The Olympics Table Tennis

It's only Day 2 of the Olympics, and Iota and family have already been to an event. We are very Olympismist. Oh yes.

It was fabulous. I loved it. I felt like a child all day, excited from the moment I woke up. Big events like these are the stuff of future memories, and now I'll be able to say "London 2012 - I was there!" for the rest of my life. It's a double excitement for me, because for the past five years, I've felt out of the loop of big British events. We've jumped back in with a bang.

We saw the Womens' Table Tennis, Third Round.

Good things

The volunteers: (at least I assume they were volunteers): All along the route from the DLR station to the ExCel centre, people in purple and pink were showing us where to go. It really helped. I'm not intimidated by London, but that's not an area I know at all, and it was just nice not to have to keep looking at a map or signs. For people from outside London, it must have made all the difference. And the volunteers were so jolly. They were pointing the way with giant pink foam hands, and engaging with the flow of spectators. "Have a great evening!... Enjoy the Games!" It created a very welcoming atmosphere.

The staff: Everyone was helpful and friendly. I've been struck since I've been back in this country, by just how second best we are at customer service compared to America. They will, without question, win the gold medal if customer service ever becomes an Olympic sport. But LOCOG, or COLON, or whatever the organisation is called, has excelled. The staff on London transport were ubiquitous and helpful. The venue was well-staffed, and free from that trademark British grumpiness among the retail and food-serving staff. They smiled, and seemed pleased to interact with customers. The security seemed over-staffed. Poor old soldiers, losing a week's leave, to make up the G4S shortfall, but very polite and helpful in spite of it.

The venue: Table tennis was at the ExCel centre. It was easy to navigate around, spacious, and imaginatively done. In the big area behind the arena, the area where you were hanging around for quite a long time if you'd got there early, there were displays in glass cases, and information boards about the history of the sport. I saw the programme of the first World Championship in 1920-something, and early bats, strung like mini tennis racquets. Did you know that table tennis originated in upper class England in the early years of the 20th century? People made a barrier across the middle of a table using books, and then hit a ball back and forth using cigar boxes. It had various names, including Clip Clap, Whiff Waff, and of course Ping Pong. I kind of wish Whiff Waff had stuck. I'd like to say I'd been to Olympic Whiff Waff.

The game: Yes, the game! I mustn't get so carried away by all the other positives and forget about the game. It was thrilling to watch. They are so darn FAST, those table tennis athletes. Fast, and strong. The Team UK competitor had been knocked out in the second round, so I cheered for the Czech Republic, on the basis of their costume in the Opening Ceremony. Did you see them in their wellies, carrying umbrellas? What a superb way of joining in, on British terms. I've never thought of the Czechs as being notable for their fine sense of humour, but I loved that moment.

The match that got the crowd most excited was the last one, China vs the USA. The American athlete was 16 years old. (I said to 15-yo "Wow, that's quite something isn't it? Being 16 and being to the Olympics". He replied "I'm 15, and I'm at the Olympics".) The American spectators were enthusiastic - of course - lots of flags and cheering. Americans are so good at that kind of stuff, aren't they? We cheered for America, of course. There was a big Chinese contingent too, so the match made for a noisy and exciting end to the evening. The Chinese athlete won.

Table tennis wasn't a random choice. As a family, we're quite into table tennis. We bought a table last Christmas, and used it pretty much daily. Husband (a bit of a table tennis afficionado in his youth, it turns out) would come in from work, and immediately there would be a son or two hovering around, making small punching movements with his hand, and with an enquiring look on his face. 15-yo won the $10 that Husband promised him, the first time he took a game off him. I play too... in my own amateur way... so long as my opponent agrees to be nice to me... But hurrah for amateurs! We're what Olympism is all about!

Bad things


Visa: You could only buy a ticket from the website using a Visa card. You could only use cash or Visa to buy anything in the venue. This is appalling. It's sponsorship gone mad, in my opinion. 



This is a crass slogan, meaning nothing. All you can say for it, is that at least they have tried hard not to split an infinitive, and to position the word only where it makes grammatical sense (which I notice I failed to do in previous sentences - never mind).

I thought it should say It is shameful that we accept only Visa.


Photo credit: NatBat on Flickr


Empty seats: Well, yes, there were those, and they were mostly in big blocks in the prime viewing area. Clearly this is silly.

