Saturday, September 29, 2007

Bassett Snr. 1922-2007

I wanted to write something about my Father. Whether I publish it or not remains to be seen but today has been a strange day where it all seems to have caught up with me. The Coroner phoned this morning to say that they had performed a post-mortem. The results were inconclusive so it’ll be another 5 or 6 days before they can release him. Why a man of 85, in poor health and with a recent history of hospitals has to be ripped apart, I don’t really know but I assume it keeps somebody in a job?

It seems to be the “done thing” to eulogise those who have gone. Whether this is considered polite or correct, I’m not really sure. Maybe it’s a bid to propagate the idea so that, when our own time comes, we will also benefit from the kind words. I could easily sit here and type paeans of praise aplenty but what really does it achieve? Dad was a human being with all the frailties and foibles that human nature imbues us with and to say anything to the contrary would be hypocritical and wrong.

He was a man for the ladies and would always have a twinkle in his eye when a female appeared, right to the end. He could switch on a charm that was a delight to watch (unless, of course, you were my Mother). He never knew his own Father and was brought up by my Nan and his step-father who, apparently, was a very kind and gentle man. He and Mum were childhood sweethearts and it was a big blow to him when Herr Hitler interfered with his life.

I knew very little of Dad’s life before I appeared on the scene. His War career was hardly spectacular and got him as far as (I think) Somerset! He related 4 facts about his service career:

He was put on a charge on his first day in the army, for eating what he thought was a very generous meal. It turned out that it was the rations for a table of 8!He applied to join the Motorcycle Dispatch Riders, thinking that this would be fun. Sadly, he neglected to mention that he’d never ridden a bike before and drove straight into a bush thus ending a promising idea.He also applied to join the relative new Royal Marine Commando regiment. One of their first forays was an abortive raid on Dieppe, having set off from Newhaven, in which they supported a predominantly Canadian force. Over half of the 6000 involved were killed and Father decided to stick with his admin. role. The memorial to this tragic mission sits right outside our apartment.He was not very good at returning from leave and the MPs were frequent visitors to gently persuade him that Mr Churchill really needed him. Dad felt being with Mum was far more important and his stripes would have been ideal as a prototype Velcro test as the demotions and promotions occurred regularly.He was also a fairly good footballer and played for Brighton for a short period of time. Strangely, I have absolutely no recall of him playing football, or indeed any other sport, with me as a kid. I have very few memories of him at all actually as he was often out in the evenings, being “The Man from the Pru” and having to collect premiums when people arrived home from work. I remember he led Mum a merry dance and some of my memories are not best dwelt upon. The irony was that he realised just how much he loved her shortly before she was diagnosed with cancer. He took early retirement to look after her but, sadly, she went very quickly and it was an event from which he never really recovered. Although he re-married, Mum was his great love and I have no doubt that she is now giving him some stick in her own, inimitable way.

He was a man of intellect but also a master of the missed opportunity or the wrong decision. A man who acted spontaneously without too much thought for the consequences, a worrier and a lover of simple pleasures. He appreciated nothing better than to go and sit all day fishing, just enjoying the sea- or countryside. He was a person who exhibited almost child-like gratitude for presents and cards from myself and my children and there is no doubt that he adored the kids. He always had a touching faith in my abilities also; believing that there was nothing I couldn’t do. He was certainly to test this in his later years!

I suppose really he was a man who, like all, was a mixed bag of talents and shortcomings. He tried me to the limit at times but, he was my Father and I loved him. Apart from Mum and my step-mother, I was perhaps the only person who knew the real Alec. He had the ability to be what he felt others wanted and it saddens me that perhaps those personae took over at times and the real man got lost somewhere. Just occasionally I could get him to talk about his life, his thoughts and his dreams and those are moments I will treasure more than anything else.

His was a life, like any other. It has now finished and the memories will slowly fade. He believed in a hereafter and my dearest wish is that he has found peace, happiness and, most of all, respite for a wandering and, sometimes, tortured soul.

Whenever we spoke, whether it was visiting or on the phone, his last words were always “God bless”. They were the last words I ever heard him speak and I can only echo them...........................Night, night, God bless.

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

My Dad R.I.P.

We found my Dad this morning. He's moved on to a place of peace now and is, at last, with my Mum, whom he loved dearly.

God bless, Pops, I'll miss you.

Tuesday, September 25, 2007

A Glimpse into the Future?

This is a story I wrote last summer. I was standing, looking out of the window, and it suddenly in my brain. Like all I write, there was no planning and no preparation. I seem to be in another world when I write - there are never any alterations (apart from the odd word) and, when I read it after I've finished, it's almost like reading it for the first time. It's called............

Future Imperfect

The apartment was bright and airy. Casually furnished with modern Scandinavian wood and leather furniture and filled with the rewards of a successful business life, it reflected the lifestyle of its owner. Very simply, it said “I am successful and I enjoy my life to the full”. That morning, the kitchen was bathed in sunshine.

He sat at the table, poured himself a cup of coffee and gazed out over the small green below. There was a scruffy wooden bench and he mused over the old man sitting on it. He often wondered about the old man. He was there most days, sitting and gazing into the distance, the sadness almost palpable even from up there. What memories did he have? What went through his mind? What had happened to him that he spent so much time just sitting…..staring….thinking? Such thoughts however were soon dismissed from his mind as he planned his day and the adrenalin started to flow through him.

That familiar buzz of pressure, the feeling of being alive, being needed was like a drug to him and he revelled in the life coursing through his veins.

Some time later, he was strolling home and, as usual, the old man was sitting there on the bench. On impulse, he sat down beside him and gazed out over the harbour. He watched the seagulls wheeling overhead, the small boats gently nosing against the jetties and listened to the sound of children calling excitedly as they played by the water’s edge. He reflected on the dichotomy of the two seated there: one life finished and seemingly full of unfulfilled consequences whilst the other in the full bloom of potential.

He was ashamed to feel a certain smugness, tinged with pity, at the thoughts running through his mind and, in a bid to assuage his guilt, turned to the old man. With eyes full of pain and frustration, the old man turned to him and with a trembling hand pointed up to the window – his window. He turned and followed the finger and saw himself, holding the coffee cup, staring pensively down.

He was still sitting there as the sun disappeared below the horizon: Alone, as he had always been.

© BertieBassett Enterprises Inc. 2006

Sunday, September 23, 2007

It's all meme me !

The other week I was going on about memes. I won't bore you with what they are; if you don't know, read the initial blog or go see the great God, Google. Since I discovered memes, I see them everywhere, rather like when you buy a new car and, as you drive home proudly from the garage, you see 600 other identical models.

