'Every girl crazy 'bout a sharp dressed man.' ZZ Top

Well I haven't been here for a while. It's like your house when you return to it after two weeks holiday and it has that strange smell when you enter for the first time and just before you fling open the windows to let some fresh air in. Sort of fusty and with the hint of another smell - this is actually what your house smells like to strangers just as, when you go to another house, it too smells odd. Anyway no mail in the porch, no free newspapers stuck in the letter box, no dead flies on all the window sills and no huge spiders in the bath glaring at you.

I thought I'd come back to the blog. The thrill of working 3.5 days a week has, frankly, worn off and so I feel it's time once again to return to the ramblings of Eyes on the Prize. No full time job despite my every creative attempt in finding a full time position (the stories I could tell, and may very well do if you are unlucky) but the bills are being paid and we dared book a weeks holiday in July. Got to be better than this time last year.

I'm not one of the world's greatest dressers.
I have never liked suits and ties and could quite happily exist in T shirts and jeans until the end of my days.

I think my aversion to suits stems from the dress code at my school.

You see I went to a Public School, a minor one in the scheme of things, but Public all the same. In my defence I had passed the 11+ and won a County Scholarship to attend said august place and that is where is all started. That and being marked as 'dead meat' by all the boys I used to know in primary school and who now regarded me as target practice for whatever they had in their hands as I passed them to and from school. Being a dayboy I had to run the gauntlet of the mean streets of the small town the school was located in to get home, and we all know how mean they can be. Well reasonably mean. Sometimes a little mean and there was often litter too. Anyway the school code stated that boys had to wear a proscribed uniform to be bought from the school outfitters also located in the same town. This, of course, was duly ignored by the rich and this was my first lesson in capitalism. My mother and father struggled, I know, to afford the uniform which included a mandatory school cap (which HAD to be worn until the third form if you were OUTSIDE school). Well, this cap had a peak that was so long it required scaffolding to support it - and, being tall for my age, meant that it was as instantly recognisable as a policeman's helmet in a crowd. Therefore it became 'Target 1' for the lads about town that now hated me with the intensity of a burning star. Then you could wear, if you wanted, a straw boater in the summer term. Well not having a death wish, Grievous Bodily Harm being bad enough most days, I pleaded successfully for Ma and Pa not to buy me any such thing. What we did with the peaks on the caps was to soak them in water and then they would curl up like a Turkish slipper - yes we must have looked stupid but it seemed enough to calm the blood lust of the townies who then just called us bad names as we passed. Of course the fact that I soon aligned myself to Ian at school who was built like The Incredible Hulk and who could grow luxurious sideburns at 12 probably helped a little as well.

What the parents of the boys who paid to attend the school did (and somehow, in a strangely inverted world that made them, in their eyes somehow superior to those of us who actually had the brains to justify being there) was go to a bespoke tailor in London and have their uniforms made for them. Yes made-to-measure at 11 years old. I had then, as now an odd shaped body - short legs but a long torso and the school tailor could not cope with sizes outside the norm. My Mum did her valiant best to turn up the trousers but, let's face it Mum, this wasn't a core skill was it? So the hems would come down regularly and there would much mirth from those with Savile Row suits but with IQs that were similar to the number of buttons they had sewn on the jacket. So I had 6 years of this then cast off the uniform for the freedom of own clothes at university. I think we will pass over quickly the fad for wearing clogs (bloody clogs in a hilly university town?), flared jeans with flares so big they resembled a two man tent, tie and dye T shirts and cheesecloth shirts. And those are the less embarrassing items of clothing that I am prepared to mention in public.

Of course being in work means that I have to wear a suit from time to time, like yesterday, and two very nice Austin Reed suits I have as well - but really my heart is in jeans and T shirts and, even when I go to the office, it's still very casual stuff. And just what would be wrong with a clip-on tie? Of course Mrs EotP objects from time to time and dares point out that I actually look scruffy - but what is to object to with £3 jeans and £1.50 T shirts from Tesco anyway? So I do have to buy some clothes and have them vetted by her. However what is weird is the person I know who works for a very large PLC and lives nearby - he wears his suit and tie when working at home. 'Can't wear anything casual if I'm at home as it doesn't feel right' he claims.

