Facing My Fear of Farewells

One thing that really saddens me more than anything else, and a thing I handle particularly badly, is farewells. Not only from people, but from places too. Some places just don’t do it for me but there are others where I seriously believe I pick up a spirit, and I feel a strange, almost “goosebumpy” sensation when I am there and that spirit is around me.

There is no rhyme or reason where some of these places are concerned. Abingdon in Oxfordshire is a pretty town in places, but there are prettier ones all along the Thames. Ham in Surrey is fairly nondescript. Cliftonville near Margate in Kent, once a cheerful seaside town, is but an empty shell. And yet for me they all have an inexplicable gravitational pull. Some people believe in ghosts in the form of human spirits, but for me there seems to be an energy generated by some past event or period of time that seems to linger, and which I reconnect with when I set foot in these places.

There is more logic to the affection I have for my little bolthole in Portugal. It is a very pleasant place, both aesthetically and in terms of the life I enjoy when I am here. I visit Portugal for a week every year. In fact this time around I was fortunate enough to have been able to enjoy two weeks in very quick succession, but that was sadly a one-off. I can’t afford two weeks every year, and timeshares are frankly a rip-off anyway.

For my last five visits my wife Caroline and my son Joe have not come over with me, for various good reasons, although my daughter Rosie has been with me for the last two. Of course I think the world of them both, but they can look after themselves and being away from them for a week doesn’t tug at the heartstrings all that much.

Being away from here for 51 weeks is a different matter. All sorts of irrational fears invariably report present. Will I be healthy enough to travel, or for that matter alive, this time next year? Will they have knocked the place to the ground? Will all the friends I like to think I have made here have found better jobs and moved on?

Because, obviously, it is about people too. On most holidays we meet people casually and sometimes we become friends with them. Then we all go home and usually we never see nor hear from them again.

The worst example of this I can think of was a coach trip that Caroline and I took to Austria back in 1996. For ten long days the same coach party is together, long journeys from place to place, meals together at restaurants along the way, all in the same bar at the hotel in the evening, quiz nights and talent contests. Then the long, long journey home, a last evening as a group at a hotel in France, a few drinks on the ferry and then, at Medway service station, suddenly the realisation strikes that you will never have anything to do with any of these people again. For a soppy old romantic like me it can actually be quite a devastating experience.

This being a timeshare we do sometimes see the same faces from one year to the next year, and I take comfort from this. This year though the clientele was a little different, the week having a Country and Western theme and the usual karaoke folk and talent showers presumably having swapped their bookings for a different week or jetted off elsewhere. I hope they will be back next time.

I am reassured by the work that is going on around the pool, noisy though it is. They wouldn’t be doing all this, I guess, if they had plans to turn the site into a multi-storey car park or an international airport.

So for me it’s back to the grind tomorrow, hoping that I can raise the price of an “in-betweeny” for September or October, and hopefully also we can be here then as a family.

Back in Portugal

I’m back in Portugal, chuffed to be able to spend an extra week in the sun due to the fact that we didn’t use the timeshare one year back in the dim and distant past.

This time my daughter Rosie is with me. On Sunday she earned a lot of respect from balcony dwellers by jumping into the outdoor swimming pool. By comparison with England it is warm here (t-shirt and shorts), but it isn’t that warm!

I’m very embarrassed that I still can’t speak the language, other than to order a beer and say “Thank You”. I keep promising myself that I’ll take a crash course, but with three jobs and counting I never seem to find the time. It seems so disrespectful to travel to another land year after year and just to expect everybody to converse with me in my native tongue, even though everyone at the site is completely fluent.

Timeshares are for mugs, in this day and age non-owners can enjoy all the facilities we have for half the price. But I do recommend the Clube Praia da Oura to anybody looking to spend a week away from the rain and the cold.

Tomorrow we are off to Seville, partly so that Rosie can at least tell her posh friends that she has been to a new country. Hasta la vista (or is that Italian?).

A week away in Bournemouth

Last week my family and I spent a few nights on the south coast at Bournemouth, the first time we had been away en famille since we visited the Isle of Wight just before Christmas last.