As I was perusing The Independent the other day, in between all the pages of why the planet is dying, what animals are in danger of extinction and how much methane is exuded from the mouths of newspaper editors expostulating about global warming and dangers to the environment, I came across another meme. It was one of these "soundbite" type of fill-in bits that you see in most papers and magazines these days where they just have a few answers from someone most people haven't heard of to questions nobody cares about anyway. This particular one caught my eye, as I liked the headings, so here goes..........



I drive/ride ... a Toyota Corolla, which is now 5 years old. I don't really care about cars as long as they work and get me from A to B in relative comfort (and have a CD player). I also have a Honda VFR750 motor bike which is a huge, black beastie. I don't ride it much these days and I should. Trouble is, I'm grtting older and losing my confidence; not with my riding but in the inability of other road users. We've had a lot of fatalities around here in the last few years and an awful lot aren't the fault of the rider.

If I have time to myself ... Bit irrelevant this one as I have oodles of time these days. I am a butterfly when it comes to doing things and get bored easily so time to flit from this to that is great. Having said that, I have always been quite good at finding time for myself by escaping into my head.

You may not know it, but I'm no good at ... most things. Like I've said before now, I have many interests but lack the application and drive to become an "expert". I'm the original Jack of all trades but get really frustrated (paradoxically, considering I get bored easily) as I want to excel at everything, otherwise I beat myself up for a perceived failure.

A book that changed me ... was The Little Prince by Antoine de St. Exupéry. I'm still not sure why, maybe the simplicity gave me the scope to think more deeply about simple things? There seems to have been a link to the Prince running through my life subsequently. On holiday once, I was drawn to visit a cemetery in Corsica as I drove past...no idea why but it just felt the thing to do. I came across the "grave" of St. Exupéry (he was actually lost at sea during a flight across the Mediterranean) and that was a decidedly spooky moment. France also issued a banknote with the Prince on it and I happened to sell one on eBay. A lady in America emailed me, as I had talked passionately about the Prince in the sales description, and told me she was writing a book on The Little Prince. We started a protracted email correspondence and she used my thoughts and experiences about the Corsica episode in her book.

Movie Heaven ... Leon, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, Life of Brian. I'm not a great movie buff although, when I do watch a movie, I think I really ought to watch more. I tend to go more for humour than great works of angst and culture.

Comfort eating ... Unhealthy comfort eating tends to be a thing of the past now as I am trying to lose weight (and succeeding!). I eat when I'm bored so now go for lots of fruit rather than the cakes, popcorn and Haribo of previous times. At 6' and, now, 13 stone 5, I can probably indulge a bit more so bring on the almond croissants!

When I was a child ... I was of the "children should be seen but not heard" school so I don't look back on it over-fondly. It's still something I struggle with but, outside of home, I was a pretty ordinary kid.

My biggest regret ... Ah, where do I start? Nothing physical - I am what I am, but there are numerous decisions which I look back on with sadness and regret. Having said that, those decisions led me to many other good things so I am fairly fatalistic. Life is like a game of cards; play the hand you're dealt as well as you can. If it fails, learn and move on.

It's not fashionable but I like ... taking risks. Too many people are governed by too many rules regarding safety, "correctness" and caution. To progress in civilisation or life, people need to take risks.

If I wasn't me, I'd like to be ... Stephen Fry, for reasons outlined in a previous blog.

The shop I can't walk past ... Either cook shops or charity shops. I love cooking and gadgets but also love to find the occasional treasure (usually books) in charity shops. Shopping is not a great love of mine - mooching is!

My favourite work of art ... is anything by Salvador Dali. If art is there to arouse emotion, then Dali does it for me everytime. A genius, an eccentric, a technician.

The soundtrack to my life ... is somewhere between Neil Young at his most introspective and Python at their most zany.

Well, that's it. Fancy a go? Why not leave yours as a comment after this blog - I'd be really interested.


© BertieBassett Enterprises Inc. 2007

Saturday, September 22, 2007

Tangs for the Memory

Although I write commissioned articles at times, the nice thing about a blog is that I have total control over what I write. Sometimes I write with others in mind, sometimes I write about matters of which I feel strongly but I always write what I want. I'd like to think I can read this in years to come and be reminded of what I did, what I thought and who I was. Today I am in the mood to indulge myself so I'm going to talk about friendship. Friends come in many degrees: some are transient, some strong, some burn out quickly after a brief but spectacular blossoming but, just occasionally, a special person comes along who is a true friend. The particular friendship that I have in mind started over 10 years ago.

Someone had made an appointment to see me to discuss mortgages and this chap was shown into my office. He was Hong Kong Chinese, by birth, although his father had started the first Chinese restaurant in the town some 25 years before. He came in about expatriate mortgages and I promised that I would get some information and get back to him. He was about my age, a bit forbidding and I just thought it was another of those queries that wouldn't really go anywhere. When he returned the next week and the business was completed he suddenly asked me "What time do you finish?" I told him and he said, fairly abruptly, "Come round to the restaurant for coffee.".

I was a bit intrigued and not a little concerned. I'd only been in there once before, to deliver a letter (it was literally 25 yards from my office). That first time, I walked in and there were several Chinese guys sitting there in the bar area chatting. "Mr Tang?" I asked, holding the letter aloft. One of them stood up and, grinning broadly, went round the room pointing....."He's Mr Tang, He's Mr Tang, He's Mr Tang and I'm Mr Tang" !! I put the envelope on the bar, smiled politely and fled.
As I walked round there that second time, I recollected this and was more than a little nervous. I needn't have bothered as they all made me most welcome and I sat and chatted for a couple of hours

They were, indeed, all brothers: working together for long hours providing an excellent dining experience for their clientele and I was privileged to get to know all of them very well. The restaurant became my second office and I would spend many happy times in there, sitting out the back, drinking coffee and being brought delicious plates of food. It was some time later that I realised that they had a name for me: Sing an loh, which literally translates as 4 Eyed Man !!

Jimmy, for indeed it was he who invited me, was Head Chef. He'd bought the restaurant from his Dad, along with his brother-in-law, Bill, with the others as employees. Ironically, I saw the least of him because he was the busiest but when we sat down together we found that we held the same ideas, philosophies and crazy sense of humour. As I got to know him more, we found more in common; both of us had a son and daughter of similar ages, we both enjoyed similar sports, we both loved discussing food but, most importantly, we were totally relaxed in each other's company. I remember asking him once why he invited me round? His reply was that he liked the fact that I was "different". I didn't sit there formally behind my desk but put my feet up on the drawer and talked to him as an equal rather than a Building Society Manager. An odd compliment but one that I treasure as, to me, that's the way I worked.

