Month's worth of blurb

Delay in updating partly slackness and partly PC issues. Although the new 3MobileWiFi is so far working perfectly on my new Galaxy Tab, trying to get it to work on my 8-year-old Mesh desktop PC has been proving a bit of a struggle, even once I’d retrieved my wireless network adapter from the attic. Have been forced temporarily to return to my T-Mobile dongle, whose performance has briefly rallied since I removed and then re-inserted the SIM card earlier today.

Slightly suspicious re the health of the Mesh as for the last few months it has started to make grinding noises on booting up, which according to this piece is not a good sign. I’ve never yet had a hard disk fail on me so am probably overdue for this. It is also frequently failing to recognise its CD drives and USB ports: not sure whether this is a sign of hard disk failure, but I’m attributing it to some sort of PC version of short-term memory loss, especially as it has started gleefully announcing ‘Found new hardware!’ whenever I insert something into a USB slot, even if it’s had the same thing inserted into that slot every day for the last year.

Had a weekend in Milton Keynes on 20-21 April for reasons that escape me now, but quite nice. Went into CMK on the Saturday morning and located the Yong Yu shop in MK’s now distinctly empty-looking Food Centre. From what I gather, Sainsburys were previously there, but have now decamped to a bright new store in the Hub. Waitrose were still there on the day I visited, but they have now moved to a new shop in Oakgrove, outside the shopping centre. So the whole place is now looking rather sad. I think Iceland are still there, but they’re hardly likely to raise the spirits of a place. Anyway, Yong Yu’s stock Chongga Cut Cabbage Kimchi; I bought two bags from the bored-looking woman manning the shop.

Another beautiful sunny day on Sunday so marched myself out for a walk. Keen for a change from the usual routes, I parked in the Peace Pagoda Car Park off the V10 and walked past the pagoda down to North Willen Lake, and did a circuit. Lots of cyclists/joggers/power walkers out and about. Didn’t quite seem cute duckling season yet, unfortunately, I guess because of the extended winter this year.

Started the Sunday by sending Hannah a text to wish her a happy 40th birthday (40? Crivens. I can just about remember her being born – or at least, I can remember Dave and me being summoned into Mum and Dad’s bedroom early in the morning where Dad informed us that we had a new little sister. I hope we displayed a sufficient degree of enthusiasm, but I can’t now remember what our reaction was. Also not sure why Dad was in bed at this point, but I assume he must have just got off the bedroom telephone extension. Good to know fathers got their rest in those days.)

Cute story recently in the MK Citizen (left) about a new addition to the concrete cow family, which apparently appeared suddenly only to disappear a few days later. This sort of thing adds a welcome subversiveness to modern life.

On the topic of amusing snippets from the papers: was charmed to read about this giant yellow duck that appears to have been on a world tour since 2007 to promote peace. There's a video here of it arriving in Hong Kong harbour on 2 May. I was a bit cast down to then read this a few days later. Is this a comment on the success of its peace mission?

Hosted Book Group at the house on Thursday 25th – I thought, somewhat chaotically, but the group appeared not to mind. We discussed Fay Weldon’s Big Women and, as generally with books of this era, looked to our oldest member Ali as an authority. Ali (60) is a big Weldon fan and, for those of us inclined to wonder why so much ‘strident’ feminism was necessary, related a real-life story from her days at university in the early 1970s when a lecturer, after commenting on her good marks, proceeded to then enquire as to whom she was sleeping with to have got them.

Loosely relevant to some of the events in 'Big Women': recently read this (long) piece by Susan Faludi about the radical feminist Shulamith Firestone, who died last year. What caught my eye, aside from Faludi's detailing of the destructive infighting within the feminist (and probably any) movement, was how her funeral seems to have been turned into a bit of a feminist revival meeting, a la Zoe's in the book. Another, more amusing, snippet from this 2009 interview with Fay Weldon: her second husband apparently left her for his astrological therapist who had told him that the couple's astrological signs were incompatible. That's certainly setting a lot of store by astrology.

Ruth and I went to the Reading Contemporary Art Fair on Saturday 27th, which we have done every year since its inception in 2010 - this year we made the decision that the Friday evening 'exclusive preview' complete with exclusive glass of warm white wine isn’t really worth it, so paid to go on the Saturday instead. Ruth acquired another piece of artwork, this time a giclée (apparently) print, which is now residing on the master bedroom chimney breast (see above).