That we were able to do so was purely a result of Caroline's diligence in collecting her Tesco Clubcard points. Unbeknown to me (until a few weeks ago) these can be exchanged for four times their face value on certain services and products, as a consequence of which we were able to spend four nights at the Britannia Hotel, an unpretentious but very pleasant three-star abode a few yards from the top of the scenic East Cliff, at no additional cost.

Bournemouth has one of the cleanest and, in my view, one of the most pleasant seafronts around. The town itself is unspectacular, and it is clear that the local authority invests most heavily in its attractions around the coastline. Although ordinarily I am not into flashy cocktail joints, being more of a traditional pub man, I do recommend the Aruba bar at the entrance to the pier - whether you are looking for a beer, some light food or something more exotic.

During the daytimes we tended to spend most of our time around the beach, where I became very sunburned (including on my scalp thanks to my severe new, "accidental" haircut) and each evening, after a swim, we spent an hour or two in the hotel bar with some light entertainment and several very cold glasses of Bulmers.

When it was time to leave we took a slight detour through the New Forest, where we stopped off at Burley for a cream tea and a close up view of the horses, which my animal-loving daughter Rosie particularly enjoyed.

Much though I love my home town of Isleworth and its very special people I do feel the need to get away at times. I think we'll visit Bournemouth, and the Britannia, again.

Greece is the word

It only seems like yesterday that my son Joe and daughter Rosie went out on their own for the first time to the off-licence across the road, to bring us back some milk and a bottle of pop. I remember the sense of pride they both had in being allowed to venture out and cross the street without the protective custody of their parents. It was a truly defining moment in our relationship with our children.

So this morning I felt rather strange as I stood with Joe in Terminal 5, at 5.00 am, seeing him off on a flight to Athens with his school. Last year he had declined to travel on the Year Seven expedition to Kent but this year, it would seem, Athens fazes him not a bit.

I envy my son his experience. I have never been to Greece and would love to do so one day. No doubt Joe will be itching to show us around.

Serves you right, Miss...

I've just got back indoors after seeing my 12-year-old daughter Rosie off on her bus to school this morning (Caroline's turn tomorrow, hooray!).

At the bus stop with us was a girl of about eighteen. Suddenly, without warning and seemingly with total indifference to the fact that we were standing beside her, said girl proceeded to spit on the ground in front of her. I'll refrain from being too descriptive as we approach breakfast time, but it was no small spit. In fact it was a real gozza.

There then followed one of those "should I or shouldn't I?" moments. My public duty was to remonstrate with her over her disgustingly anti-social act. But in a short while my daughter would be on the bus with her and I'd not be there to protect her should the girl decide to take it out on her. My concern for my daughter's safety won the day, and I bit my tongue.

A minute or two later the girl produced a cereal bar from her bag. As she went to open it she dropped it on the ground. Right slap bang in her own spit!

The look on her face as her predicament dawned on her was a picture to behold. She shuddered and grimaced as she proceeded to wipe the wrapper clean (yes, she was that hungry) and she couldn't help but notice Rosie and I chuckling as she did so.

It's moments like that that make it almost worth getting up early for.

Proud to support our successful community football club

In gave me great pleasure on Friday to welcome Manager Andy Scott, Captain Kevin O'Connor and several other delegates from Brentford Football Club to a Reception given by the Mayor at Hounslow Civic Centre in recognition of their success in gaining promotion to League One last season as League Two Champions.

Both the Mayor and the Deputy Leader of the Council, Mark Bowen - standing in for the Council Leader - paid tribute in two moving speeches not only to the team's prowess on the pitch, but also to its repeated success as a community club, providing learning and sporting opportunities for local youngsters across the borough. I was privileged to be able to say a few words myself too, before handing over to Andy Scott.

My wife Caroline (Councillor Andrews to some), my kids Rosie and Joe, and Rosie's friend Siobhan - a Brentford nut - also came along and seemed to enjoy the evening. They are pictured above posing with Kevin and Andy, and Joe is below with the League Two trophy.

Getting away from it all

When your twelve-year-old daughter would rather stay at home and nip across the road to a fete at her old primary school that go away on a family holiday, you realise that you are either a terrifically boring father organising terrifically boring outings or that the kids are just fast growing up.

