Euro it makes sense... or not

The European single currency is having a slight crisis. Since the global credit crunch (what an over-used catch-all lazy moniker that is, plus it doesn't really mean anything) buggered up financial markets good and proper in 2007, some eurozone economies have been struggling in the resulting downturn and recession, saddled with massive budget deficits resulting from an all too voracious appetite for cheap credit (governments and individuals alike).

My point here isn't to go over just how the Greek economy got itself into such a mess, even though anachronisms such as a state retirement age of 53 (yes, fifty three) are worth a mention. My point here is that the euro itself is in very serious trouble. And how did it get to be in so much trouble? Because it was almost certainly doomed from the start.

Let's be clear, as a tourist, I love the euro. I think it's fabulous. We live close to the Belgian border and only this morning we were in Belgium shopping. I adore the fact that I don't have to do any mental arithmetic (good thing, cos I find sums hard without a pencil and paper), or rush to the nearest cash machine to get currency, whenever we travel to Belgium, Germany or elsewhere in the eurozone. How marvellous.

So, great for tourists and also, to an extent, for businesses. But bad for economies. Right from its beginnings, my big misgiving about the European single currency has been the "one size fits all" economic policy approach. It's a bit of a risky strategy, after all. Applying the same central bank interest rates and economic governance policies to economies as disparate as Germany's and Portugal's, Denmark's and Greece's, or Belgium's and Ireland's is never a wise move. How can you expect the same central bank baseline interest rate to suit an economy like Luxembourg's, growing at 5.4% (in 2005) with that of Portugal's, growing at 0.9%? Or control a 1.4% inflation rate in The Netherlands just as well as a 3.2% rate in Spain? Of course not. Central economic policies don't usually manage to suit all regions within just one country, never mind economies from 16 different countries.

On top of this not-ever-so-bright central banking approach, add the question of solidarity between nations. Observe the distinct displeasure amongst Germans about having to stump up 22bn euros to get the Greeks out of bother. It's understandable, after all. And that is why monetary union is such a difficult thing to get right. It's not just about minting some new coins and printing off some pretty new banknotes with forrin writing on. It needs for the taxpayers in all member states to be willing to shore up another country's economy. And that is somewhat complicated. If it was easy, the Greek crisis would never have reached the stage it has now.

Photo credit:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/loop_oh/ / CC BY-ND 2.0

Marking my X

I just wrote a big long post about the looming UK General Elections. About how Labour are almost certainly on the way out, but Posh Boy and his Tories haven't got the keys to Downing Street just yet, and that "wee chancer" Nick Clegg from the Liberal Democrats could still be kingmaker. But it was all too convoluted. I confess that a long-dormant and somewhat geeky passion for the workings of government, the British constitution, electoral reform and UK politics in general that had been slumbering within me since I graduated with my BA (Hons) 2:1 more than 10 years previously, came bubbling back to life.

So I'm switching tack. There's an election on Thursday and I don't know which party to vote for. It so happens the constituency I vote in is, historically, a pretty safe Labour seat. As in, give my dog a red rosette and she'd probably be returned. Especially if you told voters she was a former miner. So probably my actual vote won't swing things either way. But still, I shall vote according to which candidate and which party best represents what I want to see from a government.

But I don't know who to vote for. Not voting Labour because of FO Tony, and they are just flailing around uselessly, and even if I respect Gordon Brown for some of his principles (notably Third World debt), he's not cut out for politicking. Am hard-wired not to be able to vote Tory. Voting Tory would only be an option if it were a strategic vote to block the BNP or UKIP (incidentally, UKIP standing in my constituency - will lose their deposit with any luck). So will never vote Tory. Certainly wouldn't ever vote for Droopy and his one-issue joke party. Would at one time have considered the Greens, but no more. Not since they leaped into bed with the Nats at Holyrood. They have sullied themselves. Other candidates standing in my constitution include someone from the Trade Union and Socialist Coalition (Commies?), an "Independent" (requires further investigation), and a Liberal Democrat. Until recently, that would have been pretty much a no-brainer. But last weekend chisel-chinned Nick Clegg declared, in the likely event of no outright majority for any party, his party would offer its support first to Posh Boy and his horrid Tories to form a government. Oh no!!!! What he actually said was don't count on the Lib Dems to prop up Labour if they come third in the popular vote. Which, if I stick to my electoral reform principles, is fair and right. But primitive instinct tells me is wrong. I mean, the Tories?

