“The most humble day of my life”; News of the Screws Under Scrutiny

Out of fortunate happenstance, I was supposed to be in Devon still today, so had a day’s holiday to spend doing what I liked. Imagine my delight when the Murdochs were given the summons to See You Next Tuesday by the Culture, Media and Sports Select Committee. I got all of my bits and pieces out of the way early on, so that I could settle down in front of the telly with a bowl of popcorn and a bottle of pop!

We went through the warm up act of Stephenson, Yates and Fedorcio were all very interesting, but lets be honest, we were keen to get on to the main act of the day. Personally, I thought that Yates came across very well, seemingly keen to help and he even bought evidence along with him so that he could answer the questions fully. Interestingly, Stephenson and Fedorcio both had an attack of shifting the blame to Yates, which he had no idea about as he was in the waiting room. It was a bit reminiscent of the Apprentice candidates sliming around the boardroom desperate to save their skins. There was a whiff of the lying that was about to come about when Stephenson claimed he wasn’t sure if it was one, two or three days before Rebekah Brooks was arrested that he knew it would happen. This didn’t happen back in 2006, it was last week! How can you have such a memory failure so quickly?

Moving on to the main act, Tom Watson opened up with the questions specifically to Rupert, and not James, Murdoch, which completely wrongfooted the two of them. James was desperate to butt in, but Watson kept telling him it was not his turn yet. Rupert Murdoch seemed like a doddery old man, who was struggling to even hear the questions. Now whilst I understand that he is 80, I do not believe that he knows so little about his own company. They finally allowed James to speak, who quickly told the committee that “News International has a zero tolerance policy of wrongdoing”. Interesting James, but it didn’t seem to stop it happening, did it? It didn’t seem to matter what the Murdochs were asked, collectively or individually, they knew nothing. I suspect that this was more a strategic collective amnesia rather than true ignorance.

At one point, Murdoch Snr claimed that News of the World was just 1% of his business and as such, he had very little knowledge of it’s running. Perhaps this could be the case, but let’s not forget that this is the newspaper that practically pays for The Times/The Sunday Times and it has dominated the UK gutter press for years. Although I can see that it is perfectly understandable that he has no direct say in the day to day decisions, I find it absolutely impossible that neither Dumb or Dumber knew anything about payments of between £600,000 and £1,000,000 to pay off various people. Even if the executives at the News of the World had managed to swindle away the odd million pounds here and another half a million there on a semi-regular basis, I can’t possibly believe that they haven’t seen the £6,000,000 missing off the bottom line at the end of the year. No sensible business person would spot that humongous amount of money missing and not question it. They did not become the great dominating force that they are without picking up on that sort of expenditure, which they could cut. To believe that they knew nothing, even after the event, is an incredibly naieve view and it is just so insulting that they think we might swallow it.

Claims were being bandied around Twitter today that Murdoch would call NOTW execs up to three times a day chasing stories, so it seems incredibly hard to believe his account that he would give the editor a call once a month just to check that everything was tickety boo. Again, is this the working of a hard nosed media mogul? I can understand them not knowing every answer, but they must have known what was likely to crop up and not to even be able to answer simple questions about their accounts was ridiculous. They could’t tell the committee whether Mulcaire’s fees were still being paid by them or whether these people that were paid off were made to sign a confidentiality clause. Their “collective ignorance” cannot have worked because it seemed so insanely obvious. It was laughable how stubbornly the Murdoch’s clung to their “I know nothing, I’m from Barcelona” routine. But then this double act of Dumb and Dumber was shattered when either Sooty or Sweep, (I couldn’t see which…) broke in and threw a custard pie at Daddy Murdoch, just between asking to have the question repeated and complimenting the committee, in order to create a bit of thinking time.

All this idiot has done, by doing this, is stop the public from being able to watch the committee freely and turn Murdoch from being a hard nosed media mogul to a frail 80 year old man, who needed sympathy and looking after. He failed completely in his mission because he turned his target into a martyr. Thankfully, they convinced the Murdochs to come back into the committee and continue answering questions. It carried on very much in the same vein, but a real highlight, or more to the point a lowlight, was when Murdoch Snr had to remind Murdoch Jnr of Milly Dowler’s name during the answer to one question. I mean to forget someones name in bed is pretty mortifying for all involved, but to forget the name of the murder victim whose phone you have hacked and voicemails you’ve deleted is just completely unforgivable.

