reflection and with very strong views, determined to write this blog.
I felt so strongly that when I spoke to my wife later on, I got quite annoyed about some of the comments. I tried to highlight that different people will view this movie through different lenses and the lack of context will skew their point of view. People will champion their cause by drawing similarities between the situation in 1940 and the present. "Gunning down of survivors and queueing soldiers just happens in war" was one such comment that drew fire from me. No it doesn't or rather it shouldn't. "The war had just started", no it hadn't there was months of inaction preceding it. I also pointed out that history in UK schools is optional after a point, An was shocked. Some will have no idea at all and have to rely on grandparents and parents (if they know) to educate them.
The evacuation of Dunkirk was a miracle but because of the inexplicable inaction of the Germans to finish the job. This gifted Churchill the propaganda coup to salvage some dignity from the disaster. Worse was to come when the Japanese achieved a far more complete victory in Singapore in 1942.
You can of course just watch the movie for it's entertainment value.
It is difficult to know where to start with this, perspective is everything and an individual watching the movie will judge it from their own level of knowledge, experience and understanding.
The film lacks context, it is rather focussed on a group of individuals and their role in evacuation. The scene is set initially, when a group of British soldiers are seen walking through a deserted street and read leaflets dropped from the sky outlining the position they are in. The simple image is of a map with Dunkirk and the menacing red of the German army surrounding the remaining allies. Okay so we now know that we are surrounded. There is no lead up, explanation or context. You do not get a taste of the Phoney War, the frantic and unsuccessful fight to stop the Blitzkrieg advance of the German armour and the atrocities that are committed by troops and aircraft against the civilian population and prisoners of war. The context is further enhanced by the scene between Commander Bolton and Colonel Winnant on the Mole, Bolton states that they aim to get 30-40 thousand off the beach and Winnant replies that there are 400,000 on the beach. We have the scale and so we then turn to the story.
The audience will experience different feelings depending upon the attributes of their perspective. I know the history, what happens, the context and so I understood from the outset. I have also studied military history, I am ex-Royal Navy and therefore I have a view on the action that was to follow. I did, however, put the situation into a more modern political and economic perspective as I was viewing.
The group of British soldiers came under fire and in sheer desperation and panic fled from an unseen enemy. The gunfire and ruthlessness of the slaughter hit home and, as the last survivor of the group ran, he came across the sandbag walled defences manned by French soldiers. Initially he came under fire from the defenders but was soon recognised and allowed over the barrier, the look of disgust from the French soldiers as the British soldier cowered and ran for his life brought thoughts of Brexit to mind. The context of the British sacrifice, both on the ground and in the air was missing. Our investment in the fight to that point and onwards was not recognised by the film. On he ran, to the beach and was met with the sight of queues of soldiers patiently waiting to evacuate.
One of the striking things about the film is it's gritty reality, fear and shock. The scenes that follow are desperate, in fact one could argue that the desperation is playing to the fear that the men will not make it, it is utterly hopeless and each attempt is almost fruitless. We see the loss of ships and aircraft, the killing of men but no real success and no scale of the numbers being evacuated. It is definitely not gory and in the same stomach churning league as Saving Private Ryan or The Fury. But then it does not need any of that to convey the depth of feeling and struggle of the situation.
There is a refreshing lack of GCI and the ships and aircraft seem frighteningly real, the feeling of being trapped and about to drown is gripping, even to the point where you are desperate for breath as you sit in your seat.
There is a determination against what can be regarded as common sense and self preservation and perhaps this is another reference to Brexit. The determination to fight through and survive is evident.
During the many, and perhaps over-compensating, air battles, it is clear that shooting down an aircraft is not easy and takes patience and skill to do. You can almost feel the learning experience of the fighter pilots as they try and shoot the enemy down. The RAF were not particularly visible during the evacuation and this does not come through as strongly as it was felt by the men on the ground. It is interesting to note that one of the three Spitfires in the formation is shot down without much fuss. Some in the audience would not have realised that this was a common tactic of the German air force against a rather flawed choice of formation by the RAF. Many German Aces scored easy kills this way and we do not even get a chance to see the doomed pilot in any sense.
