Cleared

At the risk of boring everyone - all those lovely people who post insightful comments about Louis Vuitton bags, designer watches and porn...

...While the world has been teetering on the edge of a total financial collapse, much much much has been said about Rupert and James Murdoch, Rebekah (that spelling says all it needs to say about the woman, if you ask me. And, BTW, whatever became of the lovely Ross Kemp? Tossed aside like some used rag, poor bloke...) Brooks, John Yates, David Cameron and of course Andy Coulson over the last few days.

Of note was a piece on CiF by the erstwhileTony Blair's communications chief, Jonathan Powell regarding the vexed issue of security vetting (or lack of it) for the NI man chosen to spread DC's message. It so happens that I have some personal experiences in the area of government vetting. Firstly, when I used to work for the boys at Nobel House, I was responsible for a particular function which required its administrators to receive 'SC' clearance. In the hierarchy of clearance - for those unaware - SC is the second highest, with the levels ranging from baseline, through CTC (counter-terrorism check) to SC and then DV - Developed Vetting - for the highest level.

Anyway, obtaining SC clearance for the team I was in charge of proved to be the devil of a job. As background, the original, cleared, staff had all left at the same time, taking the offer of voluntary early severance as part of the seemingly endless attempts to cull numbers in the civil service, leaving the area (which was required to operate 24/7, 365 days a year) effectively without staff. Now this was a relative backwater of Central Government, nothing to do with national security (though there was an oddity around radiation emissions reporting, which was a fairly serious matter. Looking at this link is a bit of a worry, I have to say) and yet the men from Security Branch took the whole thing very seriously indeed. One of the people we brought in had been shown to have some outstanding personal debt, and for this reason - as well as due to the fact that he had not declared it - he was turned down for SC and we had to let him go.

For the others, until the process was resolved, all Secret and Top Secret material was removed from the room, and a member of Security Branch had to stand in the room while any of them were processed. On this basis, given that the information was either home addresses of ministers or data relating to oil seed rape quotas in Northern Europe, it seems hardly credible that the Prime Minister's Director of Communications would not have had to undergo DV clearance. Isn't it? We shall see.

My second experience of vetting was as a referee for a friend - many years ago when I was still living in Oswestry - who was joining the Air Force 'on a secret mission in uncharted space'... Or Belize anyway. Well, he put me down as a referee and one morning the man from the Ministry came to see me. I remember I had had a party the night before, and wasn't particularly fastidious at the time (stop it!) so the place was still strewn with empty cans and torn Rizla papers as we sat at the table and he asked me questions about the probity of my friend. Had he any allegiances to political groups? Had he any propensity for excessive alcohol consumption (ha!) or did he take drugs? Did he owe money to anyone? With the exception of the political question (come to think of it, he wasn't much of a drug user, either) I of course lied about everything, whilst nervously looking at the piles of Bacchic left-overs on the floor. Clearly, I satisfied the spook, because my friend went on his secret mission, so it only goes to show what a load of crap it all is.

Jonah

Wherever I've worked, I always seem to have been haunted by some issue or other. A problem without a satisfactory resolution.



When I was at Channel 4, it was a noisy air-con unit which used to cause the occupants of the floor it serviced to complain daily. We could not - despite throwing inordinate amounts of time and money at it - seem to make it stop. I even resorted to working among the complaining group to see if I could pin-point the cause of the problem. But to no avail. As far as I'm aware, the unit is still screeching away now, and the good folk of Legal Administration (or whatever the fuck department it was) are still phoning in daily to moan about it.

Prior to this, there were a couple of things during my reign at Disney which made my life a living hell. One was a scenic lift. It persistently intermittently and inexplicably broke down, occasionally with some high-flying (no pun intended) executive or other trapped in it. I can look back on this sorry tale now and laugh (unlike the poor claustrophobic executive, sad to say) but at the time I suffered many a sleepless night over it, I have to tell you.