So I don't know which party to instruct my proxy to vote for on my behalf. I need to find out about this "Independent" chap. And fast.

Fed up to the back teeth

Of the disrespectful French. At some point this weekend, some retard did this to my poor wee car. And naturally, they didn't leave their insurance details. Because in this forsaken country, it is not the done thing to have the slightest consideration for anyone but oneself. Now, I know probably more than most car-owners that if you have a car, it will get damaged. Yes, that sounds very pessimistic, but it's the truth. People will open their car doors into yours, they'll scrape past with supermarket trolleys or pushchairs or bikes or whatever. If you're really unlucky, other motorists will drive into you. I have owned my car for 10 years now, and every 2 and a half years, on average, somebody has driven into me. It's had 3 new front bumpers, 2 new bonnets, one new rear light cluster...

This means that I, more than many others, know full well that having a car means it will get damaged. Put it doesn't make the pill any easier to swallow. I just cannot get my innocent little mind around the concept that a person has caused damage to another person's property, and they have simply driven off, without a second thought. I wasn't brought up to behave that way. But it would appear to be the national attitude in this cursed country.

Or maybe it's something about this town. Disrespect and conceited, condescending deceitfulness are, after all, practised with skill and finesse by our town council. Local residents have only recently, and quite accidentally discovered plans to build blocks of flats just behind an existing, very small, lotissement (subdivision/estate). Now, if you or I common mortals wished to build a small extension to the kitchen, for example, we would be made to jump through many administrative hoops. Building permit application, declaration to the town hall, public announcement (ie permit application displayed on town hall notices board) followed by 3-month holding period in case any local residents wanted to lodge an objection... And of course you must pay for the privilege. But when it's the town council and their cronies who want to build 90 apartments, they can just approve the programme. No building permit applications for them, no public consultation, no planning procedures. Had this deceit not been uncovered, the first most residents would've know about the whole shambles would've been the morning the bulldozers turned up.

So possibly, the fine example set to inhabitants by the mayor and his cohorts is what leads to the sort of "petty" crime that saw my car door severely bent and nobody to own up to their misdeeds. Or maybe this town just has a higher than usual population of arseholes?

I know, I know. France doesn't have a monopoly on arseholes. But it is indeed strange that I have so many friends and acquaintances in other countries whose cars are never driven into. And even if they did, I am quite sure they would be able to report the crime to their local polis on any day of the week. Whereas, in third world countries, one can only report crimes from Monday to Friday, 8am to 6pm. Eh? I wonder if I can ask to only pay my taxes for Monday to Friday, and deduct Saturday and Sunday.

And on top of all this, Doggy has a lump in her abdomen. Operation tomorrow to remove it and the vet has promised a biopsy if it looks remotely iffy. I know this has nothing to do with leaving in French France, but it's not helping maintain healthy, happy serotonin levels in my wee head.

Paid assassins?

It would seem that, recently, the locals' bad driving has turned into something more sinister. I am wondering if the motorists round these parts have mutated from being just crap drivers into motorised assassins. Only the other day, my decision to pop home at lunchtime almost had dire consequences. Twice in the space of ten minutes, the car's brakes and seatbelt locking were given a thorough testing.

To the monsieur at the wheel of a silver 307 (or whatever those things are): I was on the roundabout and my lane positioning (yes, I know, difficult concept for you French numpties) and use of indicators made it perfectly clear that I would be remaining on the roundabout and not exiting down the road you were approaching on. So why, please explain to me, did you think it was OK to come steaming onto the roundabout and cut off my right of way? Good thing my brakes work well, isn't it? Because you thought my car was going to hit yours, didn't you? I deduced that from the panicked swerve you executed, and the way you instinctively raised your arms to your face to shield yourself. Next time you pull that trick, the car already on the roundabout will almost certainly broadside you. That will learn you a lesson. You prick.

