Second Update From Julie in Kenya

"...share your food with the hungry, provide the poor wanderer with shelter, when you see the naked, clothe him, and don't turn away from your own flesh and blood" Isaiah 58:7

Wednesday 31^st March - I was very tempted on Wednesday to take the day off. Not only had the three house dogs kept me awake all night barking, but once awake, it was difficult not to think about all the hardship that I had witnessed over the last few days. Eventually, I must have fallen asleep but I woke relatively early and decided to shower before the rest of the house rose. Taking a deep breath I even washed my hair! Cold water is all that is available at Covenant House. At 9:00 am we piled into our battered jeep.

Today, we were going to visit two schools and then drive 3 hours to see another two of the Trust's boys who were found on the streets of Kisumu but had been repatriated to a boarding school relatively near to their own villages.

In the first school, we were introduced to seven boys and two girls each sponsored by the Isaiah Trust. Ruth was a very articulate and intelligent girl. When asked what she wanted to do when she left school, she said that she wanted to be a lawyer. She was a serious girl and looking at her report card it was obvious that she could easily achieve this dream. Being the last to speak, Moses asked her to tell us a little bit about her life. Ruth hesitantly told us that she was the eldest of 7 girls, the youngest being 3 years old. Gently Moses prompted her to tell us her story. Her father was rarely with the family as he worked nights so the children were left on their own frequently. Ruth then began to tell us of her mother's illness, how they had to take her out of hospital because they couldn't afford the fees. Ruth attended to her through the next couple of nights until she died in her sleep. By this stage of the story Ruth became overcome with emotion - me too. Here was a young girl who carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. I hugged her until we both managed to stop crying.

Later, she posed for photographs with me and showed me around her dormitory. In the washing area, us girls asked her what she needed. Hesitantly she asked for some soap and sanitary towels.

I left with Ruth still in my heart, with a promise to find out who her sisters were and what I could do to help.

Thursday 1^st April - Only two more schools to visit today before they close for Easter!

Yesterday afternoon, we visited the last of the boys’ secondary boarding schools. Their schedule is gruelling by our standards. They are woken at 5:00 am

Today, we visited two more primary schools in Kisumu. I was delighted to meet three of Ruth's sisters - twins Margaret and Susan and 13 year old Kezia. When I met Ruth, it was not apparent that her sisters were in school. Were they not, they would be prime targets for prostitution, hence the relief at seeing them all together!

Good Friday - Today we are going to visit Violet, Alex and Zablon but first we needed to do some shopping. I struggled a bit with 'presents'. Tim picked up salt, cooking fat, sugar, bread, gravy powder and tea. I chose sanitary pads, toothpaste and brushes and soap.

We drove to Violet's house which was off the beaten track and in a slum district. Mud houses with tin roofs squeezed together - hardly any room to pass at all. Barefoot children trying to climb on the car as we manoeveured through the narrow passage ways. Every few houses we would go past a 'shop' or someone with a blanket on the floor selling tomatoes or a single cabbage.

It felt too intrusive to take any photographs from the car and for the first time, I felt fear at being a westerner in the middle of an African slum. We had to stop the car as we couldn't get any further and the heavens opened. Rain's a blessing! As we continued on foot slipping and sliding, I desperately tried not to notice the open sewers on either side of us. Eventually, John led us to the house Violet shared with her father and 6 siblings.

Easter Saturday - Today we are taking the boys out to the ‘Car Wash’ - this is an area where they do - guess what! Wash cars! It is all very amusing as they drive trucks, cars and school buses into the lake and valet them.

The atmosphere there is very lively as there is much activity but we were heading to the fish shacks by the lake which are tin hutted corrugated shacks. It is impossible to get to the lake unless you walk through one of them.

The heat is the first thing you notice from the charcoal fires situated near the entrance, on which the 'mamas' are boiling oil to fry the fish. In another corner, someone with a giant wooden spoon is pouring maize flour into boiling water - this is the Kenyan staple dish - Ugal. If I was going to be unkind then I would say it tastes like wallpaper paste (but without the taste). Next you pass the Tilapi neatly lined up, side by side and on top of each other. These are the ugliest fish you are ever going to find! Their mouths in death are a distinct ‘oh’ shape as if caught out by surprise.

Eventually we managed to find chairs/tables and benches to seat all 40 of us. I had to hug all 30 boys (twice) before sitting down so you can guess that took a while.

No menu - just fish and ugali and some green stuff (sorry I'm not good on names). After about an hour, the huge plates were passed down the table. The English amongst us were somewhat surprised to see the whole fish on the plate (head tail etc) but I was all ready to filet mine! But where was the cutlery??

The lady with the hand wash and bowl came round and the ritual began. Find the soap in the water, soap thoroughly, then wait whilst she pours clean water from a jug over your hands to rinse, then you drip dry.

The boys gave us a lesson in eating the fish – using their fingers. The green stuff was mixed in with bits of tomatoes and was salty and delicious. Plunging my fingers into the ugali and taking a small piece, you roll it in the palm of your hand until it becomes the consistency of dough, make a thumb print into it and fill that with the sauce.

Everyone ate until they were completely full. I have to say that the fish was meaty and extremely tasty. I ate everything in between the tail and the gills ... Then watched Shadrack who was sitting next to me demolish all except the tail.

The boys so love this meal - they probably do this only once each year - they ate until every morsel, on everyone's plate was finished.

See pictures at the following link:

http://picasaweb.google.co.uk/tom.cupples/Kenya2#

It Was A Kid’s Day Yesterday

I was up quite early yesterday. It was sunny and warm and perfect for getting all those outside jobs done which I’ve been putting off until we had a couple of days of dry, warm weather.

The stock market had risen again which didn’t really interest me as I’ve sold everything in the run-up to the election so with no financial distractions, off I went to clear up my wood store and do some planting next door.

It was 11 when I remembered that Kitty had a special day and as it started at 12 and she was quite clearly still in the land of nod, I thought I’d better wake her up. I suppose Guy and Kitty are like lots of other kids – they would sleep until their stomachs wake them up, but as Kitty’s day was centred around food, I was sure she’d be awake – nope, not a chance!

“C’mon get up – you’ve got lunch at 12”, I said. It was 2 minutes to eleven o’clock. ‘Ooooohhhh it’s not eleven yet’, was the reply and the head didn’t even surface!

You see, her friend Maeve had won a ‘lunch for two’ in a tombola and the lunch just happened to be at the best restaurant in town – the Auberge du Tourrettes. Two thirteen year old kids were about to have lunch with the WAGs (wives and girlfriends)of the village and Kitty was not about to let me forget it.

