The House Husband

Today was the deathday of Pompeo Girolamo Batoni (or Battoni, depending on where you research it), a Tuscan painter born in 1708. He painted a lot of tourist pictures during the Grand Tour days. The ones with the person sitting (or standing rather nobly) in front of historical ruins. Like tourist photographs of today. I know because I researched him today.

Coincidentally, there is an exhibition of his work at the National Gallery at the moment, so I may pop along next Wednesday. Here’s one of his portraits:

by Pompeo Batoni

And talking about things I’ve researched; I came across the digital version of a rather interesting statue this week that lives at the Science Museum. I’m reminded of it because the gout has made a bit of a reappearance today. I shared this with Nicktor as I know he’s the only person who would sympathise.

Anyway, this statue…it shows how vindictive people can be when they DON’T suffer from gout. I downloaded an image of it from work. Just have a close look at it.

The family who suffers together...laughs together

Now, apart from it being a wonderful piece of sculpture, just take a good look at the wife’s face. She is clearly enjoying his discomfort. She is looking directly at us, as if to say “Gout? Ha! Just let me show him” just before she squeezes the foot she holds in her hand.

Now look at him. He is in agony. An unfair and unjust agony brought on merely because he likes a drink and a haunch of venison with his port and brandy. But he is howling in agony BEFORE she has squeezed his foot. She is merely holding it. Oh, gout, how lethal is your sting!

Never mind the kid. He’s obviously looking at his father, asking when he can start drinking, like all sons to their fathers.

The sculpture was made by Meissen in Germany, one of the first companies to produce porcelain. I think it’s quite lovely but the subject is somewhat not!

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On Breakfast this morning I heard something quite awful. It was announced that Fuller’s Brewery will NOT be selling London Pride at the 2012 games in London because Heineken have the exclusive beer selling rights for the entire games. Now, quite apart from the fact that Heineken is tasteless and possibly second last on a long list of nice beers (Foster’s, clearly being last) and ignoring the fact that it is a Dutch beer and not British, I have to ask why? Why is it exclusive? Why do the Olympic committee assume everyone likes tasteless fizzy water? Can there be no choice? Why not half and half?

At the cricket you get both (or either) lager and real beer. It’s not that difficult.

However, that’s not really what bothers me most. Heineken is Dutch. It isn’t the Amsterdam Olympics. It’s the London Olympics. London Pride is a London thing (according to the posters) and a jolly good beer. WHY? I really think it’s rather sad that obviously money is more important than flavour. I wonder what they served at the Sydney Olympics. Budweiser, perhaps. Or Kingfisher.

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Oh, and I found out about the weird totem pole in Farnham Park. The one I talked about here. It is one part of a pair of sculptures by local artist, Ruth Wheeler, park volunteers and a bunch of local kids from three schools. The trunks are from a tree which was cut down in 2009 (it was in danger of falling over and killing someone). Ruth has carved feathers into the wood and the inside has been purposely scorched to give a contrast to the light timber. The holes are naturally formed by woodpeckers bashing their beaks into it when it was alive. There is another sculpture (I assume looking the same if not similar) near the main entrance to the park.

A pity it doesn’t have some sort of pagan significance.

Another Nicktor Night was taken last night and we were off to see Aldershot battle Barnet. Generally, Nicktor arrives at about 6pm and we get to the Crimea as soon as his wheels can get us there for a few pre-match pints. However, this week he had a telecon (basically a telephone call) with Switzerland scheduled for 4:30pm and another at 5:30pm so, rather than stay back at the office and not get to me until after the match had started with no chance of beers, he came over early.

I busied myself with the usual housekeeping while he nattered away, growling and griping occasionally as the Swiss insisted he add another 48 tasks to his already over loaded work. He has his Blackberry on speaker so I got to hear a load of tinny voices.

Eventually he was off the phone and we were off to the Crimea where he decided to pour his pint over the guy standing next to us. Actually, I think it was intended for me but I was way too quick for him. A sad waste of 6X if you ask me. The barman was very philosophical, mopping up and replacing the bar mat with one he’d prepared earlier. As Nicktor said, “This happens a lot, eh. Though possibly not during the first drink.” What jolly wet fun!

