Testing Times

A Level exams end tomorrow. In a few weeks time the newspapers and phone-ins will resume the annual debate over whether the exams have got easier over the years.

Working in a sixth form college I think I can identify a few points which may explain some of the rise in good results.

1. A Level exams are now divided into separate AS and A2 exams. Students who do not do well in the initial AS stage may then be “weeded out” and not entered for the more advanced A2 exams, keeping the overall grades higher.

2. Teaching materials are far more exam-focussed. As well as the standard textbooks, most subjects have revision guides specifically aimed at telling the students what the examiners will be looking for.

3. Marking schemes for examiners have become incredibly detailed, laying out where points can be assigned to candidates. In many cases a student can get a question wrong, but still get points for layout, use of examples or mentioning relevant theories. There is an emphasis on the process used in the argument, not just a mark for the conclusion. This means that less able candidates will still score points.

4. As a result of all the above, students seem to be less stressed. I remember waiting to go into an exam, silent, nervous and convinced I was about to demonstrate my total ignorance of the subject. Our students are relaxed, chatty, and generally confident. They have been well prepared and they know what is expected of them.

Good Luck to them all.

Sole Music

A lunch-time trip to fishmonger Steve Hatt in Essex Road is always worthwhile. Steve has a network of suppliers across the world who will go to extremes to send him the best of the best.

The man himself is a bit of a superstar in the British foodie world. Enter his shop and you stand a good chance of bumping into Nigel Slater or Rick Stein.

But it is the quality of his seafood that stands out. It will always be freshly caught and the prices will be high but fair. As ever when buying fish, never go to Steve's shop with a fixed idea of what fish you want. Go with open eyes and an open mind. Seasonality is all, and prices vary as the market responds to changes in availability. Find a fish that there is a glut of and you will find a bargain.

I started my plan of buying from a fishmonger at least once a week. I visited Steve’s on Thursday. Had I been watching the pennies I would have bought some of the mackerel, irridescent and rigid with freshness. Instead I went for a fine pair of lemon sole. They weren’t cheap as the pair weighed over a kilo, but they were worth every penny.

I had the ever-willing staff gut the flat fish and skin just the dark side. Cooking them couldn’t have been simpler. I just painted the skinned side with melted butter, added pepper, and put the fish on a greased baking sheet under the grill for about ten minutes. There is no need to turn the fish as the heat of the baking sheet helps cook the underside. Served with some Jersey new potatoes and some oven-roasted tomatoes and courgettes it was a simple feast. A great way to start off my summer resolutions.

Summer Solstice Part Two

Anyone wishing to spread the summer cheer can find a nice E-Card on the Beeb.

Summer Solstice

Today is the longest day of the year. As usual, someone in the office pointed out that the nights would be getting longer from tomorrow and winter was coming. Humbug! Summer starts today.

So. Three summer resolutions:

1. We go on holiday at the end of July. This gives me five weeks or so to lose a stone in weight. Normal weight loss programmes advise 2lb a week, but I find I lose the pounds much more quickly when I start to eat properly and take some exercise.

2. We have been talking about building a pond in our garden for ages. Now is the time to actually start, that way we will have everything in place for next spring. After all, we have a couple of frogs resident in our garden with no pond at all. Think how many we would have with access to permanent water. And they would all eat our slugs.

3. I love eating fish. I work about ten minutes walk from one of the best fishmongers in London. There are two fishmongers at the Nags Head. Yet most of the time I end up buying my fish from Waitrose. Now, excellent as the fish is, (I don’t want Kevin the fishmonger after me!), it is still very limited in the range available. Trout, Cod, Salmon, Tuna and the smoked mackerel and herring are pretty much the entire range. Lovely, but limited. So, my third resolution is to buy seafood once a week from an independent fishmonger. I should count myself lucky to have three to choose from.

Stay tuned to find out if the road to Hell really is paved with good intentions.

My new friends in India

Some things get better as they get bigger. Salaries, for instance. Other things worsen. Companies rarely improve as they grow, and by the time they get to be multi-nationals you can pretty much rely on customer service being a high priority in the advertising and abysmal in real life.

About ten days ago I received a letter from Tiscali, my internet supplier, saying that they and British Telecom would be upgrading our network last Wednesday and that we "might" lose our internet connection for a couple of hours on that day.

Being off work that day I powered up the PC at around eleven a.m. No Connection. I checked the phone. Dead as a dodo. It still wasn't working by five in the afternoon.