‘Don’t think you’re taking me to the village in that manky old scooter’, she said. ‘I want you to get the Alfa out of its winter wrapping, get the top down and take me to the village in that.’ And with that she disappeared into her bedroom to get ready.

Thirty minutes later she appeared in the Armani tailored jacket she’d been given by Linda at our lunch on Monday and she looked a treat. Hair straightened and looking every inch a WAG, she reluctantly climbed onto the back of my scooter and 10 minutes later I dropped her off at the Auberge. ‘Remember – no wine’, I said and left her. I could say I zoomed off but it was more like a putt-putt off!

Just what the Auberge, who normally expect a couple of luncheon diners to spend about 100 euros will do when two 13 year olds ask for a table is anybody’s guess? See Kitty’s latest montage photo of herself above. It’s bad enough that’s she’s precocious – I don’t know how I’ll cope if she’s talented as well!

Then it was back to Guy who, poor thing, has a rotten cold. His scooter has been acting up so we stripped all the farings off of it and looked at all the performance related items. It was great – man and boy, working together on a machine, with me trying to tell him things such as, ‘you’ve got to make sure you put the spark plug in straight’, and him saying, ‘Thomas – I know that.’

Anyway, having cleaned, scrubbed, reset and tightened various bits and pieces, we built it back up and he pressed the start button. Miraculously, in Guy’s opinion and quite expected in mine, it burst into life on the first turn of the starter motor. ‘It’s never done that before Thomas’, was the statement from a boy who obviously had no faith in my engineering abilities.

It’s now 5.50pm and still there’s no sign of the 13 year old WAG. Maybe her and her pal have gone to McDonalds for a Big Mac to end the afternoon’s culinary extravaganza?

Now Nigel’s been in trouble again in New York – find out what he’s been up to at the following URL and watch out for the bad language:

http://monaconigel.blogspot.com/

The UK's Caring Hospitals

There’s a story doing the rounds just now about a hospital switchboard getting a call asking about the health of a patient – a Mrs Jones. ‘Are you a relative?’ asked the operator. ‘Oh yes, we’re very ,very close’, said the caller who was then put through to the ward where the patient was being treated. Once the ward nurse had again established that the caller was a relative (how can they tell?), she proceeded to give the caller a full account of the patient’s treatment and finished with a positive prognosis saying that Mrs Jones would make a full recovery. ‘Thank goodness for that’, said the caller. ‘Can I ask who’s calling so I can pass on a message’ asked the nurse. ‘Oh it’s Mrs Jones in Room 11 of your ward – no bugger has been telling me anything but now I’ve found out – thanks for the information.’

Think it’s a joke? Not on your life. The following report was in the news last week:

“A nurse has been sacked after a dying patient was forced to phone the switchboard of the hospital he was in to beg for water, it has been claimed. Derek Sauter, 60, was left unmonitored for 11 hours at a hospital in Sidcup and used his mobile phone to call for help. The grandfather, who had a chest infection, died eight hours later of pneumonia.”

I know that the UK health service gets a bad press but that latter story is a real indictment of the lack of care some patients receive.

Fortunately, I have not been in a UK hospital since I was a boy but several episodes recently have led me to believe that all is not well, if you’ll forgive the pun.

Firstly, my mate Alan went into hospital a few years ago for a simple hernia operation. He did not survive. Word was that the surgeon nicked his bowel and Alan died of septicemia.

Much more recently we’ve witnessed, or rather J has, the treatment given to her mother and stepfather, both who were very ill and neither of whom survived.

Firstly her mother who suffered from diabetes went into hospital with a complaint and initially the staff treated her very well but as time passed, the treatment deteriorated to the point where J and her sister had to check up that Kath was getting her medication and her meals on a daily basis. Leaving her food and medication just out of reach for a woman who could hardly move was a common complaint and leaving her in soiled sheets was another unforgiveable sin on the part of the nursing staff.

A few months later, Freddi, J’s stepfather who was 92, also entered hospital with a series of complaints (basically his body was giving out) and although, on the face of it, his treatment was ok, when he returned to his nursing home the staff discovered his body covered in bed sores – a clear indication of a lack of nursing care. Just as the home were discussing with the family about making a formal complaint to the hospital, poor Freddi died.

Now I know that we’ve all got stories about the UK Health Service (oxymoron ???), but to have three close relatives/friends enter hospital and suffer what appears to be very poor care just seems a bit too indicative (of lack of care) to be a coincidence.

As some of you may know, my close mate Brian, who was in a serious car accident a few months ago, is still in hospital and it looks like he’ll be there for another couple of months at least. Let’s just keep our fingers crossed that he’ll get better care. It seems to me, and this is a good sign for Brian, that if you’re young enough to understand what’s going on and can complain then you’ll be ok. If you’re old and infirm, you’re in the hands of God, sometimes literally!

Playing on the Beach At Antibes Whilst Billions Were Lost

Let me first of all introduce the characters.

Roman Obramovich – the Russian owner of Chelsea Football Club and worth somewhere between £7 billion and £12 billion. A frequent visitor to these parts where he moors his enormous yachts.

Boris Berezovsky – a fellow oligarch (pictured) who claims he once owned businesses in Russia worth several billion pounds and who has a villa not far away in Antibes.

Arina Berezovsky – Boris’s daughter and Kitty Evans – my step-daughter.

A few years ago, Kitty returned from a sailing lesson having made a new friend. What was strange she said, was that as her new friend sailed her Laser off Cannes, a couple of dark suited men in sunglasses tracked her in a motor boat. At the end of the sailing season, Kitty exchanged e-mail addresses with the little girl and an on-line friendship started, which continues to this day. Frequent invitations for the girl to visit our house were declined and no offers to visit her house in Antibes were forthcoming.

When she returned to the UK, the girl, now known as Arina, would send e-mails innocently giving clues to her lifestyle which was dominated by bodyguards, CCTV cameras and high fences round their Berkshire home.

Intrigued, I spent a few hours on the internet and came to the conclusion (correct as it turned out) that Arina was Boris Berezovsky’s daughter.

Let me re-introduce her father Boris. Self-imposed exile in the UK after ‘falling out’ with Vladimir Putin who he is trying to overthrow. His lawyer/accountant killed in a mysterious helicopter crash and his friend Alexander Litvinenko, murdered with a radioactive poison in London, a couple of assassination attempts on his life and several countries after him for alleged money-laundering and various other misdemeanours. He already has a 6 year jail sentence hanging over him for supposed ‘crimes’ in Russia.

