Why is it so difficult to get a full cup of coffee in a cafe ?

Being the mild mannered person that I am, I have let a few occasions pass where I was served less than a spillage when I should have complained. However, the other day I was forced to make my displeasure known.

The waitress brought me a jug of milk, two types of sugar and little more than a stain at the bottom of a cup. And then had the nerve to ask if there was anything else she could get me as she deposited the bill on the table. "Yes" , I replied in dismay, "the rest of my coffee." From the look on her face you would have thought I had attacked her dress sense with my request. Had I not been preoccupied with where the rest of my order had gone, I would have. I mean, for goodness sake, there was more additives than coffee. Is it European ? Is it de rigueur ? Or are all waitresses nearsighted ? Whatever the explanation, I have vowed that the next time the cutie in the pinny serves me half a cup, I'm only paying half the tab.  

I have come to the conclusion that I am without talent. That I have no aptitude for performing, skilfully or artistically. The sad realisation dawned on me while I was in conversation with a woman of similar age who is attempting another depth level in scuba-diving. She has already achieved other certificates in the sport of deliberately sinking and, I guess, will continue to do so until she reaches the bottom of the ocean.  I'm not jealous. It's just that she's already shown the same overabundance of genius in the fields of writing, painting and business. And it's unfair that some folk can be blessed with boundless capabilities and others are born with nothing more than an ability to stand upright.

Still, all is not lost. I'm confident that I will have my day. If eating, shopping and TV watching ever become Olympic sports, I'm gonna shine. I might even find myself with a few plaques on the wall. Maybe even a trophy or two. Heck, I could achieve gold if a growing waistline and a penchant for anything chocolate becomes competitive. I've spent virtually my entire adult life training for that particular event.

Most people can survive an entire day without causing trouble. I, on the other hand, don't seem capable of spending five minutes in the open air without creating mayhem.

Just a few examples: A perfectly innocent comment from me, that a particular pair of leggings made a woman's behind look like marbles shoved into a pair of tights, caused a fracas....well, she asked ! On another occasion I harmlessly inquired when my friend's maid was due, she'd already been...get my point ?

I don't intend to insult, I don't mean to cause offence. Yet, I do. For some reason these things set off from somewhere deep down inside me without my being able to stop them. Still, despite my ability to sin and err without the least amount of effort, I managed to restore my path to heaven. It seems my inadvertent remark when asked by a local priest if he would be seeing me in church the following week was a tad careless and took a bit more than the usual amount of forgiveness. Many acts of contrition later, I now understand that I should have thought before I asked....is it Christmas already?

Why do all the bad things from America catch on? Why doesn't anything nice ever cross the water and make an impact over here? I mean, what about copying their ability to bar-b-q ? Or their expertise when it comes to building shopping malls. But alas, I fear those wonderful qualities will elude us. Instead, lawsuit mania has made the journey. Where once people settled their differences with cordiality and self-respect, there is now a growing trend toward court action. It seems that a victim only feels pacified for their suffering when vast amounts of cash have been paid to assuage the damage.  To those who say 'Why not' or 'So it should be', I say, has anyone considered where the money to appease the demon deed has come from ? In most cases when the council is sued, it's the public's money used to pay the fine. In a situation where an insurance firm has to fork over bundles of dough to kiss a boo-boo, all paying members of the company suffer, premiumly. I'm not saying all lawsuits are unnecessary. Far from it. But if we're not careful, we'll soon be seeing the ludicrous goings on here that we are treated to in America. Like the boy suing his mother because she married a less than perfect husband. Thus, providing the poor soul with a less than perfect father....oh god help us then.

I should have known that I risked a McDonald's on my doorstep by continuing to voice my aversions to the fast-food invasion.

My outspoken opposition practically guaranteed that the firm would track me down and erect one of their restaurants within bun-flinging distance of my abode as a punishment.

The Ely and Newmarket areas are said to be of particular interest to the food chain because Burger King have already graced each region with their own brand of the quasi-burger and McDonald's feels its quasi-offerings are as good as anything BK can serve up.

However, as I have said many a time, they can force me to cross their paths (and it's getting more and more difficult to avoid doing so) but getting me to partake of their wares will take an act of god. Still, they're in the right place for that to happen. Don't you just know that the inevitable opening of the Ely site will be celebrated with a cathedral burger and divine fries topped off with a miraculous milkshake?  

Car parks seem to be a growing source of anxiety. Either they are too small or too inconvenient. Some are strongly opposed to and others are desperately needed, but denied. And hasn't Ely seen its fare share of such difficulties?  Yet surprisingly, modern parking facilities have never been more accommodating. Shopping centres now provide reserved spaces for parent and child, physical impairments, staff, taxis and even trolleys. You would think that all categories had been catered to.

Not quite. There is an increasing group who will soon need to be included in the ranks. You know, BMW drivers who are forced to park so far away from the entrance that they need a map and a compass to find it. Or Jaguar enthusiasts who use up three spaces by parking sideways, unconcerned that it will take a crane and the talents of Houdini to extract their car once other drivers have parked correctly alongside him. And my favourite, the fastidious Range Rover owner who protectively shields his cherished vehicle from nasty trolleys or damaging plastic bags while he waits for the wife to return with her goods. Yet, the same man deliberately subjects the same vehicle to rugged off-road terrain and swampy mires as a pass-time. It's only fair that these people should have their space too. Preferably double wide space so that their cars and egos have room for manoeuvring without the risk of either one becoming dented.

It wasn't until overhearing a phone conversation between two men that I realised just how profound the chasm is between the male and female characters.

I've had suspicions but never realised that a separation the size of a valley divided our natures.