To the female in the dark-coloured Audi A3: being blonde, driving a car worth more than mine, talking on your mobile whilst driving.... None of these things dispense you from giving way to oncoming cars at an intersection. Just as a reminder, when the light is green for cars coming towards you, you must wait (the highway code talks about "giving way", an interesting concept you may want to learn more about) until all the cars coming towards you have cleared the junction, and then you may turn across the road and continue your journey. You may not turn into the priority traffic and cause the drivers to have to do another emergency stop. One of those drivers was me. I had already tested my brakes and my seatbelt locking system just 8 minutes previously. They, and my reactions, were in perfect working order. I didn't need or want to test them again. You witless fanny.

I am starting to wonder if they are out to get me, specifically. I mean, having to execute emergency avoidance manoeuvres is to be expected on occasion. But every time I get behind the wheel? Surely no. It's worrying. Luck has been on my side up until now. But my reactions can only be so good for so long... If something happens to me, you'll know. It was the assassin motorists.

Sporting regards

Sport, in one form or another, has figured quite heavily in this house since this weekend. Friday saw the 21st Winter Olympic Games opening ceremony. Neither of us stayed up to watch the live broadcast, and my appetite for the Winter Games was somewhat stunted (perhaps even wiped out altogether) when, just as I was heading for bedfordshire, Hubby saw an online news bulletin about the awful death of Georgian luger Nodar Kumaritashvili. It's as if the Games are tainted, I don't know if I can enjoy the excitement of my favourite armchair thrills from the bobsleigh and the luge (which are indeed my top two Winter Game disciplines) without thinking of that poor boy.

What somehow makes this most unfortunate event much worse is the conclusions of the officials who investigated (didn't take them long, did it?) the incident. "Human error", they pronounced confidently. So that's OK then. Nothing the matter with our run, it was that silly Georgian who didn't know how to steer his luge proper, like. So does that mean that every luge rider competing on that same track must now ensure their run is 100% faultless? Is there no margin for error in the mighty Whistler Sliding Centre track? The reason for the Georgian's loss of control of his sled may indeed have been a steering error. But, for heaven's sake, did the track designers not for one instant think to include some tolerance into their creation? Apparently not. Be warned, luge riders, don't go making any mistakes out there.

As a footnote to this story, I was also most disgusted that the editor of the France 2 main evening news bulletin thought it was acceptable to air video footage of the Georgian's accident. Not only does this show massive lack of respect for the deceased and his family (I wonder if the editor's child had died violently and suddenly, would he be happy to see the footage on national TV news?), but nobody thought to warn viewers of a more sensitive disposition (me, then) that they might like to look away. Indeed, the footage was shown twice: first in the headlines, and again in the actual news item. I knew it was coming the second time round and turned away, unwilling to be party to their sinister death-pornography.

I was going to add a grouse about yesterday's 6 Nations result, but on reflection, I'm leaving that out of this post.

Caution: morons in the area

We're not long back from walking the d-o-g in the park. It's been a lovely bright morning here, though some clouds are coming in now. A refreshing change from freezing temperatures and damp, raw days. Doggy enjoyed herself hugely, and with her having such low ground clearance, she covered herself in mud. But it washes off.

So a most pleasant stroll in the park. Well, no. It would have been, had it not been for our encounter (albeit from a distance) with a moron and his family and their very unfortunate dog. The poor animal was being shouted at and given inconsistent and unclear commands that it clearly didn't understand. In a panic and desperate to comply with its master's "instructions", all it seemed to be able to do was make things worse (from the owner's point of view). And was rewarded by being repeatedly struck with its lead. Hubby, who is a big chap and can be quite imposing, soon became fed up watching this incompetent and cruel individual abusing this poor, confused and frightened dog, fed up hearing the terrified creature crying in pain. He shouted out across the field "Oi, knobhead! Stop battering that poor dog at once, otherwise I'll be over there and battering you!" The moron ceased with his assault. "Sign up for some dog training classes instead of punishing your dog for your inadequacies, you cretin," adds Hubby, for good measure.

The moron and his moron family slink off, and it seems (from a distance) that they are mildly embarrassed. Other walkers have noticed the scene, and are looking over to see what/who Hubby is shouting at. I don't suppose they will sign up for dog training classes, or stop battering their poor dog, but maybe we managed to spare the animal a couple of lashes of the lead?

