My work diary said it quite clearly. “Training in Leeds?!”, I exclaimed, hoping that a statement about the customary wet weather in that region had merely been misprinted. Nope, this was the real deal, and I dutifully trundled up there on Wednesday afternoon, eager to see what the city of Leeds had to offer.
Not a lot, I noted five hours later, as the aforementioned rain came swirling down past the Leeds football stadium. I veered off the M62 down towards the hotel, placed neatly between the motorway and a downtrodden and half-empty business park. Still, the staff seemed oblivious to their location, and emitted plenty of false smiles as they guided me up the labyrinthine stairs to my room.
My manager had warned me about their 12-table restaurant. I know I should have listened, but after 5 hours of motorway, I was in no fit state to drive around for an inviting place to eat. A full 15 minutes after I arrived, a waitress arrived to take my order. “I’d love to,” I replied, “just as soon as you manage to offer me a menu.” The rest of the meal was a comedy act, although the food was passable and the bar was exceedingly well stocked. I wandered up to my room, set my alarm and retired to bed.
As it turned out, there was no need for an alarm – the early morning fire alarm did just the job. After roll call, I decided a short walk to the office would do me good. I’d managed to get vague directions to the address – “Down the road, round the corner, it’s just about 300 yards away, easy to find”. So off I trotted.
A good 30 minutes later, I was most definitely lost. Even the local workers hadn’t heard of Royds Hall Road, and I desperately floundered against the growing flurry of rain. I upped the place.
The trouble, you see, was this. “Just down the road” takes on confusing proportions when you are met with two crossroads and a roundabout within 200 metres of your hotel – and as it turned out the correct road was the very last one I chose. I stormed in, 20 minutes late and soaked to the skin.
The rest of the day was filled with training, training and a bit more training. In fact, the following day was a spitting image, minus the extra mile of walking. The final night, in a moment of utter boredom, I took a trip to the local newsagent for something to munch and something to read. Being a little out of my way, I asked for directions. “Just down the road,” said the receptionist – I’d heard that before – “and it’s on the left, next to White Rose.” The White Rose, I pondered as I spooned myself into the car – a pub perhaps? Maybe a garage. I drove into the night.
After 5 minutes, I was sure I’d gone too far. A quick, slightly illegal u-turn, and I was travelling back. I passed Waitrose on my left. “Waitrose… Waitrose… I wonder…” And there it was. The small white newsagent sign flashed intermittently as the vagaries of the Leeds accent dawned on me. I was grinning all the way back. Little things, eh.
My trip back down was troubled by the usual M25 chaos, and I must admit I was glad to be home. The promised travelling in my role is beginning to take hold – and I must admit it all makes a pleasant change from the Guildford-Liss jaunt.

Nick is now 32. Such a senior age suggested a party was needed, and the Pyrford Cricket club seemed the ideal location. Sarah organised the food with aplomb – there’s something very English about cooking a barbeque in the rain – and Michelle kept me on the straight and narrow. I won’t embellish you too much with the night’s details – suffice to say that Nick received a singing pig from Michelle and I, and that water pistol fights – Boys vs Girls – are FUN.

