Friday 2nd February 2018

It feels like it should be the weekend, but the calendar states it is only Friday. But it is also beer festival day, so I am only doing half a day. If I can get all my tasks done.

I wake up and see that Jools is already up and about, feeding the cats and making coffee.

Jools is already to go to work at quarter to seven, and as soon as she leaves I force myself to go on the cross trainer and do 20 minutes at a higher resistance. I would like to have done half an hour, but it was the best I could do. As ever, workout is made bearable with good music, Prince this time. My fat little legs go up and down and I puff along to the tunes.

Once I had exercised, I make breakfast and another coffee and have time to sit on the sofa to watch the first half an hour of MOTD, with Man Utd, Arsenal and Chelsea all losing, so even more enjoyable than usual.

At ten to eight I begin the day, logging my working hours, putting the final touches to a document, and trying very hard not to get sidetracked by other people, so decide not to pick up the phone or Skype to anyone. And so come midday, I can send the work off, power down the laptop and hone for a taxi.

I could have left right away and ended up waiting outside for 45 minutes, then I would be the first in the hall, get a seat, but also be cold. If I was right, my friend Matt would be there already and he would save me a seat.

The taxi arrives at quarter to one, and I enterain the driver by telling hi the history of the mineral railway that used to run from Martin Mill to the docks, down the cliffs. During the war it was taken over by the army and they had rail mounted guns in the village to fire shells over the Channel to France. Hard to imagine our sleepy village was once the front line in the defence of Britain, but it was.

He drops me off in Ladywell, and walking through the passageway besde the town hall I see the queue. It looks bad, but even as I join the back the front is being let in. I see Matt and he will save me a seat.

People walk by and are wondering what we are queuing for: beer festival? Yeah, you all have big bellies, ha ha ha, was the answer. Partly right, I suppose.

I get in, then have to queue again to get my glass and tokens, but I already know that my first beer will be, so grab half of that and go to look for Matt and his friend.

The rest of the afternoon is spent drinking beer, talking, going to get another beer, or going to use the facilities. An orchidist I know from Flickr comes over to say hi, and we plan our spring trips. He has come down to Dover from Buckinghamshire for the beer festival. That's dedication. I have gone all the way to Buckinghamshire to see orchids, that's also dedication.

I had arranged for Jools to collect me at half three, so go to the door and meet her coming in, so we walk to the car and I burble for both of us as Jools drives us home. She drops me off then goes to the chippy for dinner, as we are both hungry, so I am trusted to make butties and brews. I manage not to kill myself, which is a miracle.

Once we have eaten, I watch the rest of the football, then go to bed for a snooze, and end up sleeping until nearly eight, which although I wake up refreshed means I will not be able to go to sleep at ten.

And that was Friday; full of work and beer. That's work/life balance right there.

Thursday 1st February 2018

Thursday morning, and time to get ready to go home. But this trip, I travelled back in the evening rather than the morning, mainly to remind myself why I do it that way. As well as all my clothes, there are half a dozen bottles of beers to stash in my case, these are what my friends have brought me. IN fact I had to turn more down from Jesper as there wasn't room to pack them all in a way to avoid breakages. But there is always next time of course.

I check out, then go for breakfast, but always conscious of the pressing need to get out on the road to the office as soon as possible so to miss the worst of the traffic and get a parking space. My empoyer has now outgrown their offices and surroundings, and it is a dash to get there earlier enough each day to nab one of the limited number of parking spaces. Despite what I may hint at in my posts, traffic is pretty busy but it is always ordered, and there is none of the racing around, diving for gaps that is such a factor at home.

I met up with colleagues again for breakfast, sharing coffee with them, and then to the car, let's go-go!

It was the second part of the training, dry as a desert, but it seems we broke the back of it the day before, and completed it all by half ten. Meaning, I had three hours to work, and attend the weekly department meeting. I skipped lunch as the queues for that get ever larger, and anyway, I could get something at the airport. I thought.

