The Wisdom of Pod.

Interview Podcasts. You have to choose.

There just isn’t enough time in the day to listen to all of them and of course you will find celebrities with something to promote, even if only in a subtle way, will do the rounds of a umber of podcasts. 

So you find one and you stick with it. You like the format, you like the presenters, it feels fresh and they seem to get the best out of a guest in a relaxed atmosphere. It is so much better than a few minutes on a chat show, shoe-horning references to whatever it is they are trying to sell, whilst finding a tortuous way of retelling that story. Podcasts are one of the great innovations that the internet has brought us.

We get to hear genuine, often amusing and touching chats with the people we normally only read about in the media and almost exclusively in the context of their work. Celebrities often become human in podcast format.

Absolute bliss. 

But then… the host of the podcast becomes restless, begins to muscle in on celeb time, famous even… and ultimately irritating.

For a long time I enjoyed WTF but eventually I went off it because of the self-indulgent monologues with which Marc Maron began every show. He is good at what he does but I don’t want him to be the star of the show. I do not want to listen to his neuroses every single week.

I switched my focus to The Nerdist. Now, I remember an early episode with Jon Hamm, that opened up a new world to me. Hamm was not what I imagined. It turns out he is not Don Draper - he was gentle and amusing and sounded like a a great bloke - it all sounded like the kind of honesty that comes from the foolishness of relaxed company was a revelation.

I think that was Nerdist #5. Around Nerdist #150 I lost it. Every episode had become saturated with self-indulgent references from Chris Hardwick about how life is difficult for sensitive artistic types like himself… and his interviewees. Once or twice maybe, but to my ears it seemed every single episode (with the exception of Jeff Bridges who somehow brings out the best in Hardwick) was brought down by sycophantic pandering and nauseous references to the difficulty of coping with being creative. Vomit.

You see we, the humble audience, get to listen to the host every week. When we download a new episode of a podcast we are waiting to hear the guest, not the necessarily the presenter. Surely it was always thus, on radio, TV and now online; the interviewer should be the facilitator.

The Adam and Tim Shows

So, where does that leave me now? Well, Adam Buxton (he of Adam & Joe ‘fame’) has his own version of the interview show format. Perhaps lacking in professional confidence, perhaps content with ploughing his own unique furrow, I suspect Adam will never succumb to stardom in a way that will take over his show. I will follow this with interest as he is also, I believe, capable of getting people to relax through his own brand of quirkiness. Whether he will ever get the A list guests remains to be seen… indeed maybe its best if he doesn’t.

But the current star for me is the Tim Ferriss Show - thanks to my wife for hooking me up with this one. In common with millions of others, I know Tim Ferriss from his amazing book; The 4-Hour Work Week. I did not know he had a podcast. So in the last few days I have listened to the Alain de Botton, Rainn Wilson and Jamie Foxx episodes. The first was fantastic, the last was nothing short of sensational. When did you imagine you would listen to two and a half hours of interesting, amusing, poignant and altogether rounded and balanced discussion with one of Hollywood and Music’s biggest stars? 

Undoubtedly Tim is a super smart guy (his book made a difference to my life and many others before and since) but the biggest thing I notice is that his contribution to the interview is minimal… which of course means it is not. He listens and guides, uses a few intelligent stock questions to discover more and then lets the guest do the talking. Maybe it helps that I had never heard Jamie Foxx talk about his life, but I sincerely hope that Tim Ferriss does not go the way of other pod hosts and retains the kind equilibrium that his writings have given to millions.

Death of a Gentleman - Cricket Movie Review

So over the Xmas holidays I finally watched Death of a Gentleman, the documentary looking into the demise of test cricket. Here is a short of review. 

First off it feels like it was a little late in coming out. It felt as if it should have happened more quickly but financial constraints held it back and so, to a certain extent, the ultimate findings of the film were kind of... after the horse has bolted. Lord Woolf’s report, whilst providing a perfect independent corroboration of the alleged woes of cricket governance, also probably took the wind out of the sails of DOAG. No shame to the makers, Jarrod Kimber and Sam Collins, here. I guess its tough to get this kind of thing made. 

