Tim Atkinson's Blog, page 61
November 14, 2013
Here is the news
I have a problem with 'news'. It's simple. Most of it isn't.
Most mornings especially, the so-called 'news' consists of a headline announcing what's expected to happen later, another item about what they think someone is going to say and, perhaps, a third piece about something that happened twenty years ago.
As it happens, something interesting DID happen on this day not twenty years ago but in 1922 - the news itself. Or rather, the first broadcast of it by the BBC. It was intoned by one Arthur Burrows, pictured here looking very dapper (but you'll notice NOT wearing the DJ of myth).
Anyway, I bet his bulletin wasn't brim full of conjecture. And I bet it didn't go on for three hours, either. In fact, back in the day, newsreaders (who were just that, not journalists) even dared to suggest that certain items shouldn't be read out on the airwaves. I'm afraid I can't remember which BBC announcer was sacked for daring to ask 'does the country really need to know this?' about an item reporting that the King had had a peaceful night's sleep but sacked he was!
Pity. Because I think that's what's wrong with news reporting these days. Too many journalists with a vested interest in sucking the blood from every story and too few announcers (with such wonderful, honey-rich voices!) with the nous to know what we, the listeners, want to hear.
Bring back Richard Baker. Or Robert Dougall. Alvar Liddell…
Mind you, that really WAS news. And of course, thanks to the tragedy in The Philippines a week ago there really is much urgent and important news today and here's a link to the Disaster Emergency Committee's Appeals Page if you'd like more information about how each one of us can help.
Most mornings especially, the so-called 'news' consists of a headline announcing what's expected to happen later, another item about what they think someone is going to say and, perhaps, a third piece about something that happened twenty years ago.
As it happens, something interesting DID happen on this day not twenty years ago but in 1922 - the news itself. Or rather, the first broadcast of it by the BBC. It was intoned by one Arthur Burrows, pictured here looking very dapper (but you'll notice NOT wearing the DJ of myth).
Anyway, I bet his bulletin wasn't brim full of conjecture. And I bet it didn't go on for three hours, either. In fact, back in the day, newsreaders (who were just that, not journalists) even dared to suggest that certain items shouldn't be read out on the airwaves. I'm afraid I can't remember which BBC announcer was sacked for daring to ask 'does the country really need to know this?' about an item reporting that the King had had a peaceful night's sleep but sacked he was!
Pity. Because I think that's what's wrong with news reporting these days. Too many journalists with a vested interest in sucking the blood from every story and too few announcers (with such wonderful, honey-rich voices!) with the nous to know what we, the listeners, want to hear.
Bring back Richard Baker. Or Robert Dougall. Alvar Liddell…
Mind you, that really WAS news. And of course, thanks to the tragedy in The Philippines a week ago there really is much urgent and important news today and here's a link to the Disaster Emergency Committee's Appeals Page if you'd like more information about how each one of us can help.
November 10, 2013
Lest we Forget
Remembrance has featured quite prominently in our household recently, what with our trip to Ypres a couple of weeks ago and, now, Poppy Day.
Charlie has - as any inquisitive five-year-old would - been constantly asking questions in an effort to understand why we wear those little red flowers, who it is we're remembering and why it's the Last and not the First Post played before the silence.
I took him to the ceremony at our local Cenotaph yesterday and was amazed (having not been for a couple of years) to see it so crowded. On the eve of the 100th anniversary of World War One you might expect interest to wane slightly or attendance at such ceremonies to fall away.
But of course, in spite of the fact that (as I've told Charlie) we wear those little red poppies because they're the flowers that grow in the fields where World War One was once fought, Remembrance is for those who've served in all conflicts and there've been an increasing number of those in recent years.
Other answers to his questions have included the following...
No, there isn't a first (or second, or third) post. They play the Last Post because that's the last thing played at the army camps before bed. And that jolly tune (after the silence) called the Reveille is what they then played first thing in the morning.
Like the soldiers alarm clock?
Yes Charlie, like the soldiers alarm clock.
I can remember something that they said at the Menin Gate when we heard them play the Last Post there.
Really, what was that?
Remember... (So far, so good!) Yes - remember, remember the fifth of November.
Ah, no. That's something different. That's Bonfire Night and the Gunpowder Plot. Here (and at the
Menin Gate) they say 'We Will Remember Them', meaning all the soldiers who have died fighting in all wars everywhere.
