One of my jobs before we leave for our annual trip to New York is to organise a car to pick us up from JFK.
I've done the Port Authority bus. I've done medallion cabs driven by guys who arrived in the US last week and haven't slept or shaved since. Now I am old. I need a car service. I need to ride into Manhattan in a Pine-Sol scented Lincoln. So I did a little trawl through the websites. I don't have any particular loyalties. Hell, they only see me once a year so I'm hardly going to qualify for Frequent Passenger Points.

A few observations from this year's trawl. I can't ride with a company whose website background looks like fabric from a bad sofa. I'd also be reluctant to use a company with a purple and yellow home page. Call me picky, but sometimes I get off that plane with a hint of a headache. A driver in corporate livery could push me right over the edge.

Then there are the sites that have a bar price list. I mean, I think even I can get through the Midtown Tunnel without needing a bottle of Dom Perignon. Oh. Hang on. The bar prices are for stretch limos only. That's okay then. But promiscuous use of apostrophe's's is not. I don't know. They pay for a fancy website, flashing lights and the full megillah. Then they throw a bunch of apostrophes at it like steak to a lion. I guess if you're a gambling man you figure one of them may hit the target.

And I notice one company does Airprot pickups. Hmm. Dare I risk them? What if we emerge from Baggage Reclaim and see a driver with a sign that says FRITZ -PACKET? Mr F would have a canary.

Posted by Laurie Graham at 03:31 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Nothing boring about my life. Every morning Mr Fitzpatrick asks me what my day holds and I reply, 'Oh, the usual', but truth be told there is no 'usual'. Take yesterday. I'd been hoping to put the finishing touches to the pantomime script I'm writing. We're doing Mother Goose. In Venice. It was entirely my idea. Further evidence, should evidence be required, that I'm not in full possession of my sanity.
But anyway, I was a bit worried about the actor I'd cast as the Goose. It's going to be hell inside that costume, even in January. Still, I didn't want her to feel rejected. I thought I'd write in another character, to give her something to do, and cast someone more resilient to put on those big fluffy wings. Then I thought I'd better call her up and tell her my plan. I didn't want her practicing her goose-waddle when it would no longer be required.
She wasn't home. Her husband said, 'Actually, she never wanted to be the Goose. Actually, she'd rather paint scenery or make tea.'
Hellfire and damnation. Doesn't anyone think to mention these things to the Casting Director?

But later in the day, a pantomime moment of sheer heaven. I shopped on-line for an affordable decoy goose call. For any readers not in the know... they're used by goose-hunters. You can get different kinds, depending on which type of goose you're after, and some of them come with an instruction CD. Before I knew it I had ventured deep into the world of men who wear camouflage. I was so mesmerised by the idea of people discussing the merits of rival goose calls, I even read the testimonials. I 'd specially like to share with you the one from from a guy who wrote, and I quote, 'I found my continuous practice while in the truck paid off. The Canadas decoyed very well.'

It's a great big wonderful world, folks.
Oh. I bought the Extra Loud Speckle Belly, in case you're wondering.

Posted by Laurie Graham at 09:18 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Mr Fitzpatrick and I are just back from a much needed break, but as I was saying to my son - that's my son the World Record One Minute Apple Bobber - it's oh so nice to come home.

A mixed week. The English Lake District was both more beautiful than expected and more ruined by humanity. It was, admittedly, a very quietly-spoken, silver-haired, English type of humanity, but still. The Lake District is Olde Tea Shoppe Central. We complain enough about Venice being overrun by mask shops and purveyors of glass chotchkes but at least we still have a few places where you can buy tile grout or light bulbs. In towns like Windermere and Ambleside the only thing on sale seemed to be fudge. Just typing the word makes me want to run and brush my teeth.

Highlights of the week: The Pheasant Inn on Bassenthwaite, where I'd be happy to spend eternity if denied entry to heaven; the Wordsworth Museum in Grasmere, packed with beautifully presented treasures of interest even to me, ordinarily more of a Samuel Taylor Coleridge kind of woman; watching the new intake of Carlisle Cathedral's youth choir practice their processing, formation bowing and all-important Sitting Nicely. No hanging out of your stall like chimpanzees, please girls; and as it's my blog I guess I can have as many highlights as I choose, so I must also mention the taste of slow-roasted pork belly, seasoned with hoisin sauce and served with gingered parsnips which has made me rethink the virtually unmentionable subject of dietary fat. My conclusion? Yum.

Only one lowlight: an unpleasant whiff of testosterone from the men of Liverpool. Twice in just twenty four hours Mr Fitzpatrick was invited to 'Eff off, female body part.' We have no idea why. He's a mild, scholarly man. He looks like an Irish farmer, although his specs are a bit Bundesbank. Was it his glasses? Was it his straw hat and bow tie?
Gentlemen of Liverpool, please deflate your muscles and explain yourselves.

Posted by Laurie Graham at 04:54 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Filed by Alastair Graham, in the absence of Mutha...

It has been said that if life were measured by accomplishments, most of us would die in infancy. This is not true of my inner circle, whose bewildering array of talents produce hard, sleek, elegant achievements with alarming frequency.

Like novels. Beautifully crafted, funny, much-loved novels at a rate of about one every eighteen months. I have been known to put off hanging my washing out for comparable periods. Or languages. I have a friend who is able to travel from Dortmund to Darwin by whichever route he chooses and be perfectly well understood - tracts of Lincolnshire notwithstanding. Meanwhile, my bookshelves tell their own story of false starts and stalled ambition: How to Run Your Own Business (heavily thumbed); Drawing & Painting Portraits (exercises skipped); Investing for Success (draught excluder special).

And so it was that I woke up in Sydney on New Year’s Day and knew what I had to do. After checking for big spiders under the bed. In 2006, I would set a new world record for… something. Anything. Attempting a world record requires endurance of the kind of wall-to-wall bureaucracy that makes Kafka’s Castle look like a short queue at the post office but this morning I awoke as the new Guinness World Record holder for ‘Apple Bobbing in a Minute’. Seventeen, if you're interested. A small victory, granted, but a step-change from last year’s resolution, which was ‘eat more butter’.

“Every great achievement is the victory of a flaming heart”, said Ralph Waldo Emerson, who preceded peppermint Rennie by a number of years.

Posted by Laurie Graham at 11:57 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)