The Great British Summer?

In the 1990s, if it had been explained to me that the effect of global warming would mean the central heating clicking on in July, I would have paid more attention to my recycling. It is now the second week of July – the schools break up next week – and the entire month’s rainfall has already come down. I wouldn’t mind if April/May/June/any month had been decent but getting my winter coat back out of the wardrobe on a weekly basis is particularly aggravating.

Business has not been great at the semi-finished hotel. The scaffolding has had to be cancelled (too wet), the garden renovations postponed (too boggy) and the customers are put off by the weather forecast. The BBC weatherman reported on TV that this is unlikely to change before the end of the month.

On a recent trip into the local town, I spotted the supermarket staff removing a stand of suntan lotion and putting umbrellas in their place. There were people on the bus wearing bobble hats and all the al fresco café tables are safely chained up in back alleys.

This summer has been a (quite literal) wash out. What is interesting is that there are tourists around but they are mainly international, from places like USA or Japan. People who find the rain ‘quaint’ and eat ice creams while shivering under ponchos. The traffic is horrible as nobody is walking, for fear of being splashed by passing lorries, the busses are ages behind schedule and ducks are swimming in the roadside puddles.

Its no wonder UK tourists are abandoning their staycations. A flight to the Mediterranean is currently cheaper than the train to the airport. To tempt people in, the semi-finished hotel is trying a range of special offers hoping to find people who would like to spend their summer on a soggy northern building site. Sadly, these offers have been designed by the people from head office who announce them to the public before actually checking if we sell the products we are discounting. In fact, it is often the customers who let us know the offer is happening. Then we have to phone the head office to ask how to process their vouchers. Except everyone from the head office is on a flight to the Mediterranean.

We are currently pinning our hopes on the rock music festival which is happening nearby in a few weeks. It is heavily rumoured that a lot of celebrities are staying on site that weekend (the rich and famous are not risking the camping option). It is also likely that it will be chaos, with exasperated personal assistants and managers all barking instructions on behalf of their clients. Having checked my diary whilst writing this, I noticed that I am on holiday that week (shame!) Now how much is that Mediterranean flight?

The Unfortunate Train Incident

This is the first blog I have ever written where I feel the need to issue a trigger warning, “This content is not suitable for those with a sensitive stomach or who are currently eating”

I had a lovely time in Cardiff and since I was in no hurry, I decided to take the scenic route home along the coast to Carmarthen. The train was (remarkably) quiet and (even more remarkably) on time.

Maybe it was my exploits on the rollercoaster the previous day or the stress of rushing around with luggage, but I was tired. Not a problem, I had a two-hour train journey and could nod off without worrying about a thing. Actually, there is something about trains and busses which sends me to sleep almost immediately, maybe I should get rid of my bed and just sleep on the N46 bus instead.

When I woke up, I felt really hot. My whole body was sweating. I looked for a window to open but they were all sealed shut (or I was not strong enough to open them, either scenario is possible). Then I started to feel queasy. I tried to find a bag or container, just in case, but no luck. It’s hard to describe the feeling of nausea, or the dread of fluid moving around involuntarily though what happened next was amazing, I fell back asleep.

However, around an hour later, I awoke feeling worse, much worse. I had to get to the toilet now. I abandoned my possessions and ran. Unfortunately, I chose to run the wrong way down the carriage. This was now a critical situation. I had no time to lose, every millisecond was vital.

Here is the difficult bit, while I was rushing back the other way with my lips clamped shut, a young girl appeared in the aisle playing with her doll, pushing it around in a tiny pram. She was an innocent happy child, about three years old with beautiful blonde hair. She had no idea what was about to happen to her.

Perhaps it’s best to miss out some of the detail here but its fair to say that poor little girl paid the price for not leaving the aisle clear. It all happened in slow motion like a disaster movie. Her Dad yelled, her Mum screamed, and I scurried off as fast as I could.

I hid in the toilet until the train had stopped moving. Once I was convinced that we had reached our final destination, I poked my head out of the door. I stank, everything I was wearing was contaminated. I rushed to collect my bags and immediately get changed in the station bathrooms.