Went down to my parents’ house on the May Bank Holiday weekend for a belated family Sunday lunch for Hannah’s recent birthday. On the Saturday afternoon I decided to attempt making cream horns, a teatime treat I have only read about in oldish children’s books – Ruth gave me some moulds as a Christmas stocking gift so I thought they had better be put to use. A fiddly business, in spite of the fact that I’d bought ready-made puff pastry as I couldn’t face trying to make it myself. The pastry cases ended up not being entirely watertight, but they tasted pretty good.

On the Sunday we were joined by Dave, Hazel and Nia for a roast lamb lunch followed by a birthday carrot cake. Spent a chunk of the warm weather on the Monday driving back to Reading, but then did manage to sit out on the patio for a while in the afternoon/early evening.

Ruth and I had an afternoon at the cinema on 11 May to see Star Trek Into Darkness - our motivation for seeing it was pretty much simply to ogle Benedict Cumberbatch, but actually the film itself was pretty good - the Kirk-Spock relationship is well portrayed and Simon Pegg's Scotty has a larger role than we'd expected. Ray has offered to lend us the DVD of the 2009 movie, which he has apparently seen four times, but hasn't got around to this yet. We had dinner afterwards at the newish Côte brasserie on the Oracle, part of a recent clutch of slightly more upmarket restaurants that have appeared on the Oracle's Riverside (presumably in an attempt to raise the tone).

On the Sunday we again visited a few venues on the Caversham Arts Trail, starting with several exhibitors at 4 Hemdean Rise (lovely house and walled front garden) - these included textile artist Lou Jessop and willow-weaver Su Macpherson. Something in the combination of exhibits and exhibitors started Ruth off on a rant about a perceived type of middle-aged woman who has the time and presumably income to devote herself to appliqué-ing hand-stitched felt female genitalia onto fertility-themed artworks - I think the rant began something along the lines of "They sit there with their long grey hair and their Mooncuppy lifestyles ...". We proceeded while ranting to painter Mary Phelan's home on St Peter's Avenue, where we ate some cake. The final venue we visited was on Kidmore Road and included Debbie Page's lovely Moon Jars, which I may well buy one of - though I may have said the same thing after last year's trail.

Other news: the saga of this 1930s bus shelter on Henley Road in Caversham continues. It's still there at the moment.

Theatre; Newport; restored hearing

Bit of culture on 2nd April by going to see Peter Morgan’s play The Audience at the Gielgud Theatre, with Helen Mirren and assorted others. Most annoyingly, my continuing hearing loss (at the time) interfered with the play rather more than I had been expecting – not sure why I’d been imagining that it wouldn’t, but having paid £60 for a ticket to what was apparently a rapidly-sold out production, I was unwilling not to go. Although Ruth is more of a politics/history fiend than I am, I enjoyed what I could hear of it, especially the scenes between HM and Harold Wilson. The tall and distinctive-looking Haydn Gwynne seemed slightly odd casting to play Mrs Thatcher, but who knows what these things are based on.

Pre-play we went for an early dinner at Brown’s on St Martin’s Lane, an establishment obviously well set up for pre-theatre suppers. Ruth’s faith in Brown’s had been shaken by apparently mediocre food and service in the branch that opened on Reading’s Oracle a year or so ago, but this latest visit evidently served to restore it: the gammon and mash she had was apparently excellent and my crab and prawn linguine I had was one of the nicest seafood pastas I’ve had.

Booked the day off on the 5th for a general mosey down in the Newport direction, though ended up having a rather less cultural and constructive day than I’d originally intended. Started off early and took the AA Route Planner’s advice on the most direct route to Bristol, via the A420 from the Botley Interchange down to Swindon. Made my way to Cribbs Causeway and breakfasted at Carluccio’s, followed by a couple of hours mooching around the shops. Then drove across to Newport where I had managed to book my first £29 Premier Inn room (a reminder once again that I am quite easily pleased) at the branch near junction 24 of the M4. In fact, ‘near’ is almost an understatement, as the hotel couldn’t be any closer to the motorway without actually being on it, but that didn’t bother me overly as I hadn’t booked it for the views. Had meant to go out in the afternoon after check-in but the lure of a leisurely bubble bath and free (well, free initially anyway) wi-fi caused me to become shamefully overcome with laziness.

Rose early on the Saturday determined to actually do something, and parked near my brother’s house on Chepstow Road and walked into the centre of Newport intent on breakfast and sightseeing. Looked out the Java Coffee House on Charles Street, which I’d noted online somewhere while looking up places to go in the area – coffee wasn’t perfect but was at least of a decent strength. Extremely friendly staff who asked what I was doing in the area, regaled me with the latest developments and controversies affecting Newport town centre, and suggested various things I could do, though many of them involved leaving Newport - the Roman extravaganza at Caerleon seemed a popular recommendation. In the end I walked up from the cafe a short though quite steep distance to St Woolos Cathedral, as somewhere Mum had mentioned, and had a mooch around - quite peaceful, probably because I was the only person there.