And now the latest twist in his feverishly complicated life:

In December 2000, two of Russia’s most powerful businessmen met at a villa at Cap d’Antibes on the French Riviera. Once friends and business partners, Boris Berezovsky, who owned the villa, and Roman Abramovich, were about to begin a lasting and bitter rivalry that would end up being played out years later in the British courts.

According to Berezovsky’s account, Mr Abramovich was there to deliver a message from the Kremlin: surrender your business interests in Russia or they will be seized.

It was the first of several meetings at which Berezovsky claims he was coerced to hand over shares in some of Russia’s most valuable companies to Abramovich at a substantial discount to their value. He is now suing Abramovich in the High Court in London for more than £2 billion.

At one stage, Berezovsky had political power, playing a central role in helping Boris Yeltsin to retain power against the resurgent Communists in 1995.

Then Mr Berezovsky’s fortunes changed. He fled Russia in 2000 after falling out with Vladimir Putin, Mr Yeltsin’s successor, and became an exile. By contrast, Mr Abramovich, his former protégé, enjoyed close ties to the Kremlin and was on his way to becoming one of the richest men in the world. In 2009, The Sunday TimesRich List estimated Mr Abramovich’s wealth at £7 billion, while years in exile had cut Mr Berezovsky’s to £450 million.

Mr Berezovsky’s mistake had been turning against Vladimir Putin soon after he came to power in July 2000.

In Mr Berezovsky’s account, he claims that he was told to surrender his holdings to the state or “end up like Vladimir Gusinsky”, a Russian businessman who had been imprisoned on fraud charges several months earlier. Mr Berezovsky claims that the threats were repeated by Mr Putin himself at a meeting the following day where he was told to hand his Russian TV assets to the state for $175 million or they would be expropriated and a friend of his who was imprisoned in Russia would not be released. There was also the small matter where Berezovsky alleges that Abramovich coerced him into selling his stake in Sibneft, the Russian oil company, for $1.3 billion — far less than he believed it was worth. Mr Berezovsky argues that he had no choice but to sell his shares or they would be expropriated by the Russian Government. Stephen Curtis, a London lawyer/accountant, well-known for acting for Russian businessmen, handled the transaction. Mr Curtis died in a helicopter crash near Bournemouth shortly afterwards .

Mr Abramovich disputes Mr Berezovsky’s account. He denies that Mr Berezovsky ever had an interest in Sibneft and later sold the company to the Russian state for precisely 10 times what Berezovsky sold it for.

And so the whole affair, despite being entirely Russian in context will be played out in London’s Civil Courts where Berezovsky will try to recoup his ‘lost’ billions. Last week, Abramovich’s attempt to have the case thrown out was rejected and the case will be heard late next year.

In the meantime, Boris wanders around London with an entourage of bodyguards which would make a small army seem inadequate - the occasional invites for Kitty to stay at Arina’s house in London are being politely declined!

Postscript - Boris lost his High Court case and shortly afterwards died in an apparent suicide but which has been declared an Open case by the coroner. 

Special Posting – Julie in Kenya

Julie has sent me some e-mails giving details of her trip to a Kenyan orphanage. Here is her story so far – I’m not embarrassed to say I have been crying as I read them. Photos can be viewed at the following URL (note - the last three photos were taken at an animal sanctuary she visited when she had a long stopover at Nairobi): http://picasaweb.google.co.uk/tom.cupples/Kenya1#.

Monday - we wanted to visit some of Kisumu's primary schools where the Isaiah Trust sponsors some of the most vulnerable children who are studying to pass their KPCE (Kenyan Primary Certificate of Education) which the children need in order to move up to secondary school. Typically, we would be invited into the principal's office and be told that the majority of pupils were orphans. In Kenya, every child is entitled to an education but what initially prevented a general education for all was the cost of the uniform which was mandatory. When children, through various means started wearing uniforms, a new ruling insisted on leather shoes, which again kept the attendance numbers down. The latest issue is that the government has now stopped providing textbooks which is not so much a problem in the primary schools but is certainly not conducive for learning in the secondary schools.

The first Principal we met explained that a further change in the rules surrounding education meant that each child had to now have an official Birth Certificate in order to register for KPCE - somewhat of a problem when a child had been orphaned at an early age and had no known relatives.

Each of the Isaiah Trust's children in the schools, 'our' children, were called before the Principal. Each in turn shook our hand and thanked us. Some were shy, others we knew from church the day before. They glanced at their feet as they were asked what their best subjects were. In a couple of the schools we joined the child in their classroom. The biggest class was 107 children. As we entered the class, they would rise and chant in unison, ‘Good Morning Visitors, how are you’? Each individual child is so polite.

All of the teaching staff deserve respect. The best ones knew every detail of every child that they had taught. When asked what they needed to continue their good work, they stated that they needed exercise books and pencils.

Tonight we were invited out to a fellowship meeting in one of the slum areas hosted by 17 year old Paul. Paul has been lucky in respect that an elder in the slums who was once a street boy himself is letting a dwelling to Paul and his younger brother, Daniel. Paul suffers from epilepsy so is limited to the kind of work that he can find. He chooses to collect anything of value from the dump and sell it on. This meagre existence barely sustains him and his brother. Their slum dwelling was an airless room with no running water or electricity. His brother was too ill - suffering from Malaria - to attend the meeting, barely showing his face around the door. Ten or so neighbours attended the fellowship meeting each with their own tale of hardship. One requested help with paying for medication for his brother who had been diagnosed with Typhoid. We prayed for the elder, Stephen, who at 82 had survived on the streets all of his life. Now owning a property of his own, he 'fostered' or rather kept an eye of boys with the same predicament.

Tuesday - and I still have Paul and his brother heavy in my heart. Our group also met Violet. I was drawn to Violet simply through her name and my association with our village at home, Tourettes sur Loup (the City of Violets) and its Violet festival every year.

In many respects, it is harder for the girls than the boys. Violet was the same age as Paul (17) but the sole carer for her 6 siblings. She too lived in the slums but had been put through some education by the Isaiah Trust. Violet was now at the Rotary College and was in her first week of a two year tailoring course. In her classroom, she proudly showed us the small blue dress she had hand sewn for her exam. Her tutor was very pleased with what she had done in one week! The girls shared three ancient Singer treadle machines which reminded me so much of my Aunty Lil. Violet was learning how to cut out paper patterns drawing them out on old paper bags. I promised to get her some more material as this would be her major expense during her course work.