After making friends so convincingly, we then had a football inspired chat to the guy next to us. This involved the usual Aldershot moans at losses and cheers at wins. The appalling Crawley Football Club and their nefarious dealings also made a big appearance in the discussion. But very soon, the kick-off was almost upon us so we left the pub for the ground.

We’ve been standing on the Slab for a while now having eschewed the glories of the East Bank for some unknown reason. Actually, it started when we had the kids with us and we’ve just stayed on. Besides, Nicktor knows a few of the old timers. The Slab (or South Stand) is where ‘serious’ non-singing fans congregate and discuss the game seriously. Well, that’s how it appears to me, anyway. There is seriously little singing.

The first half started with a bit of promise and flair, though, for some reason known only to the players and manager, the Shot’s players were back to playing their hoofing game. This calls for players to hoof the ball from one end of the pitch to the other without any particular player targeted for the ball. It never works and tends to result in giving away possession over and over again. They play much better when they keep the ball on the ground and make snap passes to each other. After the game we heard an interview with the manager who thought they played really well in the first half. I’m not sure what game he was watching. Perhaps a video of an earlier match.

About halfway through the first half, a light fog started to appear at the other end of the ground, slowly engulfing first the goal and then the players. Barnet were wearing white so they disappeared first but then, as the fog grew heavier, the Aldershot players, in red and blue, also started fading away as they charged up-field.

Barnet scored quite early on and we managed to draw level quite late on. We didn’t know we had equalised until the East Bank roared with pleasure which prompted us to echo the cry. This actually happened twice but the first one was considered offside and, therefore, disallowed. By the time the first half drew to a close, the far end of the pitch was invisible.

We went to buy tea, as we normally do, and stood around waiting for the second half. During the break, there is a competition where two lads (one from the away supporters, one from ours) have to try and hit a board suspended from the crossbar of the goal with a ball from the penalty spot. They win money if they manage it. They clearly had very good fog sense because one of them managed it and took away £75. They guy with the microphone praised their ability to kick into the white hole that the goal mouth had become.

Half-time was drawing to a close when the announcement we dreaded was made. The game had been abandoned on health and safety grounds. Health and safety? How can fog endanger health and safety? Snow and torrential rain, lightening or terrorist attacks I can understand, but fog? I appreciate that the linesmen possibly couldn’t see each other or the ref…or the players and for this reason I’d accept an abandonment but health and safety? It’s a bit sad.

Nicktor tells a story of a game he attended when he was but a lad. he was sitting on the grass by the half way line, surrounded by about 10,000 fans and the fog was so thick he couldn’t see a thing except ghostly figures whenever the players went back and forth. That game wasn’t abandoned! We are really getting to be a sad old risk averse society.

Anyway, we joined the disgruntled ranks streaming out of the ground, checking we still had our tickets in order to gain entry at a later date for the rescheduled game. A chap near us was not impressed. He’d been at a conference in Birmingham and had driven all the way down in order to see the game only to arrive about 10 minutes before half time. He actually missed the equalising goal, though that could have been because of the fog. And then, 20 minutes later, he was having to leave. Poor thing.

We reclaimed the car and completely devoid of any sort of emotion (joy at victory or sorrow at loss) we drove back to the Farnham. Fortunately the whisky cheered us up.

There is a reason we always use removalists. I’d forgotten. I quickly remembered.

Today mum & dad moved from Golden Beach to Kawana Island. From the second floor of a block of flats to a ground floor duplex. Much better for dad and mum has found her nirvana. We’d only been there ten minutes and she knew about five people. By the time the evening was drawing in, we’d been invited to drinks and to Christmas carols! Amazing woman.

But to return to the move…it was a very hot day. A disgustingly hot day. A melting-Gaz type of day. To say I didn’t like it would be an understatement. I guess you get the idea.

Bob turned up in the world’s biggest van and manfully reversed it into the parking area at the front of the flats and we started the long, hot trudge up and down the stairs, carrying heavy objects, sweating gallons. By the end of the day, regardless of how much water I swallowed, I was a dried up husk.

