The Big Clean Up

It’s another job I hate (there seems to be a pattern emerging here) – the big post spring clean-up. I’d really like to do this job earlier but there’s always a chance of an unexpected turn in the weather which would render all my hard work a waste of time.

First, there’s the jet-washing of the house terraces. Covered in a layer of yellow pine dust, there’s always the danger that once jet-washed away, there’ll be a strong wind and it’ll reappear again. Thankfully, my dear wife bought me a Karcher a couple of years ago which helps immensely.

Then there’s the oak leaves which have managed to get into every nook and cranny around the house (outside of course). They lie there in their little holes rotting away and hoping nobody will disturb them. I know where they are – there’s no escape.

The barbeque needs its annual makeover. The grease needs to removed from the wood surrounds and the tray which collects all the drips requires scraping and emptying – a horrible job. Maybe I’ll get Guy to do that one! Once all cleaned up, the wood needs re-staining and the front panel polished until every spot of fat and grease is removed. Here’s a tip for the metal panel – use White Spirit to remove the gunge and then T-Cut to final polish. I only do this cause my barbie has got wheels ! Sad – innit?

Chimney cleaning – I used to use Guy for this when he had spiky hair and was too young to know why I was sticking him up the chimney but nowadays I have to clamber onto the roof and stick some brushes down it and yes, I do tape up the fire down below so that the pile of soot doesn’t go all over the lounge floor. The weather is now regularly in the mid-70s (mid 20s C) so I reckon we’ve had the last fire of the year. I’d hate to completely clean the fire and then find J messing it up again burning all sort of rubbish in it.

Associated with the fire cleaning is the re-org of the wood pile. Amazingly, I had enough wood this past winter and even have a good start for next year but all the new wood needs to be stacked and covered. I hate going into the wood pile – that’s where the scorpions hide. Despite my hatred of these nasty little beasts, I have this absurd notion of deliberately getting stung by one to see what it’s like – maybe I’ll have a few drinks first!

Finally, all the interior plants need to be moved outside. I’ve already started this job and just hope that we don’t have a cold snap as anything below 15C will kill them. It’s amazing just how well they flourish when put outside into nice shady corners.

I really don’t know how I coped with all this when I worked for a living!!!

Oh, and Nigel has been causing trouble in San Francisco. Read about what he’s been up to at the following URL:

http://monaconigel.blogspot.com/2010/04/who-is-nigel-smarther-blair.html

What’s Happening at Le Brin ?

Well the African Queen is back from her travels having ‘adopted’ little Felix (pictured) who will now be rehabilitated and educated by the Isaiah Trust and hopefully he will go on to lead a better life than he had ever dared to expect.

Meanwhile, Guy and Kitty are slowly adjusting to a more relaxed household now their mother has returned from Kenya. No longer are they forced to iron their own clothes and they are allowed to stay up later and use their PCs longer. Kitty, who was due to be in Ireland this week on a school exchange visit is still at home due to the travel restrictions caused by the volcanic ash cloud. The Irish boy (Rick O’Shea ??), who will stay at our home as part of the exchange will no doubt take the mickey out of kids who prefer cheese and fruit to sweets and crisps. Let’s hope he’s a bit better nutritionally educated than our last Irish visitor two years ago. At the end of her exchange trip (with Guy) we found all her lovingly made packed lunches in the bin whilst dozens of empty crisp and biscuit wrappers indicated her food preferences!

I’m pleased to say that the weather appears to have changed for the better. Last week was mainly dry (although cloudy) and it allowed me to work in the garden every day getting it ready for the hopefully, hot months of summer. The ‘garden’ by the way, is the bit of land which surrounds the house and is not to be confused with the jungle down below.

The one big job which I have been putting off for weeks now (cutting down vicious bramble bushes) really needs to be attacked with a degree of determination but every time I psyche myself up for it, something else happens and I find a great excuse not to do it. There I was, last Thursday, all ready to get my leather gardening gloves on and get the bush cutter out and attack the brambles, when poor Angie, our neighbour next door, had an accident. The wall at the end of the drive just jumped out at her, quite unexpectedly and caused quite a bit of damage to her car’s front bumper. Ever eager to work on mechanical things, the gloves and bush cutter were put aside and the morning was spent reconstructing her bumper and piecing together her front light cluster. It’s amazing what a roll of duct tape can achieve!

J is back to studying for her degree again after her interlude in Kenya and annoys me intensely by asking obscure questions such as, ‘How did I get here?’ ‘By aero plane I presume’, I reply. ‘No – I mean what route did my life take to get me to where I am now?’ ‘What does it matter – you’re here.’ ‘No – it’s for my course – I’ve to draw how I got here.’ By this stage I’m wondering if she’s secretly regressed 50 years and is attending a crèche where they hand out crayons and ask you to draw little houses, cars and trees and how your life evolved. I’ve also noticed her drawing around her own hands – I’m worried! She’ll be sticking her drawings on the fridge door next!

Finally, regular readers will know my wife’s love affair with our mall, Cap 3000, where she is on first-name terms with every shop holder. I was in the Midi the other day and had booked a table for myself and J. Needless to say, J never turned up and when I apologized to Christine, the waitress, about taking up an extra place saying that I didn’t know where she was, she said in broken English, ‘Don’t worry – she’ll be in Cap 3000’.

When I got home, I took a phone call from a friend of J’s. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know where she is’, I said. ‘Don’t worry, she’ll be at Cap 3000’ was the reply.

Yup - you've guessed it. J was at Cap 3000 giving her purse a spring clean!

Sundays Make Me Feel So Guilty

As soon as J said she wasn’t going to church yesterday I knew I was in trouble, so I told her to stay in bed, I took her a cup of tea, cleaned up the kitchen after last night’s dinner party and generally made sure that when she did surface from the bedroom, there would be nothing for her to do all day, which on reflection was probably a bad move. It’s would have been better if I’d kept her busy.

You see, at this stage of the football season when championships are there to be won, promotions are a huge debating point and some poor teams are heading for the trap door of relegation, the TV schedule is just full of important games and the UK, and other parts of the world are full of men quaking in the boots awaiting the fate of their teams.