Worse than that - far worse - was a cracked window. It may not seem a huge deal, but this window was gigantic. Approximately 8ft square, located on the 8th floor, above the Hammersmith flyover. JG Ballard could have written my CV if anything had gone wrong with replacing that damned thing, and it took an absolute age to get it done. I remember that there were quite a number of broken windows in the building, and great efforts were expended to find out what had caused this odd fracturing, though there was some hesitation when it came to committing to the huge sums of money necessary in order to (possibly) resolve it.

I can recall an expert who came to look at the problem with me. He and I were looking at one particular office with a broken window. There was a female manager sitting there at that time, but she was not at her desk when we arrived. We deliberated, digested and cogitated for a few moments, with the requisite amount of chin stroking and inside jokes. And then she walked in.

"Hi Carol." I said (for it was she)

"Oh, hello," said my erstwhile companion. "We've just been admiring your cra..."

I have one or two extant situations for the final bizarre couple of weeks remaining at my current place of employment, mostly involving pigeons and leaks, but the biggest bloody sea bird adorning my neck, Flavor Flav style, is a lazer blue bastard, draped around there from an early age, and hanging around like a bad smell ever since.

Waster

I've just spent a day (more or less) sitting in a room listening to bullshit. I needed that like a hole in the blooming fuselage, let me tell ya. Anyway, the primary aim of the day was to work out how to make a couple of people do less 'work' than the negligible amount they already get paid a fortune for, er, doing. What's worse: these two people had (I suspect) orchestrated the day in the first place, but also had the brass neck to sit there whilst everyone (in between the coffees and the egg sandwiches) worked out how to take away even more of their pointless and overpaid existence, leaving them free to... Something.



Clearly, nobody could understand why these (state funded, I feel I must add) worthies should be bothered with the mundanities of everyday life, concerned as they are with the fundamental and vital issues of relationship management.

I don't rile easily, but my tether was stretched by one of them (tightly-curled redhead, incidentally) I have to admit. I struggled to empathise with her complaints of dealing with idiots who fail to understand just how things should be done. I was too far away from the Powerpoint and flipcharts to see clearly the baby blues of my boss as he effortlessly segued into consultation gags at the same time as tossing put-downs over his shoulder, too concerned with the doodle on my notepad and the filth on the window to actually give a shit.

It's strange to be betwixt and between.

Pant and Ting

I may have spoken about the Civil Service on more than one occasion. I have had dealings with them in my professional life over the years, and can speak from experience also as some of my best friends are also on Her Majesty's payroll.

Those of you who are au fait will know that the Civil Service has a fairly rigid structure, and everyone works to their grade. I think that the grades are ranked as below, though I do have my doubts about whether SGB 1 or SGB 2 is higher, and I am aware that there are ongoing efforts to bring about change. But I still believe that the ranking below applies more or less.

SGB 1 (Ability to use basic tools desirable, but not essential)

SGB 2 (As above. There is no difference, except about £20 a week)

AA (Must not show any initiative. Not allowed free use of telephone)

AO (As above, but internal telephone calls permitted)

EO (Should show the ability to demonstrate the opposable thumb)

HEO (A level of intelligence sufficient to prepare a spreadsheet)

SEO (First class rail travel is permitted)

Grade 7 (Must have developed a teflon back)

Grade 6 (Works from home on Fridays)

Grade 5 (This is where SCS, or Senior Civil Servants, begins; motto: The Best Is Not Good Enough. Rarely seen in the wild)

Grade 4... and so on,up to the heights of Perm Sec and beyond.

One could be critical of this hide-bound archaic arrangement. I have worked in companies where there is at least the illusion of an absence of hierarchy, where the Chairman sits at a desk exactly the same size and type as a finance admin, where everyone is known by their first name only, and where the whole shooting match is invited to 'front end' briefings each month in order to share in the company's greater direction, and thus contribute to the ongoing success, etc.

However, the one thing I have noticed during my recent sojourns in the dark recesses of government is that the grades, and the people in them are curiously well matched. Of course, there will always be people who are destined for greater things, just as there are those who are clearly not of the standard to occupy the positions in which they find themselves. But, on the whole, things just seem to fit. It becomes a terrible habit after a while to look at someone and wonder - almost before anything else - what grade they are, before nodding sagely when one discovers that one is right.