The carriage was being deep cleaned by somebody with a large spray and a hazmat suit. There were tissues everywhere around the young girl’s family had been sitting. My possessions were looking abandoned exactly where I left them. I was surprised that they had not been put into an incinerator by that point. Maybe nobody wanted to touch them for fear of catching germs.

I tried to find a member of the train staff to apologize but they were long gone and were presumably telling their colleagues about the grown man who had vomited on the head of a stranger’s child.

I doubt I will be brave enough to show my head on South Wales railways ever again but if I do, I will definitely a) make sure I know where the carriage toilet is and b) have enough sick bags. Hopefully that girl is too young to be scarred for life by this incident. I will not be so lucky.

Cardiff Calling

I had to leave Cardiff suddenly in 2005 when I was fired from my dream job. They were right to dismiss me, my performance had been terrible. I’d have fired me too. The weekend after it all went wrong, I applied for everything and the first people that said yes were a holiday company offering a summer season in Tenerife. I packed up and left immediately. But what happened to Cardiff since I’ve been gone?

The apartment I had booked overlooked the river. It was a new development that I couldn’t work out. I had to ask a security guard in a supermarket where it was, then I felt duty bound to go and buy something. Perhaps it was the sunflower lanyard & ear defenders or maybe he was just not used to people asking him questions, but he followed me round the shop. Under pressure, I got a load of things I didn’t want to buy including three varieties of sausage roll.

Cardiff Bay has expanded yet the difference between what I remember and what I saw is how quiet is has become. Even though it was a weekend in early June, it felt like there were more places to eat than people who wanted to eat in them. I chose a takeaway from a noodle restaurant, I had about 10% of it, then a seagull swooped and scattered the rest across the pavement. Within about three seconds, I found myself in something similar to a remake of Hitchcock’s ‘The Birds’ and promptly moved along.

I had a lovely tour around the Wales Millenium Centre where we got to watch the technical staff setting up for a performance of an opera I was unfamiliar with. All the extremely heavy sets are still raised onto the stage by ropes operated by stagehands. I asked why it wasn’t operated by computer and that question went down about as well as if I had asked why it was not operated by alcohol fuelled puppies.

Following that, I took the water taxi into the city centre to see how it had changed. It turned out that I had no memory at all of how it used to be so nothing to compare it to. I just wandered round a generic shopping district that could have been anywhere. The only thing of note is that on three separate occasions, I was stopped by somebody from the Hare Krishna movement, all of whom asked me what music I was listening to. None of them seemed to understand that I was just wearing ear defenders and not listening to anything. In the end I gave up trying to explain and just said Celine Dion.

The following day I took a walk along the barrage, something that hadn’t been built when I was last there. It was a lovely, if windy day, and an inflatable obstacle course had been set up in the water, populated entirely by excitable children struggling not to be blown into the water. I decided to leave them to it.

The final stop on my trip was a bus ride to Barry Island. This is one of those places where I have heard a lot about but never actually visited. Imagine a much smaller version of the Blackpool Pleasure Beach where everything is on a tight budget and you wouldn’t be far wrong. I wanted to go on the big wheel so I could get a view of the harbour but it was operated by tokens and the machine only sold awkward amounts so I had to get £10 worth of the stupid things. The big wheel was nice, giving me a good view across the bay.

But I still had eight tokens left. I tried to use them to buy a burger but no, food didn’t count, a terrifying woman boomed at me. So, I went on a rollercoaster ride, a really small rollercoaster. I was the only person on it and I was only there to use up the tokens. Honestly, it was rubbish and I have never felt so tragic as a middle aged man going on an empty rollercoaster alone. Out of sheer embarrassment, I gave my remaining tokens to a passing woman and her pre-school child (people the rollercoaster may have been more suitable for).

Before I left Cardiff, I had a quick look at the place I got fired from 19 years ago. It was exactly the same, the desks hadn’t moved, I am sure the chairs were the same too. The only thing that had changed was me and I am fine with that.

It had been a good week… That was until the ‘Unfortunate Train Incident’…

To be continued…

Testing Tills

When did paying for things in a high street shop become so complicated? I am sure that it used to be the case, the cashier told the customer how much they owed, the customer paid and then the transaction was over. This is no longer the case.

