Some days the net is quite humdrum, while others you just seem to come across one bizarre story after another. Within the space of a lunch hour this afternoon I’d already come across three without even trying:

First, from the New Zealand Herald: A woman was set on fire during a caesarean delivery at Waitakere Hospital’s maternity unit at the weekend. The fire, possibly caused by a flammable swabbing solution, left the woman, who was giving birth, with burns to the lower part of her body … While the cause is not known, investigators believe one possibility is that an alcohol-based swabbing solution, used to sterilise parts of the body for surgery, may have been accidentally ignited … Caroline Mackersey, general manager of communications for the Waitemata District Health Board, said … the baby was still in the uterus when the fire started.

Then, from Ananova: Scientists who blasted drugged mice with loud dance music in an experiment have received an official reprimand. Seven mice died after being forced to listen to The Prodigy…

And finally a story featured on (and linked from) the front page of the US Congress site. The most telling quote is: ‘If ratified by the U.S. Senate, CEDAW’s panel of U.N. thugs would have the ability to scrutinize U.S. laws, and lobby for every radical liberal pipedream you can imagine.’

So, what is is these ‘thugs’ from the United Nations would be monitoring? Well, it’s the United Nations Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women (’CEDAW’). The main worry seems to be that it could mean, for some reason, the end of Mothers Day and the fact that (shock, horror) the government may establish a ‘global village’ daycare scheme. This would, I presume, allow women the freedom to go out and work if they wanted.

I am truly at a loss to understand why anyone could object to such a law, but there it is, featured on the front page of the Congress web site - another example of how the US will use the UN as a valid argument to further its own goals when the mood takes it, yet oppose some of its more beneficial goals when it may stop it doing what it wants.

This Bill, which will give women equal rights - something used as a partial argument for the US-led war in Afghanistan - is described as a ‘UN Treaty Jeopardizing National Sovereignty’.

Hmmm

I guess it’s easy to criticise America and I’m sure the UK is no better in many respects. I guess hypocrisy such as this (and my hypocrisy for criticising America without bothering to find out if the UK does much the same) is human nature. That aside, though, the language used here borders on kneejerk.

It seems Chelmsford was emptying out after its weekend of excesses this morning. The station was full of exhausted-looking teens and twenties sitting on their rucksacks, waiting for cheap-rate fares to kick in. A lone policeman was doing the regular V-festival prowl, looking menacing, but slightly lonely and out of place among the crowd.

I came home this morning to an empty flat. No friendly furry little face to greet me with miows at the door. No scampery legs trotting along beside me, putting him beneath my feet, tripping me with affection as he rubs himself up against my ankles. No jumping up for a tickle when I’ve dropped my bag and sat down on the settee.

Finally, Oscar is back home.

He didn’t have a good journey, apparently. Half way back he started to call, getting more and more urgent as every mile passed. By the time it had become a screech Sal was worried something was wrong, so wound up all the windows and let him out of his box so that he could sit on the back seat. He dived down onto the floor, though, and tried to pull the litter tray out from beneath the driving seat.

He couldn’t do it, of course.

When they got home, and took him out of the car, they discovered the problem. Poor thing had been so spooked by the hot stuffy journey he’d had a major accident in his box, and the movement of the car had got it all in his hair. She had to shower him when they got in. Cats hate water, but I bet he was as perfectly behaved as ever.

Mum told me this story when we went around for a barbeque this evening. We were sitting on the upper patio listening to the music from V2002. It’s amazing how far the sound travels. As the evening wears on the music gets louder and eventually you can hear every word with perfect clarity - from three miles away, at least.

Who needs to buy a ticket?

I thought it would have been a washout. It rained so hard last night that it woke me up - not bad considering even my alarm clock rarely wakes me. I had walked home during a gap in the storm, but all around me was the rumble of thunder and the exciting accompanying streaks of lightning. I must have been in a little pocket of dry surrounded by a curtain of rain.