As we walked on, Hubby still seething and I feeling saddened and helpless, I found myself coming to the conclusion that similar scenes of dog abuse are not such unfamiliar sights round these parts. It is not unusual to see a dog owner yanking their pet around like a rag doll on a lead instead of giving it clear commands, or some unfortunate hound cowering beneath its master's raised hand. A sizeable minority of dog owners seem to think that dog training is all about making sure your dog is jolly well scared of you, then it will do as it's told. Whereas dog training is in fact about showing your dog want you want when you give a certain command, and rewarding it generously for compliance. Reinforcing the positives.

And I also reached another conclusion. A somewhat facile conclusion, I admit. The moron was out with his (I presume) wife and two children. And not one of them appeared to say "hey, dad, go easy on the dog". Perhaps one can presume that, in their family, it is accepted practice to lash out violently in response to not achieving what one wants. Dog doesn't understand your commands? Ah, just belt it with its lead. Wife overcooked your steak? Just give her a slap. Kids' school grades not very good? Just smack 'em about a bit.

Rather like the bright blue sky becoming increasingly peppered with clouds, my shiny mood turned a bit dull.

Time to get this party started

Right! The fellow who will be assessing my career/choices/skills/strengths/entire life with me just called and my first appointment is on Wednesday. Are you excited too?

In other news:

Back at work today. Let's not talk about that.

Baltic in Scotland, Baltic here in France too. Still, no snow in our part of France which is a relief for 2 reasons: 1/ I can't be doing with any more snow; 2/ The French are quite crap at salting/ploughing/gritting and generally keeping the roads clear. I thought it was just me who held this view, having grown up in Scotland were car bodywork lifetime is severely compromised from all the salt the cooncils sling on the roads every winter, but French people would appear to agree that there is "un problème". As my father-in-law said yesterday, the weather forecasters foretell snow, the whole nation knows snow is coming, and the highways people awaken in the morning, open their curtains, and say "oh, it's been snowing!".

Tsk.

And so it begins all over again

I've been trying to snap a pic of this Fieldfare since the weekend. The cold snap has drawn them in from the surrounding countryside to my parents' garden. They live right on the edge of the urban sprawl, so less-oft seen creatures such as this are closer than you'd think.

I finally got him this morning while he was enjoying some apple.

As you may have guessed, we've been in Scotland for the festive period. It's been good to be home but it's been a bit of a rush this time. We usually come for two weeks but this year our visit's been shorter and the snow (exceptionally early and somewhat persistent) has messed with our plans. Maybe I'll tell you all about it soon. Maybe I won't!

Plans this year include: roof insulation, perhaps a new gas boiler, a career assessment for me and maybe new and exciting things following on from that. And most certainly lots of other things but we'll just discover them as we go.

Hope you all have been safe and happy this Christmas time, and here's to achieving our goals all through life!

Every fool's got a reason to feel sorry for themself

And this fool's reason? This fool has been feeling sorry for herself because she suddenly realised her job had gone from "quite interesting" to "boring 9 to 5". I don't quite know when that happened, but I woke up one day and realised I didn't want to do it any more.

So I'm going to do a career assessment. What's a career assessment, you all say. Well. It's a... well, a career assessment. It goes something like this: You have several meetings with a consultant who asks you lots of questions about you, your job, your aspirations, your likes/dislikes (work-related and not-quite-so-work-related). It's like a great big personality/skills/career assessment. The aim of which is to make sure your career is on track to where you want it to be going, where you feel comfortable with it going, and how to make it go where you would like if it's not there already. Sort of.

I'm feeling enthusiastic about doing the career assessment, because I know it will help me identify where my strengths are, and my weaknesses. When it's done, I'll have a much better idea of where I want to go and how to get there. The expectation being that my destination will be something I have chosen and decided, not something that just sort of happened to me (which is pretty much how I ended up doing what I currently do).

I am feeling a bit crestfallen about my employer's reaction to all this. Having explained that I wasn't motivated by my job any more and no, it's not the company, it's the job, I was maybe hoping my manager might say "so let's talk about this, tell me what you'd like to change if you could". But no. They just said "OK, well, keep us posted". I almost heard "OK, well, let us know when you're ready to resign".

Hey ho.