This week I popped into Superdrug on the high street. The reason for this was mainly because it had started raining and thought it would be a nice waste of time. I picked up a small box of plasters and took them to the checkout. I had the correct change and was ready to go… Then came the exam.

‘Do you need a 10p bag’ – That is an easy one. ‘No its small enough to fit in my pocket’

‘Do you have a loyalty card’ ‘No’

‘Do you want to take out a loyalty card’ ‘No’ I am starting to remember why I hate high street shopping.

‘Would you like to see our special offers?’ The assistant is still holding the plasters hostage in her hand, a queue is starting to build and I am beginning to get edgy. ‘No thank-you, I just want the plasters’.

‘Can I give you a copy of our brochure?’ No, Why do Superdrug even have a brochure? I should have just kept walking in the rain.

‘Would you like to leave your email address so I can send you a copy of the receipt?’ AAHHH why is this so hard?

I make a mental note never to go to Superdrug again. I swear University Challenge in another language with the sound off would be easier than this.

Another high street frustration comes from coffee shops, takeaways and bakeries. These are taking over the high streets of the nation but despite the fact that they are everywhere, there are still so many people who don’t know how they work. For example, Greggs.

A staggering number of people wait ages to get to the front of the queue then realise they don’t know what they want or ask for things they don’t sell. ‘Please can I have an apple and custard doughnut’? ‘I’m sorry that is from the bakery across the street’. ‘Oh, well, what do you think Jean?’. Jean has no idea, thinks for ages and then asks for something from an obviously empty shelf. By this point the queue is onto the pavement. Eventually a coffee is ordered, and everyone breathes a sigh of relief, that is until the next people reach the till and the whole process starts again. Perhaps there should be a separate line for everyone who knows what they want, a bit like speedy boarding.

One final question, why is it when I go to the till with just one item and say “just that please”, the cashier will inevitably ask “is that everything”? EVERY SINGLE TIME.

Telly Talk

One of the biggest surprises to happen in the last few months is that I have started watching TV. Over the last 20 years, I have probably watched about 10 shows, mostly breaking news events and was completely happy with that. However, during the never-ending winter of 2024, the box in the corner has started to be more interesting and I have been switching it on most days.

I don’t really understand smart TVs, they have far too many buttons on the remote controls and for some reason, seem very keen on getting me to log in. I don’t want to give a TV my email address, who wants written communication from their own television?

Probably another sign of my commitment issues is that I don’t want to watch dramas or anything that involves giving up vast amounts of time. Watching Coronation Street three times a week until I die is not something I am ready for. So instead, I have got into those competition shows. I don’t really mind what the competition is, cooking, painting, singing, trying to cheat each other out of money, running around in a foreign land… It’s all fine by me.

An exception to this is if it’s the first part of the series and there are too many contestants to learn about. Apparently, the last series of Strictly Come Dancing had 15 couples (let me know when its down to six) and as for why Eurovision had so many finalists I can’t fathom, what was the point of the knockout rounds when there are still 26 left?

Something I wasn’t prepared for is how many repeats there are. There are entire channels which just repeat what was on an hour ago. Every episode of everything is shown nine times a day (or so it seems), then if you are such a moron you forget to watch any of them, you can watch “on demand” so we are told approximately every 73 seconds, assuming you want to let your TV send you emails.

Then there is Gogglebox. There is no moment of the day (or night) when there are not about five different episodes of that show playing on various channels. There is something oddly compelling about watching celebrities I have not heard of discussing TV shows I have also not heard of, from four years ago whilst eating cake. Does anyone in the real world, scream at the TV as much as these people? How do they find them? Do their neighbours not complain about the noise?

Finally, I am cheered to see Blankety Blank is back. I have watched several episodes recently, not because of the people on it but because of the weird prizes. A Wi-Fi-enabled freezer, a home planetarium, a tiki bar or a tour of four windmills. Really, who wants a tour of four windmills? isn’t one enough? Are they hoping people will just decline to take the prizes and save some money?

Like so many things… I just don’t understand.