My eavesdropping wasn't intentional, I hadn't meant to become absorbed in the discussion, but hearing the sympathetic phrases; 'Sorry to hear that mate.' and 'What are you going to do now ?' and particularly, 'Really, and you didn't even know it was going to happen?', caused me to listen more intently. In a matter of seconds my maternal instincts leapt into action as I became more and more convinced that someone somewhere was suffering. While the men commiserated I mentally located the first-aid box, just in case my limited medical talents should be needed, and refreshed my memory with the basic steps to grievance counselling, preparing myself for the worst.

I then waited patiently for the call to end (practically washing the pattern off a plate and risking a bad case of dishpan hands so that I could remain at the sink, within earshot) to enquire about the tragedy that had befallen some poor soul. Finding out that the crisis began and ended with nothing more than the discontinuation of a favourite sporting magazine and not the calamity I had envisioned left me bewildered. It took a moment for it to sink in that, instead of bloodshed and carnage, my services had been put on stand-by for two grown men sad at the loss of their beloved caveman handbook ! As I said, I'd had suspicions that the sexes differed in areas other than anatomy before this, but the eyewitness account confirmed them.

A conversation between two women, peppered with such language and pacification, would have been reserved for a much greater cause. And a good example was a chat I had recently. I needed a shoulder to cry on so I sought a dear friend and amid sobs of anguish and worry I related the latest episode of Emmerdale. Now there's a tragedy. Neither of us can understand how Kathy could do such a thing to sweet, innocent Biff...

I'm going to be cynical this week...
and make a suggestion that, although may irritate a few readers, is one I feel needs to be made. A Kosovar war refugee approached a driver on his way to work and appealed for help. As the story goes, the driver offered the starving immigrant his own boxed lunch and a cup of tea and then promptly drove to the nearest police station with his acquired passenger. All's well with this particular occasion . My scepticism comes from the fear that an idea might have been planted in the head of a less than scrupulous character by the favourable outcome. Car jacking is already on the increase and human nature being what it is, drivers could be at risk of finding themselves approached by what seems to be a desperate foreigner, speaking incoherent English, begging for aid. In the event of recent weeks a person could be forgiven for wanting to be the next good Samaritan. And I admire such compassion. But once the driver allows the seemingly frantic person into the car they may find themselves in real danger when the ruse is exposed and the refugee turns out to be a low life with ulterior motives. A similar ploy could be used on your door-step. You answer your door and are asked for assistance. What you think is a person in dire straights transforms into a far more sinister individual. Not until the door shuts do you discover the difference. I would love to think that I am just too cynical for my own good. And that not a chance in hell of something such as I have warned about could ever happen. However, I stand by my caution . I apologise if I have discouraged a charitable heart. But I would far rather that than to read about the assault of one.

I would like to thank two shop assistants in New Look, Ely for their vigilance. The girls noticed a man standing by the changing rooms with seemingly no purpose. After studying him for a moment one asked politely if she could be of any help and not until securing that he was the father of a young girl trying on an outfit, did the salesgirl return to her station. The man was my humble husband and the lass in the cubicle was my daughter. Far from being insulted by the insinuation, my family and I couldn't have been more grateful for the thoughtfulness and awareness these girls demonstrated.  Thanks again !

According to the RSPCA, far from being a country of animal lovers, we are fast becoming a nation of animal abusers. The number of complaints in our region alone almost trebled by comparison with the previous year's total. Some credit for the increase in cases brought to light is due to the vigilance of the RSPCA inspectors. They no longer wait for the public to expose cruelty, they now go looking for it. But that's a bit like shutting the barn door after the horse has bolted. Wouldn't it be far more cost effective to obligate a potential animal owner to undergo stringent tests and screening to ensure that they are prepared for the burden of a pet ? Even more so if the desired animal is of the exotic or large variety ? Similar to the restrictions placed on anyone wanting to drive a car, float a boat, fly a plane, fish in the sea or watch the television !

Isn't it insane that the two most consequential decisions a human makes, having a child and acquiring an animal, require the least amount of confirmation that the applicant is qualified ?

Staying with the theme of new-borns... I read where a group of Cambridge mothers have united in an attempt to curb the use of disposable nappies. And to highlight the impact that these non-biodegradable items have on our environment, they deposited 35 bin bags full of soiled diapers on the doorstep of The Guildhall as part of their  poignant protest.

Their main concern is the amount of waste the nappies create. Evidently, a staggering 10,000 tonnes are dumped in landfill sites throughout the country each year. And to compound the situation, the materials used won't breakdown in composition. Some parts of the nappy will remain on earth for eternity. The campaign is called Real Nappy Week and the objective is to acquaint mothers with the advantages of modern reusables. Far from this being just another impassioned plea by environmentalists overreacting to the destruction we humans seem hell-bent on inflicting on the earth, this is an impressive show of self-denial. And I don't know if I would have the courage to join them if I still had to perform the task, but I admire their convictions. A tired, overworked mother giving up the luxury of disposable diapers is a sacrifice equivalent to dad being asked to abandon his four wheel drive, multi-blade grass thrasher and mow the lawn with a pair of scissors instead.

My opinion won't come as a surprise to anyone.

I'll even dare to say that it borders on arrogance, but I was pleased to see another major book shop come to the area. And as much as I agree that the loss of the nostalgic Eaden Lilley's is unfortunate, I also know that with such a prime site on the market, Cambridge risked acquiring something far more displeasing than books !

Writers are a funny lot. We sit for hours huddled over the keyboard with nothing more to show for our efforts than a few measly lines of brilliance (I told you my opinion was arrogant) but the rewards more than make up for it. To actually affect someone with the written word makes all our toil and suffering worth while. How many people can remember reading their first novel ? Compared to how many of today's youths will recall their first video or computer game with the same respect. More importantly, a character in a story can transform the soul. I doubt that the "Blade Runner II-Mega Bash" evokes the same worthwhile effect. It's only my opinion, but as long as book stores outnumber game stores, tomorrow's youths stand a chance.