The England and Wales Cricket Board (ECB), the Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI) and Cricket Australia (CA) have sown up the game to suit themselves and ring fence money in a way that is detrimental to the global game of cricket. As in so much sport, the governance is woefully short of what one would hope. As is hammered home by DOAG, it is mind-numbingly astonishing that the ICC seemingly has no interest in widening the game of cricket but only in directing an increasingly large portion of the pie towards the ECB, BCCI and CA. The film appears to demonstrate these three countries, which hold all the power, also tend to agree things amongst themselves behind the scenes. I am sure Sepp Blatter would fit right in.

Of the principal baddies Giles Clarke comes across as a deeply unpleasant man. N. Srinivasan a bully, utterly unflustered by the massive conflict of interests he has at the head of the ICC, BCCI and India Cements (IPL team owner). Wally Edwards is… well, who knows, he never even deigned to speak to the makers of DOAG. The mission of the ICC, as stated on their web site is:

"A bigger, better, global game targeting more players, more fans, more competitive teams."

But these men serve the interests of their nations, of this there is no doubt. Sports governance has to be more than this, it has to look to widen the game, support up and coming nations and make the game more accessible for all. Over 60% of funding to India, England and Australia and a reduced (10 nation) World cup suggests we are heading rapidly in the wrong direction. 

Ed Cowan

From time to time Ed Cowan crops up as a motif for test cricket - specifically how hard it is to succeed in the toughest form of the game (and indeed it should be). Cowan is a sympathetic figure, perhaps a man slightly out of time, but one nevertheless who in my view comes out of the film with a huge amount of integrity. Having said this I am not sure how his story fits in exactly with the narrative of corruption and self-serving of the big three. I was left feeling that his story in the film was not so much that he did not cut it at the highest level but that he was wilfully, and to a degree maliciously, pitted against the likes of David Warner in order to expose his alleged anachronistic style of batting in a world conditioned to expect T20-style fireworks in all formats of the game. I am not sure that this was the intention.

But what is the over-riding message of DOAG? There is no future for test cricket without a wider country base? T20 is destroying test cricket because it attracts the best players away from test cricket with high financial rewards? T20 has changed the midst of audiences to require more exciting players to the detriment of the longer form of the game? The shorter an longer formats must be scheduled to sit alongside each other? The only games played soon will be between England, Australia and India? Minor nations may soon stop playing any meaningful international cricket altogether? Corruption is rife and there is no policeman to control it at the highest levels? 

Perhaps it is all of these things, although there would have to be huge compromises to achieve a balance. Only two tests against New Zealand last summer goes to show that there is precious little desire to strike  balance in England. It is all about the Ashes and the money it brings, which will ultimately be to the detriment of the Ashes. Or should we call it the Cashes now?

What is cricket without test cricket?

It certainly feels as if Kimber and Collins decided to make a documentary about the thing they love without a clear scope. To this end there is a lack of direction, understandable given the fact that the film pivots at some point as they realise how corrupt and self-serving the powerhouses of international cricket are. 

Whatever the messages (timely or otherwise) to come out of DOAG, I am depressed. The sport I love does feel as if it is flying fast and shining brightly, but will burn up on re-entry. As the the film states; what is cricket without test cricket? T20 needs to be shorter and faster than something.

And I am glad these journalists found a way to make this film.

Twitter Rage - Shaming on Twitter

I admit that I am guilty of trying to use Twitter shaming to get my way.

Ryanair dealt with it quite professionally, quickly and to be honest I was only mildly annoyed with them because with hindsight my luggage might have been damaged by the airport staff.

I wrote a nasty tweet about a regional office of Thrifty Car Hire, informing people that they should never hire a car there unless they wanted to be ripped off… or words to that effect. I was furious at being charged around 400 Pounds for damage under the front bumper, which must have been made from driving over speed bumps at some lick - a thing that I simply did not do. I was mad, I wanted revenge, my ire needed instant gratification and Twitter provides just such a vehicle.

I could have waited to go down the traditional route of making an official complaint to Thrifty through their Customer Support channels. But that takes time and effort and I would probably cool down before I got home to my computer… and I was mad, raging, frothing mad. Did I mention that? So I tweeted something unpleasant. 