Don’t Try, Try And Try Again

I have enjoyed creativity and being around creative people for as long as I can remember. There is something very pleasurable about watching somebody rehearse or making something. Anyone who can do this has my admiration, mainly because I am utterly unable to do this myself mainly due to a failure of memory, attention or patience (sometimes a mix of all three).

Visiting a gallery, looking at the sculptures or pictures is a lovely day out, but my own attempts ended with finger painting, while using stencils seems to result in a multi-coloured smudge and lots of mess to clear up.
I would love to be able to cook anything that tastes better than bland. No matter how carefully I study the recipe, I always seem to get distracted and miss things out. Most noticeably was the day I tried creamy chicken and omitted the chicken. I won’t be troubling MasterChef anytime soon.

Dancing is another area where I have tried and failed. While at sea I managed to get certified as a Zumba instructor having agreed to the training the night before, being persuaded with the description ‘its like line dancing but more tropical’. This was completely wrong, and I was terrible. I couldn’t manage most of the steps, the ones I could do I kept forgetting (having to stop and look at the notes) and I never really was fit enough to do it anyway.
DIY is simply terrifying. Luckily, I usually live in places where there is somebody who can change lightbulbs for me. Flat pack furniture usually ends in disaster when I give up before the end of the instructions. Nothing I have made has the back attached (I just push things against the wall) and consequently it all wobbles about till it collapses inevitably at 3am waking up the whole household.
This shortage of patience is also the reason behind my lack of musical skills. As a child, I had clarinet lessons, but I couldn’t muster up the enthusiasm and managed to distract my teacher with chat about Eastenders until time was up. It just seemed easier that way.

Acting was thwarted by my inability to take direction (rather than doing what I wanted) and also the exact opposite scenario, my total terror of improvisation (rather than being told what to do).
My creative breakthrough was with poster design. I can knock up something half-decent very quickly and people are impressed with how eye-catching they are. I don’t tell anyone it’s all automatically generated by the ‘design ideas’ section in PowerPoint which make it for me. I always choose the second one down and then hope I can work out how to use the printer, even filling it with paper is a challenge.

I suppose all of these things follow my life motto – if at first you don’t succeed, give up and do something else.

Flat Mates and Flat Hates

Living at work for such a long time means I have encountered a number of flatmates. I never get any choice about who is moving in and rarely meet them until they turn up. Will they know how to work a washing machine? Will they be able to speak more than four words of English? You just never know…

Work accommodation is often heavily subsidised, an incentive for places to get a higher quality of staff member, not needing to rely solely on people from the local community. As a result, some flatmates, just want a room to use as a storage facility. One flatmate used his room for five canoes, another for partially disassembled flatpack furniture. Another tactic is using it a spare room for endless visiting friends and family members, although the hotels are never too keen on that.

Although it was over twenty years ago, one person that sticks in my mind was a girl who was desperate for attention. One day she found the kitchen window open (in our fifth floor flat) and decided there had been a burglary. Knowing there was no way anyone had got through that very small window in broad daylight, we encouraged her to phone the police, never thinking she actually would. Yet, the officers came round and were informed that the only thing that was missing was her, fairly cheap, costume jewellery. She was cautioned for wasting police time.

One of the more eccentric recent flatmates I have encountered was a French sommelier who was a complete cliché in every way. He genuinely shouted “Sacre bleu” when he got annoyed. He also (astonishingly) managed to use up two toilet rolls every day, I decided not to ask him about that. When he left, we found seven identical corkscrews all belonging to the hotel lined up in a row on his bed. The day he left; he changed his phone number so nobody could ever call him again. Sacre bleu.

Other flat mates of note include

The chef who knocked over his (full) wardrobe in the middle of the night
A lad who walked round in just his underwear at all times of year
Someone who took over every kitchen surface with a variety of partially finished jigsaws.

Generally, I leave them all to it. Its just easier that way.

The Fashion House

We didn’t realise the people from the fashion house were due to be staying at the hotel. They had all booked separately through the website using a variety of different names and addresses, the bookings were all different lengths and contained a variety of room types. Then the day before, the phone calls from the personal assistants started.

