Saturday 18th November 2017

I awake at five: I know this as I put on the bedside lamp on, then switch it off. Should I go back to sleep or make tracks and leave early?

I already knew the answer. So after thinking about the things to be done, I get up, get dressed and pack the car; taking one last look around the living room, I leave. It is quarter to six.

Oulton Broad is very quiet, and the roadworks blocking are now gone, so I go down to the bridge over Mutford Lock before turning at the Flying Dutchman to join the A12 south. I have the radio on, and Chris Hawkins is knocking the ball out of the park with his choice of tunes. Coupled with the empty road, the drive to Ipswich is a pleasure, throwing the car round the bends and slight hills on the main road.

However, no matter how enjoyable the drive is, I have had no coffee, nor no breakfast. With the car running low on fuel, I think I will get south of Ipswich before I stop and fill up me and the car. Away to the east, the horizon is lighting up with a promise of another splendid day, so I press on.

Just north of Ipswich, the dual carriageway starts, and I can really put my foot down. Over the Orwell Bridge, now has a reduced speed limit of just 60, so I nudge the limit as I go over, passing slower cars as I do.

As is my luck, I stop at the only garage on the road that is all out of coffee. Really?! But it is true, no coffee at all, so I have to make do with a cold milky coffee thing from the fridge, but there is a fine large sausage roll with my name on it.

Into Essex, and now that it is light I can make out the landmarks and churches as I go south. Joining the M25 is painless, I arrive at the roundabout as the lights go green, and barely slowing down I take the second exit and accelerate up the ramp and merge into the motorway traffic.

As I near Thurrock, the sun rises and casts warm light catching the side of buildings, trucks and wind turbines as I cruise along and over the bridge. I had flown over it just two days before, of course.

And I am into Kent, taking the second exit onto the M20, back on familiar territory now, although I know most of the roads between Dover and Lowestoft now of course, but this is back in Kent. I carry on down the North Downs and into the Garden of England.

Being November, there isn't much traffic about going to the port, so I can cruise along, knowing I'll be home before nine, in time for coffee and 2nd breakfast.

But I am home, and it is good. Jools is just back from Tesco and has croissants, so all is well with the world, until I forget they are in the oven and nearly burn the buggers. But turns out crispy croissants are good. Just as well.

We do have chores to run, stating with returning the hire car. If we got that over with we could not do anything for the rest of the day. Which was nice.

We call in at the pet food shop for some fat balls which the foxes and/or badgers come to feast at night. I did tell Rachel this week that people in Britain spend money, sometimes lots of money, on feeding wild animals and birds, just for the pleasure of seeing them come into our garden. Jools goes to Morrison's to get pies. Pies are great. I mean you can put anything in a pie and it will be great. Even chicken and ham in a pasty is OK if you put enough curry ketchup on it, as I proved at lunchtime.

But chores were done, we could go home, and I really thought of putting on my dressing gown on ready for bed. It was ten in the morning.

Huey was on the radio, we could have coffee, ginger cookies I bought from a church the day before. Free trade, of course, what would you expect from a church? But ginger in a cookie is great. And lazing around, editing pictures, listing to cool tunes is great, especially after you have spent 23 hours, 50 minutes being a dutiful son. This is my time. Time with Jools and the cats. I was blissfully happy.

There was the North London Derby to listen to. Jools and I have lunch, can't remember what, but we both have a bottle of plop. Beer for me, as tired as I was, I knew the Belgian one still in the fridge would have knocked me out for hours. As it was, Jools went to bed for two hours after her cider, and I listened to football, trying to concentrate on what I was listening to. It was a tough gig.

Arse beat Spurs, then I followed as Norwich drew 1-1 with Barnsley. Meaning I was so focused on that result, that I can't really tell you who else won or lost. Bah, humbug.

We listen to more radio as we sip hot soup and buttered fresh bread for dinner, and plan our next day out, tomorrow in that London.

Brexiteers face reality. And are shocked

THe past few days have been hard for May and her weary band of Brexiteers; first of all, despite all her pleading, she was told by Donald Tusk that the next part of negotiations cannot begin until the UK makes a reasonable offer in settling its accounts. On top of that rebuke, she was told that Britain has two weeks to come up with an offer of the cutoff for talks starting in December will be passed and it would then be February before they could start.