We have a milk rustler (or rustlers) in our neck of the woods. It seems that some varmint is trying to put the loyal milkman out of business in Ely by swiping his door step deliveries before a cowpoke can get his boots on. Even the local sheriff can't catch the no good, low down creature. Well, I have a warning for em'...as much fun as this little caper is...you're sure to be caught...and just think how impressed your fellow jailbirds are gonna be when you have to admit what you're in for. Black-eyed Bart : I'm in for GBH, sentenced to two years. Pokerfaced Pete : I got nabbed during a bank robbery, banged up for five years Milkshake Mack : I was caught pilfering bottles of milk from little old ladies, serving a lifetime of humiliation beyond belief.

I don't fancy your chances of surviving the poky either !

I have never understood...
the theory behind expelling a student from school for bad behaviour. Children being sent home to play with their computers, video games, bikes or other entertainment paraphernalia as a punishment is equivalent to sentencing a drunk driver to a few days in a pub.

Surly if the violation deserves action the pupil should be made to perform a task after their classes, such as cleaning the school grounds or assisting with an educational function, not rewarded with a few days holiday. I've never known a kid yet to cringe and quake when given the week off to "think" about their transgression. I do know one, however, who still can't look at a bucket without being reminded of the time they were made to collect rocks all during their lunch hour for throwing a lump of ice at a playmate and unfortunately getting the timing wrong and hitting the principal instead...

Thank god (and rocket science) that someone has finally succeeded in circumnavigating the globe in a hot air balloon. Not that I think the achievement merits applaud. No I'm elated because we ( the non-narcissistic public ) will now be spared scores of grown men trying to rationalise the need to complete such a senseless feat. That is, until some smart apple gets the idea that sailing around the world on a bread board is appealing, not to mention very manly.

Yet another anti-McDonald's campaign has sprung up in Cambridge. And despite the many protests from the users of the Racehorse Pub on Newmarket road, earmarked for this latest conversion, I fear the end result may be disappointing for them.  But even if the fast food firm wasn't successful in erecting their golden arches at this site, they would just go elsewhere, equally unsuitable.  As the saying goes, you can't stop progress. Though, you can refuse to eat there.

The public can be whipped into a charitable frenzy by red nose fever...
or jump on the bandwagon of some needy foreign campaign when youngsters, in particular sick youngsters, are the beneficiaries. Yet it seems we are capable of ignoring our own local children who, although may not be ill, are in great need of generosity. Amongst all the hype and chaos of the latest fund raising event I came across a friendly man shaking a bucket, asking for donations on behalf of Newmarket children and their activities. I was so pleased to see a local charity where the money would be spent on improvements for people in my neighbourhood that I gladly dropped what I had into his container.

I am fully aware that a percentage of the collections from these nation-wide crusades stays local. And that our government supports charities designed to benefit children in this country. But that's not enough.  Why don't showbiz personalities gather for a telethon once a year to persuade us to donate strictly for our own children ? I'm as sympathetic as the next person. But unfortunately I don't need to travel to a third world country to witness need and depravity. And I make an effort to donate my change to a cause that betters the lives of children who are our future, possibly our coming leaders or notables, given the right start.

Ahhh... youth. Long, sunny fun filled days, sleep overs, junior soccer matches and disrespecting someone's mother !

It brought nostalgic tears to my eyes when I read that Ely Community College and Kings School have entered into a contest of trading insults. And despite the social divides, that slagging off ones mother was still the ultimate "dis". I imagine that even though the provocation is now transmitted via cyber technology, it's every bit as effective as when we used to shout similar abuse across the school yard.

Anyone who complains about the political incorrectness of this harmless exercise has forgotten how unquestionably gratifying it is to reduce your rival to a lump of humiliated mush without so much as raising a hand, simply by suggesting that their mamma's so ugly, she had to tie a bone around her neck to get the dog to play with her ! Ahhh...youth...

The public were asked to participate in a poll concerning the case against Jeff and Jenny Bramley who stand accused of disappearing with their foster children. The proceedings have already received tremendous exposure. And, no doubt, will continue to do so considering that public opinion is overwhelmingly on their side with 93.3 percent of voters in favour of them facing no criminal charges. A mere 6.6 percent felt they should face some sort of fine. But are we qualified to interfere ? Who are we to decide what's best for a family that very few of us, if any, have ever met ?  Public opinion is a wonderful tool when it comes to consumer rights and fair play concerning our own well being. But it's dangerous to pretend that our idyllic notions are sufficient grounds to dictate the outcome of something as sensitive as the placement of young children.

My convictions matter to me. But I don't delude myself that they should matter to anyone else. Misguided sentimentality or not, I wouldn't want it on my head that I condemned two young girls to a life I won't be living and won't even have the interest in two weeks after the event. The decision should be made by trained professionals, prepared to answer for the consequences if a mistake is made.  

Our beloved Ely railway bridge was hit for the 106th time a few weeks ago.

The Spanish lorry (truck) driver's excuse was that he couldn't read the many English warning signs surrounding the structure, resulting in the collision that ensued . Now, as humorous as his justification was, I say humorous because his vehicle exceeded the height of the bridge by at least three feet, habla English or Espanol, can the man not see ? Anyway, his misfortune produced a brainstorm of an idea. I thought, What if the reason for Ely bridge being the second most bashed span in England is due to drivers, foreign or otherwise, not taking the time to read the scripted cautions and notices ? I was going to be clever and whimsical and suggest that instead of spending so much money on replacing the often destroyed fluorescent signs (that have been about as effective as a paper needle ) why not erect a modern, multi-lingual warning. A large and flashing circle with a line through a drawing of a truck in two pieces and a bridge in thousands !!!

