However you vote on Thursday, make sure your decision is not based on prejudice, hatred, deliberately distorted information, uninformed opinion, or even nostalgia—a faulty faculty at best—or on a whim. Remember: this choice can't be reversed; it's that serious.
If you are an older person, as I am, remember that what we decide will have much less impact on us than it will on our children and grandchildren. Ask them, if they are old enough to understand, what they want. Respect their choice and support them in it. They are the ones who must live with Thursday's decision.
If you feel aggrieved that you had no opportunity to choose in the previous referendum about Europe, you now have the opportunity to choose but please recognise that you will also be putting the generations that follow in the same predicament. Make the best choice for them, not just the one that suits you.
Visit the BBC's Reality Check web site for useful information to help you make or even check your decision. Please keep an open mind to what you read there.
We are collectively responsible for whatever happens next . . .
Showing posts with label Comment. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Comment. Show all posts
21 June 2016
10 April 2013
A Heartfelt Plea to Android App Developers
I have to say, I'm a bit miffed with Android app developers. I'm an Android fan. I like Android apps. I appreciate the effort the developers put in. I also love my Samsung GT-S5830. But - I'm not happy.
The problem with apps is they keep on being improved. Nothing wrong with that but they also keep on growing in size. All those incremental improvements take up a little more space. Your app may grow by only a small amount but all the other developers are making improvements at the same time as you. All those little bits of extra memory taken together mean my phone runs out of space.
I think part of the problem lies in the phone; it could do with more on-board memory. I have oodles of room on the SD card but I am fighting a constant battle with shortness of space. All the apps that can work from the SD card are stored there but I seem unable to do an update these days without running out of main memory. The only way I can then get my phone working properly again is to delete an app. One of these days, it may have to be your app that goes...
Even deleting apps from the SD card can free on-board memory, so they must be starting services just in case. Bad developer! Start the services only when I run the app, please. Another thing: please don't add permissions your application doesn't actually, really, genuinely need. And do your very best to reduce the size of your app when you next 'improve' it. Please! Maybe you could remove a not-very-useful feature or two...
The problem with apps is they keep on being improved. Nothing wrong with that but they also keep on growing in size. All those incremental improvements take up a little more space. Your app may grow by only a small amount but all the other developers are making improvements at the same time as you. All those little bits of extra memory taken together mean my phone runs out of space.
I think part of the problem lies in the phone; it could do with more on-board memory. I have oodles of room on the SD card but I am fighting a constant battle with shortness of space. All the apps that can work from the SD card are stored there but I seem unable to do an update these days without running out of main memory. The only way I can then get my phone working properly again is to delete an app. One of these days, it may have to be your app that goes...
Even deleting apps from the SD card can free on-board memory, so they must be starting services just in case. Bad developer! Start the services only when I run the app, please. Another thing: please don't add permissions your application doesn't actually, really, genuinely need. And do your very best to reduce the size of your app when you next 'improve' it. Please! Maybe you could remove a not-very-useful feature or two...
25 January 2013
Harry's 'Game'
Much has been made in the news in recent days of Prince Harry's remarks about his time in Afghanistan as a gunner in an Army helicopter. He has admitted to killing Taliban fighters, and you could hear raised eyebrows in the news reader's tone even if the actual facial expression was successfully suppressed.
Some of Harry's remarks have been seen as glib, if not actually offensive; 'Take a life to save a life,' for example, or '...taking [the enemy] out of the game.' I really wonder what's wrong with people.
Whatever the rights or wrongs of our troops being deployed in Afghanistan, the fact is they are there. Not only are they there, they are being attacked by the Taliban with the unmitigated intent to kill as many of them as possible. What are our troops supposed to do, if not defend themselves?
My grandfather fought in the First World War. On one of the rare occasions he talked about it, I asked if he had killed any Germans. He admitted (not confessed) he had in hand-to-hand combat, not just with his Lewis gun from a safe distance. His explanation was that if he and his comrades had not killed the Germans, the Germans would have killed them; 'It was them or us.'
So, Prince Harry has killed Taliban fighters. I am sure this young man does not take pleasure in the taking of life. I deplore war and its consequences but the equation is an easy one to understand: if he did not fire his machine gun at the enemy and 'take them out of the game', you can be sure that the Taliban would be taking the Prince's comrades out of the game. The killing of the Prince himself would be seen by them as an illustrious triumph. It is either British troops who die or Taliban fighters; it is British mothers who must grieve or those of the Taliban. Would it were neither but fanatics such as the Taliban are not in the least offended by the death of their enemies.
Nor should we take offence at the expression 'taking them out of the game.' This is not a sign that our Prince is a jingoistic warmonger. I think of World War Two fighter pilots who talked of fallen comrades as having 'Gone for a Burton' (Burton's being a brewery). These men were not being facetious in the face of tragedy, they were putting a psychological distance between themselves and the horror of their losses and what must have seemed, for some of them at least, their own inevitable demise. I wonder how closely those who are critical of Harry would hold the realities of war were they in his shoes . . .
Prince Harry is a soldier. He is doing a dangerous job in a dangerous place. Many of our front line troops have killed Taliban fighters; in that respect, Harry is but one of the many. How many people would complain if Harry had not done his job and allowed British troops to be killed?
Prince Harry is a soldier. What do you expect him to do? Really?
'Harry's Game', by the way, is the title of a Gerald Seymour novel: an excellent read — but then, most of his novels are.
Some of Harry's remarks have been seen as glib, if not actually offensive; 'Take a life to save a life,' for example, or '...taking [the enemy] out of the game.' I really wonder what's wrong with people.
Whatever the rights or wrongs of our troops being deployed in Afghanistan, the fact is they are there. Not only are they there, they are being attacked by the Taliban with the unmitigated intent to kill as many of them as possible. What are our troops supposed to do, if not defend themselves?
My grandfather fought in the First World War. On one of the rare occasions he talked about it, I asked if he had killed any Germans. He admitted (not confessed) he had in hand-to-hand combat, not just with his Lewis gun from a safe distance. His explanation was that if he and his comrades had not killed the Germans, the Germans would have killed them; 'It was them or us.'
So, Prince Harry has killed Taliban fighters. I am sure this young man does not take pleasure in the taking of life. I deplore war and its consequences but the equation is an easy one to understand: if he did not fire his machine gun at the enemy and 'take them out of the game', you can be sure that the Taliban would be taking the Prince's comrades out of the game. The killing of the Prince himself would be seen by them as an illustrious triumph. It is either British troops who die or Taliban fighters; it is British mothers who must grieve or those of the Taliban. Would it were neither but fanatics such as the Taliban are not in the least offended by the death of their enemies.
Nor should we take offence at the expression 'taking them out of the game.' This is not a sign that our Prince is a jingoistic warmonger. I think of World War Two fighter pilots who talked of fallen comrades as having 'Gone for a Burton' (Burton's being a brewery). These men were not being facetious in the face of tragedy, they were putting a psychological distance between themselves and the horror of their losses and what must have seemed, for some of them at least, their own inevitable demise. I wonder how closely those who are critical of Harry would hold the realities of war were they in his shoes . . .
