People in football who I respect have phoned me and said the only thing wrong with our performance on Saturday was that we didn't get a goal.
So now you know. To beat the other team, you need to score more goals than them. That's the bit missing.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
The beautiful game
After England's dismal performance against Israel, manager Steve McClaren came out with the following words of wisdom:
So now you know. To beat the other team, you need to score more goals than them. That's the bit missing.
So now you know. To beat the other team, you need to score more goals than them. That's the bit missing.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Bureaucracy
Coming from Sweden, I know a thing or two about bureaucracy, you know like - banks actually work, trains run when they are supposed to run, tax returns are returned, houses can be bought and sold without a year of infinite pain, estate agents don't lie..
Almost all of the above is true. I just put in that bit about estate agents to make sure you're still with me.
Anyway, the UK has many good things about it, but a working bureaucracy it has not. Which is kind of funny, seeing that they invented the modern civil service. Still. One of the many incredibly painful things one has to suffer here is the annual renewal of the vehicle tax disk. To get this in perspective, in Sweden we also pay road tax - no surprises there I hear - and display a tax 'rectangle' that sits in the middle of the back reg plate. Every year you get this delivered in the post box automatically with a pay slip that you can pay over the counter or on line. The authorities know if you've had your vehicle MOTd, taxed and insured.
In the UK the process - until now - was somewhat more involved. Get the car MOTd on time. Fair enough. Get the car insured for the same time. Car insurance is almost as much pain as buying a house. Instead of having car insurance being a standard commodity of very little variation, the market is complex, enormous and with a huge variance. The thrifty can save quite a bit if prepared to spend a few days playing insurance companies off against eachother. Wait for insurance certificate to arrive by post, together with reams of paper. Wait for the DVLA to send you a notification that your vehicle needs to be taxed. Now the fun starts.
In any other western civilization, the licensing authority will know if a vehicle is taxed, insured and MOTd (inspected). In the UK, it's up to a post office clerk to judge. Only some post offices have the authority to issue tax disks. So you trundle down in your precious lunch hour instead of going to the gym, queue for ages, and get to deal with grumpy and incompetent spotty-faced yoof, alternatively sour-faced old hag with God complex behind the desk.
It shouldn't be that hard. Three pieces of paper that has to match, and be covering the same date range. But it is.
- Wrong insurance certificate, mate.
I look at my certificate. It's got the car reg. It's got the policy number. It's got my name on it. It's the right date range. It's paid for.
- The one you need looks exactly the same, but has a stylised signature by the insurance company chairman at the bottom.
I look over my shoulder at the long queue forming, and at my watch, now 45 minutes of queuing apparently wasted. I plead to the man's sense of good will. The form needed looks exactly the same - it's got all the details required, can't we just chalk this up as a mistake on my behalf, slap my wrist and don't do it again?
Apparently not.
So I go out to the car, swearing, to pick up the other bit of paper that I accidently left on the passenger seat, and join the back of the queue.
After 30 minutes of queuing I hand over the papers to the man again, who studiously examines the same papers - bar the insurance certificate. He looks satisfied. He rings the till.
- That'd be 180 ponds please. Will that be cash or cheque, sir?
I've already got my VISA card half way out of the wallet. Somehow, I'd failed to recall that the post office (at the time) was a credit-card free zone.
- There's a cash point just around the corner, sir. You can just about see it through the window, just beyond the end of the queue.
Anyway, those were the days.
Today, I ordered - and paid for - my new tax disk on-line. Long live the DVLA who finally entered the modern era.
Almost all of the above is true. I just put in that bit about estate agents to make sure you're still with me.
Anyway, the UK has many good things about it, but a working bureaucracy it has not. Which is kind of funny, seeing that they invented the modern civil service. Still. One of the many incredibly painful things one has to suffer here is the annual renewal of the vehicle tax disk. To get this in perspective, in Sweden we also pay road tax - no surprises there I hear - and display a tax 'rectangle' that sits in the middle of the back reg plate. Every year you get this delivered in the post box automatically with a pay slip that you can pay over the counter or on line. The authorities know if you've had your vehicle MOTd, taxed and insured.