Not a few days after I handed my notice into my employers, I pottered off for a week’s holiday on the Isle of Wight. This was no ordinary trip, mind – it was Michelle’s
brother’s wedding, and Sarah was the lucky bride. Matt and Sarah have been
an item for years, and as I uttered the morning after the wedding day, it
was nice of them “to put us out of our misery” and get married.
Michelle and I planned ahead. Well, Michelle planned – I followed. We stayed
the night before at my house, a short drive away from the ferry terminal.
Michelle made sure everything was packed and we planned to go shopping
midday-ish, before setting sail late afternoon for the Isle. All was
ready.
As ever, the plans were in shreds by 9am. My car tax was due, and in sheer
horror I discovered that all the documents I needed were out of date. Cue me
doing a good impression of a blue-arsed fly, beetling off to the nearest
garage and demanding an MOT in the next 4 hours. Which, to their eternal
credit, they did – and we finally set off for the glorious Isle.
The ferry port conveniently sits abreast of a large shopping arcade, and we took full advantage. We
pottered, ambled, supped tea and failed to buy a single thing. By 4pm, the ferry
was docking, it was raining, and we were wet. The Alsation of Time was drooling impatiently
at our heels. We headed for the port.
The trip across water was uneventful. We alighted at Fishbourne, and made
straight to our multi-bedroomed house in Ventnor. I don’t know if you’ve ever been to the Isle of Wight
- if you haven’t, I’ll give you some advice. Don’t drive. It is without doubt
the most frustrating experience I have ever encountered – and that includes
parking in Guildford on a Saturday afternoon. Despite the island being a
goodly 10 miles across, even a small trip requires military planning. A
combination of large bends, tiny roads and an “older generation” of retired
folk means you are constantly wishing for the open road, a place to open the
throttle and roar off to the beach.
We arrived at the house in the early evening – although a closer description
may be “mansion”. The house was enormous, and amply fitted the 10 people
that eventually filled it. Once the bags were in, attention swung to
our empty stomachs and Michelle and I were quickly packed off to the local fish
and chip shop.
Only, there wasn’t one. At least, not one that was open. So, after half an hour of searching, we ordered the true cuisine of your average seaside town. We ordered a chinese meal.
Once back, we filled our stomachs until we couldn’t move. We were knackered. Bed was calling.
Day Two on the Isle, and the weather was dire. Michelle’s aunt and uncle
turned up (after crashing into a lovely couple’s car at the ferry port), Becki – Michelle’s sister – and Glyn turned up (with Glyn thoroughly enjoying his second week “on this bloody island”), Olly and I found salvation in a food shopping trip and several hundred games of Jenga, and we all hoped for better weather tomorrow – the Grand Wedding Day.
Day Three – and the weather was worse. Nerves a-jangling, we were worryingly
on time as we set off. Everything was going well. Too well.
As it turned out, there was nothing to fret about. The wedding was a
cracking affair, with the nervous groom and best man buzzing around making
sure nothing went wrong, and yours truly at the helm of the video camera,
doing – even if I say so myself – a fine job. It was my first time at taking
a video and I duly made the classic amateur mistake – talking loudly while
filming. Matt and Sarah now have a lovely video, marred only my constant
“witty” banter. Ah well…
The wedding party went long into the night, and was a highly enjoyable
affair. Excellent speeches were given, troughs of wine were drunk, incoherent songs were sung, aged men were falling over – all in all your typical wedding, but a very special one. Congratulations to the bride and groom, Mr and Mrs Cooke. It feels odd just writing that.
True to form, the sun came out in force in the days after the wedding, and we sweltered by the beach. We took a trip to Alum Bay, which, for a small island, was astonishingly far away from our house. The Bay is noted for it’s coloured sands – however, that is not what I will forever remember it for. For Alum Bay hosts the most dangerous rides I have ever witnessed. The first is cunningly disguised as a merry-go-round. However, for anyone above 5 foot, it should really be known as the Bollock-Breaker. The stirrups for the model horses are plainly made for leprechauns, and waves of nausea flood over you, rendering you numb as you ride up and down, up and down, essentially resting very firmly on your crown jewels.
This, however, was nothing – the Alum Bay Cliff Ride should frankly be banned. A Cliff Ride sounds enticing – you can ride down the cliff, take in the view, sample the sea air. The reality is this – you are sitting in one of two metal chairs, the entire thing hanging from a thin wire, as you rapidly plunge over a two hundred foot cliff, open to all the windy elements and facing a fall of gigantic proportions if you so much as scratch your right armpit. You’re not even strapped in, for God’s sake. And, to top it all, I had the pleasure of sitting next to Olly, who found it highly amusing to bounce up and down several times, turning a possible fall to my death into a near certainty. It was all I could do to hang on to his arm for dear life, thinking over and over to myself “if I’m going, he’s bloody coming with me”.
As it happened, I survived. Just.
The last remaining days were spent playing ball in the garden, becoming ultimate masters of Jenga, and consuming vast quantities of food in seafront pubs. There were several young’uns with us, and Joe in particular took delight in the Chicken Teddy Bears on one of the pub menus (“they’re teddy bears in the shape of chickens, Joe”).
And so the sun came down on our week on the island. The Isle of Wight is a strange place – it’s not until the sun comes out that you see what all the fuss is about. We were sad to go.