Now I reckon I have all the justification I need to sit down on a Sunday and watch a game, or three. I don’t have any expensive hobbies such as a boat which I regard as a hole in the water into which you throw huge dollops of cash. I don’t go ‘off with the boys’ for weekends away. I don’t go on fishing weekends and I don’t play golf despite the fact that I have a new set of clubs which have never been used. My passion is football. Dead simple.

But yesterday was a difficult day. I looked at the schedule in the morning and I was sure there was going to be trouble.

First up was the Celtic game – If that lot of scumbags lost, Rangers would be champions and whilst it would be nice to wrap up the title early in the day, my preference would be for my team to win it rather than rely on Celtic losing.

But just before the Celtic game starts (I’m writing this on Sunday morning) there is a Midlands derby between Aston Villa and Birmingham. Now this is a game which normally wouldn’t bother me too much but again there are so many Rangers and Celtic associations that it will make compulsive viewing. There’s the old rivalry between the ex-Rangers manager, Alex McLeish (Birmingham) and the ex-Celtic manager, Martin O’Neil (Aston Villa). In addition, there are two ex-Rangers players and two ex-Celtic players on view.Then there’s the not inconsiderable fact that this is a derby game which means there might be a few interesting ‘tussles’ on the pitch.

Then just as that game ends, Rangers take the field in Edinburgh against a struggling Hibs side where my team only need two points to win the league. C’mon the Gers!

Then just as I will be having a glass of something or other to celebrate a Rangers victory, Chelsea will be facing up to Stoke. I will be desperately hoping that Stoke manage to get something from the games so that Manchester United have a better chance of winning their league.

Now in a perfect world, J would have gone off to church and then decided to go to someone’s house afterwards for lunch. She would have then stopped off at someone else’s house on the way home and would not have returned until about 7pm and I would have had peace, perfect peace, but as it is, it’s a gorgeous day, she’s planning a BBQ for lunch by the looks of it and there’s also a guest appearing later in the afternoon.

I’m just going to have to be ultra nice to her all day and hope she doesn’t notice the six hours of football which will run from about 1.15pm until about 7pm!

PS – Celtic won and so did Rangers so my team took the title (see picture of them celebrating). The Villa-Birmingham game was quite good (Villa won) and by the time the Chelsea game started I was so ‘footballed-out’, that I didn’t even watch it! And that game ended 7-0 to Chelsea!

One Little Screw Screwed Me !

Oh I was cursing. It was a good job nobody was within a mile of me on Wednesday of this week. My Alfa was in bits and all because of one stupid little screw.

The weather had picked up - gone was the rain every second day and it looked finally as if summer was about to start. The terraces were starting to look overgrown, my stunning Magnolia trees had lost all of their spring flowers and the oaks were budding all over the place. My nose was twitching with the bud pollen (it’s just recovered from the pine dust), I’m starting to ride my scooters with a heavy jumper instead of Arctic style anoraks and it was therefore time to unwrap the Alfa from its winter cocoon.

When I had ‘wrapped it up’ last October, I’d remembered that there were a couple of problems which I needed to fix; the brake ‘warning lights’ kept coming on (big job) and there was a rattle from the passenger side of the car (tiny job).

Now men hate rattles, particularly on a car. Even more so, they hate rattles which they cannot locate but I was ok because I’d already traced this rattle to the ‘nearside’ wing mirror. That side of the car has never been right since my builder nearly ripped the door off one day (long sad story about two cars crashing in the rain) and so, much of my time is spent on that side of the car.

Simple. There’s a small plate under the mirror which probably covers up the securing screws. Remove that, tighten the screws and that’ll be it fixed – 10 minutes max!

Nope. One of the two screws holding the plate was frustratingly, partially hidden by the bodywork of the car. I’d have to remove the mirror first.

To remove the mirror I had to remove the door panel. To remove the door panel, I had to remove the speakers and the arm rests and the electrics and the …… I’m sure you get the picture and if you don’t - see above.

Luckily, I’ve had the door panel off once before (refer back to crash with builder) so I knew where various hidden fixings were located but it still took a good 90 minutes to get to the wing mirror. One minute later, I had the covering plate off and I was tightening that little screw which had caused the rattle and the rebuilding process started. Another 45 minutes and the door had been rebuilt but hang on – there were a couple of tiny screws left over!

Aaaaagh – I’d left the small covering plate in the footwell of the car. It had been hidden by some tools. Nothing for it – start all over again!

Facebook

I’ve been on Facebook for a couple of years now. It’s a great way of keeping up with what family and friends are doing – always assuming that they post messages every now and again.

I don’t play these games like Farmville or take part in the quizzes, it’s quite simply a way of keeping up with people on a regular basis but the other day I made an exception and joined the group, ‘No, I will not pay £3.99 a month to use Facebook from July 9^th 2010’.

And then it clicked.

The previous week I’d been reading that Facebook as a business, was worth between $10 billion and $15 billion. How could this be – there’s virtually no advertising on the site? Apparently there some but I’ve never seen any. OK – you can buy ‘credits’ and make virtual gifts to friends etc but do you know anybody who’s bought credits? And Facebook is not like Linkedin, the business oriented contact web site, where you can pay a premium to be able to contact other users and of course Linkedin being a business site has quite a few adverts. So how does Facebook work? And where do the ‘owners’ get their money from to be able to afford the huge banks of computer servers which allow Facebook to work? Who funds the computers who allow between 200 and 400 million users to contact each other?

First some background – Facebook was developed by some (US) Harvard students back in 2004. Sounds strange – ‘back in 2004’ – it’s only 6 years ago!

Mark Zuckerberg, the current CEO and co-founder was always the strategist and leading light of Facebook but apparently the idea had already been thought of by the ‘Winklevoss’ twins, a couple of other Harvard students who didn’t quite possess Zuckerberg’s technical abilities and never quite developed their idea.

The story goes, that when challenged about ‘stealing’ their idea, Zuckerberg paid the twins $65 million (between them) and off they went to become graduates again and row for Oxford in the University Boat Race this year. By the way – they lost!

So where did Zuckerberg get the $65 million from and where does the on-going funding come from to keep the 200-400 million users exchanging pleasantries?

It seems that some ‘low-profile’ investors have been pumping money into the company in the expectation that one day, Facebook will float on the stock market and make them even richer than they are today.