But if we don't know them, how can we remember them? We don't know their names.
Well no, we don't but when we say we will remember them it means we're thinking about what they've done for us in some cases many years ago.
And to remember not to do it all again?
Well yes, Charlie. To try to remember not to do it all again.
If only...
Charlie has - as any inquisitive five-year-old would - been constantly asking questions in an effort to understand why we wear those little red flowers, who it is we're remembering and why it's the Last and not the First Post played before the silence.
I took him to the ceremony at our local Cenotaph yesterday and was amazed (having not been for a couple of years) to see it so crowded. On the eve of the 100th anniversary of World War One you might expect interest to wane slightly or attendance at such ceremonies to fall away.
But of course, in spite of the fact that (as I've told Charlie) we wear those little red poppies because they're the flowers that grow in the fields where World War One was once fought, Remembrance is for those who've served in all conflicts and there've been an increasing number of those in recent years.
Other answers to his questions have included the following...
No, there isn't a first (or second, or third) post. They play the Last Post because that's the last thing played at the army camps before bed. And that jolly tune (after the silence) called the Reveille is what they then played first thing in the morning.
Like the soldiers alarm clock?
Yes Charlie, like the soldiers alarm clock.
I can remember something that they said at the Menin Gate when we heard them play the Last Post there.
Really, what was that?
Remember... (So far, so good!) Yes - remember, remember the fifth of November.
Ah, no. That's something different. That's Bonfire Night and the Gunpowder Plot. Here (and at the
Menin Gate) they say 'We Will Remember Them', meaning all the soldiers who have died fighting in all wars everywhere.
But if we don't know them, how can we remember them? We don't know their names.
Well no, we don't but when we say we will remember them it means we're thinking about what they've done for us in some cases many years ago.
And to remember not to do it all again?
Well yes, Charlie. To try to remember not to do it all again.
If only...
November 7, 2013
Tips for young drivers
Son or daughter learning to drive?
Thankfully, that's an expense still some years ahead for us but if you have then you’ll probably have discovered how expensive car insurance is for young drivers. But it needn’t break the bank and there are ways you can keep the cost to a minimum, as explained in this sponsored MoneySupermarket video:
You can also view their tips for young drivers by clicking the link.
Thankfully, that's an expense still some years ahead for us but if you have then you’ll probably have discovered how expensive car insurance is for young drivers. But it needn’t break the bank and there are ways you can keep the cost to a minimum, as explained in this sponsored MoneySupermarket video:
You can also view their tips for young drivers by clicking the link.
November 5, 2013
Mini UK - Not Normal
An invitation to take a brand new Mini Cooper Paceman on a UK road-trip during half-term is a bit of a no-brainer. But this particular offer came with a twist… and something of a brain-teaser!
Because MINI didn't simply want any old road trip. Oh no. They wanted something different; something unusual; something, specifically, NOT NORMAL to tie in with their current campaign.
Ok, I thought. I can do not normal. And my first idea would've been a cracker. Take the mini on the water! The Wash, specifically, from Skegness to Hunstanton, on this…
But the ferry wasn't running. No problem. We'd think of something. Wouldn't we? Something 'not normal'? Actually, it was proving surprisingly tricky but Charlie came up with what I thought would be a great idea - to drive the MINI under the world-famous Ribblehead viaduct in Yorkshire.
The only problem is you can't get near it in a Mini… and the car wouldn't fit on the train. So, it was back to the drawing board. Hang on a minute though… how about a photo opportunity with a tank? Yes, a TANK (as in, serious piece of military hardware rather than thing for keeping fish in). We know a place where you sometimes find tanks on the road. But in spite of waiting, the tanks weren't playing…
To be honest, at this point we were scratching our heads a little. Was there nothing we could do with our mini, was there nowhere we could of that was 'not normal'?
Then, on the way home, inspiration struck. Of course! There was somewhere we could go, something we could see, some fantastic photo opportunity that no-one, surely, would be able to better?
Yes. We went to Tracey Island: 5…4…3…2…1...
Thunderbirds - and Minis - are GO!
Because MINI didn't simply want any old road trip. Oh no. They wanted something different; something unusual; something, specifically, NOT NORMAL to tie in with their current campaign.