But Rosie is Rosie, and as a consequence of her decision we concluded that I should go away with Joe for my quarterly £9.50 pilgrimage to the Isle of Wight while the girls would remain back home in Isleworth. For about the third time in a row, we stayed at the excellent Rookley Country Park, although we did also pay a visit to our other stamping grounds at Fairway, Lower Hyde, Whitecliff Bay, Thorness Bay and Landguard.

And didn't he just love the attention? A whole weekend of flitting from toy shop to burger joint to amusement arcade. The computer may say no but unfortunately Daddy always says yes, and without the tempering influence of his more sensible mother I was always going to be a lamb to the slaughter.

But much though I love my home town it is always good to get across the sea (inasmuch as the Solent is a sea) and recharge the batteries, whatever the collateral damage.

Now I'm back, albeit exhausted and impoverished, and raring to go once again.

How's this for a decision?

Tomorrow morning when I wake up I must come to terms with an utterly life-changing decision that I have been compelled to take.

Tomorrow I, an avowed carnivore throughout my life, will be going vegetarian, possibly for as long as nine or ten years without cessation.

Make no mistake, there is nothing I like more than a Lamb Jalfrezi, a Shish Kebab with chilli peppers or Chicken Piri-Piri by the pool in my Portugese bolthole. Like most people I dislike animal cruelty and have been known to boycott the odd product that had its origins in some barbaric practice. But I've always reassured myself with the thought that if God didn't want us to eat animals He wouldn't have made them out of meat.

But with my daughter Rosie having spent the last two years of her life as a vegan who doesn't eat vegetables, life has been a constant battle for Caroline and I trying to ensure that she gets all her nutrients and calories. Somehow, and I don't know how, she has managed to maintain an "average" weight for her height and has all the outward signs of being a healthy girl. However, when yesterday she relented whilst contemplating a plate of baked beans and told me that she would renounce veganism for vegetarianism if I agreed to go veggie too I had no option but to agree.

On the surface of it it seems very easy to be a vegetarian these days. Virtually every restaurant has vegetarian dishes and the days of having to survive on a diet of lettuce leaves and carrots are long gone. No so veganism - even today few eating establishments seem to acknowledge its existence and Rosie has often been stuck with a plate of chips while the rest of us tucked in to a juicy steak.

I've not the foggiest how I am going to cope with it, but I'll revisit it here for posterity sometime soon. Watch this space, and have pity.

Bees thrash Accrington, but promotion must wait

The family and I spent a thrilling afternoon at Griffin Park on Saturday watching Brentford FC comprehensively demolish the legendary Accrington Stanley 3-0, but sadly the promotion that would have been assured had the matches involving Bury and Exeter gone our way was not to be and we go to Dagenham & Redbridge on Tuesday looking for three points which would secure our passage back to League One.

After the match we had the opportunity to help select the Man of the Match, and the accolade deservedly went to 21-year-old loanee striker Sam Williams. He must have been pleased as he kindly consented to have his photo* taken with Joe and Rosie (above).


* Photograph by Jim Wong, to whom my sincere thanks.

Counting the visits, counting the days

Yesterday afternoon I installed an invisible stat counter onto this blog and I am amazed by the number of unique visitors it attracts, especially in the light of the fact that it hasn't been updated for over a fortnight.

It is therefore with a certain feeling of guilt that I put digit to keyboard again, to carry on where I left off.

As I stated previously August is the political "close season" and, as such, I should in theory have more time during that month than normal to post up my news and thoughts. We know however that nature abhors a vacuum, and into the vacuum created by the relative lack of meetings during August stepped not only the need to make a living, but also the usually vociferous demands of two children who have been enjoying their last summer holiday before entering senior school for the very first time.

Doing the family thing provides one with an opportunity for reflection that is often absent when engaging in political business. At Legoland I had plenty of time to reflect upon how a normal person would view somebody who happily paid £36 to ride on a bus in the full knowledge that it would not arrive for two hours, and that the journey would then last for no more than four minutes before terminating at the exact same point from which it had departed. However as the day progressed I was privileged to be able to enjoy the same experience no less than four times, reassuring me that at just £9 per ride I had received real value for money.

More fulfilling, for me, was a sunny day spent in Brighton. Ever since, at a late age, I learned to drive a car my use of public transport has fallen woefully short of my advocacy of it. It came as a pleasant surprise to discover that, with a bit of luck in arriving at the right station at the right time, it is possible to travel from Isleworth to Brighton in less than one hour and twenty minutes (in other words considerably less time than I had spent standing in the aforementioned queue at Legoland!).