By afternoon it had stopped enough for a trip into town, but by then the heat was back, and the air was damp and thick as the puddles evaporated, fading back into the sky.

Town was empty, perhaps because of the festival.

We should have one more often.

The weekend before August bank holiday - this weekend - the population of Chelmsford quadruples, and there’s a better than average chance you could find yourself queueing beside a real life pop celebrity in Tesco or WHSmith.

It’s the weekend of the annual V festival in Hylands Park.

The hotels and guest houses are booked up a year in advance, and anyone who has any sense will spend both days avoiding the main roads and the railway station. The former will be blocked from early morning until late night, and the latter is beseiged by unfriendly police with drug-sniffing dogs.

I forgot this a couple of years ago. Paul T and Ems came to visit and arrived by train. While the respectable older looking crowd was allowed to leave the station by the normal route we were herded with several hundred festival-goers down the back stairs to have inconvenient places sniffed by an alsation. We moved slowly towards the front of the queue, but as it finished sniffing the guy in front of us the dog sat down.

This would appear to have been a sign, as the police pounced on the guy and dragged him off while he protested his innocence.

The fierce woman holding the dog looked at us with what seemed disappointment in her eyes. “You’re lucky,” she said. “Very lucky.”

We were waved through while the dog recouperated.

I felt like arguing back, showing her my driving licence to prove that I lived there and hadn’t just journied in for the festival, but it would have achieved nothing. It wouldn’t have earnt back the time we had lost, or done anything to make any of the others in the queue think that Chelmsford was anything other than an unfriendly and unwelcoming police state.

I wanted to tell her that we would only have been “lucky” had we actually got away with anything, but as none of us was carying any drugs we were actually unlucky - our time had been wasted for nothing.

“Welcome to Chelmsford, where everyone is guilty of trafficing drugs until proven otherwise”

So, today I stayed in much of the day, avoiding the shops and the crowds. Oscar had woken me just before the alarm went off by tickling my nose with his whiskers, so we lay there for a while having a cuddle while I listened to the radio. I got up, sorted some jobs, hoovered while Oscar hid beneath the bed, and tidied the flat ready for his departure.

Sal arrived with Dan, mum and Viv at 4.45 - perfectly coordinated with Trevor, Jon and Paul. I don’t know whether I’ve had so many people in the flat at once before. Sal had brought back a pottery pisky from St Ives to thank me for cat sitting, but beyond opening it, saying thanks and briefly showing them my latest panorama there was little time for anything else.

I’d never heard of a pisky before, but it turns out it’s a small pottery gnome with hair like dried noodles. The little card that came with it explained what it does:

It has long been known that this goblin-like creature brings health, good luck and good fortune to all who possess him. Although he can be mischievous and downright bad tempered his charming demeanour will keep you spellbound forever. Look after him and he will look after you.

I gave Oscar a goodbye hug, left mum in charge of locking up and dashed out with Trevor, Jon and Paul to Ipswich to catch a film.

It’s a long way to go to the cinema, granted, but it was an Italian film film touring the country with a name that roughly translates as Ignorant Faries. Brief synopsis: woman’s husband is killed, she discovers he is having an affair with another man, she hunts him down and they become friends. Very enjoyable from the start, and even more so after they propped up the front of the projector on a book or something so that the sub-titles were actually on the screen rather than cut-off half way.

It was a very small cinema. 40 seats in the cellars of the Ipswich Corn Exchange.

We drove out to Woodbridge when it had finished to have dinner in a pub-come-hotel. Cheese overload. Usually not a problem, but on a hot night like this I foresee nightmares.

It’s so hot, yet while I melt quietly in my seat Oscar, who wears a fur coat all day long, is cool in my hands. He stands on my tummy as I lay on the settee stroking him, and kneeds me like a ball of dough. He may not show it, but I’m sure he feels the heat. He no longer sleeps on the rug I laid out for him at the end of last week, and he is eating very little.

