Weather to fly - part two

Technical problems - now that's a phrase no nervous flyer wants to hear and even more so when they're about to entrust their being to a flying yellow sewing machine.

Flying to and from the Channel Islands is always an adventure in itself and, once again, this weekend's travel didn't let me down. Outbound on Friday from Bristol my flight was delayed and when we were finally aboard, the pilot explained why - the plane had got stuck in a pothole at Guernsey Airport and had had to be yanked out......I decided I didn't even want to think about that too much....potholes?!

Checking in to fly back the flight was showing a delay and we boarded almost an hour late to be told perkily by the pilot that it was due to a 'technical problem' with the plane but everything was hunkydory now and it was back in service.

Now that's where they go wrong - either tell us exactly what the problem is or don't tell us at all because those of us with wild imaginations are now off and running and are already in places we'd really rather not be......It may well be that a light bulb had just gone pop in the loo but I'm imagining propellors hanging on by a thread ready to drop off the minute we headed skyward.

Fortunately said propellors kept turning and remained attached to the plane but my suspicions that something was not quite right were compounded when we flew back at just 8,000 ft, far lower than normal, virtually skimming the sea.

Now I understand why the late Pope John Paul II liked to kiss the tarmac when he got off a plane, it clearly had nothing to do with arriving on new ground, he'd just flown to the Channel Islands in the past..... 

Weather to fly......

The Channel Islands, well Guernsey in particular, seem to have it in for me.

One of my best friends moved there a few years ago so seeing her involves flying from Bristol or Exeter. Now I'm not overly keen on flying these days and only manage to get on aircraft at all thanks to hypnosis and a family sized pack of Valium.

The fear isn't as bad as it used to be, those days of 'oh dear god the pilot has forgotten to put down the landing gear, I need to jump out of my seat and warn him right now' have passed, thankfully.

Now I plug myself into my iPod and turn the music up loud so I can't spend the flight convincing myself the engines have cut out....

Which brings me back to Guernsey. It hadn't really crossed my mind until I turned up for my first skip across the Channel that the plane would be small.......well there's small and then there's a yellow sewing machine on wheels and that's what we were going on. I fully expected to see the pilot cranking the propellors to get the thing started. If he'd climbed aboard in a wartime leather flying helmet I wouldn't have been surprised. I've blanked the rest of that flight from my memory although I seem to remember whimpering at one stage.

Going from Exeter is slightly better as the planes, while still props, are bigger and newer. It was a bit unnerving though when on my last flight the cabin crew asked some of the footie team who had all gone to sit at the back, to move forward to balance the plane!

So wouldn't you think that the Channel Islands would take it easy on me? Oh no, I've been subjected to gale force winds, fog suddenly descending and apocalyptic rain storms. My next flight is tomorrow morning and as I write this the sun is shining and it's a lovely bright summer evening. The forecast for tomorrow? Yep, torrential rain and thunderstorms. Oh joy.

Anyone for streaming?

Once again I'm feeling inadequate and it's all the fault of technology.

I was at a friend's for dinner and Adele's album 21 was playing. We were discussing how fab it is when he started fiddling with an iPad on a side table. When I asked what he was doing I got one of those looks, you know the type, the looks that are reserved for people like me, the technologically challenged.

I could almost hear his inward sigh as he gave me a long suffering look and said: "I'm streaming." Well, the only streaming I tend to do is when I have a cold and that's my nose.

Some of my favourite people are very techy indeed. I 've never really understood why they feel they have a duty to enlighten people like me who don't know one end of a scart cable to the other, but they do and boy does that enlightening tend to go on...... So now I know all about streaming.........and to be honest I can see I'll be happy to let it pass me by.

After all, just what is the issue with getting up off the sofa, going over to the CD shelves and slapping on a CD? Apparently, this is out dated and the CD's days are numbered. Blimey, I hope not as I've only recently worked out how to load them on to my iPod and I'm only half way through my collection.

And that's another thing, it seems it won't be long before I'll be getting pitying looks as I take my iPod out when I'm at the beach or plug it in in the car........Call me a dinosaur if you like but I'm rather fond of my bright pink iPod. I love that I can have all my favourite music on one little machine, it suits me fine, but I'm being told by my cutting edge friends that the iPod will soon be old hat too.

I've realised that I have absolutely no hope of ever keeping up with technology. Today streaming, tomorrow who knows what? It's all going too fast for a poor techno-phobe like me so I've decided to jump off the techy bandwagon and just pootle along in my own sweet outdated way.

When we were kids my father hung on to his black and white TV until we were the only ones in the road without a colour one. The TV salesman used to joke that he'd do coach trips to see the old antique. Perhaps that'll be me soon......come visit the mad woman with her pink iPod......

Too close encounter of the feathered kind

There are certain things you have to be aware of when you drive a convertible. Some are pretty obvious such as it's sensible to slap on sun cream every day unless you want a bright red nose and a crepey cleavage in later life.

I've also discovered that I can get an extra 10 minutes in bed and still wash my hair if I dry it on the way to work with the roof down. Admittedly, I arrive looking more Crystal Tips than soignee but hey, sleep is sleep.

There are, however, things to look out for - driving under electricity cables is a bit unnerving as they crackle ominously and I definitely don't like to linger in case one of them decides to snap just at the moment I drive under it. Not getting too close behind anyone as they give their windscreen a quick squirt is another, not unless you want a mouthful of screen wash. Then there's the wildlife, there's always the chance of being pooped on by a passing bird.