I's strictly roots.

The Back Teeth

Today, in a very odd way, it was at last confirmed that I will be switching my role to a non-operational one, starting in just a matter of weeks. Notwithstanding the way it was communicated - which was while I was present at a meeting to which I was only invited just as it started - I don't feel quite so energised by the prospect as I did way back in March. The main reason is that it's too fucking late now, innit? I am fairly confident that I will be around till the end of the year (god willing) and there could be a lot of opportunities arising from whatever the hell happens over the next three months. At the same time of course, I can see a slow bleed. A Gordon Brown style death by a thousand cuts as I am forced to explain (during a handover process) exactly what I have screwed up so royally over the past year and a half.

I will not be downtrodden, however, and will strive to make the most of the short future which lies ahead of me. I am starting with a project to re-align the twenty million or so job titles and descriptions which are currently in use as we strive to streamline and rationalise our service offering to meet the needs of the client. When I was first given the task my mind wandered, as it tends to do, onto a whimsical little folly of giving people in my team military ranks commensurate with their characters. Of course, none of the names will mean anything to anyone who doesn't know those I work with, but I chuckled merrily to myself (at least) while compiling the list as I watched Ray Mears using a lighter and a strip of inner tube (boy, have standards slipped there!) in the Amazon jungle the other night. Here, for no-one's benefit other than my own, is a selection of some of my favourites:


Major Wood
Colonel Murray
Bombardier Bailey
Gunner French (Spike Milligan has to be referenced. I do not refer to It Ain't Half Hot Mum. In case you're wondering)
General Leigh
Lance-Corporal Lakis
Sergeant-Major Rees (Welsh Guards)
Colour Sergeant Dutton
Wing Commander Wayne
Brigadier _______ (too much of an unusual name to give away)

It might be fun to think about your own colleagues and have a go yourself at giving them military ranks. Why don't you give it a try?

Hurly-Burly

I look around.

"It's only March and we're already sick of Twitter..." Jenson Button getting amorous with his model girlfriend on the massage table in Melbourne. Robinho on the beach banging his bongos. Mum's got trouble with her computer, but she doesn't want the neighbours to find out.

Jacqui Smith and her husband. A dreadfully tenuous London Paper connection to 'have you ever caught your other half watching porn?' and Tony McNulty persistently pictured leaving his house in Hammersmith (or wherever) while GB touts his ludicrous political fantasies around South America.

Pete Doherty's good again and The Fall are playing Koko. Jade's dead, but we're not allowed to be beastly about that, and James Corden is a really nice guy. Adam Woodyat is posting pictures of his non-Twittering Eastenders cast member friends to TwitPic.

Someone at work had a stroke, but it wasn't a stroke after all. Or was it?



Did you promise something by 5 o'clock today? Holdall thrown to the platform with force and a 'STAY OUT OF MY FUCKING FACE!' Wayne Rooney should be the next United captain. Strauss is making a good fist of England captain.

One daughter committed suicide, the other is autistic. That's why she ran away from Adelaide. Now, aloof and alone, she gnaws away at her soul, ignored by those whose approval she seeks most. Everyone is wearing blinkers and WILL NOT look beyond their narrow horizons.

Should I stay or should I go? Alan McGhee goes swimming and Helen goes to Waterloo. The kids dance, Sunny can't work out her new camera and my dad's B&B in Tunbridge Wells (not Tonbridge) stinks. Bloody 3G card doesn't work. They keep missing Lakis off the lists and he keeps smiling, though really he's scared. "I just want you to know that, though the formal relationship is changing, you can still talk to me..." Dunfermline is next to Gordon Brown and will be allowed to go down. All is quiet at the Large Hadron Collider.

I look around.

Is it safe?

Much in the style of Larry Olivier in the excellent scene from Marathon Man, I am asking: “Is it safe?” before I write this article. These days, one can’t be too careful, even out of the public eye, when writing or talking about the peccadilloes of one’s past. A careless tweet here, a casual Facebook update there, and – Dooce! – you’re out of a job and on a blacklist quicker than spit. It’s worse than those little bastards who grassed on their dad (Parsons, I think it was) in 1984, I tells ya.