Prince Harry is a soldier. He is doing a dangerous job in a dangerous place. Many of our front line troops have killed Taliban fighters; in that respect, Harry is but one of the many. How many people would complain if Harry had not done his job and allowed British troops to be killed?
Prince Harry is a soldier. What do you expect him to do? Really?
'Harry's Game', by the way, is the title of a Gerald Seymour novel: an excellent read — but then, most of his novels are.
18 December 2012
Two are Better than One
I am knackered. Positively cream-crackered.
For the last four-and-a-half weeks I have been home alone because my Beloved has been on 'Looking After the Parents Duty' at the other end of the country. My mother-in-law has had major cardiac surgery which has rendered her unable to function at her normal, slightly-less-than-obsessive level. Since my father-in-law knows how to boil an egg and open a tin of beans, my Beloved has had no option but to be there for them. I am sincerely happy that we are in a position to be able to provide the support needed to our ageing parents but it has necessitated my, albeit temporary, return to bachelorhood.
Great, you might think. Time to do exactly what you want, or even to not do exactly what you don't want.
Well, it's not quite that simple. Apart from the DIY described in the previous post, I still had to go work five days a week, leaving me with just the weekend to do all the chores usually done by my Beloved during the week. It's funny how the sock- and knicker-drawer fairies always seem to take their holidays when my Beloved is away. They, and the cleaning-, washing- and ironing-fairies, always seem to go away as a group.
Added to that, we are in the run-up to Christmas, that time of year when we make ourselves so busy we have no time to think about what the season is really about. For me, that has meant rehearsals for choral concerts, additional rehearsals because we were not otherwise going to be ready, singing in two concerts, learning music for the village carol service, and getting myself ready for our annual scratch workplace choir's carol singing to raise money for the Charlie Bear Childrens' Cancer Charity (Gary Malone, we did it first!).
Then there are jobs like taking my Beloved's car to be serviced, bagging up a gardenful of leaves and taking them to the tip, remembering to order new gas bottles, working late to do things that can only be done after hours, and a whole pile of other small things like keeping up with Strictly, Merlin and Coronation Street.
Honestly, with all that going on, I have been rushed off my feet.
My Beloved had Christmas wrapped before she went away, leaving me with very little to do on that score. Actually, this suits me very well because, when it comes to Christmas presents, you wouldn't want me as the 'Ideas Man' in your team. She also made life for me in her absence as easy as she could by filling the freezer with food. It still takes time to prepare the evening meal, though, and to clear up the total devastation afterwards.
Life has been full-on busy.
If I hadn't already realised, this episode has given me cause to reflect on all the benefits my Beloved brings to my life. It certainly is easier when there are two of us on duty. If I ever did take her for granted, and I hope I didn't, I have to say she is wonderful and I'm looking forward to having her back.
There were so many things had I hoped to do ....
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
For the last four-and-a-half weeks I have been home alone because my Beloved has been on 'Looking After the Parents Duty' at the other end of the country. My mother-in-law has had major cardiac surgery which has rendered her unable to function at her normal, slightly-less-than-obsessive level. Since my father-in-law knows how to boil an egg and open a tin of beans, my Beloved has had no option but to be there for them. I am sincerely happy that we are in a position to be able to provide the support needed to our ageing parents but it has necessitated my, albeit temporary, return to bachelorhood.
Great, you might think. Time to do exactly what you want, or even to not do exactly what you don't want.
Well, it's not quite that simple. Apart from the DIY described in the previous post, I still had to go work five days a week, leaving me with just the weekend to do all the chores usually done by my Beloved during the week. It's funny how the sock- and knicker-drawer fairies always seem to take their holidays when my Beloved is away. They, and the cleaning-, washing- and ironing-fairies, always seem to go away as a group.
Added to that, we are in the run-up to Christmas, that time of year when we make ourselves so busy we have no time to think about what the season is really about. For me, that has meant rehearsals for choral concerts, additional rehearsals because we were not otherwise going to be ready, singing in two concerts, learning music for the village carol service, and getting myself ready for our annual scratch workplace choir's carol singing to raise money for the Charlie Bear Childrens' Cancer Charity (Gary Malone, we did it first!).
Then there are jobs like taking my Beloved's car to be serviced, bagging up a gardenful of leaves and taking them to the tip, remembering to order new gas bottles, working late to do things that can only be done after hours, and a whole pile of other small things like keeping up with Strictly, Merlin and Coronation Street.
Honestly, with all that going on, I have been rushed off my feet.
My Beloved had Christmas wrapped before she went away, leaving me with very little to do on that score. Actually, this suits me very well because, when it comes to Christmas presents, you wouldn't want me as the 'Ideas Man' in your team. She also made life for me in her absence as easy as she could by filling the freezer with food. It still takes time to prepare the evening meal, though, and to clear up the total devastation afterwards.
Life has been full-on busy.
If I hadn't already realised, this episode has given me cause to reflect on all the benefits my Beloved brings to my life. It certainly is easier when there are two of us on duty. If I ever did take her for granted, and I hope I didn't, I have to say she is wonderful and I'm looking forward to having her back.
There were so many things had I hoped to do ....
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
15 May 2012
I Can See Clearly Now
My Dad told me the other day about his window cleaner's use of deionised water, and how clear the windows were after washing.
He thought I might be impressed but all I could do was point out the folly of it: while thousands die every day for want of uncontaminated water, we use the purest for cleaning our windows. What a sick world we live in.
09 May 2012
On Foaming Toilet Blocks
No one likes to find skid marks in the toilet. Even worse is the discovery of something floating (or sunk), and worse still of something that was floating (or sunk) but is now thoroughly disintegrated.
Everyone likes to find a toilet devoid of any evidence of prior use and in a sanitised condition. To this end, mankind has developed a number of means to render our WC bowls acceptable in both appearance and odour.
There are various devices for hanging disinfecting blocks from the rim. There are disinfecting blocks that can be dropped into the cistern, where they slowly dissolve rendering the water in your pan after flushing a pleasing blue. Then there is, of course, the all-important bog-brush.
The humble bog-brush is the single most important artifact for preserving WC etiquette. Its usefulness in removing offensive marks from the bowl is inestimable. It is also invaluable for persuading stubbornly bouyant or excessively dense objects to venture into the zone beyond the bend from whence they can be carried away by the ensuing flush—essential to guarantee no reappearances.
Of all the inventions of man, the worst, on a par with income tax and thermonuclear war, is the foaming toilet block. Its dual purposes are, of course, to disinfect your bowl and to leave it with a pleasant appearance ready for the next visitor. It may well achieve the former of these functions better than other long-acting devices. The latter however it most certainly fails abysmally and entirely to do.
After the flush, all you can see is foam. True, skid-marks, floaters and sinkers are obscured from view but this fact holds no comfort for the seasoned user, who is only too aware of what may lurk unseen beneath all those shiny bubbles. This creates a dilemma for those about to vacate the smallest room ...