He goes home tomorrow. I know I will miss him a lot - especially in the mornings when he comes into the bedroom and stands on the bed, looking down at me as I wake up. We spend the first ten minutes laying together as I work out how to move my legs again.

I am so glad this week is over. It has been busy, hot, and very tiring, and I could do with a relaxing weekend to recouperate. With any luck it will be. Cinema tomorrow evening in Ipswich to see some Italian film or other with Paul, Trevor and Jon, then pop around to see mum on Sunday.

Perhaps I’ll finally find some time to work on the book again.

That was a long day. Of course, after a lot of late nights in a row, and with the flat so hot, there was little chance of me getting to sleep early last night. I was surprised that I actually woke up just before the half-five alarm, then, and was out of bed within ten minutes.

I find the early trains very inspiring. It reminds me how much of the day I miss by getting up late and starting work at 10. If I went in earlier I could do my own thing before the day started, and perhaps even make some good headway on the book. The way I’m feeling this evening, though, there’s little chance of another early morning tomorrow.

I was at ITN shortly after seven, so bought a tea in the canteen and sat down with the paper to wait for the trail. It went well, and was longer than usual. Perhaps that’s another fringe benefit of doing it in person rather than by ISDN.

Normally I could have left as soon as it was over, but the point of going in so early was that I’d promised to record some bits and bobs, so I slowly sipped my tea and browsed the net while I waited. It was quite a nice way to start the day, and once the recording was over I walked over to Soho and started the real work of the day.

It felt very strange. I was hungry before lunch, so ate early and then wasn’t ready when lunchtime came around. I was answering the phone with a ‘good afternoon’ by half ten in the morning and it felt like the middle of the night by the time we started this evening’s show at seven.

In spite of all that, the show went by very quickly, and was great fun. I’m looking forward to listening back to it on the archive tomorrow afternoon, which will be my last day covering the extra section. I’ll be glad to hand it back on Monday morning. It’s in good shape, so I’m happy with the job I’ve done.

I’ve been chatting online with Richard this evening. He’s kept me up when really I should be in bed recovering from this morning’s rediculously early start. We got talking about TV cookery shows, though, which is always a good way of holding my attention as if I was told I could only ever watch one kind of show for the rest of my life that’s what it would be.

Anyhow, it seems he’s an American Jamie Oliver fan, and he deserves credit for pointing me to an online dictionary for American fans who don’t understand a word he’s saying (Jamie’s saying, not Richard).

It’s interesting looking through it to see which of the words we take for granted are unfamiliar to an American audience. Boxing day, kitchen paper and easy peasy were particularly surprising, while others, when you think about them, really mean nothing even though pretty much every Brit could use them without a moment’s hesitation:

Over the moon

Cracking (as in “get going”)

Muck around

What a strange and illogical beast the English language is.

The signals at Stratford break, as they seem to do every week or two, and they delay all the trains to Essex. I catch the 1918 and it arrives at Chelmsford 57 minutes late. They pay you compensation if you’re delayed an hour or more. They don’t think about the fact you’ve spent an hour and three quarters sitting next to a kid that smelt of airline dinners, or that he spent the last hour and a half dropping his head onto your shoulder every four minutes as he drifted off to sleep and his neck gave way. They don’t consider that when the train does not move the air is so still you could suffocate.

I arrive home hot and late. I must be out the door again by six tomorrow. Out of bed by five. The evening is already short, so I put on the hob to heat water for eggs, putting just enough into the bottom of my favourite pan, the pan my dad gave me before he moved to France, to warm the poaching cups just enough.

The phone rings. It is my dad. We talk and the water in the pan boils away. The heavy plastic poaching cups bubble and boil and melt all over the inside of the pan. It is beyond repair.