I shouldn’t moan so much but, honestly, at 55 I should be directing some other poor bastard, not lugging boxes and furniture myself! I guess it’s a just recompense for my multitude of sins. I’m hoping they’re assuaged now. I don’t want to go through that again.

As bad as I make it sound, we managed it all in two trips and about four hours. Tonight I have set up all the electronic stuff (we are being forced to wait for the Internet because Telstra is plain incompetent), put together a flat pack dining table and chairs and searched for various essentials that mum packed into the ‘last box’. It seems there were about 18 of these.

Still, the bedrooms are prepared, we’ve had our fish supper (it was supposed to be three whiting with lemon and chips and six potato scallops but ended up being four whiting and lime and ten potato scallops…don’t ask me why but it may have something to do with my hair…according to mum) and I’m about ready to collapse. Mum has just yelled out that she is off to bed in 10 minutes. Sounds brilliant.

Here’s a view up the side of mum and dad’s new duplex. I’ll take some interior shots as the boxes are reduced.

Mum & Dad's new place at Kawana Island

I keep forgetting to mention a headline I spotted on a TV news ticker a while back (after the Brisbane Test, actually). It read:

Selectors uncertain about choice of Beer

It relates to the introduction of an inexperienced (in Test cricket) Australian cricketer whose surname is Beer and I have to believe that it was expressed this way on purpose.

For my birthday, Dawn and I went to the British Museum to see the new Egyptian Book of the Dead exhibition – the link to the exhibition is here. It was a bit of a snap decision. I heard a glowing review of it on Front Row on BBC radio 4 last Tuesday which convinced me I just had to go. It would appear that a lot of other people had the same idea.

Visitors have to book a time slot and, thinking lunchtime would be a good time to choose, I opted for 1:10pm. My experiences of these things had led me to believe most people would be off eating. I could not have been more wrong. Maybe everyone else had the same idea.

So there was a LOT of people wandering around at the same time as us. Apart from the people who are under the inexplicable allusion that they are made of glass, it wasn’t too bad and we saw and read some wonderful things.

I’m not that knowledgeable about Egypt and thought the Book of the Dead was a sort of bible of the afterlife which adherents would read and use to prepare themselves for death. But this isn’t exactly true. Rather than a book for life, it would be buried with you for your journey and contained spells for all manner of things you would need to know in order to reach the Field of Reeds (Heaven).

The books were written on papyrus and some fine examples have managed to survive – we saw a lot of them. The tiny hieroglyphs and finely inked drawings are amazing. The majority of them were mass produced, leaving the space for the name of the deceased left blank – your relatives would buy it and have your name put in. Of course, if you were wealthy, you would have one specially made for you.

The Egyptians believed that the soul was a spirit called Ba and once your were in your sarcophagus, it would flutter up and out and lead you through the many stages towards the Field of Reeds. There was a spell in the Book of the Dead, for instance, that made the Ba live forever. Clearly a handy one to know. The spells are all numbered (by whom, I do not know) and this one is 191. It reads:

Bring Osiris [deceased's] soul [to him], that it may unite with his body, that his heart may be glad, that his soul may come to his body [and] to his heart. Bring his soul into his body [and] into his heart; provide his soul with his body [and] his heart.

They’re all a bit like that. In the early days, the Egyptians would write out the book on the walls and ceilings of burial chambers. They then started inscribing the spells on the coffins, inside and out. It wasn’t until around 1800 BC that they used papyrus scrolls, buried with the dead.

Here’s a very handy spell for repelling crocodiles (spell 31 from Nakht’s Book):

Get back, you crocodile of the West, who lives on the Unwearying stars! Detestation of you is in my belly, for I have absorbed the power of Osiris, and I am Seth. Get back you crocodile of the West! The nau-snake is in my belly, and I have not given myself to you; your flame will not be on me.

Here’s the spell and image on the papyrus.