In the UK the process - until now - was somewhat more involved. Get the car MOTd on time. Fair enough. Get the car insured for the same time. Car insurance is almost as much pain as buying a house. Instead of having car insurance being a standard commodity of very little variation, the market is complex, enormous and with a huge variance. The thrifty can save quite a bit if prepared to spend a few days playing insurance companies off against eachother. Wait for insurance certificate to arrive by post, together with reams of paper. Wait for the DVLA to send you a notification that your vehicle needs to be taxed. Now the fun starts.
In any other western civilization, the licensing authority will know if a vehicle is taxed, insured and MOTd (inspected). In the UK, it's up to a post office clerk to judge. Only some post offices have the authority to issue tax disks. So you trundle down in your precious lunch hour instead of going to the gym, queue for ages, and get to deal with grumpy and incompetent spotty-faced yoof, alternatively sour-faced old hag with God complex behind the desk.
It shouldn't be that hard. Three pieces of paper that has to match, and be covering the same date range. But it is.
- Wrong insurance certificate, mate.
I look at my certificate. It's got the car reg. It's got the policy number. It's got my name on it. It's the right date range. It's paid for.
- The one you need looks exactly the same, but has a stylised signature by the insurance company chairman at the bottom.
I look over my shoulder at the long queue forming, and at my watch, now 45 minutes of queuing apparently wasted. I plead to the man's sense of good will. The form needed looks exactly the same - it's got all the details required, can't we just chalk this up as a mistake on my behalf, slap my wrist and don't do it again?
Apparently not.
So I go out to the car, swearing, to pick up the other bit of paper that I accidently left on the passenger seat, and join the back of the queue.
After 30 minutes of queuing I hand over the papers to the man again, who studiously examines the same papers - bar the insurance certificate. He looks satisfied. He rings the till.
- That'd be 180 ponds please. Will that be cash or cheque, sir?
I've already got my VISA card half way out of the wallet. Somehow, I'd failed to recall that the post office (at the time) was a credit-card free zone.
- There's a cash point just around the corner, sir. You can just about see it through the window, just beyond the end of the queue.
Anyway, those were the days.
Today, I ordered - and paid for - my new tax disk on-line. Long live the DVLA who finally entered the modern era.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Vigeland Sculpture Park
We walked around the fascinating Vigeland Sculpture Park in Oslo. Hundreds of sculptures in cast bronze and granite depict primarily naked humans in all shapes and forms, culminating in a huge monolith made up of human forms. The theme is the 'circle of life', and the park is the frequent scene of both protests and frat boy pranks. Recently, some religious organisation walked around the park covering up all the 'nakedness' in a protest against the growing sexualisation of society. Curious in itself, given that the park is nearly 100 years old..
One of the smaller bronze casts of a boy is often stolen, apparently.
And, no, the photo is not upside down.
One of the smaller bronze casts of a boy is often stolen, apparently.
And, no, the photo is not upside down.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Water on Mars
An enormous amount of water ice has been discovered on Mars. Let the terraforming begin.
Monday, March 12, 2007
England-France
So this strange six-nations is continuing apace. Wales lost to Italy after some refereeing confusion in the dying seconds of the game. If it wasn't for if, eh. The Welsh may carp, but the stronger side won. Had anyone guessed before hand that Wales would be taking the wooden spoon, most would have laughed out loud. Good for Italy, and good for world Rugby. After the shoeing that England suffered in the hands of the Irish last round, no one expected England to be able to stand up to the French. Much had been made in the press of the return of 35yo Mike Catt to the team, and to the captaincy. Fair to say he shut up his critics after an emphatic win at Twickenham. Moreover, after a few years of dysfunctional play at number 10, suddenly Ashton's got three world-class players to choose from, given the performances of youngsters Flood and Geraghty. The forwards that got so beat up at Croke Park suddenly showed some grit and determination to totally dominate the field.
Is England back in time for the World Cup?
Is England back in time for the World Cup?