And so I am feeling sorry for myself as I sit down and cuddle the cat. He makes me feel better. The James Bond film is interrupted for the news and I see stories of missing children, their parents pleading for their safe return; the historic streets of Prague drowned under the torrent of the broken Vltava, while 250,000 people pack their bags and run for their lives; IBM laying off 15,600 workers.

Suddenly my irritation feels self indulgent. I return to the kitchen and scramble my eggs instead.

I didn’t notice the hair all over the flat when I got in last night. I hadn’t left the office until almost nine, and went to Tesco on the way home, so by the time I got back at half ten or so it was like a scene from In Cold Blood, albeit without the gunshots.

Oscar met me at the door, squeaking and purring as is his way, and as soon as I’d sat down he was up on my lap for a tickle. I was on the phone by the time I felt the wetness on my fingers and lifted up his chin to find a large hole in his neck. It was then that I noticed the clumps of hair all over the carpet.

I’m guessing he set-to at the spot on his chin sometime during the day and having scratched it made things worse, putting him into an endless spiral of scratching and hurting until there was no hair left.

The hole was dripping some kind of clear fluid.

Poor thing. He was so well behaved, though, and obviously knew there was something wrong. I made up some salty solution and without even flinching, he rolled over on his back, then lay in my arms like a baby, his head thrown back, while I bathed the wound.

He did the same again this morning.

He really is the best-natured cat I’ve ever known.

It was a late night, all things considered, as was tonight. Mum, Andrew and Viv came around for dinner, partly to see Oscar, and in part so we could play Rummikub. I left my desk on the spot of six and made it onto an earlier train than I’d expected. It took an age to reach Chelmsford, but I bumped into Phil, and we chatted about college, now almost ten years ago, and his wedding, just a couple of weeks away.

I had to pick up a couple of bits and bobs in Sainsbury, so didn’t get started in the kitchen until almost half seven. It was inevitable I wouldn’t be serving by eight, as promised, so I settled them all down in front of the Xbox while I finished the veg.

It went well, and we had good fun. Mum won Rummikub by a comfortable margin. With so many eyes to watch the cat, though, the real luxury was being able to open all the windows, which after over a week of being shut tight was ambrosial, especially at the end of such a hot and stuffy day. Oscar enjoyed it too. Suddenly he could hear the cars and doors and voices outside, and he spent most of his time sniffing the air, sometimes sitting, sometimes up on his back legs with his front paws pressed to the windowsills so he could put his nose on the breeze.

Now that they have gone the windows are closed again and already I’m both baked and parched.

But now I must sleep. I’ve had so many late nights this week I’ve not made the gym once. I will suffer at Complete Physique this weekend.

Poor Jess hasn’t known what to do with herself today. She has spent most of the time hiding in the shed, her face tucked safely into the creases at the back of an old armchair while, keeping away from James.

James is… well, I guess you’d say my step-nephew, if you can have such a thing. He is almost one and he is almost walking. He came to visit mum and Andrew this afternoon, bringing his mum and dad with him. It’s traditional that they should visit at this time of year - it’s Andrew’s (un)official birthday.

I was due there at half one, but of course was late. I’d got myself all tied up with jobs that needed doing at home and was delayed leaving. One set of roadworks later (on a Sunday?!) and a cluster of associated traffic lights that I overshot, so couldn’t tell if they were red or green, and before I knew it, it was gone two.

They were out on the upper patio when I arrived, eating salads and quiche in the sun. It was a very enjoyable afternoon, by the end of which Andrew and James must have walked three miles around the lawn. The horse spent its time peering over the fence, waiting to be fed apples

Viv was down from the north, staying for a week. She’d brought a water feature for the garden, which was playing happily in the shade. It made a relaxing giggles to itself, and soon we were all close to dozing off. I don’t know what’s happened to me this weekend, but I’m finding it very difficult to stay awake. Eating too much probably doesn’t help…

Jess finally came in when James went home, taking his parents with him. She did a patrol of the house, checking there were no infants hiding in the corners or behind the larger pieces of furniture, then let me brush her while I watched a programme on Channel 5 (there’s a first time for everything) about Nasa faking the moon landings.