Ok, I thought. I can do not normal. And my first idea would've been a cracker. Take the mini on the water! The Wash, specifically, from Skegness to Hunstanton, on this…
But the ferry wasn't running. No problem. We'd think of something. Wouldn't we? Something 'not normal'? Actually, it was proving surprisingly tricky but Charlie came up with what I thought would be a great idea - to drive the MINI under the world-famous Ribblehead viaduct in Yorkshire.
The only problem is you can't get near it in a Mini… and the car wouldn't fit on the train. So, it was back to the drawing board. Hang on a minute though… how about a photo opportunity with a tank? Yes, a TANK (as in, serious piece of military hardware rather than thing for keeping fish in). We know a place where you sometimes find tanks on the road. But in spite of waiting, the tanks weren't playing…
To be honest, at this point we were scratching our heads a little. Was there nothing we could do with our mini, was there nowhere we could of that was 'not normal'?
Then, on the way home, inspiration struck. Of course! There was somewhere we could go, something we could see, some fantastic photo opportunity that no-one, surely, would be able to better?
Yes. We went to Tracey Island: 5…4…3…2…1...
Thunderbirds - and Minis - are GO!
November 3, 2013
Ypres diary, day three
And at last - a tour of the salient, a visit to a trench and a long, hard look at the battlefields. It's only taken me twelve years but finally, today, having booked yesterday morning, having established yesterday evening following our visit to the Menin Gate that there were enough signed up for it to run (a total of three - a Canadian over from Mexico and his twelve year old son on half-term from school in Holland and me) I climbed aboard a Salient Tours minibus with a former carpet salesman-turned-tour-guide and set off.
Not sure what I expected, certainly not the first stop - Essex Farm - scene of John MacRae's medical heroics as well as, of course, the more famous In Flanders Fields propaganda poem. Interesting to find out MacRae almost immediately disowned the verse - threw it away, in fact - and was only persuaded to retrieve and - ultimately - publish it by a colleague.
The concrete bunkers dug into the banks of the Ieper canal were MacRae and his team worked were anything but poetic. Small, bare and unbearably poignant these shelters nevertheless did their best to treat men brought back from the front a matter of a few hundred yards away. But treat them for what? Saves lives that in many cases were already ruined; turn men into the walking wounded who might in turn return to that Gehenna called the front.
And then to the front, the Yorkshire Trench to be precise, in the middle now of an industrial estate, then one of the more dangerous sectors of the front, so dangerous intact that tours here lasted a mere 48 hours. The deep, water-filled underground shelters (which extended into no-man's land!) steeply descending from the narrow trench line, barely one man's width, would no doubt have seemed like luxury - or at least, safety - by the men consigned to live like moles below ground, to be summonsedp like a swarm of ants into the dawn on the day of battle.
Then on, this time to the German cemetery at Langemarck, the brooding soldier (well might he) at the Canadian monument at St Julien and on past shells for garden ornaments, WW1 stakes still used (though now by farmers) to hold barbed wire, to Tyne Cot, that huge city of the dead, and back to Ypres.
Too much to take in, too much to process. A relatively calm half-hour in St George's Memorial Chapel (so many school memorials!) followed by a brief visit to the cathedral and I'm done in, worn out and utterly wasted by the physical and emotional effort of trying to understand, to know, to comprehend the incomprehensible, the slaughter, the suffering, the mass extinction of life, hope and the old order of things, the world as they knew it.
For that's what it was; women having worked reluctant to return to domestic drudgery; men having served reluctant to return to near-feudal servility. The slow but relentless undermining of all previous authority: General, Field-Marshall, King, Country, even God Almighty. Nothing will ever be the same again after this war. And yet, today, the landscape is the same as before. Trees grow; crops are harvested in fields and in others, cattle graze. The great spires and towers of the churches, the roof tops of the houses, all rebuilt. A dispossessed people return.
But they return to a world changed forever.
Not sure what I expected, certainly not the first stop - Essex Farm - scene of John MacRae's medical heroics as well as, of course, the more famous In Flanders Fields propaganda poem. Interesting to find out MacRae almost immediately disowned the verse - threw it away, in fact - and was only persuaded to retrieve and - ultimately - publish it by a colleague.
The concrete bunkers dug into the banks of the Ieper canal were MacRae and his team worked were anything but poetic. Small, bare and unbearably poignant these shelters nevertheless did their best to treat men brought back from the front a matter of a few hundred yards away. But treat them for what? Saves lives that in many cases were already ruined; turn men into the walking wounded who might in turn return to that Gehenna called the front.