As soon as the meeting finished, I packed up my bag and after saying goodbye to the project team, I go to the car and make my way out onto the main road. Too early to be really heavy traffic, so I was able to take my time going south on the motorway before turning off at junction 57 and going cross country to Billund.

B the time I got there, it was raining, so I had to dash, as quick as my fat little legs could carry me, from the parking lot to the terminal, to wait to check in then go through security. My silver card, allowing me access to the lounge, expired at the end of January, meaning I had to mix it with the ordinary travellers, but being a wet Thursday, there wasn't many others about. I go up to the gastrobar and order what they called the "gastroplank", Danish tapas on a board, and a diet coke. Yes, no beer.

The food is very good; smoked salmon, coronation chicken, ham, salami, two cheeses, bread, olives and more bread.

I do some window shopping; I could have spent loads, but as I don't drink whisky much now, I still have the bottle bought on Skye last May (there's some still in it), so spending money for the sake of it seems pointless. The 30 year old port nearly tempts me too, but not quite.

We walk to the gate half an hour before departure, the rain is hammering down even harder outside. When the time comes, we have to dash from the terminal over the pan and hope to be up the gangway and in the shelter of the plane. Others have to wait in line in the driving rain.

We all get on board, and the engines start right away, taxiing to the far side of the airport and turning onto the runway, the engines roar and we spash our way into the air, through thousands of feet of thick cloud and into the clear night sky above.

I sleep for an hour, missing the inflight meal, but then I wasn't hungry after the plank! As we drop down in preparation to land, we enter rain clouds again, and the light rain that was promised by the pilot was every bit as bad as what we left behind in Denmark.

We drop below the clouds just as we pass over Dartford, but too dark to see the traffic, along the river getting lower until we bounce down on the runway. Safe at last.

A bus takes us from the most distant pan, dropping us off at the immigration hall. Through there in a minute, my bag was waiting, so I grab that and rush to the DLR station, where a train to Stratford left in a couple of minutes.

When I get to Stratford I find in less than ten minutes there was a train to Dover, so I call Jools to arrange for to pick me up. Then just wait for the train. Heck, I even get a seat, though nothing to read as we speed through the tunnels and inky blackness of a stormy night in the Essex marshes.

Jools is waiting, I load up the car and we drive off into the rain, along Townwall Street and up Jubilee Way to home. Three cats are waiting, telling me they hadn't been fed since I left, and Molly, dear Molly, looked healthier than ever, having put more weight on. Jools and I have some soup, and all to soon it is bed time, another day and nearly another week gone.

Denying reality

So, surely even the Maybot and her brave band of Brexiteers could not manage to spin the impact assessments that had been leaked, what with them coming from DD department? But yes, they were not complete, initial drafts, not detailing the Governments preferred deal. And so on.

A junior minister who suggested that instead of blind dogma, now was the time for some evidence based thinking? He was disciplined by the whips, not for what he said but for breaking the ministerial code in going against ministerial policy. OK, so where are all of Boris’s reprimands for his repeated violations?

See, all ministers are equal, but some are more equal than others.

And then there was the papers: The Mail was full of enemy of the people mode, turned on The House of Lords as they seek to insert checks and balances on the withdrawal bill, something that the Commons failed to do. But evidence and common sense have no place in Brexit of course.

The Maybot is in China, maybe she’ll stay there.

And all the while as reality piles up, the clock ticks down, and the fact that there is a take it or leave it deal from the EU on transition and Britain has to put that into law.

Wednesday 31st January 2018

Another dreadful night sleep, not helped by how either how warm the room is or how thick the duvet is. Or both.

The alarm goes off about ten minutes after I woke up. Here we go then.

I bump into lots of colleagues in the breakfast bar, so join three of them to swap the latest news and gossip. Not much to say really. Danes know how to grill bacon, just enough to be crispy and not burnt. Perfect.

Then there is the drive to the office, simple enough though half an hour later than the day previous. Still dark of course, and light rain falling. Hall and Oates are on the radio Dreaming About You. I change stations and the same song is playing. But I just found its not Hall and Oates, but Dan Hartman. Who knew? Dan would’ve.