Jimmy has a very successful takeaway now. He was tired of spending 14 hours a day, 6 days a week away from his family so decided to start again from scratch. I was asked for advice about the menu and, several times, he would turn up at the door with a bag of food, wanting to know my opinion on this or that creation. This was an inconvenience I bore manfully! I've always loved Chinese food and I have to say, Jimmy's is better than any other. He takes amazing care in everything he does and makes all his own sauces to his own recipes. Once the takeaway was open, I'd pop in there for a natter and even help out behind the counter on busy nights. His favourite trick was to make me cook my own food. At home, with my little woks, I'm fine but, faced with woks the size of radio telescope dishes and gas burners that cooked in seconds, my culinary aplomb would always go to pieces. Jim would, of course, just stand there with a sardonic smile on his face, glorying in my discomfort. If ever you're in Eastbourne, head for The Dragon Boat, mention my name and he'll charge you double (!).....................believe me though, it's food from Heaven

He has a strange sense of humour. One Tuesday night, his night off, I was invited over to the takeaway for an evening of cooking and chat along with another friend of ours. This other friend, Marcus, is completely off his trolley. He's a German dentist who has visited (I think) 62 different countries and has very strong opinions on most things. We spent a happy evening, drinking beer and cooking whilst taking turns to take the mickey out of each other's respective nationalities. The conversation flowed between slitty eyes, don't mention ze var and lazy Brits who colonised (and ruined) the free world. We'd cook a bit, chat a bit, cook a bit etc etc. I mentioned that, recently, I had discovered an allergy to prawns and that they caused redness and swelling to my arms and chest. Marcus explained to me that this was not just an external reaction but could also have dire results to internal places like my throat etc. Whilst he was expounding on this, Jimmy was busy cooking and duly presented me with a large plate of prawns, explaining that it was a medical experiment. I sat there and ate them whilst being minutely observed by my two so-called friends, gaily betting just where they thought the first reaction would appear and just how many prawns would it take before i became comatose?! As you can see, I survived

Jimmy's helped me enormously over the years. We might not see or talk to each other for weeks but then just take up where we left off. He's always been there at bad times. Not all over me, sympathising, but being practical and pushing me, if necessary. He always remains totally calm and gives the appearance of shyness but he is the most appreciative audience for anecdotes and the sight of him, giggling hysterically, always acts like a tonic for me. He knows I would do anything for him, with no questions asked, as he would for me. His wife makes the best steamed buns this side of Beijing and the kids are (almost) as lovely as mine. Perhaps, though, the greatest thing he's ever done for me, apart from being my friend, is encouraging me to write. He first planted the germ in my head and has been my greatest fan and fiercest critic ever since

I know he'll read this and I just want to say: Fat Boy, you are as much a brother as I could ever wish for. Keep being you, keeping my feet on the ground, my head in the clouds and making me ask questions of myself. Thanks for everything and, one day................... we will do that South American trip


Photo courtesy of News of the World


© BertieBassett Enterprises Inc. 2007

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

Oh, the Joys of a New PC!

It's been a blogless few days. Not because the creative juices (what little there are) have dried up but because of Mrs B's Mother! Now, let me say I've never met the lady and am hardly likely to as she died last year. What she did, however, was left her only daughter a few quid and the aforesaid daughter, being of benificent nature, has decided to invest some in technology for yours truly.

Now, as some of you might realise, I am a bit of a techno-freak (geek! I hear you cry). I spend a lot of my day with my computer and Mrs B uses hers quite a bit as well. She had already said she would like me to have a new one and made the fatal mistake of telling me to get whatever I wanted! The friction burns I got from rubbing my hands with glee are healing nicely now and I had a lovely time discussing the alternatives of custom-building with my local computer store, Az-Tech Computing (Hello, Ash, that mention has to be worth at least 5% discount!). We discussed loads of alternatives and I think I've got my mind made up.

For those of a technical bent, the spec is as follows:

Antec P182 Case
CoolerMaster eXtreme Power RP-650-PCAP - power supply - 650 Watt
Asus Commando P965 Motherboard With Heat Spreading Copper Pipe – Up to 8GB RAM (Dual Gigabit LAN Controller/Firewire/Sound/USB)
Intel Core-2-Quad 2.4GHz Quad Core Processor 8MB Cache with Go Stepping Technology
OCZ 4GB Gold Plated Heat Spreading 800MHz RAM
Seagate 320GB SATA2 Hard Disk x 2 (640GB)
Western Digital Raptor 36GB 10,000 RPM 16MB
Cache 2 x Samsung 20x SATA Dual Layer DVD+-RW XFX
Geforce 8800GTS Edition 640MB DDR3 RAM/ DUAL DVI

Having also got my super-duper 24" monitor as well, I should be set up fairly nicely for a while now. The operating system will run on the Raptor drive which promises response times twice as fast as conventional hard drives and keeps it all nice and whizzy whilst utilising 2 other hard drives means I can back up all my writing, images etc.

Anyway, all of that hasn't been taking the time, it's been Mrs B's fault. She'd got it into her head that she wanted one of the new desktop-replacement laptops so that involved lots of research which culminated in an extremely large box arriving home with us yesterday evening. The lap-top (and I use the term loosely, as it weighs 17lbs) is pretty wonderful as well but the initial excitement soon wore off as we were faced with setting up all the programs and transferring everything from her current PC.

I'd heard varying stories of incorporating Vista machines into an XP network and was optimistic that this would be a simple task. Of course, working with Vista is a new experience for me and, needless to say, it didn't go smoothly. Eventually however, everything talked to everything else and then came the boring work of transferring data, installing programs and all the other things that need be done. I eventually left Mrs B still at it at 5 this morning and retired to bed. Today has seen almost everything sorted and has at least forearmed me when the time comes to do mine.

Like anyone with a couple of kids and a mortgage, money was always a bit tight and I never really felt I was worth it when it came to spending a lot of money on myself. The inheritance has meant that we can now do a few things that we have always wanted to, but couldn't afford, and that's great. Being able to build my ideal computer has always been a dream of mine and it looks like that particular dream will be coming true soon. Only another 20-odd thousand to go!