Papyrus section from Nakht's Book of the Dead

Of course, visitors to the exhibition aren’t allowed to take photos so this is from the British Museum website, which is why it’s so small, but you can just make out Nakht warding off the crocs.

Afterwards, once we were completely papyrused out, we popped into the shop and the Cansfields bought me the book to accompany the exhibition for my birthday. It is very big and very heavy! Fortunately it just fit in my bag and could be quite handy should I run into any crocodiles.

We were in the exhibition for nearly two hours and were both starving so we decided lunch in the nearest pub was called for. We called, they delivered and we had two delicious burgers and a couple of pints of Timothy Taylor’s Landlord – always a pleasure – before wandering back to Waterloo (via Gordon’s Wine Bar and a few more pubs).

A lovely day which we both thoroughly enjoyed.

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We have started a tradition whereby Mirinda cooks me dinner on my birthday and goes to the major effort of making me a cake. This is a tradition I wholeheartedly endorse! I know how much of an effort it is to make me a cake and have to say how much I truly appreciate it. Quite apart from anything else, it’s always delicious.

I am sitting in a grotty little tabac in Redon enjoying a couple of beers. I feel like a local. How many years has it taken to be so confident? I fit in awfully well. Really, all I need to be able to do is to order beer and know the drill for repeat orders and I’m in a very happy place.

Matt and Bev just walked passed. I’m pretty sure Bev saw me. I am equally sure Matt ignored this. Works for me.

I may return to the boat before I get morose.

Last night I went to the Rec and watched Aldershot for the first time this season. In not entirely a night of surprises, they lost, 3-0, to Watford in the first round of the Carling Cup. We were totally outclassed by a much better team. I guess that’s something. It’s not like we played really badly just not well enough. And, really, what did we really expect? Watford is two leagues above us after all.

What was a surprise was who I went with. I thought it was just going to be Nicktor, James and me until the car pulled up outside with Frank driving. And his son and Matt in the back. That was odd for a start. James loves Aldershot but Matt is less than enthusiastic at the best of times. Still, we drove to the car park and started walking to the Crimea for the usual pre-game pint of that perfect of all beers, 6X.

Along the way we collected a few more people. Two guys from Nicktor’s road and their sons and James. Five kids, five adults.

Five pints and five cokes later, we crossed over the road and headed for the Slab. I’d already assumed we’d not be in the East Bank because we’d have James with us so it wasn’t a surprise when we headed that way.

Nicktor’s re-flared gout was causing him to limp a bit so that caused some hilarity, which grew in direct ratio to the increase in pain. He’s a medical anomaly. It’s far too soon for a relapse. It’s a good job he wasn’t called on to run around the pitch. It was noticeable his discomfort increased dramatically over the course of the evening. By the time we were ready to walk back to the car, he looked like one of the walking wounded from the Charge of the Light Brigade. Or perhaps his body was unhappy it wouldn’t be spending the night at our place.

A bit of an unexpected treat awaited us as we entered the ground. The young guy who bashes the drum relentlessly during every home match was standing against the fence having a few tentative thumps as the rest of the raucous orchestra met up with him. It was observed by one of our party that he looked rather menacing, presumably on the lookout for rival drummers.

The day had been wet throughout, off and on, so standing on an exposed slab of concrete for a couple of hours was bound to attract a certain amount of damp. I’m pretty sure this is one of those immutable laws, like the one that Murphy came up with. Something like: “If there’s a chance of rain and a large gathering of people all stand on a big slab of concrete, they’ll be rained on.” And we were. A number of times.

Not that it was very wet. It was a series of English showers, the type of rain that doesn’t actually make you wet. I like to think of it as thick mist. It was quite noticeable on the pitch, though. Sprays of water came off the ball every time it was kicked and the ground was rather slushy.

The one good thing about being on the Slab is that you’re really close to the action, albeit only one bit near the southern touch line. The boys all lined up against the fence and shouted rude things at the opposition players as they pummelled our goal mouth in the first half. By the time Watford had finished us off at the beginning of the second half, the boys were telling jokes and talking to me about games.