Still, will not let that dampen my enthusiasm. I have a challenge, a project. It's mine and I don't care if my employer doesn't want to share it with me. Maybe I don't want to share it with them ;)

Funny joke. Only he takes himself seriously.

There is a political debating programme called Question Time on the BBC. When the Tories were in power, it was quite good because one could shout and remonstrate with the television. I personally haven't watched in a long time, partly because panelists haven't been exciting enough, and mostly because France is one hour ahead of the UK and the schedulers have slotted the programme in at a time way past my bedtime.

Question Time has been in the news quite a lot lately, since it was announced that Nick Griffin, leader of the far-right BNP (British National Party) would be one of the panelists on the programme. Hundreds, nay, thousands of hands have been wrung at whether or not the BBC should be giving a platform to a man whose party is regarded by many as racist. I'll let you Google Mr Griffin and his party, so you can make your own mind up about their policies and views. I won't be sending off for membership in any case.

Merely hours away now from the live broadcast, hundreds of protesters have laid siege to the BBC's Television Centre studios in London. The hands that were wringing are now waving placards and the voices that were muttering indignantly are now screeching their disagreement. But it all looks like a massive own goal to me. Any of them familiar with the concepts of "democracy", "free speech" or "freedom of association"? Hmmm. Free speech means allowing others a voice, even if you don't want to hear what they have to say (no one is making you listen, are they?). In a democracy, people can vote for the party of their choosing, for the party they feel best represents them and their views and want they want from government. I certainly hope every single person protesting at Wood Lane tonight voted in the recent European elections. Why? Because by not voting, by not making their voice heard, they are leaving it up to someone else to decide. And the people who do go and vote, well, maybe their choices aren't very savoury, not very palatable.

I support the editors of Question Time. I say, let him speak. And let the nation point and laugh at the ridiculous little man. And be suitably outraged at his objectionable ideas. And let the nation be aware, if you don't use your vote to make your voice heard, somebody else will speak for you. And that somebody might be saying things you don't agree with. And let the mainstream politicians take note. If people have asked Nick Griffin to be their voice, it's because you guys have been so busy fighting over the middle ground (not to mention amongst yourselves), so concerned with pandering to the sensitivities of every imaginable minority ethnic interest group, that you're alienating people. Voters.

So be warned.

Round and round and round

Doggy, like all baby dogs, used to really enjoy chasing her tail:

She's grown out of that particular type of silliness since.

Here I am! Having a grouse - there's a surprise

I'm a disgrace, I said I was coming back with a ...pffft, and then I didn't.

Still, I'm here now. Popping in before I probably flit off again like a blogging butterfly. I do hope any of you who might be reading this are well and happy. No swine/type A flu I trust?

So what's the chat? Weeeellllllll. I'm thinking of retraining and becoming a goat herd. Possibly not a goat herd as one must get up early to tend to one's goats. But not doing what I currently do any more. I sort of woke up one day and it suddenly occurred to me that the every day, bread & butter part of my job bores the life out of me. Watch this space for news of goats.

The French government has, in its infinite stupidity, invented a new way to bleed our resources with taxe carbone (or carbon/green/environment tax). They patronisingly try to tell us that this levy will make us all more environmentally-friendly. Petrol will be taxed at the staggering rate of 4p extra a litre. Crikey, better sell the car! What the carbon tax is, in reality, is a money-spinner for a cash-strapped government. It will penalise people who live in rural areas where public transport is utterly non-existent and the least well-off for whom heating and fuel bills are already a huge chunk of their budget. It certainly won't change the way I use the car, because 4p more a litre is not a big enough rise to hit my budget all that hard. It is all stick and no carrot. We're being told off for not being green enough, but there is no real concerted effort to help ordinary folks to invest in more sustainable choices (roof insulation, power/heating using renewable energies). Plus nuclear power isn't getting taxed at all because apparently it's a non-polluting energy source. Riiiight.

Continuing with the France-bashing, there is much hand-wringing and consternation with September's road collision stats. 393 dead in September is over 17% more than Sept 08. When I consider the dreadful driving standards I witness on what is a very short commute (10 mins) to work and back, I'm surprised this number isn't higher. If you're in a hurry, no need to stop at the red light. Indicators and rear-view mirrors are for mummy's boys. Chavs on scooters must leave a gap of no more than 3cm with the vehicle in front (maximising their chances of running into said vehicle in the event of sudden, or even not so sudden, braking). And yoofs on bikes must pedal along with no awareness of the car that is about to squash them to death. Ah-la-la-la!!!