There's been a church on the site since around the fifth century, when one Gwynllyw built a wattle and daub structure there. NB although the blurb has it that 'Woolos' is a corruption of Gwynllyw, it sounds less a corruption than an abandonment of attempts to pronounce it ("Gwynllffx ... Gwyncchhh ... sod it, Woolos").

After exhausting the cathedral's charms I made my way back down into the town and had a quick mosey around the museum, before heading out to the riverbank and taking a walk down what looked like quite a new riverside walkway, in the direction of the Transporter Bridge, which appears to be the city's most advertised attraction. I didn't make it quite as far as the bridge, as it's a fair way out of the town, but reached a point where I could take some rather underwhelming photos of it. It's an intriguing structure though seems a faff of a way to cross a river. The gondola appears to have a little turret on it, which is kinda cute. It was actually moving across when I viewed it, but isn't really visible on any of my photos - better photo on the Wikipedia page above.

Post-sightseeing I made my way back to Dave's house to join various of our and Hazel's families for Nia's first birthday party. Mum had gone positively wild with the Betty Crocker and had produced two large cakes, one chocolate, one carrot, plus a batch of caramel fairy cakes. Met Hannah's new beau Henry, who seems like a nice chap. Received advice from Mum's cousin Jonathan on ear syringing (apparently he has been having his done regularly since he was about 12) and from Uncle Ian on whether my next career move should possibly be getting into the online ancestry data business. Food for thought I guess.

Had ears syringed on Tuesday 9th, after returning to the Red House Surgery once the two-week olive oil sentence was up to demand some form of more concerted action. A rather less gentle and pleasant procedure than I had been expecting – for some reason had been imagining a soothing influx of warm water, whereas the actual procedure is more akin to a jet wash – but certainly it immediately restored my hearing. Returned to the office where I was almost deafened by the fan on Victoria’s PC.

Went for a Friday night dinner with Ruth at Quattro last Friday - I have been resisting Quattro for a while as the food isn't really good enough to justify what's always around a £45 bill (though doubtless it would help if we guzzled less wine). It is, however, a local Italian, though it doesn't quite fit my romantic desire for an old-fashioned neighbourhood Italian with naff decor and candles stuffed into straw-wrapped Chianti bottles.

Walked up to Whiteknights on Sunday afternoon to one of the Harris Garden Open Days - not sure Ruth had been banking on the circa 1 hour walk up there, but I managed to insist that I needed the exercise. We compensated on arrival by going for immediate tea and cake from the Red Cross ladies before actually looking at any plant life. The gardens still had something of an emerging from winter look about them, but we got to see inside the walled garden - which had much the same look, but the old walls are quite atmospheric. Never been in there before as it always seemed to be shut the times I went into the gardens as a staff member. When boredom struck Ruth got the bus home to have her hair cut (amazingly, Karin turned up this time) while I walked down to Cemetery Junction to visit Claire and spent a couple of hours drinking more tea. Noted on the way that Bridges Hall appears to be being demolished; also noted that this handsome house on Hamilton Road is still for sale - despite being labelled on Rightmove as a 'Premium Listing', it's actually been for sale for some time. Hamilton Road contains some sizeable Victorian properties but is on the whole rather less primped and preened than roads of similar properties in Caversham Heights - it's probably the student element and the proximity to C. Junction. Still, if it comes down by a few more bob, I'll buy it.

Out in Bletchley; Skirrid; technomarvels

First off, must note that Ruth recently purchased this weird bookcase from John Lewis, one of those cunning pieces of book storage that makes it look as though your books are floating in mid-air. Not a look I’ve ever regarded as essential for my books, but Ruth enjoys these sorts of thing. The resulting appearance does seem to have taken her aback a little. More of a man bookcase??

Another work night (well, early part of the evening) out recently, this time at the Rose of India in Bletchley, apparently Hoa’s favourite MK curry house. My initial impressions of Bletchley as an abjectly dispiriting place haven’t been significantly altered by the few subsequent occasions I’ve visited it, and not on this one either. Matt had suggested the Enigma Tavern for a pre-dinner drink, a modern and none-too-salubrious looking establishment close to the bus station (the pub's website is a good deal smarter than the pub itself). I turned up there at around 6.45pm to discover him sitting vaguely nervously in a corner of the pub, well away from the only other clientele who were a cluster of locals standing around the bar. Apparently I’d just missed the “family from hell” – two drunkenly antagonistic parents who had just been shepherded off home by their circa eight-year-old daughter. We had a couple of drinks and then made our way with some difficulty (due to lack of adequate directions, rather than drunkenness) to the restaurant, where we joined six or so others from the office. Very nice food – I had a lamb dish, whose name I’ve forgotten, and a stuffed paratha – have got very into the latter. The restaurant is nothing much to look at from the outside and is in a pretty down-at-heel area, so just goes to show that’s not an indicator of the quality of the food. Well, perhaps sometimes it might be.