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Leif G W Persson
Continuing my mission of trawling through the Swedish canon of crime writing on my daily commute, I've just finished Leif G W Persson's "Mellan Sommarens Langtan och Vinterns Kold" - approximately "Between the longing of summer and the mid-winter cold", a story that starts with the apparent suicide of an American freelance journalist, but eventually tells the story about the murder of the Swedish prime minister. Persson, like his friend Jan Guillou, writes about real events and real people with a paper thin disguise which makes it amusing for the reader that is aware of the comings and goings in Swedish politics. This book paints a very bleak picture of the Swedish police, and especially its security forces. Persson is a professor in criminology and a renowned expert on crime and the police, which makes it even more disturbing. In Persson's Sweden, the police is rife with racism, misogyny and incompetence. The book mirrors the very real murder of prime minister Olof Palme, complete with the incomprehensible obsession with Kurdish separatists that followed, which any thinking individual found ludicrous at the time. In Persson's novel the prime minister was killed by a psychopath heading up the external operations of the secret police.
I imagine that Persson's description of the daily grind and jargon of the police is fairly authentic, but it left a bitter aftertaste. The bad and incompetent float to the top, and the capable people look for early retirement.
Same as everywhere else, I guess.
I imagine that Persson's description of the daily grind and jargon of the police is fairly authentic, but it left a bitter aftertaste. The bad and incompetent float to the top, and the capable people look for early retirement.
Same as everywhere else, I guess.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Scarpa Spirit 3
My new Scarpa Spirit 3 ski-touring boots. They have insets for Dynafit bindings (see the little metal indents at the toe), and a toggle allowing the foot to bend. Complete with thermo-fitted inners, they ski really well downhill and climb well uphill.
Friday, March 02, 2007
Skiing in the land that music forgot
Leysin, Switzerland, off-pisting with ISM. No snow when we arrived, and our hearts sank. We finally found the chalet and got to bed around midnight. Sunday morning and the situation looks no better with a gentle rainfall. We walk into town to pick up some touring boots - they're hard to come by in the UK, and we walk out with two pairs of Scarpas and a lighter bank balance. Rental skis with Diamirs, skins and ski crampons complete the kit list, and now it's started snowing - a lot. With zero visibility and half the day gone, we retreat to the chalet and in the evening we meet up with the rest of the people on this jolly and Steve Jones, our main guide. A diverse, but easy-going crowd. John A we already know from Bristol. A couple, Suzi and Jon, from Gloucestershire. Gordon, a pilot with BA. Robin, a (former) partner with one of the big accountancy firms, on a year's (!) gardening leave before taking up a position with another big accountancy firm. Steve's been living here guiding for 25 years. He looks the part - a wizened mountain man.
When we wake up the next morning, the Alps are covered with a foot and a half of fresh powder. We get introduced to Alex, a Swiss ski instructor, who's job it is to assess and tutor our powder skills. He's a very enthusiastic fellow with that polished style that only ski instructors have. We have a fun day in the fluffy powder, including a sobering session in the avalanche park where we try our hands at locating 'victims' using our beacons. It's difficult, and we don't manage to find any within the stipulated 15 minutes. The bell goes, signalling time's out - for the victims. Effective beacon search requires practice.
The next day Steve has to shoot off to London for a funeral, so we're left in the hands of another Swiss guide, Yvon, for the next few days. Yvon is first and foremost a guide - he takes people on remote and spectacular mountain days, rather than teaching skiing - eventhough he is is a qualified ski instructor.
"I can either ski powder off piste every day, or teach kids the snowplough" he said, and I can't say I disagree.
Yvon takes us to neighbouring Diablreret and we head off on some proper drops in a full on tempo. Excellent skiing indeed. We finish off with a long powdery run through the trees into the village of Villars before heading back. Next morning sees warmer temperatures, and Yvon takes us on our first ski climb to the summit of Tour de Famelon, 2137m. I've never used climbing skins before, but I have done lots of x-country skiing in my youth, so I'm familiar with free heel skiing. It's a strangely hypnotic experience, and we've set off in a moderate tempo with Yvon breaking trail. It's steady, and sweaty, work without being as aerobically taxing as say running. We climb the 500-odd metres in about 1.5 hours. There are some significant skills and fitness differentials within the group. Add to that a factor 4 avalanche danger, Yvon chose the easiest possible descent route. We wound our way back down into the valley in complete alpine splendor and solitude. Reality hit us with a bang when we're about to head for a Vin Chaude and look up towards where we'd started our climb - one side had totally disappeared in a slab avalanche - a safe distance away from our tracks, but still. Yvon says with a wry smile that he'd seen it go but thought he'd better not mention it until we got back down.