Their team of creative directors were having some time out of the office to work on their next collection. These people were not really used to being away from the city and seemed to struggle with basic things. Considering they were the creative directors from a major fashion house, they also had no idea what to wear. They turned up in brand new waterproofs (even though it wasn’t raining) and bobble hats which they wore inside (even though it wasn’t cold). It was like a PA had put “what do people in the countryside wear?” into a search engine and in a panic, just purchased the first ten things that were listed.

The PAs continued to phone about everything. To be clear, the PAs were in London. The people from the fashion house were calling the PAs to call us, rather than speak to anyone in person. They called first thing in the morning and last thing at night. On one occasion, we asked if they wanted to sit together for breakfast and none of them answered, about 20 seconds later, a PA phoned to say that they will eat separately. The group hadn’t left, and I took the call in front of them. It was so strange.

One woman had been booked a room in the annex which is about a 30 second walk down the driveway. The PA tried to get that changed but we were full. This woman refused to walk to the annex as “the north is too creepy” and insisted on getting a lift. If the hotel had no driver available, she simply got her PA to get her a taxi so she wouldn’t have to walk to the next building. The taxi would have to come from the next town and probably cost £25. Its not her money, she didn’t care.

Then there was the coffee. Room service is expensive in any hotel, the reason is it takes staff members away from their work and slows down service for everyone else. The tray charges are to discourage people from making multiple small orders (such as one drink at a time). The people from the fashion house wanted very specific coffees at various different times during breakfast delivering to their rooms. It was explained that speciality coffee with non-dairy milk, alongside the tray charge and gratuity, the cost would be £23 per drink. We were perplexed that the PAs seemed to have no problem with this. In fact, over the course of their stay, the people from the fashion house spent over £1000 on room service coffee.

One of the creative directors flew in from their Mediterranean villa on a private plane. They stayed for six hours and then flew home again at 2am taking the largest car I have ever seen to the airport, being driven by a chauffeur in a bowler hat.

On one occasion, an external caterer arrived for the group with a lavish meal. The PAs had organised it and it was set up in a side room without anyone from the hotel being informed. Of course, we don’t let people bring their own food into function rooms. Usually, its pizzas or burgers that get snuck in. This was fine China plates and a Bain Marie, all loaded through a side door late at night while nobody was looking. By the time it was discovered, they were all eating (in silence, while looking at their phones). A very substantial charge was added to their account by the manager, predicting that the PA wouldn’t care (a correct assumption). As a side note, it is worth noting that about 80% of the food was left uneaten, a nice treat for the hotel staff who were left to clear up the mess.

A large fleet of cars arrived to take them away at the end of their stay. One of the women left without packing her cases, just leaving all her possessions behind scattered all over the floor. An assistant arrived a couple of hours later, having driven all the way from London just to pack this woman’s cases and then drive them back to her. One man didn’t like to travel with luggage in the car, so his cases travelled in a separate vehicle to him. Except the car with his cases in broke down on the motorway so he was stuck at the airport with no passport, missing his flight in the process. I can’t imagine how many messages that PA got.

So, what I have learned is that the reason high fashion is so expensive is not because of the rarity, the prestige of the name or the quality of materials used but because of the inability of the directors to understand how to control expenditure. I also hope that those poor PAs are well paid, I suspect that however much money they are on, it won’t be as much as they deserve.

Another Nap?

For the last two and a half years I have spent my free time studying for a diploma. It was completely online (so no scary lectures or exam halls) and I sent off my final assignment in January. I got an automated email saying I would get my results within three months and with one day left before the three-month deadline expired, I got another email to say I had passed.

So, I’m now a certified hotel manager. I am qualified to bore anyone to death with long discussions on yield management, customer relations software and legal compliance. The next question is, what am I going to do with this qualification? Realistically, nothing. I have no interest in being a hotel manager and actually having to deal with legal compliance, customer relations software and yield management.

One thing it does mean is that I now have vastly more free time. This has coincided with the semi-finished hotel actually being completed (only five months behind schedule). The journalists, VIPs, board members, influencers and local dignitaries have finally left us alone so we can actually start doing the jobs we applied for.