We do not see or hear from any Germans, but you feel the presence of these anonymous aggressors and the shocking impact of their bullets and bombs. In fact you only really see some Germans up close in the very final scene but no context again and no opportunity to understand their point of view.
The film is very patriotic and comes to a close as the remaining Spitfire runs out of fuel, having elected to shoot down an enemy Stuka dive bomber rather than turn for home. You can feel the pilots dilemma about whether to stay and fight or to head home to re-arm. Again, maybe a PR exercise on behalf of the RAF or an attempt to show that it was a difficult decision to make. The aircraft then proceeds to glide majestically above the beach, the pilot desperately cranking the landing gear down before he runs out of height. He does manage to bring the machine down, well away from friendly forces and then proceeds to burn it and watches as it goes. This is the first time we see the pilot's face (Tom Hardy). Is this our history we burn, our links to Europe, our last hope? There are many perspectives that can be taken from this, act as the stirring version of Engima Variations and Nimrod play to the excerpts of Winston Churchill's famous 'Fight them on the Beaches' speech being read out.
What is not so clear is that although we have run, we will return and we can stand alone against the threat facing us and we do so in the name of freedom and what is right. Very stirring, but in my mind reflections of Brexit again came to mind.
When the film ended I waited until the end of the credits before I left. I left in a deep mood of reflection and with very strong views, determined to write this blog.
I felt so strongly that when I spoke to my wife later on, I got quite annoyed about some of the comments. I tried to highlight that different people will view this movie through different lenses and the lack of context will skew their point of view. People will champion their cause by drawing similarities between the situation in 1940 and the present. "Gunning down of survivors and queueing soldiers just happens in war" was one such comment that drew fire from me. No it doesn't or rather it shouldn't. "The war had just started", no it hadn't there was months of inaction preceding it. I also pointed out that history in UK schools is optional after a point, An was shocked. Some will have no idea at all and have to rely on grandparents and parents (if they know) to educate them.
The evacuation of Dunkirk was a miracle but because of the inexplicable inaction of the Germans to finish the job. This gifted Churchill the propaganda coup to salvage some dignity from the disaster. Worse was to come when the Japanese achieved a far more complete victory in Singapore in 1942.
You can of course just watch the movie for it's entertainment value.
Thursday, 20 July 2017
When The Going Gets Tough, The Tough Get a White Chocolate Chip Cookie
A long time ago, when I was young, strong willed and, if I'm honest, a bit of a dick, I would take to the moral high ground in my bid to do the right thing. I paid scant regard for the threat of violence, tact or diplomacy as I crusaded for what I felt was the right reasons. As my peers and superiors seethed at my exposure of their weaknesses and incompetence, I blundered on until silenced by the sight of my colleagues falling asleep or the unreasonable command of my superiors to 'take it offline'.
In my early days, of course, taking things offline would have made no sense at all, I grew up in the age of rented TVs, fixed landlines and using my imagination when playing games (quite a bit of fun too). It used to be 'we shall discuss this later', which was their way of saying 'you twat, stand by for a shoeing'. How I managed to avoid beatings in my youth I do not know.
Age has mellowed me somewhat and now when I come across people who are unwilling to listen to reason, be they peers or superiors, I calmly set out my case and take an objective look at the issues when finding a solution. When I am subsequently browbeaten into submission, as is often the case, I then have to resort to alternative action. It is often not helpful to express what is inevitably swirling around in your mind and the strong desire to go back to the schoolyard and shout 'don't come running to me when it all ends in tears!', or other words to that effect, will not ease the frustration. It is at this point that I have learned that it is better to walk away, away to the nearest purveyor of white chocolate chip cookies and gain solace in those.