During the night I appear to have contracted some stomach nasty, and sadly skiing is over for me for this time. Thursday saw more rain, and I didn't miss much by all accounts. Today, Friday, Steve's taken the group to Diableret for another skinning ascent.
And what is it about the Swiss and the poodle-haired 80s krautrock heard at every lift station?
So, in summary, ISM is cool. Conditions started out great, but deteriorated into slush and rain. Ski touring is definitely something I'd like to do lots more of. Avalanche beacons require lots of training. Diahorrea and puking go poorly with skiing.
When we wake up the next morning, the Alps are covered with a foot and a half of fresh powder. We get introduced to Alex, a Swiss ski instructor, who's job it is to assess and tutor our powder skills. He's a very enthusiastic fellow with that polished style that only ski instructors have. We have a fun day in the fluffy powder, including a sobering session in the avalanche park where we try our hands at locating 'victims' using our beacons. It's difficult, and we don't manage to find any within the stipulated 15 minutes. The bell goes, signalling time's out - for the victims. Effective beacon search requires practice.
The next day Steve has to shoot off to London for a funeral, so we're left in the hands of another Swiss guide, Yvon, for the next few days. Yvon is first and foremost a guide - he takes people on remote and spectacular mountain days, rather than teaching skiing - eventhough he is is a qualified ski instructor.
"I can either ski powder off piste every day, or teach kids the snowplough" he said, and I can't say I disagree.
Yvon takes us to neighbouring Diablreret and we head off on some proper drops in a full on tempo. Excellent skiing indeed. We finish off with a long powdery run through the trees into the village of Villars before heading back. Next morning sees warmer temperatures, and Yvon takes us on our first ski climb to the summit of Tour de Famelon, 2137m. I've never used climbing skins before, but I have done lots of x-country skiing in my youth, so I'm familiar with free heel skiing. It's a strangely hypnotic experience, and we've set off in a moderate tempo with Yvon breaking trail. It's steady, and sweaty, work without being as aerobically taxing as say running. We climb the 500-odd metres in about 1.5 hours. There are some significant skills and fitness differentials within the group. Add to that a factor 4 avalanche danger, Yvon chose the easiest possible descent route. We wound our way back down into the valley in complete alpine splendor and solitude. Reality hit us with a bang when we're about to head for a Vin Chaude and look up towards where we'd started our climb - one side had totally disappeared in a slab avalanche - a safe distance away from our tracks, but still. Yvon says with a wry smile that he'd seen it go but thought he'd better not mention it until we got back down.
During the night I appear to have contracted some stomach nasty, and sadly skiing is over for me for this time. Thursday saw more rain, and I didn't miss much by all accounts. Today, Friday, Steve's taken the group to Diableret for another skinning ascent.
And what is it about the Swiss and the poodle-haired 80s krautrock heard at every lift station?
So, in summary, ISM is cool. Conditions started out great, but deteriorated into slush and rain. Ski touring is definitely something I'd like to do lots more of. Avalanche beacons require lots of training. Diahorrea and puking go poorly with skiing.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Warney
I've talked a bit about Shane Warne, the world's best spin bowler in the past on this blog. Here's the evidence:
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Swimming
Due to my weekends now being planned out until the beginning of the summer, I've had to abandon my Saturday front-crawl clinic at the Bristol Uni pool. I fully accept that I will never be a great swimmer, but the lessons have been most excellent, and I wish I could carry on. I got to a point where I can actually swim from one end of the pool to the other - and breathe. Several things have struck me in this endeavor. Firstly, learning a complex physical skill is actually quite hard as an adult, which has opened my eyes and I feel humility and respect towards the number of friends I've dragged up and down the ski slopes over the years with claims that it's really quite straight-forward, honestly. Secondly, it's effing hard work, almost certainly as a consequence of my rubbish technique. One lap in the pool feels harder than a 10k run - I don't seem to be able to swim in a relaxed fashion.
A new gym has opened very close to work, with the added bonus of a swimming pool. It's only 20m, but that's perfect for me to paddle up and down at lunch times trying to put to practice the lessons I've had.