But let's not dwell on the Bad Things. All in all, a thoroughly great evening. A good note on which to end our sojourn in the south of England. Our container has arrived from America, and we head northwards today to Edinburgh. We've made sure to order a television, as a priority for our new home, because we're hooked on the Olympics now. (Ironically, there was a glitch using our MasterCard on Amazon, so we had to use my mum's Visa card to pay for it).
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The Olympics Opening Ceremony

OK, so it's 1.00am, and I should be in bed, but you have to admit, it was good. It was very good. I liked it. I liked it a lot.

I understood the cultural references - James Bond, Mr Bean. That's always a relief to a returning expat. It can feel like you're missing an in-joke, when people refer to something that, because you've lived outside the country, you simply don't know about. TOWIE, for example. So I was glad I could understand Bond, Bean, and Chariots of Fire.

I loved the copper petals coming together to make a cauldron. I really enjoyed the fact that the torches were passed on to a group of young athletes, not public figures yet, who took centre stage for the end of the Olympic flame journey. Much better to look forward than back.

I thought the ceremony should have ended with the fireworks, rather than Paul McCartney. Perhaps you had to be there. Perhaps it needed a good arm-waving singalong at the end, to send the crowd off happy. But could someone point out to me the significance of "Hey Jude"? I mean, if you have to go Beatles singalong, why not have everyone singing "Imagine"? That's far more in the Olympic spirit. Imagine all the people, living life in peace, and all that.

The bit I liked best was the parade of the teams from 204 different countries. There were some fabulous costumes in there. Senegal in elegant yellow, you looked wonderful. America, I'm sorry, but you looked like British Airways cabin crew, with your navy berets and co-ordinating neck scarves. Bulgaria, in your blue and white check suits, you should just be glad that medals are awarded on sporting prowess and not dress sense - though golf is going to be included as an Olympic sport in 2016. You'll be well prepared for that.

I was irritated that all the announcements were made in English and French. Why French? English, because this is England, and we speak English in England. And French, because...? We reckoned it was as a courtesy to the French geezer from the International Olympic Committee, Jacques Rogge. Rogge, the Frogge.

One other little niggle... Why is the British team called 'Team GB'? I am offended on behalf of my Northern Irish compatriots. We are (correct me if I'm wrong) the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. To call our Olympic athletes 'Team GB' is wrong, lazy, and a bit offensive, honestly. It should be 'Team UK'. Or perhaps the Northern Irish members took one look at the white and gold Elvis suits that they'd have to wear, and said "count us out".

So all in all, the Olympics have got off to a fine start. London, beaucoup de points. Oh, and a new word has snuck into the English language. Always interesting to get a new word. Were you listening as the coach took the oath on behalf of all the coaches? He said something about the "principles of Olympism". Olympism? Really? Olympism? Well, I kind of like it, now I've typed it a few times.

Happy Games, everyone.

Another Fifty Shades of Grey

Has anyone read this book?

Blimey. Talk about "sinister". I can't decide whether to recommend it to you or not. I couldn't put it down. It's gripping, very readable, erudite, funny in places, and just so clever. I feel I want to read it again, straightaway, to see how all the clues to the narrator's personality and actions are sown through the early stages of the book.

But it's very dark. Don't read it unless you're in a happy place. I found it really disturbing - the most disturbing book I've read since Lionel Shriver's We Need to Talk about Kevin. Yes, that disturbing. I read most of it early one morning when I woke at 5.30am and couldn't get back to sleep, and it spooked me out. It took me a little while to reconnect with reality and get on with daily life. Yikes. 

One reason it spooked me is that most of it is set in the university which I attended. Streets and buildings are familiar. The main character, the narrator, Engleby, was there about a decade before I was, but even so, it was close to the bone. I don't like to think that my naive, carefree, unsuspecting young days might have been peppered with creepy individuals like him, without me realising. *Shudder*

The novel explores the (perhaps) hazy area between normal and abnormal. We've all felt on the edges of social situations, out of place, lonely, rejected. Engleby describes those feelings so well, but is also incapable of normal feeling. So what is a feeling? Can you be lucidly self-aware, without being self-aware at all? 

I can see why some people wouldn't like the book. It's a bit laboured, and if you didn't connect with it, then I can imagine that you wouldn't want to plough through it. I've been browsing the reviews on Amazon, and they're mixed. The great majority are positive, but I read some of the negative ones, and I can see where they're coming from. Readers seem to be rather influenced by whether they've read other Sebastian Faulks novels, and how that affected their expectations.

