Luncheon

Where else eat before an evening's hard matrimonialising and imbibing?

Stiv Agathi, natch, with her fine food and relaxing sea vista.

 

 

 

Smoking Songs

This should be part of my diatribe - cough splutter - against Britain's patronising ban on public smoking, but Tom Horan's list and commentary deserve a separate plinth.

I *think* this gets you to the playlist.

The smokey-voiced archetypal Francais Gainsbourg and the divine Deneuve duet.

Society Wedding

Five hours hence, booted and spurred, to Alithia and Marcus's wedding.

Thursday's pre-nupt quaffing at the Lounge Bar was a Who's Who of jeunesse d'oree and eurostocracy.

I don't think A or M would mind me posting the guest list for a short while, just to swank what company I'll be moving in - or at least being snubbed by.

The dinner will be in the Old Fort and each table has a genial host to see things run smoothly, keep the jokes coming, and generally make sure everyone has a splendid time.

I have agreed to be my table's compere but am beginning to get cold feet. Everyone at the drinks seemed terrifyingly young and self-assured, not to mention some of the most beautiful women I've set eyes on. I shall be snapping and posting.

Mimicry Advert

I'm a huge fan of skilled commercials.

Check out this one for Captain Morgan rum.

Bloke has pleaded too sick to attend his chick's unpromising wedding of a cousin, but is almost busted when he takes gf's call in a bar.

He pretends the background noise is him checking the TV channels and the staff and customers rise magnificently to the challenge.

Particularly note:

Whispering voice of weather man calling for "slight wind"

Instant formation of a workout class

Doyen cricket commentator John Arden's oaky-voiced reference to "a magnificent shot" and the expert clapping by the dude's pals

That brilliant last-second tableau of the 3 guys turning to give the Capt Morgan knee-up pose.

Lovely deep English accent of the voice-over plug.

'Tin Cup' Blair

What a farcical shamble has been poodle Blair's exit from Downing Street.

I suspected this ridiculous job they've cooked up for him would carry no power: "Special Representative", indeed. His humiliation is complete and we should hear no more of him save for his occasional cockups and slights from other world leaders.

How could anyone have thought Blair suitable for any sort of job, let alone *this* one for a coxcomb who pushed for war on Iraq and refused to sue for peace in Lebanon?

To boot, he leaves an appalling legacy

Ruined education system

National Health Service in tatters

Armed Forces decimated

Demoralised police force

More violence on the streets than ever

Total cave-in to the EU

All taxes soaring

Transportation system getting worse

Namby-pamby wheedling around fixing the House of Lords (whom God preserve).

Just one big catastrophic bouffanted balls-up.

July 1: What a date to go down in infamy, to be sure.

10 years ago, my fragrant harbouring home town of Hong Kong was handed back to the Motherland - admittedly to no great harm.

Actually, I'm sure the citizens of Hong Kong feel good riddance from a country whose arrogance and nannying ways has reduced it to banning smoking from all public places.

Number Punching

Dept of 'You Had to Be There'

First some history: a week or so back Mum was invited to dinner at one of her posh friends but when she got to the gated closure, the porter had knocked off for his ouzo break, the gates were closed. Nix entry for Mater.

She phoned me, I phoned them and got the code, called mum back with what to punch in.

Orli endaxi.

So that was some weeks back.

Today I'm driving back from Acharavi in my Albanian peasant gear and my Albanian hound and I take the Country Club corner and there's a hire car parked and Lord Snooty barking into the intercom and Sam barking :

"No, don't stop, they look like tourist trash. Drive on."

I pull over and cross the road and punch in 13**. The gates start to swing open.

"Remarkable," says Lord Snooty.

"Quick, Geoffrey," calls Lady S, "before they close again."

I point to the grinding gates and my watch and make a flat dismissive gesture.

I point to their car and do a steering wheel imitation, and point out the sensors in the gate pillars.

"It's all right, darling," says Lord Snooters, "they're on a time switch."

"That's not what he said, Geoffrey. There's some sort of thing that knows when we've gone through."

She looks at me.

"Right? We go pass? (gesture) Gate close after?"

I am dark with sun and gardening. I look like some Albanian labourer.

I nod. Gesture them to go thru.

I don't look back as I cross to the dusty Nissan and gun the engine up.

The Nakamichi sound system kicks back in with Kind of Blue.