Staying on a motoring theme, I'm all cleaned out having forked up 200 and something euros for 4 new Michelins for the small car. Nice deep tread, ready for the winter. Jolly good thing though cos since I got them it's been sodding raining and my racing slicks just wouldn't have done the job.

And to end on a topical note, who else thinks awarding the Nobel Peace Prize to US president Barack Obama was a bit, well, ... not on. I don't have anything at all against the man, but he hasn't really done much has he? And that's hardly surprising, he's only been on the job a few months, give him a chance. I just feel it somewhat discredits the prize and past winners (worthy ones, because not all of them have been!) when it's handed out to someone on the basis of his good intentions and the promise of what they might bring.

So there.

C'est tout!

So many books ...

Right so try to find from which five books I have lifted the five sentences that make up this paragraph:

It was the day my grandmother exploded. When I went out, Auntie was waiting in the upstairs hall with a chore for me. The Russian soldier thrust his face into the rear of the truck. She removed the cigarette, flicked the ash on the floor behind her, and leaned into the counter. "Where have I heard that before?"

For the record, I'm currently struggling with The Satanic Verses. But often seek refuge in A Tale Etched in Blood and Hard Black Pencil which is easier and funnier by far.

Hungry bird of prey

Having spent probably half an hour hiding behind a heap of hedge cuttings, listening to our garden shrew rustling in the ivy and waiting for her (French word for shrew is feminine, so she's a she) to emerge into the open, the snap below is all I have to show for my efforts. A shrew's behind. The rear of a shrew. If I were a bird of prey, I'd be a hungry one.

Now that I (and, more importantly, the camera) have come back indoors, the little so-and-so is very probably busy frolicking the sun. Pah!

Still, I am quite pleased to have a shrew in the garden. I have even suspended my vegetable patch extension works for fear of having disturbed its nest. Having a shrew (or shrews) in the garden makes one feel virtuous. Why, I have a wildlife-friendly garden. No, it's not just that I have let that bit along by the hedge get a bit overgrown and all untidy. It's wildlife-friendly don't you see? Plus they will hopefully keep the slug population down. And hopefully not be eaten by the local owl.

Where the hell have I been?

I've certainly not been on Blogger. I've been faffing around on FB and Twitter. I've been down south. I've been away with work. I've been to the farm. I've been on a narrowboat. But I'm going to give this old blog some long overdue attention. Soon.

How can it be?

I just don't get it. There is no plausible, possible explanation. It beggars belief. I cannae understand it at aw'.

I must, in advance, ask for your indulgence on the nerdy nature of this post, but I really have to put this out to the floor, as it were, and see if anyone, somewhere, can help me figure it out.

As you may remember, our trip to Scotland at Christmas coincided quite fortuitously with a record low in the GBP/EUR exchange rate, so we took full advantage of being rich and spent our euro-pounds in a mad supermarket sweep at Sainsbury's. We bought paracetamol for 23p, parsnips for 50p, and Persil Small & Mighty (known as Skip in France) for about £7. And some other stuff but I can't be expected to remember it all can I? I was truly astonished at how much cheaper some "global" brand goods were in the UK. Even taking the exchange rate into account, French euro prices were looking like an utter piss-take on us put-upon consumers. Even the dog's Pedigree biscuits were cheaper!

So anyway, our bumper pack of Persil has finally run out (why is it all the bottles of laundry detergent all run out at once - bog-standard, wool-care and colour-care all empty!). So picked up some at the supermarché today. And it cost the princely sum of €7.44! I'm livid. 7 quid for 750ml. And how much is a 1.5l bottle from Asda?! FOUR pounds, my friend.

So I'm hoping someone can help me to get my (admittedly sometimes quite blonde) head around this seemingly inexplicable and rather enormous difference in price. Is there some sort of special extra VAT on laundry detergent in France that I'm unaware of? Does it cost very very very much money to print the packaging in French? Or are consumers in France just being utterly and completely ripped off?

How long has this been going on?