Worked through the Great British class calculator on the BBC website today to discover I’m apparently ‘Technical middle class’. A bit younger than the supposed average. Obviously I resent the suggestion that I faff around on Twitter of an evening rather than listening to French horn concertos.

The Skirrid (the hill, not the inn)

Spent a couple of days over the first half of the Bank Holiday weekend visiting my parents. Mum and Dad’s house was surrounded by a moderate amount of snow, though there wasn’t much in evidence until we were within a few miles of their house – they are evidently inhabiting some sort of microclimate. We lazed around for most of Friday, though Mum and Dad did go out for a brief stroll in the afternoon. Am afflicted by something of an energy dearth recently which I attribute to the low iron reserves with which I have recently been diagnosed, and am now munching a daily diet of iron supplements in order to correct. On the Saturday we went for a stroll around the nearby village of Llanvihangel Crucorney, largely to have a bit of a snoop from the outside at a house for sale there, and then more of a snoop at most of the other houses in the village, followed by a bit of a circular walk ending up back at the Skirrid Inn, where we had lunch.

The Skirrid Inn

The Skirrid is, apparently, reputed to be haunted – indeed, next to the table where we sat was a framed certificate from the South Gloucestershire Paranormal Investigation Team, certifying that the inn had successfully been investigated for the presence of paranormal activity and/or the presence of spirits. Disappointingly, it didn’t state whether any had actually been found. I’ve a feeling the Skirrid was featured on TV recently in one of those paranormal programmes that I don’t of course watch but happened on to accidentally while searching for the news. The TV crew appeared to be skulking about in the attics, so perhaps they’re the really haunted bit.

On the Saturday night we watched another out of Mum and Dad’s Hammer box set, this time One Million Years B.C. A clever choice given my continuing and increasingly irritating hearing loss, given that it’s the first film I’ve ever seen that contains no dialogue, merely ninety minutes of grunting noises and assorted posing and writhing. On the way back on Sunday we stopped off at Ruth's aunt's house for lunch, and to exclaim over the amount of weight her dog Bertie appears to have gained. Pet-themed talk continued when we collected the rabbits from Reading Rabbit Rescue and had a long chat with Sandra about Lola's health and Harley's recent boorish mounting behaviour.

Had originally planned to meet Ray for an energetic canal walk or similar on the Monday, but in the end that didn't come off, due to my reduced energy levels and his surprising new enthusiasm for technology - on turning up at the flat mid-morning he pulled out a brand new Galaxy S III and 7" Galaxy Tab 2, both in a fetching shade of red, and asked if we could go somewhere with wi-fi so that he could get set up. We duly whiled away an hour or so in John Lewis in CMK, before going on to the 3 Store so that he could sign up for a new MiFi deal - joking aside, the latter seems bloody marvellous, so much so that I've signed up for a similar deal myself. Back at the flat he managed to get online with it and watch an entire episode of Dr Who on iPlayer. What luxury. If this works out I shall consign T-Mobile and their sodding Fair Usage Allowance¹ to history.

Later on we watched three episodes of the 1995 BBC Pride and Prejudice, which I acquired on DVD recently in HMV's closing down sale and hadn't watched for a good while. It's very enjoyable viewing, though in my opinion the 2005 Joe Wright film is better cast, and I'm slightly hampered by never having fancied Colin Firth.

Put out an OU Noticeboard plea recently for information on Korean food stockists in Milton Keynes, in the hope of finding a local kimchi supply. Was somewhat surprised at the level of response and now have several recommendations, one of which, Hoo Hing, I followed up the other Sunday: enormous and freezing cold warehouse on an industrial estate - I spent quite a while wandering around looking for the refrigerated stuff, before realising that the whole shop was the refrigerator. Queued to pay for my goods behind three women dressed in coats and woolly hats - speculated that they'd put them on to come into the shop.

¹ T-Mobile's Fair Usage Policy allows you to stream approximately 30 seconds of video before telling you That's Quite Enough and to go and do something more constructive instead. I never was fond of the Why Don't You Gang.