On another completely different track, Terry Pratchett has a new book published this week. It's called Making Money and is a kind of sequel to Going Postal, involving the former conman and arch-swindler, Moist von Lipwig who, by a convoluted set of circumstances, became Head Postmaster of Ankh-Morpork. He basically introduces the first paper money in the City so, to me, the book is a perfect combination of 2 of my interests i.e. Pratchett and banknotes.

The wife of the guy that illustrates his books runs an internet store of Pratchettiana (?) so I've done what I normally do and ordered from her. The benefit of doing it this way is that every new Pratchett that arrives carries the author's signature within and adds to my collection of signed first editions.

For those that have never read any Discworld stories, I recommend you try at least one. Everyone should be introduced to characters such as Cut Me Own Throat Dibbler and Otto Shriek.

C.M.O.T. Dibbler is best described as Ankh-Morpork's most enterprisingly unsuccessful entrepreneur and has fingers in many money-making ventures. When Dibbler's business plans fail, he falls back to selling (mostly) 'pies with personality' and 'pig' sausages on the streets of Ankh-Morpork. He has been accused of 'not being able to make both ends meat.'

Otto, on the other hand, is a vampire and a professional newspaper photographer ( "Iconographer" in Discworld parlance). His job allows him to indulge his suicidal fascination with light. Otto is one of the "Black Ribboners", vampire "teetotallers" who have forsworn drinking human "b-vord"(This stands for "blood", but don't say it around him. He might get offended). Due to the supernatural nature of their "addiction", Black Ribboners must replace their craving for "the b-vord" with something else; in Otto's case, he has become obsessed with light and photography. Since sunlight reduces vampires to dust until someone administers a drop of blood, the flash salamander he uses (which gives off stored sunlight) constantly causes Otto problems. He now carries a small vial of animal blood on a chain around his neck, which smashes and reconstitutes him if his salamander goes off too brightly.

As you can see, normal, everyday characters, whose world and mine neatly dovetail into a reality of inconsequential, but highly amusing, chaos.


© BertieBassett Enterprises Inc. 2007

Sunday, September 16, 2007

Seasons

Autumn arrived today.

As I gazed out of the kitchen window, the river had a steel quality about it and the trees wore a morosely faded coat of ageing leaves, struggling desperately to cling on to their Summer glory. There was a strange mix of people walking by: some stubbornly retaining their shorts and tee shirts, almost as a swansong to the fading glory of Summer, whilst other obviously accepted its inevitable demise.

Spring and Autumn have always meant a lot to me. I long for the lengthening evenings of Spring, get excitement from the newly-clothed trees and bushes and bask in the warmth of the sun; all of which fill me with optimism and hope. Autumn has always signified a sadness at the death of that hope and provides a hiatus between the glories of Summer and the crispness of Winter. bringing, as it does, the excitement of Christmas and the enveloping security of warm rooms, cosy clothes and womb-like comfort.

I remember several years ago, being asked to write a poem of optimism. I sat in a beautiful garden, bathed in sunlight and surrounded by freshly budding flowers and started to write. Of course, I couldn't quite fulfil the remit but that's me. Here it is:

Springtime

Buds of green bursting through the shredded remains of Winter,
Casting off the slough of despair and bringing promise of the future.
Creating life from death.

Pulling down the warmth from the skies
Like shy children peering round a curtain.

At first, reluctant
But then, gathering courage and, forgetting all,
Invading their new surroundings
With raucous colour and abandonment.

These first bright splashes -
How do they fight the dank gloom of Winter?
What makes them battle on regardless of the odds?
Is it hope?
Or just the hate of hopelessness,
The thirst for life that Nature has endowed?

Can it be that I will bloom once more
Or wither like the vanguard?
Using my life so that others may live again.

I think that if I did a poem about Autumn it would be extremely self-examining at the moment. No particular reason, the day's been fine with no hassles but there you go. That's the person I am and I am pretty sure that tomorrow will be a whole new ball-game.

Summer is my season and my words can't possibly pay enough tribute to the way that Summer warms my soul. French authoress, Violette Leduc, described it thus:
I walk without flinching through the burning cathedral of the summer. My bank of wild grass is majestic and full of music. It is a fire that solitude presses against my lips.

I can't lay claim to carrying all sorts of quotable quotes in my head and have to say I looked for something appropriate and that certainly seemed to fit the bill. One that I do remember, however, is from Albert Camus. It's something that I value and aspire to:

In the depths of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.
One day perhaps, I'll find out its context......who knows what secrets it might reveal?



© BertieBassett Enterprises Inc. 2007

A Sad Day

Today has been a bad day in the British aviation world: not only the loss of Colin MacRae in a helicopter accident but also a fatality at the Shoreham Air Show where a Hurricane crashed during a mock dogfight.

I used to live in a small place called Sompting, just up the road, and spent many a happy hour at Shoreham Airport watching the comings and goings. Naturally I considered going today and am so thankful that I didn't. Seeing the photos of where the crash occurred, less than a mile or so from where I lived, makes the tragedy all the more real.

Flight has always fascinated me and, at school, W H Allen's Warplanes of the World was my bible. I used to make many a model in my youth and, as kids do, was in a great hurry to make them and then hang them from the bedroom ceiling on fishing line. As I got bored with them , I would invent more and more ways of destroying them, trying, in my immature mind, to recreate air battles and not giving a thought to the suffering thus caused in the real conflicts.

A year or so ago, I decided to attempt another model. I spent ages Googling the latest and best kit manufacturers, read up on the myriad techniques and realised that model aircraft making was a serious business. I scoured eBay for recommended tools and materials and spent far too much money but finally, I was ready to take the plunge and start my first model in 30 years.

I had bought several kits ranging from 11/32 scale to 1/48 and selected a Republic P-47M Thunderbolt as my first attempt. I knew I had got the bug when it took me a week of painstaking work to assemble and paint the cockpit area but I found it relaxing, rewarding and incredibly satisfying. With a large cupboard full of tools, materials, paint and other odds and sods, I really felt that I had no excuse to fail. Sanding down, filling and preparing took a further 3 weeks and then I was ready for painting.

There was no way that I was going to spoil my labours with brushes so it was another investment: this time in a spray brush and compressor and then on to the final stages. They were torrid times and I stripped the plane several times until I got it right. Ammonia is the best way to remove the paint and several times I had to evacuate the room as the fumes proved too much. In the end though, I was satisfied and the results are here for you to judge that first attempt.

click to enlarge

I was going to talk more about flights I've had, my first helicopter ride, all sorts of things. Somehow though, it just doesn't seem right tonight and, as you can probably glean from what I've written thus far, my heart isn't in it. Apologies, but somehow my words don't seem important at the moment.