I vroom off.

je t'aime

bit of nostalgia.

i just love the organ sound.

LAURA VEIRS

Laura Veirs is wonderful and I am flying back to the UK to catch her end of July concerts.

Funny thing is, I'd walked for months past that postcard pic of her that Elsinger pinned to his cubicle. I never thought to check her out because, say what?, what can a wilde extreme frisbeest like Bil share with a sensitive fop like me?

Once I listened to her, I was lost.

Plus, fellow Bainbridge Islander the great Bill Frisell is on some of her albums.

Galaxies: Ms Laura also has a video out.

I fancy her with her specs, but the media boys must have told her, Lose the lorgnettes. Either way, LV rocks.

Simulated 911 firebomb

I find this as gruesomely hypnotic as I find it utterly disturbing

FotoLibra

Big ups to my older mucker, Gwyn Headley, for his brilliant run-don't-walk site FotoLibra passing the 200,000 images mark.

My readers aren't fools. They can spot a good thing when tipped the wink.

I don't know why I haven't had it in my links from the off. Whoops.

Remedied as I type.

Bobby Bezos

Has anyone noticed the resemblance between Milord Jeffrey Preston of Bezosia and lounge crooner Bobby Darin?

They have the exact same conk.

This is, of course, just a ruse to segue to his Dream Lover with its wonderful melody, timing, coiffure and gestures, and that heavenly punctuative chorus.

Which is in turn excuse to run Lobo's version, which is exactly like mine except he's cool and has an American accent and a babe. Other than that, our renderings are joined at the hip.

Mon Amie Francoise

I was 19 in '65, just out of school and spending a month in Rheims champagne country with my pal Luc Divry.

He said we should go along to a concert by one Francoise Hardy.

She came on stage and I knew the look of my perfect woman.

Not perfect, Venus de Milo, da Vinci classic, the bar falls silent on her entrance look.

Perfect for me.

Fifteen years later, I married that look and she was also perfect in every other way.

Rooting thru Tube today, I came across Hardy's opening song that night, Mon Amie La Rose.

In context, it's an ironic juxtaposition of this French Girl tribute with my neighbouring and laboured German Girl moan.

German Girl

Recent research has uncovered more than the scholar cares to know about this forlorn ditty, composed in late 2006 but constantly evolving until its final version in June the following year when we must assume that the minstrel finally came to terms with the loss of his lady love.

No versions exist of the first draft when both parties appear to have been at the height of their passion and happy to have the song sung on any occasion.

A brief hiatus followed as the singer spent Christmas in Italy and the apfelstrudel of his eye returned to her German hometown.

The rift began on their 'reunion', if such a positive term can be applied to their lacklustre first actual meeting of 2007, a full 3 weeks after both had returned to Greece during which the young lady kept the singer at bra's length thanks to tantalising emails and missed appointments.

One might ask how come the penny didnt drop, but who are we to comment on others' affaires of the heart?

Among the changes was the lady's request that the song be dropped from his repertoire and never sung again in public. This presented problems since many of the singer's 'fans' had taken a liking to the song and would request it at each appearance with the guitar.

It is useful to mention at this stage that, outside the boudoir and certain select common friends in the German community, singer and subject led largely separate lives, she spending her day in the local bureau of a German publication and he lolling around with nothing more stressful to occupy his time than monitoring the stock of Mythos beer in the fridge and his supply of Karelia cigarettes.

This camouflage of a job enabled the lady to visit the home, feed the goldfish and tend the garden of her 'true beloved', a fellow Teuton of half again her age ('The Toad', 'Turtle Neck', 'Sloth of Sidari' and others, according to later references in the singer's diary) who had taken three months off to return home to finalise his divorce from Wife 3 in order to legitimise his domestic arrangements with his next victim. (The faint twang of rancid grape pips can be heard here and there in references to his 'rival')

In response to the veto on the original, the singer rephrased his ditty as a lament to a "Highland Girl", not completely obliterating clues to the original.

It is fairly sure that Mein Herr was unaware of the shenanigans during his absence, or ignored them as part of his mistress's usual flightiness, smug in the knowledge of his possession.
It is known that German Girl and 'Gunther the Grenouille' were both present on several occasions for renderings of the Scottish rewrite.

Emails from those present note that all eyes were on the lithe lady and her diminutive companion and that her expression was "strained" as her escort (with his limited command of the language) chose to root for another stein.