I rang BT. Dialling their local rate number I was finally connected to a call centre in India. They tested the line and said it was working perfectly. I am not sure what strange sense of the word "working" they were using. I then rang Tiscali.

Tiscali also had their call centre in India. It may even have been the same one.

"You will have to get B.T. to test the line"

I told him they had, and nothing was wrong apart from the fact that it wasn't working.

"We will ask B.T. to check the line again. Wait until tomorrow and if it isn't working, ring us then".

Tommorrow found us still cut off from from the phone and the interweb.

Ticali "We have checked and there is a fault. We will have start a new broadband connection for you. This will take up to five working days."

I pointed out that there wasn't a fault until they caused it. I asked about a refund of my line connection fee for the time I was cut off.

"You will need to contact our billing department for that"

I did not dare ask which continent the billing department was on. It may even be manned by extra-terrestrials.

On the evening of the second day (oops, a bit biblical there) I checked the phone again. Still dead. I got my mobile and phoned myself. (I should point out that this is something which I do not usually do. Though I have been known to send myself emails as reminders.)

I phoned myself. And somebody answered. Considering that they had been getting all of our calls for the last day and a half they were very friendly. Mind you, they had plenty of time to answer because nobody who rang them on their number was able to get through.

They seem to have had quite a good time talking to total strangers. A strange sort of blitz spirit thing. My Mum spent quite a while talking to them.

It turns out they too were both BT and Tiscali customers.

I rang BT again.

"You will need to test your equipment. If we send an engineer round and the fault is with your equipment you will have to pay £65.00"

I got him to try and ring our number rather than test it. I dare say he had a lovely time talking to our patient and understanding fellow customers. He rang back afterwards and apologised.

We finally got everything working at lunchtime today.

Goodness knows if either company will give us a refund on the rental.

At least now I know what "a two hour break in service" really means.

And I did get to speak to some very nice people.

Looks like summer has arrived.

Our visiting cat is basking in the sun, resting from his exertions chasing bees, flies, moths, squirrels and frogs in our garden. A few weeks ago I wrote about our worries that he might be a stray. I am glad to say that after a few discrete enquiries we have established that he does indeed have a home, only five houses further along from us.

We have named him Tigger, but our informant tells us his original given name is in fact Humphrey! What’s more, Humphrey has a brother, named Bernard! (His owner is obviously a fan of the eighties T.V. comedy “Yes Minister”.)

They now both come round regularly, with Humphrey the more regular visitor. They share many of the same looks and behaviours, though Bernard is heavier looking and slightly more pushy.

Bernard not being Pushy.



Apparently both of them are absolute floozies, charming their way into most of the houses between their home and ours. (Humphrey is called “Tom” by our next door neighbours. He must have more identities than an M.I. 5 agent.)

They do appreciate comfort, as you can see below.



TiggerTomHumphrey is pussy non grata with our next door neighbours at the moment. This may have something to do with the three dead birds he has deposited outside their window as a seasonal gift. The young girl of the house naturally found this most distressing, and has insisted on the corpses being buried at the end of the garden, with “appropriate words” being said and twigs pushed into the ground as markers.

They are both consummate hunters. There will be more twigs in the ground before this summer is over.

Another Week Older and Deeper in Debt

I will start off by apologising once again to my loyal readership – (you have to believe that someone out there occasionally finds your messages washed up on the shore along with the other thousand million bottles.)

Excuses for not posting? To be honest I just haven’t made the time. Life has done its usual routine of creeping up quietly and then hitting me on the back of the head.
We were hoping to go away for the latter part of last week, a little city break. Barcelona maybe. Then everything started to slide.

First our washing machine broke down. A minor problem, but annoying for my wife and I and absolutely devastating for my mother-in-law. She lives with us, but really she Lives To Launder. She will seek out stuff to wash. She is an addict. We actually let the washing machine detergent run out every so often just to see her twitch when the withdrawal symptoms start. We ordered a new machine as the other one had been run into the ground. That was going to take a week to arrive.

Then Transco stepped onto the scene, in the form of a gas engineer sent to replace our venerable gas meter. Friday afternoon he turns up, changes the meter, tests it, and condemns our entire gas installation as Immediately Dangerous. Switches the gas off at the meter and runs for his van before we get a chance to say “Wha…?”

So we now have no washing machine, no hot water, no central heating, and only an electric oven and a microwave to cook on. And the weather was unseasonably cold.

Then over the weekend my Mother (over eighty, like my mother-in-law) announces that her only companion, her dog, is on its last legs. Cue instant guilt feelings from her only borne child.

By last Monday it became obvious that Barcelona was going to have to wait.