Hearing loss; subways; food

Have spent much of the time since the last entry marvelling at the hearing loss, particularly in my left ear, that came on relatively suddenly with the cold I began on my last day of jury service on 1 March. Cold symptoms have long gone but as hearing had not recovered, consulted GP last week to be told that my ears were so blocked she couldn’t see anything, and to apply olive oil to them for two weeks and then to come back. Always gratifying to wait until you have had a symptom for two weeks before consulting a doctor, to be told to then come back in a further two weeks Just To Prove You’re Serious. Being essentially fairly law-abiding and respectful of authority, I have duly been syringing olive oil into my ears daily for the last week. Almost within a day of my starting it, the hearing loss became significantly worse, to the extent that I now have to ask people in shops to speak up and have taken to warning colleagues that I can’t hear them unless they look straight at me so that I can read their lips. Presumably head is now some sort of giant olive oil slick. Ruth suggested a Hopi ear candle treatment, but only if she could apply it herself. Unsurprisingly, I declined.

Work on Reading station appears to be coming on – the 1980s footbridge has now been closed (and indeed looks to be half gone); the impressive new building cum footbridge (pic top right) isn’t open yet, but is certainly large. Given the footbridge closure, pedestrians coming from the north are now being routed through a new subway, which I’m fairly sure is the revamped old subway, though it’s only partially been reopened. Pleased if this is going to be a permanent arrangement, given that there is quite a bit of subway under the station, much of which has been closed for some time. Coming out of the current subway exit, I peered down to get a glimpse of this bit of heavily-graffiti-ed old subway – think this was part of the bit that came out by Thames Tower, though I was getting a bit disoriented. All very exciting stuff – at least, to those fascinated by disused subways (we are probably quite a select demographic). The buildings along Station Hill, and the long-empty Western Tower (pic on right) are still there doing nothing – one assumes there is probably a plan to demolish them, though to my mind they could just be re-faced and brought back into use. Nothing seems to be happening either way at the moment though.

Western Tower seems to have been the target for quite a few urban exploration attempts – see here and here. And a rather underwhelming one here. Wouldn’t do it myself, but I can understand the fascination.

In a fit of frankly alarming behaviour, Ruth and I purchased some sherry glasses the other Saturday. Here they are, with a snifter of sherry in them. Sherry is something I had not drunk for many years, since we used to have a drop of it occasionally at home before Sunday lunches. Since meeting Ruth’s aunt in 2007, I have been re-exposed to it each time we visit her house. Don’t think it’s ever going to be a regular tipple but it’s nice occasionally.

Stayed up in MK for the weekend of 16/17 and went into CMK in the morning to do a few jobs including using up some John Lewis vouchers on some plastic picnic plates/wine glasses etc (WILL, obviously, use them and didn’t just buy them in magpie-like fashion because they were pretty colours). Popped into Waitrose before getting the bus back and was thrilled (footnote: am easily pleased) to note that Lindt have now started doing chocolate hens. The cheerful checkout woman was also charmed by them – in fact so charmed that it led to her laughing in an increasingly uproarious fashion to the point where I began fiddling with my handbag and looking around for an imaginary spouse.

MK’s branch of John Lewis is inside the listed shopping building along one side of Middleton Hall, a vast open space that seems to get used for displays of various sorts, children’s activities, Santa’s sleigh etc though today it was empty. There seem to have been burblings in the local paper recently about building works that might threaten it, though it’s still there at the moment.

Wended my way to the northern suburb of New Bradwell on the Saturday evening for Guy’s belated pancake party. Guy was buried in a fug of pancake steam at his cooker, with four pancake pans on the go and a seemingly never-ending supply of batter. Matt, Rebecca and I were the only people there from the office; we sat around drinking for a while before venturing upstairs to play Scalextric, which I learned is probably best not played after a few glasses of wine. Most of the others there were artistic types from Guy’s writing group (Guy, as well as being genius-level analyst, is working on a sci-fi novel in his spare time) including one alarmingly hairy gentlemen with staring eyes, who told us enthusiastically that he’d just joined.

Dad stayed over on the 18th on his way to Norfolk; we had a pleasant dinner at The Swan at Woughton, only slightly plagued by a relentless humming from a heating/air-conditioning arrangement just above us. Perhaps not surprisingly given my current state of deafness, it bothered Dad more than it bothered me. Food not bad at all; had quite a decently-cooked steak (i.e. not cooked too much at all, but slightly blackened on the exterior) and Dad appeared pleased with his duck. After leaving the pub, we stood around in the car park for around 20 minutes before being texted by the cab I’d ordered saying he was waiting for us in the car park. After some brief confusion, he phoned apologetically to say he was in fact waiting in the car park of The Swan at Middleton, an identically-named pub in the next village. Tchoh. We were eventually delivered back to the house where I made Dad a warming cup of tea.