I was this because on my way up the stairs to put my genius idea onto the computer, I tripped, dropped the tray of food and drink I was carrying and bumped my head on the banister hard enough to dent my skull. Ok, maybe not a dent, but I felt something give. It must have been the instant concussion because after reassembling my items and hobbling to my desk I stupidly opened the coke, spraying the keyboard, surrounding wall and myself with the fizzy explosion, forgetting that coke-cola becomes rocket fuel once it has been shaken.

You would think the excitement ended there. Not quite. When the shower ceased I noticed a river of coke headed off the desk and onto where I needed to sit so I irrationally pushed my chair out of the way to stop any further damage. Only to gouge a hole in the wallpaper when the chair shot backwards like a torpedo. My crash landing on the stairway combined with the racket I was making in the office prompted my husband to yell up (rather unsympathetically, I might add) "What the hell are you doing up there, renovating the room ?" I mean really, he could have at least faked concern ! Anyway, after convincing him that the room and I were still in once piece, just, I surveyed the devastation and came to a more compassionate conclusion ...Perhaps some of us were born to collide with disaster, no matter how many of life's warning signs we encounter, regardless of their witty design ! This article is dedicated to my sister Cathy. She is the reason so many of my catastrophes get into print. If it weren't for the utter enjoyment she gets from reading about them or the fact that she entertains me with her own mishaps, I would probably lie about who my articles featured.

Incidentally, I followed in her footsteps through our adolescence and watched carefully whenever she did anything. Because there is only eleven months between us I didn't have to wait long before her obstacles became mine. And I'm sure she won't mind me revealing that she was clumsy first...there's a permanent imprint of her left eyebrow on an office wall to prove it !

There is a line to a song that sticks in my head that goes..

If you tolerate this your children will be next...

It is sung by the popular Manic Street Preachers. I suppose the message refers to life in general. Another equally catchy lyric that stays with me is, - Everything will be fine if we just give it time.- The intent to this little ditty is more obvious. "It" being genetically modified foods and the band, The Labour Government. They are trying to mollify us that there is no risk in eating modified products regardless that no satisfactory trials have been carried out to secure such a confidence. And in spite of test results that prove the contrary. Nor has this band of performers called for strict legislature that ensures adequate labelling of goods that contain G. M. components so that we may decide for ourselves. And as if all that wasn't worrying enough, these mutated foods are purchasable now and on the shelves of most shops.

Yet, the same government found it necessary to continue the beef on the bone ban as a safe guard against a one in a billion chance of ill health caused by CJD. And more contradictory still, profits greatly from taxation on the sale of deadly cigarettes. Instead of a well rehearsed song and dance routine, wouldn't it be more civic of Tony Blair to give a clear answer as to why we need phantom food in the first place when there is enough natural products and livestock produced in this country to sustain us and then some ?

No doubt his answer will be just as melodic as his earlier explanation. To be fair, there's not many straightforward ways to say that our health and the ingredients we digest relies entirely on big cash investors and not the soundness of the product.  I'll bet my glow-in-the-dark sausage that he makes a song and dance around the fact that the government backed institute responsible for this latest food formula is funded by the world's leading producer of genetically modified crops.

There's that tune again....If we tolerate this, our children will be next....

It's bad enough...
that you can't turn on the television without being confronted with images of either unrealistic sexual activity or an in depth conversation about your bedroom habits, regardless of how relevant love-making is to the theme of the program. But now, as well almost every national newspaper, even the most innocuous of woman's magazines contains at least one sex quiz, slipped in betwixt pages of knitting patterns, exotic cookery methods and twenty ways to make furniture out of household garbage, that promises to uncover the seductive person you keep hidden.

And although it isn't compulsory to respond to the probing questions , an ego is a fragile thing. Before you know it, you're ticking boxes and selecting a, b or c from multiple choice, determined to find the sexuality that you didn't even know was missing until happening upon the article. The last time I succumbed to one of these ridiculous exams I rated an embarrassing three out of twenty. Which, according to the chart calculations, revealed that my romantic aspirations are not just buried, they're subterranean !  It took me polishing off the rest of the Christmas chocolates to recover from finding out that I have less sex appeal than Norman Wisdom. However, my triumph aside, to some, these questionnaires can be dangerous. I suspect that the need for the self-assessment is a sign that today's woman is afraid of being condemned to mediocrity. And that she's willing to believe the humiliating outcome of these exams to escape such a tag.

I'm equally guilty. I should have known before giving in to my curiosity that a journalist sitting in her office, presumably miles away, couldn't possibly determine my sexuality with a bunch of questions that were thrown together to fill space. I'm fully aware that it took my husband the better part of twenty years, three children and many battles with my growing waistline before he came to that conclusion !

Aren't mobile phones a wonderful thing ? Of course, that is unless you're teaching a class when one goes off, a passenger on a train next to one ringing incessantly, the person standing behind a user in a queue, the unfortunate soul beside an inconsiderate oaf in a restaurant talking loud enough to register on the Richter scale and last but certainly not least, unless your television programme is interrupted by an unfamiliar conversation about the price of fish at the local market that keeps buzzing in to replace the dialogue.  Perhaps wonderful isn't the right word...

Are the tabloid reading masses fickle ?

In some cases when a notable personality says or does something foolish their reckless conduct causes such a storm that the culprit's head on a platter is the only way of making amends for the transgression. And yet, in another instance, the indiscreet babbling of some prominent fool can be practically ignored regardless of the ill timed effect or indeed the damaging consequences it creates.

Will Carling leaving his girlfriend and mother of his young child for another woman put him in the media hot seat not so long ago. Public opinion reached fever pitch when reporters dug into his private life and exposed his lack of chivalry when carrying out the break-up. As well as being condemned to eternal rathood for his behaviour the fracas continued until he suffered serious commercial set backs. And only abated when the man's personal and financial life lay in ruins.