OK so moving on quickly. It is, of course, all so very different for woman and clothes for most females occupy far more temporal and physical space than they do for me. One drawer and two hangers in the wardrobe and I'm done. But when Mrs EotP wore a pair of linen trousers to work the other day (the hot day, you remember it before the rains came again) her colleague posed the question 'Is it time for linen trousers yet?'

There's a time for certain clothes?

How does one know these things or is it a woman thing passed down through the ages without us menfolk knowing or hearing about it? I can't say, but it perplexed Mrs EotP that's for sure. Clearly some subliminal messaging going on here that is not fully understood even at womanfolk level. However Mrs EotP has fought back and bought a linen blouse today. Whether it is an acceptable date or not.

Sending her out to work has hardened her heart. But I'm still in my jeans and T shirt and now the sun has come out again maybe it's the time for shorts.

Back to the future

Being ill when you work at home is decidedly odd. I started back at 'work', that is sat down in the room where I work with fingers poised over the keyboard, on 2nd January. My commute to work is at least two seconds and it takes me that long to commute home. The staff canteen serves whatever I want it to (provided I have bought it and can cook it, a moot point). Coffee and tea - as much as I want and nobody can surprise me by looking over my shoulder at what's on the screen when I should be working.

When you feel ill and decide not to go to work there's a process. Call your office and talk to whoever you need to in a voice that suggests manly perseverance under extreme duress where many other lesser chaps would have succumbed already but you have managed to stagger on but is just pitiful enough to garner immediate sympathy and the magic words 'Oh you do sound ill best not come in today. See you when you are better.' Staying at home then means largely being immune from work, emails and phone calls. And if you do get them you can practice the 'I'm getting better let me just crawl by my fingertips to my Filofax so we can rearrange our meeting.' voice. Now at home no such luck. You can either get up or not. Mrs EoTP has gone to work, the kids have gone to school. I did get up one morning and decided that the move from the horizontal to the vertical was not something that my immune system was currently supporting and would I please reverse the entire move. So I did. After an hour I was bored so started all over again and this time managed a posture that one of our ape ancestors might have been pleased with having just discovered upright walk. And that's where it starts to go wrong.

Nobody is forcing me to work. Nobody has called on the phone to demand I meet a deadline. In fact nobody is asking me to do anything. The kids had pointed out that the dust bunnies were the size of Corgis and therefore the house might need a clean (I am still astonished that they even noticed). So why am I in front of the screen working when I have to stop to sniff and cough every few seconds and my head feels like its been put between the jaws of a vice? It can only be some deeply rooted Protestant work ethic that says you must NEVER stop working even though you are like the Black Knight in Monty Python and the Holy Grail and all your limbs have been cut off. What does the Black Knight say?: "Just a flesh wound.'

So I'm here. I've been working, I've met deadlines, I have shopped and cleaned. And nobody told me I had to.

But this is life for the medium term. The full time job search goes on and I will continue to work for the 3.5 days agreed with the company. Mrs EoTP and I have dared to think we might book a holiday this year as it seems possible that we might be able to take one. As Mrs EoTP has not been further than Birmingham in 9 months Shrewsbury is currently regarded as a remote and exotic location but I think we need to go further than that.

Like Wrexham.

'I'm so tired, my mind is on the blink', The Beatles

I could have lain down on a frosty lawn this morning and slept. In my ongoing quest to stay moderately fit I still go running, usually at 0630 in the morning, so as not to frighten the neighbours and alarm the local dog population. At the speeds I achieve running the slipstream is causing ice burn on my exposed extremities and I recall David Niven's anecdote about he cured similar problems after skiing: I couldn't find any brandy at 0700hrs and even if I could have I'd have drunk it and not poured it over the affected area like he did. The cold does wake you up though, which is just as well as I am so tired and could have just had a little nap after running a few steps. Until I discovered that it was really minus 4 C.