Now, of course it made no great impact on the web. I am a Twitter nobody and the few people who picked it up had similar gripes and were obviously looking for similar souls with whom to bond in their frustration. Thrifty picked up on it. They asked me what the problem was and instructed me how to complain through the official channels. Job done from their point of view. I stopped whining about my injustice in public.

Yesterday, I was so close to doing the same for NatWest and Fedex. The latter wouldn’t let me open an account because my cards were blocked (by the former) and I was transferred between machine and human for the best part of an hour as they failed to help me send a document. It was the second time in a week I had problems with this courier as their site charged my card but did not process the order, a few days earlier.

NatWest on the other hand, my lovely bank of 25 years that won’t give me a mortgage - correction, won’t even grant me a discussion with a mortgage advisor - because I have lived abroad for a long time and lack a 12 month credit history in the UK, well they blocked all my cards, having declined several of my Christmas shopping transactions as suspicious including the big pre-chrimbo super market shop. So now it's suspicious that around Christmas I spend a considerable amount of money in buying food and drink in my home town!!

Anyway, another 30 minutes on the phone with NatWest, flipping between machine, customer support, business support and fraud support really ground me down. I was frothing again. My wife was looking at me as if I had two heads.

I am rambling… the point is I was so close again to just posting rude messages on Twitter, because its easy. Because you get an intoxicating hit, from getting something off your chest and getting a reaction. But what does it actually achieve? I definitely feel I received bad service. But on all occasions it has only been sorted out by going through the official channels. 

• Ryanair gave me nothing because, well because of the small print.
• Thrifty gave me nothing because it was my word against theirs. 
• NatWest gave me 50 quid to cover my inconvenience and they promised to work harder to profile their clients to avoid erroneous fraud detection.
• Fedex, well... DHL sorted it all out in 15 mins 😃
  
  All this was achieved through the official channels. So whats my point? 

I think bashing companies on Twitter, whilst not totally unjustified in certain cases, is a very short term solution and one that is likely to lead to us to exaggeration in the hope of getting what we want. It is a short cut, which makes us say things we might not otherwise say. Reactions are often magnified on social media and it may end up affecting individuals not just some huge corporation.

I repeat, I am a nobody but I have seen some well known people tweet negative comments about, lets say their kitchen supplier, in an obvious attempt to hold them to account publicly for some minor failing and more likely, get something free. That is not cool.

So, take a deep breath, go through the correct complaints procedures. Perhaps if this is ignored take to Twitter.

What Now?

Reading

So You've been Publicly Shamed by Jon Ronson. This book is not strictly about picking silly fights with big business on Twitter but it does illustrate the use / abuse of Social Media. For three years Ronson travelled the world meeting recipients of high-profile public shamings. The shamed are people actually ordinary people; people who, may have simply made a joke on social media that came out wrong, or perhaps made some kind of mistake in the workplace and end up being demonized and vilified by the masses who don't need to know the full facts or stop to think because, anyway there are no real consequences... are there?

Can we open our presents now?

For the first time, yesterday, I subjected my daughter to something that my father did for so many years on Christmas morning.

Delay.

Christmas morning was a time of intense anticipation for my brother and I. It was a time of immoveable ritual and manufactured doubt. A time of known knowns and known unknowns as an 8 year old Donald Rumsfeld probably whined to his parents.

On Christmas morning everything in our mind was geared towards getting to the point of opening our presents. It would not happen before 10:30 or 11:00 am. This was certain, but every year this would be cast into doubt. My father would procrastinate in a ritualistic way that was so much part of Christmas tradition in our home that it could no longer be justifiably called procrastination. 

Every year we swam around like foolish fish, willingly swallowing the bait. 

My brother and I would wake up earlier than usual, scrabble around at the end of our beds to find our Christmas stockings and, fidgety with excitement, tear everything out of them in double quick time. This accomplished we would be thinking about how to get breakfast down us, brush our teeth and ready for presents.

My parents would lie in bed with a coffee as we flitted about fiddling with the contents of our stockings and forcing them to hurry up. Once breakfast had been negotiated my father would begin his annual play.

"Have you brushed your teeth? Have you cleared the table?"

