The House Husband

We spent a lovely, lazy Sunday morning, spoilt only by the fact that Mirinda had to leave after lunch for a conference.

One highlight was getting to see Ronnie O’Sullivan play Steve Davis in the snooker. Of course, I’m generally unable to watch the snooker as Mirinda thinks it’s incredibly dull. Of course, she’s wrong.

Ronnie lines up another winning shot

It’s the UK Championship at the moment, being played in York and the best are fighting it out in action packed frame after action packed frame. This was an eagerly awaited match between the veteran (Davis) and the master (O’Sullivan).

Steve started off well. He potted a fluke red (went for a double, managed a triple) and managed to win the first frame. Everyone sensed an upset but it’s the best of 11 frames and Ronnie simply dominated the rest of the match, winning 6-1. This puts him in the final 16.

Poor Steve! He played well but age makes all the difference on the snooker table. Still, he’s a lovely fella and the crowd gave him a massive send off when he left the arena.

And that was about it, really.

A pigeon walking up the roof

It’s tough getting by in Zurich. Actually, can I rephrase that? It’s quite easy because you never know what language someone is going to use. So I just stick to English which seems pretty universal. It’s quite fortunate that beer sounds the same no matter what language you use (luckily there’s no obvious Spanish speakers).

Our hotel is in a great spot for wandering from and wander we did this morning. After a massive breakfast – I had the William Tell breakfast which is basically a big plate full of shredded then fried potato with two eggs and two bits of bacon resting on top. Don’t get me wrong, it was delicious but just a bit too much potato for the beginning of the day. Mirinda was much smarter and had the healthy option of cereal and fruit. Not sure why these places can’t just do toast and Vegemite.

So completely fortified (or stuffed, which is how I felt) we set off from the hotel, striding down Stampfenbachstrasse towards the river. Then Mirinda had a little ‘umm’ and a little ‘ahh’ and decided she should have brought her fleece with her. I was sent back for it. Back UP the hill. Then back down Stampfenbachstrasse.

I do like the name of this street but can’t help but wonder what drunks do if they need to get back to it and have to ask directions or answer a police officer. The German language never ceases to amaze me. Rather than make up new ones, they just keep sticking bits on the end of each existing word.

Zurich is on a river which flows not far from Stampfenbachstrasse. The river Limmat flows into (or out of) Lake Zurich and has to be one of the cleanest rivers I’ve ever seen. Amazingly, you can see the bottom from anywhere along it. This is a shot of the river taken from the tower at the Grossmunster and you can see the bottom!

The river Limmat from the Zurich Grossmunster

In fact, it was so clean that we could see a bicycle lying on the bottom. And it continued on into the lake. This was also very clean. I think it must be the Swiss thing for perfection. I quite like it. The water looked like you could drink it.

Speaking of water, I forgot to talk about the shower in our room. It’s excellent and so nice to have soft water again – I was a bit spoiled in Australia. The heat and pressure are both excellent and it’s all very easy to use. Shame…I do like to have a good moan about the bathrooms but just not possible here.

One thing that had completely escaped us was that today was May day and something we didn’t know anything about at all was the annual May day march through Zurich. This was rather fortunate because these things have been known to kick off in the past and it may have deterred us somewhat from joining in with the festivities.

It wasn’t until we crossed the river that we spotted the riot police and water cannon waiting for any eruptions or ructions from the crowd. Apart from lots of yelling about international solidarity and a hearty version of the Internationale a bit later, it went off very well and the riot police were not required.

Waiting for any problems from the socialist hordes

We wanted to go for a ferry ride around the lake but rather than plough through the slowly gathering crowds of marchers (the end of the march was at the quay) we decided to set up camp at a nearby beer garden. And what a wonderful piece of serendipity it was.

We sat for a good hour, enjoying a couple of beers and a pretzel – just like the pretzels I had in Munich – and salad and chicken for lunch and were royally entertained by the Bauchnuschti Stompers. They were excellent and here’s a little taste of them playing Always. We were quite close so it’s a bit loud.

The drummer was a cheery chap who would pop up for a swig of wine between songs. He announced at one stage that they were playing a particular song in honour of the fact that Nicco Cunningham from New Orleans was in the audience. I have no idea who this was as no-one seemed to indicate any sort of recognition. Still, it was very good.

A pretzel and not a bretzel

We then ended up at the quay, amazed that the stage had gone, the demonstrators had all disappeared and the riot police gone home. You would never have known anything had been going on and yet only an hour before there was a crowd of thousands with flags and speeches and megaphones. Very Swiss for all trace to be removed within moments of the end. There wasn’t even any rubbish!