Anyway back to tiredness - this is what happens when you get tired, your mind wanders. Now that I have a longer term job much of the angst and worry that unemployment causes has left me. Yes I still need to get a full time job but the kids will not be in the Workhouse for Christmas and we can buy a few presents. Now the immediate future seems a little brighter I have relaxed: this happened quite suddenly in town a few days ago and I almost immediately fell asleep, which was a shame because I was in the queue at Boots at the time and it caused a small commotion until the customers behind me decided to use me as a mini roundabout until I woke up. And who says there is no compassion left in this world?

It's very strange. I mean nothing has really changed. The job I am doing is basically the same hours and the same tasks, Mrs EoTP is still working and will continue to do so but it is the knowing that there is some sense of continuity. It's all artificial - may I remind you of my favourite Woody Allen joke 'How do you make God laugh? Tell him your plans.' The universe is a big, random, unfeeling sort of place. It doesn't care if I have a job no matter how much I rant and think it monstrously unfair so it could go horribly wrong in a few days again.

However I have seem to have entered the TATT zone, that is to say Tired All The Time. I've had boundless energy over the last few months. I could moan for hours without a break. Shopping, pah, I spit in the eye of shopping. Cleaning, pshaw I care nothing for it, me and my Marigolds. Cooking. Well OK that really hasn't been my strong point, or weak point come to that - it still defies classification.

It's like children in the long Winter term at school. They struggle along for the full 12 week term, getting alternatively cold and wet going to and from school. Finally they make it to the Christmas break. Then they fall ill. Colds, flu, headaches, you name it they get it. I think I'm the same, heading for man flu I'm sure.

I'm looking forward to the break - can't wait to ruin the Christmas dinner, though Mrs EoTP is starting to think that letting me loose on it may not be such a great idea after all. I may be relegated to the preparation of the brussels sprouts, can't do much damage there. At least I will be able to sleep after the meal (and the drink).

So I'm having a break from the blog until after Christmas - may I wish all of you a Happy Christmas.

Cheers

Eyes on the Prize

The beginning of the end or the end of the beginning?

I think it was Churchill that said something like this: 'This is not the beginning of the end it is perhaps the end of the beginning.' Well something like that probably after the Battle of Britain, or something init?

Anyhow I have felt embattled over these last 259 days of unemployment. Perhaps my frustration has seeped through into this blog from time to time. But we may have a resolution for the time being. A white knight has galloped over to save me from the dragon - or perhaps he's sent his squire on his bike as I've got a nasty paper cut. Whatever. The organisation I have worked for during the last eight months on a part time basis has offered me a job on a full time basis. Yeehaw and throws hat into air. Well to be strictly accurate, a full time job working 4 days a week on a full time basis with a mutually agreeable escape clause for when I find that elusive of animals, a well paid full time job.

Now I am delighted.
No signing on next week.
No claiming the mortgage protection insurance.
A combined income that is equivalent to about 80% of what I was earning.
OK no car/fuel/office and so on but hey - money and no need to have the kids in the workhouse.
And it starts from next week.

This is a huge relief to us all in the EoTP family and we permitted ourselves a spending binge, buying a small bar of chocolate to eke out between us before before the one guttering candle we allow ourselves for illumination in the house during the long winter nights.

OK we hit John Lewis and had a big spend. But it was quite hard. We have all become so used to not spending anything except on priorities that to spend on a luxury item felt, well, reckless for the sake of a better word.

Of course they know and I know that I will leave as soon as I get a five day a week job that I like. But, and this is a big but, I do enjoy working for and with them and my quality of life is much improved over what it was. In fact it's even better now that the 600lb gorilla of impending unemployment has been shipped back to the zoo.

So that's why I say this may be the end of the beginning - still have to find that other job, still looking and will not give up.

Christmas will be a lot happier occasion for us all though. Now I can look forward to it.

I did say to Mrs EoTP that I could look for another job to fill the spare day.

Mrs EoTP. The look.

'How about the shopping and cleaning?' she said. 'That's a job.'

Where did I put my yellow Marigolds?

