Somewhere else on Thames..perhaps. Or possibly not

Nowhere-on-Thames may soon be no more. I will be blogging under false pretences.

Whilst enjoying the limited charms and unlimited sunshine of Egypt, TH and I were able to indulge in one of the many pursuits denied to us in the normal course of events. We talked to one another. At length.

As a married couple of some 30-odd years’ standing, this should be a normal activity. However, our respective schedules have, for many years, condemned our conversation to a regular exchange of post-it notes on the fridge. Given the lack of availability of an A4-sized post-it note, I mainly confine myself to leaving instructions as to the location and nature of the evening meal,  short, urgent “to do” lists, and questions regarding the whereabouts of things I’ve been unable to find during the day.

By the time I get home from work, TH may just have waited up long enough to say something like “I’m off to bed, good night”. It’s not the moment to launch into any sort of deep conversation, as he is well past his sell-by date, having got up at 4.45 am to catch the first train to the metropolis.

Meanwhile, back in Egypt, we found ourselves able to catch up on some of the conversations that we normally have to cram into Sunday afternoons…and this year, we spoke of retirement. Well, of TH’s retirement, anyway. Successive governments seem hell bent on ensuring that I will keep seeing my state pension on the horizon, and, like someone lost in the desert, I will crawl towards it, only to discover that it was a mirage all along.  I am, however, determined to stay alive to draw it, even if they keep increasing the statutory retirement age by increments until I am 105. If only out of spite!

TH asked, quite out of the blue, one evening as we enjoyed an aperitif, if I had any preference as to where I would like to live once he retired. Initially, I had to take a minute to process the information, as I wasn’t altogether sure whether he was working up to asking for a divorce, or suggesting that I might care to move out of the matrimonial home, but no, he was Planning Ahead. TH has a strange approach to Planning Ahead. He usually packs his suitcase about two weeks before a holiday, whereas I do mine the day before. However, I often wonder about long-term plans, whereas TH  only really plans a month or so ahead. So you can imagine my surprise that he was talking about moving house “sometime in the next couple of years”. 

The conversation led us both to decide that we would probably rather move closer to London than further away, although we were rather more sketchy as to where.  The “closer” part did not have to entail much geographical adjustment, but we both felt it might be a plus if we found somewhere on a train line that didn’t make a three-legged tortoise look like Mo Farah.  As things stand, N-o-T is connected to London by a train service that stops every 100 metres, and takes 50 minutes to cover something in the region of 20 miles. There are tail-enders in the London Marathon who could do the journey faster. Even if they were wearing a chicken costume..

Upon our return, I decided to have a cursory look at property in a couple of places, and before I knew it, TH was spurred into action and we were off for a spin to see what had become of Surbiton, where we lived at the time we first married, and Kingston, where sons#1 and#2 were born.  

This was a salutary experience. There is no doubt that the entire cast of “The Good Life” must have moved out, as it appears they’ve probably been able to sell half their garden to a property developer who has built seven or eight houses on the plot.  It was like going back to the scene of a memorable holiday, only to discover that Ryanair, Easyjet and Flybe have started daily flights there, and the deserted beach has been dug up to build fifteen hotels.  Affording a house was not the issue. Affording a garage (or even a parking space) and a garden are almost certainly beyond our means.  

On the plus side, I can report that Surbiton has probably the highest per capita concentration of proper, old-fashioned ironmongers’ shops of anywhere in South East England, if not the UK as a whole.

We are currently working on Plan B. When we decide what Plan B is, you will be the first to know.

By the way, I might add – in case you were wondering – that proximity to a decent rail connection to London is important because along the way, TH confided that, when he reaches retirement age, he has no intention of actually retiring.  I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Monty Python touched a bit of a nerve......

I am in love with Dave Fishwick. Although we've never met..

In a land far away from NoT, there lives a little man called Dave. Today, he has been all over the airwaves, talking about the second part of a documentary, showing as I type on Channel 4. Dave, in my most humble opinion, is a genius. Let me tell you why….

Last July, Dave featured in a two-part documentary. Having made a fortune from his own business, selling minibuses, Dave decided that he wanted to put something back into his community. His community is in Burnley. Which is, it has to be said, hardly the banking and investment capital of the UK. Or it wasn’t.

