Ouch ! What Was That ?

One of the jobs I’m not too keen on is cleaning out the pool skimmers which are the baskets at one end of the pool which catch all the floating stuff before the water goes through the pump. These baskets also hold the chlorine tablets which slowly dissolve and keep the water clear of algae.

I wear rubber gloves when handling the chlorine tablets but take them off when I clean out of the baskets – it’s much easier to loosen twigs, leaves and bits of grass with your bare hands.

Yesterday, I was rummaging around trying to dislodge the leaves and vegetation from the basket when something grabbed my finger and wouldn’t let go. In the fraction of a second it took for me to scream and pull my finger out (yes I know ’m a woosie), I thought of snakes, scorpions, water-loving vampire bats and all sorts of other undesirables which might have taken a fancy to my index finger.

It was even scarier when I did get my finger clear of the leaves. There was this huge black thing hanging off the end of my digit with its claws stuck in my flesh.

Once I’d stopped trying to shake it free in a state of near panic I realized the ‘poor’ thing was dead. Quite, quite dead, but in perfect working order unfortunately.

It was a stag beetle (pictured) and despite being as dead as a dodo its spiky, hairy legs had grabbed me and wouldn’t let go – even in death.

Eventually, I managed to get my finger free but the scare had me running for my rubber gloves before I attempted to clean the next basket.

It’s now in little Violet’s magnifying bug jar into which you put all sorts of creepie crawlies and then look through its magnifying lid whereupon every creature looks like something from the black lagoon. I have to say, the stag beetle looks horrific. She’s just gone to London for the weekend with her dad (Tan) and it’ll be waiting for her when she returns. I don’t see why I should be the only one who was scared by it!

PS – apologies if you found it difficult to read yesterday’s posting. The new blog template is not too good when you have a format problem in Word – that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.  

A Simple Tale of DNA Justice

There’s been a lot of debate about DNA databases and DNA testing. If you were in any doubt about it, read this, in particular the first paragraph uttered by the judge in a US appeals court.

‘May the road rise to meet you, may the wind be always at your back. May the sun shine warm on your face and may the rain fall softly upon your fields. May God hold you in the palm of his hand, now and forever.’

Wiping tears from her face, the judge stepped forward to shake the hand of a man known to the state of Ohio for more than quarter of a century as Inmate A16468. “Good luck to you, Mr Towler,” she said. “You’re free.”

Despite pleading not guilty and offering a rock-solid alibi, Mr Towler was sentenced to life without parole on the basis of a Cleveland police officer’s suspicion during a routine traffic stop that he resembled the man sought for a rape that had occurred two weeks earlier. He was later picked out by the victim from an identity parade.

It was only when a much sought-after (by his lawyer) and newly developed DNA test, performed 25 years after he was incarcerated proved that he was not the perpetrator, that Towler was freed.

Mr Towler’s case is not unique, but the way it ended was uniquely moving. It may serve to galvanise a national movement of lawyers and activists who have used DNA evidence to free more than 250 inmates since 1992, almost all of them black men

Under state law, Mr Towler is entitled to $40,330 (£27,350) for every year of his wrongful imprisonment, not including lost wages and any damages he may win by suing the Ohio Department of Corrections.

I hope he sues them for every penny he can get and then gives some to DNA research. 

And What About The Football Then ?

I noticed an anonymous comment from Monday’s blog that I hadn’t mentioned the weekend football match. Well, I’m still laughing so much about Sunday’s shambles that I can barely type.

Not true actually. I’m as disappointed as most English fans, especially as it was the Germans who won the match.

I’d been told early Sunday afternoon just as I was settling down to watch the Valencia Grand Prix and then the footie, to ‘get showered, get some wine and be in the car in 30 minutes- we’re going to a BBQ.’

‘But we only got back from the last BBQ less than 12 hours ago’, which was true but it was one of those weekends like London buses– you don’t have a barbie for a while then two come along together! So I did as I was told and had to leave the Grand Prix about 2 minutes before it started. I taped it and watched it later not knowing the result but had I known that a German had won it, I would not have given the England football team  a cat in hells chance (wherever did that saying come from?). I mean omens are omens.

Anyway, we arrived at the BBQ which was a huge affair and when I went to shake the host’s hand whom I’d only met very briefly a few weeks ago (the host, not his hand), he said, ‘so where’s your lederhosen then?’

Well I couldn’t work this one out. Had he thought I was German when we’d met two weeks previously? I’m sure if he’d asked his wife, Fiona, who she’d invited to the BBQ and she’d said, ‘Oh that nice Julie and her drunken husband’, and he’d said, ‘Oh no – not that German guy’, she would have put him right, after all both Fiona and I had had a long conversation about our respective ‘bad behaviour’ at the last BBQ, so she definitely knew I wasn’t German.

Anyway, mountains of food were devoured, the wine flowed and then the time arrived and everybody piled into the house to watch the game. It was then that I worked out the ‘lederhosen’ comment. Being a Scot, they all naturally thought I’d be supporting Germany but I put them straight and started shouting encouragement for England but it was difficult to be heard as a ‘gaggle’ of ladies had taken the best seats and were screaming at the top of their voices, which I thought was all very impressive until one asked for the offside law to be explained to her!