© BertieBassett Enterprises Inc. 2007

Friday, September 14, 2007

The Date

Following my blog the other day about when I started writing, this was was the first story I ever attempted and therefore deserves publishing for that fact alone. It's called.........



The Date

“Oh shiiiiiiiiiiit!!!!”

“Come on now, boy.” I reprimand myself, “it’s only a drink with a girl from work. Just a friendly evening out. It’s not as if you’re a kid fresh from school going out on a first date. You’re a mature adult, so act like one”. I take a deep breath and feel myself in control once more - it doesn't last long.

“Oh shiiiiiiiiiiit!!!!”

Pushing reason to one side I begin to make a start on the mental list of things to do which I had prepared earlier:-

1. Clothing. “What should I wear? I don’t want to look as if I’ve made a real effort, there again I don’t want to look too scruffy”.Quickly scanning the contents of my wardrobes, I realise that the vast amount of money spent on shirts, trousers and jackets has been totally useless. All I really want is just one outfit. An outfit that fits perfectly, removes two inches from my waist and would win a special award from the Style Council. Aha, got it! Pouncing upon a pair of linen trousers I remove them from their hanger. They're perfect, just the look I want. Perfect that is except for the irregular black smudge on the thigh. Damn, damn, damn! Pausing briefly to ponder on the possibility of the Fates conspiring to upset me, I resume my search.

Finally, satisfied that I've made the best possible choice from the few permutations and, pausing briefly to glance at the small mountain of clothing strewn across the bed, I get started on the next item:-

2. Shower and shave. It sounds easy doesn’t it? It should be easy, shouldn’t it? Choice of shower gel wasn’t too bad but what shampoo? Jojoba for lifeless hair, balsam and camomile for frequently washed hair, how about medicated shampoo for fleas and ticks? Oh, no. That was the dog’s. And then there was conditioner. Do the manufacturers actually employ people just to make up the most exotic-sounding ingredients, I wonder? I mean, what is aloe vera? Or indeed, who is she?

Clutching an armful of bottles, I climb into the shower. Mindful of indications for the outcome of the evening, I make a mental bet with myself; “If I can get through the whole shower without the plastic curtain sticking its cold, clammy presence to me like a magnet, then it’ll be alright”. Everything's fine until I bend down to retrieve the soap and then ….. OK, we’ll make it the best of three!

Shower accomplished, it's time for a shave. New blade or not, that's the question? Does a baby-smooth face outweigh the risk of turning up looking like an also-ran in the Olympic Sabre competition? The face in the mirror gazes back at me impassively. “Why do eyebrows have to grow in so many directions? How long have I had that slight slant to my nose?” (Mental note: try and go somewhere quite badly lit). The shave goes quite well. If you look at it philosophically, cutting the head off that spot was probably far more effective than five minutes squeezing with a piece of tissue (and the mirror stays clean that way!).

Hair’s looking nice and shiny. “Bugger it, I’ve forgotten to wash off the conditioner.”

Don’t forget the deodorant. "Should I spray it in those other important little places or should I settle for talcum powder?" I settle for talc although in moderation. After all, should the evening go with a bang (hur hur!), I want to be seen as macho man, not an escapee from the Homepride flour graders!

3. Dressing Once again, I ponder over whether to let the Fates be the arbiter of my evening. If I wear the black silk boxers then you can bet they’ll never see the light of day (or night). There again, the faded M&S jobbies won't go down too well if I manage to score (mental reminder, this is only a drink with a colleague from work, don’t get your hopes up!). I settle for the boxers.

Trousers and shirt go on next before I hunt through my sock drawer for the right socks. Five minutes later, the contents of the drawer join the rest of the clothes on the bed. Where is it? Is there really a fabled land populated by single socks because it sure as hell isn’t in this room? Finding the sock eventually in the airing cupboard tucked in a box of old magazines, I look in the mirror at the finished article (yet another mental note, must write to the shampoo manufacturers and suggest that they find an exotic ingredient that works!).

Last lap now. Time for the final preparations.After shave - onHankie - in pocketondom - in wallet (Am I tempting fate again here? Mind you, it did take four visits to Superdrug before I plucked up the courage to purchase them. Still, all that toothpaste will come in handy).I decide to sit and have a quiet cigarette before I go forth. As I sit down, my mind wanders to a few hours later. “How about coffee at your place” she’ll say throatily, giving me a knowing smile.

“Oh shiiiiiiiiiiit!!!!” The bed! It’s covered in clothes and socks and God knows what! I rush back in there and, grabbing handfuls of clothing, throw it all into the spare room along with all the other accumulated junk. Thank heavens for duvets. 10 seconds to make the bed and I can relax again.7.40pm. Time to go. Take keys off hook by front door and I’m off to meet my destiny. Relax, boy, she’s just a friend from work. Door closing, key in lock, phone rings!Leave it, nothing’s that important and the answerphone’s on.

It’s no good; curiosity gets the better of me. It’s her! “Something’s come up; can we make it another time?” “Sure”, say I nonchalantly - after all, she is only a friend from work.

Oh.....................shit!

© BertieBassett Enterprises Inc. 2007

Thursday, September 13, 2007

I Want to be a Loan

This morning, I received a letter. Not a world-shattering event, I know: even the idiosyncratic wiles of the Royal Mail occasionally manage to deliver the odd missive. This particular envelope, however,looked special and I felt a frisson of excitement as I saw it lying on the mat. Not your bog standard white or Government brown but a nice translucent plastic, suitably bulky and with pictures visible through it.

Clutching it to my manly chest, I went upstairs once more to savour the moment of opening. Was it perhaps an invitation? Had I won something exciting? Maybe it was a letter from a long-lost (preferably rich) relative with exquisite taste in envelopes? Brushing aside the detritus of empty gin bottles, lime-green darning thread and requests for signed photos, I sat down at the kitchen table and slowly, with all due ceremony, extracted the contents.

I was amazed! Not only was I congratulated on my financial acumen but I was practically begged to let the senders lend me £7500 by way of one of their lovely credit cards. This was a tempting thought. OK, it was a 28.7% interest rate but who cares? I was given a choice of pictures to have on the aforesaid plastic and that was the tempter. I could picture the looks of envy as I pulled the card from my wallet and people gazed in awe at a picture of a pig, a chimpanzee or a tiger. They even gave me little stickers of each picture to stick on my application form as well just in case i wasn't very good at ticking boxes. It was really difficult to finally decide to decline but, in the end, that's what I did.