And just recently Glen Hoddle got the boot as a result of his thoughtless comments concerning handicapped people. The media asked for, nay demanded, the public be outraged by the Hoddle twaddle and continued to protest until the football coach lost his cushy (and considerably over paid, but that's another article) job.  

I, and everyone I have spoken to, no more cares about Mr. Hoddle's beliefs in reincarnation than Delia Smith's passion for Norwich football scarves. And whether or not Mr. Carling is ever faithful to anyone, is of even less concern.  So why the reputed public outcry over their blunders ? In a word, circulation. If the tabloids understand anything, it's the mathematics of manufacturing a drama. Example: downfall of a celebrity + hyped up resentment = bulging sales.  But what proves beyond all doubt that public offence depends on the intensity of media sensationalism, is the lack of controversy over the disgraceful comment made by Mr. Chris Woodhead, chief inspector of schools. He stated that pupils having sex with teachers can be educational. Yet, due to some unknown reason, his lapse in competence received less publicity than Cliff Richard's latest single.

Just to add insult to injury, the remark received a pardon from David Blunkett, our educational minister because Mr. Woodhead spluttered an apology.  Fickle? Maybe not. Perhaps mislead ! What our newspapers should be full of is that it's less than acceptable for our education authority to conduct themselves like football hooligans. Not that our sportsmen behave like, well, sportsmen. If ever someones head deserved to be on a platter, it's Woodhead's !

I am in the process of learning a second language.

Not the typical French, Spanish or German as you would expect. But one, I fear, will become far more indispensable. It is millennium-ese. And my incentive... After standing in a queue for over twenty minutes without moving , I dared to enquire what the hold-up was. The person in front of me kindly passed on my query to the next individual, and they in turn to the next, and so on. The explanation sent back via the human data link was "The millennium up-dating has crashed and isn't back on line yet. But we're working on it." Not one of us understood what that was supposed to mean. One woman actually said out loud what I know we were all thinking.... Huh? Yet, we retracted our complaint and resolved to wait. The reason for our reticence ? Ignorance !  For all we knew, the check-out girl could have run out of ink. But because we couldn't speak the twenty first century neo-lingo, we didn't dare challenge the reply . And, if I do say so myself, this undertaking is quite brave of me as I still haven't master ye olde English.

For example, just recently I was asked by a family friend if I liked to ramble. The poor enquirer only just managed to explain, moments before I returned the abuse, suspecting that my husband had been complaining about me again , that "rambling" is the customary word for, taking a long walk on open land not gabbing incessantly, as I had mistakenly presumed. Learning the millennium language will be hard enough, mastering it may take me a while.

I have had numerous responses to my article on outlandish prize offers. And as a result, more junk mail enticements have been brought to my attention.  My favourite being the prize draw entry that promised a holiday if the recipient could answer the question: Who is Elizabeth Taylor married to, correctly and their entry chosen at random. Surely the answer depends on what week the contest is run. But one circular that intrigued me most was the offer of an expensive make-over that included a photo shoot after the event.  The advertisement gushed that the woman deserved the luxury of a day spent being pampered and fussed . The end result being a brand new, unrecognisable you ! My question would be: Why would a person pay to have a photograph of a stranger ? Wouldn't it be cheaper to clip out a recent paparazzi snap of say, Raquel Welch, frame that, and then lie to everyone that you actually spent one day of your life looking that good ?

As gifts my three sisters and I were given Barbie dolls from a well meaning relative that I can no longer remember the name of. But what I do remember is that my mother instantly refused to allow us to add even one Ken doll to the collection.  This was intolerable. In my youth you just weren't cool unless you had a date for Babs ! I mean, the doll had everything that plastic could be moulded into. We felt we owed it to her to purchase an admiring toy-man to round off the collection.
But regardless of our appeals or the fact that we out numbered her four to one, mum held fast to her convictions. Not even the old guilt trip, "Every other girl in the neighbourhood has a date for their Barbie!", caused her to relent. I guess we eventually gave up the fight and either went on to play with other things or replaced the hole in Barbies life with charity work. That detail escapes my memory too.
But 30 years on I have to admit, I can now see why my mother banished Ken from the household. Barbie is a strumpet ! And the 1999 version is every bit as insulting to womankind as the previous representations must have been. It's alter ego now sports a large belly tattoo and a floral design branded on her chest. And for those of us who might be sentimental, Butterfly Barbie, as she is called, will still be endowed with the same unrealistic figure (must be where the idea for implants came from ) and still have the same outrageously long blonde hair. Don't even get me started on the size of her waist ! And like my mother before me, I suspect that the designers of this doll are men. Who else would pretend that such distorted attributes pay homage to the modern day girl ?

My husband and I attended a very poignant Thanksgiving Service in honour of his friend,  Mr. Claude Starling, who had passed away recently. As it is impossible to fully describe all the good this man has done for the farming community and all fellowships he was associated with, we are content to sincerely express how very much he will be missed and to extend our genuine sympathy to his family.  It is a sad but true consequence that we are now left with too few men who possess the calibre of generosity and kindness equal to Mr. Claude Starling.

Oddly enough, I can spend an entire morning in absolute solitude without a single disruption.

I can even devote my undivided attention to a book for the afternoon without so much as a whisper of interference.  Yet, with the flick of my Hoover switch I become more popular than the internet. Should I even attempt to vacuum, people seem to emerge from nowhere, desperate to communicate. And despite the Hoover making as much noise as a low flying aircraft the courageous intruder proceeds to talk. Stranger still, I attempt to answer. When it finally becomes clear that neither of us is being understood, even though the neighbours could probably answer the question due to the volume of our screaming, I switch off the machine only to be informed that, as in the last incident, my son can't find the milk !  I don't know what it is about these noisy contraptions that inspires a person to ask questions that could easily wait. But I do know that my response is never as helpful as it would have been had I been bothered while I was reading a book or dusting the furniture. In fact, the reply to my son's query was most decidedly unhelpful and according to the look on his face, offensively rude.