“We wander for distraction, but we travel for fulfillment.”
Hilaire Belloc
Two years ago, to celebrate out first anniversary, Michelle and I pootled off to take in the delights of Bath, braving all the jokes about “needing to wash” and “I should have a shower instead” from ‘amusing’ friends. Bath is a very picturesque place, with cracking restaurants, interesting museums and a shedload of shops. The trip was so blooming enjoyable we did it again last weekend, jokes and all.
The trip down was pleasant enough, but served to confirm one of my long-held geographical theories – the closer to Wales you get, the worse the weather becomes. After we sped through the rain (and a surprisingly-named town of Pennsylvania, causing Nick to ask “just how far have you gone?!” on a call from his romantic hotel in the New Forest), we arrived at the hotel at around 5 in the afternoon, after just the one wrong turning. We entered our room – and what a room it was. The majestic four-poster bed was accompanied by a side order of 12 deep red roses and champagne on ice. Marvellous.
Sadly we only had an hour to admire them before our stomachs marched us off to the Eastern Eye, a huge Indian restaurant in the town centre. It was essentially one big room, about 40 foot high and seemingly many miles long. It had been some sort of famous market area in the 1800′s apparently, famed throughout Bath, with ornate details on the walls and three glass domes set into the roof. I can only wonder at the protests that must have taken place when it emerged that it was turning into an Indian restaurant, of all things. Still, the setting was fantastic, with the food equally so, despite the dish I chose rendering my entire mouth numb for at least an hour.
By the time we’d finished there was nothing to do but get back to the hotel and sleep.
For following day we visited the Moon and Sixpence, and classy restaurant near the Roman Baths. Still suffering from the Indian the previous night, we barely managed a main course, and decided a window-shopping trip was in order to work the food off. We ventured into a nearby shopping arcade, and found a camera shop. A quick look at the digital cameras and Michelle was on a mission to buy one. After asking the assistants advice for a full 30 minutes, we nipped along to a cheaper shop and bought one, immediately debunking my schoolday retail theory that if you put in the hours, you’ll get the sale. Poor man.
And then, not to be outdone, I decided I was going to get a new mobile phone. And, in true geek fashion, I plumped for an O2 XDAII. As soon as my good friend from Phones4U gets me a hefty discount, it’ll be mine…
We left the next morning – back to Surrey, back to work. Ah well, we thought as Pennsylvania disappeared into the hazy distance – we’ll be back again…

After a disgraceful delay, I can finally report that Paul D and Liz’s visit to Guildford last Friday went splendidly, taking in a film (althoughly sadly Lost in Translation lived up to its name for Paul and Michelle, despite my film-speak protestations that it was a “observationally clever piece”) and a nice meal at Old Orleans, where we observed several scantilly-clad 16-year-olds and a table (a brace?) of drunken men, hurling their food all over the place, before leaving without paying. I’ve heard of frying chips, but never flying chips…
The rest of the week has been fairly ho-hum – an early whim about changing car to an Audi was exciting until I worked out the sheer financial hell I would inflict on my poor bank manager. Still, Tony H as ever came up with the goods and produced a “spare” Audi A6, which I’ll go and look at next week.
Oh, and I’m expecting a VERY exciting delivery today…

Alex M has moved house. Naturally, it was an excuse for an almighty piss-up, so Jonola, Michelle, Mark R and I descended on his new house. The gleaming, wrought-iron electronic gates that confronted us set the scene for things to come. Alex had described the house very positively – a huge farmhouse, extensive grounds, its own car park and a picturesque lake at the front. Time would tell whether this was the case, or whether it was just an enormous, delapidated wreck in the middle of nowhere, in need of a good lick of paint.
But anyway, back to the gate. Remembering Jac’s instruction to “just think of the Magna Carta”, I entered the correct code, and they slowly opened.
A quick drive down the road revealed that Alex’s description was spot on. It was an impressive find in the middle of Watford, even more so for ?750 a month. The lake, the outhouses, the barns, the large farmhouse, everything he’d mentioned was there. There were even some things he hadn’t mentioned. Like the coffins, cremated remains and several large headstones for example.
The party started off with a barbeque, which was only bought an hour before. The burgers and sausages sizzled, and soon enough Jac was to be found dropping most of his food on the grass, much to our delight.
Then, a new football keepy-uppy game. It was a good game – the ball is passed around, and the person who loses it the most gets to bend over and get a football aimed at him by the other players – but I seemed to be on a losing streak from the outset. However, Mark R got a sweetly-placed football on his posterior, which he seemed to enjoy immensely.
Jac, Mark and I then embarked on a mission to soak each other with a Super Soaker gun, so the rest of the group moved to the front of the house and decided a “homeless-style” fire was in order. We searched for a barrel to fill full of wood. It was then that we discovered, in a large barn, the coffin. And behind it, the headstones. Now, at 12 o’clock at night, in the pitch black, this is not something you really want to find. After bravely venturing in and running out screaming several times, we decided enough was enough, and found a barrel outside instead. Which, as it happens, was full of the most foul-smelling ash you could imagine. God knows what was burnt in there, but throwing caution to the wind I emptied it out. If it was a person’s remains, they are now happily sitting in the middle of a driveway, possibly being driven over every time a car passes. Apologies, Mr Burnt Man, I can only hope you didn’t ironically die in a car crash or something.
It later turned out that the building was used by the local synagogue for storing headstones and coffins, which they come along to collect every week. We rapidly reappraised the “bargain” that Alex had managed to find, and decided that a house without smelly ash, dark mysterious barns, headstones and coffins would be worth the extra loot.