Often grumbling unintelligibly as you pass by innocent colleagues on your way to the coffee shop. It is an unfortunate error of judgement that one of them, especially the older ones, will ask politely and unsuspectingly, 'hi, everything good?'
Oh dear, as their smile vanishes when you answer truthfully that no, things are not good. They desperately look for cover and hope someone calls them on their mobile, passing staff get rolled in as the original colleague begs them (it's in their eyes) to rescue them. Before you know it you have a rebellion as sympathisers come out on your side and readily acknowledge the shortfalls of the offending person. I tend to ask if people would like the truth when I am in cookie mode, that way they have the choice of not listening to Eeyore and then trying to slash their wrists later on.
There are times when a cookie is not enough and I have two other levels of food sulk, bag of liquorish allsorts and packet of wagon wheels. Often though one must make do with what is available and it is like being in the Sahara without water when the shops are closed and you have no change for the vending machine. If you are like me the vending machine eats your money anyway and give you nothing in return, technically a breach of contract, but in reality it is an extension of the offending person rubbing in your being placed firmly and securely in your box.
I don't like being in boxes, not because I am claustrophobic, but because my best thinking is done outside the box (did you like that?). I am an optimist at heart and I often recover by putting myself in the shoes of others, quite tricky if they are deep sea diving boots or stilettos for that matter. Still I try to understand and accept that I cannot control or influence everything that goes on. Persistent twats are another story, but then that is why we have Mr Kipling.
One of the things I have become quite adept at is recognising when my colleagues and peers are facing the same tensions. Recognition, coffee and listening is often the best way of bringing them back down, being careful to keep them away from bottles, staplers or any other potential weapons that might be lying around. It is critical to avoid sarcasm at the early stages when approaching your colleague on the ceiling, they might well strike out in reflex and it is difficult to explain a split lip to the wife when you get home.
If it all gets too much then a large creamy trifle is probably best, this is not for you, but for the offending person. The idea being to locate the said trifle centred on the face and delivered with insane laughter and a twitching eye. Unfortunately and probably for the best, trifles are rare items indeed in these environments unless of course there is a staff party going on nearby. In the absence of trifle I recommend comedy from a range of well known stand up comedians or indeed a spot of writing.
In my early days, of course, taking things offline would have made no sense at all, I grew up in the age of rented TVs, fixed landlines and using my imagination when playing games (quite a bit of fun too). It used to be 'we shall discuss this later', which was their way of saying 'you twat, stand by for a shoeing'. How I managed to avoid beatings in my youth I do not know.
Age has mellowed me somewhat and now when I come across people who are unwilling to listen to reason, be they peers or superiors, I calmly set out my case and take an objective look at the issues when finding a solution. When I am subsequently browbeaten into submission, as is often the case, I then have to resort to alternative action. It is often not helpful to express what is inevitably swirling around in your mind and the strong desire to go back to the schoolyard and shout 'don't come running to me when it all ends in tears!', or other words to that effect, will not ease the frustration. It is at this point that I have learned that it is better to walk away, away to the nearest purveyor of white chocolate chip cookies and gain solace in those.
Often grumbling unintelligibly as you pass by innocent colleagues on your way to the coffee shop. It is an unfortunate error of judgement that one of them, especially the older ones, will ask politely and unsuspectingly, 'hi, everything good?'
Oh dear, as their smile vanishes when you answer truthfully that no, things are not good. They desperately look for cover and hope someone calls them on their mobile, passing staff get rolled in as the original colleague begs them (it's in their eyes) to rescue them. Before you know it you have a rebellion as sympathisers come out on your side and readily acknowledge the shortfalls of the offending person. I tend to ask if people would like the truth when I am in cookie mode, that way they have the choice of not listening to Eeyore and then trying to slash their wrists later on.