He isn't the only one to go away licking a wound for disturbing me though. Somewhere in the neighbourhood there's a less than happy sales person who knocked on my door with an exciting bargain for me to take advantage of and who probably still hasn't recovered from the earbashing she got for her efforts.  Quite innocently my husband requested a sporting catalogue by way of a fax-back service. But due to some technical difficulties he was told that he would have to be called back, not faxed the information.  Unaware of his earlier inquiry, and as luck would have it, I answered the phone the following day and was dumbfounded to learn that my husband's application for date-a-doll had been accepted and would be processed shortly. It didn't take long before the operator and I, amidst much pleading and begging on both parts, established that a mistake had been made and that my husband's details had been placed with another division of the company, a fax-back dating agency, not the sporting catalogue as requested ! Nevertheless, as confident as I am that it was a genuine error and as comical as the incident now seems, friends of my husband's may detect a slight limp...just in case !

I would like to congratulate Lorna and Mike Delanoy of Haddenham for each having been awarded an MBE in this year's honours list in recognition for their contribution to charity.

The Farmland Museum they founded, now situated at Denny Abbey, has raised a considerable amount of money for handicapped children over the years. Its objective was, and still is, to combine fun and learning with an opportunity to touch and see past experiences of our rural history.

The family's achievements don't stop there. Their son Kevin, educated at Witchford Village College, has gone on to be quite a recognised personality in the world of show business. The current block buster movie, Saving Private Ryan, was one on which he acted as Associate Producer. Other credits to his career include Braveheart and Titanic. Incidentally, you can spot him in the latter film as one of the Captain's crew. And he is currently abroad working on another film that is sure to be as big a hit as all the others he has contributed to.

You might remember that I wrote about a friend of mine some time ago whom I referred to as LD. I expressed then that I admired the woman and thought her to be an outstanding role model to younger generations. It seems that I am not alone in my opinion.

Never one to protest unnecessarily, this comment will cause my husband to make that 'tching' sound with his tongue, but does anyone else see the absurdity in a shop sign that reads; Touch if you must but pay if you bust, being displayed in large letters and in full view of the customer, when the most important bit of information, the price, is out of sight on the bottom of the item?

It seems simple enough logic that if a shopkeeper doesn't want the goods touched, something as essential as the price tag shouldn't be hidden in a place that makes it  unavoidable for the customer to handle the object.  And as proud of the imaginative yet often ignored ode as they are, If the price was as obvious as the insurance policy, there would be no need to forewarn us clumsy, fat fingered shoppers.

A grim warning of ill health in adult life has been forecast for today's teenager. They smoke, drink and eat too much of the wrong thing. Confounded by the fact that they don't get enough exercise to make up for it. The dilemma has been described by a Government survey of health as "sitting on a time bomb."

As much as I agree that today's juveniles need to be educated, if not alerted, to the damage that they inflict on their bodies, I am also aware that as adults we won't stop them with preaching of doom and gloom. It didn't work for our parents, likewise it won't work for us.

And, as little comfort as this is, children of today are the offspring of the 60's generation of teeny-boppers and flower power. An era infamous for its young having consumed more harmful substances than lab rats.  It doesn't improve the Government findings and it won't make a worried parent any happier to be reminded of their own youthful dance with danger. But it should help us to have faith that today's young will one day outgrow adolescence stupidity just as we did.

What embarrassing anguish does await our children however, just as big hair and flares did my generation, is photographs of their appalling dress sense.  When looking back on the fashionable rubbish they wore, all for the sake of individuality, today's teens will be far more disturbed and traumatised by their appearance than any high-jinx they got up to or inadequate food they consumed.

What is so valuable about a Beanie Baby? Only after being asked for the hundredth time to get the Britannia bear for someone back home, did I finally give in to my curiosity and investigate the riddle. I shouldn't have been surprised that the toy resembled nothing more than a stuffed sock with eyes. All obsessions seem ridiculous to the amateur. But what did shock me was that the crazed compulsion to own one has caused the original price of £3.99 to skyrocket to at least £1,000 on re-sale.  

I don't know how a consumer can get sucked in to such hype. But what I do know is that there are going to be some angry people when the bottom falls out of the market and these things end up being sold at a car-boot sale for fifty pence each.

For the most part, I am a skeptic.

It has always seemed wiser, if not safer, to trust in things I can actually see. Yet, despite my steadfast conviction in all things visible, I am still fascinated by mystical illusions. And just recently two stories such as the man at Cromwell House, featured in last weeks Ely Standard, who truly believed his shoes had been untied by a visiting spirit, and another in the form of an article in my husbands sporting magazine that depicted a tale where two shooters unknowingly chased the spirit of a dead poacher while under a full moon, have revived this interest in how or why ghosts choose their prey.

I promise you, it isn't out of mockery that I highlight these events. I would truly love to see a ghost. In fact, if I thought it would help bring on a visit, I would wear a black cloak, light a candle and bravely stand in the middle of a field at midnight ( I read somewhere that a woman inspired a visit by doing this) just to ensure I saw one. But knowing my luck, if I were fortunate and an apparition appeared, you can bet it wouldn't be an infamous historical figure or a noteworthy local hero that granted me the shadowy meeting. It would be the ghost of a long since dead and angry waitress who I complained bitterly about, possibly even got sacked. And just to top it off, she'd probably been having trouble locating me. And now that she has found me, plans on haunting me til' my dying days.