A new gym has opened very close to work, with the added bonus of a swimming pool. It's only 20m, but that's perfect for me to paddle up and down at lunch times trying to put to practice the lessons I've had.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Weekends
Weekends are too short to make up for the suffering that is the working week. Spending the last few nights on an air mattress in near arctic conditions, my dreams were remixing the Arn Saga - which has been my commute companion for the last few weeks - and several of the angst-ridden projects running at work. Most peculiar.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
The Truth
We were driving up the motor way towards Leicester when Sarah suddenly exclaims:
- I love the fact that you're Swedish. It's a challenge compared to an ordinary boyfriend.
What can you say to follow that?
- I love the fact that you're Swedish. It's a challenge compared to an ordinary boyfriend.
What can you say to follow that?
Friday, February 16, 2007
Friday
It's Friday again.
On the news this morning there was the astonishing revelation that the secret to staying fit and healthy is to eat a healthy diet, do exercise, cut down on booze and fags. If nothing else helps, cosmetic surgery. A new magazine has been launched to that effect. Another magazine is to be launched based on the observation that bears do indeed shit in the woods. Plans are afoot for the one-legged duck swims in circles edition.
Elsewhere it was revealed that the UK is the worst country (just after the US) in the western world for children to grow up. Sweden came in second after Belgium of all places.
Ski trip is drawing closer. Snow situation still iffy, but plenty of 4k peaks available from where we're based. Can't wait.
On the news this morning there was the astonishing revelation that the secret to staying fit and healthy is to eat a healthy diet, do exercise, cut down on booze and fags. If nothing else helps, cosmetic surgery. A new magazine has been launched to that effect. Another magazine is to be launched based on the observation that bears do indeed shit in the woods. Plans are afoot for the one-legged duck swims in circles edition.
Elsewhere it was revealed that the UK is the worst country (just after the US) in the western world for children to grow up. Sweden came in second after Belgium of all places.
Ski trip is drawing closer. Snow situation still iffy, but plenty of 4k peaks available from where we're based. Can't wait.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Valentine
So, Valentine's Day - the height of imported commercialism. Just Say No. Sarah and I are going down the wall for a spot of climbing, hopefully reaping the benefits of everybody else being out, thus having the wall to ourselves.
Had some good friends over for dinner last night, and W told a story from the front line of the anesthetist's working day. A colleague had been trying in vain to give a pregnant woman an epidural, but she was thrashing about making the procedure dangerous.
- Now, if you don't hold still, I might miss your spine and stab the needle in the baby's eye.
She held very still after that.
Had some good friends over for dinner last night, and W told a story from the front line of the anesthetist's working day. A colleague had been trying in vain to give a pregnant woman an epidural, but she was thrashing about making the procedure dangerous.
- Now, if you don't hold still, I might miss your spine and stab the needle in the baby's eye.
She held very still after that.
Friday, February 09, 2007
House of Cards
How's this for freaky coincidences - spotted the 'House of Cards' box set on a friend's book shelf the other day and borrowed it. Been enjoying it over the last few evenings, and then today it's reported that Ian Richardson has passed avay suddenly.
House of Cards is a masterful display of Machiavellian cunning and political scheming of the highest order. Ian Richardson is (was) superb as Francis Urquhart, Tory Chief Whip, in the post-thatcher years. Used to shady back-room deals, he decides to take on the PM by fair means or foul. Mainly foul. He is an obviously evil man, but with the weird charm and charisma of a Greg House or Richard III. What he doesn't know about wielding power is not worth knowing.
Yet another outstanding BBC production.
House of Cards is a masterful display of Machiavellian cunning and political scheming of the highest order. Ian Richardson is (was) superb as Francis Urquhart, Tory Chief Whip, in the post-thatcher years. Used to shady back-room deals, he decides to take on the PM by fair means or foul. Mainly foul. He is an obviously evil man, but with the weird charm and charisma of a Greg House or Richard III. What he doesn't know about wielding power is not worth knowing.
Yet another outstanding BBC production.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Strength, power, power-endurance and endurance
It's difficult to train for all-round climbing, as the demands are sometimes conflicting. Become stronger, and you'll lose your endurance. Train endurance and you'll end up weaker. But the sticking point is almost certainly 'power-endurance' - that is, being able to do moves repeatedly just under your max without pumping out. The hardest boulder problems I've done are aeons harder than anything I've ever encountered on a route. There are of course other components playing into this - a long trad background has lead to an aversion to anything but onsighting, and I've had to actively repurpose my brain to a sport-climbing mentality. But I've never attempted anything harder than UK Tech 6a on a route, say about V1 or V2, yet bouldered up to V6. That's an astronomical difference, and I'm not even a boulderer.