And then of course, we find that Facebook now plan to charge it’s users anywhere between £3.99 and $14 a month although Zuckerberg denies this. So let’s say after the charges start there’s only 50 million users left on the site and that the charge is a ‘piffling’ $5 a month. That’s $250 million a month or a whopping $3 billion a year. Bingo !

So Who Would You Invite To Dinner ?

I suppose it was last week’s post about possibly, maybe sleeping in the bed slept in by Marilyn Monroe (and possibly JFK at the same time – oh my God !!) that has prompted this blog article.

It’s also something I’ve used at dinner parties and client dinners to liven things up – who would you have to dinner – no restrictions – dead or alive?

I remember I first used it when I was hosting a dinner of the ‘great’ and the ‘important’ at Oxford University. Perversely my director had decided that we wouldn’t host our own clients, we’d host other department’s clients (I hope the moron was sacked) and so I was left trying to entertain clients from obscure parts of the British economy when all I wanted to do was have a good drink with my customers from the more ‘important’ parts of the economy – banks, oil companies and breweries!

And so when the Chief Executive of Thames Water looked at me for some sort of inspiration to start a table discussion, I said, right off the top of my head, who would you invite to dinner – dead or alive?

For a guy who was paid hundreds of thousands of pounds to make strategic decisions, he couldn’t answer and turned the question back on me.

Now this was probably about 1993-1994 and so the people who I chose that evening might not be so relevant now, but back then, they certainly were. The rules were: you could invite up to 10 celebrities, famous people or friends to join you for dinner – and just assume that they would accept and turn up - even if they were dead!

I chose the following people (not in any particular order):

Joan Bakewell – the ‘thinking man’s crumpet’ and she still is despite being well over 70! I just thought she’d bring a bit of intellectual stimulus to the dinner – she was into the arts and was a regular on TV at the time.

Pamela Anderson – the Thames Water guy thought I was being fatuous but I said anybody who had a smile and boobs like hers (she was in her prime then) would be welcome at my dinner table any time – he was not impressed! Good job he wasn’t my customer!

JFK – for obvious reasons.

Ghandi – for obvious reasons

Margaret Thatcher – the woman who single-handedly changed the UK - for the better.

Leonardo da Vinci – a man centuries ahead of his time.

John Grieg – the Glasgow Rangers (football) captain for years and years and who was probably their most important player during the 60s and 70s.

The Pope – I forget who it was at the time but it’s not important – it would still have been interesting especially if I’d seated him next to Pammie or even John Grieg!

Jeffery Archer – a British MP and novelist. Wrote the best “can’t put it down” books until Dan Brown came on the scene.

My Mum – she died in 1965 and it would have been wonderful just to see her in fabulous company – she would have held her own.

So – who would you have to dinner?

La Réunion Or Martinique ?

Martinique

Be prepared to be bored. Sorry!

The French car number plate system was always quite straightforward. The notation was along the lines of XXX ABC XX, where the first X’s were numbers (obviously in the range of 001-999), the ABC was anything from A-Z, and the final X’s were based on where the car was registered. In my case the final two X’s were 06 representing the department of Alpes Maritimes.

Then one year ago they changed the system. They allowed people registering or re-registering their cars, or even just buying new number plates, to choose whichever region they wanted and the numbers representing that region would be put in the blue box you can see in the picture.

And what do you think happened? The Parisians, who even the French dislike intensely, have all changed their number plates so nobody on the roads can tell they are from the capital. Since the new plates began, two thirds of capital dwellers getting new number plates have given up their entitlement to the '75' at the end that denotes the city of Paris. Instead, they are choosing numbers from the départements of their holiday homes, family roots or even exotic destinations, such as Martinique.

The simple explanation for the disappearing ‘75’ is that many Parisians have origins elsewhere. But it also stems from the desire to avoid the stigma of being seen as an arrogant Parisian when they drive out of town. In the provinces, a ‘75’ plate advertises you as a city slicker and road hog and can ‘encourage’ car vandalism, car burglary or even arson. The new system is all very simple. If you’re a Parisian and you spend your holidays in the Marseille area, you simply register your car with a ‘13’ at the end to denote that you’re from the Bouches-du-Rhône region where Marseille is the main city.

Similarly, the Times reports that also out of favour are the départements of the inner suburban sprawl around the capital, especially the ‘93’ that denotes Seine-Saint-Denis, home to the immigrant-heavy towns that are occasionally prone to riots. Ninety-three, pronounced police style as "Le neuf-trois", has become code for urban jungle. Even Parisians give "93" cars a wide birth.

The favourite département for changed regional numbers is Le Nord (59), the old industrial region around Lille. Next in favour are the Bouches-du-Rhone (Marseille) region and the Rhone (69), the department centred on Lyon. Then follow the Gironde (33)- the Bordeaux area and Seine-Maritime (76) around Rouen.

The number plate-makers are reporting a new, but lucrative wheeze. Parisians often buy two sets of plates, one with ‘75’ (for Paris) and the other with the province of their choice for their trips out of town, which is legal.

I actually fancied getting my scooters ‘registered’ to La Réunion (number 974), those exotic French islands in the Indian Ocean just off the coast of Madagascar but I wasn’t quick enough and ended up with the rather boring ‘06’. C’est la vie as they say in ‘75’ – Paris.

Iceland’s Revenge

Some unpronounceable volcano (Eyjafjallajökull) erupted in Iceland last week. That was bad enough but as it exploded under a glacier and the rock and ash spewed into the air above the north Atlantic, the cooling ice turned much of the ash and rocks into glass. This is bad news for planes apparently. Whilst modern jet engines can cope with some bits of dust, they don’t particularly like bits of glass flying through the engines and so last Thursday and for the next four or five days, virtually every flight in UK air space was grounded.

It doesn’t take much for today’s airlines just to cancel every flight and leave passengers stranded but in this case, it seems like a higher authority (and I don’t mean bits of glass at 20,000 feet) deemed that no flights should take off. Why then was the 11.30am from London Gatwick to Iceland’s Reykjavik airport simply delayed, rather than cancelled?

Anyway, there were some interesting observations during the day.