As you can see, time is running out, as we knew it would. As the EU knew it would, and the Brexiteers are getting panicky.

Most worryingly of all, was the Irish PM's statement yesterday that unless there is a concrete statement by Britain that there would be no hard border between the Republic and Northern Ireland, then Ireland would veto any trade deal. News of this swept through social media as it it was shocking. Those of you who know these words can tell you that each of the EU27 can veto the deal, if one is made. As can the EU itself and the UCJ. And mybe 11 regional parliaments as well. And if that happened, and the two year clock ran out, then Britain would leave without a deal.

As I have said so many times before, the border is the most difficult issue of the three to sort out, but then the Brexiteers and May should have known this, we did, before submitting the A50 notification. To do that before coming up with solutions, or even identifying stumbling blacks was madness. But then Brext is madness. The border, of at the edge of the EU, has to be "hard", to ensure goods coming in complies with regulations. This can be avoided of there is a drade deal, or Britain stays in the CU or SM. But as the PM has blocked these as red lines, it stands to reason there has to be a hard border in Ireland. Of course, the DUP are as mad as everyone, as they want Brexit and no border too; like how is that going to happen?

Divergence in standards, as championed by some of the Brexiteers mean there has to be a hard border between the EU, its the whole point of the CU and SM to ensure standards and regulations are the same over the whole of the EU. What the Irish PM said is only the known position, and it is his job to look after the interests of his country, people and businesses. If only the mad Brexiteers could do that here.

There also has to be no border for the terms of the Good Friday Agreement; it is unlikely that the "troubles" could start up again, but would anyone want to take that risk? Especially as the other solutions is for Northern Ireland to somehow be in the UK still, but the other side of the hard border, meaning that trade, travel between the rest of Great Britain and NI subject to a hard border, and there be a soft border between to two halves of the island. Would NI really then be a part of the UK? And would the DUP stand for such a position, but as I said, their policies on this are already impossible, so who knows?

On the subject of Ireland, it emerged that the Irish part of the negotiating team has been explaining to the Foreign Secretary, Boris de Piffel Johnson, the issues facing Brexit, as he was unaware. This is because when anyone comes to hom with problems he doesn't want to hear, he puts his fingers in his ears and hums the national anthem loudly. This might not be the best way for a Minister of the Crown to act.

It has also been reported that DD is ready to resign; how unlike a Brexiteer to walk away just as the going gets impossible. I have little respect for the man, but he is the most competent of the four Brexiteers. I'm sure if Johnson or Gove took over, with their patriotic outlook, it will all go fine. Gove wants to be Chancellor, as he thinks the current one is too pessimistic, and someone with a cheerful demeanor would be better. That Gove is a journalist by "trade" and is probably not that qualified to run a school tuck shop, but running the country's finances will be just fine too.

Sunday is the day when there are the politics shows on TV, and interviews with the players are published in the broadsheets. Tomorrow will be an interesting day, as each day is now, as the sands of time run out.

Friday 17th November 2017

Another trip to Suffolk to visit Mum. Which means a day off work as I have business to do in her bank before going to visit her.

It was dark again when the alarm went off, I suppose it will be now until into February, but with a clear sky outside, it promised to be a fine day for traveling. But if the traffic would agree is another thing. Jools was going to pick up a hire car, so I had to drop her off down the docks, then she would go to work, and I would head north to brave the traffic at Dartford.

A cold and clear dawn broke, and the sun came up just as we left the house, filling the sky with a golden light. Once we reached the docks, I stopped whilst Jools tried to start the car, then I could carry on north towards Suffolk. Of course, in theory, it should be a four hour run to Lowestoft, but at rush hour, on a Friday, anything could happen, and it might take a week to get there.

As the sun rises, the air clears and the day is spectacular, trees that still have leaves, look yellow mostly in the light, and so on fire. THey look sensational against the dark blue sky too. This would be a feature of the day.