Next on to another secondary school. Here we met Collins, Wycliffe and Zablon. All three boys had been sponsored by the Isaiah Trust for some time and here we saw a quiet confidence. Collins was ranked 4th in his year and well on track with excellent Maths and Science results to achieve his dream of becoming a pilot. The school's motto was The Sky's the limit. Wycliffe had his sights set on becoming an engineer and Zablon, keen to go on to study Political Science. I have no doubts that these boys determination will get them where they want to be and I look forward to following their individual efforts!

Onto another school and another three boys. Having been so happy to see confidence exuding from the last three I was instantly drawn to Alex. What was his situation? I talked to him. In our western culture it would be totally inappropriate to ask about your problems in a first meeting. Alex's spirit looked totally broken in spite of being in school. Where we were asking the others about what they wanted to achieve, Alex was locked in his problems. His father was a drunkard but worse than that, the only work available for him was emptying faeces from the slum toilets. If Alex didn't help him then he would be beaten.

I was overcome with emotion discussing Alex's situation with Moses. All Alex wanted was a place to concentrate on his studies. How much would it cost to move him away from his father? Moses said that a slum dwelling similar to those we saw the night before would cost as little as 500 Kenyan Shillings a month. To provide a supervised house for 5 or 6 boys similar to Alex would cost 5000. In monetary terms, 6 lives could be changed for as little as 50 euros a month - it was the need for this pitiful amount of money that could so change their lives that affected me so deeply.

Leaving the school behind, we returned to Covenant House to change into long trousers and long sleeves in an effort to deter the mosquitos. Tonight, we attended a fellowship group at Kachok, the rubbish tip.

We were dropped off near to Nakumat (Tesco equivalent) and walked over toward the sports stadium. Kachok covers the intervening ground. We walked through undergrowth behind the stadium until we reached what previously had been a dwelling. It consisted of 2 concrete, windowless rooms with a tin roof, except that only a third of the roofing still remained. Three wooden benches held approximately 20 people. It was raining and the lucky ones had some shelter. The service had already started. Biblical quotations endorsed them to 'think big' - with God on your side you are never alone. The boys and girls, some of whom we recognised, were sharing their benches with the street kids. Emmaculate sat next to me - immaculate from that morning, still dressed in her school uniform. She was in sharp contrast to the young boy who had followed me there - his clothes were as dark as his skin though once they may have been green or blue. His t-shirt was full of holes and his denim shorts were ripped from the thigh to the knee. He was barefoot and about the size of a 6 year old. His eyes told me he could have been 14 or 15. I tried to make some form of contact with him. Most kids are bilingual in Kiswahili with English being the common second language, particularly if they have had some sort of schooling. This child was either shy, petrified of a Mzungu (white person), or just too hungry and weak to attempt to talk. As he sat on a bench sandwiched between others like him, I felt a desperate need to reach out. But how?

The fellowship service was prayerful, inspirational and musical with Moses playing his guitar. We sing in Kiswahil and considering how self conscious I was only two days earlier, now I love to sing in their language. Tim (the co-founder of the Isaiah Trust) talked about how a rope needs three strands to be strong - you, me and God. When I was introduced, I emphasised what he had said. If you are alone, then find a friend and with God you will be three. I urged any child who felt alone to come forward to one of us and we would try to help.

By the time the service had finished, we were in complete blackness, wet through from the rain from the roof and no doubt, had collected numerous mosquito bites., None of this registered as bread and juice was handed out to the street boys who politely queued to take their only meal of the day.

We started the trek back to the stadium. Because we had come straight from our school visiting, none of us were dressed for the weather. My flip flops were useless in the undergrowth and mud and I was well aware that there were numerous trenches (filled with who knows what) alongside our path. Hesitantly I took my first few steps and as I began to slide and fall, I was grasped by Emmaculate on one side and another helping hand on the other. I looked to see who it was. Noticably within those attending was a woman and child. Of all the 'gifts' that I brought, each were given to Moses to hand out where needed. One of her other daughters had received a cotton dress and some underwear. To the baby in the woman's arms, we had given a small cuddly toy. These children have nothing to their name other than the clothes they stand up in. The baby reached out for the brightly coloured 'dinosaur' and smiled - she was still young enough to be carried everywhere though her mother claimed that she was 2 years old. With the child wrapped up tightly on her back, she escorted me with a strong hand back to the Stadium.

As we prepared to get into the jeep, I hugged each of the boys in turn - such bags of bones...one boy whispered up at me. I have a problem, he asked...Michael said he experienced so much pain in his eyes that when this happened he could not see. What a courageous boy to ask me, a mzungu - for sure he had been listening to the preaching. I called over Moses who questioned him more closely in his own language. Medication and doctors are out of the question for slum dwellers, for the street kids, it’s impossible. John was also called over. John receives a small salary from the Isaiah Trust to act as a kind of social worker. Michael would need to go to the hospital and see a specialist consultant . Easter weekend is approaching so arrangements have been made for Michael to be taken to the hospital on the following Monday. I have asked to go too.

An Update From Le Brin d’Olivier

Well the weather here is strange at the moment – one day sunny, the next rainy, the next sunny, the next thunderstorms. It makes it difficult to do anything (that’s my excuse). The ground doesn’t dry out so gardening is out of the question and I’m re-gravelling my drive but the gravel is soaking wet which doubles its weight and whilst I’d like to build up my six-pack for the summer, I don’t want to overdo it!

J went off on her travels to the Kenyan orphanage last week. Her rather convoluted trip took her from Nice to Manchester and then on to Paris before catching a flight to Nairobi. During the day’s stopover there she visited an elephant orphanage and fed some giraffes by holding treats in her mouth. She said it was disgusting – I never knew giraffes had blue tongues but she assures me they have!

The next leg of the trip was an internal flight to Kinsumu where the children's orphanage is located. Total travel time was some 40 hours and she says she never slept a wink, poor thing.

We’ve had regular updates and I’ve said I’ll give my blog over to her when she eventually gets something written but she appears to be having a wonderful, if emotional time out there, pouring love all over the kids who have lost their parents. An excerpt here from her Facebook posting:

The real street urchins are barefooted and in rags. To have such a broken spirit aged 7 just tears you apart...two or three turned up at our meeting, no eye contact, but so wanting to be amongst us. We sat in a windowless, roofless slum dwelling in the rain and tried to talk to them about dreaming 'big' until darkness fell. We came home to our evening meal and bed - I have no idea how or where they are sleeping.

Back home, my kids are a model of good behaviour. Despite the clocks going forward they still get up in time for school and go off with a smile on their faces – well Guy does! Maybe it’s because this is the last week before the Easter holidays?