There is nothing more pretentious than the deliberate miss-spelling of a name.  Just a few short years ago if a proud mother had even contemplated bestowing the burden of Traacee, Aimee or Teena on her newborn, it would have cost her many coffee morning invitations. And possibly secured her an invitation to use a breathalyzer !

But because the motive behind such nonsense is that the more bizarre the concoction of letters, the more attention it gets the user, I fear it is here to stay.  Still, the trend does have one good point, it's no longer embarrassing if a mistake was made on your birth certificate changing the innocuous Cindy to an affected Cyndi. Today that makes you undeniably cool. Or should that be kool ?

It seems that people no longer limit their fascination for carnage and gore by going to the movies and watching the latest disaster film.

An appetite for real-life blood and guts appears to be splashing over into our everyday activities.

This fact has never been more evident than when my husband and I journeyed into London for an appointment and found ourselves in a long and stationary tail-back on the M25.

I must say that at first, I wasn't terribly sympathetic as to why we should be stuck. And added to the unpleasantness of our situation by whining about being late. Continuing to do so until the cause of the hold-up became clear. Upon approaching the monstrous obstacle, and after my other half had endured 45 minutes of my dulcet, melodious moaning, we saw that a horrific accident between two lorries where considerable damage to the vehicles, probably the drivers and most definitely the road had taken place.

Suddenly, I was ashamed of my complaints.But what was even more offensive than my unenlightened protesting was that on the other side of the motor way, completely unobstructed by what had happened, was a tail-back every bit as long and stationary as what we had just endured. And only because the oncoming motorists were slowing down and in some cases stopping to gape at the gruesome sight.

Considering the condition of the vehicles, the well-being of the two drivers is dubious. Making it even harder to imagine why anyone would want to witness such a scene. Paying a few pounds to watch a staged and carefully calculated stunt is, at best, oddly peculiar. Causing a major hold-up of traffic, not to mention endangering the situation further, merely to observe people in genuine torment is as low as a person can sink.

I only use my conventional oven when absolutely necessary. In fact, I am the only person I know that actually has to dust their cooker ! Due to the convenience of the microwave, Sarah Lee, and the fact that I was divinely blessed with a daughter who loves to bake, I have been spared the burden of ever having to prepare anything more elaborate than jelly.

When my babes were young and impressionable, I lied about who actually baked the fancy store-bought desserts I served, hiding the falsehoods by dumping the packaging before anyone saw them. This trick concealed my domestic incompetence for years.  And now to ensure my continuing suspension of duty, I shamelessly preach to my daughter that in order for her to perform such culinary perfection in her own household she needs to learn by practice.

But I fear a recent incident has blown my cover. I incomprehensibly decided to create a desert from scratch and immediately regretted my bravery when assembling the ingredients. The problem was that the recipe called for metric measurements and my utensils measured imperial. A minor detail that eluded me until the batter resembled the texture of lumpy soup. Not what was illustrated in the cook book.  

When I examined the instructions further, convinced I wasn't at fault, the error became clear. That's when I generously decided that it was best if I cast aside my apron and allow my daughter another cookery lesson... To my delight she calmly converted the weights and capacities with an impressive  accuracy and saved the event and our guests from having to drink their pudding .  It was only after the crisis that I began to doubt the prudence of enlisting my daughters help. Not so much because she repaired the situation in smug silence. But because of the question she asked while we cleared up the mess. "Mum, why didn't you just buy the dessert like you usually do?" This could mean that she either knows about the discarded boxes or thinks I used to be called Sarah Lee !

EMU

There is no doubt that the single European currency will be a significant factor in the coming millennium. And yet, as observed by Malcolm Moss in last weeks Ely Standard, folk are largely overlooking its potential impact.

But I think it's the method in which the people are being prepared that is to blame. Public servants lecturing us on the values or voids of the currency exchange or displays in grocery stores that are meant to prompt a Euro discussion, squander the opportunity to fully put the pros and cons forward. Mr. Moss's accounts of the French consumers ignoring the free biscuits and drink is a prime example. Shoppers worldwide are used to unnecessary items being promoted as "must-haves" and sidestep the complimentary tidbit because we dislike having to fake interest while the paid model recites her cheerful knowledge of the product that she herself only acquired two minutes before donning the apron.

And sadly, the only time a politician gets a captivated audience these days is when he has been caught with his pants down and the world wants a look.  No, if the Euro is to be seriously and sensibly debated then it should be given an appropriate setting. Something like a scantily clad politician at a local shop giving away free samples of the impending currency. Now that'll make people take note !  

A Fordham man, Frank Marshall has climbed the heights of Kilimanjaro. Reaching the summit in Tanzania in nine days. His accomplishment is all the more impressive since his incentive to attempt such a feat was to raise money for charity. And he did, £6,000 to be exact.

As well as my admiration for his courage and generosity, I envy the breathtaking view he must have had. And for the chance he was given to behold the world and all its silent splendor without the obstacle of civilization. What a feeling it must have given him to stand above all the violations and misconduct we inflict upon one another and for an all too brief moment, pretend they didn't exist.

Despite the many years I have spent in England, my American accent has remained as strong as ever. It took me a while to perfect the balance between our two supposedly similar varieties of English, but for the most part, I manage to blend in.  

That is, until such events as last Thursday when I came upon a person who presumed me to be a tourist. While trying to find a particular office in Cambridge, I asked a woman for directions. Her response was polite, if not slightly overly enthusiastic and accompanied by slow speech and hand gestures. Had it not been for the fact that she was trying to be helpful and my time limited, I would have forced her to examine the many credit cards, bills and tesco's receipts at the bottom of my handbag just to prove my long standing residency in this country. But instead, I thanked her for her time and humbly followed the instructions.