'Things ain't cooking in my kitchen', Weather with you, Crowded House

I'd rather face a drunk with a knife.

It's true, I would rather face a drunk with a knife than cook. I know this to be a fair statement because, recently, I did face a drunk with a knife on the streets (but that's another story) and I have tried cooking.

I said just at the weekend to Mrs EoTP, 'Why do you use that saucepan on that ring on the cooker? I don't, I do it this way. I just may be getting the hang of this cooking thing.' Mrs EoTP gave me the look. 'The look lasted about 12 months, or so it felt. 'You haven't mastered cooking' she said, 'you have just about learned how to warm things up.'

I was deflated, it has to be said. But there is a small grain of truth in there somewhere with the lumpy gravy.

I don't know what the problem is. I am (if I say so myself and as there isn't any one around at the moment to contradict me I will say it) a pretty good project manager. I mean I have set the aims and objectives for many substantial projects. For example: collecting all the rubber bands in the organisation and making a huge ball with them; organising the ugliest paper clip contest; working out why the consumption of internal post envelopes massively exceeds the amount of internal post sent; determining the optimum day for most managers to be in the pub at lunchtime so that the company is being run entirely by nineteen year olds for the best part of an afternoon (like Woolworths over the weekends). And all of these projects were delivered on time and on budget. Cooking is just another sort of project so why doesn't it work?

Well Mrs EoTP says that's because you haven't any staff or colleagues to boss around, you can't set progress update meetings and harangue staff for not performing, have no opportunity to write well aimed minutes so that you can pinion the underlings and make them wriggle in embarrassment because they have failed to undertake some action point and so on. 'Basically' she says 'you've got to do it on your own.' So that's the problem.

The other problem is that my hands do not always do what my brain says. It was the same with Airfix models. My resultant efforts were always covered in excess glue (and fluff where I had dropped the model on the floor) with the transfers placed erratically over the fuselage or hull on whatever I made. Same with cooking. The instructions may say blend but the output is lumpy, sticky, the wrong colour, all three. I can chop an onion but it looks like it has been hit with a hammer and not finely diced. I can peel potatoes but there is more potato left on the peelings than on the bit that is peeled. I can sautee a steak but it looks like (and tastes like) the bit of carpet you wipe your feet on. Recent meals have included:
1. The night I finally managed, I thought, to bring the cooking all together to present the family with their meal only to find that I had completely forgotten to cook the different meal for one of the kids (he had to wait a further twenty minutes to eat). That is referred to regularly at meal times along the lines of 'Haven't forget me this time have you Dad?'.
2. Making bolognese sauce, putting the remainder in the oven to keep warm and finding it still there the following morning. Still, it now makes a very effective whetstone for sharpening the knives or acting as a chock for the wheels of a 747.
3. Making a shepherd's pie and forgetting to put the potatoes on to boil. The meal didn't work quite so well after that.
4. We won't talk about the apple crumble, though the local fire brigade still use the episode as part of their video training about domestic fires.

So I struggle on but am beginning to think that I may never master this art - perhaps for me I am doomed to be forever warming up ready meals from Marks and Spencers. Oh pass me that cooking wine and I'll have another go at dicing the onion. Mrs EoTP has pointed out that if I carry on with that Spanish wine I'll soon be able to face another drunk with a knife, 'Just go and look in the mirror.'

Party politics

'You're not still married to her, I thought she was a real [add insult of choice here]?' His tone was incredulous. I'd bumped into an old colleague from the company I first worked for. He asked me how things were going and we'd had the usual conversation. He was doing supremely well, now in charge of worldwide biro purchases for International Whocares, huge salary, was living in a wonderful country house, his fourth wife was charming when not drinking, he had supervised access to the kids once every Candlemass and then forgot to ask about my life. I remembered this conversation as I drove past the location of a long forgotten office Christmas party for the first time in 25 years last week.

You see, I don't like office Christmas parties very much. Here's some examples.