Good for us though as we managed to buy a ticket for the short round trip around Lake Zurich. It was all very lovely – we even caught a glimpse of snow capped mountains when the clouds cleared for a bit. It did rain for a while – big, splashy drops that chased us inside for a coffee/tea – but it didn’t spoil anything. In fact, Mirinda sat on a wet chair just so we’d have somewhere dry to sit. Here’s our ferry:

The ferry we took around Lake Zurich

We then wandered up to the Grossmunster, the famous Zurich cathedral which is awfully bland because this guy called Zwingli decided to get rid of anything that looked lovely (statues, paintings, icons, etc) because God didn’t like it. This was during the reformation when God only liked things that were without colour. So the church is very, very dull inside. However, you climb the tower and the beauty of man is spread out before you.

You might think that Zwingli missed a trick with the towers but, to be fair, they weren’t built until 1786 and he was doing his thing during the 16th century.

The view towards Lake Zurich from the tower of the Grossmunster

If you ask me, Zwingli was a bit dull. If you believe in God and wonder at his creations then surely wanting to decorate a church with scenes depicting God’s wonders would be de rigeur. If you believe in him then you must believe he created all the colours and the rich tapestry of life. I’m not that keen on a church that decides it’s not nice to look at lovely things. To be fair, I’m not the best judge anyway. Moving on, then…

The church was founded by Charlemagne after his horse tripped over a couple of graves. These graves were dedicated to the martyrs Felix and Regula who, having had their heads cut off, carried them to the place where the church eventually was built. Typically weird but wonderful fairy stories as most of these big churches have.

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We did have these wonderful plans to go down into the town for dinner but, after a couple of hours chilling in the hotel (and, it should be admitted, a little snooze) we decided to order room service instead.

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I just heard on the snooker that whispering Ted Lowe died today. Sadly missed and fondly remembered from Pot Black. You were great, Ted.

I am sitting watching the Snooker World Championship which Neil Robertson is leading 14 – 12 at the moment. If he wins he’ll be the first Australian to ever win it. We visited his dressing room earlier and he has a massive Australian flag in there.

The pressure is getting to him though and his natural fast and accurate game is starting to suffer. Fortunately so is the game of his opponent, Graeme Dott. It could go right down to the wire. It’s the first to 18 frames.
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So this morning, after I escorted Mirinda to the station for her marathon trip to Dublin, I sat down at my computer and started my third essay in earnest. All I had was the title and the single word ‘introduction’.

Apart from a few small breaks to walk the dogs, go shopping and a brief potter in the garden, I worked solidly all day. At 7:30 when I decided to have dinner, I’d written 2,200 words. Pretty remarkable for such a dull topic. It’s due next Monday morning but I think I can finish it without a problem now.

Mirinda kept me posted all day as she travelled across the country, telling me how beautiful Wales was and how noisy the Irish boys in her carriage were. She finally made her hotel (which I chose and, fortunately, was comfortable) and I rang her to say good night.
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There’s a huge bout of safety play in the snooker at the moment with both players making silly mistakes then playing brilliant shots. There’s only three points separating them and there’s still two red balls left. So far there has been 21 safety shots since the last pot. The tension is very high.

Of course, if Mirinda was here she’d just say everyone is just coughing and fall asleep, but I’m loving it.

Dott made the big mistake and Robertson cleared the reds and the colours up to the brown. So Dott is still in with a chance. He needs all the remaining colours. He pots the brown but the blue is very difficult to pot and he plays safe. Robertson comes back to the table and plays a terrible safety shot, leaving the blue in the open but not clear enough for Dott to sink.

This frame has been going for 40 minutes. A few more safety shots and Dott has a possible blue but with an impossible pink to follow. He sinks the blue and manages to leave the pink safe. Robertson responds with almost a snooker behind the black. It’s all very cat and mouse and the winner of this frame will have the psychological edge going into the 27th frame.

And Robertson sank a brilliant pink and he clenched his fists and grimaced with relief before leaving the arena, presumably to go to the loo. So now 15 – 12 and Dott is going to be under a good deal more pressure now.

Poor Dott plays a lousy break in the next frame and Robertson is off again. You can’t write these guys off though, they can pull amazing things out of adversity.

Robertson plays an excellent snooker but Dott pulls off a great escape and now has control of the table. But he can only make 42 and Robertson is back with a chance. But the tension gets to him as he misses a black. Dott, the fiesty Scot, now has a lifeline and he steals the frame, making it 15 – 13.

A few bad shots from both players at the start of the next frame makes it quite scrappy. Nothing has been sunk and nearly all the reds are on one side of the table. Robertson sinks the first red and then snookers Dott, leaving him to puff out his cheeks in frustration.