It’s amazing how kids (make that, boys) react when someone tells them I tested games for a living. They get all excited and suddenly you’re the coolest adult they know. They then insist on comparing notes on the newest and most violent games on the market. Fortunately Stevie keeps me in the loop about these things so I can generally manage to keep up with them. Though it did make me yearn a bit for my old job. Though not with Cowabunga, of course. I should add that the other part of my job is generally drooled over by any male adults who find out.

Anyway, the game dribbled away as we chatted about Ultimate Assassin (the comedy version) and GTA – I managed to get a plug in for Smuggler’s Run, a particular favourite that Stevie and I spent many hours completing. It’s a bit Old School these days but still a great game, nevertheless. The final whistle gratefully blew before Watford could humiliate us further and we headed for home.

Actually, Aldershot managed a bit of a late flurry but to no avail and they remained with no goals. To be absolutely fair, they didn’t play badly. I have been at some games where they seemed to have sent a load of replacements on the pitch, possibly the local limbless darts team, but this was not one of those. We were, quite simply, outclassed. So, no need to be miserable, lads! At least it’s one competition we don’t have to worry about for the rest of the season.

The company was fun and it’s always good to go and watch football. It was also a chance to catch up with Nicktor who I’ve missed over the last couple of weeks due to the temporary suspension of Nicktor Nights. The Cansfields are off to France next week (entirely coincidental, I hasten to add) so we organised for our next NN to be the 25th. He told me about the positive slew of gory, bloodletting films he’s managed to amass since our last viewing so I’m hoping for a welcome return to relative normality, fairly soon.

The boys, ready to heap abuse on the Watford players

When we lived in Haslemere, we became aware that, because of the surrounding countryside (mostly woods and hills), we were locked in our own little world of weather. Of a morning, it was imperative that I note the London weather before deciding what to wear because the weather in Woking was always different. I should add that Woking is only about 24 miles from Haslemere. All of this was brought back to me today when I once more visited Haslemere.

As I left Farnham, the day was a mix of grey and sleet – a truly grim day. As we (me and the three other passengers on the number 19 bus) trundled through Frensham, white began to appear where it remained on the countryside. This, in itself was not unusual. As we crossed the A3 at Hindhead, the snow started and the white either side of the road was thickening. By the time I left the bus at Shottermill, snow laid all about, thick and even. It was like I’d travelled to another country.

The reason I’d popped over to Haslemere today was to have lunch with Dawn (my second Cansfield this week). I haven’t seen her for ages while I’ve been spending an inordinate amount of time with her husband recently. My first task, however, was to take the hard drive out of their old PC. And this meant braving the vicious Polly.

Polly is a Westie, just like Basil, but unlike Basil, she hates everyone. She barks and bites and snaps and…well, she’s generally pretty antisocial. That is until she calms down, then she’s a lovely little dog. So I had to wait outside while Dawn put Polly behind bars. Basil, of course, came running up to say hello, all shaking with pleasure. Secretly, I think he was looking for Mirinda, who he adores, but he always hides his disappointment quite well. Polly remained behind bars while I went upstairs to de-brain the PC. Having had a sticky at their new kitchen, which is LOVELY! The cooker had me very jealous.

Apart from getting covered in the inevitable dust, the hard drive was a doddle and I soon had it cradled in my hand, telling Dawn to put it in a box somewhere and forget about it. I also told her the computer horror story of the man who’s information was retrieved from a PC he’d taken to the dump but which had ended up in Africa.

I foolishly offered to fix her rear wiper but my enthusiasm was a bit hardier than my automotive repair skills and it beat me. Sad and defeated by a silly little bit of plastic, we then went to the Mill for lunch.

I love the Mill. It’s a wonderful, very English pub. And they had Alton fff as a guest ale. Excellent choice. We enjoyed some of this, me more than Dawn…who was driving. Lunch was lovely though I think I hogged the conversation a bit, reminiscing over theatre days…which always makes me miss it…for a little while.

I then took the bus back home. Again, the snow stopped as we crossed the gridlocked (as always) A3. I was greeted over-enthusiastically by the poodles who, no doubt, wanted to know why I’d been to visit Basil and not taken them.