Recently watched a few more of the OU’s fascinating ‘African School’ series, about young Africans in the Ugandan town of Masindi. Slightly disturbing episode about evangelical Christians targeting adolescent schoolchildren – and interesting that the medic who is shown speaking to Dickson after giving him the results of his HIV test does seem to be advocating condom usage: an encouraging sign of common sense among all the religious bullsh*t.

Spent a chunk of last Sunday proofreading my colleague Galina’s MSc dissertation, on something called Long Tail theory. Galina is currently on maternity leave but had called in to the office on Friday to ask if I’d proofread for her. She presented me with a goodie bag in payment, containing, among other things, a selection of Club biscuits, which I hadn’t eaten since my schooldays – indeed, I had had no idea they were still made.

In London on Monday for a HESA seminar on the KIS collection. Got the train in early, as I do, and discovered a divine new breakfast spot in the Cafe in the Gardens in Russell Square. I'd walked past this a number of times but had dismissed it as a probable tourist spot, but on this occasion decided to try it - excellent coffee and a good bacon sandwich. Found varying reviews of it online but this chap evidently liked it - though to my mind wanting chips with breakfast is a bit odd. Must be a northern thing. After breakfast, dragged myself reluctantly down to the BIS Conference Centre on Victoria Street for a generally informative day, though HESA's new cabaret-stylee group discussions were a bit hampered by my (now becoming frankly tedious) deafness.

The end of the day was enlivened by an announcement through BIS' public address system that there was a major gas leak and the whole of the area around Westminster Abbey, including the street outside had been cordoned off. Went outside tentatively to encounter quite a strong smell of gas, and sneaked away from the police cordon to make my way back up via Trafalgar Square to Bloomsbury, to stock up on kimchi at the Seoul Mate on Museum Street. Looked for some sort of announcement later about the gas leak, but couldn't see that it had even made the news. Just goes to show. Something or other.

On a final note, this (above right) from the BBC News website yesterday. Not sure how much this says for the great British public - though I did initially suspect it of being a bit of a put on, much as I've always suspected the 'Health And Safety Brigade Stop Our Kids Playing Conkers' story to be an urban myth. Perhaps not though.

Trial; painting; Pope trivia

Jury duty over: trial ended on Friday; verdict delivered and sentence passed. What devilry resulted in my ending up being jury foreman, I’ll never know, except that no one particularly seemed to want the job and I admitted in a weak moment to having some experience chairing meetings. As there were five counts on the indictment and more than one defendant being tried, this resulted in the less than enjoyable experience of having to stand up in the courtroom and having to pronounce seven verdicts in succession. Fixed my gaze firmly on the court clerk throughout, as I think I saw advised online among some ‘What to do if you end up being foreman’ advice.

I had thought that we would then be dismissed and the judge would perhaps spend a few days considering our verdict before passing sentence, but no, we then had to sit through a load of admin from the prosecutor, pleas from each of the defence counsel on behalf of their clients followed by Actual Sentencing. People being sent to prison and stuff. Now trying to avoid being too plagued by worry as to whether we delivered justice, whether we deliberated for long enough (we deliberated for four and a half hours, but as you are given no guidance whatsoever, it’s hard to know how long is a respectable length of time) and whether we were too swayed by being dead impressed by the prosecution case and the prosecution lawyer herself, whose performance one of the younger jurors categorised as “shit hot”.


On a lighter note, the time spent waiting in the jurors’ lounge over the last few weeks provided an opportunity to catch up with some gossip magazines, though in my view there weren’t really enough of these provided. There were a distressing number of issues of Homes & Antiques, which forced me to become more familiar than I’d like with the world of antique collectors and the work of Emma Bridgewater; also copies of World Finance and various motorsport magazines. I did learn that apparently there’s a burgeoning fan fiction around boy band One Direction, as they keep being papped touching each other¹.

Applied the first paint-and-water coat (I believe the painterly term is a ‘mist coat’) to bedroom 3 a couple of Saturdays ago. My first experience of painting a ceiling; not a particularly enjoyable job but at least it’s done now. Two more coats of Jasmine White to go. Ruth’s stripping and oiling job on the door is now finished and she has attached some attractive new door handles. We attempted re-hanging the door ourselves, which has worked after a fashion – I say “after a fashion” as, although it hasn’t fallen off, it won't shut properly either. A temporary hitch, hopefully.

Among all the recent drama surrounding the Catholic church, two of the more charming Pope-related articles include this piece about Benedict XVI’s fashion sense and how his red Prada slip-ons ousted the memory of John Paul II's staid brown lace-ups. Also this interactive guide to how a new Pope is chosen – it’s worth replaying the second frame just to see all the little red cardinals repeatedly running into the Sistine Chapel.