And then to the front, the Yorkshire Trench to be precise, in the middle now of an industrial estate, then one of the more dangerous sectors of the front, so dangerous intact that tours here lasted a mere 48 hours. The deep, water-filled underground shelters (which extended into no-man's land!) steeply descending from the narrow trench line, barely one man's width, would no doubt have seemed like luxury - or at least, safety - by the men consigned to live like moles below ground, to be summonsedp like a swarm of ants into the dawn on the day of battle.
Then on, this time to the German cemetery at Langemarck, the brooding soldier (well might he) at the Canadian monument at St Julien and on past shells for garden ornaments, WW1 stakes still used (though now by farmers) to hold barbed wire, to Tyne Cot, that huge city of the dead, and back to Ypres.
Too much to take in, too much to process. A relatively calm half-hour in St George's Memorial Chapel (so many school memorials!) followed by a brief visit to the cathedral and I'm done in, worn out and utterly wasted by the physical and emotional effort of trying to understand, to know, to comprehend the incomprehensible, the slaughter, the suffering, the mass extinction of life, hope and the old order of things, the world as they knew it.
For that's what it was; women having worked reluctant to return to domestic drudgery; men having served reluctant to return to near-feudal servility. The slow but relentless undermining of all previous authority: General, Field-Marshall, King, Country, even God Almighty. Nothing will ever be the same again after this war. And yet, today, the landscape is the same as before. Trees grow; crops are harvested in fields and in others, cattle graze. The great spires and towers of the churches, the roof tops of the houses, all rebuilt. A dispossessed people return.
But they return to a world changed forever.
November 1, 2013
Ypres diary, day two
Over ten years ago on my first visit to Ypres I wandered along the medieval battlements to the intimate Ramparts Cemetery overlooking the town's moat, the remains of one conflict grafted onto the ruins of another.
And today, two children in tow, a wife I barely even knew back in 2001 and I'm here, a new man with a new life grafted onto the ruins of the old. It's hard not to think in personal terms when confronting the scale and horror of the war. A failure to do so is probably what bores the Belgian schoolchildren who seem to be corralled into the Flanders Field museum by the bus load. Those we saw there this afternoon certainly lacked empathy for the subjects of the distant history they were allegedly studying. They probably lacked empathy for the rest of the museum patrons, come to that - boys all posturing nonchalance and the girls, chewing, texting and laughing.
Perhaps that is the way to approach the war; maybe I'm being stupid thinking of my own life, the progress since then, the things I've seen and done that those graves with their white slabs of remembrance stopped the names inscribed on the white slabs from doing... marrying, having children, watching them grow up. Too much to ask? Yes. Far too much. Remember your place, young man. In the trench. Remember who you are. And if you're lucky, we'll remember you once a year or so.
The Menin Gate this evening, however, seemed different. For a start, Australians - dignitaries as well as soldier, sailor, airman. There's something especially poignant about the Commonwealth (or Empire, as they were then) troops, exemplified by the Aussies, barely a nation themselves at the time and fighting on what might just as well have been another planet. Although the crowds (myself among them) were mainly tourists keen to get their pictures, the quiet dignity of the Last Post, silence and wreath laying ceremony was more moving than the museum facts and artefacts, the lists of names and even the memorials themselves because here were real people stopping for a moment to consider those long dead, but not forgotten.
And today, two children in tow, a wife I barely even knew back in 2001 and I'm here, a new man with a new life grafted onto the ruins of the old. It's hard not to think in personal terms when confronting the scale and horror of the war. A failure to do so is probably what bores the Belgian schoolchildren who seem to be corralled into the Flanders Field museum by the bus load. Those we saw there this afternoon certainly lacked empathy for the subjects of the distant history they were allegedly studying. They probably lacked empathy for the rest of the museum patrons, come to that - boys all posturing nonchalance and the girls, chewing, texting and laughing.
Perhaps that is the way to approach the war; maybe I'm being stupid thinking of my own life, the progress since then, the things I've seen and done that those graves with their white slabs of remembrance stopped the names inscribed on the white slabs from doing... marrying, having children, watching them grow up. Too much to ask? Yes. Far too much. Remember your place, young man. In the trench. Remember who you are. And if you're lucky, we'll remember you once a year or so.