This means I am now working night shifts full time. This works very well for me, no crowds, no noise, no stress. The first question anyone asks me when I say I work night shifts is about sleep. I am sleeping twice a day, a few hours in the morning and then another few hours in the evening. This has resulted in a number of things I wasn’t expecting, I am now much less tired. My constant brain fog has cleared, and everyone assumes I am asleep so doesn’t bother me with tedious nonsense such as ‘do you know who left this empty box here?’

This means I am free seven afternoons a week. Throughout the winter, I used this extra time for lying in bed. Just napping all day long, like a 98 year old. This was easy as it rained for about 7206593872378502938 consecutive hours during January, February and March. It was dark all day and I didn’t feel like I was missing anything.

However the clocks have changed, the skies are brighter and (although it’s possible I was hallucinating) I believe the sun has come out at least twice in the last month. I decided to get some hobbies. I have the radio – which I love – but alongside that I decided to buy a book of ‘zen colouring advanced art therapy perfect patterns’ which is a fancy term for ‘colouring book’ alongside a pack of 50 felt tips (which was heavily discounted). It has been sitting unopened on my desk for about a month and now I moved it into a draw where it will be inevitably forgotten.

Still with the feeling I should be doing something useful with my afternoons, I have bought a double-sided jigsaw. Thinking this would be a good idea as I could do it twice, I cleared everything from my desk in preparation. That was two weeks ago… I still have not taken the plastic from the box and things are starting to appear on my desk again.

So whats next? Perhaps long walks, which sound lovely. Writing and naps are great too, maybe I’ll even remember to have some lunch. Its just such a shame that work gets in the way.

Oh Man

It has taken me a while to pluck up the courage to go on another ferry since I got stuck in Belfast a few years ago thanks to a trio of storms – Dudley, Eunice and Franklyn. Quite why I remember the names of these storms but not my phone number is an unsolved mystery.

Anyway, I had to use up the last few days of my annual leave, I don’t drive and the trains were on strike (again) so I decided to be brave and take the bus to the ferry terminal. As it was a Thursday in early March, it was very quiet. I upgraded the ticket to get myself a soundproof cabin (more than three times the cost of the very cheap ticket but it meant I could take a nap) and we arrived in the Isle of Man a couple of hours later.

Perhaps it was a result of being groggy from the nap or just a general lack of concentration, but I managed to get confused in the terminal building and went to departures instead of arrivals. Eventually I got collected from the car park by a minibus and taken back to security who were concerned I had bypassed their check point altogether. My ear defenders and sunflower lanyard came to the rescue when they decided to book me a taxi to the hotel (following a passport check) rather than send me to prison.

I only saw one other person in the hotel that night on the way up to my enormous room. A huge empty room with enough space to hold a ballroom dance competition in the centre. Imagine a converted sports hall with a bed at one side, sofa against a wall and bathroom right at the other end, so far from the bed I considered getting there by bicycle.

Next morning the receptionist seemed genuinely surprised to see anyone at all. I don’t think she had seen another human being in months and gave me a very long (and enthusiastic) talk about different things to do on the island, many of which were illustrated with dusty leaflets with the previous year’s opening times on.

This was a sign of things to come. I went to the ferry terminal to get a three-day bus ticket – this time without an intervention from a security guard – and hopped on the first bus to Peel Castle but it was closed. Oh well, I thought, there is a large museum in Peel, I will go there instead. No luck with that either. I had a look around a beautiful port town (Port Erin) strolling down the deserted beach. It was so quiet, I wondered if the whole place had been wiped out by some kind of zombie apocalypse.

That night at the hotel, I asked the enthusiastic receptionist about the steam trains, apparently the entire network was finished for the winter. I asked if she had any suggestions for anything at all that would be open. It honestly hadn’t occurred to me that the entire island would be closed. She recommended the wildlife park, she knew it was open as she went there at the weekend. However, upon arrival, the sign read ‘closed Mon-Wed’ and guess what…

Having said all that, the island was beautiful. The sun shone almost the entire time and I had a great time plodding around exploring. It’s just fortunate I am happy in my own company.