But, I figure that the readership (no offence intended to the small but heart-warmingly loyal band who do regularly read my nonsense) of this particular outpost of the internet doesn’t put me at too much risk, so I aim to talk about the forthcoming demonstrations for the G20, which are planned for April Fool’s Day, and which are coincidentally taking place on the same day as the new contract for services at my place of work commences.

That should be a fun day. I’ve seen some stuff which makes for interesting reading, with the protests set to follow the theme of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, and focusing on the areas of War (follow the Red horse) Climate Chaos (follow the Green horse) Homelessness (follow the Black horse) and Money Crime (follow the Silver horse) Personally, I would have had the black horse symbolising money crime, but what do I know? I’m fully prepared for some form of direct action to strike one or other of the offices for which I’m responsible, and will at the very least be avidly watching the news that evening.

Sadly, I won’t be participating. Not this time. I saw on the Beeb today that Plod expects to see some of the groups from the 90s resurfacing for the demo. Such luminaries of the crusty world as the WOMBLES and – my particular favourite in the anarcho-syndicalist world – Reclaim the Streets. And this is where the risk of Thought Crime (or blog crime, I guess) and a big fat Dooce comes in. For I myself am an alumnus of the RTS movement, having attended the Shepherd’s Bush party in 1996 and the Tottenham High Road one in 1998. What a cracker that was. I lived in the area at the time, and it was a truly amazing experience to see one of the streets where I lived turned into a mad rave.

Don’t tell anyone though, will you?

On the move

Bit of a Plinky style post today, sorry to say. The inevitability of the result against sodding Chelsea has put me in a bubblegum frame of mind.

I'm travelling again this week. Only to York, but for the last time in this particular incarnation of what I laughably call my career. Scandalously (and a little underwhelmingly, I should add) I am entitled to go 1st Class when I travel on business, and I do find that my enjoyment of the journey is not particularly enhanced by the privilege, especially on this National Express route (there is some appeal to the free Linda McCartney's, egg, hash brown and spinach [!] on Dicky Branson's line up to Crewe though, I must admit) where the only 'plus' point is a copy of the Times and all the coffee you can drink.



I'm no Palin (Michael) but I do look back fondly to the time when I was at Poly and used to regularly schlep across the Pennines to Manc land in order to escape from the terrible wastes of Sunderland. There was once the carcass of a cow laid out in ceremonial fashion across the tracks somewhere near Huddersfield, and we were delayed for ages while they cleared it. I also remember dropping my wallet onto the tracks in the dead of night at Dewsbury, and the guard shining his torch down and leaping down to rescue it for me. Would that happen now, or would the health & safety considerations prevent him?

My most memorable train journey was over the Pyrennees to Spain, many years ago. We had been travelling for some time with very little money and as we chugged south out of France, I hunkered down in the seat as best I could for a couple of hours' kip. I awoke with the dawn and a view of the mountains wreathed in crystal clear sunshine. I think we got off at Irun and were overjoyed to find the buffet open, though it seemed to me as if it was 4am. I wonder what kind of welcome you'd get at border town in the UK at such an ungodly hour, but there we were served steaming hot coffee and fresh croissants, and sat in the station taking in the wonderful views and breathing in the air of Spain. Sure beats jumping on an Easy Jet from Luton.

La La La

(And... Here we go with a pre-cursor to a Sunday lunchtime hammering by the Smilers, but it was fun while it lasted. Not saying anything against SWP BTW, but I seriously thought that Daddy Dick deserved man of the match tonight)

As I have suddenly got to prepare for an 'interview' tomorrow, and as the 'interview' is for an as yet (to me anyway) undefined job, meaning that I will have to ditch the usual Friday clobber and dress UP even MORE than usual, inviting the inevitable questions about why I'm wearing a tie on a Friday, or else stuffing a change of clothes into my bag and lugging it across town, and will have to try and prepare for... Christ knows what, I thought it was high time for a musical post. The days of new albums seem so far distant, yet brought to life by the jogging of scents, that I marvel at how far we have travelled, and at how I would now no more consider buying a CD than I would a fine pony.