Well, as the first half unfolded and England went 2-0 down, virtually everybody headed back outside including myself. Well – I hate torture especially when it’s being administered by the Germans! There were a few catcalls from the screaming ladies about ‘deserting the team in their hour of need’ but I actually thought that a glass of wine and a cigarette at that precise moment sounded like a better bet.

When I got back to the table where my wife and a few other ‘ladies about town’ were seated, I sensed that they didn’t actually want my company and as they were discussing the merits of ‘Rampant Rabbits and whether they were dishwasher proof’, I understood why and left, heading back inside to the TV room again.

By this time, England had scored, had had another unfairly chalked off and were looking ok but then the collapse came and I thought they were lucky to get away with ‘only’ a 4-1 thrashing.

Needless to say, the men were all a bit morose and headed back to the bar area whilst the ladies at the table all seemed to be rather excited. Don’t know why!

A Tale of Two Watches

So this enormous black guy comes up to me in the street in San Remo and says, ‘Want to buy a watch?’ ‘No thanks’, I reply. ‘But I’ve got some real nice watches.’ ‘I’m sure you have but no thanks.’ ‘Name me a watch you’d like and I’ll have it in here’, he said pointing to his inside pocket.

In order to get rid of the guy I said, ‘OK – if you’ve got a Breitling with a leather strap I’ll consider it’, never having seen a Breitling with a leather strap. That’ll get rid of him I thought.

 In a flash out came this gorgeous silver Breitling (fake of course) with an even nicer brown leather strap. ‘OK – how much?’ ‘€1200’, he said. I nearly fell about laughing until I remembered how big he was. ‘Come on – it’s not worth more than €25’, I said. We settled on €50 and I went home with a nice new (fake) watch.

About a year later the family were sitting in an Alpine restaurant when we should have been in Vail Colorado (lost passport - long story) and Guy asked to see my watch. I passed it over, he turned the bevel face and the watch literally exploded with bits flying everywhere. It was the pressure high up in the mountains and the fact that he’d been fiddling about with it. I gathered the bits and knew it would be a while before I would wear it again, if ever, because most jewelers won’t touch fake watches.  

A couple of years later I’m back in San Remo when a huge black guy comes up and says, yup, you’ve guessed it, ‘Want to buy a nice watch?’ ‘No thanks’, I replied and the whole rigmarole happens all over again. It was like Groundhog Day.

‘OK – if you’ve got a nice Breitling with a leather strap, I’ll consider it’, and sure enough, the large wallet comes out and an even nicer black and chrome Breitling with a black leather strap appears and I fall in love all over again. We settled on €40 which considering a leather strap and a battery costs about €25, I thought was a bargain.

And then I get my first Breitling fixed and so now I’m wandering around with a different Breitling  on my wrist on alternative days. Much better than wearing my good Raymond Weil watches which get scratched, the straps get ripped off and water seeps into them when I’m watering the plants.

And before you think I’m a bit of a chancer wearing cheap, fake watches and conning people into thinking I’m a rich dude, I always own up. Only a couple of weeks ago, a lady was very impressed by my black Breitling. ‘That looks a very expensive watch’, she said. ‘Nope – fake I’m afraid’, I replied.

Now the question is – was she impressed by my honesty or did she think I was a chancer?

Parlez Vous Le Lingo ?

It’s inevitable. I end up speaking to somebody new at a party or BBQ and within about a minute of striking up a conversation, the questions come up – ‘How long have you been here?’ and ‘Do you speak French?’

This is when I get a trifle embarrassed. I’ve now been in France for over ten years and whilst I can get by in a conversation, if anything complex is discussed, such as asking the time or buying a loaf, I’m completely lost.

Why is this? I studied French at senior school and was quite good at it and even got some sort of certificate! I studied it in BT when they provided language lessons for their employees and again was good enough to get a ‘Credit’ in some sort of Business French Certificate and I went for French lessons in the first few years when I arrived in France - but not much has stuck unfortunately.

I reckon it’s a male/female thing. The women all speak it terrifically well whilst most of the men I know, just mumble the few phrases they know and hope nobody notices that their vocabulary is restricted to about twenty words.

The females of course, and I’m not being sexist (well, I hope not)really do have to learn French as they need to enroll the kids at school, attend parent/teacher meetings, deal with all the forms a French school sends on a weekly basis whilst all us guys have to do is order the beers and make sure we have a reservation at the local restaurant.

And something else which amazes me is that American females speak the best French. For some reason they seem to pick it up and off they go – perfect pronunciation and grammer. Why is this?

I reckon it’s a gene thing or a brain thing. Or maybe us guys are just too lazy? Or maybe it’s the stupid French language – I mean a battery for your car is a ‘batterie’ but a battery for virtually anything else is a ‘pile’!

So, ten years after arriving (maybe it’s eleven – who’s counting?) I can start a conversation but have trouble ending one. Only last week my electrician refused to speak French to me because, despite the fact that he hardly spoke English, he understood that more than he did my French!

With Frenchies like him, I’ll never learn the lingo.

But then I was in the Midi last Friday when the waitress delivered a plate of food to me which I hadn’t ordered. Amazingly, I said’ ‘pas moi’, without even having to translate it from English. I’m getting there.