We are indebted to Professor Kostas Giorgas for his expert commentary on the 'Scottish' version.

German Girl

Thinking 'bout a German girl
Rings on her fingers, head full of curls
She came into my Corfu world, everything changed
And I won't be home again.

Singing 'bout a German girl
It's just fingers and frets, the words won't come
The strings feel rusty and cold, the key feels wrong, the chords dont strum
All in all just a bundle of fun, pining for a German girl

Chorus

I miss her, in all the drippy ways I so despise in others
I dont care where she stops or stays
What she does with her nights and doesn't with her days
If she puts out to every varlet or knave, I really won't be bothered
(Big chord up) I just want back what we had ... togethah

Moping for a long-gone moll
A mug's game at the best of times
But talking German girl, You're cruising for a bruising with that sweet fraulein:
I'm a dent in her pillow, a furrow in her brow
That train's left the station and it's carried my frau
Someone else dining in her lilies n'Au
Wieder sehen, German girl

Chorus

I miss her in all those homely ways I never thought remembered:
A secret smile across the room, hand on my knee as we drove home,
Sleepy sweet nothings on a midnight phone,
The list goes on forever
And I'd like a little back of what we had ...
Together

I don't think about that German girl,
I'm over the worst and moving on,
She belongs to the other world
She was always in, and I never belonged
She called and I came, it palled and she changed
But me, silly Englishman, I just stayed the same.

Note on Scottish Girl:

It is interesting to read in the singer's own diary that, no sooner had he changed the nationality to north of the border than rumours were rife as to the identity of the kilted siren, not a few fuelled by McBabes themselves.

One can only guess at how time hung heavy on such idle minds and their Life-lacking existence under the sun.

Highland Girl

Thinking 'bout a Highland girl
Freckled nose, Titian curls
She came into my Corfu world, everything changed
And I won't be home again.

Singing 'bout a Hieland girl
It's just fingers and frets, the words won't come
The strings feel rusty and cold, the key feels wrong, the chords dont strum
All in all just a bundle of fun, pining for that Scottish girl

Chorus

I miss her, in all the drippy ways I so despise in others
I dont care where she stops or stays
What she does with her nights and doesn't with her days
If she puts out to every sassenach knave, I really won't be bothered
(Big chord up) I just want back what we had ... togethah

Moping for a long-gone moll
A mug's game at the best of times
But talking Hieland girl, You're cruising for a bruising of the tartan kind:
I'm a dent in her pillow, a furrow in her kilt
That train's left the station and the milk cart's spilt
Someone else swooning to her Caledonia lilt
Auf wieder sehen, Highland girl

Chorus

I miss her in all those homely ways I never thought remembered:
A secret smile across the room, hand on my knee as we drove home,
Sleepy sweet nothings on a midnight phone,
The list goes on forever
But I just think of what we had ...
Together

Verse
I don't think about that Highland girl,
I'm over the worst and moving on,
I don't flinch at the bagpipes' skirl, don't check the mirror at a red car's horn
People happen so people change, for all I know she felt the same
But the call of the heather and the soft Scottish rain
Put paid to my Highland Girl

A7 chord and a plaintiff "Och awae noo"

Farewell to my Highland Girl.

FINIS

Professor Giorgas:

This is a song typical of sentiments we hear nightly in the vulgarities of the bouzoukia: the too heavy romance and low esteem, the unmanly accepting of such treacherosity. I think we are safe to assume that if the nationalities could be reversed, the woman would be broken by both arms.

But there are some clues we can enjoy and only wonder how it was received by the lady when she heard it songed in company of her Germanic meister patron.

"Pining for that Scottish girl": It must be deliberate that the singer chooses this verb, so close to the German lady's Hanover birthplace and upgrowing. It really is astonishing to me that he is making to risk such wrath of ferocity as can come from this nationality. In my salad times, I had chance to pass some studies at the University of Heidelberg and formed one closeness with a generic pupil with whom I suffered a heart change (as is such frequent of the wayward youthness) and much was there loud vociferous and projectile hurls as she expressed her grand dissatisfaction to my announcement. But I am astray from my relevance.