Like many other things in this crazy world, my relationship with music has changed beyond all recognition. Time was (and what a time it was) that TOTP was the pivot of the week. Not anymore. This change in perception is not solely down to ageing, as the total absence of the show from the TV schedules, and - more tellingly - the recent impasse between the mighty Google and the PRS, clearly demonstrates. Is there a music chart these days (that was a rhetorical question, by the way) and who is at Number 1 (that was a genuine question...)?

I have, like millions before me, trodden the path of:

the sudden realisation that music can be digitized, sent across the intarwebs and downloaded buckshee on to one's home computer (though via a dial-up connection, it was a labour of love, I'm sure you'll agree) through the ownership of an MP3 player, to Bluetoothing tracks between mobiles, to an iPod, through the Hype Machine and onward into the nirvana of Limewire on a broadband connection (though this relationship has turned sour with the release of the latest version and its incompatibility with the faithful old Mac Mini, with its Power PC chip, on whose wheezing torso I am beating out the tattoo of the very letters which appear before you) On to nuTsie, on which I have blogged before. It was irritating in its own special way - based on online versions of the tracks in your library, and often bowdlerised versions at that, but it was a great goodness to grok for a time. I haven't bothered with it since I don't know when.

Then came BlipFM via Twitter, with which I have been - largely - enamoured despite its occasional foibles on search. I like the 'props' idea and enjoy discovering tracks that I would not otherwise have heard about.

The final note in the scale has been Spotify. Ah, it is a beautiful thing, rich in its musical and visual tapestry. But, and you know what I mean, I was desperately seeking God. By Mr Lennon. And it was nowhere to be found. My curiosity pricked, I reached my tendrils towards Julia, and she was not there either, only her plain sister with a vile karaoke dress on.

So there we have it. Up to date as far as that goes. In an echo of modern working practices, I am happy to be rootless, head in the clouds, accessing the treasure trove of whatever takes my fancy. Until the cloud breaks and I don't have any music any more.

Once more unto the...

Things don't stand still for long, do they? Apart from statues of course. And those mimes in Covent Garden. I was going to include Oswestry in that rather glib little summary, but thought better of it, as clearly (and depressingly) things do move there, if not necessarily in the right direction.

"What the hell is he talking about?!" I hear the Frank Riches among you moan. Well, in homage to my post a year ago (almost to the day) I thought I would do a catch-up on my work situation.

It is - in a word - drifting.



Yes, that sort of sums it up. I've never encountered such terrible communication as wot I'm seeing from the multitudinous management teams who seem to be involved in the major contract transition that's about to happen where I'm based. Unsurprisingly, but disappointingly, everyone seems to be doing their best to apply more and more coats of Teflon to their hides, merely making sure that they don't get lumbered with anything and can emerge at the far end safe and sound.

It's laughable that so many of the people I've spoken to over the past year and a bit have been babbling on about people being their greatest assets, and how the success of the transfer depends on understanding them, etc., but who are now desperately seeking to avoid any responsibility for the dog's breakfast it has become.

It's a cliche, but definitely true for me as I look ahead, that the only constant is change. The one thing (ahem, to the best of my knowledge) I feel I know (I do realise that I am not alone in this in these turbulent times) is that I will not be doing what I am now after 3 months. There are two or three potential roads ahead (the third is along the lines of Mel Gibson in a leather jerkin, but I won't go into that here) and I am doing my damnedest to try and force events along the road which suits me best.

I'm still holding my nerve, largely amused by the goings-on, and waiting to see how things will pan out. Or pan down at least.

Wish me luck!

What the?