The final question put to Rupert Murdoch was “has he considered resigning?” to which he replied “no.” Essentially, he said that everyone that he trusted had let him, and his son, down and essentially it was nothing to do with them. They were just going to fix the problem. (Honest, guv.)

So if it isn’t the fault of the Murdochs and they, as majority owners of the business, knew nothing about it. Let’s move down the ladder and talk to a chief executive, who was the editor of the paper for most of the time that these problems were occuring.

Enter Medusa, the lady whose hair is made up with a wild tangle of snakes. Worryingly I found watching Rebekah Brooks answering questions a lot easier on my blood pressure than the Murdochs. She had two methods of answering the committee. Number one; I’m under arrest and this is the subject of a police investigation, so whilst I’d love to help I can’t. Number two; I had absolutely no idea it was happening. I could talk for another thousand words about how I don’t understand how the editor didn’t know that the newspaper was paying people for their silence to the sum of millions of pounds or that the sources for their scoops weren’t always totally above board, but I sense you’ve got the message by now.

The point we really knew that she was a liar was when she (along with both Murdochs) claimed not to know about the Milly Dowler case until ten days ago. Well that’s really interesting because even Hugh Grant knew about the Dowler case in April. Even if Brooks didn’t know about it before then, someone must have bought it to her attention then. Brooks’ answers were totally and utterly shocking and a repeat of her appearance before a similar committee years before.

So to sum up, none of the three highest paid individuals at News International knew anything or take any responsibility for anything that has happened for the last ten years. Smell a rat? I smell three, at least.


“Take your canvas bags to the supermarket…”

Everyone sing along now; “take your canvas bags when you go to the supermarket”. Oh, just me? Don’t you know that one? Ok, well I’ll stop the hippy love-in sing along and get on with the task in hand.

I went to Budgens to get my lunch today, as I do every day, and bought all the things I buy, every day. One Muller light yogurt for tomorrow’s breakfast, check. One Plum Tomato and Basil New Covent Garden Soup, check. Two Cox’s apples, check. I went to the same till and was served by the same, weird socially inept boy. As I was paying, he asked me if I wanted a bag. I thought for a milisecond and replied “no, they drive me insane.”

Without a second thought, he said “oh, because they are so bad for the environment?”

Now at this point, I could have left the conversation with a scrap of dignity. Instead, I chose to do the Bryony thing of digging a hole and jumping head first in. “Phh, middle class guilt” I mock, before saying “my desk drawer is full of Budgens bags. It’s driving me insane.”

There are a couple of things wrong with this conversation. Firstly and most importantly, I think, my desk drawer is not full of Budgens bags. What on earth possessed me to say it was? I think I thought it would be entertaining, but I didn’t allow myself long enough to work it out in my head. My second issue with my response is that no matter how much I bash the Daily Mail and the Express, I do think that by my parentage, I am unmistakably middle class.

Now is that what I really think? Am I really a heartless, uncaring bastard who throws life away without a second thought? I hope not. I get a little bit wound up when people say “I would recycle, but my efforts alone are worthless” or something to that effect. If we all think that, then nothing would ever change. Having said that, I’m not as good as I could be. Typical of the casual lunch-time shopper, I forget to take canvas (or other bags) with me when I buy my lunch. The problem is, there are so many things that we have to remember in life and this one isn’t one that pains me enough to remind me to change my lifestyle.

I have no idea what the size of my carbon footprint is, but in the modern age it seems so hard to change that. I make an effort to unplug my phone charger when I’m not using it and I turn my laptop off. Thing is, I can’t see that that makes a huge difference. I work for a company that employs over 5000 people and we don’t even recycle our paper. I worked for Tesco and we lectured our customers to recycle when we threw away reams and reams of plastic. The big fat cats need to take some responsibility as well as us. I’m more than happy to try my best, but my efforts are nothing compared to them.

Alone, our attempts are futile, but perhaps it’s time to remember that we aren’t alone. We are all taking a small step to change the world and as such, we are together. We are making a difference. So next time, don’t be like me and use that excuse as thinly veiled disguise for your laziness.

Are You Ready For This?

It’s the day before the day before Christmas and after a last minute lunchtime dash into the shops, I have nearly purchased all my Christmas presents. They are not wrapped however, and in a desperate bid to eschew the duties of wrapping up, I felt that my blog was long overdue. Actually, scratch all of that, I eventually gave in to the guilt and moved on to my wrapping up. It’s now Christmas Day and as the rest of the family are passed out in a blissful and drunken slumber, I feel it’s time to write. It’s been a week or so since I saw you last and my, how things have rattled along. I wanted to write a little letter to you last week, but I was so busy I just didn’t have time.