Typical American docu-trash. Lots of emotive leading sentences, narration from Mitch Pileggi and irritating dramatic music from beginning to end that made the whole thing play out like an ad for a film. However, when you got past all of that it raised some interesting points.

Among the ones that stick in my mind:

• Bands of very strong radiation surround the earth. Anything less than six-feet of solid lead surrounding the craft on all sides would have protected the astronauts from certain death or at least serious radiation sickness. However, the craft was covered in just a “paper-thin” reflective coating, yet none of them ever fell ill. Conclusion: it was an elaborate hoax staged in a massive studio.
• In many of the photos taken by the astronauts not all of the shadows cast by objects on the lunar surface lay in the same direction indicating that the sun was not the only light source. Conclusion: it was an elaborate hoax staged in a massive studio.
• All of the cameras taken to the moon had crosshairs etched onto the surface of the lens so it was easy to work out the level horizon. These should therefore be overprinted across every object in every picture. However, in some you see objects in the pictures in front of the crosshairs. Conclusion: it was an elaborate hoax staged in a massive studio.
• In some of the pictures the sun was behind the object being photographed, yet the details of those objects facing the camera, which should have been in silhouette, were clear and well-lit. Conclusion: it was an elaborate hoax staged in a massive studio.
• In some of the pictures you see an astronaut climb down the ladder from the lunar lander into the shadow cast by the craft, yet the astronaut is very well lit and not affected by the shadow. Conclusion: it was an elaborate hoax staged in a massive studio.

Aha, you say - but people witnessed the rocket blasting off. Well, yes - they did. Apparently, though, it merely orbited the earth for eight days. The only genuine parts of the whole televised event was the blast-off and splashdown.

I approached the whole thing with a healthy dose of skepticism, but have to admit that by the end of it, when they’d detailed how 15% of the members of Nasa’s space programme died in suspicious circumstances following criticism of the programme, and how the American government was desperate to make it seem they were ahead of the Russians in the space race, you do start to wonder…

Rather conveniently there is no telescope powerful enough to take pictures of the supposed lunar landing sites and prove one way or another whether the lunar vehicles, American flags and mythical footsteps are still on the surface. Next year, though, Japan is to launch a probe to take close-up photos of the surface so we could know the truth … of Nasa could slip them a back-hander and ask them to do a few Photoshop ‘enhancements’ first.

It’s lovely having Oscar to stay. He woke me up yesterday morning with gentle purring as he padded across my duvet, then rolled on his back to have his tummy tickled. All I need do now is train him to bring in a cup of tea.

I think he’d been woken by the postman clattering the letterbox as he delivered a reprint of one of my Iceland pics, and an invite to Ystabub’s birthday at the beginning of September. I put the invite carefully to one side so I would remember to confirm as soon as I got to work… and promptly forgot.

I never used to get post until almost noon, but since the post office / Consignia / Royal Mail (delete as appropriate) announced it would be introducing a charge for early morning deliveries it’s often arrived before I’m even awake. I suspect there will be an embarassing climbdown over all that, actually, as I see from the news that only one single customer has signed up for the service since it was announced. Are we surprised?

Still, it was a good day. I finally got finished on those jobs that had been hanging over me all week, and on Monday can move on to something fresh and new.

Was feeling far too washed out to do anything productive on the train home, so bought a copy of Fortean Times, which I’ve not read in ages. I forgot how good it is, and this issue in particular has an investigation into allegations that the American government either knew in advance of the attacks on 11th September or even had some involvement:

And we now know that the US was planning an attack on Afghanistan well before September 11. A week after 9:11, the BBC reported: “Niaz Naik, a former Pakistan Foreign Office Secretary, was told by American Officials in mid-July [2001] that military action against Afghanistan would go ahead by the middle of October.” — Fortean Times, Sept 2002

The story to which it refers is still on the BBC site here. Fortunately this is one example of where original journalism surrounding the event has remained pretty much in tact, as a sidebar running by the same piece in the mag uncovers at least four examples of where what was originally said at the time has been altered after the fact.