• The usage of German 'auf weidersehen' is most foolish to remind of the true nation of his subject. I think that those who must be privileged to knowinf of the facts must be 'swap' the looks of knowledge and make the grin between them. When the singer talks of Not anymore thinks of the girl, he is of the self deniality and surplused protest.
  We are reminding to the Chicago band with its tragoudia of "I am not in the love".
• Red car horn This is also most revelatory. The German girl is driving a red car of old age that is surely beyond our Greek law for mechanical astringency. This aftokinito of the coloured wine is also with the sticking shift. I have on personal recount from the singer (when our tongues were liberated by the slaked thirst for the ouzo) that his karthiaki tou would be touching the knee of him with dexterous hand while with sinister palm changement of the leaning gears. Perchance his referral to 'hand on knee for the driving home' is clueing to us.
• "Call of the heather" and "it palled and she changed": these are the most brazen word choiceage in the whole lyrics. Paul is the named frog toad supplanter who was in convenient absentia during the episode of passion. Also, Heather is the accepted name of la confidante who was of the enabling information to the German lady for her successful deceivement of the singer for the keeping darkness.
  
  
  There is probable extraneous clueness from the libretto of song but I am not of certainty for the expression. I hope against the inadequacy of my inspections to will not hinder appreciation as a charming 'amuse bouche' of musicality and sincere ache of the heart.

Mustn't leave out glamour girls Mother and Daughter

Solstice 2

The party to which I omitted to invite Wells sahib

Dateline: Uzbekistan

Solstice Party

 

 

 

 

The Oldie magazine

This is my very favouritest magazine and the only one I subscribe to in Greece.

I see that it is posting an online version to lure readers, of which I doubt they will find any in the ranks of my pals, even tho' they include many decrepit types.

My American friends don't acknowledge the description or state of 'old'.

When visiting me, and on spotting a copy of The Oldie lying around, they would hiss and make the sign of the cross as if repelling vampires on the starboard bow.

My English friends don't read and would find it all too satirical and mocking.

But I put it up there in case. I haven't tested the link but if it doesn't work for you, I suspect it will be because you are too old.

Is Hell Exothermic?

I'm sure this is doing the galactic e-rounds but I got it from a nice teacher of English just arrived from Birmingham.

I suspect Sedition would have got A++ with *his* answer.

It's meant to be an actual question in a chemistry paper that one student answered well.

Question: Is Hell exothermic (gives off heat) or endothermic (absorbs heat)?

Most students wrote proofs of their beliefs using Boyle's Law (gas cools when it expands and heats when it is compressed) or some variant.

Smart-aleck penned:

"First, we need to know how the mass of Hell is changing in time. So we need to know the rate at which souls are moving into Hell and the rate at which they are leaving.

I think that we can safely assume that once a soul gets to Hell, it will not leave. Therefore, no souls are leaving. As for how many souls are entering Hell, let's look at the different religions that exist in the world today.

Most of these religions state that if you are not a member of their religion, you will go to Hell. Since there is more than one of these religions and since people do not belong to more than one religion, we can project that all souls go to Hell. With birth and death rates as they are, we can expect the number of souls in Hell to increase exponentially.

Now, we look at the rate of change of the volume in Hell because Boyle's Law states that in order for the temperature and pressure in Hell to stay the same, the volume of Hell has to expand proportionately as souls are added.

This gives two possibilities:

1. If Hell is expanding at a slower rate than the rate at which souls enter Hell, then the temperature and pressure in Hell will increase until all Hell breaks loose.

2. If Hell is expanding at a rate faster than the increase of souls in Hell,then the temperature and pressure will drop until Hell freezes over.

So which is it?

If we accept the postulate given to me by Teresa during my Freshman year that, "It will be a cold day in Hell before I sleep with you," and take into account the fact that I slept with her last night, then number two must be true, and thus I am sure that Hell is exothermic and has already frozen over.

The corollary of this theory is that since Hell has frozen over, it follows that it is not accepting any more souls and is therefore, extinct......leaving only Heaven, thereby proving the existence of a divine being which explains why, last night, Teresa kept shouting "Oh my God."

It's said the student got an A+.

Curmudgeon me would have reduced it to a mere A for the feeble punchline.

Phrases that make you see red

Christopher Howse is one of the Daily Telegraph's finest writers.

He writes most usually upon religious matters and is a sage in the true sense of the word.

Here he comments on an hilarious jape whereby readers were asked to concoct prose "crammed with as many infuriating phrases as possible."