So, what was I up to? First of all, I faced my biggest fear and went to visit Libby the hygienist. All was going well. I made it to the appointment without cancelling it. I controlled my shaking in the waiting room. I made it through the appointment without ripping my hand from it’s clenched position on the chair to hit her. It was nearly over, she’d done the drilling and the water spraying and the rasping. All she had to do was floss me. So what did she do? I have one wisdom tooth left, which is under the surface and perfectly happy. It was anyway, until she caught the floss with it and ripped a lump of my gum off, at which point, I nearly hit the ceiling. She smiled apologetically and carried on. I thought nothing more of it until I woke up on Saturday morning to find that one half of my face was twice the size that it used to be and it was throbbing.

The pain was severe enough that I wanted to go back to the dentist to get it sorted out. I rang them up to ask for an emergency appointment, which they happily gave me. On Monday afternoon. So, a weekend of severe agony later, I ran back to the dentist barely able to open my mouth. He barely needed to look in my mouth to see what the problem was. I had an infection from her instrument. A hefty prescription later, I found myself with horse strength co-codamol in one hand and Metronidazole in the other. Now for those not in the know, Metronidazole is often prescribed for MRSA and given how I got the infection, I wasn’t best pleased. Anyhow, best take the tablets and be done with it. Except, you can’t drink with Metronidazole, or for ten days after, which was going to run up to Christmas. Everyone told me to ignore it, but I had done my research and if you so much as sniffed alcohol, you were violently sick, so I wasn’t going there.

The pain carried on for a few more days – I could only drink through a straw and even that hurt, but the pills made me mega thirsty, so I was drinking by the bucket. I stumbled on through the agony to pop over to East London to see Tim Minchin performing at the 02 and boy, I’m glad I did. I officially love the man. Well, I did anyway, but the combination of a beautiful orchestra, Tim’s amazing piano skills and his fantasically hilarious songs made it an amazing evening. Opening the show with a song proclaiming that “nothing ruins comedy like arenas” and “my ego is all you can see from the back”, I was glad to see that Tim was pretty aware of how hideous massive gigs can be.

It was a pretty amazing evening; I know nothing about music, but he seems like a pretty amazing pianist to me and his songs are fantastic. He played a combination of old classics including Rock and Roll Nerd, Prejudice and If I Didn’t Have You, and new songs. I always remember him saying “if you adhere to any of the major monotheist doctrines, you might wanna pop out for about five minutes” and it’s true, he is a fundamentalist atheist (if that isn’t a contradiction in itself). But what he picks apart is the blind faith people have and the refusal of institutions to move forward. To this end, one of the best new songs was about Sam’s Mum who was diagnosed with a degenerative eye condition and after praying at her church, it seemed to disappear. Tim’s way with words was just magnificent, claiming that God wasn’t going to focus on third world poverty, but fix the eyes of one woman, afterall he is an “omnipotent opthalmologist”.

Anyhow the reviews speak for themselves and you don’t want to read my ramblings about a show you didn’t go to. Rest assured it was a fabulous night, quickly followed by day at Olympia Horse Show with work, giving 75 customers a day of lectures and horsey stuff. The day was spent on fast forward rushing from place to place, but we did see Clare Balding and Stuart, the really young annoying bloke from The Apprentice.

Since then, I’ve been pretty snowed in, so have been rushing around to buy my presents in my lunch breaks and as such, will be baking a cake on Boxing Day for the kiddlywinks coming to stay the day after. As if we won’t have enough food.

Enough of my ramblings, there are plenty of leftovers downstairs that need seeing to. Plus, I must go and wake my mother up. She insisted on watching Tim Minchin – yes, on Christmas Day. Any Christians in the room may be close to having kittens at that thought, but it’s what she wanted. It doesn’t matter anyway, she feel asleep about half an hour in. It’s not quite an insult, she said “I’m listening to the words, which is easier with my eyes closed.” I don’t believe her though. Sorry Tim!
Anyway, happy holidays to you all. Just think, only three more days to spend in confinement with the family before we get to go back to work.  I realise that this blog has been all over the place and crap in so many ways, but I just wanted to drop in with a couple of updates. (My mouth is all healed now by the way, thanks for asking.) I will be back before the year end with a traditional end of year cop out compilation blog! Until then, eat, drink, pass out!