There was the conspiracy theory that Iceland had ‘organised’ this natural phenomenon to get the UK back for freezing its assets when the Icelandic banks went under and thousands of British people and probably more importantly, English councils ‘lost’ their deposits. The UK, or rather Gordon Brown, dictated that the assets could be frozen under ‘terrorist law’ which brought cries of incredulity from the global community, particularly Iceland.

Then there was the guy at Liverpool airport who, when he heard that a volcano had stopped his holiday, said there would be ‘eruptions’ at the check-in desk, completely unaware of his witty observation.

But look at the map above. Whenever there is a northern European disaster, the poor old Nordic countries get the brunt of it. Remember Chernobyl and the nuclear explosion – the elks were glowing in the dark for years afterwards and made easy pickings for night time hunters.

The kids would go to school in the virtually permanent darkness of a northern European winter and they were quite safe on the streets of Oslo and Stavanger as every motorist could see them miles away - like the elks they were glowing in the dark!

Fish from the rivers were cooked long before they saw a frying pan and the snow had an eerie glow to it. The night-time skiing industry, formed around slowly descending a slope with a flare in one hand, virtually evaporated overnight as there was no need for an organized expedition – everybody could do it – without the flares!

PS – my youngest son Tim, who was due to have ‘the holiday of a lifetime’ in Hong Kong and Bangkok has now been stuck at Heathrow Airport for three days and is now reputedly heading back to Glasgow having given up ever getting to the Far East. Keep your chin up Tim – Glasgow’s not that bad for a holiday!

Would You Buy A Used Car From Any Of Them ?

It was an historic occasion. The UK’s three main party leaders slugging it out in front of the nation on live TV for the first time. The indications are that a surprise result is on the cards (I only saw instant poll results last night) but the result is not the main purpose of this post.

No, what if a person neither saw the programme or had ever heard or seen our esteemed party leaders and had to decide on their vote, simply by looking at the photographs above – what would they think?

I am terribly guilty at forming first impressions. I can look at somebody across a crowded room and decide that there is no way I’m going to talk to them. This was a particular problem when I was in sales – how many times did I sit down in front of a potential customer and bite my lip because I couldn’t stand the person – even after only 2 minutes?

And I have to say that generally my judgement is proved right. The number of times, I’ve actually persevered with a relationship, either potential client or potential friend and found out that I couldn’t really stand the person is beyond number. Of course, maybe it’s just me?

Anyway, back to the photographs above – you have to decide who you’re going to vote for and let me say right here and now that the photos are from a ‘neutral’ paper when it comes to political allegiences so nobody is cast in either a favourable or unfavourable light.

Right – candidate number one – starting from the right – a Mr Gordon Brown. Shifty. The hooded eyes tell you that the guy is a weasel and cannot be trusted. The thick hair swept to the side shows a complete disregard for fashion despite the fact that he appears to be wearing a rather expensive shirt. The thick and slightly uneven knotted tie shows a desire to do things quickly even when the world will be watching him. The 5-o’clock shadow makes him appear sinister and the shape of the mouth basically says, ‘don’t mess with me’. The jowelly face and saggy eyes shows someone who has a complete disregard for their personal appearance with the bushy, unkempt eyebrows simply reinforcing that view. Summary – not a person to be trusted.

Candidate number two – in the middle – A Mr David Cameron. Smug and preppy. The swept back hair shows someone trying too hard to be modern. He’s wearing a cheap shirt and the right hand collar is slightly turned up showing that despite the hair and the shaped eyebrows, clothes do not figure highly in his list of priorities. The tightly drawn, thin lipped mouth indicates a certain contempt and that he will prevail – no matter what. The tightly knotted, bright blue tie worn with a dark blue suit shows someone trying to be noticed even if it’s for the wrong reasons. Summary – if I saw him at a party, he’d be last on my list to talk to.

Candidate number three – on the left – a Mr Nick Clegg. Personable, free and easy, approachable. The open mouth and slight smile shows a certain confidence. The well but not over-groomed hair and the carelessly knotted bright yellow/gold tie shows he’s comfortable in his own skin. Summary – looks like a friendly guy and someone you could have a drink with down the pub on a Friday night.

So – look at the photographs once more – who would you buy a used car from?

Julie's Final Blog From Kenya

Wednesday 7th April - I awoke early worrying about the little boy, Felix, whom I’d met the previous evening. Why hadn't I taken some biscuits in my rucksack, why didn't I give him more bread when I had the chance?

I signed on to the internet. It was only 5:49 French time and I saw that Thomas was on line. Quickly I emailed him to say that Skype was out of the question - if I heard his voice, I would just cry even more. I was so full of despair for this poor little boy. I couldn't bear the thought of him going hungry until tomorrow evening and our next fellowship at Katchok, when he would possibly turn up.

In sharp contrast, we were due to take the girls out to the Impala Park and then for a fish meal afterwards. I managed to cheer myself up a bit with thoughts of seeing 'my' girls again - Ruth and her sisters, Violet , Maccy and Winny.

I spent most of my time with the youngest siblings of Ruth - 2 year old Elizabeth and 3 year old Christine. They were so happy to play with the balloons whilst the older girls touched my skin and played with my hair. Once they got bored of the few things I had in my makeup bag and trying on my lipstick, they investigated my iTouch and then played football and 'catch' like the boys.

It was a happy afternoon which continued with fish at Car Wash and party bags for the youngest amongst them with a promise of a present for each of the older girls, the following day.

In the evening, we took Moses and his wife, Tatu, out for a Thai meal. I so wanted to ask, even beg him to take little Felix into the program but knew that I had to bide my time and let things unfold in the correct manner.

Thursday 8^th April - I had a rendezvous with Florence as I wanted to do some shopping for the girls and hear about the (Felix) home visit that she and John had scheduled for earlier this morning.

Having spent a fortune in Kenyan terms at the Bata shoe shop, Florence and I sat having Iced coffee with a plate of masala chips whilst she began to tell me Felix's grim story.

He was almost 10 years old but was only 2 when his mother died from brain damage having been beaten up by her husband. Felix recalled that he had also had a younger sister who had also died. His father, now 70, and known by other villagers to be mentally sick, was never prosecuted.

Currently, Felix lives with his 70 year old grandmother who barely makes a living by ploughing the fields of neighbouring farms. His aunt and uncle and their 5 children live next door however they refuse to include him in their family life so Felix is rarely fed and is often beaten. In order to provide for himself, he has found work at the construction site digging up sand in order to pay for his meagre upkeep and school fees.