Whichever was I went, I would almost always have to go through the tunnel; all roads that join the M25 funnel traffic here, and despite being four lanes trough it, and no tollbooths now, traffic should flow well. But with the lanes already clogged, traffic like me joining from the M20 and then the M2 meant that we slowed to a walk, then stopped. And so moved forward twenty yards at a time.

I don't know how long it took to get through; an hour? But we crawled through the tunnel and out the other side into sunny Essex. It was stop start for miles, especially when the four lanes were reduced to three, but come nine I was at the junction with the M11, waiting to join the northbound traffic. This road leads past Stansted Airport and on to Cambridge, so it was going to be busy. At least I was able to have the radio on and looking out admire the stunning day with the clear blue skies and bright yellow trees.

I am past Cambridge by ten in the morning: it took three hours, should taken half that. But traffic thins out and I get up to the speed limit for the first time in nearly two hours. I know this road so well, as well as the turn off onto the A11 to Newmarket, past Saffron Walden and ever northwards. I stop for a drink and comfort break after the road joins with the A14. Feeling better, maybe 90 minutes to go. For a change I decide to go up the Norwich-Ipswich road, which meant following the 14 past the beet factory at Bury, and getting to within 10 miles of Ipswich before turning off and going north again.

The road is not too bad, maybe better than the A143 if I'm honest; there are parts of dual carriageway, but then there are villages to go through when the speed limit is just 30. I get to Diss, and from there is was back onto our old friend, the 143, past the ever familiar places and churches: I don't stop this time, as I have work to do when I get to Lowestoft.

Crossing the marshes between Haddiscoe and St Olaves I could see the towers of several churches, two of which, Reedham and Herringfleet I recognised, but the others maybe I need to seek out. But I was back on the roads of my youth, turning onto the road to Somerleyton, past Herringfleet church and finally into Oulton Broad. It was quarter past twelve when I got to Lowestoft, parked near to the old Labour Exchange and walked through to the High Street to Mum's bank to get some advice, and in the end get forms I need, later Mum would sign these so we can look after her money when she is unable to.

I walk back to the car, past the library, I see no one I know, as usual. You wouldn't know I had lived here for nearly 30 years on and off. Maybe all my friends just moved away too?

From the town centre, it was just a half twenty minute drive to the hospital in Gorleston, the car park nearly full, which will be good news for whoever rakes the cash in from the parking charges. There is a cafe in the entrance, so I stop to have a snack; sausage roll and a Coke, then to ward 16 to see Mum.

I had heard she had improved, and right away I could see this was true. She was sitting in the chair, still has a catheter, but other than that no other wires or tubes in her. Although she had another semi-permanent valve in her arm to match the one in her neck, for the easy administering of drugs. But she is in good spirits, and her face has good colour. We talk for ages; I have not been here for two weeks, and not able to speak with her on the phone. But there is news, good wishes from people.

I have to leave before its dark, as I need to get in the house, and the key is locked in a safe on the wall, don't ask, and without a torch it would be impossible to get the key once dark. So, I bid her farewell, there is a chance she might be out in two weeks, but there was no staff around to ask for an accurate prognosis.

I walk back to the car, pay £3 to release the car; it is a tax on the sick and their families, like we can anything else but stump up the cost. How did it come to this, and why do we accept it?

I go home, back down what used to be the A12 but is now the A47 for some reason, why the change is, I don't know. Anyway, I get back to the old family home, just in time so I can open the key safe and let myself in. There is still the stale smell of cigarettes, but we think that is mostly coming from the curtains, and as they are velvet, they would have to be dry-cleaned, even if I could work out how they could be taken down.

I have brought The Book of Dust with me, but before I get lost in the world of Lyra again, I need to do some tidying up; so tackle a wardrobe filled with nothing by paperback books, most of which were unread.

I do then delve into the world of the Trout beside the River, and of babies and plots. A couple of hours passed.

I call Jools as we have been very concerned with Molly, due to her change in behaviour, and there was a strong possibility that she might be going blind. But tests showed she is find, just getting older and is losing her alpha female role in the house to Scully, which is why she now sleeps on the sofa between us of an evening, rather than Molly. Her high blood pressure is now under control, which is something.