Is it better to be known or remain invisible?

Working in a minute administration office for a large corporate entity is a very strange experience. It combines the difficulties of both working in a small team and also of working for a large, faceless organisation. Basically, in the small team, every player has quite a big role to play and if they aren’t pulling their weight, then everyone knows it. So in this office, we are all very confident and know each other very well. But there are occasions when we have to leave the office and stray into the larger confines of the organisation. This can go one of two ways; well and extremely badly. My experiences tend to tell me that they rarely go well. This might sound a little negative and it isn’t meant to worry you; I don’t let my cock ups worry me, so don’t you go losing sleep over it.

I think my favourite of these experiences was when I was required to go over to our European HQ in the Netherlands; I meet up with the rest of the training team (sounds grand, but there are 3 of us) once a quarter to organise our diaries and schedules. It so happened that the only time we could do this was when two out of the three of us were in Hoofddorp, so I flew over to meet them. Flying on my own? I managed. Getting to the hotel on a series of complicated shuttles? I conquered. But when the Vice President of the European side of the business came in to meet with my manager, I was truly shown up. He has only had one association with me before and because of that, I really did not want him to remember who I was. Essentially it is because I am related to my sister and it caused some trouble when taking me on, so now that I have a permanent post, I didn’t want the issue to raise its little head again. I decided that the best method of defence would be to continue working whilst they had their meeting. That worked brilliantly, but at the end, he looked at me, saying “I don’t think we’ve met before?” So I had to introduce myself and when he asked me what I do, all three of us dismissed it very quickly; “ohh, she doesn’t nothing much.” “Admin mainly.” “Sales support, not much training”. So, I got away with it, but now he thinks I’m a freeloading weirdo who works somewhere in the company, doing something.

Being in the lower echelons of the company (ranking somewhere level with the gutter, I think) I tend to get given the jobs other people don’t want or can’t fit it. Sometimes I am asked to go onto conference calls on someone else’s behalf and this was my latest embarrassment. I was asked to join a “training improvement” meeting to take notes. So, at the said time, I clicked on the Live Meeting link and the screen turned blue, but there was no sound. I turned my speakers up, but nothing. So then I waited for a few minutes (after all, I was a little early), but I still couldn’t hear. So I left the meeting to try and reconnect. However, in the minute or so that I had left, the American Trainer who was running it, had stopped the webinar to ring me to see if I had got on ok. Having told him I had a few audio problems, he sent me the dial in details. Now on the email it said: Local Dial in 012345678 or International Dial in 876543210. (It obviously didn’t have those numbers; I just can’t be bothered to think of actual numbers.) So, as I am dialling in internationally, I try the international number. The following then happens:

Gruff Birmingham Accent (We’ll call him Man): “Hello?”

Me: “Oh, erm hello. I don’t think I’ve dialled the right number. I was trying to dial into a conference call.”

Man: “Well why did you ring me then? I’m Customer Support.”

Me: “Well, I dialled the number on my conference acceptance email. But if you are customer support, perhaps you can help me?”

Man: (sighs) “Well what country are you ringing from?”

Me: “The UK.”

Man: “Really?”

Me: “Yes, really.”

Man: “And where were you calling?”

Me: “The States.”

Man: “Well, let me check.” (Holds hand over headset) “Mart, I’ve got someone here trying to dial into a conference call!” (Comes back onto phone) “Nah, we can’t help.” (Hangs up.)

Me: Gee thanks?

I don’t even understand what happened there; did I speak to A & T Conferences or was it just a bloke in his living room in Dudley? I was inclined to opt for the second, but I still hadn’t got a clue how I had got through to him. So by now, I’m feeling pretty flustered, so I dial the American number and then magically get through. Delightfully, when I joined the call, the person presenting stopped, asked me who I was and asked me to introduce myself to everyone. Cue my flustered “I’m nobody, I’m here to take notes for Shelley. I am so unimportant!”

Why do I have this inbuilt inability to show myself off? Someone asks me what I do and I should reply with “Well, I organise corporate hospitality and support at international equestrian competitions.” Instead, I make the standard joke about being a PA to the sales team and then mutter something about proofreading powerpoint presentations. Why am I so bloody English?

The worst winter I ever suffered was summer in Britain.

As a society, we hold summer as this wonderful, much fabled, blissful time. A time when we sit on sun loungers, read literary classics that we’ve previously only bent the spines of (so as to appear well-thumbed to the discerning passer-by), get a glorious, yet natural sun tan and basically live the good life. How many of us think of summer as a time when we can invite the world round for a barbeque, where everyone will reminisce about times gone by and laugh whilst sipping at their Pimms?