The majority of last week was spent tidying up and sorting things in the attic ready for the gas fitters to come in. This is a process akin to playing Tetris, the game where you have to move small blocks so that you can make room to put others in their place. The local charity shops received an unexpected windfall, and I suspect the Bin Men will be muttering about us for weeks to come.

This afternoon the fitter finished. All we need do now is put back everything that we moved out of his way. We’ll have a heck of a job with the widescreen T.V.

Oh, that reminds me. The Video broke down last week too…..

Tiptoe Through The Tulips.

The weather over the last few days has been awful in London. Cold, high winds, dark and either drizzly or torrential rain. It tends to be like this each May, the second or third week. The reason? I suspect it is because of Chelsea Flower Show.

The show, which opens today to R.H.S. members, is almost always cursed by inclement weather. I remember last year the folk selling Pimms looked downhearted most of the day and the Ice Cream sellers looked positively suicidal. The only people doing a good trade were the girls handing out rain capes sponsored by an insurance company.

We will be going tomorrow, with sandwiches and flasks of tea to be consumed perched on a folding chair near the bandstand. We will probably play our usual game of celebrity spotting. Last year we got all the usual suspects, Dairmuid Gavin, Monty Don, Carole Klein, Alan Titchmarsh and Linda Barker.

Watch this space for news and photos…

Ooops. Where did that week go?

Ouch! All of a sudden a blog-free week has shot past.
My apologies. The weekends have just shot past without stopping to say “hello”, and the weeknights just don’t seem to be long enough.
My good lady wife is working late three nights a week at the moment. By the time I have got home from work its time to get dinner ready. Then bedtime arrives! It’s been busy at work too, so no chance there to pre-write a blog for posting later.

I thought I was going to have time to write last night, then foolishly thought I would start by upgrading the anti-virus software on our laptop. Silly me. After I downloaded and installed the software (and Paid for it too I may add), I started getting a persistent error message I had never had before. Up it popped every time I clicked on anything. Download six emails, up it popped, six times. Thank you Norton Antivirus! I ended up having to uninstall the programme, locate and rename a hidden file, then install the antivirus all over again. All in all I must have restarted the laptop about eight times and spent about three hours working on it. The Norton help files were useless. It was good luck that I found a fix by Googling the error message, even better luck that the first fix I found worked first time.

That’s computers all over, higher maintenance than a fashion model and just as unpredictable.

Another one bites the dust...

And no, I’m not talking about a Spurs fan’s hopes..

Only a few short weeks after I blogged about the rich diversity of shops in the Nags Head and our oldest Greengrocer, Gibber of Holloway has closed down for good.

This end of the Seven Sisters road isn’t exactly short of fruit and veg emporia. But at its best, Gibbers was something else. It had real personality.

John, the shop manager, was a real character. He worked the shop like a Maitre’D in a restaurant, welcoming people, keeping two conversations going at once. He would ask you about the cricket and sell you six boxes of jam strawberries at the same time. If anything on the show looked a little less than perfect you just had to ask John and you would be escorted to one of the massive coldrooms at the back and invited to pick your choice from the freshest of the fresh.

I even remember one year, around Christmas time, when he gave my wife and I a bottle of wine! I think the majority of their business came from supplying the restaurant trade, including some rather posh West End kitchens. This meant that anything could be found for you, you just had to ask. And as always, there is nothing a food seller likes better than an enthusiastic customer.

Sadly, years of hefting heavy sacks around took their toll on John.(I remember swapping hernia stories with him) and a crushed wrist bone caused him problems for quite a while. Finally his wife became seriously ill, and John retired to look after her. Thing started to go downhill for Gibbers at that point.

You know when standards start to slip in a greengrocers. The quality of the veg goes down. Beetroots and Swedes sit in corners going soft and wrinkled like an old boxer down on his luck. I went in their a few weeks back and they had a whole box of broccoli on the show that was practically yellow with age, blousy and loose instead of vibrant and green. The old Greek ladies in their widow’s black started going elsewhere, and I must confess I followed them. I popped in now and then, half out of loyalty, half hoping things would get better. They never did. On a Saturday in the past Gibbers would have two or three extra staff serving and shifting. Recently they have only had one girl on the till, and she wasn’t busy.

This stretch of Seven Sisters Road now has two prime double shop sites empty and practically next door to each other. (The other is one of the two decent butchers in the area which shut just before Christmas). We can only hope that the planners don’t let the sites get turned into yet another kebab shop or general “grocers” selling exactly the same as all the others.