J in her ‘caring’ way had lined up all sorts of people to feed us and make sure we’re being looked after and it’s been non-stop. On Sunday, Sam and her boys came round before we all headed next door where Tan and Angie hosted an impromptu terrace party and then on Tuesday, John and Helen came round for dinner bringing all sorts of food goodies with them. It was back to Tan and Angie’s on Wednesday for probably the best lasagne I’ve ever eaten.

I’ve got lunch in the village today (Friday) with a couple of friends, followed by a football day which I’m hosting on Saturday where my bar will get its first visitors of the year and then on Monday, the kids and I are having an Easter lunch at John and Linda’s down the hill. And then on Wednesday I think we’re off to Dave and Sarah’s although as the invitation was given when I was a bit tipsy the other night, I’m not quite sure. David, Tan – help me here!

As is usual when J goes on a trip, I am determined to empty the freezer by the time she gets back but with all these invitations to eat out it looks like most of the unrecognizable ‘stuff’ in unmarked plastic bags will still be there when she returns to Le Brin. Last night in a fit of culinary inspiration, I made the kids Fajitas Guadalajara – don’t ask!

That’s about it. Must get on with my ironing now. A pair of jeans does me a week – why do they need a clean pair every day?

A Hung Parliament ?

It’s looking increasingly likely that there will be no overall majority when the election runs its course in May. From a position of absolute strength a couple of months ago, the Tories are now struggling to keep ahead in the polls.

How has it come to this?

Who would vote those lying, incompetent Labourites back into power when they’ve virtually destroyed Britain? They’ve turned, what was a very strong economy, in 1997 when they took power, into that of a third world country. Probably the best measure of how well a country is run is not the amount of debt the country has run up (a lot of that is due to the bailout of the banks which ultimately will turn out to be a necessary and profitable move) but the amount a country spends on running itself.

In 1997 the proportion of GDP spent on running the UK was 36% - a world beating figure. Now it is 52%. This has been caused by Labour’s ‘interventionist’ policies and outrageous spending, much of which has been expended on so-called ‘managers’ running the NHS, education and other public facing departments.

Let’s put it very simply. When I was a manager at IBM and BT, I was virtually left alone to run my department. A meeting once a month to check my sales figures and that was it. If I was in the NHS (to take the popular example), I would have had several managers checking my figures daily and would have been involved in interminable meetings, all taking invaluable time from my real job – to sell things.

Anyway, getting back to the election battle - the Tories have messed it up big time. Only latterly are they attacking Gordon Brown’s disastrous mistakes when he was Chancellor; selling Britain’s stockpile of Gold at the absolute bottom of the market, raiding the pensions funds of dividend tax credits which took something approaching £100 billion out of the funds of pensioners (like me) and completely destroyed probably the world’s best pension system. I wouldn’t have cared if Brown had used that £100 billion to improve the nation but it was just squandered away. He’s screwed the armed forces at a time when they need maximum support and filled the country with immigrants soaking up every cent (sorry, penny) the country throws at them.

Last weekend Labour started attacking George Osborne, the Tories man for Chancellor as weak, ineffective and ‘shrill’. True, he doesn’t come across well but does Brown? Did Brown fill the country with hope when he became Chancellor in 1997? I’m afraid we’re down to personalities again but if the country chooses Labour ahead of the Tories on personality alone, it’ll reap what it sowed.

So what of a hung Parliament? The pound will sink against all major currencies, the stock market will fall and the wider financial markets will take a dim view that the UK cannot sort itself out and the three parties will argue about what policies to introduce – it’ll be the UK managed by committee and we all know what happens when committees get involved – nothing! If you are a non-UK taxpayer it’ll be interesting however because we’ve not had a ‘coalition’ government for decades and the Liberals will finally get a say. Will they help or hinder? Will they get caught in the headlights like frightened bunnies? Only time will tell.

Greece – Think It Doesn’t Affect You ?

If Greece was a company they’d be declared bankrupt and the administrators would be called in to try and salvage what they could. How has this wonderful country which I holidayed in for nine years in a row ended up in this situation?

I have to admit it was a puzzle to me as I was there (well – Corfu, one of its islands) only last year and despite the fact that the infrastructure is a bit basic, the locals seem to live a good life – and there’s the hub of it. The Greeks only pay tax when they feel like it and if they do declare their earnings, they generally grossly underestimate them. Even when caught, there’s a good chance the tax official will take a bribe to cancel the tax evasion penalty!

The statistics show that Greek revenue from income tax is a measly 4.5% compared to the EU average of 8%. Even as Greece’s GDP (the output of the country) was growing at 4% a year, its tax revenues were falling, which in economic parlance is virtually impossible!

Go into a garage to pay a bill and ask for a receipt and the price will go up – because the garage owner will have to declare the income. Apparently, half the doctors in the country declare an annual income of less than €30,000 which is a laugh given what you have to pay them when you’re ill on holiday.

And that’s it in a nutshell – Greece has been spending just like the UK Government only without the tax revenues to support it. The international money markets have spotted this and the price Greece has to pay to borrow in the money markets has risen to the point where they just cannot afford the interest payments. Do they default, i.e. not pay their creditors and be classified along with African and South American countries who regularly refuse to pay their bills? Or do they go cap-in-hand to the EU with the begging bowl?

Well, good old Greece has been playing hard ball, threatening to quit the EU and throw the single currency concept into utter chaos. Germany and France, who would suffer most if Greece pulled out of the EU, are desperately trying to come up with a solution but at the end of the day, they’ll have to dig deep into their pockets and bail the Greeks out. And, any billions they spend helping keep the doctors in the manner to which they’ve become accustomed will inevitably filter through to the good old UK because France and Germany will argue for a ‘re-balancing’ of the EU budget and we’ll have to pay more.

Finally – some career advice. Become a doctor in Greece – it’s a very well paid job!

PS - Nigel is up to his tricks again. Find out what he's been up to at http://monaconigel.blogspot.com/

No Women And Are You On The Buses ?

When looking at Guy’s possible Lyceé down in Antibes, I remarked that he might have to get some ‘digs’ because the college was so far from home. ‘What’s digs Thomas’? he asked.

I explained that digs down here was the equivalent of renting a room in a house. ‘Have you ever been in digs Thomas’? he continued.

Have I been in digs Guy – let me tell you ………………………….

I was 17 and I’d been living in a cupboard at my aunt’s house in the west end of Glasgow. OK it was a big cupboard but it was still a cupboard. I had started to look for some larger premises when I found out that my employer, Rootes the carmaker, would double my wages if I had to stay in digs in order to reduce travelling time to the factory, so I said thanks to my aunt and wandered down Dumbarton Road looking in the various newspaper shops for ‘rooms to let’. I found what looked like a suitable room (on paper) and headed off to Rosevale Street which was about a 15 minute walk from my aunt’s house.