Of course, we must be realistic and remember that we live in the United Kingdom. We all fail to remember how just bringing the BBQ out of the shed will hit the automatic rain switch. Despite the many, many government adverts, we also forget that cooking chicken on a barbeque is an instant no no as everyone will peel open the meat and start searching, beady eyed, for a spot of pink to panic about. Another bone of contention is the idea of giving a group of people alcohol; there will be no witty or entertaining discussion, just tension as the group driver attempts to play UN peacekeeper between the ranks. Everyone dresses hopelessly optimistically in shorts, skirts, flip flops and other holiday paraphernalia completely forgetting that by day, they will be covered in insect bites and by night, they will freeze.

Being British, the humble barbeque isn’t the only excuse we use to have a good drink, and let’s face it, summer drinking is so much nicer than winter drinking. In the winter, we hibernate in the dark corners of pubs whereas in the summer, we can sit in the garden drinking Pimms, which is practically healthy. Afterall, it provides at least three of your five fruit and vegetables a day. Another great love of the summertime is the festival. Despite going to university in Reading, I have managed to reach the age of 23 without having been to a proper festival. However, I have horses and often spend weekends away competing, so I understand the concept. In the months leading up to the event, you are filled with that dreamy romanticism of sitting outside your tent/lorry drinking Magners and watching the sun go down after a day of music/competition. In reality, it always rains and you hide inside your tent, which is by the way far wetter on the inside, swigging from a tin of Strongbow. Life is never quite what you plan.

This year, I will be going to the V Festival for my first experience. I have no preconceptions about it; I know it’ll rain and we’ll be wet, but I think I’m quite hardened to that. Shamefully I’m not a really musical person; I love listening to it, but I am so incredibly tone deaf and tone dumb that I can’t possibly understand it. Regardless of that, the lineup is full of bands that I like and I’m sure it will be a lovely relaxing weekend with great company.

It strikes me as odd that everyone thinks that summer is so wonderful. It’s not like spring, which is alive with the buds and flowers shooting up (please, no drug jokes) or autumn where everything turns a wonderful golden, auburn colour and the leaves crunch underfoot. It’s not as though people look forward to the weather; if it’s too hot, they complain they can’t work in that heat and it’s not as though the British ever holiday in their own country. We would much rather fly three hours to sit on a beach surrounded by other British people, all trying to turn ourselves golden and ending up redder than that light you got caught driving through the other day. Our summers are very dry, so the grass turns yellow and dies, I don’t understand why people get sad in the winter and yet they are happy about the summer.

I am not particularly affected by any of the seasons, I consider that I am fairly happy in all of them. However, my lifestyle changes dramatically depending on them. In the summer, I base my weekends around my horses. I love being outside as much as possible and I enjoy competing them. I am not as competitive as I was as a child, but I love going out and seeing my friends and sharing the show banter. In my current job, I have to work relatively long days (8.30 to 5.30), which isn’t a problem in the summer as I can still ride after work, but in the winter, I haven’t got a chance of riding more than two or three days a week. That takes the notion of competing out of the equation, so I have adapted my winter accordingly and spend time with another love of mine. Comedy. What better thing is there to do of a dark, wet winter’s evening than find yourself some comedy? Whether it’s a big well known comedian in a large theatre or a several unknown open spots in a tiny pub, it’s can be the best way to spend an evening.

I still find time to go and see comedy in the summer, but it plays second string to competitions, whereas in the winter, it is the focus of the weekend. Like everyone in the world, I work to earn the money to do the things I desire and as such I live for the weekends. I always have something to do whether it is writing, watching new programmes, going to gigs or spending time with my horses it doesn’t matter what season it is. Summer tends to be so over-rated. The minute the clocks change, everyone expects the world to dramatically turn into summer. Well here I am, in the supposed summer time bunged up with cold, feeling terrible and spring cleaning my room. I could just as easily be doing that in the winter. Life is what you make it. You can’t let the weather and the seasons dictate your mood; it is up to you to find your happy medium.

Compromise isn’t a dirty word, c**t is a dirty word.

Today I have made several discoveries.

Now, I’ll spare you the gory details but there was a slight fall out within the family this evening. It was all a bit traumatic and thus, I don’t really feel like blogging, but Project 52 awaits so here we are. So, I apologise for the melancholic nature and the brevity of the blog, but it’s probably better that way. There is nothing worse than washing your dirty laundry in public and all that.