Now those that know me might feel that there is a certain cynicism in my enthusiasm for such marketing and, I have to admit, they are totally correct. Having spent a lot of my life advising people on loans, mortgages and investments I take a keen interest in loan marketing and it appears to have reached ridiculous proportions. Sky TV has a preponderance of such ads and they never fail to send my blood pressure rocketing. Happy smiling mothers talking to the nice man from the loan company on the phone about how easy it is to borrow money, as her husband and children play merrily together, earnest people explaining that it's OK to get into debt as they are specialists in IVAs and can help you wriggle out of it, and as for Carole bloody Vorderman...............!

Let's face it, it's far too easy to borrow money. We live in an "I want it now" consumer-orientated world and little thought is given to the consequences by those with little financial acumen. "Interest-free for a year? Great, let's buy it now and worry about that later" Of course, the finance companies know damn well that the iniquitous interest rates attached after that 12 month period more than compensate for the people that actually plan for the debt being due. And as for the poor sods that get into debt, why, they can borrow to get out of it.......as long as they are prepared to pay an even more extortionate rate of interest.

There seems to be a pride in wriggling out of debt, either through IVAs or bankruptcy. Never mind about the small supplier who suffers because of their actions, never mind about interest rates and prices being increased to cover such losses and the rest of us having to bear these. Let the great gods of consumerism and credit reign supreme.

I'm a consumer too. I buy loads of things I want and don't really need but I don't live beyond my means. That doesn't make me a paragon of financial virtue, I just refuse to fall prey to these leeches. I lent people money at a fair interest rate to finance the interest paid to our savers and that sits comfortably with me. I authorised a lot of overdrafts but I never once, to my knowledge, went beyond what I felt was manageable for my customers. Sometimes I was reminded by the powers that be that profit lay in debts but I wasn't interested in short-term profits for the Building Society. I'd far rather help someone over a financial difficulty and have them come back in the future, still believing that we were there to help as well as run a business.

Sorry if I'm preaching but it really gets to me and, when I'm Prime Minister, you can bet your bottom dollar (if it's not due to be repaid soon) that DFS and their interminable sales and easy monthly payments over 5 years will be no more.

Next time you see a TV ad trying to get you to borrow money, try and read the small print which flashes on for 3 nanoseconds where they tell you the actual amounts repayable - scary stuff indeed!

Now, if you will excuse me, this high horse is becoming somewhat uncomfortable.



From the Beginning

I was looking at some old writing of mine the other day and came across this. Why I wrote it I don't know. To be honest, I cannot remember either time or circumstance and it certainly refers to nobody in particular. Perhaps it was just a dream or an idea of mine? I know a few people had said I should write so it's possibly an encapsulation of their thoughts and my desires? Whatever it was, I'm pretty sure it was the first piece of prose I ever attempted and led me to what I do today.I've not written many short stories as previous work tended to be verse or "soundbites" but maybe I'll put a few more on here now and again. This though was the Beginning!

She had said so: “You’re a brilliant writer so go and write!” That was the effect she had on me, everything seemed possible when said by her. Much has been made of the male menopause.

That time in a man’s life when he looks at himself, his purpose, his looks, and especially his future. I had looked and had run from what I saw there. A conformist, comfortable existence on the face of it but underneath, frustration, depression and unfulfilled dreams. I suppose what made it worse was that I knew the dreams could become reality. I knew that I had the power and ability to transcend existence and replace it with Life. Here I was teetering on the edge of a jump. The virgin parachutist sitting in the aeroplane doorway, mind wanting to let go but body screaming “No”. How I longed for that feeling of freefall, knowing that not only had I conquered my fear but I had fought my way into a whole new experience.

Why her? What was it about her that inspired me to even contemplate change? Maybe it was her confidence in my abilities, maybe it was the freshness of her attitude? I hardly knew her but I felt that her own freedom was forged from hardships past, her philosophy and vision gleaned from a myriad experiences, both good and bad. She was the catalyst. She had said “You’re a brilliant writer so go and write”. But what do I write about?

Can living the life I want through my words provide a substitute for the real thing or will it just make me into a lonely, frustrated man, committed to a keyboard? I want real commitment. A commitment not to a destination, but to a journey - and a journey which has no end. I was trapped in a scenario of my own making. I wanted to show her that I was capable of interesting her, that I was worth getting to know, that I was a person who would complement her own independence. I wanted her as a friend. But she held the key that could unlock me. Hers was the voice of real sanity in my antiseptic, logical, balanced world but until I could talk to her, learn from her, grow from her, I was alone. How many people are there alone in this world? How many people can truly say that they are content?

How many people will dismiss this as the juvenile meanderings of an “almost” man? Life is lived through many small victories. Perhaps one such victory for me will be that I have shown this to her. The result may be of awful or awesome consequence but, for once, I have been brave. She said “You’re a brilliant writer so go and write”. Perhaps I have now started my new life?

© Bertie Bassett Enterprises Inc. 2007


Tuesday, September 11, 2007

Plastered?

I spent a happy evening in A & E last night, courtesy of my Father. He's OK I think but it was a pretty busy evening in there with all bays full and trolleys queued up along all the corridors.

I seem to have spent a lot of time in The Royal Sussex A & E Dept. over the years. Mrs B and her gall bladder, my daughter breaking her wrist, my son with strange headaches, Dad for all sorts of reasons and me, more times than I care to think of.....oh, happy days! It's a fascinating place to people watch (and plenty of time to do it) and last night was no different.......... doctors (getting younger and younger) gazing at monitors showing crystal clear x-rays of various bits: Mrs B and I had a great time trying to identify them, "That looks like a jug." "Nah, it's more like a stylised flying saucer." I'd then nonchalantly stand close to it trying to read exactly what it was and then return to state authoratitively "Hmm, thought so, it's an endogenous ossificationised perineurium."

Anyway, there were hordes of ambulancemen champing at the bit to get back to work but unable to do so as their charges had yet to be seen, nurses dashing back and forth and groups of relatives, standing around in nervous apprehension. Father needed an ECG and the only room available was the plaster room so in we toddled. This was a bittersweet moment as I have never had a limb plastered and feel I've missed out on life somewhat. As I gazed at the racks of bandage and all the paraphernalia, I was reminded of my honeymoon. Shall I explain?

25 years ago saw the resort of Cala d'Or being graced with the presence of Yours Truly and my new wife. We'd been there a couple of days and, as I wandered up to bed, I noticed a sign on the notice board announcing a football match the following evening against the local Sporting Club. Fuelled by several shots of brandy, I wandered up to Reception and asked if they needed a goalkeeper and the offer was gratefully accepted.