The blurb on the back of my version describes it as "heart-wrenching - and funny, in the deepest shade of black". The blurb-writer has a point. There is black humour in it (which I almost always enjoy). When a friend visits Engleby -- SPOILER ALERT -- in a secure mental health facility, Engleby says 

"Stellings was dressed in what he imagines to be a non-homicidal-maniac-inciting outfit of blue jeans, stone windcheater and open-necked plaid shirt with a nasty little polo pony on the breast pocket".

I quote that partly because it's funny (I think so, anyway, but perhaps it loses something out of context), but also because it demonstrates to me the brilliance of the novel, the unsettling brilliance of it. As a reader, you don't like Engleby, you really don't. And you're right not to. But you also sympathise with him, empathise with him, and find common ground with him (those three things are different... similar, but different... am I right?) Stellings is very kind to go and visit him, but I couldn't help laughing at the "nasty little polo pony", and the acuity with which Engleby sees how ill at ease he is in the institution, knowing intuitively that Stellings' seemingly casual attire has been carefully chosen. 

As I said, I don't know whether to recommend this book or not. It's not an enjoyable book, but  you'll enjoy it. I think "Fifty Shades of Grey" would have been the perfect title for it, because it's the story of one deeply troubled and criminal individual, and the questions he raises about the uncertainties of personality, of identity, of memory, of self-perception. I do want to recommend it, though, because I need someone to discuss it with! The twisty ending, in particular.
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Fifty Shades of Grey

Everyone's talking about it. Some find it rather shocking. Do we all really have to be subjected to this kind of stuff? Others shrug their shoulders. "This is modern life", they say. "It's just how it is these days." Personally, I have to say I've found it very disappointing. It's low in entertainment value, and I can't see how anyone could describe it as arousing. But certainly, it's a popular topic of conversation. The weather.

The last two summers have spoilt us. We've arrived from the US, and been greeted by cheery sunshine. Long June days of sunny, but still crisp, early summer weather, which have quietly given way to the heavier, more languid heat of July and August. The occasional morning or afternoon of showers, just to freshen the landscape, but the sun never far behind. Lazy days, with the children playing on the lawn, or walking the dog on dust-dry footpaths. But now summer 2012. Fifty Shades of Grey.

I'm not complaining, though. I prefer the British alternative to what we've left behind. This is the current 7-day forecast for where we used to live.

For those of you who work in Celsius, it looks like this.

I prefer it here. What about you? Would you prefer Fifty Shades of Grey, or One Shade of Yellow?

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The cat is out of the bag: Part ll

When we were first thinking of getting a dog, I filled in a questionnaire on a website to help pick a breed. Did I want a big dog? Did I want dog that didn't moult? Did I have a garden? That kind of thing. I eagerly waited while it loaded the results... "We're sorry. We have no suggestions for a breed that suits your requirements." Hm. Well, I had been a little idealistic. I wanted a dog that was good with children, strangers, other dogs, didn't moult at all, wouldn't need too much exercise, wouldn't mind being left alone, wouldn't slobber, would be easy to train, probably would be prepared to stand for Parliament too. I tried again, tempering my answers with realism. It came up with one suggestion: the Mexican Hairless (which looks somewhat like a rat, in my opinion). I clearly needed to loosen up on the "no moulting" issue.

I've moved in my thinking since that questionnaire. I'm torn, though. I have two requirements that pull in opposite directions. I want a dog I can train. I'm prepared to put in the time and effort, and learn how to do it properly. I want a dog who's obedient, reliable, and who will come when called (crucial if you're living on a boarding school campus, don't you think?). I'm thinking Labrador, in spite of it being such a cliche. But I also want a small dog, because our house isn't huge. I grew up with Border Terriers, so I'm comfortable with them, and I also like the idea of a Scottie or a Westie. Because I realise I can't have a terrier-sized Labrador, or an obedient Terrier, I've started thinking about a middle option, but nothing seems just right. What I'm really hoping, though, is that we won't find a dog, but that the dog will find us. I'm hoping our paths will just cross. Perhaps when we move to Edinburgh, someone will know someone who has a bitch who's just whelped, and that we will get a puppy on the basis of the known loveliness of the mother.

I'm rather prejudiced against rescue dogs, though I know they can be a big success, (so no offence intended to those of you with rescue dogs). First, we want a puppy, and those are rare in rescue centres. Second, I witnessed a sad story involving a rescue dog that seemed fine, but wasn't, and it put me off the idea.

As for names, currently we're on Bracken for a bitch, and Hector or Mungo for a dog. The dog names are from Hector's House, and Mary, Mungo and Midge. Thank heavens for Youtube, with which we've been able to educate our children on those favourites from our childhood past. Remember Hector? He really was a very splendid dog. I'll include a little snippet at the end of this post for you. You'll enjoy having your memory cells tickled with the theme tune.

