That was
quite a week, that was. Well, I woke up
this morning... Thursday morning, in fact, to find that I had been unveiled
as the new manager of the English women's football team. Somehow, I managed to
miss my interview on Radio 4's morning news programme.
It all
could have been quite serendipitous. Only the other day, I was wondering
whether my gainful work as an instructional designer had run its natural
course. Was it time perhaps for a new career, even at my advanced age?
I confess
that I was rather excited by the prospect of taking on a team of fit women and
turning them into a crack unit of winners. (Unlike their male contemporaries.) With
some interesting training techniques up my sleeve to try out, I was itching to get
stuck in, so to speak. I even received from pals several offers of help with
the physiotherapeutic side of the role. One, in particular, even went to the
trouble of acquiring an online massage qualification in order to jump the
queue. I had to temper his enthusiasm by questioning his practical experience
with a magic sponge.
One
thing's for sure, 'affable and friendly' I might be, but as the BBC sports page
pointed out, I am 'not to be messed with'. Mark Sampson is definitely his own
man. When it came to allocating the support roles, favouritism would not come
into the equation. For example, I'm on good terms with a few plumbers in the
area. They're good enough at their trade, but imagine if there was a problem
with the showers at the end of a gruelling international. Could I count on them
to remedy the problem on the spot, or would they engage in
the usual shilly-shallying one associates (alas) with plumbers? No, I realised
that the only person suitable for the job was... Guildford's favourite plumber,
my brother.
In the
cold light of the following day, however, I realised that a certain conflict of
interest was colouring my credentials. I couldn't quite put my hand on my heart
and say that I was going into this new venture in entirely the right, purely
sporting, spirit. So, with rather less brouhaha, I thanked the powers for the
offer and tendered my resignation. Reporters are even now clamouring at my
door, hoping for some kind of indiscrete statement to fan the flames.
Never
mind... It would have been an all-consuming role. Deep down, I knew that there
wouldn't be time for my book-making career in tandem. Only this week, after an
agonising Sunday wrestling with formatting, I uploaded my book of our grand
design to Amazon's Kindle platform. After almost ten years in gestation, and
thwarted up until now by the commercial considerations of traditional
publishing houses, it was a liberating experience to get it all down on paper.
Well, a computer screen; I never cared for carbon paper. Bloody Murder On The Dog's Meadow is less about construction and
more about the de-construction of family life during our year of living
dangerously close to the edge. I don't know if one can put a download in a
Christmas stocking, but I'm hoping that it's priced so modestly that it might
serve as a last-minute universal 'tree present', as my grandma used to label
her more minor gifts.
So... if
readers would care to go there and fork out three bucks or so for what Stephen
Fry has already called 'an entertaining read', and then, if they like it
sufficiently well, post a glowing review on said Amazonian platform, who knows?
In my wildest dreams, it will become a succès
d'estime and supplement my retirement. I've already received a royalty payment
of £1.82. Dream hard enough and the sky is surely the limit.
Flushed
with a sense of achievement, I took time off from the daily grind to go
Christmas shopping with the Good Wife of Brive la Gaillarde. Around the church
in the centre of the old town, they've put up some of those market stalls that
look like self-assemble sheds from Monsieur Bricolage. One of them was womanned
by a woman in a smart coat from the Dordogne selling double jazz CDs
illustrated by some celebrated French cartoonist. They were overpriced, but I
was tempted by a Ben Webster compilation for a friend who likes Duke
Ellington's finest tenorman.
We got
talking and she congratulated me for and then corrected my French. She talked
about all les anglais in the Dordogne
(living in the department and not floundering in the river) and I recognised
the patter of a crypto-racist. The ones who hide behind a painted smile. It all
came out: don't speak the language, stick
to themselves, bring supplies in from the UK, blah blah blah. She had
English neighbours, she told me with a certain faux-liberal pride, and I sensed
that she'd be the sort to sell them down river as soon as Marie Le Pen's
xenophobic foot soldiers start sniffing easy prey. It was with great pleasure
that I was able to point out that London is now the sixth biggest French city
and then witness the genuine surprise that masked the painted smile. Had I had
my wits about me, I would have asked her whether she had ever tried to live in
a foreign land, far from all that's safe and familiar, and then suggested that
– in the words of the song – she tried to walk
a mile in my shoes before rushing to judgement.
Readers,
I bought not a one of her CD coffrets.
My week ends with the return of our prodigal
daughter. She rides in on Saturday afternoon on the 10.10 from Paris, or
whatever time it leaves the Gare d'Austerlitz. Two whole weeks of Christmas en famille. What fun, what bliss. Myrtle
can go back to sleeping on The Kid's bed. Once the commercial mayhem has
abated, we can settle down to chestnuts roasting on an open fire and some of
the films I have been assiduously burning onto DVD.
I hope you've noticed how I've used words
like 'platform' and 'burning' in their modern sense. I am the very model of a modern
major-domo – but not so modern that I cannot raise a cup of sack and wish ye
all a very merry Christmas and a most happy and prosperous new year.
Hosanna
in excelsis!