As I was getting on the bus to go home this evening, I was waiting politely for the woman in front of me to board before shuffling through the bloody snow to stroke my Oyster on the reader. I realise that this (I mean the waiting politely part, as getting on buses after work is probably something I share with many people, whereas stroking Oysters may not be quite so shared an experience) is something of an alien concept for many, but - what can I say? I yam what I yam. First of all, another woman half-barged past me from behind just at the moment that I saw it was clear to move forward, which meant that I - unintentionally - blocked her path.



"Right, OK..." she said, in a very tutting sort of way, before stepping back to ostentatiously peer at the display panel, clearly changing her mind about the desperately urgent need to get on the Number 3 before anyone else did. I resisted the urge to smack her in the mouth and meekly followed the first woman on board. I could tell by her backpack that she worked in the same place as me, though I had never seen her before. And then came the dreaded error bleep. Plain for all to see, quite blunt in its language, the Oyster reader displayed the 'Not Enough Money' message. For a brief moment, my eyes met those of the driver (if I too had been sporting a moustache, who knows what might have happened?) and I hesitated before executing my own Oyster stroke. The cheapskate woman in front of me blithely proceeded down the bus after a brief double-take at the machine, and the driver knew that he had no option but to act.

"Excuse me..."

I Oystered myself out of the situation, but could not move forward, so stood watching her majestic progress towards the exit doors as she ignored the question. I had been in enough public transport stand-offs to know that - basically - anything could happen, so my breath was, as they say, bated.

"Excuse me..."

"What?" the woman replied - rather rudely, and (incidentally) Germanically I thought - glancing owlishly around as she stalked back to the driver. I slipped past her, dreading the possible outcome, and ensconced myself on the rear-facing back seats.

Darling happy anniversary

Another milestone, and it makes building up a blog history all the more attractive. A sense of perspective may be imparted by comparing one's current state of mind to that recorded in the past, as I'm sure Proust must once have said. I only wish I had been keeping this thing years before I actually did. About 25 years, to be exact.

It is now 12 months since I started my current job, and, reading back over my post a year ago, it's revoltingly cliched (not the post, I hasten to add, but the sentiment I'm about to speak of) but L.P. Hartley's opening salvo from the Go-Between rings true.

As for the future... I've often thought of using the game of Brick Breaker on the Blackberry as some kind of metaphor for management skills. There are countless decisions to be made in each game - go for the little rolling 'laser' barrel and risk the ball dropping off the bottom of the screen, or play conservative and miss the bonus? And, er, that's it. Apart from the fact that there are some seriously mad people playing this game. Apparently, as the Blackberry is mostly used by people in IT and in management, the game of Brick Breaker - and the incredibly sad community of people who have been playing a single game of it for several months (!) - attracts a certain type of clientele. So maybe not such a great idea for a concept after all then. I could have sworn that it had more legs than that the last time I sat on the tube clicking the little paddle back and forth. Ah well.

Perhaps a more apposite - though admittedly somewhat hackneyed - metaphor for life in the corporate jungle would be the greatest game of all. Chess. A game where I am far from the greatest player of all, despite years of practice and the odd library book. I even used to watch those programmes on BBC2 (The Master Game with Nigel Short, as my extensive research has revealed) during the Garry Kasparov/Bobby Fischer golden years, but was never really able to fully grasp the tactics. Thanks to one of those library books, I was always pretty reasonable in the opening stages (except when I suffered Fool's Mate against the teacher my first time at the school Chess Club when I was 13 or so. A very public, very nerdy, humiliation it was too. Come to think of it, this was just another example of the sadism displayed by many of those who have taught me. Did he really need to prove himself against such a callow youth? Anyway, no point in dwelling on these things, I suppose) with my Nimzo-Indian defence and some good knight work. I always fade miserably however in the middle and end-game, and am invariably left scratching my head as to what to do, leading to silly mistakes and the ultimate slow death.

Which kind of sums up where I am now, professionally speaking. Head on chin, staring at a multitude of options ahead of me and unsure as to what my next move should be. No doubt I'll be concentrating on the bishop and won't notice that I've left my queen horribly exposed. Or perhaps I'll just carry on with Brick Breaker and see if I can best my top score of 14,240, which now seems horribly inadequate also.