Our favourite name, but one we will never be able to use, is Headmaster. Husband told us that in a boarding school, the Principal is usually addressed as "Headmaster". It occurred to me that if we named our dog Headmaster, that would give rise to endless opportunities for mirth. "Get down, Headmaster." "Time for walkies, Headmaster." "What are you doing in those bushes, Headmaster?" "Stop sniffing your friends' bottoms, Headmaster." We've had a lot of fun with the idea. I just hope the children keep a straight face when they meet the man.

Well, we didn't manage to shock our children visibly with the announcement of our decision, but we do shock them every time we talk about dogs and bitches. "Ooooh, Mummy used the B word!" screeches my daughter, in horrified delight.  11-yo and 8-yo genuinely didn't know that the word 'bitch' was anything other than a crude insult. Even though we've explained the original meaning of the word, they still experience a shiver of something naughty every time it comes up.

Now it's time for Hector. (Amazing, by the way, how expressive he can be, though he has no moving facial features - well, I suppose the bottom of his mouth goes up and down, but that's not a great boon for expression, is it? It's all in the voice. Even if you don't want to watch all five minutes, watch just a little bit.)

The cat is out of the bag: Part l

Except it's not a cat. It's a dog.

Yes, Bloggy Friends, we have succumbed. And now we have to explain to our children why it is, that having argued very vociferously and effectively against having a dog for the past, ooh, ten years or so, we now think it's a good idea. The parental u-turn (great post on that subject here, by the way). We do, however, have very good grounds for a change of mind. Or is it a change of heart? Perhaps both. For starters, we didn't want to obtain a dog which, one day, we'd have to ship from one continent to another. We didn't want a dog when we were in the habit of spending over two months away from home in the summer. We didn't want a dog in a climate in which for several weeks of the year it's either too cold or too hot to exercise it. We didn't live near an open space. But now we're moving, the children are getting older and therefore able to take more responsibility, and financially we're in a better position too. So we do have reliable reasons. Wow. Writing that list, I've even persuaded myself. I also think it will help us all settle in a new place, if help is needed.

I had been looking forward to telling the children. They've wanted a dog for so long, and have raised the topic of conversation so many times. A couple of years ago, they even did a PowerPoint presentation to us on the subject. When Husband and I had finally decided in favour of a canine addition to the family, we wondered if it would be fun simply to wait until the next time one of the children tried the opening gambit of "can we get a dog?", and casually reply "yes, okay then". We knew we probably wouldn't have to wait long. But in the end, we decided to tell them straight out (I was getting a bit bored of having to delete all my browsing history on the computer). I was anticipating the moment with relish. I imagined them jumping up and down with excitement, eyes wide, faces bright. What actually happened was a rather puzzled and subdued response. "Really? For real? Really?" They didn't believe us. I think they knew that we wouldn't be mean enough to tease them, pretending we'd decided to get a dog but not following through. But somehow they couldn't fully embrace the alternative, that we really had decided to get one.

Well, the initial response might have been subdued, but since we told them, the excitement has been mounting. Breed choice, gender choice, name choice, and general dog talk, have dominated the conversation. Much browsing on the internet has been done, usually involving terribly cute pictures of puppies. We've got a couple of doggie magazines (also with cute pictures). I originally wanted a dachshund named Jasper, but neither breed nor name has met with enthusiasm from the rest of the family. Ultimately the decision will be mine and Husband's - predominantly mine, since it will be me who will take most of the responsibility for the dog. But I don't want to make an unpopular choice, so the field is open. More about that in the next post.

John Lewis replies

I believe in giving people a right to reply, so I didn't just blog about my disappointment with John Lewis. I also emailed their Customer Service department, who have emailed back.

Dear Iota,

Thank you for your email regarding entering a competition on our website.

I regret the disappointment caused by the competition to win a shopping weekend only being available in France and
Germany. We have participating partners in these countries to help facilitate the implementation of the offer. I am assuming
that we do not yet have any such contacts in your country. [No contacts? Booking a flight from America to London isn't 
difficult, John Lewis. Trust me; I've done it several times.]

Never the less, I have forwarded your thoughts to our Feedback Team for consideration when designing future offers
and competitions. [Did you point out to them that the competition was only open to residents of France and Germany, but
was presented as being open to all international customers? It's not the restrictions that bothered me, but the dishonesty. Just
to clarify.]