I can only conclude that I probably have sufficient power, but lousy power endurance. Or, somewhat less palatable, maybe I'm simply too scared to climb to my limit on trad, and too lazy to work sport routes?
I can only conclude that I probably have sufficient power, but lousy power endurance. Or, somewhat less palatable, maybe I'm simply too scared to climb to my limit on trad, and too lazy to work sport routes?
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Jonny come lately
The Six Nations' Rugby Tournament is upon us again, and no one expects England to achieve much. English Rugby is in turmoil with the manager being forced to resign after a disastrous result since - well, since the last World Cup, let's be fair. A host of world class players retired, a feud broke out with the club game - and God's gift to Rugby, World Cup winner Jonny Wilkinson has been injured for three whole years. Until now. To many's surprise, Jonny is actually fit, and even more surprising, new coach Brian Ashton named Jonny in the starting XV in the opener vs Scotland. Most pundits were pouring scorn over Aston for putting his faith in someone who hasn't really played at all for three whole years.
However, class is something that transcends form, and Jonny is a real class act. Now, three years ago you would have expected England to pile 50 points on Scotland. This year the bets were even. To an astounded sold out Twickenham it must have seemed like a time warp; like the three last years never happened. Golden boy was on fire, just like that day some three years ago in Australia. Sure, the opposition was weaker yesterday, and harder games are yet to come, but to claim Man of the Match after three years' absence is nothing short of staggering.
It's also a damning indictment of the state of English Rugby that it couldn't produce a credible contender at number 10 in the mean time.
Twickenham gave Jonny a well-deserved standing ovation as he left the field.
However, class is something that transcends form, and Jonny is a real class act. Now, three years ago you would have expected England to pile 50 points on Scotland. This year the bets were even. To an astounded sold out Twickenham it must have seemed like a time warp; like the three last years never happened. Golden boy was on fire, just like that day some three years ago in Australia. Sure, the opposition was weaker yesterday, and harder games are yet to come, but to claim Man of the Match after three years' absence is nothing short of staggering.
It's also a damning indictment of the state of English Rugby that it couldn't produce a credible contender at number 10 in the mean time.
Twickenham gave Jonny a well-deserved standing ovation as he left the field.
Friday, February 02, 2007
TFI Friday
Weekend starts here! Or, weekend starts after another five hours of project meetings. We're very Agile in our approach to project management. Heading for sunny Twyford this weekend to meet up with the usual suspects. The following exchange took place:
Chris: Who's coming for a run with me on Saturday morning?
Cath responds with:
Chris: I'd really hoped for more of a structured weekend.
Chris: Who's coming for a run with me on Saturday morning?
Cath responds with:
Plan for weekend (and yes it does resemble a military operation):
Fri-
Nana arrives after work (with invitations, car keys and make up bag!!)
Nana and Cath make invites, Dave cooks dinner
Chris arrives on last train from London (Cath and Dave will likely be in bed but will leave back door open - go thru gate at side of house assuming Nana doesn't want to stay up)
Sat -
6am Dave leaves for work
8am Cath to stables
Nana and Chris amuse themselves/make invites (Nana do you want me to get some cream paper so you can use our computer to do the insides??)
Chris goes for run
14:30 - Dave back from work Cath back from stables
Sarah and Stef arrive hopefully before
16:00 Eng v Scotland (Super 12 if Eng game is appalling)
18:00 Cath to stables to put horses to bed and collect take away on way back (mainly because I can't see how I'm going to fit shopping for food in!)
Sun -
6am Dave leaves for work
8am - Cath to stables (to ride horse no1 and muck out)
10am - Cath back from stables
10:30am - Nana, Sarah and Cath appointment with dressmaker (she has confirmed she can see us just waiting to hear back from her re time)
11:30am - Sarah and Cath to stables to ride other 2 horses
13:00 Juniors arrive
13:30 - Sunday lunch at Green Man
14:30 - Dave back from work
15:00 - depart for various homes (or stay to watch Ire v Wales)
16:00 - Dave takes Nix and Shane to Heathrow
Simple really!!!
Let me know if any comments etc
Chris: I'd really hoped for more of a structured weekend.
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