There are times when a cookie is not enough and I have two other levels of food sulk, bag of liquorish allsorts and packet of wagon wheels. Often though one must make do with what is available and it is like being in the Sahara without water when the shops are closed and you have no change for the vending machine. If you are like me the vending machine eats your money anyway and give you nothing in return, technically a breach of contract, but in reality it is an extension of the offending person rubbing in your being placed firmly and securely in your box.
I don't like being in boxes, not because I am claustrophobic, but because my best thinking is done outside the box (did you like that?). I am an optimist at heart and I often recover by putting myself in the shoes of others, quite tricky if they are deep sea diving boots or stilettos for that matter. Still I try to understand and accept that I cannot control or influence everything that goes on. Persistent twats are another story, but then that is why we have Mr Kipling.
One of the things I have become quite adept at is recognising when my colleagues and peers are facing the same tensions. Recognition, coffee and listening is often the best way of bringing them back down, being careful to keep them away from bottles, staplers or any other potential weapons that might be lying around. It is critical to avoid sarcasm at the early stages when approaching your colleague on the ceiling, they might well strike out in reflex and it is difficult to explain a split lip to the wife when you get home.
If it all gets too much then a large creamy trifle is probably best, this is not for you, but for the offending person. The idea being to locate the said trifle centred on the face and delivered with insane laughter and a twitching eye. Unfortunately and probably for the best, trifles are rare items indeed in these environments unless of course there is a staff party going on nearby. In the absence of trifle I recommend comedy from a range of well known stand up comedians or indeed a spot of writing.
Tuesday, 11 July 2017
The Lonely Traveler - Arrival
Boarding The Aircraft
I am welcomed by the ever smiling crew, regardless of the fatigued and frustrated figure that stands before them. They announced that premium paying passengers and those with special needs should proceed first, but as with any other queuing system in Belgium, it is every man for himself. Queues are for mugs, clearly. It is somewhat a turn of fate that the departure of the aircraft is held up because the airport services have not provided the required equipment to enable some wheelchair bound passengers to embark. The rest of us file onboard past the glorified bus drivers as they do their checks in the cockpit. One of the checks they seem to miss is that of their departure time and their watches being synchronized, but more of that flippancy later.
As I shuffle to the rear of the aircraft I engage in the lottery that is gambling on an overhead locker being available near my allocated seat. I mostly win, but then I often chicken out and take an early space some distance from my seat. I check my ticket again to make sure I know which row to go to. There is the choice of three seats, the one by the aisle, so you get banged and bashed by conveniently aligned backsides, the window with a view of the clouds and the middle seat. In order of priority I would take the window (and compromise my chances of escape), then I would take the aisle (enduring the arses) and finally I would lump it with the middle seat and spend the flight (because of my good manners) with my elbows on my lap. Sometimes I am lucky and have a seat free next to me.
Having settled in the crew give their safety brief, which some would argue, is a complete waste of time. I, on the other hand, am very attentive, despite having seen it so many times before
I am welcomed by the ever smiling crew, regardless of the fatigued and frustrated figure that stands before them. They announced that premium paying passengers and those with special needs should proceed first, but as with any other queuing system in Belgium, it is every man for himself. Queues are for mugs, clearly. It is somewhat a turn of fate that the departure of the aircraft is held up because the airport services have not provided the required equipment to enable some wheelchair bound passengers to embark. The rest of us file onboard past the glorified bus drivers as they do their checks in the cockpit. One of the checks they seem to miss is that of their departure time and their watches being synchronized, but more of that flippancy later.
As I shuffle to the rear of the aircraft I engage in the lottery that is gambling on an overhead locker being available near my allocated seat. I mostly win, but then I often chicken out and take an early space some distance from my seat. I check my ticket again to make sure I know which row to go to. There is the choice of three seats, the one by the aisle, so you get banged and bashed by conveniently aligned backsides, the window with a view of the clouds and the middle seat. In order of priority I would take the window (and compromise my chances of escape), then I would take the aisle (enduring the arses) and finally I would lump it with the middle seat and spend the flight (because of my good manners) with my elbows on my lap. Sometimes I am lucky and have a seat free next to me.