1. As above. Three line whip demands you bring your partner. At the time partner meant a heterosexual relationship involving marriage or engagement. Anything outside that was viewed as evil, a pact with Satan (at the least), perverse, an anomaly in the universe and outside the parameters of a good company man (and the company was, inevitably, male). If you considered that living in sin (how quaint) with a partner older than you was OK , the Company considered she was likely to be a Wicca and probably worth bringing out the ducking stool and stocking up the timber faggots for a good fire just in case. And the word from the Three Line Whipper ins was 'turn up to the party with your partner, the Company will pay all fares and bills and having turned up expect us to ignore them completely all night did we mention it was Dinner Jackets? Did we also mention that not turning up with said partner means instant end to career prospects? Did we also mention that if you do not get totally out of your head we will consider you a baby girl with bows in her hair?' And the heinous sin Mrs EoTP committed to cause that comment many years later? She dared to disagree with my then boss about some literature he had read. Mrs EoTP - English graduate. Boss - 'O' level in Patronising, 'A' level in Condescension. Degree in Boreish.

2. Senior manager decides that the company really is a family organisation and sells idea to MD. On what basis this is decided no one knows. We all know that his wife is a passive aggressive obsessive and his son regularly comes home drunk and they fight on the front lawn. Perhaps he sees the company like that. Two line whip this time. 'We expect you to bring your partner, please sort of stick to the conventions of relationships and not turning up means an instant end to your career prospects. We might talk to your partner if she is good looking with good legs and doesn't answer back. Did we also mention that if you do not get totally out of your head we will consider you a baby girl with bows in her hair?'

3. CEO decides international company (they in States, we in UK) ought to be a family organisation (just like a family, live hundreds of miles from each other and never talk) and that Christmas party is necessary. Tickets go on sale and only three are sold one week before party, and MD bought two of them. MD cannot understand why low paid employees will not fork out £55 per ticket to drive 30 miles to venue and did we mention it was Dinner Jackets? Three line whip to management team. 'You must go to the party and you must get all your supervisors to go as well. Did we also mention that if you do not get totally out of your head we will consider you a baby girl with bows in her hair?' I point out that price of ticket and low morale in Company may explain low ticket sales. Instant end to career prospects. Result is Christmas party with 45 sulking managers. 44 very drunk managers. And a fight later on in the evening between two partners.

There are other issues.

Does anyone really want to go to an office Christmas party? I mean really want to go or are they just doing it because they think they ought to?

Which of the supplementary Christmas meals do you go to? Finance, Sales and Operations have all invited you to their evening? All of them, none of them? Oh the angst.

When you are part of a organisation that has conflicting Christmas parties on the same evening what do you do? Right now I have invites for a meal at a local bar/fight club (especially Saturdays) or a 20 mile drive to an elegant hotel for a meal twice the price (and yes DJs are required. Why?). I'm going to upset someone. And this is a voluntary organisation as well.

When all around are totally out of their heads what do you do? Easy this one. Come 1115pm everyone is so drunk they are no longer capable of knowing if they are still at the party let alone anyone else. So you leave surreptitiously and on the Monday pick up a little gossip about what went on post 1115pm - then just tell everyone how funny that incident was. Works every time, no one knows you left early.

So you might understand why, when someone mentions office Christmas parties, my soul dies a little each time

Oh, I forgot one type. MD of Company asks whether I would like to go to Christmas party at a local pub one evening, with a reputation for good food, at the Company's expense to have a meal with a few of my colleagues from the last eight months. Partners not expected to come, soft drinks only if driving, smart casual is fine. That's odd, I want to go to this one. Perhaps it is not all bad after all?

And I'm still married to the same woman.

'I've been driving in my car it's not quite a Jaguar', Madness, Driving in my car

There's a large oblong on my drive where my company car used to be. Where once stood my shiny Jaguar/Mercedes/other large 'executive' car now stands a small shrine to company perks plus the last faint trace of an oil leak. I now drive Mrs EoTP's little blue car.