A scary piece at the front of the news section also seems to predict the end of the world. A wet patch has appeared on the Wailing Wall, precisely where three monotheistic religions (Islam, Christianity, Judaism) believe the beginning of the end will take place.

Combine that with current events in the Middle East and the quote below, and you can see why some people are getting very jumpy:

“Look, Ariel is lamenting in the streets, the ambassadors of peace are weeping bitterly. The highways are deserted, no travellers any more on the roads. Agreements are broken, witnesses held in contempt, there is respect for no one. The land pines away in mourning, the Lebanon is withering with shame, Sharon has become like the wasteland.” — Isiah, 33

Anyhow, until “the end” does come life must continue, so I spent today tidying away odds and ends, periodically feeding and stroking the cat, ironing (for only about the second time this year) and learning my German. I’m a little under half way through the course now but still well below the standard of my failed French A-level.

Took a trip to the garden centre to buy a frame for the new photo, did a bit of writing, and spent an hour and a half at the gym, so all in all had a fairly satisfying day.

Oscar is still being very affectionate. He follows me around wherever I go and keeps on pressing his nose on the end of my nose. I guess it’s the cat version of kissing. He was very upset, then, when after getting back from the gym and feeding him I went straight back out again to puck up Graham and Roger and take them around to Trevor and Jon’s where we were due for dinner shortly after eight.

The food was excellent, as usual, and by the end of the evening, rather full, and hugging a cup of peppermint tea, I felt more relaxed than I have all week. I could have fallen asleep right there and then.

So there you are, cruising down the river on a warm summer’s evening. What’s the worst that could happen?

We’ve had amazing weather these last couple of days. Metro reckons we had a third of the monthly rainfall in just half an hour yesterday evening. It trapped me in the office without a jumper or coat, and for a while it shut all of the mainline train stations in London. The tube flooded and the streets hid themselves away under impromptu rivers and lakes.

This morning it kicked off again, catching me as I walked the length of Oxford Street and forcing me to take refuge under the canopies of the shops, hopping along from one to the next. I arrived in the office drenched. There were two big bags of donuts there waiting to be opened. They made me feel better.

I’ve been working on the same few pages for a couple of days now, largely on account of the fact I’m covering for Mark while he’s away on holiday. His section is encroaching on mine, and it’s taking far longer to do anything than it should. Don’t get me wrong - I’m enjoying being reviews editor again - but I couldn’t do it along with my other sections on a long-term basis. I come home exhausted and the last thing I want to do is turn on the PC again.

Is that just an excuse to explain the lousy book progress?

Hmmm…

Anway, I’ll be sharing my bed with a cute young lad called Oscar for the next week and a bit. Sal came around and dropped him off this morning while she goes on holiday to save putting him in a cattery. I did that with Jess once and now hate the whole idea. When I went to pick her up her claws were so split from climbing the walls in fear that they were like stubby little paintbrushes made up of short hard hairs.

Anyhow, it’s nice to have him around for a bit of company, and he’d being very affectionate. He keeps on butting my ankles with his head as I walk around the flat. I think he’s bored, poor thing.

Perhaps he wants feeding. I don’t know how often he’s supposed to eat.

Counting up his food, though, I see he’s arrived with 24 packs of KiteKat, which works out at just over two a day, so I’m guessing it’s just a case of simple maths. When I fed him this evening and he smelt it arriving in his bowl he was climbing the kitchen drawers to get at it.

I’ll call Sal tomorrow to check.

Fact learnt on the tube coming home: if you laid all your blood vessels out end to end, they would wrap twice around the equator.