Having settled in the crew give their safety brief, which some would argue, is a complete waste of time. I, on the other hand, am very attentive, despite having seen it so many times before
Thursday, 6 July 2017
The Lonely Traveler - Departure
Standing at the entrance to the private driveway, the doubt as to whether the taxi will arrive or not takes up it usual place of residence in my mind. Booking a taxi to arrive at 04:30 is, despite assurances, a risk. The chain of events from getting to bed after midnight, setting, checking and re-checking the alarm time of 04.00, waking up during the night and having the same old being late dream, it all contains elements of risk and mitigation. This chain of events led to the flight departure from Manchester airport en route home to Belgium. Until my bum was placed firmly in the seat at the rear of the aircraft, it is almost always the rear, I would not be content and even then the onward trip from Brussels to Aarschot would then be reviewed, checked and monitored in line with the connecting times of the various modes of transport at my disposal. But back at the drive...
Although I would regard myself as a seasoned traveler, this is not to say that I am a globe trotting, jet setting, free spirit. No, it is functional, a factor of work and living. In my case I work in Knutsford in the UK and I live in Belgium and it is economically viable if somewhat complex from a tax residency position and convenience. As an ex-serviceman I am accustomed to roving the land and temporarily laying down my hat, living at arms length for what can be regarded as my permanent home. I will tire of it eventually, I will reflect and regret how little time I spend with my family and friends, but for now it is an economic necessity. In terms of convenience and expense, it is a matter of what you are used to or what you come to expect.
...The taxi pulled in to collect me, pretty much on time, the chain remained unbroken. As I sit there chatting to the taxi driver, in this case about his interest in UFOs, my mind is firmly fixed on the cost agreed and route being taken. The contract, it can be argued, was formed when I booked the cab, but I distrust taxi drivers the world over, regardless of any evidence for or against. I am deposited at the entrance to Terminal 3, having paid the agreed fare. I am tired and irritable, but it is not particularly evident for the time being. It does not take much to escalate my impatience to DEFCON 1, even though this is only in my mind, the look on my face delivers the message, more often than not.
My first hurdle is passing through the security check, the entrance to which is a choice of two options for mere mortals like I, I have never used the VIP lane. Invariably I choose the wrong one and end up snaking back and forth through the empty corralling area, like a skier doing a frustratingly inefficient slalom down an empty mountain, dragging my battered but erratic case behind me. I go to DEFCON 4 when I see those, who have chosen wisely, speed happily by as though I am out on a Sunday drive.
As I approach, and in reality well before getting to the airport, I have already considered the passage through the x-ray screening. I am practically down to my underpants as I get to the conveyor, which is more than can be said for the annoyingly chippy holidaymakers who have left it until the last possible moment to fart around with their toiletries and other accouterments. I move to DEFCON 3. Due to the understandable desire to deter or intercept those wishing to do us harm, we now have to take all electrical items larger than 20cm out of the baggage and have them x-rayed separately. This is a challenge to prepare for in advance, unless you are blessed with more than one pair of hands. There is always the risk that I drop one or more of my delicate electrical items as I answer the usual questions about liquids, deodorants and other toiletries. As usual I answered all of these questions with a firm and restrained no, which on this occasion drew a rude comment from a fellow chimpanzee about not wishing to share a seat next to me, the feeling was mutual and to all intents and purposes most unlikely. My DEFCON state remained at level 3, but not for long.