The Menin Gate this evening, however, seemed different. For a start, Australians - dignitaries as well as soldier, sailor, airman. There's something especially poignant about the Commonwealth (or Empire, as they were then) troops, exemplified by the Aussies, barely a nation themselves at the time and fighting on what might just as well have been another planet. Although the crowds (myself among them) were mainly tourists keen to get their pictures, the quiet dignity of the Last Post, silence and wreath laying ceremony was more moving than the museum facts and artefacts, the lists of names and even the memorials themselves because here were real people stopping for a moment to consider those long dead, but not forgotten.
October 30, 2013
Ypres diary, day one
[We travelled to Belgium on Eurostar, followed by a rather slow and stopping connection from Brussels. The nearer we got to Ypres, the busier the train seemed to get with schoolchildren making the journey home. It's always strangely pleasing to be on holiday when others are at school. Our half-term was last week and we spent part of it in Ieper (as the Belgians spell it). The following is a short extract from day one of the holiday diary...
Arriving in Ieper among hordes of noisy Belgian schoolchildren was a pleasant surprise! The town is a lot bigger than I remembered but thankfully our hotel is only a short walk from the station, past the Cloth Hall and towards the Menin Gate. In fact, after checking in and before eating we paid a visit to the Gate, to the strains of a couple of pipers warming up for the evening sundown ceremony.
The weight of names on this enormous monument is oppressive - more so, at dusk, than when I'd last seen the massively inscribed walls in the midday sun well over a decade ago. But as darkness falls and the carved initials, surnames, ranks and regiments gradually fade from view the fact that these marks in stone are all that remain of several hundred thousand men seems as oppressive as the gathering gloom. It's impossible to comprehend, fully. Or rather, it is possible to comprehend - but not to cope, emotionally, with that comprehension.
Tomorrow is another day. We, at least, get one. They, poor buggers, don't or didn't or didn't get many or anywhere near enough. They didn't even get a grave. Just this mass memorial, a massive monument to madness.
Arriving in Ieper among hordes of noisy Belgian schoolchildren was a pleasant surprise! The town is a lot bigger than I remembered but thankfully our hotel is only a short walk from the station, past the Cloth Hall and towards the Menin Gate. In fact, after checking in and before eating we paid a visit to the Gate, to the strains of a couple of pipers warming up for the evening sundown ceremony.
The weight of names on this enormous monument is oppressive - more so, at dusk, than when I'd last seen the massively inscribed walls in the midday sun well over a decade ago. But as darkness falls and the carved initials, surnames, ranks and regiments gradually fade from view the fact that these marks in stone are all that remain of several hundred thousand men seems as oppressive as the gathering gloom. It's impossible to comprehend, fully. Or rather, it is possible to comprehend - but not to cope, emotionally, with that comprehension.
Tomorrow is another day. We, at least, get one. They, poor buggers, don't or didn't or didn't get many or anywhere near enough. They didn't even get a grave. Just this mass memorial, a massive monument to madness.
October 28, 2013
We will remember them
We spent time in Ypres last week, in my case getting to know the place a bit better than on my last fleeting visit over ten years ago and doing research for my new book. I'll be posting extracts from my diary of the trip during the coming week.
But the overwhelming impression of the town and the immediate vicinity - even of our hotel - is of an area preparing for something. The walls of the Menin Gate were being cleaned; new soil was being delivered to teams of workmen at the Essex Farm memorial and cemetery; stone steps being re-set at Tyne Cot.
Because next year, of course, marks the 100th anniversary of the outbreak of war and with it an expected influx to the area of thousands of British and Commonwealth visitors, some seeking particular graves or battlefields, others merely keeping the memory alive and adding to their understanding of one of the most heroic and tragic events in human history.
My personal connection to the Great War is tenuous (I've written about it here) and not especially linked to Flanders. But I'd defy anyone not to be moved not only by the sights and sounds (the Last Post, played daily at 8p.m. beneath the massive arches of the Menin Gate chief amongst the latter) as well as the atmosphere of the monuments and memorials and museums.
There are now no surviving combatants of the First War, but there seems to be little decline in interest, in attempts to understand or in efforts to keep the flame of memory alive, from the crowds of Belgian and British schoolchildren flooding through the museums and being bussed around the battlefields, to the individual visitors (like the Canadian father and son sharing my tour) trying to place their own family story in its physical context and, hopefully, to know their family history a little better.