I wept as I leant of his sad life. I felt so strongly that God had pointed me in his direction.

John, who had accompanied Florence on the home visit , reported back that he knew of the boy, saying that on a couple of occasions he had run to (the other) John's house in Manyatta after he had been beaten. This journey (barefoot) would have taken him one and a half hours. Surely this boy fitted the profile perfectly for being brought into the Isaiah Trust programme?

That afternoon, I was due to be at Kibos with Moses to teach the boys some French. In actual fact, the time was spent with Moses giving him the background on Felix. Will he think I am over reacting and too emotional? What do I know of the situation? There are loads of boys probably with the same issues. But in my heart of hearts I knew that I was meant to bring little Felix to Moses's attention.

Moses said that in a situation like this, the ideal is to bring the boy into a family situation until his self esteem is strong enough for him to maybe attend a boarding school. However, I knew that the house was full as it was.

We ended the conversation with the agreement that if he was at Kachock that evening, then we would both go for a home visit the following morning. Thereafter, I tried to distance myself from Moses in an effort not to influence his decision making process.

Friday 9^th April – this morning we went to Nakumat to buy provisions to take to Felix's home. What would we find?

His grandmother's house was in a rural area which in part appeared quite affluent. I asked Moses about this? It looked great he said, but being on the flood plain, it is rife with Cholera and Typhoid - so much for fertile plains, I thought!

Eventually, we arrived there. The house itself was two simple rooms - an upturned wheelbarrow held a bowl for washing. Felix was alone and Moses questioned him closely. Before we left, I held Felix close and promised him that he would be leaving this place whatever - when I asked him if he wanted to be taken care of, away from this situation, he gave me his first word – ‘yes’.

On the way back to the car, as Felix walked ahead with John and Tom, my steps were slow and laboured, my heart was heavy with the despair I was feeling for Felix's situation. Then Moses joined me and said, ‘On Sunday Felix will come to church with Pamela (the mother of Michael of the glasses fame) and he will stay at the house at Kibos. He will be taken into the programme’.

My hands covered my eyes, I was overcome with emotion but I didn't cry, I just sobbed into Moses's shoulder such was my relief at finding this little 'lost' boy. That's Felix at the top of this posting.

Later that afternoon, I had such an overwhelming feeling that God had brought me to this point in my life whereby all my skills in my working life, all my skills as a mother, every ounce of experience I had ever had - all had been honed to this point. This was where I was meant to be.

My delight at attending the children's fellowship meeting the evening before and my high with the news of Felix's acceptance into the programme, was tempered by learning that John's 7 months old son had been taken into hospital during the night with Malaria.

Kisumu is a rollercoaster of emotions, joy and despair, hope then hopelessness.

Saturday 10^th April - All too soon it was time to leave to return to my other family with a simple promise to come back soon ,God willing, with Guy and Kitty. I left with letters full of greetings to their white brother and sister in France.

The flights back to Nice were not uneventful with a late departure from Nairobi, the dash to make the connecting flight in Paris and my case disappearing for 24 hours. All the sorts of things which would normally stress you out, but compared to what I had experienced during the previous 2 weeks, a walk in the park!

I Slept In Marilyn Monroe’s Bed (Possibly)

A Nevada casino once owned by Frank Sinatra and patronised by Hollywood stars and mobsters has closed amid plunging gambling rates and competition from Las Vegas. Even a visit from the renowned gambler, Thomas F Cupples III in the mid 90s did not save this icon of the gambling industry.

In addition to the legendary gambler Cupples, not even a star-spangled history and an association with the likes of Marilyn Monroe, Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Junior has been enough to save the Cal Neva Lodge Casino from the grim realities of the US casino industry.

The casino, which sits on Lake Tahoe near the California border, last year saw its revenues fall to about a half of what they were in 1992. Reputed to be America's oldest licensed casino, the Cal Neva opened in 1926 and hosted the 13-year-old Judy Garland's first performance nine years later.

However, its heyday was in the early 1960s when it was bought by Sinatra, reportedly in partnership with Sam Giancana, a Chicago mobster who enticed film stars, singers and Mafiosi to flock to its blackjack games and roulette tables. A network of underground tunnels, built to smuggle alcohol during Prohibition, allowed the VIP guests to move around the resort without being seen by the public.

Marilyn Monroe spent the last weekend of her life at the resort in 1962 as a guest of the Rat Pack actor Peter Lawford and his wife. However, a 1999 biography claimed Monroe was brought there to be threatened not to reveal her Mafia links, drugged in her cabin and photographed in compromising positions. Another popular Cal Neva rumour claims she used the resort for a tryst with John F Kennedy.

OK – so the ‘Cupples’ mention is a bit of poetic licence but I’ve been to the Cal Neva and I probably slept in Marilyn Monroe’s bed and bathed in her bath assuming she had the Honeymoon Cabin.

In 1993, on a house exchange with a lady from San Francisco, myself, my brother and my girlfriend at the time had been advised to drive up to Lake Tahoe. I have to say it was a magical drive taking us through the wine country (where we stopped at a vineyard to sample the fare – bad news when you’ve got another 3 hours to drive), fished in crystal clear rivers, had great food in wonderful scenery and ended up driving round Lake Tahoe quite late at night desperately looking for somewhere to stay.

Eventually we reached this sort of town which seemed to be entirely comprised of casinos and we drove into the first place which looked like a hotel and I remember saying to the receptionist we’d take anything they had. She was quite apologetic and said they had a wedding party and all they had left was, believe it or not, the honeymoon cabin (where Monroe reputedly stayed) and an adjoining room (for the bride’s mother ???).

We grabbed the keys, dumped our stuff and headed into the main body of the hotel to find that the complex was split in half. The restaurant (for late diners) and the casino were on the other side of the road which was in Nevada (which allowed gambling) whilst the accommodation was on the California side (which did not allow gambling). Crossing the road, we entered the casino and found the bride and groom from the afternoon’s ceremony sitting in full wedding gear playing slot machines – it was bizarre – they’d probably been there all afternoon and evening!