At seven, I go out to the chippy in Fir Lane in the hope they would have skate again. They did, and it was ready cooked, so it is popped into the paper along with a huge portion of ships, salt and vinegary applied, then wrapped. All for seven quid, not bad all in all. And there was enough chips for two. And it was delicious, the skate lovely and fresh. As usual I save the crispy bits at the edge till last and eat those up. Lovely.

I watch Mastermind and Only Connect then read in bed for an hour, until sleep takes me from this and Lyra's worlds.

Thursday 16th November 2017

Three nights in Denmark, and nothing more than 6 hours sleep, and I feel like crap. But at least I am going home, as long as I can get to Billund in one piece. I have time to check the internet, and sadly little of the madness out there had changed; Brexit still happening, Trump still not impeached. So, I have a shower, get dressed and pack.

I check out just before six, waiting for the computer to add everything up, then presented with a final bill. Have a good day the night porter shouts as I scarper out the front door to the car.

Despite it being before six, the traffic lights taking me onto the ring road take nearly 5 minutes to change, but once on the way, I only catch one more before I turn off onto the motorway, put my foot down.

A light drizzle was falling, but then this is Denmark, but not too bad, and as it was six, trucks all along the way south were banned from overtaking as they are in most places during the morning and evening rush hour. So cars can cruise at 130 kmh, heading south and west until I turn off at junction 57. Although I have travelled this road hundreds of times, it looks different in the dark, and overtaking is dangerous, just as well then that traffic went along at the speed limit.

I make good time, arriving at the airport at just before seven, just as planned so the queues at security should be at their smallest. Earlier there are hundreds waiting to board budget flights to Gran Canaria, they would all be in the bar by now, supping half litres of Carlsberg. And once I am through security myself, I see dozens of half drunk beers through the lounge.

But I still have a card to get me into the business lounge, where I meet my old boss for a quick chat before he has to go to catch his flight to Manchester. I fill up with a roll and two coffees, and check mails on the computer.

Soon enough it is five past eight, time to amble to the gate the other side of immigration, being passed by others who want to get to the gate first to be first on the plane to get to their reserved seats. I have no idea. Anyway, the flight is fully booked, meaning space in the overhead lockers is limited, but I find room for my computer bag. Outside, a mist had risen with the dawn, making me wonder if it was safe to take off. Engines are started and we taxi to the end of the runway anyway.

The engines roar, we streak off down the runway, into the air, and straight into thick cloud/fog, but the plane climbs until we break out into clear air, and to the horizon to the south there is mist and/or fog clinging to the ground. Away to the south east, the sun had risen, allowing me to read the Rail magazine, when I wasn't eating 2nd breakfast.

As we cross the North Sea, the fog clears, so once we reach the Thames Estuary I can see the landmarks down below: Shivering Sands, Grain, Thanet, Whitstable, the Medway, Grain, Tibury, Grays, Dartford. Getting lower all the time.

We land ten minutes early, then wait until bags are removed from the hold until we are allowed to get off, walking from gate 7 to immigration, where I can test my new passport at the automatic gates; and I am home. Please queue here.

A ten minute wait for my case, which means I miss the early train, so no need to rush any more, just enjoy a pleasant morning to travel home.

I wait for a train back to Stratford, then once in the concourse, I missed the train by 5 minutes, but hey, there's another one in 55. So I go to Smiths to buy the new Philip Pullman book, as I decided this would be a good thing to ready whilst waiting.

I am soon lost in the world of His Dark Materials, as the opening chapters set the scene, then on the train whizzing home, the story moves on as the new character is lured into the story of Dust. I am sad, then, when we pull into Dover and I have to get off the train and look for the taxi I had ordered.

It whisks me back home, up Connaught Hill, past the castle and along the Deal road to St Maggies. The cats are nonplussed, so I make lunch, sit down to look at the news, at which point I could feel a migraine building. Little else to do was to take to bed with the curtains closed and wait for it to pass. But each time I thought it was passing, I look at a computer screen and the words begin to be unreadable. Urgh.

Back to bed to wait for Jools, sitting in the semi darkness of the lounge as dusk darkened to night outside.