This area is fast turning into a shopping wasteland. I feel a letter to my Councillors coming on. Feel free to join me.

Only In Islington.... Part Two of an occasional series...

I won’t go on about the term “old folks”; irritating as it is. It is a newspaper placard, space is important. “older persons” is clumsy, and longer.

No. What gets me is the “pub sing songs” bit.

It automatically conjures up images of good ‘ole cockney types in caps and mufflers, drawing deeply on Capstan Full Strength as they quaff ale and sing Roll Out The Barrel and Knees Up Mother Brown.

“Never mind the bombs falling Duck, get another drink in and we’ll sing Roll Me Over In The Clover”

But hang on a minute. Let us define “Old Folks” as those of 75 years of age. That means they were born in 1931. Now, say for the purpose of argument that one’s musical tastes are formed by the music you grow up with, what were the contemporary hits of 1953, when these wrinklies were 22 years of age?

Guy Mitchell “She wears red feathers.” (13 March 1953)

Lita Roza “How much is that doggie in the window?” (17 April 1953)

Frankie Laine “I Believe” (Various times for something like 18 weeks in total).

Now pardon me, but I have never heard a pub full of old timers belting out “How much is that doggie” before trashing the place and steaming down Upper Street in their mobility carts.

And as for “I Believe”, well anyone who can sing

“I believe for every drop of rain that falls, a flower grows”

In these drought-ridden times deserves to be bought a drink, not banned from the pub.

We Was Nobbled!!

When I married my good lady wife nearly twenty years ago, I also married into a family of ardent Arsenal supporters. I have never regretted marrying my wife. But sometimes having Gooners as in-laws can prove to be a test of character in the face of adversity. Yesterday was one such time.

If I have to hear "Spurs did really well this year" said with a smiling irony akin to talking down to the village idiot (who has just crossed the road without being run over) I will simply implode.

But to suffer all this, all the "It ain't over till its over" smugness, the "just you wait" cockiness, all this, and to be beaten by a lasagne?

Life really isn't fair.

Oscar Wilde got it right:

"Football is all very well. A good game for rough girls, but not for delicate boys."

Overheard Today at the Health Food Shop.

Beard One: "What you need is one of my crystal essences."

Beard Two: "how d'you make them then?"

Beard One: "well, I make them during the summer. I get spring water, and I put the crystal in it. Leave it in the sun, see. Then the sun energises the crystal, and the water catches the energy."

Beard Two: "yeah? Then what?"

Beard One: "Then I get organic brandy, mix that with the water, and bottle it for later."

At this point I was turning blue with the effort of keeping my face straight.

It makes homeopathy sound scientific.

Post-Modernism to your Collection Point Please.

Piped Music must be one of the greatest irritations of modern life. Enduring the Customer Non-Service of your average Argos Store comes a close second. Piped music in an Argos Store should therefore be insufferable.

Yet today, whilst I dutifully waited for ten minutes before being told I was in the wrong place, something magical happened. A little glint of humanity caught my eye. Or rather, ear.

Some subversive soul in head office had added a Kinks track to the piped music.

Which one?

"Tired of Waiting."!!!

".... you keep-a me waiting
All of the time
What can I do?
It’s your life
And you can do what you want
Do what you like
But please don’t keep-a me waiting
Please don’t keep-a me waiting’
cause I’m so tired
Tired of waiting
Tired of waiting for you..."

Corporate Irony No Less!

Don't Tell Steven Spielberg.

Today found me attending a training course on the fifth floor of one of our older buildings. When our college took over we installed lifts to make the building more accessible. I've used the lift probably ten or twelve times in the last couple of years. Never noticed the manufacturer's nameplate before today though.

Schindler.

That's right, its Schindler's Lift!

Dictionary Corner.

As regular readers will know, I work in a Library. Today I spent some time re-labelling the quick reference section. One of the books I was working on was an English-Albanian Dictionary. Browsing (as one does) idly, my eye fell on the entry for the word "dick". Delightfully, the Albanian word for dick is -

"Detektive" !!!

It gives the phrase "helping the police with their enquiries" a whole new meaning.

Oddly the Dictionary also provides the Albanian for the English phrase "kitchen police". The mind boggles...

Keeping the peace.

As the Phantomette is a dyed-in-the-wool Arsenal supporter and I support Spurs there was only one thing to do this lunchtime. Stay away from the T.V. and the radio and avoid strangling each other.

It has been quite a few years since we went down to Borough Market, so we thought we would give it a try. It was interesting to see how things have changed down there.