One could be tempted to deploy the bog-brush just to make sure that nothing comes to light once the bubbles have burst but it is difficult to clean away what cannot be seen. And, if something more than mere evidence of transit is present, the wielder of the brush could be overcome with deep pangs of regret on withdrawing it from the suds...
The foaming toilet block is a dastardly device that should be removed from the shelves of shops throughout the universe.
What is to be done if you find yourself confronted with the dilemma of the satanic suds? To brush or not to brush? That is the question. Whether it is nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outraged loved ones or to take up brush against a sea of bubbles and, by opposing, end them ... or make them worse.
My strategy has been to suffer the slings and arrows, and to point out the short-comings of the foaming toilet block, especially when the offence was not caused by me...
I suspect that, once the current foaming toilet block has expired, alternative sanitisation devices may appear.
Everyone likes to find a toilet devoid of any evidence of prior use and in a sanitised condition. To this end, mankind has developed a number of means to render our WC bowls acceptable in both appearance and odour.
There are various devices for hanging disinfecting blocks from the rim. There are disinfecting blocks that can be dropped into the cistern, where they slowly dissolve rendering the water in your pan after flushing a pleasing blue. Then there is, of course, the all-important bog-brush.
The humble bog-brush is the single most important artifact for preserving WC etiquette. Its usefulness in removing offensive marks from the bowl is inestimable. It is also invaluable for persuading stubbornly bouyant or excessively dense objects to venture into the zone beyond the bend from whence they can be carried away by the ensuing flush—essential to guarantee no reappearances.
Of all the inventions of man, the worst, on a par with income tax and thermonuclear war, is the foaming toilet block. Its dual purposes are, of course, to disinfect your bowl and to leave it with a pleasant appearance ready for the next visitor. It may well achieve the former of these functions better than other long-acting devices. The latter however it most certainly fails abysmally and entirely to do.
After the flush, all you can see is foam. True, skid-marks, floaters and sinkers are obscured from view but this fact holds no comfort for the seasoned user, who is only too aware of what may lurk unseen beneath all those shiny bubbles. This creates a dilemma for those about to vacate the smallest room ...
One could be tempted to deploy the bog-brush just to make sure that nothing comes to light once the bubbles have burst but it is difficult to clean away what cannot be seen. And, if something more than mere evidence of transit is present, the wielder of the brush could be overcome with deep pangs of regret on withdrawing it from the suds...
The foaming toilet block is a dastardly device that should be removed from the shelves of shops throughout the universe.
What is to be done if you find yourself confronted with the dilemma of the satanic suds? To brush or not to brush? That is the question. Whether it is nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outraged loved ones or to take up brush against a sea of bubbles and, by opposing, end them ... or make them worse.
My strategy has been to suffer the slings and arrows, and to point out the short-comings of the foaming toilet block, especially when the offence was not caused by me...
I suspect that, once the current foaming toilet block has expired, alternative sanitisation devices may appear.
22 April 2012
Six Nations 2012
Well, I never did finish off my intended series of posts on this year's Six Nations tournament. I got rather distracted by I can't remember what and never found the time to write anything. Anyway, I can't just move on without finding some sort of closure...
As it happens, things turned out pretty much as I expected. I'm made up for Wales, by far the best team of the tournament and well deserving the Grand Slam. At the other end of the table, Scotland managed to acquire the wooden spurtle without actually playing bad rugby. Italy continue their gradual improvement, their main shortcoming being an inability to play for a full 80 minutes; perhaps someone should tell them that the game is not only an hour long. Ireland, O Ireland: I had great hopes for you but you never quite clicked. France were beaten by England and I need say no more about them.
And that brings me to England. I am so pleased to see that we seem at last to be emerging from our Dark Ages. We started to look like a team, and beating France (did I already mention that?) was the icing on the cake.
I want to say two things about Stuart Lancaster. First, I applaud his bravery in handling the team the way he did as a stop-gap senior coach. His efforts to restructure the team paid off beautifully. Second, I am thrilled that he got appointed to the job officially. I look forward to seeing the team go on from strength to strength under his leadership.
As a final note, I think England needs a new anthem for sporting events. Much as I respect Her Majesty (and I do), we could do with something rousing about England, something that inspires teams and supporters to be their best (and I guess we could do with a GB sports anthem for events such as the Olympics, when England does not put in an appearance). Our anthem is not quite the worst. Flower of Scotland is dreary, and the Italian anthem doesn't know whether to be military or operatic. Land of My Fathers is a good one. Ireland has two anthems, both of which I like. I'm desperately sorry to say this but The Marseillaise is the best one of the lot. Shame it doesn't work for them...
As it happens, things turned out pretty much as I expected. I'm made up for Wales, by far the best team of the tournament and well deserving the Grand Slam. At the other end of the table, Scotland managed to acquire the wooden spurtle without actually playing bad rugby. Italy continue their gradual improvement, their main shortcoming being an inability to play for a full 80 minutes; perhaps someone should tell them that the game is not only an hour long. Ireland, O Ireland: I had great hopes for you but you never quite clicked. France were beaten by England and I need say no more about them.
And that brings me to England. I am so pleased to see that we seem at last to be emerging from our Dark Ages. We started to look like a team, and beating France (did I already mention that?) was the icing on the cake.
I want to say two things about Stuart Lancaster. First, I applaud his bravery in handling the team the way he did as a stop-gap senior coach. His efforts to restructure the team paid off beautifully. Second, I am thrilled that he got appointed to the job officially. I look forward to seeing the team go on from strength to strength under his leadership.
As a final note, I think England needs a new anthem for sporting events. Much as I respect Her Majesty (and I do), we could do with something rousing about England, something that inspires teams and supporters to be their best (and I guess we could do with a GB sports anthem for events such as the Olympics, when England does not put in an appearance). Our anthem is not quite the worst. Flower of Scotland is dreary, and the Italian anthem doesn't know whether to be military or operatic. Land of My Fathers is a good one. Ireland has two anthems, both of which I like. I'm desperately sorry to say this but The Marseillaise is the best one of the lot. Shame it doesn't work for them...
13 February 2012
Six Nations 2012 - Round 2
So, Charlie Hodgson does it again! Apparently, they practice charge-downs a lot at his club, so maybe his tries have been more than the opportunism I rated them as. The Italy v England game was far from the usual whitewash we have come to expect. Italy has grown in stature year upon year, and I thought their showing very good this weekend. The alternative view is that England were poor and made Italy look good but, no, I want to recognise that England under Stuart Lancaster is a still-developing side and give the Azzuri credit for a good performance. If they hadn't substituted their kicker they could well have won, the replacement having squandered six points in risable manner.
I reserve final judgement on the new England squad as, so far, they have played only the teams who usually occupy the bottom two positions of the Six Nations table. Neither win was unexpected but neither performance was particulary impressive.