When Jools comes home we have lots to talk about; Mum, events in the family, the cats and work. We have soup and potato bread I had made. And the evening passes until half eight, when we both being tired, call it a night and we go to bed. I hope I have more energy come the weekend.

More Brexit stuff

Tonight, the BBC reported hearing that the PM is trying to see how it can ditch its poorly thought out clause in the Brexit bill setting an actual time and date into UK law. Never was a good idea to limit itself this way, experts said this, and the Government ignored the experts. And this is just the kind of muddled thinking that got Britain and the Government where it currently is.

On the 15th, The Torygraph ran a headline naming and shaming the Tory MPs who voted against the government on the Brexit bill, calling them "mutineers", as if standing up for Parliamentary democracy in ensuring the Government is held to account, and their bills. Just the sort of thing they should be doing, so who is the real mutineers here?

Currently, DD is being interviewed live on German TV, and its not going well. Don't put politics before prosperity DD lectures. Yeah, about that David, shall I say that about Brexit and everything the May Government has done since?

THe walls of reality are closing in further, the EU stating that the only deal possible is a Canada style free trade agreement, little more than WTO rules, which is a direct consequence of May's red lines from last autumn, and the time constraint of the Article 50 process, which they were warned about but chose to ignore.

Yes, time limits me from saying too much more, even though it would be a rehash of may previous posts. Reality will win out. Unless something extraordinary happens, Britain will leave the EU at 32:00 on 29th May 2017 unless two things happen: Britain asks to either cancel or pause Brexit. And the EU agrees. Both look unlikely.

There is nothing anyone can do on their own to stop Brexit. So the talk of mutineers and saboteurs is guff, as such things are a gift of the EU and the EU institutions only, just as I said on so many occasions.

Still, the weather's nice.

Wednesday 15th November 2017

This day is one that will be remembered for many reasons, but one in particular, as you will see.

I was in Denmark this week, mainly because of the kick off meeting of the new project. A chance to get to know new colleagues and renew friendships with old ones. And it was due to take place all day Wednesday.

After the night before, six hours sleep was never going to be good enough, and looking in the mirror after the alarm had gone off at six I could see two red eyes blinking back at me. Oh dear.

I have a shower, out some clean clothes on and am ready for seven to meet the new HSE guy, Jan, at breakfast and then get a taxi to take us to the hotel I usually stay at, but not this time, as it was full, for the meeting, which had been arranged there so those of us traveling could stay there and get to it easily. Only, not how things turned out.

There had been a major accident on the motorway, which meant the usual jams in town had not happened as out of town traffic was backed up, so we made it to the Radisson by quarter to eight, and as usual there was coffee and breakfast waiting for us. I had coffee. Lots of coffee.

The others arrived in dribs and drabs, until at half eight we were ready; the morning for the serious stuff, and the afternoon for the more fun things. I won't lie to you, the morning was hard, I felt like crap, and several times nearly fell asleep, but got second wind in the afternoon as the fun stuff began, where we each had to do a quarter hour presentation about ourselves. It was fun and we found out aboout each other, things we like and don't like.

There was a hour's beer break. It might be said that I maybe had had enough beer the night before, but hey, it was on the company's ticket, so I accepted another Christmas beer.

We went back into the conference room, to find a lady in loose fitting clothes and no shoes, putting drawing boards, papers and pencils on our chairs. Hmmmmmm.

It was going to be a life drawing class, and we would be drawing the lady. She mentioned life drawing, contours and so on. First effort was going to be our best effort without instruction: she took her cardigan off, went to put some music on, and as the music started, she took her shirt off then unzipped her skirt and stepped out of it. She was nekkid.

I think it is fair to say we were all stunned. But went along with it, and after 5 minutes she put her clothes back on as she reviewed what we had done, and what to do next. We would be given a minute or less to draw, and whilst only looking down at what we were doing briefly. And each time she took off her clothes, struck a pose, and we scribbled.

Over and over we did this, most of us trying not to laugh as we were told to roar before we started one drawing, or imagine letting your pencil run over her outline. I kid ye not.