“Yes, Yes" we screamed.

Ok, well I still have to shave, but I think I’m going to have a bath first anyway.”

“Noooooo” we cried in unison. But what we really meant was “More please”. And he continued, threatening to polish a spoon, polish the dining table, sharpen a knife... because anticipation was and remains the most exciting part of almost anything.

Even climbing the highest mountain can leave an empty feeling very quickly after the summit euphoria has faded. We should always try to enjoy the journey because we can always set new goals.

*****************************************

Dear Diary, In an attempt to feel even more Christmassy here is a memory from last winter, in Vienna.

Clementine Churchill & Stockholm Syndrome for Managers

The other day I read an astonishing letter from Clementine Churchill to Winston, in which his darling Clemie advised him on his management style. She ends the letter like this:

"...you won't get the best results by irascibility and rudeness. They will breed either dislike or a slave mentality - (Rebellion in War time being out of the question!)." 

Does this endure in business?

One would imagine instinctively that this style (if one can call it that) of management is destined to fail immediately but it can actually be very enduring. Those who rebel leave quickly but a large number of people get used to it - they become enslaved, they cease to question and they follow orders - underneath there is often dislike but you may see a kind of Stockholm Syndrome develop.

I am not talking about the pressures of war, or the oppression of a totalitarian country. I am talking about Western Europe, the developed world and multi-million pound businesses.

I remember years ago witnessing from a distance how destructive and limiting this kind of management can be and it amazes me how enslaved employees can become, by a senior manager who operates through fear and humiliation.

Divide & Rule

The typical Dictator - let’s call him or her Dictator - has an enormous amount of energy and spends a good deal of it in ensuring there is limited communication between employees. He plays one off against another by talking up the individual to whom he is speaking and denigrating others (he will do this to everyone - you are not special).

Dividing people kills communication and creates a dependency on the figure of the Dictator. He is immediately the employees only source of praise, knowledge and help.

He can now control everything, from strategy to operations and do everything the way he sees it. Given a decisive and brilliant Dictator this can work, for a time. But even with these abilities there is a ceiling to the success this Dictator can have. Growth is limited. Now this is not to say an organisation run like this cannot grow into a reasonably sized company but it will never get out of the SME bracket to join the big players.

Time is limited.

And here is why. The simple truth is that there is a limited amount of work one person can do. The Dictator is incapable of giving responsibility to others, although a particular trait is that he never takes any blame - preferring instead to use blame as a tool to divide his staff. If such a company does not adapt for growth (and this involves much more than installing a middle level of management, but also fundamentally changing the culture within the organisation) its time is limited and it is destined to do one of two things.

a) It will die.
b) It will plateau and when the Dictator runs out of energy... it will die.

So, you get the picture. It will die. Who cares? says the Dictator, he doesn't see this and has done everything right in his mind. He has given people work, which incidentally he often sees almost as an act of benevolence on his part. He has in his mind been a success.

Creating something of value requires other people.

Whether or not Winston Churchill took his wife’s advice we may not know* but he was operating in a global war, under the threat of invasion, bombardment, tyranny and he held the lives of millions of people in his hands. I will excuse him some "rudeness". He was both decisive and brilliant but even his time was limited.

To create something of great and lasting value does require individual vision and brilliance, but most of all it requires other people. Continued growth requires a healthy organisation not just a healthy balance sheet.

*A Churchill scholar may indeed know this.

The misplaced nostalgia of things.

For 10 years I worked abroad which is an extraordinary experience for too many reasons to list in this short post.

It was educational and inspirational but perhaps the only aspect I always lamented was the fact that I ended up living in 9 different apartments during this period. I had moved many times in my life so it was not this aspect that caused me sorrow but rather the fact that none of these places ever actually felt like home.

I am a collector, and man who enjoys the comforts of home. In leaving England in 2005, aged 30, I left behind my possessions; my books, my pictures, my furniture and the many physical representations that make up 30 years worth of memories. These are the things that make a home and these are the things I missed. For 10 years I felt like a tourist.