As for France v Ireland, I can only say that cancelling the game 10 minutes before the start was what you might call a faux pas. They had had all week to make the decision. Clearly, the safety of the players must be paramount so the decision was right—just too late. I feel sorry for the Irish, who are likely to receive much poorer support when the game is eventually played. Their fans have already made their journey, had their weekend in Paris, and spent all their money.
I was hoping to have a better understanding of how good the French side is, how many gears they have to go. I would like to have seen Ireland demonstrate just how good they can be. It would have been a belter of a game. Hopefully, it still will be.
The French seem to have developed a taste for cancellation. In Wales v Scotland, the French referee disallowed a perfectly good Scottish try! For the second week running, Wales have given us a spectacle. In fact, both sides played some excellent rugby. It was great to see a flowing game. I love Wales's open style; maybe having a Kiwi for coach contributes to that ... Scotland's discipline let them down, of course, rather as England's used to when Scotland's coach worked south of the border ...
Were I a gambling man, my money would still be on Wales to win, with the Grand Slam still distinctly possible. It all depends on the French ...
10 February 2012
Six Nations 2012 - Round 1
This year's Six Nations competition is under way, and the first weekend has given us something to reflect on in the wake of the recent World Cup.
The France v Italy game reached its expected conclusion with France winning comfortably (although by fewer than the 20 points the bookies had suggested...). The game began well for Italy, and France did not exactly shine even though they edged ahead. Italy, a much-improved side in comparison with years gone by, may well have been looking to repeat their defeat of France in last year's competition. To do that, they needed to show up with more stamina. I give them credit for their determination but they ran out of steam in the second half, allowing France to pile on the points.
France are, of course, the most frustratingly inconsistent side on the planet. Their World Cup progress was awful, including defeat in the group stages. Somehow they muddled through to the final and gave the All Blacks a shock by turning up to play. Maybe they were holding back against Italy. Maybe they were just being France.
The Calcutta Cup match presented Scotland with as good an opportunity as they have ever had of beating England. England's performances have been disappointing, to say the least, and the side being fielded on the day was somewhat inexperienced. I think Lancaster (the new England coach) did exactly the right thing; the Johnson formula was clearly not working, and a new approach was needed. Martin Johnson was, let's not forget, a formidable captain but even outstanding ability in that department is no guarantee of coaching prowess.
I was surprised to see Charlie Hodgson back in the side, his international career having been somewhat patchy. He did not have a bad game and did score the only try, albeit an opportunistic one.
To me, the game was lost by Scotland rather than won by England. England showed much-improved discipline and strong defence. Still lacking, or at least not yet displayed, is the creative flair that opens up the opposition and scores tries. This is a new England side, and it was not bad for a first outing. When they have played together a few times, we may see some exciting attacking play.
Wales v Ireland was a corker of a game. These two teams, and there was little to separate them, put up a fantastic show, much more exciting than many a World Cup match, with the lead changing at various times throughout the game. It looked like curtains for Wales when they were reduced to 14 men for 10 minutes and leaked the expected try. However, they did well to score their own try before that period was over. The game was lost on an Irish error that resulted in a sin-binning and a penalty kick directly in front of goal. Hard luck, Ireland, nice one Wales, and thanks to both teams for such a superb spectacle. I look forward to your subsequent games with relish.
So, who will win the competition? On last weekend's showings, it has to be Wales or Ireland. Wales, of course, could win in style with a Grand Slam. Unless the England side changes up a gear, the only team that could stop them doing that is France on a Good Day but not the plain old France of last weekend ...
As for the Wooden Spoon, well perhaps it should be a Wooden Spaghetti Hook!
15 November 2011
Reflections on Remembrance
Remembrance Sunday has come and gone again. Over the years, the usual commemoration for me has been a brief introduction in the course of a normal church service, sometimes given by a veteran or, more usually, the widow of a veteran, then two minute's silence, sometimes followed by a recitation of, 'They shall not grow old...' There was never anything disrespectful about the event but there was always the impression that it was something that was done because it was the thing to be done; and I certainly think it should be done; we should never forget the cost of the freedom we enjoy today.
A couple of years ago, my Beloved and I were in London at this time of year and so made a particular point of attending the Remembrance ceremony at the Cenotaph. It was a notable event, and no doubt deeply meaningful for those who have either participated or lost loved ones in armed conflict. We stood next to an ex-serviceman who attended every year. I would like to say we were there to honour those who gave their lives as much as he was but clearly it was a much more personal thing for him. For me, the pomp of the event lessened the experience.
This year was very different. Having recently become involved in a local church, we attended the joint Remembrance commemoration in the village. The whole service was given over to the act of remembrance, attended by servicemen and women from a nearby barracks, elderly veterans marked out by their medals, and uniformed youth organisations, and followed by a procession to the local war memorial.
Seeing the boys' and girls' uniformed groups reminded me of Church Parades I attended when I was a Cub. I was surprised to realise that I had no clue at that time what Church Parade was about, and amused to note that modern day members do not seem to be taught how to march.
At the War Memorial, we and a couple of hundred others observed our two minute's silence, witnessed the playing of last post and the laying of wreaths, offered prayers, and remembered the fallen. It became a much more meaningful event.
The War Memorial bears the names of those from our village who gave their lives. The realisation of that grounded the event, making more real the fact that real people, local people belonging to families that still live here and remember their fallen, had left their homes and loved ones and given their lives so that we could know and enjoy peace in our land.
I thought about the futility of war, its waste of life and the lost potential, all for the vanity of evil men bent on oppression and conquest. If only we could find some other way to settle differences, or even just accept them...
I thought also about those who did not die in war or conflict, who survived maimed, or even unscathed but who nonetheless sacrificed their youth, and who have since born the mental scars of their experiences. I remembered my grandfather who fought as an infantryman at the Somme and in other battles in the First World War, rose to the rank of acting Major in the Home Guard during the Second, but died 21 years ago at the age of 98. Though he survived, I believe his children lost the father he could have been, and I the grandfather, as a result of his experiences in the trenches.
War is a dreadful thing. We do not appreciate or value the peace we have in our land anywhere near as much as we ought. We owe the fallen and those who fought and survived a debt of gratitude. I would like to think that, could they see us, they would be satisfied with what we have made of their legacy but, somehow, looking at us and the way we are, I doubt it...
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
(From 'For the Fallen' by Laurence Binyon, 1869-1943.)
A couple of years ago, my Beloved and I were in London at this time of year and so made a particular point of attending the Remembrance ceremony at the Cenotaph. It was a notable event, and no doubt deeply meaningful for those who have either participated or lost loved ones in armed conflict. We stood next to an ex-serviceman who attended every year. I would like to say we were there to honour those who gave their lives as much as he was but clearly it was a much more personal thing for him. For me, the pomp of the event lessened the experience.
This year was very different. Having recently become involved in a local church, we attended the joint Remembrance commemoration in the village. The whole service was given over to the act of remembrance, attended by servicemen and women from a nearby barracks, elderly veterans marked out by their medals, and uniformed youth organisations, and followed by a procession to the local war memorial.