We had a fantastic dinner, drank some great wine and lost a few dollars on the tables and then headed back to our lakeside cabins. It was only in the morning that we could see the full beauty of the hotel’s position on Lake Tahoe – have a look at the URL below:

http://www.calnevaresort.com/

Cupples, Lunch for Fred Couples

Fred Couples at the 1992 Open

Watching the Masters Golf tournament at the weekend, I was astonished to see how well Fred Couples was playing. He’s been off the radar for quite a while, probably because he now qualifies for and plays on the ‘Seniors tour’, but he’s always been a favourite of mine, probably because for 40 years of my professional life, and despite being asked how my name was spelt, everybody would spell it ‘Couples’ anyway.

Couples is a terrifically popular golfer and for a couple of decades was the pro most amateurs said they would prefer to play a round with. Tiger Woods has obviously taken that accolade now and I suspect that his stories of ‘off green’ activities hasn’t diminished his appeal one iota. But Fred was always the fans' favourite.

I remember Couples was playing in the British Open at Muirfield quite a few years back (1992 actually) and I was watching his progress with some interest, not just because I followed him as a golfer but also because I’d actually played both courses and the courses were familiar to me.

Couples was in contention for the Open but then his wife was reported to have ‘hit a bar’ in the town, had drunk quite a bit and then had started stripping off whilst dancing on a table in the bar. Couples game went to pot after that and he did not win. Rumour has it that he deliberately played badly so he could go home and get away from the missus, which he did.

And it was during this time when his popularity was at its height when I went to play a round of golf with my mates. The course was out Beaconsfield way and we headed off into the restaurant for lunch prior to playing.

Lunch was ordered at a counter where you paid up-front and then you gave your name on the basis that the waitress would bring your food to you when it was ready.

‘What’s your name’, she asked. ‘Cupples’, I said. There wasn’t even a flicker of name recognition – she didn’t even look up from the counter to see if it was the famous golfer standing there but I distinctly saw her write it as ‘Couples’. ‘First name’, she asked. ‘Fred’, I lied. Still not a flicker of adulation.

About 20 minutes later, she was wandering around the restaurant with my lunch on a tray, shouting, ‘Fred Couples, lunch for Fred Couples’.

My mates were in stitches. The rest of the restaurant was in apoplexy – was he really there in their golf club?

Julie's 3rd Update From Kenya

He shall feed his flock like a shepherd: he shall gather the lambs with his arm, and carry them in his bosom, and shall gently lead those that are with young (Isaiah 40:11)

Easter Sunday – Sundays are so special in Kisumu. Everyone is putting on their Sunday best and rushing off to whichever church service they usually attend. We were heading out to Kibos for Fresh Manna church. As we arrived we could hear the service was well under way and it took about 30 minutes to greet everyone. Eventually Moses appeared dressed all in white. As we would be celebrating communion during the service, he asked us to prepare the bread and 'wine' and then painstakingly he showed me how to prepare the bread. ‘What should I do with the crusts?’ I asked. He looked at me enquiringly and handed me a plastic bag. ‘We'll eat them for breakfast,’ he said. Will I ever be able to throw a crust away again without thinking of him?

I've not really written anything about Moses or the two Johns or Paul James.

Moses is in charge of the house which takes care of around 17 boys. These are boys straight from the streets and who are brought into the Isaiah Trust programme. Under Moses’ guidance, they will be taught discipline, attend school and do lots of studying as well as regular chores.. Many of the boys in the programme had been existing in horrendous circumstances prior to being brought to Moses. Smoking 'bang' and glue sniffing are the main addictions that they arrive with. Once they have experienced some 'rehab', they move to Mambaleo which Paul James runs in a similar fashion. These are the older boys and Paul James prepares them for further studies and reintegration into society- hopefully helping them achieve some kind of self sufficiency.

The two Johns take the role of social workers. If a boy approaches the Trust for help, one of the two Johns will check out if the boy has a real need and if he does, brings them into the programme. Once admitted, both Johns keep a close eye on the boys’ overall welfare and schooling.

Each of these guys is a saint! We visited the house of one of the Johns in the Manatta slum district only the other day. I had expected that as these guys were employed that they would be living in some kind of house....but no, they live in similar conditions to the kids they are caring for, except that they get paid a regular salary. John has a wonderful smile on his face all of the time, so much so that you wonder if he is genuine. During the first school meetings he looked so laid back that he was sliding off his chair! It only took me two days to understand quite how big his heart really is. He and his wife Pheobe share a three room house which is actually a slum dwelling - no water, no sanitation, no legal electricity. Between them they have 4 children, the youngest 8 months old. On a day to day basis, John meets needy, vulnerable or abused children. Iin addition to his own family, John is unofficially 'fostering' another two boys and a young girl. John earns the equivalent of 80 euros a month.

Moses is a man who has a great deal of presence. The word charisma might have been invented just for him. He is a handsome man with a deep belly laugh and an infectious charm. As soon as he knew I lived in France, he insisted on me adding to his vocabulary on a daily basis, so we greet each other with ‘Bonjour’ and ‘comment ca va’ and the like. As well as being house father to the Kibos boys, he is the biological father to 4 adorable girls. He is also the Pastor at the Kibos Fresh Manna church, preaches from the heart, sings and plays guitar and has an insatiable thirst for knowledge.

Paul James is a slightly built man with a hesitancy and a shyness about him, until he gets up to preach. He works alongside the extrovert Moses, translating between English and Kiswahili in church. He always wants to practice speaking French. ‘How do you say I love you,’ he asks me.

As we walked to see to his goats, Paul James took me to one side to ask permission to call me Mama instead of by my name. He explained he felt uncomfortable calling me Julie and to call me Mama was giving me the respect he thought I deserved.What can I say to him....apart from ‘je t'aime’ of course!

Each of these guys is so special in their own right. I know now why I feel so safe having them around me in the middle of the slums.

And so we came to Church with the music reverberating in my ears. At one point, I got up out of my seat and moved to the back so I had more room around me to sing, dance and clap. I smiled at myself. I'm 'morphing' into Nicky I thought! Nicky and Kitty, my daughter will know what I mean. The music was fantastic and us girls even sang.

(Nicky is the co-founder of the Isaiah Trust and would have been on the trip but she became seriously ill only a few weeks before departure – she’s recovering fine now).