Borough Market in 1999 was a foodies dream. Small producers travelling with a few cool boxes full of meat, cheese or sausages. If you got there much after twelve noon all you would get would be crumbs.

Six years on and the Market has turned into another stop on the London Tourist Trail. The place is crowded. Queues for venison burgers or falafel wraps snake round the stalls. I saw one stall where the line went full circle and came round on itself. Some of the stalls which have been there since the beginning have now got walk-in fridges and refrigerated display cabinets. There seem to be fewer of the small individual artisan food producers and more spin-off stalls from commercial businesses in the area surrounding the market.

There is still plenty of great food to be had. We bought some amazingly creamy, sweet Gorgonzola, and rich, nutty Comte cheese. Some smoked Mackerel went into our bag, and plum tomatoes on the vine and smelling heavenly. We added some French new potatoes and chose a couple of fistfuls of salad leaves, rocket, mizuna and oak leaf. Sold loose for us to mix and match, enough for two salads came to .90p. A soggy supermarket pillow pack would have been twice the price and half the quality.

We stopped for a sandwich and a cuppa before getting the bus home. I couldn’t resist checking the score on my phone. Nil –One to Spurs with fifteen minutes to go.

By the time we got to the bus stop the game was over, a one-one draw. But for ten minutes or so it felt like a dream had come true.

And at least we could eat our lunch without strangling each other….

How about a Day Orff Ma'am?

Never let it be said that I ignore an obvious subject for a blog post. Yes, today’s subject is the Royal Birthday (Curtsey, Bow, Doff Headgear Walk Out Backwards).

Unlike The Guardian I will not go so far as to demand the abolition of the Monarchy when the current one gives up either the ghost or the crown.

Nor will I Fawn and Simper, as the Daily Mail will no doubt do enough of that for most of the population of Great Britain and the Channel Isles.

But My Fragrant Phantomette made a very good point the other day.

In Canada there is a thriving anti-monarchist movement, but the Canadians get the day off on the Queen’s Birthday.

The Anti-Royal feeling in Australia is probably even greater, yet they get the Queen’s Birthday off too.

They even get the day off in Fiji, where the Queen ceased to be the head of state in 1987, following a coup!

So why don’t we get the day off in England? Even if we have to put up with the National Anthem being played on the radio all day it would be worth it….

…. And that’s another thing, if you are instantly depressed as the opening bars drone out, this site is for you.

Don't Forget To Wear An Apron In The Front Row.

I have commented already on the sad state of British Musicals. (March 14 2006).

However, this week's issue of The Stage has an exclusive on a new production that threatens to lower standards still further.

The Stage reveals that Tony McHale, Executive Producer of medical drama Holby City is working on, yes, you guessed it, a Musical!!

The show is due to hit the West End this year. And the title?...

Bloodbath - The Musical.

Really. This extravaganza of gore...

"will tell the story of a serial killer called the Waterman, who attacks young girls".

Sounds like a laugh-a-minute evening out for all the family.

I fear that the rot may not stop there. Look out for Moors Murderers The Musical, or "If I Had A Hammer", the Yorkshire Ripper Story.

Does no one have any taste left?

A Tale of Two Kitties

We are in a quandary. Our visiting cat (as mentioned in my post of March 20) is becoming a regular guest in our garden. He is even wangling his way into our kitchen, which leads on to the garden.

We still can’t work out if he owns anyone in particular. Sometimes we don’t see him all day, then he turns up in the evening and looks cheesed off that we haven’t been playing with him.

We thought at first that he had a home – he looks fit and healthy – but now we aren’t so sure. It could be that he is just very good at scrounging food from humans. He has got his paws in under the table of our next door neighbours as well.

Our confidence in his wellbeing was given a serious dent a couple of nights ago, around midnight. We had just put out the lights and were drifting off to sleep when we heard him. A sad, lonely “I’m here” mewing downstairs, outside the patio doors.

As much out of guilt as anything we have started to give him some food last thing at night, plus a bowl of water. We leave it near the box we have lined for him and left outside under shelter.

Last night we heard him outside the patio doors. We opened them and he came in. Then he came in again. Or rather a slightly older looking version. His mother? Before we knew it “our” cat was investigating behind the fridge and his feline friend was heading into the dishwasher! (they both have the investigating prowess of H.M. Customs and Excise.) Unusually he didn’t miaow for food, so we just ushered them both out into the night.

Which may explain why we were woken by the sound of “our” cat mewing plaintively outside at six-fifteen this morning.

I think it is trying to train us.

Do we adopt him? Is he adopting us?

Any advice would be gratefully received!