I'd describe the little blue car (lbc) as one of variable noise constant velocity. In the last three months I've driven around 5000 miles in it, that's about as twice as many as Mrs EoTP would do in a normal year as I undertake interviews for my part time job. I feel like it's being part of the the early days of flight. Pull on leather flying hat, screw goggles firmly into eyes, chocks away and then clatter off into the sky with the smell of avgas and oil streaming back from the propeller engine. When I had my company car I would turn the ignition key, open the driver's window just to check that the engine had actually started it was so quiet, turn on the air-con, the CD player, settle down into the sumptuous leather covered seats (that were heated) and then majestically point the vehicle into the traffic and glide off to whatever my destination was. Speed? Just look at the accelerator peddle and you'd be doing 70 mph. Overtaking? Blink of an eye. Motorway clear? Cruise control on. Mobile phone? Hands free with teeny microphone in sun blind.

Mrs EoTPs lbc is not quite that at that level. Start engine? Ear defenders in. Struggle to get into traffic and maintain poise whilst wearing made to measure suit and trying to adopt a 'well it's good for the environment driving a small car' look. Overtaking? Best to book several days ahead. Speed? Press the accelerator to the floor and there's a change in engine noise and a barely perceptible increase in speed. Hills? We don't like hills. Mobile phone? Stuck in a spare compartment. Will answer when arrive at destination. Radio/CD player - fine as long as you are not actually moving because after that the road noise drowns out the sound anyway.

When you drive a company car vehicles like the one I'm driving now are an annoyance. They take ages to overtake, they slow down on hills on motorways, they don't accelerate away from roundabouts. They are driven by mums and losers! And by me. I think my driving is better mind you, but that is on the basis that as I can't drive fast anymore I can avoid things more easily as it takes me ten times as long to arrive at an incident as I did in my Jag. Company car drivers actually look down at you. Stop at a motorway service station to eat your sandwiches and you can see the sneers on their faces as they step of of their big cars and see you in your lbc. Not that I'm prejudiced but come the revolution and I am made el Presidento, all you BMW drivers are up against the wall.

And the bills. I've never seen such bills. Because of the increased mileage the car has needed a major service, a replacement cam belt, new tyres, new exhaust and so on and so on. Because of the increased mileage the insurance cover we had was no longer applicable so we've had to change it and, guess what, much more expensive. With a company car you just take it to the dealer (or in my case they would come and collect it then return it) and that was it. All the nasty paying stuff would be handled by the leasing company. Nothing to sign. OK I know there was a biggish tax bill for the car but that was taken from your salary beforehand. Now I have to pay the bills myself you see the money flowing away like water over Niagara.

Long journeys are not much fun. In the old days (e.g. big car) large numbers of miles in one day were no problem. Geneva to Yorkshire in a day? Yes. West Midlands to Munich in a day? Of course. Now West Midlands to Essex and back in a day and I'm exhausted. I hadn't realised how hard driving was in a little car. When I went to the HQ of a large prestige car manufacturer recently I can honestly say the the lbc was the smallest and cheapest car in the car park by probably some £30k. I was dwarfed by huge new cars, SUVs and the like. I thought I'd be asked to leave or enter by the tradesman (persons?) entrance at the back. Mind you Mrs EoTP positively revels in that sort of thing. Before the latest car she had a 16 year old Golf and would love parking it next to the big, glittering car of the MD of Consolidated HooHahs. 'I don't care' she would say 'It's reliable, cheap and I can always find a parking space. And the drivers of these big cars don't like parking next to me in case I open the door and scratch their lovely paint work.' And off she would roar fighting to turn the steering wheel in the absence of power steering. Muscles like a stevedore she had.

But here's an interesting thing. Would I have a big car again if I could? Well of course I would I was just teasing - the more gadgets, leather, cubic capacity the better. No I am still teasing. I'm not sure I would anymore. When I had the Merc I chose it on the basis of brand snobbery. I wanted the three pointed star on my drive and actually that particular car was one of the most unreliable I have ever had. The Jag was a great car but was really a Mondeo with a different body. And in any event it was only me in it 95% of the time. So maybe I wouldn't...but then there is that space on the drive.

Of course it all entirely academic at the moment as the lbc is all we have and I'm sure that's a new oil leak on the drive. But then I do have a motorcycle license - I could always have one of these...