Fiddling with Nero

No, Calliope - life in the Ionians is *not* all wrasslin' snakes and snorkeling for piranhas; nor is it chainsaw massacres of good olive wood or shredding dead roses for mulching.

Want to know the default chore? Day in day out in Paradise?

Watering

Hosing

Pumping

Spraying

Sloshing

The title comes from an excruciating pun based on

The temperature in the shade is currently hitting the high 30s

The Greek for water is 'nero'.

Fiddling with nero while Holm' burns

B'boum

 

 

 

 

Snake

Our pool is overnight like the great green greasy Limpopo river with Mr Froggie living in a comfy water lily and now Mr Snake taking up space in one of the ruddy great flowerpots that take up good sitting space and where I liked to put the bottles of white to stay cool. Plus ca change ....

Looks worse (or do I mean impressive?) than it is: there is only one really poisonous attack reptile here and this one I am wrasslin' is not it.

But still bloody nerve-wracking to see it curving and wiggling across at me like some mini-Anaconda.

I thought it might drown if I held its head under but it seemed to rather like it so i tossed it away after the photo.

Dad R.I.P

Anniversary of my father's death, and I have gathered a bunch of flowers from the garden to lay on his grave, tidy the grass around, and light a candle.

Sir Ronald Holmes, Kt, CMG, CBE, MC.

Never raised a voice or arm in petulance.

Remembered, admired, still guided by his example, still quietly mourned these 26 years on.

Bottomless Loo

But hmm ...

I had been sent this by someone professing to have been in the very house of the artist himself. However I now notice a 'Worth' trademark bottom left which makes me feel it's a more commercial product.

Anyway, the lady who sent it described the shock of locating the 'Smallest Room' only to find herself tottering into an airborne, bottomless loo.

July 21 ~ Harry Potter & the Booktrade Nightmare

I have a deep blue T-shirt identifying myself as one of Lord Bezosia's Ninja elite who "survived HP5".

Now comes the final volume, what Spiros Theotoki's eager young daughter excitedly refers to as 'Harry Potter and the Healthy Gallows'. It is a far better title than Ms Rowling's so I say nothing.

But fie! What is this?

The Independent newspaper speaks of a 'nightmare', not just for cosy bookshops such as you and I haunt, but the noble house of Bloomsbury itself.

The bookshops will be up against price-slashing chain supermarkets

Bloomsbury will be under pressure to stand fast on the Potter margins.

"Small bookshops, especially, will suffer as they struggle to keep up with the discounts offered by the industry's big players" quoth shop owner Marilyn Brocklehurst of Norfolk Children's Book Centre, who will once again have to stock the book, against her will.

And what a vacuum will be left for us all when the Potteriad comes to a close.

Dun Draggin'

No, I haven't quit the dread fags yet - but I want to and that's a step.

I also have some pals willing to bully and hassle and young and not so young ladies (at our age, everyone is heart-crushingly young) who threaten to cough and splutter and tell me to get away from them ... in Greece, a woman telling you to be off wiv ya is the end.

And I have Team Telegraph with its new programme that I vow to follow.

It says don't tell those around you of your intentions, so here I am proclaiming to the blogaxy but I don't care.

Not Wanting to Hurt

Has anyone noticed how it's the well-meaning interfering busy-bodies who cause the most hurt? The ones who blunder in posing as pals and spill the beans on private information you'd never otherwise have heard and which hurts more than anything that's gone before.

Late last year I had a 'meaningful' relationship which pranged badly during and after Christmas but the lady delivered the coup de grace with tact and artistry and it was left to me to pick myself up and apply salve and balm to the more gaping wounds and, in the famous advice, 'move on'.

So, six months later and I'm still watching my words and watching where I watch in case I see Her or that distinctive jalopy ... or Her and *him* (with whom She'd been from the start, blind moi) striding arm in arm down the street.

But I'm on the mend and I'm getting good at blanking out any thoughts of her that worm their way in when I'm off guard.

Off guard - Which is what I was when I let slip a tiny but crucial bit of information that allowed a certain busy-body Goody Two Shoes with whom I've been sharing food and chit-chat to put 3 and 8 together and deliver me the most devastating hurt and misery in the history of this sad affaire.