Coming home from work never felt like really coming home. Often I would have like to finish a day’s work to come back and sit in a favourite chair and look at a favourite picture or feel the embrace of well-stocked shelves and drink from a glass that I had found at some antique fair or car boot sale. In short to be surrounded by material possessions that also had some meaning and memory in my life. The home was a secondary womb.

This is not to say that in 10 years abroad I did not add to these possessions or mental scrapbook, but there was always a feeling that a transitory life meant that the cheapest Ikea furniture made more sense or renting a furnished apartment would be more economical.

Now I am back in the UK amongst my things and I seem to have picked up a family en route with which to share the comfort of home and indeed, to build new memories. Given the richness of the experience and the fortune I have had in meeting my wife and having a daughter my years of nostalgia for the security of cherished possessions carries little real significance but it has been a motivating factor in bringing me back "home" to the UK.

However, yesterday I had a moment of clarity which made me think that perhaps divorcing myself for a period of time from all the material elements that represented my 30 years of life has actually been hugely beneficial, especially on a professional level.

Now I feel I am a more disciplined individual than when I was younger. But, given my nature, I have some doubts as to whether I would have worked as hard in the last 10 years if I had had the distractions of possessions. Because they are distractions. Shallow as it may make me seem I get an enormous amount of joy from simply existing in the same space as my possessions; from spending time looking at my books without necessarily taking one off the shelf to rifling through a box of old papers, photos and magazines.

In the last 10 years I by necessity led a more minimalist life. A lot less time was invested in such "futile" pursuits as described above and, by the same token, the opportunities were much more scarce to add to my collections. Unlike any other nation, the UK is a haven of second hand shops, bric-a-brac and antique stores.

The period apart from my own stuff probably also loosened my ties with many accumulated things and made it easier to get shot of some, to leave room physically and also emotionally for my family and for new memories.

So it was for the best that we were, for a time, separated.        

Why am I writing this blog?

I decided to do this blog as a way of writing several times per week. A sort of excercise of the mind more than anything, with no real remit and no boundaries of subject.

All of this means I find myself late on a Thursday night feeling I should write but not knowing what to write.

I am forcing myself.

I could, at this juncture, point out that many of the greatest writers have shown extraordinary discipline and treated writing as a job and not simply, as the layman might imagine, a vague art fuelled by some mystical inspiration rather than hard work. Hemingway, I believe, woke up early to ”work” at his art, tapping out 500 words a day as a minimum.

However, if I were to say what I have just said, you might picture me couped up in my study imagining myself to be worthy of such company both intellectually and in terms of repute. Neither is the case. Indeed, I am in the TV room, watching the second test match between New Zealand and Sri Lanka and aimlessly trickling thoughts onto the laptop.

Just like Ernest Hemingway...

I might have, when I was a good deal younger, liked to cast my forty year old self in the same mould as the great writers of the 20th century, those like Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Kafka, Mann, Camus and Sartre who lit a fire inside me as I presumed rather naively I would do to later generations.

I wonder if my 20 year old self would be disappointed. I once won a prize for a short story, but I was already in my mid to late twenties when that happened and the boat had sailed. Nevertheless I enjoyed writing and that is what has caused me to take it up, again as a hobby, many years later. It pleases me, without any pretension. That is why I have quietly written these few lines in the company of Brendon McCullum et al.

And should there be any doubt as to whether I intend to challenge 'Papa' Hemingway, I might mention in closing that I have only managed 350 words. Goodnight.

What is wrong with football on TV (or me)?

What I am about to say may not be all that strange to some but I am an obsessive sports fan and watcher. I can spend hours in front of darts and days in front of cricket. I find it very hard to watch Andy Murray but that’s because I invest so much emotion in the experience that it becomes almost unbearable. Rugby is nearly always enjoyable to watch. Golf is very pleasant, relaxing and occasionally exhilarating and most 'minor' sports can easily amuse me for long periods. 

But I can’t bring myself to watch football.

Last season I watched about 10 premiership games, maybe one Serie A game and I am not even sure if I sat through the whole thing. I find the Champion’s league quite tedious and cannot summon any interest in that other European competition.

Football overkill?

Has paid TV’s buckets of overhype finally saturated my mind. Is enough enough? Have I been told to watch so much football that I am rebelling like a teenager?