Some people think the deepening historical and social chasm between now and then - us and them - will inevitably lead to a gradual decline in our collective memory of the events of 99 years ago. But having seen remembrance in action last week, there's no doubt in my mind. Laurence Binyon's words still hold good:
We will remember them.
But the overwhelming impression of the town and the immediate vicinity - even of our hotel - is of an area preparing for something. The walls of the Menin Gate were being cleaned; new soil was being delivered to teams of workmen at the Essex Farm memorial and cemetery; stone steps being re-set at Tyne Cot.
Because next year, of course, marks the 100th anniversary of the outbreak of war and with it an expected influx to the area of thousands of British and Commonwealth visitors, some seeking particular graves or battlefields, others merely keeping the memory alive and adding to their understanding of one of the most heroic and tragic events in human history.
My personal connection to the Great War is tenuous (I've written about it here) and not especially linked to Flanders. But I'd defy anyone not to be moved not only by the sights and sounds (the Last Post, played daily at 8p.m. beneath the massive arches of the Menin Gate chief amongst the latter) as well as the atmosphere of the monuments and memorials and museums.
There are now no surviving combatants of the First War, but there seems to be little decline in interest, in attempts to understand or in efforts to keep the flame of memory alive, from the crowds of Belgian and British schoolchildren flooding through the museums and being bussed around the battlefields, to the individual visitors (like the Canadian father and son sharing my tour) trying to place their own family story in its physical context and, hopefully, to know their family history a little better.
Some people think the deepening historical and social chasm between now and then - us and them - will inevitably lead to a gradual decline in our collective memory of the events of 99 years ago. But having seen remembrance in action last week, there's no doubt in my mind. Laurence Binyon's words still hold good:
We will remember them.
October 22, 2013
PR Fail
PR companies are quick to contact us bloggers. Most are quick to respond when we contact them. But some, it seems, will do almost anything once a post has been written or a campaign completed to avoid dealing with me. Especially if it involves returning money.
Over eighteen months ago I took park in a very nice weekend campaign run my a certain well-known PR firm on behalf of Volvo. The PR team had a plan (involving taking a rather smart V60 out on a test drive) and writing a post about our experiences and I was happy to take part. I wasn't paid; I seldom am. But it was agreed that any out-of-pocket expenses would be reimbursed provided I furnished them with receipts. Which I did. Several times.
Fast-forward a year-and-a-half and - finally, after almost insurmountable obstacles and a darned inconvenient wait - the rather modest sum appears as a credit on my bank statement. Twice.
Now, I'm faced with a dilemma. Clearly the PR company wants it's money back (rather more urgently, it would seem given their speed-of-light response to the error, than they were prepared to give me mine). And I, of course, am happy to return what isn't mine (of course).
But the temptation to play them at their own game, to keep them waiting, to frustrate them, to annoy them and generally to confound them as they have me is almost overwhelming. So, in case I decide so to do, I've been using their emails to me as a basis for an imagined correspondence on the subject. It goes something like this...
PR firm:
Hi, er it's us. Look, this is really embarrassing but it seems that when we finally got around to paying your claim for out-of-pocket expenses (dating from May 2012) last month we, er, did so twice. Ha! I know this is awkward, but... Hey, can we have our money back?
Blogger (at least one, maybe two months later):
Hi PR firm. I'm sorry, but the person dealing with this matter has since left the company/country/solar system and is absolutely out of contact. And before she left she shredded all the documents, deleted all her email and wiped her office laptop. Sorry!
Mmm, difficult line that, especially as I'm the only 'employee' as-it-were. And I'm not a 'she'. Ok, so skipping a few thousand increasingly desperate emails (and the odd phone call) from the PR company, how about this:
Blogger:
Hi PR firm, we are very sorry for the inconvenience caused and can assure you that this is now receiving our most urgent attention. If you could just supply my colleague Jan (cc-ed) with the following information then we will get back to you, I promise, as soon as humanly possible -
Information required:
Name
Bank Account
sort code
NI number
shoe size
mother's maiden name
father's maiden name
passport number
birth certificate
driving licence and Love Film membership.
Thank you.
Later... Much, much later:
Dear PR firm, Jen here (fictitious accounts manager for Bringing up Charlie). Sorry but I don't seem to have some of the information essential for our finance department to process this claim. Would you please supply me with the following... (same list - see above).
Much, much later still...