To end with a nod to the horsemeat crisis: found these leftover KOTTBULLAR meatballs in my freezer this evening. In the interests of thrift, took my life in my hands and ate them. Feel OK so far.

¹ This fact gleaned from Heat, not from World Finance.

Jury service continued; sick bunny

Non-stop excitement of being a juror continues. Following on from the last post: duly returned to court on Thursday, where we sat for two hours doing nothing before being sent home again. Returned for 10.30am on Friday, where the c. 20 of us were again led into the courtroom, and another 12 were chosen. Somewhat to my surprise – though the process is of course random – my name was called again. We went through the whole swearing-in malarkey again, followed again by judge’s talking to, before, most excitingly, things actually got going. The around 3 hours in total that we were in court on Friday were taken up with the prosecution lawyer giving us a quick crash course for dummies in the general topic of the trial, and then presenting a wad of evidence, which was a good deal more interesting than the general topic had led me to expect. I can, of course, say no more – but it’s probably safe to say that getting away with criminal activity must have been made a good deal more difficult with the advent of mobile phones, cell site technology and automatic number plate recognition.

We were asked to return for 1.45pm on Monday, which 11 out of the 12 of us did – most annoyingly, one juror failed to turn up or to respond to the court’s calls, with the result that the rest of us sat in the jurors’ lounge for two hours before being sent home. She did show up on Tuesday morning – I think the rest of us were hoping that she’d been given a good talking-to, which she may have been, though she appeared not noticeably chastened – though I can’t say I’ve actually heard her utter a word as yet so perhaps she’s taking refuge in silence. I probably shouldn’t mention her name, but her first name is Amber. Probably says it all – amazed she could even find the court building.

After Monday’s time-wasting we had a full (well, four and a half hour) day in the courtroom yesterday listening to five witnesses give their evidence and then be questioned by the defence. Really quite exciting, almost like on the telly – though none of the lawyers has yet leapt up and shouted ‘Objection!’. Also sat through the reading out of 50 pages of interview between the police and one of the defendants. Returned to court this morning where we watched some more CCTV footage and listened to a long statement from HMRC. Back tomorrow morning to hear another witness, I believe.

We've now been warned that the case could continue until some time during the week 4-8 March, so somewhat over the standard two weeks. The OU will only pay me for the first two weeks so now have to find out how to claim the loss of earnings allowance from the courts service.

Managing to use some of my spare time this last couple of weeks to crack on with typing up Mum's letters to Gran from Indonesia from 1978 to 1980. Current one opens with 'You must have been quite worried to hear of the volcano erupting'.

When I came out of the court on Friday afternoon there was a woman outside in the street having a good old eff and blind - a be-wigged and gowned barrister (her defence, presumably) was pleading with her to stop ranting in case a juror came out and heard her. Subsequently realised on perusing last week’s free rag that she was the wife in this case. Certainly she looked a hard-bitten piece of goods. The case sounds pretty tawdry but I was faintly amused at her choice of weaponry – a guitar and a tub of cocoa butter not perhaps being the most obvious things to assault your husband with. There were press outside the court all day on Friday so maybe she was shouting at them.

Had dinner at the Thai Corner on Saturday night to celebrate Claire’s birthday. I had a red curry with beef, which was enjoyable though on seeing the griddled seafood platter Ali had I wished I’d ordered that.

Breakfasted with Ray this morning at Julia’s Meadow. The lovely Mr Julia’s Meadow has a new, larger coffee cup in his repertoire. The coffee continues excellent.

It appears, sadly, that Lola may be ill. Ruth has been concerned for a couple of months about her slight weight loss and a seeming shift in the dominance relations ‘twixt the two bunnies – up until recently Lola has always been dominant (as is apparently the norm among rabbits) but lately this seems to have slipped a bit as she has been seen grooming Harley (previously hardly ever happened) and allowing him access to her cardboard box in the living room which is generally strictly her domain. Lola has also been pulling out the fur on her leg and stomach, and as she has now developed quite a bald patch we took her to the vet again on Friday. The vet didn’t seem to have any definite ideas but did take some blood, which we then had tested at some expense. It appears that her lymphocyte levels are high, which is likely to indicate cancer. We’ve been offered an ultrasound, which would confirm the diagnosis, but as that costs £200 we’re not sure whether we’ll go ahead with this, as the prognosis is unlikely to be good whatever action is taken. Have decided to monitor for the moment – currently she is still eating and seems reasonably alert and not withdrawn, but if that changes then more decisive action may be in order.