But after 90 minutes, it was over; we gathered our stuff up, packed our bag and scuttled outta there as fast as we could. From there it was a ten minute walk to the Mikkeler bar, where Jesper was going to treat us all whether we wanted him to or not. The bar is tiny, and the 11 of us filled it up. We had a half each, laughed about what had just happened, I mean, what else could we do?

At seven we were booked into a restaurant two doors down, where there would be steak.

We had half the small restaurant, and orders were taken, Jan being a pizza or burger man, being presented with proper food made him accept he would join the rest of us in peppered steak. I say peppered steak, it was steak with a much reduced port gravy, the last of which was prepared next to our table. I should point out at this point, I was sitting next to our newest team member, Rachel, a beautiful Nigerian lady, who was quite shy about meeting us all, most of which have worked together for four years.

Anyway, the sauce cook poured in the best part of a bottle of port, and set it simmering, then added a healthy dash of brandy, allowed the gas burner to ignite the fumes, and the pan went up woosh! Rachel jumped next to me and grabbed my leg. Not what I was expecting from the evening. Indeed, each time a new batch of sauce was made, she jumped in her seat next to me. It was all rather unexpected if I'm honest.

The food came and it was good, the sauce a triumph. But it was already nine, and I had to be up at five to drive to the airport. So I said farewell to the team, made my way to the nearby railway station where I guessed the nearest taxi rank would be.

I was right, and another non-English speaker too me back to the hotel, along deserted streets and through rows of darkened houses. Back in the room, I call Jools and we catch up, before I head to bed, not before taking a huge mouthful of indigestion medicine, because otherwise it would be an acid filled night.

I was so, so tired.

Tuesday 14th November 2017

I wake up in my room in the compound. It is still hot in the room even with the radiator switched off and the window open. I can hear rain falling steadily outside, so the drive into work will be fun. I get up have a shower, get dressed and go down for breakfast. THe hotel is full here too, and with many colleagues too, as they all have branded clothes on, except for me who looks like a tramp. I have fruit, cereal and a chocolate roll and two coffees.

THe drive to the office is as bad as I feared, with the ring road stacked up, so we inch along past each junction, until most traffic turns off towards the new hospital, and so I can drive along to the Randersvej junction, go down to the second set of lights and turn into the car park. There are even spaces still at quarter to eight. That soon changes, as in the past few months, we have been recruiting like mad, and most of them have cars, so need more spaces, more office space. And so on.

I have a three hour training course to go on, which takes the day to lunchtime, and bean stealing in the canteen.

I have a document to complete in the afternoon, so I am deleting, spell checking and the rest of the stuff that is needed. I work through until five when all bar three Brits are left working and the cleaners were already out and about, vacuuming and cleaning. Traffic is very light, so I get back to the hotel with no trouble, then have half an hour to kill before I went out. I booked a taxi to take me into the city to meet up with Shaggy.

I go down and the taxi had just arrived, the driver speaks no English, and I speak no Klingon, but we both seem happy with our lot. We go past the outdoor museum where I went in June, past the Art Museum, dropping me off near Highlander, as the driver had no heard of it, and neither had his dispatcher. I knew where it was, so no worries. I pay the man and walk down the hill, cutting through the narrow lanes, past the smoking pub and there is the Highlander.

I go in and shout: Oi, Oi, saveloy! which seemed funny to me at the time. Shags already has a beer, so I join him with a fine Belgian bottled beer. It was going to be that kind of night.

After an hour, we walk along the canal to Bones for some rib action, and more Christmas beer. So good to be able to spend evenings meeting friends.

We walk back to the bar, have another beer. And another beer. Some whisky. Another beer.

Shags is broken, he had gone out to cadge a cigarette, I swear he went out sober, and came back staggering as his legs were not working right. He has one more beer, which possibly wasn't wise; he had missed his train, and seemed confused as to what he should do now. He went outside for another cigarette, we go out to see him and he is angry drunk; not really angry, but confused. I go back inside to discuss with the barman what to do, we go out and he has vanished. Like an old oak table.

I look round, but he is gone, so I get him to order me a taxi, drain my glass and go home, getting back at nearly midnight. I have to be up in six hours. Oh dear.