Passing through the body scanner I noted that my case had been diverted for some further inspection. I queued with the other specially selected travelers. Time was pressing as it was unusually busy, I waited as patiently as I could, given my sleep deprived state. When it came to my case the searcher discovered that I had packed a tool into my bag, which was not allowed. I faced a choice, to present a well structured and considered justification would serve as much purpose as Charles I trying to debate the finer points of constitutional law with his executioner, so I had to revert to the obvious two: check the luggage in (and pay a punitive fee for doing so) or bin the tool and buy another one. I did not realise this at the time, but the reason was that it could, quite rightly, be considered a blunt instrument, much like the TV camera that the gentlemen before me had re-packed and taken with him or indeed my rather heavy laptop. Maybe even a bottle of whiskey from the duty free could be used? All of these thoughts entered my mind as I uttered the words agreeing to check in the luggage and registering my protest at having to endure the very long queue to get back through security. He assured me that I could leave and re-enter via the special assistance lane, which was quiet at that particular point in time.
I was now concerned that my fragile chain of activities was at increased risk due to the proximity of the departure time. It was only when I got to the Brussels Airlines check in desk that I went straight from DEFCON 3 to 1. I lost my rag as the desk clerk pointed out my transgression and the fact that I had not paid for checked luggage, all of which wasted time and was unnecessary, as I rudely pointed out. To add insult to injury, I could not pay at the check in desk and was re-directed to pay at another desk before returning with the receipt to check in my bag. To say that this caused me a degree of frustration and resentment understates my incandescent anger at the situation. It has to be acknowledged that this was in fact a problem of my own making. By the time I returned the check in desk I had reflected long enough to offer my apology to the clerk.
The special assistance lane, by the time I arrived back, had a long queue of passengers requiring special assistance and I was almost blocked from re-entering. People requiring special assistance by definition take a long time. I patiently waited, watching for the mildest irritation, as the people were screened through. I was now watching the time and despite all of the delays, I made it to the departure gate before the flight had started boarding.
Arriving in time and without baggage, my usual assessment of the number of passengers and the amount of their hand luggage was unnecessary. As I would not be fighting for space in the overhead lockers I could relax and get ready to board the aircraft. This flight, like 7 others of the ten that I have taken, would experience a delayed departure. The only saving grace is that now I was in the hands of the airline and had little influence on timing and events until I got to my destination.
I did intend to work from home so any delay at this end added to the delay after arrival and then impacted on my start time. There was not much flexibility
Tuesday, 13 June 2017
Social Media and Political Division
I do not consider myself a political activist or as someone holding particularly strong views
Sunday, 12 March 2017
The Distraction of Attraction
As I get older, broaden my horizons and increase my experience of life, I often let my mind wander to far ranging and sometimes deep topics. More recently as I have made my daily commute I have been considering the title The Distraction of Attraction.
I have long since realised that when these fleeting thoughts pass through my mind, on their journey through time and space, that they in fact pass through the minds of a great many of us. Those thoughts passed my way recently and I had an epiphany (I also had to check the meaning of that word so feel free to google). I realised that, for most of my life to date, I have been incredibly distracted from more fruitful pursuits by the almost persistent attraction to members of the opposite sex.
Now, one needs to understand that fundamentally, being attracted to members of the opposite sex is somewhat essential to the continuing success of the human race. In my case I won't be contributing to the ongoing population growth of the planet (I can hear sighs of relief all round). I am still afflicted though.
I think, although if I am honest I cannot make up my mind, that I am envious of those who can dedicate themselves to a calling in life, other than procreation that is. I wish I could
I have long since realised that when these fleeting thoughts pass through my mind, on their journey through time and space, that they in fact pass through the minds of a great many of us. Those thoughts passed my way recently and I had an epiphany (I also had to check the meaning of that word so feel free to google). I realised that, for most of my life to date, I have been incredibly distracted from more fruitful pursuits by the almost persistent attraction to members of the opposite sex.
Now, one needs to understand that fundamentally, being attracted to members of the opposite sex is somewhat essential to the continuing success of the human race. In my case I won't be contributing to the ongoing population growth of the planet (I can hear sighs of relief all round). I am still afflicted though.
I think, although if I am honest I cannot make up my mind, that I am envious of those who can dedicate themselves to a calling in life, other than procreation that is. I wish I could
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