Harley does not appear to be responding with much compassion and has taken to aggressively chasing and mounting Lola. Have threatened to pair him with a Jack Russell if anything happens to Lola, but even that thought doesn’t appear to be subduing him. He has also put on quite a bit of weight, in direct contrast to Lola's weight loss. Here he is skulking in the bedroom today looking like a little fat squirrel.

Jury-related rant; religion in the legal process; surreal photos

Reported to Reading Crown Court at 9:00 am on Monday for my stint of jury service. Sat in the jurors’ lounge with about 60 other members of the public, being shown a DVD on ‘Your Role as a Juror’, followed by various other announcements about how to claim expenses etc. We also all had to fill out a form relating to a ‘long case’ starting this week, which could potentially run into a third week – supposedly the form was to weed out people who couldn’t commit to the third week, but actually it offered minimal get-out, being restricted to questions such as ‘Are you expecting to be admitted to hospital as an inpatient within the next three weeks’, etc.

After that, sat around for a few hours before my name was called along with around 20 others. We trooped out to the jury reception desk to be told we were being released for the day, but to return for 1.45pm on Tuesday. Duly did so, where our names were read out again and we were told we’d been assigned to the long case mentioned above. We were taken upstairs by the court clerk and asked to read through a list of names connected with the case and to say if we knew any of them – no one did (or at least no one was saying) so we were led into the courtroom, where we stood huddled nervously in a group and the court clerk shuffled cards with our names on, before reading out 12 names from the pack to step into the jury box. Mine turned up as one of the 12 – seem to be getting lucky with being randomly selected for things; shall expect a EuroMillions win quite soon. Those not selected trooped out, while the hallowed 12 were sworn in (more on that below) and then lectured by the judge about not discussing the case with friends and family, not looking it up on Google etc. Judge then announced that we would break for the day and reconvene for 11am on Wednesday. So we all trooped out again. Impressions so far of the legal process are that it works quite slowly.

In the event, when we returned for 11am today, there turned out to be a delay due to two of the selected jurors having filed notes with the judge that they could not commit to a third week of jury service. When we were eventually re-seated in the courtroom, the judge announced that given the stated circumstances he could not compel the two in question to serve, with the result that the whole jury would have to be disbanded and a new jury selected. Slightly incredulously, we left and filed back downstairs, several of us (me included) muttering tetchily. Sat in the jurors’ lounge for another hour or so, until a new list was read out to form a revised ‘jury in waiting’ for the long case. Hadn’t expected mine to be on it this time, but it was, along with most of those selected the previous time. Then told that again, we were being released for today, but to return for 1.30pm tomorrow. At this rate it’ll go into a fourth week, never mind a third.

Obviously I am not party to the intricacies of the legal process, but several of us were at a loss to understand why they could not have simply selected two replacements from the larger group of c. 20 that had been selected the previous day. Had assumed that was the point of it. How little I know.

Still may not actually end up serving on the case in question, as we won’t know until we go into the courtroom tomorrow which 12 of us will be selected to enter the jury box. Hey ho. Trying to adopt relaxed, philosophical attitude, but with limited success currently. Emailed boss with an update and a few comments on the frustratingness of the process; received cheery reply commiserating but noting that this week's DLHE audit had gone well, which failed to cheer me up as much as it perhaps should have done.

One thing that gave me pause, and that underlines the need for my continued support of the National Secular Society, was the way in which it is evidently still the default expectation that jurors will take an oath on the Bible. The twelve places in the jury box are each laid out with Bibles and a laminated copy of the accompanying oath. You have the right to choose to 'affirm', rather than to take an oath, but you have to tell the jury officer of your choice beforehand, and the court clerk then hands you a special card when it's your turn, along with saying to the judge 'This juror has chosen to affirm' (nothing is said re those who take the oath). True to my humanist principles, I did choose to affirm, as did two others (both young Asians), but the decision makes you stand out, whereas I briefly reflected that perhaps it should be those choosing to clutch a holy book in their sweaty palm who should stand out. Or, better, for a court of law to be entirely free of holy books, and for them to be confined to places of worship and bedside tables. Rant no. 2 over ...

On a less contentious note, Ruth and I met Ray and his friend Dave yesterday for a pleasant breakfast at the Alto Lounge. Ray and Dave had been to Celtic Manor for a couple of days' golf, along with a few others, but evidently the whole thing had been pretty rain-sodden - indeed Ray and Dave had evidently bailed on Sunday's golf and spent the afternoon in the hotel spa instead. Took these two decidedly peculiar pictures - the camera on my phone evidently decided to have a funny moment. They almost look quite artistic.