The Easter service was awesome - it lasted 4 hours!!! I will never complain about the 90 minute services at the International Baptist Church in St Paul again!! Ha ha!!

Easter Monday - The 'team' were getting together to play 5 aside football with the boys today. Fortunately, I had planned to go to visit Covenant House's orphanage.

Rather than go in the van, they suggested we take a boda boda. Oh I thought that's great -I've fancied a ride in one of the golf-cart like taxis. Unfortunately, my translation of boda boda was not too accurate and it was the bike taxi rather than the golf cart taxi. So I had no choice but to get my leg over the parcel shelf on the back and cling on for dear life on the 15 minute ride down hill. On numerous occasions my water bottle was jolted off my shoulder as we negotiated pot holes and trenches as well as other vehicles. It was almost as exhilarating as the time I hang-glided off a mountain in the French Alps. I had the same sense of wobbliness in my legs when I put them back on firm ground.

The orphanage was comprised of a group of buildings and dormitories which held the 'usual' groupings of either orphans or abandoned or mistreated kids. They gathered round as I sat on the floor with them and showed them how to draw around their hands. The older ones numbered their fingers then wrote their names on them, cut them out and pegged them to string around the room. Their reward for picking up the discarded paper from the floor was a chupa chup!

We were back home by 5 and the rest of the ‘team’ rolled in around 7:00 pm, each burnt to a crisp, having spent the day in full sun without any shelter. Unfortunately there was no water left for showers! A consolation was that Joshua once again, cooked us a wonderful evening meal.

PS. Just found out that 76 boys turned up to play football today!!

Tuesday 6th April - Off to the provincial hospital this morning with 8 year old Michael to try and get his eye problem diagnosed. Michael is one of 9 siblings but 4 of them died. His mother ekes out an existence on the dumps. I had a four hour wait at the hospital with Michael but we managed to get the staff to sort out his problem, which he says he’s had for five years! Result!

I was then collected by John and taken to visit Ruth (14) in the slum district where she lives. We couldn't get the jeep down the narrow lanes so there was no option but to bike it.

Had a BLAST of a day! I would have been a bit worried on my bike but John took excellent care of me - I even had two of the other guys as outriders (all ex street kids). I felt like I was in a James Bond film! We even stopped in a cafe for quick soda.

Off to a fellowship meeting on the dumps now - hopefully Michael will be the proud owner of some new glasses!

Wednesday 7th April - had a great day yesterday. It ended with a fellowship meeting on the dumps. Michael was there, standing at least 6 inches taller in his new glasses (picture above) - do you know he's been in pain for 5 years, bless him. I'm aware that my time is getting closer to an end here and it was my opportunity to stand up in front of the boys (and all my girls were there too - Violet, Immaculate and Ruth) to say goodbye to those I would not be seeing over the next few days. I explained how happy I was to be going home to my husband and family as I had missed them then my voice just broke as I tried to explain just how much I would miss my African family. Then I came out of the shack to help prepare the bread and juice. There must have been 50 kids milling around still taking part in the service and by now we were in pitch darkness. Just on the threshhold was a ragged little boy. You know how children put their head on their knees when they are tired? I bent down to him and asked if he was tired - he barely had the strength to lift his head. I brought him into the 'kitchen' and gave him 3 slices of bread which he ate so slowly. Then, with all the activity around the place and boys milling around, I lost him. I wanted to give him some more.

When we reached the jeep, I saw him again. I went over to see him and took Florence with me (she's one of the orphans that now receives a small salary to work for the trust). She bent down to talk to him and and translated for me. He was the eldest of 5, both parents apparently dead. They lived with their grandmother who tried to look after them but they had been without food many days. John was called over. ‘This is a genuine boy’, John said. ‘He is telling the truth. I bought him those shoes a couple of weeks ago when he was barefoot’.

The little boy just leaned into me and my heart broke. So that's why I'm awake at 5 am. Florence and John have promised to find him over the next two days so hopefully he can be brought into the Trust’s programme.

I long ago gave up posting blogs at a weekend as, believe it or not, some of my more cerebral articles take quite a bit of research, but after yesterday’s post which was quite depressing to write (I suppose it might even have been more depressing to read) today is a totally different ball game. What a weekend I have in store. So this is to keep J up-to-date with what's happening at Le Brin during her travels.

Totally different to yesterday, when I opened the curtains this morning the sun was blasting everything in sight. What a difference a day makes.

A quick bit of work next door and then get ready for lunch in the village. A table outside in the scorching sun, a few glasses of wine and good company and the world seems a whole different place.

My little contre-temps with Kitty is over and she loves me again. Guy is being a model son and I just adore watching him grow up to be a man. They still tease me mercilessly but who else do they have to humiliate?

We’re back from lunch now and I’m trying to expand their horizons by playing ZZ Top’s Greatest Hits at full blast. At the moment there’s not too much in the way of protests, in fact, like a previous CD of mine, they may eventually get to the point where they insist it’s played every time we get into the car.

My darling wife returns on Sunday from a soul-searching visit to the slums of Kenya and I know the trip will have changed her life forever. I can’t read her e-mails without getting tearful eyes, not necessarily for the children, but more for my wife’s frustration and inability to ‘hoover’ up every orphan out there and change their lives. The tales of poverty, brutality and injustice are bad enough but when I think of what she must be feeling knowing that she’ll be leaving those kids behind, my heart goes out to her. No doubt our lives in Tourrettes will also change – just how they will change is to be determined but I’m sure they will.

Incidentally, my youngest son, Timothy (now 29) had also been reading J’s posts from Kenya and had made a comment on Facebook to which J replied that ‘Timmy’ had been her first ‘lost boy’ (see picture with his hedgehog birthday cake made by J). I remember the weeks well – there’s a whole story behind this, but suffice to say, my eyes welled up again – it’s been an emotional few days.

It’s also been an expensive weekend as Guy and Kitty have finally negotiated their weekly pocket money (at 13 and 15, I thought I’d escaped but it seems not!) but it appears that they want paid in advance which could be a problem. I reckon more of our disposable income will be heading to the Isaiah Trust and I therefore expect G&K to follow their parent’s example and donate a little bit to help the Shadracks, Michaels and Ruths of this worlds (see Julie’s posts from Kenya if you don’t know who they are). Kitty is desperate to accompany Julie next year and I think that would terrific, but enough of Kenya.