‘Knock, knock’. The door opened about 2 inches and a wizened old woman looked through the gap. ‘Yes – what do you want’? ‘I’ve come about the room’. ‘Yer no on the buses are yeh’? (there was a large bus garage beside the house)‘No – I’m not on the buses – I work in Paisley’. ‘That’s alright then – yeh can come in’. And so started two wonderful years in my life in Rosevale St.

The ‘interview’ was quite surreal. Mrs McLean who must’ve been in her eighties and who was four foot nothing, laid down the rules. “It’ll be £2.50 a week. That’s more than I normally charge but you’ll have a room to yourself. I’ll do you a cooked breakfast, sandwich box for lunch and a 3-course dinner at night.” I took all this in and then said, I wouldn’t need a lunch box. ‘It won’t be any cheaper she said’. I laughed as at £2.50 a week, the ‘digs’ were a bargain. “I’ll get the room re-decorated before you move in”, she said.

I moved in a week later to find a couple of Irish builders sharing a room across the corridor which was about a quarter the size of mine. Paddy and Mick (yes really) would get up at 5am, have breakfast, come home at 6pm, wash and have dinner with me. They never said a word and then went to bed about 7.30 and then got up at 5am again. What a life!

My breakfast typically took the form of orange juice, cereals, two fried pork chops or a steak and a couple of fried eggs. Oh and with 3 slices of toast! After a couple of days, I had to tell Mrs McLean that I would be happy with just the cereals. ‘The room won’t be any cheaper’, she said.

I loved it there. I usually took her flowers on a Friday night and on a Saturday when she entertained some of her lady friends in her main room and they’d all be drinking their little glasses of whisky, I’d present her with a half bottle. She thought I was a saint but in reality with Rootes giving me £7.50 a week for my ‘digs’, I felt guilty that I was getting away for a third of that.

And then the trouble started.

After a couple of months, I said to Mrs McLean that I was unhappy paying £2.50 a week. ‘Oh – I don’t want to lose you – shall we say £2 a week from now on’, she said. When I told her that I wanted her to take £4 a week she was beside herself. The problem was she put the rent for Pat and Mick up to £3.50 and they went ballistic. Every night at dinner I’d get the pair of them having a go at me, so in the end I had to tell Mrs McLean that as their room was tiny, it was unfair to charge them virtually the same as me. She relented and peace broke out for a while but only until my fiancée, Fiona (who was to become my wife) started to come to Mrs Mclean’s.

Mrs McLean liked her from the start and was happy for Fiona to visit me. Tea and biscuits would be delivered and occasionally a couple of glasses of sherry would be handed into the room.

Problem was Paddy and Mick had been told – ‘absolutely no women in your room - especially if they’re on the buses’!

Dr Fang

On Friday, just as J was starting her trip from England to Kenya, she’d left me with instructions to take Kitty to the doctors. I duly turned up at the appointed hour of 11am and at 11.30 he appeared in the waiting room and looked at me quizzically – ‘who ah you?’ ‘I’m Mr Evans’, I said (it’s easier being somebody I’m not with this doctor). ‘Ah – come in’. There seemed to be a glimmer of recognition. Anyway, once in his room, I was just about to question his timekeeping when he spotted the cigarettes coming out of my pocket as I looked for the Carte Vitale (Health card) and he started lecturing me on smoking. It took me back to the last time I was in his surgery – 18 months ago when I blogged about it thus …….

Ever since I challenged J to get back into her wedding dress there’s been a marked change in the household. She now walks to the village (4 miles) when she used to take the car to the post box (50 yards). We now are fed Weetabix, without sugar or milk, for breakfast and we have muesli for dinner. I will not divulge what the Wii said when she stepped on it for a weight test but it was along the lines of, ‘one at a time please’. She nags me for having two saccharin in my mug of tea and the kids go to school looking like undernourished refugees. All the exercise she is doing is making me look like a retired, lazy executive, which I vainly profess to being.

So it was with some degree of shardenfreude on my part that she returned from a walk the other day with a poorly ankle. Having set out to walk 100 yards to the nearest bar, her friend proceeded to take her up a near vertical climb to a place called Gourdon (see picture – you might have to zoom in to see it). Despite the fact that she was wearing flip-flops, she made it to the top but on the way back down, she fell over a wild herb which had grown across the path and she sprained her ankle. Luckily a French doctor was travelling in the opposite direction on another climb but by waving her bra in the air she managed to attract his attention. I wouldn’t say that J has a big bust but EasyJet pilots and astronauts on the space station also saw this distress signal so quite a rescue operation ensued. To his credit, the French doctor carried her down the mountain and then presented her with a bill (which is what they all do) and as usual insisted she take all her clothes off to examine her ankle.

After an afternoon resting with a bottle of champagne beside the bed (yes – those of you who know her will recognise the post operative care she demands) she decided to call the local doctor to get a brace. I was told (not asked) to go to the doctors the next morning at 9am sharp to pick up a prescription for the said brace and to be on the safe side I got there at 8.50am. There was a rather tasty woman in the waiting room so the usual wait to be called was not too onerous. I kept thinking about how lucky the doctor was if she had ……no – let’s not go there.

Anyway, at 9.25am I was called in. Doctor Fang is Vietnamese and speaks a little English so he was a bit surprised when he called Mrs Evans’ name (she’s not decided how long she’ll stay with me so hasn’t changed her name yet) and I stood up. ‘Ah you Mr Evans’, he said. ‘Nope – I’m Mr Cupples’, I replied. He called out ‘Mrs Evans’ again and I explained that I was her carer and had come for the prescription.

He ushered me into his little room (just big enough to swing a cat and no more) and immediately laid into me. I won’t bother with the quotes but here goes… You Engrish – you come ovah here an sink you can juss order us docors alound. You sink you can juss phone up an order plescliptions like you do in Engrand and we just han them over. All you want is this bit of paper (pointing to his prescription pad) so you can get leimbursed. I don know what sort of injuly Mrs Evans has – I could give her wong fing and then you sue me. This is not light – not collect plocedure. I could see his English was struggling at this point so I started on him.

Risten, I’m only the carer so don’t have a go at me. If you are not comfortable don’t do it. I’ll drag the poor rady in here so you can see for yourself. And another thing – I’m not Engrish so don’t go there. If you don’t want to lite a plescliption don’t do it. And another fling – if you so much as ask her to take her crothes off I’ll come down here with my rawyer – ok ?

He replied – ‘you taking the piss’. I smiled and reft….sorry….left.