Despite the tendency these days towards holidaying abroad there is still a unique appeal about a visit to an English seaside resort, and Rosie and Joe (above) were not noticably inconvenienced by the experience.

Rosie now has embarked upon one of the most daunting journeys she will make - through senior school - and Joe reports for duty on Wednesday. It seems like no time ago at all that we were pushing them along in the distinctive, elongated Swedish twin pram that announced our arrival to the neighbours.

In the meantime for me it's back to the world of meetings, doorstop agendas and political parry and thrust which seems to have become my lot.

I'll do my best to keep this blog updated as I go along, and as always your comments and observations would be most welcome.

A pig of a dilemma

Our twin children were only just four years old when we were sitting in our car at Larne, waiting to board the ferry for Cairnryan after a week visiting relatives in Newry, Co. Down.

A cattle truck pulled up beside us, crammed with cows who stared back at us and all the other motorists there, doe-eyed and innocent (the cows, not the motorists).

"Where are they going Mummy?" our daughter Rosina (above left) asked. "What are they going to do with them?"

"They are going to a farm," one of us replied.

"But they make beef from cows," she persisted. "Are they going to kill them?"

We don't believe in being dishonest with our children, so we told her that this was possibly the case. Although, we stressed, they could be milking cows.

Ignoring the latter possibility, Rosie was incredulous. "But can't we do something about it?"

"Like what?" I asked.

"Well let them go, or something. We can't just sit here and let them be taken away and killed, and not do anything. They haven't done anything wrong," she insisted, tears welling up in her eyes.

Some years later, shortly before her tenth birthday, I took Rosie on a shopping trip to Richmond. As we entered W.H. Smith's we passed a lady who was handing out leaflets. Inside the shop Rosie asked me what the lady had been doing. "Handing out leaflets," I replied.

"One of them had a little pig on it," she told me. "Do you mind if we go back and take one when we leave this shop?"

The leaflet was published by Viva!, an international vegetarian organisation, and featured a pig clearly suffering appalling treatment in the process of being prepared for slaughter. The text left nothing to the imagination. Rosie was quite distressed.

Typically, she joined the organisation and began to receive its literature. She declared herself to be a vegetarian, and has never eaten a meat product since. This was surprisingly easy for us to support - most restaurants and supermarkets offer a wide range of vegetarian options.

Before very long the whole family was being dragged along to an exhibition in Central London, where samples of vegetarian food were on offer and literature aplenty was thrust at us. One stall was run by an activist, whose name escapes me, who had been gaoled for animal rights activities. He was selling signed copies of his book in hardback.

Another was manned by a vegan group, and it was here that Rosie was horrified to learn that farm animals reared for dairy produce, even sometimes free-range, suffer all kinds of hardships as a result of the relentless demand for maximised production. It wasn't long before she made the decision to stop eating animal products completely and go vegan.

Now to those many people who tell us (and those who don't) that they think we are irresponsible parents for allowing a girl of Rosie's age to take a life-changing decision of this importance at her time of life, I would simply invite them to spend five minutes speaking - and listening - to Rosie. Having done so they would understand that her commitment to her cause is no passing junior enthusiasm. She is absolutely adamant that her conscience will not permit her to eat animal produce, and it has been our unenviable task to make it work.

Unlike vegetarians, vegans don't have it on a plate (no pun intended). Most restaurants and shops do not indicate whether their products are vegan and even the most innocent items need to be studied - sweets, for instance, will often contain gelatin whilst even vegetarian options such as Quorn more often than not include milk powder or free range egg.

With the assistance of supplements, and thanks to her penchant for calcium-fortified soya milk, Rosie maintains a healthy diet and consumes her required daily intake of protein, calcium, iodine and vitamins B12 and D, but it is always a struggle. As a lifelong carnivore it is an altogether alien experience for me, as well as for Caroline, trying to work out new and interesting recipes from such a limited range of options, although one unexpected by-product has been that we too find ourselves eating less meat.

As for Rosie's stubborn determination to stick to her guns in the face of all comers, one can only speculate as to where she gets that from.