This week I made a long overdue visit to Next's website. Was intending to pick out a couple of tops and maybe jeans that Mum could bring over for me next month. But, what's this on the page footer? What are these flags of various EU countries? Could it be? Yes it is. Oh joy! Next deliver to France!

It's very sad, I do realise, that something so frivolous should bring about such glee, but clothes retailers in France are shite. Choose from cheap H&M fashion, or unaffordable couture chic. There really doesn't seem to be a middle-of-the-road option. Now I can indulge my retail habit from exile. Yay. Of course, spending money on Next online means less to spend on Pink shirts and Carvela shoes in Edinburgh, but hey.

In other news:
The small car passed its MOT, as I was expecting but much to doubting Hubby's surprise. Apparently there's a little bit of play in one of the shock absorbers. I said to the guy, "well, they've never been changed, so...". He was so surprised he even said to the mechanic, "look at this! 186,600 km and never changed the shocks!" Yes, Mr Man, that's because I slow down over speed bumps.

We went to the DIY store to buy salt for the water softening whatsit. Expensive salt: we paid €113!! Because Hubby said I could have some plants for the garden. [Grin] Bought plum tomatoes, cherry tomatoes, some flowers, some wooden edging things for the bit next to the raspberry canes that I would like to turn into a vegetable patch... And some other stuff.

We've chosen our translation management server system and work, and the techy issues that were looking dodgy have been or are currently being resolved. Now the fun starts, with pre-project workflow analysis, settings definition, installation, deployment, training and change management!

Hubby is away playing shoot'em up PC games all weekend. I'm hoping the rain stays away so I can grub in the mud and take Doggy for W's. If it doesn't, I have plenty ironing to keep me busy.

There's one, set for stun

While having a web break the other day, I happened upon this entertaining little story. And it reminded me of a most entertaining joke that did the rounds on email a good few years ago (like, ten or so!!). So I asked Google to find me the aforementioned comical text so that I could share it here with you all. Please note that, unfortunately, some of the funniness is lost if you have never lived in Scotland/don't know any Scots/have never heard a Weegie speaking their native language. But it's still pretty funny.

If Star Wars Was Set In Glasgow

Chewbacca would look roughly the same except he'd only be about 5ft tall, from Blackhill and called Shug. He'd have the same amount of body hair but would also have tattoos, would permanently smell of drink and invariably sport a Rangers top.

Obi-Wan Kenobi would invariably be referred to as Chief or Big Yin by his cohorts. People trying to start a fight with him would address him as Wanky-Nobby.

Darth Vader would referred to as 'Auld Helmet Heid' or in moments of stress 'That Dome-Heided Basturd'

R2D2 would refuse to go out on the streets after 10pm because of the number of drunks who would try to stuff chip papers in his head casing or piss on him. He would also refuse to go near groups of wee boys at any time because of the high risk of being spray painted/dumped in front of a speeding train/set on fire.

Although proficient in over 3500 languages C3P0 would still be unable to understand anything anyone from the East End of Glasgow said. He would regularly get beaten up for being a 'greetin-faced poof fae Milngavie'.

The Millennium Falcon would have static strips, tinted windscreens and extra-flared exhaust ports. It would have a Daily Record I Love Scotland sticker in the back window and a saltire bumper sticker.

Princess Leia would get captured by Darth Vader because it's hard to run very fast when you're wearing 5inch platform heels and a tiny silver mini-skirt which keeps hiking up over your arse every two steps. And you've been a heavy smoker since you were 6.

The best way to destroy the Death Star would not necessarily be a desperate all out attack. Two easy ways would be

- alter its orbit so it passed through Bridgeton and tell the locals it was full of kafflicks,

- or leave it unattended in Easterhouse.

Lines from the film as they would be uttered in the vernacular

Han Solo

"I've got a real bad feeling about this"
"Ah'm shitin' ma sel' here boy"

"Bring 'em on! I prefer a straight fight to all this sneaking around."
"Come right ahead then! Fight the f**ing lot o ye!"

"There's no mystical energy field controls my destiny."
"The Force?!! D'youse think ah came doon wi the rain?!"