I think it might be but I also think the game became boring, I became bored of the same teams winning, bored of the managerial merry-go-round, bored of players feigning injury, bored of politicians pretending to like football.

And yet this season has surely been more interesting on the pitch. The opposing poles of Vardy and Mourinho mean it is hardly a procession. It's not the quality of coverage that dampens my sporting fervour - I continue to check the results, I listen with pleasure to Football Weekly (although James Richardson could talk about breeze blocks and I would happily listen). I like Carragher and (until recently) Neville's analysis on Sky and I occasionally read about the game, but I can’t watch 90 minutes of football.

This afternoon I asked my friend why, and he (Man Utd fan, and even more obsessive about Sports) reckons this is down to a certain disenfranchisement with the game. Football is indeed a distant country now. The major clubs are giant corporations, the players live in a rarified atmosphere which none of us can really imagine or understand and the cost of actually going to a game these days is not insignificant... or perhaps he just misses Sir Alex!

But none of this evolution of the beautiful game happened overnight and I was watching up until a couple of years ago, even after I stopped doing fantasy football. 

Maybe its my age.

It still does’t add up - I just don't see a beautiful game anymore. After a few minutes of watching football my mind drifts. Dual screening doesn’t help of course and in this context maybe slower sports are more forgiving of a short attention span. Perhaps I can fool myself into thinking I get more out of them as I read what Twitter is saying about the event I am not actually watching.

Perhaps the quality of the game has gone down, at least in England.

Football that isn't all that good is a major turn off. The frustration I have suffered from watching a crap game of football is unmatched by any other sport. I have the patience to enjoy the ebb and flow of a cricket match, a poor rugby game repays some satisfaction in its physicality. Even a bad golfer offers a little vicarious retribution by hitting something small very hard, but a poor standard of football has always had me reaching for the remote. Perhaps in the context of this topsy turvy season I should try harder. It would be a shame, in a year that sees Chelsea flirting with relegation and Leicester topping the league, to miss out on something potentially historic.

Oh... come to think of it, it could all be down to my age. Maybe football was always just a social thing, a way to get down the pub and meet up with friends. If you were to ask me to come out tonight for a pint and watch ‘the game’, I’d probably say yes.

Yeah, I think its the pint I like.

What Now?

Listening

Guardian Football Weekly with James Richardson. Avoid watching football and just keep up top date with your favourite sport through the best football podcast in the universe. Maybe even further afield. James Richardson is the master of the pun and keeps the pod going at a good pace without compromising on the journalism which is provided by a number of different respected football writers. It's bi-weekly and never fails to deliver.

Immigration, Immigration, Immigration.

It wasn't the first and it won't be the last school I visit. At 13:45 this afternoon Mrs Lee, the headteacher was just showing me around the classroom in which my daughter would be integrated. My eyes drifted across the inevitable mess left by a horde of 4 year olds and I was only half listening to her earnest spiel when my phone rang again. It was the second time in as many minutes and I excused myself. I expected to cut off my wife telling her I would call back later.

I didn't have time. She answered with a smile in her voice that had been missing for the last couple of months.

Before I could speak she blurted out the words I had lost hope of hearing before Christmas; "I've got my visa".

"Thats great I'll call you back shortly, I'm at the school". As I spoke the words they seemed utterly weightless and insignificant. I ended the call, turned towards Mrs Lee, apologised again for the interruption, and burst into tears.

The last weeks, for a variety of reasons have been stressful. Our daughter has struggled with her moods being without her mother and as we have travelled between the UK and Vienna to see mummy each visit has become more painful. The whole marriage visa application process, apart from being mildly intrusive, also seems almost wilfully complex and unfair - designed to turn people away.

So Mrs Lee, an acquaintance of less than half an hour, was left to pick up the pieces of my emotions as they spilled out. Perhaps more used to blubbing 4 year olds, the sight of a 40 year old man wiping tears of relief and repeatedly apologising after receiving a 20 second phone call probably did nothing to enhance my reputation as a stable parent of a prospective pupil at her school.