We shall see.

Geese A-Laying

I have an odd feeling. It's as if I've been waiting for a golden egg all these months, and now all I want to do is strangle the goose (fnarr fnarr).

Since January I have been acting as senior manager for the facilities department while the transition from in-house to outsourced service takes place. It has been a crazy and enjoyable adventure with loads of ups and loads of downs. Areas where I thought I would struggle have been a breeze, while unexpected crises have arisen willy-nilly.

Things changed a couple of weeks ago when the name of the successful company was announced (although the alarming dip in their share price over the last 6 months or so does give one pause for thought - especially given the amount of investment which will be required on this contract) and noises were made about me having a place in the brave new world with them. I have raised my profile just enough to be noticed by the right people, and have managed to avoid the worst of the blame for the inevitable cock-ups, so - I am told - the new company are very keen to talk to me.

But... I begin to wonder. For various reasons. First, and obviously, is that there will be a shift in my loyalties from client side to contractor side. Although, working in FM these days, I am always serving 'the customer' it will be a first for me to actually be employed by an FM contracting company, though I do realise that this is becoming more and more the norm. What also changes is my relationship with my boss, who can be a very hard task mistress (oo-er) indeed. Whereas up to now her aims have largely been my aims, this paradigm will shift as I seek to protect the commercial interests of the company I work for whilst continuing to pay my fealty to the client. Believe me, this woman has a very sharp tongue and a very hard boot on her foot when it comes to dealing with contractors, and I worry that I will fall short of the exacting standards she expects.

Second, and perhaps more difficult to deal with, is the fact that I'm scared of the commitment such a step would entail. Now that I have had the good fortune to shin my way up the greasy pole a little, the expectation will be for more and greater things, and that can only mean increased exposure in the harsh spotlight of the corporate world. Being a temp imparts something of an air of the maverick, a feeling that I can just walk away whenever I feel that I've had enough (not that I would, in all probability, because I'm just not like that) and strike out in a new and exciting venture. That will not be the case should I decide to take on a long-term role heading up part of a 15 year contract.

I guess I have until after Christmas to decide.

Maids A-Milking

To the VLA site at Weybridge in Surrey, which is a sprawling mass of buildings (labs and offices) and several 'farms' dealing with all aspects of animal diseases - though mainly focused (for obvious reasons) on food animals. There are of course studies into rabies, etc, but the bulk of the work is concentrated on avian flu, scrapie, bluetongue, bovine TB and BSE, etc.

We were shown around one of the farms, where a study of the effects of low level BSE has been ongoing for the past 9 years or so. This was obviously once a normal farm, and the study is taking place in what appears to be a standard cow shed, though the necessary modifications, in place to ensure the quality of the scientific data, soon become apparent. It is a low level disease site, so the precautions for humans are minimal, at least for those humans not in direct contact with the animals.

Entering the building, we were signed in, and I was immediately struck by the sound of a radio (playing something like Heart FM) even though the door was locked and protected by pin code when we arrived. The Bangles sang Eternal Flame as we took off our shoes, swung over a low counter to don blue wellies and swap our coats for those dun coloured stockman's coats, marked on the back with the word 'gantry' and were led up a flight of galvanised steps.

You guessed it, we were bound for the gantry, which runs the length of the shed, interspersed at intervals with lights, fans and speakers - for the radio of course. Below us in the gloom there emerged a group of cattle. I could see three, two standing and one sitting, and it was plain, even from the strange perspective I had, that they were considerably bigger than the beasts I have been used to seeing in the fields of Shropshire. Later, we were able to get a little closer to some other animals, which have been contained in slightly less barbaric conditions for over 10 years, and - let me tell you - these were monstrous mothers! With not much exercise and no slaughter, they are similar to fish in that they just continue to grow (though not to an infinite size) and end up developing problems with their joints, which are no longer able to support the enormous weight of their carcasses.