"Hokey religions and ancient weapons are no match for a good blaster at your side, kid."
"Nae messin aboot wi the god squad and auld rubbish, wee man. Get yersel' a decent shooter"

Darth Vader trying to shoot down Luke Skywalker:

"The Force is strong in this one"
"Stop shooglin' ya wee basturd!"

Princess Leia

"You're a little short for a Stormtrooper aren't you?"
"Ah didnae think they took short-arses in the polis?"

"This bucket of bolts is never going to get us past that blockade."
"Wuv goat NAE chance in this pile o' shite"

Admiral Motti

Don't try to frighten us with your sorcerer's ways, Lord Vader."
"You think you're that hard, Vader so ye do. Well we're no feart ae you!"

Obi Wan

I felt a great disturbance in the Force."
"F*** me! whit wiz aw that?"

Luke to the Emperor

"Your overconfidence is your weakness."
"Oh ye bloody think so?, I'll make you feel the f***ing force pal!!"

[Lis sniggers away to herself like a teenager.] Hope you enjoyed!

I've got the sun in my face

And I'm enjoying the pleasant sunny evening before the rain comes tomorrow. Been away from the blog a while. Can't even remember the last time I posted. So what's been going on since whenever that was?

Well, we went to Scotland, something which is always good. On this occasion we were on a mission to procure a car. After seeing the crazy prices available when we were home at Christmas, we decided to take the plunge before the exchange rate had time to turn against us. We didn't end up with the one I've been lusting after, as they'd all gone (some lucky sod got there before us). But they were selling new ones for only 14.5k!! Alas, that was 4.5k over budget and a new car wasn't really the best option for us as the French government would try to fleece us for VAT upon importing it to France (thieving sh!ts). We even ended up with a diesel one even though I'd sworn against them! But it isn't silver. In fact it is red, so that will meet with Super nephew's exacting standards*.

As well as buying a car, we managed a visit to the Ancients, visits with the Weegies, M&M, Willie and Jane. I didn't (yes, did not) buy any books. In fact I didn't even set foot in Waterstone's. But I did buy a handbag (60% off!) and get my hair done. But I didn't spend any money in the John Lewis kitchenware department. Doggy was a bad 'un and wouldn't go for a walk with her Grandad, she wanted to come and look at cars with us!

What I learned on this trip home:
- used cars no longer come with a tax disc. The thievin' dealers cash them in, and you have to buy a new one!
- you need a UK insurance cover note to buy a tax disc
- temporary cover insurance is expensive but handy
- Super niece is a little imp
- Super nephew is obsessed with my Mum's car. Which happens to be red. *"Want to get in the red car"
- Super nephew and Super niece are ace
- 2-way radios help pass the time on the 550 mile journey down the A1-A14-M11-M25-M20-Channel-A16-A25
- 2-way radios also mean you can play at Top Gear
- having to drive all by yourself means you don't blub anywhere near as much after saying goodbye to parents, as you must concentrate
- French roads and motorways are shit. I knew this already, but driving back in the UK reminds me. They badly need cat's eyes
- French drivers are shit too. I never have to shout and get annoyed when we're at home. I have to shout and get annoyed all the time here
- the small car doesn't have a 65 litre endurance tank. So I can be away from the petrol station ages before Hubby
- our house is on Street View! As is my car, and my Mum's car
- my brother's house is also on Street View. My Dad's car is at their house
- my parents are omnipresent

And that's about all I have to say about that.

Every day is like Sunday

No disrespect to Morrissey, but, as we all know, every day isn't like Sunday. And that is a good thing. If every day were like Sunday, the only businesses to make any money in France would be garden centres, I'd spend my life gardening, lie-ins would quickly lose their novelty appeal, and we'd have to watch a week's worth of EastEnders all in one sitting (which is too much even for me).

What I have learned today:
- my electric hand mixer is one of my favourite kitchen gadgets. So very useful.
- our hot water is too hot. Ouch. Or maybe I need to make full use of the possibilities of the mixer tap?
- women need men to do icky tasks such as disposing of small animal corpses discovered in the garden. Let's not go into that.
- our garden is an almighty mess.
- ivy is a bugger to dig up
- when our neighbour offers me a few bay leaves, what he actually means is about thirty branches of them. Still, good for spaghetti sauce.

Happy Sunday afternoon everyone.