Later that morning J had to go back to his surgery where she had to take all her clothes off to have her ankle examined. He gave her a prescription for a brace. C’est la vie.

You’re **** - Je Ne Comprends Pas

The guy is pretty much at the top of his profession. He’s probably paid about £2.5 million a year and is on a long-term contract. His company is in England and all of his business is conducted in English ……. but he doesn’t speak a word of it! Nice work if you can get it.

Yup – we’re talking football again.

I missed most of the Saturday night football round-up show as J and I had been invited out to dinner and despite a relatively bad head on Sunday morning, I was awake early enough to switch on the repeat show and see a couple of Spurs teammates pushing and shoving each other.

Now this is not an unknown phenomenon in British football, indeed when it involves a couple of Brits, they are usually punching each other’s lights out, whereas the foreigners, as the two I’m referring to just happen to be, push a bit, back off then approach each other and push a bit more. All very ‘handbags at ten paces’ stuff. One of the errant Spurs players is a guy called Benoît Assou-Ekotto and Harry Redknapp, his manager, summed up this particular, French-Cameroonian thus:

"Benoît is a strange boy," he said. "He's a bit highly strung and hardly speaks English. If you say something to him he's hard work. He hasn't improved his English in the couple of years he's been here."

Asked why his left-back had walked off alone (at the end of the game), apparently unhappy, Redknapp said: "He didn't know the result. He probably thought we'd drawn (when in fact Spurs won the match). He'll turn up Wednesday and play great, but he won't know we're playing Fulham until someone tells him. That's how he is. He's unreal. He walks off (the pitch) and he's thinking about the music he's going to play when he puts his headphones on."

As I say, nice work if you can get it!

However, his claim not to speak any English doesn’t stand up to scrutiny. When a fan called out “you’re shit”, in a game where he hadn’t performed particularly well and Spurs had been beaten, he most certainly understood what was being said and tried to get to the fan. In the absence of video footage of his latest transgression, see him trying to sort out the Spurs fan who let him know how he played that day.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MPeFUbEi358

Mipim’d in Cannes

It’s the annual Mipim property conference in Cannes.

What does ‘Mipim’ stand for? I have absolutely no idea. I’ve looked and looked and can’t find an explanation anywhere – couldn’t even find one on the Mipim homepage. Still, it’s probably not important – what is important is that our poor beleaguered UK bankers and estate agents can all come down to the South of France and have a jolly good time whilst trying to drum up some more lousy business which will come home to roost in about 5 years time.

Now I don’t like Cannes very much. Like virtually every other French city, it’s almost impossible to park and when the Cannes Conference Centre (actually called ‘Le Palais des Festivals’- pictured) has a major exhibition on, not only can’t you park, every restaurant is full and moving around the Croisette is a nightmare with thousands of delegates wandering around with their plastic carrier bags full of brochures and other marketing material which will be dumped into their hotel waste paper bins as soon as they reach the sanctity of their rooms.

But for the delegates it must be wonderful. All winter long the banking and property sectors have been hammered. Bankers are the most hated species since Estate Agents topped the charts a few years ago and the poor property magnates have lost a fortune as the value of their shopping centres and buy-to-lets have plummeted. So a bit of spring sun, a fancy hotel and a chance to wine and dine with the best of them is just what they need to recharge their batteries before getting home this week and finding out that the Chancellor has shafted them – again! Of course the Brits amongst them might find that they have to stay down here a few more days given the BA strike, not that that will worry them unduly.

What drew my attention to Mipim this year was a report that the Royal Bank of Scotland (84% owned by the taxpayer) and Lloyds bank (47% owned by us) have both rented magnificent ‘hillside villa retreats’ in which to entertain their prospective ‘Mipim’ clients.

Maybe I should have dragged one of my few remaining business suits out of retirement and wandered down to Le Palais and shown some interest in a £1 billion set of London office blocks they were selling (called White Tower if you’re interested). I would then have wangled an invite to one of these fancy villas to discuss my finance requirements over dinner with some people from RBS and Lloyds.

If that had failed I might have shown interest in a £200m collection of shops and offices on offer and located on Oxford Street in London.

If truth be known I’d simply have been happy to just get into one of those villas and watch deals going down over dinner. Sitting there at the end of the table sipping exquisite white wine listening to bankers and their clients discussing whether they needed £900 million or did they need to stretch it to the magical £1 billion? But then I would have remembered that the bankers were being overly enthusiastic with my money and then the wine would have tasted sour.

Degree in Disco Lights

If you've been reading my blog you’ll know that J is doing an Open University degree in Kitchen and Fridge Management and I’m proud to say that she recently achieved a 96% pass mark for her latest assignment. Apparently she had to work out which shelf to put fresh milk on and that lettuce went in the ‘salad drawer’. Successfully getting ice cubes to drop down the chute and into a glass was an optional assignment which gave her some bonus marks. She’s a clever girl!

On Saturday we all travelled down to Antibes to a Lyceé (pictured) which specializes in Computing Science and where Guy might eventually go later this summer if his marks are good enough. Lyceé is the 4^th and final part of the school education system (maternelle, primaire, collège and lyceé) and determines if a student enters the university system.

This particular Lyceé was holding an Open Day to publicise its courses and facilities and I have to say I was quite impressed. As you approached the front door, senior students would accost you and drag you off to the relevant part of the establishment where college lecturers were waiting to explain the various courses and bemoan the selection system which is quite bizarre. The collège (where Guy is now) sends his marks to a central clearing house with his preferences in terms of Lyceé and subject and they simply choose who to send where. No interviews by the college, no understanding about the fact that Guy is a budding IT expert, probably no consideration of where the student lives, just a list telling the ‘clearing house’ how many times he’s missed classes and his marks in the major subjects.

Dragging the IT lecturer into a corner and using my ‘extensive’ experience of IT and networks (who am I kidding?) I started quizzing him on how many students could actually speak English well enough to understand the universal IT language which is – English, obviously trying to push Guy’s excellent bi-lingual capabilities. He rather took the wind out of my sails when he showed me a whole range of network manuals in French but as he flicked through the pages I spotted a section in English – it was something to do with network protocols or whatever and of course I said, ‘ah ha – they’ll need English for that bit won’t they, and when they do the Cisco Accreditation, they’ll need good English for that’. I had no idea whether what I was saying was correct or not but it just seemed strange to me that in a French Collège (in France) there was a large Cisco Accreditation Certificate on the wall - in ENGLISH! ‘Mais oui. Bien sur’, he replied. I smiled smugly and said Guy was totally bilingual. He wandered off. He didn't seem impressed.