For Dave had a dream, and the guts, determination and sheer bloody-mindedness to carry it out. He could not believe what was happening to the UK’s banking system, and he believed that he could set up a community bank. So he did.

Dave’s bank has a two-year waiting list of investors waiting to put money IN….

The FSA has tried (unsuccessfully) to close down the Bank of Dave. His business model, which relies simply on recruiting savers, using their money to make loans to local businesses, paying the savers 5% interest and donating any surplus to local charities, is apparently considered “risky”. Dave’s bank is not losing money. On the contrary, it has donated over £20,000 in profits to charity since its inception. Compare and contrast to today’s reported losses of over £5 BILLION by RBS.

This evening, Dave’s story is featured in a follow-up programme on Channel 4. I would quite like to marry him.  He’s a genius.

Read more about him here:

http://www.burnleysavingsandloans.co.uk/about-us/

http://www.cityam.com/article/bank-dave-two-how-one-man-took-fsa-and-won

There hasn’t been a more heart-warming story from the banking world since…..No, no “since”. There hasn’t. Ever.

An Arab Spring

And so, as the winter insisted on dragging its heels, TH and I decided that enough was enough and decamped to Egypt. It has become something of a ritual that, around February, we sneak away to the Sinai peninsula, which if I’m honest has little to commend it but the warmth of its weather and its people. As Nowhere on Thames has been enveloped in a blanket of grey since what seems like nine months ago, it was a treat to see and feel the warmth of the sun, and to be able to wear just the one light layer of clothing instead of dressing in so many different garments that getting undressed was like dissecting an onion.

This really lifts the spirits whilst waiting for our poor daffodils to summon up the courage to bloom

This year, as the previous two or three, the continuing political unrest in faraway Cairo has deterred many tourists from visiting, which – whilst it certainly didn’t mean we had the place to ourselves – made the whole place a little quieter than it was a few years back.  It would appear that Norwegian tour operators are capitalising on this decline in numbers by snapping up great deals for their customers, as I’ve never seen so many Norwegians gathered in one place since a long-ago visit to, er..Norway.

 Norwegians are, it would appear,” bien dans leur peau” as the French would put it. Even when they seem to have an awful lot of peau to be bien in. There are (don’t tell any of your Scandinavian friends) certain figures that simply don’t lend themselves to a two-piece swimsuit.  And I am not sure that the Italian contingent ever got the memo about the over-seventies and the thong.  I am not above the odd fashion faux pas myself, but I think that age, gravity and a liberal helping of common sense have taught me that I have exceeded the optimum body shape and condition for revealing swimwear.

It’s not just the swimwear, either. Sometimes the daywear and evening wear appear to tell a tale of some rash pre-holiday shopping. And it would appear, from the following photograph taken of the window of a local clothing emporium, that the tourists are sending mixed messages to the host country, whose people seem to have a much less liberal approach to dressing. Is this, I wonder, a form of comment on the dress sense (and by extension, the morals) of their foreign visitors, an unfortunate accident, or simply a realisation that whatever anyone does to accessorise that dress can’t really hope to improve it?

And they don't even match! 

 

 

An invite from the neighbours!

No, not those neighbours, THOSE neighbours!

The Windsors wearing smart/casual?

As a pair of fairly staunch republicans, this has come as a surprise but, apparently, TH has been “recognised” no, not from that time where HM the Q and Prince Phil nearly mowed us down as we were out for a Sunday stroll, but apparently for services to building a cable car over the Thames, which certainly expedited the transit of spectators from the Exel Centre to the O2 (AKA the Millennium Dome) during the Olympics.

I have just been e-mailed by a shell-shocked TH, who copied me in on the e-mail he had in turn received from the Grand Fromage at TfL, telling him to advise The Powers That Be of the name of his nominated guest. I am taking it that the guest in question will be me, largely because he sent me the e-mail.  Yes, we are to keep a date in May free, as we’re invited to take tea in the garden at the neighbours’ pied a terre in London. Provided we pass the security vetting….

So, it looks like I shall have to press a frock and Google the hat protocol, as well as studying the art of the curtsey and forms of address. 

I’ve joked for such a long time that they’re really miserable neighbours, having never invited us over for drinks in the twenty-plus years we’ve lived practically next door. The big concern now, if course, is whether they'll expect to be invited back?