Robertson is starting to close the frame out as the match reaches 11 hours of play. We just saw Dickie Bird, the cricket umpire, in the audience, looking a bit tired. I understand how he feels! A bad white ball means another bout of safety play.

Carmen is snoring in the armchair as Robertson and Dott exchange safety shots and mistakes. She prefers football. She’s not missing much at the moment as it’s all safety, safety, safety. Dott makes the first mistake and Robertson is back sinking balls until he misses a sitter. He left the white in an awful position and Dott threatened to hit him with his cue.

It’s just gone midnight and they’re still playing safety. The frame is over 45 minutes long so far and they are both missing easy balls. It’s like watching a pair of old punch drunk boxers flapping helplessly at each other. And then Robertson manages to string some pots together and manages to win, taking it to 16 – 13.

Robertson just played an amazing shot to pot the black at the beginning of the new frame. He’d overrun the white but managed a tight cut, nudging a red on the way back giving him his next pot. He’s playing with a lot more confidence now, as if he’s cleared a hurdle of exhaustion and can see the finish line approaching.

From a snooker, Dott played a hit ‘n hope and almost fluked three reds. Sadly for him, it left the table for Robertson to clean up. But, again, he misses an easy shot and lets Dott back in, who plays a bad positional shot and lets out the biggest sigh I’ve ever heard at an International snooker match.

Graeme Dott is looking exhausted as he drags himself back and forth around the table. Robertson would be more than happy for him to go to bed and is trying to sink the rest of the balls obligingly. It goes to 17 – 13 and he only needs one more frame.

And it looked like Robertson was off and running and then missed a black that surprised him. Sort of like when you think you’ve put your other shoe on but halfway up the street you realise you haven’t and have to hobble back.

Poor Dott just snookered himself, played a foul and then had to stand around while the referee tried to replace the cue ball. Robertson is back in control though and starting to play like we all know he can.

I’m sitting here thinking this is going to be the most boring blog entry since the one I made during the football but then I think I’m doing it for dad and don’t care!

The commentator just said that Neil Robertson was losing 11 – 5 during the first round and had checked out of his hotel but pulled it back to win 11 – 12. Presumably he booked back into the hotel.

And he’s potting beautifully again. We just saw his mum, all nerves and pride. They’ve now been playing for over 12 hours. Graeme Dott won’t want to leave his seat if Robertson misses another shot as I think he’s asleep. Robertson only needs two reds and two colours to take the trophy home and he’s sinking them easily.

And he wins 18 – 13. The first Australian snooker world champion. Very emotional scenes as his mum comes down and wraps him in an Aussie flag. I’m going to bed.

So I’m busy getting together information for essay number three. It’s quite dull. Actually the dullest of the four. Still, it has to be finished in just over a week so that’s not long to be bored. It’s strange but this time last year I was getting my marks for my BSc and here I am almost finished my MSc! Life is mad sometimes.

For a break today I had to book train, ferry and hotel for Mirinda who is off to Dublin on Monday. Rather than me tell you about it, I’m going to make her post an entry! Were I not writing two essays, I would be on the train and ferry with her.

More important is that Aldershot beat Lincoln today 3-1. We are edging ever closer to the play-offs which means a game at Wembley. Every player’s dream. Every fan’s hope. Of course they have to go through the first round play-offs first but I’m confident. Clearly I’m also a bit simple.

Mirinda watched about 10 minutes of the snooker tonight – it was on while I waited for Match of the Day to start. During some amazing safety play where the tension kept rising, Denis Taylor said something about how exciting it was. I was nodding sagely, completely agreeing. Mirinda sat up and said, completely mystified “You have to be joking! Are we watching the same thing?” She then went to bed.

Speaking of the snooker…tomorrow sees the beginning of the final between Graeme Dott and Neil Robertson. Neil is the first non UK player to reach the final of the World Championship in 27 years. He’s Australian.

A glorious blue day with no snow, rain or wind. And the temperature has risen. So much that I started to work up a sweat on the way home from Waitrose.

After a very late breakfast, we drove up to Hankley to walk the dogs. We haven’t been up there for yonks. There has been a lot of warnings about the impending floods as a result of the meltwater. I think they’re all at Tilford. The river had burst its banks and was flooding the road and swamping onto the village green. We crossed the river earlier and it was swollen but not higher than the bridge.

We parked and started up towards the common. There was little snow left, though what there was, Carmen frantically rubbed her face into. There were far more people than we normally see. Mirinda figured it was because it’s the first sunny day in ages. Maybe, but I think it’s because it hasn’t been accessible for weeks because of the snow.