Seeing the boys' and girls' uniformed groups reminded me of Church Parades I attended when I was a Cub. I was surprised to realise that I had no clue at that time what Church Parade was about, and amused to note that modern day members do not seem to be taught how to march.
At the War Memorial, we and a couple of hundred others observed our two minute's silence, witnessed the playing of last post and the laying of wreaths, offered prayers, and remembered the fallen. It became a much more meaningful event.
The War Memorial bears the names of those from our village who gave their lives. The realisation of that grounded the event, making more real the fact that real people, local people belonging to families that still live here and remember their fallen, had left their homes and loved ones and given their lives so that we could know and enjoy peace in our land.
I thought about the futility of war, its waste of life and the lost potential, all for the vanity of evil men bent on oppression and conquest. If only we could find some other way to settle differences, or even just accept them...
I thought also about those who did not die in war or conflict, who survived maimed, or even unscathed but who nonetheless sacrificed their youth, and who have since born the mental scars of their experiences. I remembered my grandfather who fought as an infantryman at the Somme and in other battles in the First World War, rose to the rank of acting Major in the Home Guard during the Second, but died 21 years ago at the age of 98. Though he survived, I believe his children lost the father he could have been, and I the grandfather, as a result of his experiences in the trenches.
War is a dreadful thing. We do not appreciate or value the peace we have in our land anywhere near as much as we ought. We owe the fallen and those who fought and survived a debt of gratitude. I would like to think that, could they see us, they would be satisfied with what we have made of their legacy but, somehow, looking at us and the way we are, I doubt it...
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
(From 'For the Fallen' by Laurence Binyon, 1869-1943.)
04 November 2011
Public Sector Pensions Crisis
I am sick of hearing some private sector workers bleating on about how their taxes are being used to pay public sector pensions. It is true that state pension is paid from taxes and all of us who pay tax, whether in the private or public sector, are therefore funding state pension. That means that I, a public sector worker, am playing my part in supporting retired private sector workers just as much as anyone else is.
It is a myth that private sector workers pay public sector pensions through their taxes.
Let me point out that for the last 34 years I have been paying income tax, just as private sector workers have. For the whole of that time I have been paying into a pension scheme (unlike some in the private sector) and so it is I who have made provision for the pension I will eventually receive.
Down the years, government has taken my pension contribution and promised, through a contractual agreement, benefit in retirement through the NHS Pension Scheme. Government has not, however, taken my contributions and invested them in order to generate those benefits. No. My contributions go into the treasury and government uses the money as it sees fit.
You could consider that government uses the contributions of working public sector employees to pay the pensions of retired public sector workers.
The unions have suggested to government that a proper investment scheme be set up using public employees' contributions so that public sector pensions are self-sustaining and clearly independent of the tax system. This is, of course, unpalatable to government because it would no longer have access to a very large amount of money to mismanage.
What is truly tragic is the failure of government to ensure that private sector workers are signed up to a decent, properly regulated and ring-fenced pension scheme, that people like Robert Maxwell cannot make off with the pension funds of those who are, and that companies are not allowed to take pension fund holidays so they can pay bigger dividends to their shareholders.
Private sector workers should be up in arms to make sure they are treated well rather than trying to see that the public sector gets done down. Instead of moaning, 'Why should they have that?' they should be demanding, 'Why can't we have it too?' As far as I am concerned, everyone should be able to look forward to financial security in their declining years. There are no free hand-outs to be had, however. Future security means giving up otherwise disposable income now in contribution to the fund.
I pay my way in society through my taxes and make a contribution to society through my work. I am paying for my pension. I am not a parasite!
It is a myth that private sector workers pay public sector pensions through their taxes.
Let me point out that for the last 34 years I have been paying income tax, just as private sector workers have. For the whole of that time I have been paying into a pension scheme (unlike some in the private sector) and so it is I who have made provision for the pension I will eventually receive.
Down the years, government has taken my pension contribution and promised, through a contractual agreement, benefit in retirement through the NHS Pension Scheme. Government has not, however, taken my contributions and invested them in order to generate those benefits. No. My contributions go into the treasury and government uses the money as it sees fit.
You could consider that government uses the contributions of working public sector employees to pay the pensions of retired public sector workers.
The unions have suggested to government that a proper investment scheme be set up using public employees' contributions so that public sector pensions are self-sustaining and clearly independent of the tax system. This is, of course, unpalatable to government because it would no longer have access to a very large amount of money to mismanage.
What is truly tragic is the failure of government to ensure that private sector workers are signed up to a decent, properly regulated and ring-fenced pension scheme, that people like Robert Maxwell cannot make off with the pension funds of those who are, and that companies are not allowed to take pension fund holidays so they can pay bigger dividends to their shareholders.
Private sector workers should be up in arms to make sure they are treated well rather than trying to see that the public sector gets done down. Instead of moaning, 'Why should they have that?' they should be demanding, 'Why can't we have it too?' As far as I am concerned, everyone should be able to look forward to financial security in their declining years. There are no free hand-outs to be had, however. Future security means giving up otherwise disposable income now in contribution to the fund.
I pay my way in society through my taxes and make a contribution to society through my work. I am paying for my pension. I am not a parasite!
06 August 2011
On Growing Old and the Ignorance of Youth
A couple of weekends ago, we were far from home celebrating my Beloved's mother's birthday; about 365 miles away, in fact.
For all of you who are now green with envy at my being so far from the 'outlaws', let me say immediately that this vast distance is a big problem for us. I actually like my in-laws and wish they were closer to hand, particularly as they get older and more infirm. My own father and step-mum live 200 miles away, and the same sentiment applies.
My Beloved's father is not, to put it mildly, a well man. In respect for the squeamish among you, I will not catalogue his impressive collection of surgical procedures. Suffice it to say that his heart is not likely to be made available for transplant ...
On the Monday after the festivities, we convinced him to see the doctor about an acute problem he was having. The doctor, on seeing how breathless he was, checked his blood pressure and pulse and promptly sent him to hospital where he was admitted.
I find myself thinking more and more about the ravages of age—perhaps because I am in my late fifties and beloved members of the generation before mine provide a salutary warning of what could lie ahead of me ... I reflect on how active and vital my father-in-law used to be—he did 20-mile walks easily when I first met him, and was involved in all manner of activities—and how much he struggles now. I see his frustration at the diminishing of his powers, and contemplate the inevitability that lies not far enough ahead of us ...
As a younger man, I hardly ever thought of ageing, let alone being old. We seem unable to grasp that the old were once the young, and that, one day, we will become the old, should we be lucky enough to live so long. This seems to produce a disconnect in us that impacts forcefully on the way we treat the old. We talk to them as though they are infants rather than possessors of hard-won experience; we see them as inconveniences to be stuck away in homes instead of people who spent themselves to give us a good start in life. For the young who are prepared to listen, the old are a source of wisdom and good advice; they have seen it all before, been there, done that, suffered and survived harder times than any we have seen.