But back to the shed. There were actually four stalls in all, three contained three cattle each and the last, three sheep - infected, we were told, with low level doses of scrapie, in order to test the theory of scrapie causing BSE. As we walked along and the scientist told us what this crazy place was all about, I felt as though I was in a David Lynch movie, my feet squeezed into wellies that were too small for me, hands in the pockets of my stockman's coat, staring down at the morose giants below who trudged around in their own shit, hour after hour, day after day, year after year, listening to Heart FM. Mighty depressing, I can assure you, though others on the tour did not seem to share my view. Maybe I'm just a big softie.

Over to the weather now...

Off to Exeter in the week to visit the Met Office HQ. Fascinating, captain. I was shown around the 24/7 Weather Desk, where the forecasting is done, and given a brief on how it's all put together. Needless to say, there's quite a lot to it. My mind kept flashing back to O Level Environmental Science and the wonderful geekery of weather monitoring stations and Stevenson Screens as I watched the multiple monitors displaying graphical representations of forecast models and plotting radar scans of rainfall. I was told that terabytes of data are received at the HQ from satellites every hour, and observations are recorded at 700 (I think, but it could have been 70) different levels in the atmosphere.

But best of all was a quick look at the supercomputers in the basement. These monsters (of which there are only two of equivalent type in Europe, they said) are responsible for the site consuming as much electricity as half of the city of Exeter. We were told that we couldn't enter the room for the risk that we would contaminate the delicate innards of the beast. They were in the process of upgrading their second SX-6 to an SX-8, and so we were amused when a workman strolled out of the room with brick dust all over his jeans and a lump hammer in his hand. As the door opened, that familiar, slightly high-pitched rushing sound of a computer room (though this one was somewhat larger than those I have been used to) emerged and we were looking at potentially 65TFLOPS. Fantastic!

Back at the Weather Desk, we were told that a forecast takes 64 minutes to be completed, and by the time it reaches the Chief Forecaster's desk it may already be 2 hours old, so he has to use his knowledge and experience to run the model forward and try to iron out any inconsistencies he perceives in the data. Once set, there are conference calls with various parties (including the likes of Helen Willetts) to ensure that the message of the forecast remains consistent. All in all, a truly excellent day.

Exeter seems nice enough, but I'm increasingly depressed by the similarity within our towns and cities. Everywhere you go, the same old shops, the seemingly endless parades of Caffe Neros and Lushs and Ann Summerss. There's a lovely cathedral, and the city is in a great setting, but it actually feels quite soulless. Maybe I'm not giving it enough of a chance.

Ooh, me back

You may recall my earlier post about Rhydymwyn. Well, I have just returned from there. And boy, do I feel it! I haven't worked so hard (meaning physical work) for many years.

On the first morning we trekked from one end of the site to the other (about 2 miles) and were split into two work teams by the facilitator, whose name is Kylie. One team planted willow along the fence adjacent to the Alyn River, and the other (of which I was a member) weaved yet more willow branches to form an otter shelter on the bank. It was messy work, but not too strenuous, and there was a real achievement at the end of it - a sense of satisfaction at seeing the shelter take shape. It was then back to the hut for butties and tea, and I was thinking that this wouldn't be so bad after all. The afternoon, however, brought a rude awakening.

We all followed Dave's tractor/trailer combo to the big Jewson bags of medium gravel, sand and tree bark about halfway down the site, there to fill up the trailer with said gravel, plastic pipes and tools and move on to the work area, which was some considerable way up a hill. It was one of those hills with a false top, so that you felt you had reached the summit, only to turn the corner and see another 100 yard incline. We spent a few hours digging trenches, lugging heavy buckets uphill, and backfilling steps in the (yes, I know!) blazing sun, and by the time we'd finished, I could have kissed Dave for sharing his stash of Grolsch with us in the Education Centre.

A night of beer, food and corporate bullshit followed at the Antelope - disturbed by 1am Elvis sessions drifting up from the bar - to be followed in turn by a not too early start on a rain threatening morning. Our task was to move about a ton of compost from one location to another, create a tree nursery from old railway sleepers and fill it up with the shit we had shovelled earlier. My shoulders ache, my lower back is sore and I feel as weak as a mouse. But what a great feeling!