I arrive at the office without accident or incident, which is always nice, and so have an hour to get the day’s work done before the training starts. The first of 6 days training in the way of sales. Selling turbines. 36 of us in a room, plied with juice, fruit, coffee and cakes.

The minutes drag. Heck, the seconds drag. An hour passes. We have a break. Another hour passes, we have another break all with coffee. Lunch comes and goes and my attention dips to the point I am sleeping.

Have another break.

I feel a migraine building, and with luck the speaker calls it a day. I decide that I should take to my bed, so go to say goodbye to the guys in the project and drive back to the hotel in light traffic and light drizzle.

I lay in bed in the dark, listening to the buildings on the site outside the window. I could close the window and maybe sleep, but can’t be arsed. I feel drained, so a good thing to do nothing. I doze until half four, then decide to be decisive.

I get up, put on my gym kit and go to the fitness centre. I say fitness studio, it’s a big centre, dozens of running, cross trainers, cycles and weights and the rest. And young ladies dressed in lycra. Oh my word. I concentrate on keeping my feet on the machine and listen to Kate Bush on the I pod. I do 30 minutes and am happy with that.

I could have had a beer on the way back to my room, but settle for some orange juice and a chat with friends as they relax with beers.

After a shower and a check up on the transfer deadline day news, I walk over to the restaurant to have burger, fries and beer. I think I deserved it.

And that is it, not much else to report, no footy on TV, so following it via the BBC website and raiding the minibar. As you do.

Outside the Super Blue Blood Moon had risen, I missed that, but later, just before I went to sleep, I could see it high above the city, shining coldly down. I took a shot with the compact, just to say I saw it.

Brexit meets reality

This week the Department for Exiting the EU, presented some impact assessments, yes that’s right, to various Ministers. Only it got leaked Monday night before many ministers had been shown them. And what they showed was that depending on the flavour of Brexit, Britain would be between 2 and 8% worse off. Don’t sound much, but these are huge numbers, with many sectors being devastated, and all regions in Britain being affected.

But how could the Brexiteers argue with figures their own department produced? By saying that people had had enough of experts, again, and that no forecast was right.

The Government said it didn’t matter as its preferred scenario is not included, but we know that is worse that SM/CU membership, so would be more than 4% worse off under their best policy. Which the EU won’t allow anyway, as we saw yesterday they have told us the options, we just have to choose, not really negotiating. The EU have manoeuvred DD and May into a corner with nothing by poor choices to consider.

The worst kept secret in Britain is out, that Britain would be worse off, much worse off with any kind of Brexit, and the Brexiteers produced the figures themselves. And then there is the point that are these the assessments that DD did not exist, or different ones, and would Parliament insist on these being released for consideration by MPs?

All this and more, will be revealed in tomorrow’s edition of Brexitsoap.

Tuesday 30th January 2018

As before, the room is too warm, or the duvet too thick, and coupled with a mild reaction to Anni’s perfume meant I was up at half four, or awake anyway, listening to the wind rattle some building material on the site outside the window. So I am showered and dressed for half six when the breakfast bar opens; fruit, a bacon roll and lots of coffee and I am ready for the drive to the office. Much safer before seven with almost no cycles about, meaning I don’t have to worry about hitting them when I turn right.

In fact the office is nearly empty, but I can get work done, mails written and so on before people begin to arrive just before eight until the place if full near to nine.

There is work, meetings, phone calls, lunch, more calls, meetings and at three people start to pack up to go home, so I join them, thinking a walk will do by knocked back the world of good.

An uneventful trip back to the hotel, I grab the camera and walk down to the waterfront to the library, DOKK1, a play on words in Danish apparently, but lost on non-speakers. It is a huge building, with huge spaces inside, where rows of neat bookshelves are shadowed by brush concrete walls, or walls with panelling.

I go to the large viewing area at the top, huge plate glass windows offer grand views of the harbour, and young people had set up their laptops by pillars all of which had power points to allow this to happen.