I am disgusted by the contempt that certain elements of the young seem to display for the old. Then again, they seem to be the sort of ignorant fools who show contempt for anything and anyone they perceive to be vulnerable; the sort of scum that torments puppies and terrorises old ladies. One day, they may get a taste of their own medicine ...
I know there are old people who are bitter and obnoxious—I have met a few—who expect respect but give none. Some of them have been that way all their lives and see no reason to change, some have become that way because of the way they have been treated. Nevertheless, in general, we should cherish our old folks, especially our parents and grandparents, particularly those who have helped us to find our way in life.
My father-in-law came out of hospital last Friday, much improved, much less breathless, but on additional medication. We are grateful for every second of his life.
For all of you who are now green with envy at my being so far from the 'outlaws', let me say immediately that this vast distance is a big problem for us. I actually like my in-laws and wish they were closer to hand, particularly as they get older and more infirm. My own father and step-mum live 200 miles away, and the same sentiment applies.
My Beloved's father is not, to put it mildly, a well man. In respect for the squeamish among you, I will not catalogue his impressive collection of surgical procedures. Suffice it to say that his heart is not likely to be made available for transplant ...
On the Monday after the festivities, we convinced him to see the doctor about an acute problem he was having. The doctor, on seeing how breathless he was, checked his blood pressure and pulse and promptly sent him to hospital where he was admitted.
I find myself thinking more and more about the ravages of age—perhaps because I am in my late fifties and beloved members of the generation before mine provide a salutary warning of what could lie ahead of me ... I reflect on how active and vital my father-in-law used to be—he did 20-mile walks easily when I first met him, and was involved in all manner of activities—and how much he struggles now. I see his frustration at the diminishing of his powers, and contemplate the inevitability that lies not far enough ahead of us ...
As a younger man, I hardly ever thought of ageing, let alone being old. We seem unable to grasp that the old were once the young, and that, one day, we will become the old, should we be lucky enough to live so long. This seems to produce a disconnect in us that impacts forcefully on the way we treat the old. We talk to them as though they are infants rather than possessors of hard-won experience; we see them as inconveniences to be stuck away in homes instead of people who spent themselves to give us a good start in life. For the young who are prepared to listen, the old are a source of wisdom and good advice; they have seen it all before, been there, done that, suffered and survived harder times than any we have seen.
I am disgusted by the contempt that certain elements of the young seem to display for the old. Then again, they seem to be the sort of ignorant fools who show contempt for anything and anyone they perceive to be vulnerable; the sort of scum that torments puppies and terrorises old ladies. One day, they may get a taste of their own medicine ...
I know there are old people who are bitter and obnoxious—I have met a few—who expect respect but give none. Some of them have been that way all their lives and see no reason to change, some have become that way because of the way they have been treated. Nevertheless, in general, we should cherish our old folks, especially our parents and grandparents, particularly those who have helped us to find our way in life.
My father-in-law came out of hospital last Friday, much improved, much less breathless, but on additional medication. We are grateful for every second of his life.
05 July 2011
Holiday 2011
Well, I've just about recovered from my holiday.
We went to exactly the same place in Kefalonia, Greece as last year, that's how good it was (see this post). Contrary to the Law of Diminishing Returns, we were not disappointed. In fact, we seemed to avoid the usual three-day adjustment period where your head is still at work and you body won't settle down. When we arrived, it felt like we had never been away. Wonderful!
A typical day for us is:
We had a few changes along the way, substituting the beach for the pool a couple of times, and walking up a hill in 30-ish degrees for 37 minutes to drink beer at a taverna with fantastic views. Sometimes we had dinner at the hotel instead of walking into town (exercise is tedious; why move if you don't have to?). Sometimes I listened to my iPod whilst reading, sometimes I just listened to my iPod.
In case you were wondering, we did drink water and other non-alcoholic beverages too. And had a couple of ice creams.
I read six novels, in all. My beloved managed a similar number despite the distraction from mosquitoes. I'm pleased to say that the little beasties find her much the tastier. I dare not disagree ...
Then it was back home and back to work. When I arrived, it felt like I had never been away ...
We went to exactly the same place in Kefalonia, Greece as last year, that's how good it was (see this post). Contrary to the Law of Diminishing Returns, we were not disappointed. In fact, we seemed to avoid the usual three-day adjustment period where your head is still at work and you body won't settle down. When we arrived, it felt like we had never been away. Wonderful!
A typical day for us is:
- wake up about 8 o'body-clock (10 am local time)
- visit the toilet for the necessary
- read a bit
- have breakfast
- visit the toilet for more necessaries and a wash
- slap sun cream over the bits to be exposed to the sun (arms, legs, face, ears and neck in my case)
- choose which swim-shorts and tee-shirt to wear
- head down to the pool
- lie on a sun bed under a brolly (so as not to burn; I burn easily and can tan under cloud)
- read a lot
- fall asleep
- read some more
- have lunch, including beer
- read a lot more
- sleep again
- have a swim and a float
- have a beer
- go back to the room for a shower and to dress for dinner
- head into town (10 minute walk) for dinner, with wine (naturally)
- head back to the bar for a few drinks (beer or wine or cocktails) and talk with other holiday makers and the hosts
- go to bed at about midnight by the body clock (2 am local time)
- read until the brain stops functioning
- sleep
We had a few changes along the way, substituting the beach for the pool a couple of times, and walking up a hill in 30-ish degrees for 37 minutes to drink beer at a taverna with fantastic views. Sometimes we had dinner at the hotel instead of walking into town (exercise is tedious; why move if you don't have to?). Sometimes I listened to my iPod whilst reading, sometimes I just listened to my iPod.
In case you were wondering, we did drink water and other non-alcoholic beverages too. And had a couple of ice creams.
I read six novels, in all. My beloved managed a similar number despite the distraction from mosquitoes. I'm pleased to say that the little beasties find her much the tastier. I dare not disagree ...
Then it was back home and back to work. When I arrived, it felt like I had never been away ...
23 May 2011
On Super-injunctions
Here in the uk, we've had a furore caused by celebrities obtaining court injunctions to stop the press publishing details about their sordid little affairs. They have all been rather upset that hundreds of users of twitter and other social networks have felt free to ignore the courts.
My thoughts?
Don't expect to keep under wraps if you can't keep it in your trousers.
My thoughts?
Don't expect to keep under wraps if you can't keep it in your trousers.
On the Benefits of being Ill
The experience of the last week or so has been an interesting gastro-socio-philosophico-literary ride. As I write, I am on sick leave having been smitten by a particularly nasty bug (I won't go into the gruesome detail but, if that kind of thing interests you, google campylobacter).
I've had a couple of nasty bugs before, of which one almost finished me and another took 14 weeks to get over. The latest pestilence had me feeling almost as bad as I have ever felt in my life and fearing another long journey back to health. For the first two days I slept, being physically capable of only the short, frequent and necessary excursions from my bed, and mentally almost lacking the will to make them. I ate nothing, mainly to starve the invader, partly from lack of interest.