Hi, Jen here again. Still waiting for the height/weight records and the school report from your final year at primary but we've hit a snag. The system can't process a claim unless accompanied by the applicant's 100 metres breaststroke certificate...
Even later...
Hi, Jen's now left the company. I'm dealing with this and would appreciate it if you could forward at your earliest convenience...
Exactly a year-and-a-half to the day since first making the claim...
Hi, Tim here. Er, look - this is really embarrassing but you know that duplicate payment for expenses you made for the claim I paid over three years ago now. You know, the one it took you eighteen months to process and then mistakenly paid me twice? Ah well, it appears we may have duplicated the reimbursement of the duplicated payment. Yes I know. So if you could see your way to reimbursing the non-duplicate payment of the duplicated refund of the duplicated payment - this side of the grave? - I'd be really, really, happy.
Posted with Blogsy
October 18, 2013
Post it!
Yes, Post-it. As in, the little squares of coloured paper you can stick on things as a reminder to, well... do whatever, really.
But how creative can you be with a Post-it? That was the gauntlet thrown down to me and a group of other bloggers a couple of weeks ago. To whit, to how many different uses can the humble Post-it be put?
Now I like nothing better than a challenge, and I'm inspired by nothing better than a splash of colour. And whereas all the old Post-its I had were a rather pale yellow, the ones I was sent to 'get creative' with came in a whole spectrum of colours, ranging in shades from fluorescent brightness to more calming tones.
The easy thing, of course, is to match the colour with the mood...
Or alternatively, utilise the shape...
When you come to think of it, there's not much you CAN'T do with a Post-it note, especially if you've got children to help you. So, here are a few of their ideas and inspirations.
How about using the red, orange and green as signals for your toy train? Wait at the tunnel Thomas...
Ok, green now. Off you go...
Of course, it's not just the range of colours that can inspire you, either. It's the shapes as well. As a reward, the star shapes are invaluable especially if you want to wean your toddler off the jelly-baby bribes for successful visit to the potty...
And then, of course, those lovely colourful squares are excellent decoration for the cardboard box Wendy House...
The yellow squares are especially useful for playing practical jokes on people who park outside your house, being almost exactly the same shade of yellow as a Parking Ticket...
(Sorry Grandad!)
Of course, not all uses for the different coloured Post-its are frivolous (perish the thought)! No. Because the bright green/red combination can act as a handy traffic-light system when going through your little one's reading homework: red for the page with words that need some practice, green for those that are ok.
You see, 3M Post-it Notes are ideal for adding a splash of colour to your messages and reminders and a whole lot more besides. And with such a big palette of shades on offer, there’s sure to be a hue to match your message… and brighten up your desk space too!
But how creative can you be with a Post-it? That was the gauntlet thrown down to me and a group of other bloggers a couple of weeks ago. To whit, to how many different uses can the humble Post-it be put?
Now I like nothing better than a challenge, and I'm inspired by nothing better than a splash of colour. And whereas all the old Post-its I had were a rather pale yellow, the ones I was sent to 'get creative' with came in a whole spectrum of colours, ranging in shades from fluorescent brightness to more calming tones.
The easy thing, of course, is to match the colour with the mood...
Or alternatively, utilise the shape...When you come to think of it, there's not much you CAN'T do with a Post-it note, especially if you've got children to help you. So, here are a few of their ideas and inspirations.
How about using the red, orange and green as signals for your toy train? Wait at the tunnel Thomas...
Ok, green now. Off you go...
Of course, it's not just the range of colours that can inspire you, either. It's the shapes as well. As a reward, the star shapes are invaluable especially if you want to wean your toddler off the jelly-baby bribes for successful visit to the potty...
And then, of course, those lovely colourful squares are excellent decoration for the cardboard box Wendy House...
The yellow squares are especially useful for playing practical jokes on people who park outside your house, being almost exactly the same shade of yellow as a Parking Ticket...
(Sorry Grandad!)
Of course, not all uses for the different coloured Post-its are frivolous (perish the thought)! No. Because the bright green/red combination can act as a handy traffic-light system when going through your little one's reading homework: red for the page with words that need some practice, green for those that are ok.
You see, 3M Post-it Notes are ideal for adding a splash of colour to your messages and reminders and a whole lot more besides. And with such a big palette of shades on offer, there’s sure to be a hue to match your message… and brighten up your desk space too!