Heading her email, "I just don't want to see you get hurt ..." - 6 months after the train left the station, right? - she gives me the complete lowdown on my ex-adored's history and other bedmates, who and what she was also doing while we two were seemingly inseparable (and hats off to Her, if it's true), and generally opening up all the worst wounds, plunging in the poignard and twisting it several times, all the while with beatific 'friend' face.

None of this would ever have reached me

I didn't have to know

Now I DO know, I can't with dignity even stand in the same room as Her, with whom I entertained foolish thoughts of just maybe reaching some friendship plateau.

Nah- forget it.

But seriously, has there ever in the history of Cupid's mischievous twang been a case of hurt avoided by these idiot nosey-parkers? Far more likely that those dreadful words have heralded the *end* of any hard-fought peace of mind and the opening of the floodgates for the REAL wailing and gnashing.

Addendum: I am blessed in friends. The sainted Rwells wastes no words but simply sends me a killer link to Elvis C and the siren Emmy Lou.

Addendum-dum-dum-dummee doo wah: By Iapatides' lyre! What Pandora's Box have I opened? All along the watch tower vines, the mock is that lurve lies bleeding. Last night went into the Irish bar and the band struck up 'Love Hurts'.

Even well-meaning blabbermouth madame, whose searing retro-catalog of Her extra-mural gallivantings opened new AND old wounds, even *she* got to hear of the posting, looked it up and has sworn to douse me in Guinness at our next meeting .....

But, as Patricia pointed out, I can at last sing my song en publique. She's thinking of her fave verse:

Moping for a long-gone moll - mug's game at the best of times
When you're talking German Girl,
Cruising for a bruising with that sweet fraulein:
I'm a dent in her pillow, furrow in her brow
That train's left the station and carried my frau
Someone else dining in her lilies nau
Wiedersehen, German Girl (C -A7 - D7 -G)
Wiedersehen, German Girl.

Dramatic last chord on the C.

Wipe tear, look brave.

Greek toughening on Highway Code

Truth to tell, there seems not to BE a highway code as such for our Odyssean island, but unwisely over-imbibing Engishmen would be wise to read and digest Athens News' report on tougher measures in place since June 2.

Motorists running red lights (daily guilty m'lud) liable to fines up to 700 euros and jug for 'serious' drink-driving offenders.

Click on the chart and then magnify it.

Ugh.

Next despatch from Skripero clink, if I don't watch it.

€100 =

US$133.5

English pounds 67

Hong Kong $1,044.00

 

"Well, it's a mess ..."

Buzz phrase du jour seems to be Tommy Lee Jones' in No Country for Old Men.

Indeed, I read it on the 'Net, then I went to a party and an American came out with it (to great applause), and now I see that even the erudite Jon Quitslund spouts it in his guest column for the ever-readable Rachel Pritchett back in my beloved Kitsap county.

BUT - this looks like turning into one of those great misquoted quotes.

The line is NOT spoken by Tommy Lee Jones, that “If this ain’t the mess, it’ll do until the mess gets here.”

The deputy on his horse asks, "Well, it's a mess, ain't it sheriff?" and TLJ quips, "If it ain't, it'll do until a mess gets here."

I am pleased to clear that up, and now you can.

My New My Friend

I am in deep doo-doo for replying to a mail out of the blue from a Samaran siren.

It was the pout, I say, but no use: damage is done and I am in the Siberian kennel.

I have apparently let myself open to every nigerian scam under the sun. Even as I type, Ivan is emptying my empty coffers.

"Hello!!! My name Rula. I live in Russia, namely in city Samara.

My new your friend email to me distances in a site of lonely hearts.

I hope that you will not ignore me and shortly we can learn each other better.

I in the first was included in Internet - cafe to find to myself the partner in life and me it seems that not the first which you receive my letter from the girl, but I hope that among them was not such good and tender as I.

My dear I earlier also my dream to create family never was married to have children and to live happily. I at all do not know why I have chosen you, am simple the matter is that I have seen your structure and I liked your structure, also to me would like to find out yours more close by means of our correspondence.

I think that it is everything, that I wanted to inform you and if I have interested you I shall be happy to receive from you the answer to my E-Mail.

With impatience I shall wait for the prompt answer,

Your new friend Rula.

My 'structure', indeed? Watch this space.

Since posting this, R and I have exchanged several mails and she is a sweety and I feel a bit bad about posting this - which is exactly the required reaction says everyone this end.