So my thoughts turn to all those families of lesser means split up by thousands of miles and a system that questions, ad nauseum, the motives of those looking for a better life. In the grand scheme of things my family is fortunate and, whilst I understand certain reasoning behind the visa process, I can't help but feel pity for the husbands, wives and children left miserable and lonely, waiting, hoping to one day be re-united. 

Truffle Up and Deal

I recently bought a white truffle. A small white truffle. I had finished a spectacular meal, in an exceptional restaurant in Vienna and the restaurateur was showing off his latest fragrant horde. So I bought one. Such was the euphoria that engulfed me after 3 beers, a cocktail, a bottle of chenin blanc and 4 courses of exquisite food. Mind you my wife was egging me on.

(Talking of which the chap told me to put the truffle in a Tupperware with some eggs in order to infuse them with the flavour, Hadn’t heard of that). 

It was supposed to be a quiet romantic evening with my lovely wife - of whom I have not seen a great deal in the last 2 months thanks to HM’s immigration / Visa policies - but, in keeping with the best unplanned nights out, it ended up being an altogether more social affair. We shared a bottle of Tomac with the afore-mentioned truffle peddler and the couple from the neighbouring table, who turned out to be the restaurant's Greek supplier of olive oil and his Austrian partner.  

Does anyone have a spare truffle shaver?

Strangely I didn't get much sympathy from family or friends when I complained at the difficulty of getting hold of a truffle shaver at short notice. One kitchen shop took an inordinately long time looking for one as I waited on the line. In truth I imagine they were all having a good laugh at me.

In the end I should be grateful no shop was able to furnish me with an item I would probably never use again. With a mixture of extreme delicacy and a mini-grater (sharpened a little for the purpose) I embellished my tagliatelle, risotto and scrambled eggs with this stinky delight. 

I will probably never buy a truffle again. The price, whilst reasonable in the context of the white truffle market, is faintly ridiculous but I am glad I did. Mi sono tolto uno sfizio as a real truffle aficionado might say.

Case Closed - Airport Grief

A few weeks ago I tweeted about two suitcases being damaged during a Ryanair flight. Ryanair tweeted back their online support link and I dutifully made a complaint. I did not get any joy because I had not reported the incident as soon as the plane landed.

Now, I guess that makes sense and I assume it was somewhere in the small print of my booking. I half expected it and indeed I quipped with the polite correspondent that “I would never fly Ryanair again” before adding in brackets "I think we both know this is not true”.

A coupe of weeks later on another Ryanair flight my suitcase came off the carousel with a dirty great hole in it. I have absolutely no idea how this happened or how it could happen, but fortunately none of the contents was damaged. 

So what did I do? Did I waste an hour or more finding, queuing and reporting the incident in the airport? Of course not. As in the first case it was late in the evening, I was travelling alone with my 4 year old daughter and there was a taxi waiting to take us. 

Yesterday, I was flying Ryanair again with my tired 4 year old on an 8:30 flight, after we had both woken up around 5:15. We stood in a queue for the best part of an hour. The flight was obviously delayed but there was no communication. I asked a couple of times how long the delay would be and both times I was told it was "not long”. When we finally got to board the aircraft a good 30 minutes late, I went to the rear of the plane to find that the stairs were not close enough and there followed another delay(s)… twice I was informed it would just be “1 minute”. I took my chilly and impatient daughter to the front stairs.

What would it take to no longer use Ryanair?

Now, this is not really some diatribe against Ryanair - the tray table was wet from where someone presumably had spilled some rather sticky drink and there is never enough leg room for someone of my height but its Ryanair, right? The flights were pretty cheap.

I considered tweeting about the experience as it happened in order simply to vent my frustration but even that seemed pointless. It probably covers everything that annoys me in the terms and conditions.

And here is the problem: it is cheap. I say problem, it is of course the reason I fly with Ryanair. And with a low cost comes a higher tolerance of imperfections. But should it be so in all fields? I don't expect cheap shoes to last a lifetime so why does it annoy me sooo much when a cheap flight is not perfect. And then of course my ire subsides so quickly. What would it take for me to get to the point of not using Ryanair anymore? I think we both know nothing other than repeated and well publicised technical failures will stop me. 

I travel a lot for work and pleasure. Sometimes I disappoint myself.