In the midst of all that, I thought of a friend of my Beloved's who was about to undergo drastic surgery and whose prognosis was far worse than mine. At least I knew I would recover; she faced she knew not what. It's not that there's 'always someone worse off' to think about. Feeling how I felt, it was much easier to empathise with her in her plight. We all-too-often merely sympathise with the afflicted without ever sharing in (or really caring about) their suffering. We distance ourselves from their hopelessness; it's less disturbing that way.
A few days later, and having the benefit of a downstairs toilet, and feeling a little improved, I took to watching daytime TV. Yes, that's how bad I felt. Actually, some of it was interesting; much more was mindless. There are programmes about people trying to raise cash for trivial escapades by auctioning the junk in their homes, or buying dilapidated houses at auction and trying to make fat cash from the investment of a few licks of magnolia. And the adverts: so long; so boring; so repetitive; so many.
Then I thought of the audience. What kind of people watch this stuff? Obviously, people like me who are laid up for a while. The housebound, who have no escape. Judging by the adverts, people who are up to their eyes in so much debt they can only just afford the satellite subscription. Or who have some pretext on which to enter litigation. People who are easy prey for parasitic organisations that charge for services that are free, like reclaiming your payment protection insurance premiums. Whoever we are, we still have brains and need stimulation instead of the mesmeric tripe churned out by even the BBC.
For the afternoons, I sought out SciFi programmes. I have finally had my fill of Stargate SG-1 and the various Star Trek series, certainly I had one episode too many of Voyager (The Week of Hell, in two parts). Crass, mind-numbing pap. I think they have all run out of ideas.
A couple more days and I was well enough to be bored. I was no longer prepared to put up with daytime TV and resorted to a much more stimulating medium: the printed page. Actually, I found a couple of books that my Beloved had acquired long ago and that I had not read. I was pleasantly surprised. Skin and Bones by Tom Bale I found slow at first (although that may have been an effect of my then under-nourished brain) but it soon became a gripping read. Very well written, too. Now I'm reading Winter in Madrid, by CJ Sansom, which is proving to be one of the best reads I've had in a long while. The imagery in books truly is better than on TV.
In these days when Government is imposing cuts, we are in danger of losing such valuable services as lending libraries. It's tragic to think that the value of these institutions may have been undermined because of the convenience of daytime TV. We should be promoting libraries, not closing them. Yes, I know there's a lot of crap on bookshelves too but you don't have to read it. Daytime TV is to reading what the naso-gastric tube is to the knife and fork. The latter allows you engagement and variety. You can only get emulsified slop through the former.
At the beginning, abstinence from food was surprisingly easy. The reintroduction of food had to be a careful process. I had to take only bland food at first so as not to upset my delicate and sometimes painful gut. As someone used to eating curry and stir-fry, and a lover of chocolate, I was delighted to rediscover the flavour of basic foods cooked simply. Rice and steamed vegetables were delicious: it was as though my taste buds revelled in their very existence. Strangely, my first glass of wine and my first square of chocolate last night were disappointingly offensive to my palate. I'm hoping to recover very soon from that problem. After all, I lost over a stone in a week and have to put at least some of it back on so I am well enough to return to work and normal life.
Being ill is never fun. It has however been interesting, providing a change of pace and time to reflect on the things we take for granted.
And now I am well enough to write again. Too bad, you may say. Well you didn't have to read this.
The Philosophico- Part
I've had a couple of nasty bugs before, of which one almost finished me and another took 14 weeks to get over. The latest pestilence had me feeling almost as bad as I have ever felt in my life and fearing another long journey back to health. For the first two days I slept, being physically capable of only the short, frequent and necessary excursions from my bed, and mentally almost lacking the will to make them. I ate nothing, mainly to starve the invader, partly from lack of interest.
In the midst of all that, I thought of a friend of my Beloved's who was about to undergo drastic surgery and whose prognosis was far worse than mine. At least I knew I would recover; she faced she knew not what. It's not that there's 'always someone worse off' to think about. Feeling how I felt, it was much easier to empathise with her in her plight. We all-too-often merely sympathise with the afflicted without ever sharing in (or really caring about) their suffering. We distance ourselves from their hopelessness; it's less disturbing that way.
The Socio- Part
A few days later, and having the benefit of a downstairs toilet, and feeling a little improved, I took to watching daytime TV. Yes, that's how bad I felt. Actually, some of it was interesting; much more was mindless. There are programmes about people trying to raise cash for trivial escapades by auctioning the junk in their homes, or buying dilapidated houses at auction and trying to make fat cash from the investment of a few licks of magnolia. And the adverts: so long; so boring; so repetitive; so many.
Then I thought of the audience. What kind of people watch this stuff? Obviously, people like me who are laid up for a while. The housebound, who have no escape. Judging by the adverts, people who are up to their eyes in so much debt they can only just afford the satellite subscription. Or who have some pretext on which to enter litigation. People who are easy prey for parasitic organisations that charge for services that are free, like reclaiming your payment protection insurance premiums. Whoever we are, we still have brains and need stimulation instead of the mesmeric tripe churned out by even the BBC.
For the afternoons, I sought out SciFi programmes. I have finally had my fill of Stargate SG-1 and the various Star Trek series, certainly I had one episode too many of Voyager (The Week of Hell, in two parts). Crass, mind-numbing pap. I think they have all run out of ideas.
The Literary Part
A couple more days and I was well enough to be bored. I was no longer prepared to put up with daytime TV and resorted to a much more stimulating medium: the printed page. Actually, I found a couple of books that my Beloved had acquired long ago and that I had not read. I was pleasantly surprised. Skin and Bones by Tom Bale I found slow at first (although that may have been an effect of my then under-nourished brain) but it soon became a gripping read. Very well written, too. Now I'm reading Winter in Madrid, by CJ Sansom, which is proving to be one of the best reads I've had in a long while. The imagery in books truly is better than on TV.
A bit More Socio- Stuff
In these days when Government is imposing cuts, we are in danger of losing such valuable services as lending libraries. It's tragic to think that the value of these institutions may have been undermined because of the convenience of daytime TV. We should be promoting libraries, not closing them. Yes, I know there's a lot of crap on bookshelves too but you don't have to read it. Daytime TV is to reading what the naso-gastric tube is to the knife and fork. The latter allows you engagement and variety. You can only get emulsified slop through the former.
The Gastro- Part
At the beginning, abstinence from food was surprisingly easy. The reintroduction of food had to be a careful process. I had to take only bland food at first so as not to upset my delicate and sometimes painful gut. As someone used to eating curry and stir-fry, and a lover of chocolate, I was delighted to rediscover the flavour of basic foods cooked simply. Rice and steamed vegetables were delicious: it was as though my taste buds revelled in their very existence. Strangely, my first glass of wine and my first square of chocolate last night were disappointingly offensive to my palate. I'm hoping to recover very soon from that problem. After all, I lost over a stone in a week and have to put at least some of it back on so I am well enough to return to work and normal life.
Being ill is never fun. It has however been interesting, providing a change of pace and time to reflect on the things we take for granted.