Whatever…it was lovely and very peaceful. I’m pretty sure Mirinda agrees. Back home we had lunch and watched the miserable Wallander and I put dinner on. After 4 hours, we enjoyed roast duck in cherry sauce.

Having watched Lark Rise to Candleford, I’m now watching Ronnie O’Sullivan play Mark Selby in the Masters final. It really can’t come close to the excitement of the semi-final against Mark Williams. And, talking about sport…

Why do some football players wear those silly little black gloves? Wayne Rooney, a tough, chunky player has started to wear them and I wonder if it’s anything to do with Colleen, worried about him handling the new baby with cold fingers. But all of them can’t have doting wives, surely. I mean, Berbatov thinks he’s pretty slick but he looks pathetic wearing gloves. I’ll never understand it. Mirinda thinks it proves they are real men because they’re not afraid of standing out when they have cold hands. She’ll never understand football.

Anyway, Chelsea thrashed Sunderland yesterday 7-2, so I’m happy.

And so it snowed again last night, causing havoc throughout the south, including here. This meant Nicktor was unable to go home this morning. With great joy he is staying with me again tonight.

Last night we went down to the Six Bells for, I thought, dinner and some beer. Dinner was a pathetic pork and apple sandwich because Nicktor wasn’t very hungry! The beer was good though. And, of course, the company. It wasn’t a very busy night at the pub so we almost had the place to ourselves.

Nicktor takes great delight in beating me at virtually everything. So we played darts. Of course, my maths is so abysmal, he has to do the adding up, subtracting and scoring. I won the first game! Highly unusual. “Best out of three,” chirps Nicktor, knowing my skills are extremely limited. I won the second game! He went back to the bar to return the darts, his shoulders starting to droop a bit.

He returned to our table with a crib board and cards. Like me, he grew up playing crib (though he doesn’t know the rhymes which help me in the maths) and plays very fast which, sometimes, takes a bit of the fun out of it. He would have loved playing with my grandad who was just as serious. Well…I WON! So, darts, crib…there was a quoits set on a table near us but we didn’t bother.

We sat and watched Eastenders because the barmaid wanted to watch it and we were the only customers by then. When it ended she was generous enough to put the snooker on.

At 10pm she told us she was closing at 10:30 because we were the only ones there. We did think of going outside and trying to tout for business but, instead, as 10:30 rolled around, we went back to the house where Nicktor wanted a cup of tea! Weird. I had a port.

I managed to convince him to watch Pulp Fiction, which I think he liked. Well, most of it. I think it was a bit too wordy for him. We finally went to bed at about 2am.

Tonight we’re back down to the Six Bells for (a real) dinner and beer and then back to watch Sid and Nancy which is far more up his alley.

So everything is getting increasingly slushy. All the fun of the snow is almost at an end although we keep being told it’s only going to get worse. Though I just looked at the bbc weather site and it seems we’re in for a heatwave towards the end of this week – a whole 7°! I mean, really!

Today, walking in the park, we spotted a guy trying to call his dog, which was busy chasing a crow round in circles. The crows in the park love playing this game with the dogs. They wait for the dog to get within a few feet then they fly up into the air, flap around in an ever-increasing circle while the dog chases them uselessly from the ground until it gets bored. The crow knows exactly when this will be and lands just before it happens. This means the dog’s interest is once more piqued and it will start all over again. This happens many times until the crow gets bored and flies off. Anyway, the crow and this guy’s dog were playing this game.

As we drew closer along the avenue of trees we could hear him calling and blowing a whistle. When we were close enough to hear what he was calling, Day-z immediately pricked up her ears and went trotting over to him. Confused, she stopped then came back to me. He called his dog again and once more she trotted off to him, this time sitting at his feet, wondering what he wanted. He bent down and patted her head, looking a bit quizzical.

“You’re confusing her,” I said. “Her name’s Day-z as well!”

He laughed, I laughed, Day-z was more confused and Daisy still chased the crow. Carmen, meanwhile was busy rubbing her face in any available pile of snow.

There’s actually quite a few dogs called Daisy in Farnham Park – no Carmen’s though, or not that I’ve found, anyway – and I’m surprised it’s such a popular name. I always think of it being a cow’s name.

I managed to finish my philosophy essay today and, to celebrate, watched a bit of snooker. I wish I hadn’t. My boyhood hero, Jimmy White, played an awful match and was beaten by Mark King in the first round of the Masters at Wembley. It was a very pro-Jimmy crowd. Even Ronnie Wood (from the Rolling Stones) was there, cheering him on. But he just couldn’t get into the match. His cueing was off, his positioning was off, everything was just off. I’ll just have to wait for Ronnie now.