I then went off to find J and Guy who had become a bit embarrassed by my rather Anglo-centric attitude and had wandered off to find the ‘first year’ workshop. I strolled in and despite my limited French understood that that the lecturer in this workshop was explaining that all students had to study the workings of washing machines, burglar alarms, telephone systems and disco lights during their first 12 months.

Scuse me – disco lights? Yes! And there they were – strung all along the ceiling of the workshop and flashing green, red and blue. Why hadn’t I seen them when I wandered in?

And so there we have it. If everything works out J will get an MBA in Kitchen and Fridge Management and Guy will get an Honours Degree in Disco Light synchronization. What a house! What a family! What a country!

PS - Nigel's latest posting from New York is now available. Watch out for the bad language.

http://monaconigel.blogspot.com/

A £1.5 billion Shopping Spree – No, Not J !

I bet you don’t think about it. You wander around, eating in nice restaurants, flying around the globe, staying overnight in a hotel or spending money in shops completely oblivious to the fact that the businesses you’re giving your custom to, are owned by some other entity, in many cases, a bank.

Eat in one of Sir Terence Conran’s restaurants and you’re giving your money to Lloyds Bank.

Stay or eat at the Grosvenor House in London’s Park Lane (pictured) and you’re boosting the profits of its rival, the Royal bank of Scotland.

Go to the pictures in a Vue cinema or shop in House of Fraser and you’re again giving your money to Lloyds Bank. Lloyds even also own Rangers Football Club in that they provided the finance to the guy who owns 96% of the shares – if his business was to fold - aaagh! On the same basis, RBS own Liverpool Football Club in that if the American owners ever default the bank will take over the shares.

But then again on a secondary level, if you’re a Royal Bank of Scotland or Lloyds or Northern Rock account holder, not only are you boosting the Government’s coffers every time you pay a charge to the bank, every time you shop, eat or ‘Vue’ you’re adding to the bank’s profits and hence the Government’s revenues, given that they own 47% of Lloyds and 84% of RBS.

Fly British Midland and you’re actually flying with German airline Lufthansa who own the British company. Have a holiday at Centerparcs and your money goes to an American finance house.

And over here in France if I shop at the local Darty TV shop I’m giving my money to Comet, that well known UK company. Similarly, if I buy something in the Castorama DIY store, I’m actually shopping at the UK chain, B&Q who owns them.

There are lots of examples where a well known company you purchase from is actually owned by unknown entities, in many cases anonymous finance houses, but rather more public is Halifax Bank of Scotland (HBOS to you and me) which takes the biscuit with the largest, most diversified portfolio of non-bank companies. This is one reason why HBOS nearly bankrupted Lloyds who took the Scottish Bank over when the UK banking crisis was at its height.

In a spending spree lasting several years (J, eat your heart out), HBOS (probably the Bank of Scotland bit – we’ll spare Halifax) not only purchased the Vue cinema chain and House of Fraser stores but also Caffé Nero, David Lloyd Leisure clubs, McCarthy & Stone the housebuilders and Crest Nicolson, the commercial premises specialists. The spree ended up with HBOS owning some 80 companies outright but with significant stakes, across Europe in another 900 companies.

This portfolio, bought at the top of the market is now showing losses running into hundreds of millions but predictably, the guy who ran it disappeared off into the sunset, following years of receiving a multi-million pound salary. Oh and his pension was nearly as much as the pilloried, RBS CEO, Fred Goodwin.

Why Didn’t I Think Of It Before ?

Now you’d have to drug me out of my eyeballs to get me on a Ryanair flight. It’s so frustrating to me that that complete moron, Michael O’Leary (CEO of Ryanair, or Dan Dare as it’s often called), manages to run a successful airline whilst showing complete disregard for his customers.

I flew with them once – long before O’Leary started calling his paying customers, ‘idiots’ and treating them like cattle going to the abattoir. As far as I can recall, the flight was ok but I had to laugh that the destination was described as ‘Glasgow (Prestwick)’ – in geographical comparisons, Prestwick is to Glasgow what Chicago is to New York. It’s all a con.

And so for the last 10 years, I’ve been flying Easyjet. Never had too many problems – they’ve put me up in a hotel when the last flight developed a fault and on the odd occasion I’ve had to complain to Customer Service, my complaint has been dealt with reasonably efficiently and to my satisfaction.

So it was all a bit disappointing when I booked some flights for J and myself a few weeks ago. Well, I had hoped to book flights for J, but the vagaries of the website meant that I ended up with all four flights in my name. Not to worry I thought, it’s quite a while before we fly – I’ll get Customer Service to sort it out – after all, as far as I was concerned, it was a ‘bug’ in the website. Really – it was!

Firstly, I refuse to use their chargeable telephone numbers – calling these in the UK is bad enough but when my French calling plan adds another 20p a minute, a typical call can cost almost as much as the flight! So I use ‘contact us’ on their website – ever tried to find it? It’s so well hidden they could use it in an ‘A’ Level exam on website navigation.

Eventually I locate it and send my request to change two of the flights into J’s name. Polite, concise and pointing out that I thought their website needed a bit of clarification, I waited for the reply. I got it next day – ‘high volumes of e-mails’ etc etc etc! I wait and send another reminder two weeks later - ‘high volumes of e-mails’ etc etc etc!

A few weeks later nothing’s happened. I have a brainwave (well I thought it was) – write an e-mail to the CEO but how do I get his address? Luckily his name (Andy Harrison - pictured) is not too difficult to guess for an e-mail format and so I cross my fingers and send Andy.Harrison@easyjet.com a nice, concise, polite request pointing out that his Customer Service organization is not working too well at the moment.

Now Mr Harrison is leaving Easyjet in the summer so I don’t really expect too much in the way of a response but amazingly, I get a reply 8 days later saying he was ‘sorry and that a Lidia Stefanowska would sort it for me – free of charge’.

Two weeks pass – nothing. I send her an e-mail (Andy Harrison had copied her so I knew her address) - nothing. Another two weeks pass – nothing. I send her another reminder – nothing. I send another e-mail to Andy Harrison – nothing. I reckon it’s all been a wind-up.

Then the brain-wave. I Google ‘Lidia Stefanowska’ and find she’s Easyjet’s ‘Customer Experience Manager’ and there are references to her all over the search engine. None however give any real details that I can use.

Then the 2^nd and even more impressive brain-wave. Is she by any chance on Facebook? Yes she is!

I post a message on her Facebook page and guess what? I get a groveling apology the next day with promises to fix my problem which, even more amazingly, is resolved within 24 hours. Needless to say, she didn't accept me as a 'friend'. Result or what?