What I hadn't expected though was to have a bird decide to join me inside my car until one flew in. Now, I like birds as much as the next person but preferably when they're in the sky or perched in a tree chirruping away melodically, but not flapping around next to me in the passenger seat while I'm doing 60mph.

Honestly, I know they have tiny brains but this one had definitely been at the back of the queue when the old grey matter was handed out as it kept flying towards the windows. Me shouting 'stupid bird, fly up, there's the sky' didn't seem to be having much effect. Shrieking 'shoo' and waving my arms around didn't help either, while trying to keep the car on the road and not mow down pedestrians or cause a pile up. All I kept thinking was 'please don't fly into my hair or poo on my new leather seats, I've only had this car two weeks'. Ever calm and rational, that's me....

Eventually, after much flapping (the bird) and whimpering (me), I finally engaged my own grey matter and had an eureka moment - open the windows woman! Now why hadn't I thought of that before? Thankfully, my unexpected little feathered hitchhiker finally got the message and we parted company which was a huge relief to us both.

What's in a name?

I've always had a bit of a thing for bonkers names, today's award definitely goes to Mariah Carey. What on earth was she thinking when she decided to name her newborn son Moroccan?!

That poor boy, he's going to go through life saying 'hi, I'm Moroccan' and hearing the reply 'oh, are you? Well, I'm English/American/Spanish.....'

And as for his sister, who now goes by the name Monroe Cannon, that sounds like something that's dusted down, wheeled out and fired on the Queen's birthday in Windsor Great Park.

Mariah definitely scoops the top award, previously held by Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin with Moses and Apple. That one set me wondering, will we ever see a Radish or Pomegranate? Then there's Nicole Kidman's Sunday Roast, I mean Sunday Rose.

Now I've got Victoria Beckham's latest addition to look forward to - going on her track record of Brooklyn, Romeo and Cruz, her daughter is unlikely to end up a Mary or Jane.

I'm not being sniffy, it's a free world and if someone wants to call their child after a nationality or a piece of fruit, that's their call, obviously. I've just always been fascinated with oddball names and have kind of collected them over the years, the odder the better.

My father wanted to call me Sinead or Siobhan to mark his Irish heritage but my mother pointed out we were in deepest Surrey and I'd go through life having to spell my name out. So they gave me a traditional English name.....and then took the h off.....so I've gone through life having to spell it out.

Then again, at least I didn't have to change the pronounciation of my name unlike the traffic warden I once interviewed - Mrs Hogsflesh - who insisted it was said Ho-flay.....then there was the blushing bride who became Mrs Bumpus on marriage. Yikes.

My penchant for amusing names started as a child with a distant relative who went under the moniker Ivor Hand. Later on I stumbled on an Adora Dick (I kid you not), Toby Jugjar, Holly Wood, Benjamin Germain.....

So, VB, I'm banking on you, your girl is going to have to be Malibu or Galaxy at the very least. What did I call my kids? Well, they're Stick and Puddle, naturally......

Turning vegetarian

The little son, aged 10, came in and announced he was becoming a vegetarian and would no longer be eating any meat, so there.

Fine, I'm all for free will and individual choice but this particular stance did make me smile as this is a boy who will only deign to eat roast potatoes (but only roast potatoes, forget boiled or mashed or jackets) and carrots. Nothing green will pass his lips. His idea of having fruit is a strawberry yoghurt. It's remarkable he hasn't gone down with rickets.

'Ok, so what would you like in your sandwich in your packed lunch tomorrow then?'
'Ham', came the reply. Realising his error he swiftly backtracked 'oh, actually, not ham, I'd like cheese and tomato ketchup.'

'So, when there's a barbecue you won't be eating sausages or burgers or kebabs? How lovely, you'll be able to have salmon, like me. So no more chicken nuggets then and I guess that means you're not going to eat spaghetti bolognaise any more either? Oh and what about the cheese and ham pizzas?'

His face visibly paled - he'd eat spaghetti bolognaise every day of the week if he could and refuses to go anywhere near fish....

A frown appeared on his little face and then he muttered 'I don't think I've thought this through'!

Classic.

Prom-tastic!

Apologies to my lovely American relatives and any Stateside readers of my blog but I have a bone to pick with your country. It's this prom lark that has now migrated firmly this side of the pond and is about to cost me a small fortune.

When I left secondary school it was all pretty low key - a disco in the school hall with fizzy pop and crisps, a few stink bombs let off in the corridors and a school shirt emblazoned with messages from my classmates.

Now the challenge each year is to come up with an event even glitzier than the previous year. This year is prom year for son number one and the preparations are well underway. He's already bought his suit and very smart and grown up he looks too. It turns out the outfit isn't really the big deal - that's how you get to and from the prom itself, the more outlandish method the better apparently.

I thought I'd come across a teacher with a wry sense of humour when I read the latest school newsletter about the prom which asked that the school be given plenty of notice if anyone was planning to travel to this year's event by helicopter or tank........

I had a little chuckle to myself thinking 'how droll' and then re-read the paragraph and realised......they were serious! Ok, there might be some indulgent parents out there with the dosh to hire a helicopter, but a tank?!

Admittedly we are relatively close to Salisbury Plain but the army does tend to keep an eye on the whereabouts of its armoured vehicles, so where on earth is the average 16 year old going to get their hands on a tank? Actually, I think I'd rather not know.

I've done some research among friends who've already been through the prom experience and it turns out transport has ranged from the ubiquitous stretch limo (old hat apparently) to tractor and trailer; London bus; horse and trap and even a hearse!

I've noticed son number one casting appraising glances in the direction of my new Mini......hmmm, no chance laddie. Now where can I find a tank?