The next morning, I said to my wife that, on second thoughts, perhaps I wouldn't bother playing. She pointed out 2 things:-


  1. It wasn't a football match for guests as I assumed, and
  2. There had been an announcement that the team would be graced by the appearance of a famous English goalkeeper!Now, Sussex County League standard I might have been but famous?! There had obviously been a language problem or they were winding up the other guests but I had no choice other than to play so duly climbed on the minibus with a dozen horribly athletic and young Spaniards.

The pitch was red shale rather than grass so I astutely decided to keep on my jeans, thinking my legs would be protected. Five minutes into the match, I slid out to take the ball from the attacker's feet and suddenly my knee turned into an approximation of a badly-mauled pepperoni pizza. It stung but was really not too big a problem. I was fired up and was a goalkeeper (therefore, by definition, mad) so carried on for another 10 minutes until I leapt for a high cross among a group of heads. Falling to the ground with the ball, I was conscious of a severe pain in my right elbow region but, because I had needed treatment previously, didn't want to make a fuss so carried on. We eventually won the match 2-0 and I got back to the hotel.

My wife suggested a bath and had to help me into the water and then to bed. Apparently, that night I was delirious and so it was off to the local doctor next morning who diagnosed torn ligaments and bandaged my arm from wrist to shoulder. I had an extremely uncomfortable remaining honeymoon and we duly arrived home.

Now, at this juncture, may I say I do not bruise. To some, this will be viewed as a blessing but it means that I get absolutely zilch sympathy no matter what I do. I think I can remember 2 bruises in my whole life until I removed that bandage. I stood there, bronzed all over from my holiday, apart from this pure white arm with the biggest bruise you have ever seen! It was every colour you can imagine and went from mid-forearm to mid bicep. Me being me, I, of course, milked this for all it was worth. The arm was still very painful and I remember bemoaning the fact that I had missed out on a plaster cast yet again. A week later, and with an arm still not right, wife suggested it might be an idea to go to A & E and so I wandered up there and was duly X-rayed.

I was very dismissive to the radiologist and, as he emerged with the film, I arrogantly said to him "Bet there isn't a break, is there?" My flabber was ghasted as he calmly told me there were actually three: 2 below and 1 above the elbow!. My first thought was " Blimey 75 minutes in goal with a triple broken arm and I still didn't let a goal in" whereas my second was "Whoopee, I'll get a plaster cast".

Life is never that simple, is it? I was told that all three breaks were healing beautifully and, as it was 3 weeks on, it would be better not to disturb them and was duly dispatched with a sling and a crepe bandage.

I worked in a fairly small town at the time and there were few secrets. For some reason, my exploits had achieved a certain notoriety and I used to get not only customers, but others coming into the building society and asking either me or my staff was it true that I had broken my arm in three places on my honeymoon?

I guess it proved what little excitement they had in their lives or were hoping for details of some nuptially dangerous exploits but all seemed most disappointed that it was caused by football. "Football?" they would say aghast, "You broke it playing football?" and, shaking their heads, would wander out for a quick sortie into the wool shop before returning to their lunchtime glass of sherry.

I treasure the memory of that match and of that bruise but it still rankles that I never got my plaster cast. I'm over that desire now but if anyone wants to sign their name on my arm instead - feel free!

Sunday, September 09, 2007

STEPHEN FRY - A Giant Amongst Men

They're having a Stephen Fry evening on BBC 4 tonight. Ok, not everybody's cup of tea perhaps, but to me he is the epitome of everything I envy in a man.

Let me say, before I go any further, I refer merely to personality, charisma, knowledge and intellect and am divorcing myself entirely from his sexual orientation, although I'm sure that this has had some positive influence on the incredibly sensitive, erudite person which, to me, he is. I suppose it was the series QI that really led me to the esteem in which I now hold him. I'd read a few of his books, completely missed the Fry & Laurie series, admired him in Blackadder and seen his documentary on depression and that was enough to persuade me to watch the first QI broadcast. Since then, because of the innumerable repeats on Sky, I think I can almost quote the episodes verbatim. Certainly, I can answer every question now and can bore for England should any of the myriad subjects crop up in conversation.

His frank admissions regarding his bi-polar depressive episodes struck chords within me and, although my own depressions are not as deep as his (usually anyway), I have a deep admiration for the way he was brave enough to talk about, and be filmed during, such periods. Why is it that so many great comics are depressives? I was thinking about that last night and it's a bit like Bertie and me. I can feel really quite insular and isolated but suddenly I switch into Bertie mode and change my whole persona. It's a fine coping mechanism although I wonder just how many people actually know the real me? In fact, thinking about it, which of us is the real me? It's not as if I dream of lime-green Speedos and saving the world; Christ, it's bad enough sorting out my life at times, let alone everybody else's.

Anyway, I digress. Mr Fry was the subject tonight and Mr Fry will now once more occupy my thoughts. He has this wonderful knack of disseminating facts without sounding pompous about it and, as a person who thrives on knowledge, I rate that ability highly. Somebody was foolish enough to mention Alexander the Great down the pub yesterday and I just naturally nattered on about Bucephalus, the Gordian Knot and his incursions into Persia and India. I realised that Stephen and I were worlds apart when there was a loud thump as the subject of my dissertation's head hit the table and he emitted a gentle snore. Now, had I have been El Fry, there would have been an admiring audience gathered, hanging on to every word and chuckling gently at the subtly humorous anecdotes.

It's the breadth of his knowledge that amazes me also. One moment he talks of Shostakovitch and the next, the sexual habits of Tadjikistani camel boys (I, of course, know naff all about Shostakovitch). Even his voice has a mellifluous quality that enhances his every word and, quite frankly, I am undecided as to whether to hate the jammy bastard or offer to have his babies (metaphorically speaking).

As I write, he is making the point that it was some considerable time before he realised that he suffered from depression as, to him, the feelings of lowness, loneliness and hopelessness were quite normal and ergo, experienced by everybody. Yet, not 30 minutes ago, HRH Prince Charles was extolling the virtues of his wit. Nature has this strange way of balancing attributes and deficits. He also spoke of suicide and death, not in a dramatic way but trying to explain that, whilst in that pit of despond, death is not a release but all one deserves.