Wandering along Guildford High Street this lunchtime, hunting down some food, I came across a new restaurant, Wagamamas. “Open Monday!” it proclaimed, and my heart sank. Then, a friendly-looking woman in a rather fetching pinney, spying my eagerness to go in, asked if I’d like to sample the food. “Christ, yes,” I replied, “but you look expensive…”.
“Not at all, sir, we’re training today. Everything’s free.”
Everything’s free. That’s like a red rag to a bull. I still harbour my student inclination to take any free offer that comes my way, and I was in that door like a shot.
Now Wagamama is, apparently, famous. I haven’t a clue if this is true – I don’t get out much these days. However, their website seems quite impressive. I burst into the restaurant, and parked myself next to a lady who turned out to be recruiting for a speed-dating agency. My rugged good looks obviously impressed her, and she handed me a leaflet. I explained that my girlfriend may have something to say about me taking up her kind offer, and disappointed, she wondered off to accost some other poor man.
I had a full 2 course meal, washed down with 2 large bottles of Tiger beer. All for absolutely nothing. My stomach was most impressed. No such thing as a free lunch? Yeah there is…

“Did you know,” piped up Zoe, breaking the stony silence in the staff room, “that bananas are an amazing thing?” We didn’t, which was lucky as she then went on to explain all manners of uses for the humble, globally declining fruit. “you can rub them on yourself to cure all sorts of things, cuts, sores, itchy legs, anything.” This was a surprise to us all. “Yes, it can do all sorts of things, a really amazing thing.”
Then silence. We all thought we’d heard the last of Zoe’s facts. Slowly, seconds passed.
Suddenly, Zoe’s face lit up. “But not as amazing as a coconut.”
This latest revelation sent us all into fits of giggles. I always try to go to lunch when she’s there – you learn all sorts of things in an hour. Apparently, coconuts can be used as food AND water, you can make rope from it’s hairy outside bits, and you can do all sorts of other things I can’t remember.
So, there you go. I could say it was a “fruit”-ful lunch hour. But I won’t.

On Saturday, for the first time in a few months, I went to a house party. My friend Mel had invited Jac and I (purely for entertainment value, apparently) to South London for a knees up, and, after a visit to Sainsbury’s, where I asked a complete stranger if he had any marshmellows (I SWEAR he looked like he worked there…), we duly turned up with some alcohol and, randomly, a small packet of Gungo peas. “Finger food”, Jac explained, although quite how a selection of small dried peas from Jamaica could pass as ideal party nibbles, no-one could quite explain. Least of all Jac…
After loudly and mistakenly calling my good friend Ellie W-P “Mel” whilst everyone dissolved in tears of laughter around me, Jac and I settled into our well-worn “party joker” monikers. Ellie C did the honours on the barbeque, managing to drop most of the food through the bars into the ash, and forgetting to bring round the dips, instead just furnishing us with bread sticks. The evening, bless it, passed largely without incident, save for Jac’s poor hearing – he mistook the name Claudia Schiffer for Corduroy Shifter (“that well-known trouser salesman”), and his uncanny ability to make me cry with laughter. During a lull in the conversation, I noticed a strange waft coming in through the window. “Do you have an Indian round here?”, I asked, noting the familiar smell of an indian restaurant, “There’s a strange smell coming from outside…”. “Yes, ” replied Mel, “there’s one just around the corner”. At which point Jac, completely misunderstanding the situation, yelled out the window, “GO AND HAVE A SHOWER, YOU SMELLY MAN”.
I didn’t fully recover for several minutes…

Oh, and WHAT a party it was last night. Elli’s sister Zoe kindly had a 21st birthday, an excuse we all immediately pounced on for a knees up. Once again, the Cowell residence did themselves proud, with neverending food, neverending champagne and almost neverending Pimms fueling some drunken goon-like dancing, women sporting particularly short skirts, and outrageous “happenings” on the outside bench. The highlight of the night was possibly when Jac fell asleep in the loudest room in the house, with the DJ pumping out classic after classic, and slowly but surely falling off his chair into a crumpled heap. His brand new ?500 dinner suit went down a storm, however, and he snogged for the second time in two days, breaking all previous records. Quite why this has happened we’re still trying to work out. “As it’s your 21st birthday,” I announced, “we thought we’d go for a gardening theme” somehow covered the fact that I was actually in a B & Q store when I suddenly remembered her birthday. Our customary stupid presents culminated in a bag of fresh moss and a garden hoe. Lucky, lucky girl, eh?

Quotes of the moment
Me, after revealing a present: “You don’t want to get the hoe covered in earth. There’s nothing worse that having a dirty hoe on your conscience, believe me”, cunningly exploiting the Jerry Springer definition of ‘hoe’ to great effect.
Jac, after being told he looked “dishy”: “I hope that’s not in the ceramic sense.”