I’m now singing ‘Viva Las Vegas’ (a la ZZ Top) at the top of my voice and the cats have done a runner. Shadow has his paws over his ears and I’m lucky that I don’t have any close neighbours or there might be complaints. I’m contemplating doing some more work next door but on the other hand I might not. Tan and Angie are back on Tuesday so I’ve got a bit of leeway. Yesterday it was too cold and wet to work, today it’s too hot! C’est la vie.

And finally, it’s a great weekend for sport. The Augusta Masters (golf) over the next couple of days, the FA Cup Semi-Finals and what is being billed as the match of the decade – Real Madrid Vs Barcelona on Saturday night.

And finally, finally, an amazing and truly disturbing story from The Masters Golf Tournament. A Sky Sports reporter parked his car in the car park and noticed a super-charged V12 Mercedes car parked next to his with nobody in it – but the engine was running. When he mentioned this to a car park attendant he was informed that the owner of the car had gone to the golf (for eight hours) and had deliberately left his engine running ‘so that the inside of the car would be cool when he returned in the evening’. I have nothing to say!

A Depressing Day

I opened the curtains and it was raining. Worse than that it was cold. I switched on the telly and got back underneath the duvet and there she was – the morning weather girl telling everybody that the weather in the UK was going to be ‘stupendous’ – 18 degrees celsius she chirped. It was not what I wanted to hear. I’m selfish enough that if it’s cold and wet here I don’t want my ‘old country’ to be basking in sunshine.

Wandering through the lounge it was cold enough for me to have to light the fire and only last week I thought I’d finished for the season. Luckily I hadn’t even thought of doing the final (and big) fireplace clean of the year, so that was, at least, some consolation.

There was nothing else for it - It was a day for house chores (thankfully only 4 more to go) but as I’ll have to have the place spick and span for ‘the African Queen’ when she returns, I did the absolute minimum.

After an hour or so of ironing (yes – more), sweeping and hoovering (or is it vacuuming now – why don’t we say Dysoning following the demise of Hoover, that once great institution?), I was just returning to some semblance of normality (for me) when I opened the papers on the internet to find that New York was ‘sweltering’ in 92 degrees (32 celsius I think). People were lying on the grass underneath Brooklyn Bridge soaking up the sun. This was going to be my blog photo but looking at it would have just depressed me even more!

Lunch – that was it. When you’re depressed – eat. Everybody does it and I’m no exception. Got a couple of strange looking things out of the freezer and threw them in a pan (well two pans actually) and let them bubble away to see what they were. Some sort of pasta with ham and cheese and an old chile. The chile tasted a bit iffy but ‘sandwiched’ in some pitta bread I was sure the kids would be happy with it.

‘OK kids – chile for lunch.’ ‘What else is there?’ ‘Well there’s pasta but you won’t want that will you?’ ‘Ooooh yes Thomas – we’ll have the pasta’. And so I was left with the iffy tasting chile and pitta bread which wasn’t too bad after all until I spotted the ‘sell-by date’ on the pitta bread. February 2010 !

Then a bit of lunchtime TV – Doctors – my one and only soap. And what was the storyline? A guy going mental and cleaning his flat convinced that there were bacteria everywhere. It was a bit too close for comfort – especially today.

I looked at the stock market. It was down for the 2^nd day in a row. Time to be a raging capitalist again so I jumped in with both feet and then the US market opened lower and my shares went down ever further!

Then a blazing row with Kitty who was hogging the internet connection thinking that incessantly watching YouTube, whilst listening to web-based music meant she wasn’t ‘downloading’ data. Guy and I put her right. (OK – I know technically it isn’t downloading but it screws the line for the rest of us). It didn’t help that I’d eaten the last bit of her Easter egg!

Then a moment of weakness – I’ll brave the wintery conditions and have a cigarette and a glass of wine on the terrace. What greeted me was a thick coating of yellow dust - everywhere. It comes from the pine trees and covers absolutely everything; tables, chairs, pool and even Shadow if he’s in one of his sleepy moods. And of course, with my allergy it goes right up my nose and I can’t stop sneezing.

PS - that's the outside table on the terrace in the picture and one day's dust!

What a day!

Think Your Pay Is OK ?

After the poverty in Kenya – the obscene largesse of the West ……

No wonder the guy in the photo is looking pleased with himself – he earned $4 billion dollars last year. Let me repeat that – he earned $4,000 million!

His name is David Tepper and is founder of a fund management company called Appaloosa Management. Needless to say, his pay packet has smashed pay records, even amongst those highly paid US hedge fund managers.

Quite a few years ago I was astonished that the head of Disney Corp, Eisner I think his name was, earned over $300million for a year’s work which I thought was obscene, but $4 billion! Can you imagine that amount appearing on your pay slip although he probably paid a bit of tax!

A quick aside - when I was a poorly paid sales guy in IBM it came to year end when I was due a small bonus (probably a couple of thousand pounds) and nearly died when I looked at my pay slip and couldn’t believe that they’d paid me a £64,000 bonus. I quickly established that it was a ‘clerical error’ and was advised by the payroll department not to spend it and that they’d get the bank to send it back (to IBM). I waited a couple of weeks and checked my bank account and would you believe it, they’d paid me a second amount of £64,000! Needless to say, it was all sorted out, unfortunately, within a week or two but in those first few days I probably felt like Mr. Eisner did.

But back to that incredibly rich fund manager. Tepper earned the sum after buying bank shares early last year when most other investors were dumping financial stock. The shares subsequently rose sharply, helping his main fund to grow by 130 per cent after fees. Appaloosa manages about $13 billion.

Another aside – this makes the £127.36 I earned recently by investing in Lloyds Bank shares look positively paltry!

Anyway, getting back to the numbers above – if Tepper has $13 billion under management and he earned $4 billion, either his fees are exorbitant (about 25% of the upside) or, he put his own money where his mouth was and had quite a bit of cash invested himself.

However, not is all rosy in Mr Tepper’s garden. Appaloosa, based in New Jersey, said last week that the Securities and Exchange Commission was examining some of Tepper’s trades.

Nuff said – I can see a witch hunt starting by those SEC bods who are soooo jealous of Mr Tepper and his $4 billion payday.