I walk back to the hotel, and I cross the road in front of the hotel, I pass by my mate Shaggy in his car, on the way to meet up. So my plan to have half an hour in the gym scuppered as I am convinced, without any difficulty, to go to the bar for a beer.

We catch up over IPA and peanuts, as my colleagues come back from work. I am ribbed by big Jesper that I am not going to the gym as I said I would. There’s always tomorrow.

We walk down the hill to the smokehouse where we are told there is an offer on ribs, 125Kr, with free side. Too good to refuse. But I do have soda this time!

Shags buys me a coffee, which we drink at a street café overlooking the canal. It is just above freezing and there are heaters, patio heaters and all sorts working overtime to keep us warm. But it was good to watch the world go by, all dressed in thick winter gear.

Back at the hotel I wish Shaggy well, and he drives back home to his family, and me to my room, to write. This,.

Monday 29th January 2018

Scully seems to have decided she likes to sleep at the top of the bed, meaning that if your arm or hand is in her way, she will paw it until you move. In this way, Sunday night passed with she getting lots of sleep, and me not so much. Which explains, why at half four in the morning, I feel shit. Scully slept on.

We get up, get ready, drink coffee and are ready to leave the house at quarter to six, loading the car in the dark before Jools takes me down the hill to Martin Mill where I buy my ticket and wait in the waiting room. Like it was designed for waiting.

The train glides into the station on time, and I drag the case on board, stow it in the rack and take a seat opposite.

I was hoping it was going to get light soon, so I would see something of the countryside on the way up, but thick cloud hid the brightening skies, so all I saw was the occasional glimpse into a kitchen with the light on and no curtains as we glide down towards Buckland. Over the town, brews are made, breakfasts prepared and children got ready for school. We are already on the way to work.

More people get on at Folkestone and Ashford, and outside it is still dark, with a hint of blue through gaps in the cloud. The train is packed once we leave Ebbsfleet under the river and into Essex where there is now light about, a blue flat light that reveals the endless quays and docks, full of new cars to be transported round the country.

Down into the tunnel to Stratford, getting off and going for breakfast, looking at people rushing about as I eat the cheesy roll thing I bought and sipped the strong coffee.

The DLR rattles its way through the morning, through the Olympic Park, under the shopping centre, then down to Canning Town and on to the airport. Check in is no trouble, a bit of a queue at security, but I have an hour and 50 minutes before the flight, so not worried. At a distant gate I find a place to site, read some mails and stare at the planes out of the window, being ushered into the tiny slots, where they have to turn 180 degrees to be ready to taxi off when a new load of passengers board.

As luck would have it I was at the right gate, so site as fellow travellers arrive and wait to be first on the plane. Never did get this, never will. We have reserved seats.

I read a magazine I had brought from home, while the engines start, we taxi and engines roar as we lift off, following Speedbird I, which used to be a Concorde callsign, but now is a business class only flight from London City. Breakfast is served, and I make it disappear. Two cups of coffee and I am finishing the magazine as we drop through the thick clouds over Denmark, where it is blowing a gale and raining. Landing is interesting, but the pilot does well to get us down.

And once in the terminal, I am given the keys to a baby BMW thing, load that up and I am on my way, a light drizzle falling and some classic radio station blaring out Johnny and Mary as I drive, and I marvel what a great song it is, and a great voice Robert Palmer had.

The drive is uneventful, so I arrive at head office with 50 minutes before the meetings planned. Enough time for a coffee and a chat with friends.

Meetings over at five, by which point my boss and I are the only ones, other than the cleaner, in the building. I pack up and walk to the car, all alone in the huge car park and drive to the centre of town, alongside the tram tracks, over the canal, past ARoS to the hotel.

It was a rest day, so no phys, just time to relax in the room before meeting up with Anni and Bo at half six for an exchange of gifts and share a drink. We are all well, doing well and smiling. Which is nice.

The hotel restaurant has moved, but I go over as I know the menu will be the same, and burger, fries, onion rings and a beer is the order of the day, but it seems my appetite is not what it was and I leave half of it.

So, back to the room, call Jools and in the end go to bed just before ten, with the wind howling outside.