I’ll be nice. It’s only polite.

Dear Sir Minister Cameron.....

It’s been one of my various jobs, over the past ten years, to teach English as a Foreign Language at a local college, not far from N-o-T.

When I first began, the Government of the Day, in its wisdom, had decreed that EU nationals, asylum seekers and those in receipt of benefits could avail themselves of free English lessons. It was also a time which hailed the start of an impressive influx of people from Poland into the UK. I had started teaching in February, and the following September, at the start of the academic year, my new class numbered some 48 students, of which 60% were Polish. Not so much teaching as crowd control! A number of additional teachers were swiftly recruited, as lessons had turned into a huge game of musical chairs as the number of students increased exponentially week-on-week, whilst the number of chairs and table remained at the same level.

Now, some ten years on, many of the Polish students I knew in those days have returned to Poland, although I still bump into a few from the early days, very settled in the local area.

My classes today are a much more multinational affair. This term, I have 14 students (the numbers now are much more manageable, and have been since the Government stopped free lessons: they were “too successful”). The mix of nationalities mirrors much of what we hear in the media. Of my 14 souls, four are Spanish, two Greek, two Portuguese, one Russian, one Pole, one Slovak, two Indians and a Colombian. The last two years have seen a significant increase in the numbers of students from southern Europe, whilst there are very few Poles these days.

In my local area, which may not be representative of the demographic elsewhere, most of these people are either au pairs, or work in catering and hospitality. A surprisingly large number also work as carers for the elderly or in care homes. I read (when I can’t avoid it) with some confusion and dismay the reports of immigrants being in receipt of benefits, housing, handouts and support, and wonder where these people live. Because I’ve never met any migrants who conform to that profile. 

Not only do they all work, but they give up 5 hours a week after work to attend English lessons. And they work hard at that, too. They attend regularly, they ask for the work they’ve missed if they can’t come, they do homework and they work their socks off in class.  And they pay for the privilege.

Last week, we had a lesson about the EU, the UK and the latter’s current approach (or that of the current Government of the Day) to the former. Mr Cameron’s current pronouncements on the EU and immigration have most of them flummoxed. 

“So”, they asked “if we go home, will English people want to do our jobs?”

“I have never seen an English person apply for a job where I work” said one “until this year. This year we took on three English people. They lasted just 3 weeks”

“ We pay tax and National Insurance” they said “And we don’t use the NHS”

“I expected to come here and be a waitress” said one Spanish girl – she and her partner are in my class “but we both found jobs in IT, which is what we’re qualified in, and they were really pleased to have us”

“ We are contributing to the cultural mix in the UK” they said “And it’s what we love about being here: the diversity”

So I asked them, for homework, to write a letter to Mr Cameron, telling him how they felt and what they thought.

All of them did a great job. They expressed themselves, within the limitations of their command of English, with eloquence and clarity.  At a time when I’ve been questioning whether I want to continue doing this job at all, they made me remember why I love it.

Here’s a letter from a lady who is a grandmother, and whose grandchildren and children are back in Poland. I’d like David Cameron AND Nigel Farage to read lots more letters like this:

Dear Sir Minster Cameron (OK, a bit of work to do here…)
I writing to you, a Polish immigrant, living alone in the UK almost 7 years.

Last time you said that “Migrant jobseekers who don’t bother to learn English will be stripped of benefits”

So I’m learning English, I’m watching only English TV and I’m reading newspapers every day.
I’m working all the time and don’t use the benefits. I’m working in English company, I have a contract for work. My employers are happy of me because I respect my work and carry out their/my diutes well. All this time I pay tax and insurance.

I have many of English Friends at work. We often meet after work. We cook together and talk about English and Polish culture, history, music and literature.

Sometimes we go out to a restaurant, to the cinema or a pup.

I live in this country, sought to make something good for him..And therefore I don’t understand why you don’t like Polish immigrants.

Sometimes, when I’m out and about in Nowhere-in-France, I have the misfortune to come across people, British people, who wax lyrical about “(*)(*^&%^! Immigrants  in the UK” and how it’s “one of the reasons we left”

For me, they’re one of the reasons I stay. And why I don’t think there’s anywhere else I’d rather be. Unless some idiot in Westminster decides to spoil it all.