With regards to your blog you wrote; I would like to kindly decline your request for a response. [Kindly decline?]

If I can assist you with any other matter then please do not hesitate to contact me again.

Kind regards,

R---- M------
John Lewis.com
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You disappoint me, John Lewis

One of the things that was annoying about living abroad, was that so few online retailers are geared up for you as a customer. I can't tell you the number of times I tried to order a present for a friend or family member in the UK, only to find out that I couldn't pay because my credit card had a US address. Why didn't you keep a UK credit card?, I hear you ask. I did. But even my UK credit card has a US billing address. Because the billing address is where you live. Not all of us have two houses.

Once, in an attempt to purchase an item and get round this payment problem, I said I'd sign up for a store card, thinking I'd only have to use it that one time, so no harm would be done. Of course it didn't work. I can't remember the detail of why, but I do know that it meant my unsuspecting friend, whose address I'd put in as a delivery address, received a store card of some description, Gold Customer, I seem to remember, though why she would ever want to shop at Toys R Us (yes, I'm looking at you), I can't imagine. And I still couldn't pay for the gift.

Some companies have the imagination or wit or brain or whatever it is to get round this problem. It is not difficult. It just means you have to have two spaces to put in two different addresses: the delivery address and the card billing address. And the card billing address has to be able to accept a 5-digit zip code, not just a 6-digit post code. Maybe it's more complicated than that behind the scenes, but some companies manage it, so why not all?

The other way round the problem, is to use your own individual imagination or wit or brain or whatever. I did just this recently, when buying a gift for a god-daughter. Last summer, when I was up in Fife, I heard about a friend who had set up a small knitting business. It started as a knitting circle, meeting one evening a week in a cafe, and has now become a shop. I tucked that piece of knowledge into the dark recesses of my mind, and a few months later, not wanting to subscribe another friend to Toys R Rubbish in a vain attempt to spend money, instead I phoned my craft-and-knitting friend, purchased a felt craft kit over the phone, and asked her to gift wrap it and post it for me. You could do the same, by visiting this website. And if you need a reason to visit it, beyond all the obvious ones to do with quality, choice, and supporting a new small business, then if I told you it was a shop called The Woolly Brew, would that persuade you? How great a name is that? Greater than Toys R Plastic, that's for sure.

So how does this all relate to John Lewis? Patience... I'm getting to that. John Lewis was one of my go-to companies for purchasing gifts for people in the UK, when I lived in the US. It's a brand name you can rely on - except for that blip about 16 years ago, when they fulfillled wedding lists with seconds china, on the assumption (correct in my case) that the recipients would be in a haze of newly-wed bliss or befuddlement, and not notice. But I've forgiven them that blip, I've always liked the company, and found them reliable. I receive emails from them, and today, they sent me one saying "Exclusive to our international customers; win your shopping weekend in London". Yay. Well, who wouldn't want to win a week-end in London (even one without a hyphen - or is that me being old-fashioned?) So I thought I'd enter, but since I haven't technically been an international customer since last Wednesday, I checked out the Terms and Conditions. I discovered that to be eligible to enter, you have to live in France or Germany. Funny that, because I don't. And I assume they know I don't. And during the process of entering the competition, it doesn't become apparent that you need to. When you are asked to specify where you live, you are given a drop-down menu of hundreds of countries (you know the one).

Sorry, John Lewis, but I think if your competition is only open to people living in France or Germany, you should say so. You specify that France includes Corsica, so you've obviously thought about it. And yes, you require entrants to tick a box saying they accept the Terms and Conditions, and so I suppose it's their own fault if they have failed to read them, but I expect better from you. It's now going to irritate me whenever I use those bowls that are clearly seconds.


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Home

OK, so I'm back. Not home, but back. Which means that I am on the east side of the Atlantic.

I left the place which has been home for five and a half years, and now I am at the place which was home throughout my whole childhood. And when our belongings arrive in their container, so long as it doesn't fall off the side of the ship and plummet into the depths of the North Atlantic, we will take them to the house which is waiting to become our new home.

So where does that leave me for the moment? I've always found those slogans that people have on display in their houses a little trite. You know the kind of thing I mean. "Home is where the heart is", or "East, West, Home is Best". But I shouldn't be so critical. They are brave attempts to capture an elusive concept. "Home" is what?

A place? A house, a town, a country, or a continent?

People? A family, friends, a community?

A space? Your own heart, or perhaps even a blog?

Or a feeling? Yes, I believe "home" can be a feeling. And that's why I say I am back, but not home. Yet.