Right, the apologies are all out of the way and I’ll get on with proceedings. By nature, I am hopelessly optimistic and therefore tell myself that you have to find something positive out of every experience. Without too much soul searching, I’ve discovered it. I understand that people won’t get on a hundred percent of the time, but it’s not too difficult to compromise. Noone can live in a vague sense of harmony without having to compromise now and then. I’m 22 and I have managed to figure that out, why can’t anyone else?

Another thing that I have discovered today is someone else’s blogspot. –> http://flackwellross.blogspot.com/ <– A family friend has gone on an extended holiday to Australia and her house sitter has taken it on himself to do a blog. I wasn’t expecting it to be entertaining, but it’s very, very funny. To be honest, I’m quite jealous. I don’t think I could have done something quite so effortlessly amusing. What will I take from this? Well, I’m not sure that I can start writing my blog in the style of my dog, but maybe I can learn that sometimes the simplest things are the funniest.

I promise that I will write something that is interesting and amusing over the weekend to make up for this pathetic excuse for a blog. But for now, I can’t bring myself to be whimsical or entertaining. Still, I have done my project 52 blog, albeit at the last possible minute. I will replace this with something better tomorrow. That’s legal, right? It’s compromise. I have done what I have signed up for. I finished my weekly blog on the Friday of the week as promised, but I haven’t been able to do it well. But I know that I have to make amends, and amends I shall make.

Deep and crisp and even

I hope that my blog title has succeeded in making you hum along to that slightly inane tune. That was the plan. If I have to be held hostage in my house because of the snow, I may as well try to inflict some pain on everyone else.

Since the snow has prevented me from going to work, I decided that today would be the day that I would take the first, brave step into the blogosphere. Although, as is always the case, because I planned to write today, I am not feeling terribly inspired. I’ll be very honest, this is where I suspected that my regular blogging would fall down. No, I don’t mean on January 6th when I had to take a snow day. What I mean is that when I feel inspired and want to write, I often don’t take full advantage of it, and then when I’m bored and twiddling my thumbs, I’m lacking in the all essential inspiration. All I can do then is procrastinate and avoid the issue. So, this is my first, slightly jarring step into writing through the wall. Obviously, when I think of what it actually is that I want to write about, or I have a little nugget of inspiration fall into my lap, I need to make a mental note of it. (Or get my ever-increasing backside into gear!)

An old school friend recommended that I joined Project 52 to make sure that I keep to my word and blog regularly. I’m not quite sure what it is that they will do if I miss a deadline, but I plan to wait until at least March to find out! No, I’m not already prophesying (or planning) my downfall and failure, I’m going on a weeks holiday in March. Project 52 sounds like a great idea; a community who all want that little something to make sure they do what they planned. Fifty two blogs a year; four blogs a month; one blog a week. Easy. Even I can manage that, can’t I? As an extra buffer, I have found a group who give their users themes each week to blog on. This weeks theme is momentum.

When I first saw that I was to write about momentum, I had a few ideas about starting 2010 and how I can see myself in a years time. Obviously in January 2011, I’d be a cycling fanatic having completed the London to Brighton no problems, I’d still have a job that I enjoyed and my life would be absolutely fantastic in every way. Of course, this isn’t a terribly exciting topic, but it would be quite fitting for Week One as part of Project 52. As it is, my bike remains in the garage untouched and I’m stuck unable to get into the office. So the pressure is really on the blogging to prove to my doubters that I am well-meaning and I do plan to get fit and get cycling etc.  Along with buggering up those slightly mundane plans, the snow has also stopped me from having a nice trip to the Comedy Store this evening. I know that in the scheme of things, this doesn’t sound too tragic until I tell you that I had already paid for the tickets and not got the money off any of the three people going with me. Bugger is something that I considered saying.

So as you can see, momentum seems a little ironic given the snow this week. Fresh on the ground, it looks beautiful, but it stops everything from working, and as soon as anyone tries to carry on as normal, it looks tainted, dirty and spoiled. I love the snow, but only in the right environment. In other words, a long way from home. I’d like to think that I managed to keep moving despite the snow. Afterall, I managed to complete my week one blog, despite a massage haemorrhage of ideas and inspiration. Now that my blog is out of the way, I can sit down and think of how I could have enjoyed the evening. All together now “when the snow lay round about…”

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