Anyway, I am in danger of drifting into a world of self-examination rather than finishing this homage to an extraordinary writer, broadcaster, director and actor. I will just say thank you to Stephen Fry for helping me understand parts of my life, for entertaining me, for educating me and, most importantly, for innumerable facts of absolutely no consequence which have enriched my life.

Now, who wants a conversation about koala's fingerprints? If you ever read this, Stephen, you know just what I mean!


Wednesday, September 05, 2007

Plus ça change, mais c'est la meme chose

Now those of a literary bent (or possibly the Bertie Bassett Fan Club, French Chapter) will notice the the error in the above title. Yes, of course! No circumflex accent on the first "e" of meme. For once, this isn't occasioned by my own ignorance but is, in fact, an incredibly subtle play on words which I will endeavour to explain.

The other day, I came across a new internet concept by the name of "meme" (see the subtle pun now?) which tested my little brain to the limit. Memes (sounds like dreams) are defined as "a unit of cultural transmission, or a unit of imitation." In other words, a meme is a cultural derivation of a gene, in that society (and people individually) evolve culturally through memes and their subtle variations, just as the 'mutation' of genes prompts physical life as a whole to alter over a period of time. Therefore, the words we see and hear, songs and any other aural input are all memes which are passed from person to person, evolving as they go.

Obviously, the same concept applies equally to the written word in all its forms and, apparently, in blog terms, this can take the form of a series of questions and answers which provoke and spread, rather like a non-threatenng virus, prompting further answers and comparisons as well as perhaps telling others something of one's self.

There is a Dutch guy called Jos who has a site called NoDirectOn and whose blogs inspired this whole outpouring. He had a one word meme i.e. single word questions and answers and it was through his influence that I found the 3 answer meme shown below. It's not like Word Association insofar as you give first thought answers . In fact, some of them I pondered long and hard. If you want, give it a try and see what your answers would be? Mine might just shed a little light on the strange mind of B. Bassett Esq but it was certainly an interesting exercise!

  • 3 things that scare me:Death, looking foolish, people with ginger eyebrows
  • 3 people who make me laugh:Terry Pratchett, Monty Python, Me
  • 3 things I love:Early morning sunshine, words, almond croissants
  • 3 things I hate:Complacence, impoliteness, selfishness
  • 3 things I don’t understand:Rugby, Life, “celebrity” culture
  • 3 things on my desk:Mug of tea, knitted llama, several piles of old banknotes
  • 3 things I'm doing right now:Drinking tea, fretting, humming “Tell Me Why” by Neil Young
  • 3 things I want to do before I die:Go to China, learn to juggle, accept myself
  • 3 things I can do:Care, scuba dive, put myself down
  • 3 things I can’t do:Sit on the fence, play guitar well, enjoy success
  • 3 things I think you should listen to:Your heart, everyone’s opinions, Jimi Hendrix’ “Castles Made of Sand”
  • 3 things you should never listen to:Your Mother, X Factor, Country & Western
  • 3 shows I watched as a kid:Do Not Adjust Your Set, Your Life in their Hands, Top Cat

Another meme which has got me thinking is "5 Things You Probably Don't Know About Me"

This one really provoked some thought as my first reaction was to be silly. However, when I got to puzzling about it, I couldn't really think of anything worth putting that complied with the essential definition of a meme. What benefit would anyone derive from knowing? The main criterion, to my mind, was why would you want to know 5 things about me?

Still, let's give it a try:

  1. I had meningitis when I was 16
  2. I became scared of heights driving over the Dartford Bridge 3 years ago
  3. As a kid I wanted to be a doctor; As a teenager, a policeman.
  4. I once had a perm (!)
  5. I can say "Keep off the grass" in Urdu

Well, that's memes in a nutshell and I hope it all makes sense. Whether they will be quite as important as genes is very doubtful but I was intrigued by the concept and it does help focus a few thoughts. It also makes me realise that some bloggers actually write useful things, unlike yours truly, and to Jos and those others who have helped in my research via this wonderful medium of the internet, my grateful thanks.

Tuesday, September 04, 2007

The WebMeister Cometh


Sorry, my legion of avid fans (I wish!), it's been a few days since I last blogged. This has been occasioned by a combination of lack of stimulation, aged parent giving me a few worries and a new mistress by the name of DreamWeaver.

A couple of years ago, I decided to purchase a domain name and some server space with the object of making a small fortune by buying and selling paper money. The idea of creating a website appealed to me and I had visions of creating a tasteful site with hordes of customers avidly absorbing my knowledge of banknotes and shoving each other out of the way in their rush to buy my wares. I had the stock, I had the idea and all I needed was one thing: the ability to actually create the website.

DreamWeaver is the industry standard in web creation software and I accordingly obtained a copy. Tasos, a Greek geek programmer friend of mine uploaded my first page which merely showed the name of the company and the terse comment "Website under construction". He eschewed DreamWeaver and gaily prattled on about HTML, ftp protocols and other such strange expressions and I cannot refrain from using the expression "It was all Greek to me". Anyway, that has been where it's stayed until recently. Occasionally, I would open DreamWeaver and gaze mystified at the screen. I bought books about website design, researched the internet and lit candles to St BillGates but all to no avail. I couldn't even work out how to upload, let alone design a website.

These last few days, I reached the stage where I needed to sort it.Playing around with HTML in the blog had fired my appetite and I had to resolve this big frustration so therefore attacked it with a will. I got a general grasp on the principles but still, whenever I tried to establish communication between my computer and the web, a dialogue box would pop up saying words to the effect of "Ha, sucker, cocked it up yet again". All this changed last night when I found a wonderful tutorial which took me step by step through the process and, at approximately 2am, I became a fully-fledged web site!

OK, at the moment I am merely playing around with templates and the rudimentaries of web design and it's all totally primitive but I've made a start. The desire to devote the site to paper money has diluted somewhat so I want it to be a melange of interests as well as, hopefully, an eventual means of making a few bob so the current domain name of www.papermoneyworld.co.uk seems a tad misleading. Apparently, I can purchase another domain name as well and both will lead to the same site but what other name do I choose?

I've checked what is available and I can have bertiesworld.com, limellama.co.uk or even "my own name".co.uk but I want something a bit special, combining sophistication, pazazz and an indication of my own strange world. Any suggestions gratefully received. Obviously, I can set different tabs for the different sections once I have mastered some more website techniques but this is going to take a while. I have DVDs of some 14 hours of DreamWeaver CS3 training to work through first so, if you are thinking of checking the website, don't be put off by the crudity of it at the moment. In the words of a certain Icelandic gentleman: "I've started so I'll finish".

The WebMeister Cometh!