And now I am well enough to write again. Too bad, you may say. Well you didn't have to read this.
05 April 2011
The Battleground of the Used Car Showroom
I hate buying cars. I cannot express how much I hate buying cars. Actually, it's not so much the buying of cars that I hate; it's the inevitable feeling that I've been ripped off. This is the consequence of the high-pressure sales tactics used by car salesmen. Let's face it, whatever they say, they are after taking you for every penny they can.
When buying the car we are about to replace, I think I was taken for a mug, at least on the sale price of the car. Actually, it's the best car I've ever owned and my way of getting my own back on Car Salesmen everywhere has been to run the car until it is almost falling apart, thereby depriving them of further income for twelve years. Serves them right for selling me something so good.
Where I scored on that deal was on the finance of the purchase. I was in the fortunate position of being able to play the dealer off against a high street bank which was keen to encourage borrowing (remember those days?). The car dealer's finance package was more expensive than I could get from the bank. So, immediately, they offered me a better rate. I went back to the bank who did likewise. Back I went to the car dealer and they offered me a lower rate still. If this is not evidence of greed, I don't know what is. They were keen to sell me the finance, even at the rate least favourable to them. They were more than willing to hide those less favourable rates from me.
We began our current quest and had our first run-in with a car salesman last Sunday. Now, he seemed like a nice guy, and he may well be, but you have to remember that the affable nature of the car salesman is part of his toolkit: he is trying to build rapport, to make you feel that he is your friend, to induce obligation in you. He is not your friend, he is a predator.
We had hardly set foot on the lot and begun looking at a car that was of interest when our friendly salesman accosted us. He was very helpful, doing as much as he could to show off the features of the car, get the engine running, get us into it for a test drive. This is all part of the obligation building: I have bent over backwards for you, now you do something for me. Actually, the battery was flat so he had to go away a couple of times, which gave me chance to look around the car and pick up on a few things that caused me concern. I suspected it had been in an accident, although later he assured me that no car that had been would be on the lot.
Prior to the test drive, he coaxed us into the office. He explained how he was there to agree a sale that was mutually acceptable to us both of us. He took down our personal details, address and contact numbers and such, found out what we were trading in. After the drive, he sent us off for a free cup of tea while he talked to his boss. Then he turned up with the first offer, including all the extras that would enhance our purchase and boost its resale value.
Somehow, he had begun to reel us in, even though this was the first car we had looked at and we were not really ready to buy, being not entirely sure what we wanted. We declined all the extras, vacillated over the part-exchange offer, and generally looked like we weren't going to buy. He left us to think while we drank more free tea, and he went to see his boss again.
Back he came with the next offer. What amazes me is that I knew exactly what was coming but still felt hooked in. A much improved part-exchange deal, extras thrown in, a more manageable final price. But the deal was only if we signed up today, and they were about to close. The offer hit me like a sledge-hammer. Could I afford to pass this up? Can't I have time to think about it?
This is a well-documented ploy and it is crap. 'Look, we are doing you a favour...' No they are not. If they were happy to sell it at that price today, they would be just as happy with it tomorrow. Whoever came in the next day and showed interest in that car probably had exactly the same offer thrown at them. Next time I hear this, if I am genuinely interested in buying the car, I will come back with a lower, counter-offer that I will not extend to the following day...
There are other ploys that we weren't subjected to: 'I only need one more sale to achieve my target and get my bonus,' for example, meaning, 'Look, we're friends now; you can do me a favour.' Not my problem; I'm buying a car, and your personal financial arrangements with your employer are no concern of mine. And you're not my friend, I don't know you from Adam.
We walked away. We didn't want that car anyway. At least the experience served to clarify in our minds that we don't know what we want. And that it is a buyers' market.
When buying the car we are about to replace, I think I was taken for a mug, at least on the sale price of the car. Actually, it's the best car I've ever owned and my way of getting my own back on Car Salesmen everywhere has been to run the car until it is almost falling apart, thereby depriving them of further income for twelve years. Serves them right for selling me something so good.
Where I scored on that deal was on the finance of the purchase. I was in the fortunate position of being able to play the dealer off against a high street bank which was keen to encourage borrowing (remember those days?). The car dealer's finance package was more expensive than I could get from the bank. So, immediately, they offered me a better rate. I went back to the bank who did likewise. Back I went to the car dealer and they offered me a lower rate still. If this is not evidence of greed, I don't know what is. They were keen to sell me the finance, even at the rate least favourable to them. They were more than willing to hide those less favourable rates from me.
We began our current quest and had our first run-in with a car salesman last Sunday. Now, he seemed like a nice guy, and he may well be, but you have to remember that the affable nature of the car salesman is part of his toolkit: he is trying to build rapport, to make you feel that he is your friend, to induce obligation in you. He is not your friend, he is a predator.
We had hardly set foot on the lot and begun looking at a car that was of interest when our friendly salesman accosted us. He was very helpful, doing as much as he could to show off the features of the car, get the engine running, get us into it for a test drive. This is all part of the obligation building: I have bent over backwards for you, now you do something for me. Actually, the battery was flat so he had to go away a couple of times, which gave me chance to look around the car and pick up on a few things that caused me concern. I suspected it had been in an accident, although later he assured me that no car that had been would be on the lot.
Prior to the test drive, he coaxed us into the office. He explained how he was there to agree a sale that was mutually acceptable to us both of us. He took down our personal details, address and contact numbers and such, found out what we were trading in. After the drive, he sent us off for a free cup of tea while he talked to his boss. Then he turned up with the first offer, including all the extras that would enhance our purchase and boost its resale value.
Somehow, he had begun to reel us in, even though this was the first car we had looked at and we were not really ready to buy, being not entirely sure what we wanted. We declined all the extras, vacillated over the part-exchange offer, and generally looked like we weren't going to buy. He left us to think while we drank more free tea, and he went to see his boss again.
Back he came with the next offer. What amazes me is that I knew exactly what was coming but still felt hooked in. A much improved part-exchange deal, extras thrown in, a more manageable final price. But the deal was only if we signed up today, and they were about to close. The offer hit me like a sledge-hammer. Could I afford to pass this up? Can't I have time to think about it?
This is a well-documented ploy and it is crap. 'Look, we are doing you a favour...' No they are not. If they were happy to sell it at that price today, they would be just as happy with it tomorrow. Whoever came in the next day and showed interest in that car probably had exactly the same offer thrown at them. Next time I hear this, if I am genuinely interested in buying the car, I will come back with a lower, counter-offer that I will not extend to the following day...
There are other ploys that we weren't subjected to: 'I only need one more sale to achieve my target and get my bonus,' for example, meaning, 'Look, we're friends now; you can do me a favour.' Not my problem; I'm buying a car, and your personal financial arrangements with your employer are no concern of mine. And you're not my friend, I don't know you from Adam.
We walked away. We didn't want that car anyway. At least the experience served to clarify in our minds that we don't know what we want. And that it is a buyers' market.
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