Far from this encounter making me want to curb my Arizonian annunciation's, it made me determined to emphasize them. But while I rehearsed my howdys and doodys, and before I had a chance to completely swell with patriotic pride, an American couple appeared on the scene asking in an annoyingly loud twang if they were anywhere near the bus station. I looked around, along with the rest of the crowd in the hopes that  someone else would volunteer to help, even though I could actually answer their question. But to my horror, the large American couple approached me and repeated their query!

Now, it's only fair that I explain that had these two been anything like as unobtrusive as I delude myself that all traveling Americans are, I wouldn't have hesitated for a second before helping them. However, that was not the case. This pair made it quite clear to all assembled that there should have been a bus station where the post office stood. And that it was the fault of the map, not theirs, that they were lost.  I struggled with my conscience, I faltered for a moment and then in true American form answered, "Ich habe keine Ahnung", and fled...

Sorry, nice British lady who only tried to help me, you are obviously more tolerant and well-mannered than I !

A project referred to as the "City of Anglia", that hopes to establish twenty communities and house over 500,000 people, has been proposed by the government advisory body, the Town and Country Planning Association.

Blueprints have been drawn up that are designed to increase the populace from Peterborough to Hatfield and Cambridge to Sandy by creating garden city style settlements. Of course, with an added assurance that a sufficient number of jobs in these expanded areas has been included in the prospectus .

Existing small local shops and rural concerns are already struggling to compete with the newer and bigger out-of-town super-stores. Before money is spent to generate these modern day enterprises, shouldn't it first be made available to help maintain the businesses that, in most cases, are battling to supply a much needed service ?

What's worse is that if the recent "Riverside" calamity in Ely is anything to go by, and it probably is, the people who will be most affected by the effects that these homesteads will create, will have the least amount of say in the matter. And it's more than likely a sugar-coated report will be published to support and justify this "brainchild" of an idea long before those very people have a chance to utter their misgivings.

But what this situation highlights more obviously than the ignored catalog of East Anglia's current shortfalls, including a police force that is over stretched to the point of inefficiency, schools that are already at a serious level of overcrowding, hospitals that now have a waiting list that last longer than most illnesses, is that the people who sanction this type of expansion regardless of the negative response it receives, must have faith that humans will one day inhabit the moon. And they may be right. Before long, that'll be the only place left to exploit.

Despite the fact that we won't be able to purchase the necessary digital box to receive its signal until next month, the BBC have launched their own version of a satellite style, multi-program channel, ironically called "BBC Choice".

But is it our choice. Since the BBC have joined the ranks of other terrestrial networks such as SKY and CABLE, isn't it time they also imitate their pay-as- you-view method and do away with the dreaded TV tax ?

Here in England a TV license costing over 80.00 pounds stirling ( approx. $133.30 ) per year to commercially subsidise the BBC is a mandatory requirement when a television set is purchased. Whether we want the BBC service or not !

What would happen if all the other channels charged a fee for their services based on the assumption that their programming technique (i.e. no commercial breaks) is a luxury you can't do without ? But I must confess that it isn't the cost stopping me from buying a new digital television set or the additional receiver. With all the complicated gadgetry and state-of-the-art technology that's needed just to work the video recorder and a satellite dish that enables us to watch more channels than is good for you, my husband already complains that our household could perform the duties of NASA !

To spank or not to spank ....that is the question that all parents must decide on. And quickly before junior is old enough to say the word 'ouch' and report you to a well meaning social worker who then reports you to a well meaning European Court of Human Rights Official where you may find yourself in the ludicrous situation of defending your prerogative to discipline your own child.

As my offspring are far too old to spank, and may I add, too large, I could be stepping on a few toes with my opinion, but nevertheless....When decent, hard-working, law-abiding parents are made to fear chastising their offspring for fear of being too excessive, the end result can only be one thing, spoiled brats that learn at an early age how to extort control and gain the authority. God help the future generations.

There was an almost comical series of events reported in last week's local newspapers.First, we read that there is going to be a staggering number of men made happy when Viagra becomes available on our NHS. All those who suffer from a lack of virility will soon be able to revive their love-lives.

Secondly, and in complete contradiction to the previous item, we have been alerted by the Cambridge Community Health Council who fear a serious 'overload' on the exsisting facilities and services in this region as a result of the fast growing population. It seems we have been populating at a faster rate in the last six years than any other county.

And thirdly, because of a shortage of midwives and cash expectant mothers have been notified that they may be asked to leave the hospital only hours after giving birth and could possibly be denied certain anesthetic drugs unless they are deemed medically necessary. (The doctor who tells a woman in the throws of labour that she doesn't need a painkiller could find himself in need of medical attention !)

It sounds to me that some of the problems facing the NHS are self-inflicted. Isn't the answer to this particular dilemma obvious? With statistics showing a growth rate that exceeds every other county in England and a health service that can no longer afford to accommodate the child bearing masses, instead of doctors prescribing Viagra it would be wiser, and more cost effective, if they advised the sex seeking males to take up golf !

Last summer, while the segment of the movie Saving Private Ryan was being filmed in this country I was kindly shown around its set by the Associte Producer, Kevin Del A Noy. My utter fascination with the details then has now been replaced with by fervent recommendation to go see the finished product. And although the involvement of Steven Spielberg on any film practically ensures success, it's fair to say that the subject of war and in particular, the second world war, still arouses deep seated passions and emotions despite the fact that over half a century has gone by. Mr. Del A Noy attended a regional premier in this country and spoke to a few of the audience after the showing. One woman echoed a comment I made while I toured the film set. As a school teacher she too felt it was almost a duty to encourage students to see the movie as part of their study course. In her opinion the movie would be a good tool in teaching youths about the realism of war. Regardless of the graphic battle scenes, a story-line honestly and unceremoniously depicting what men actually endure through the course of a war is a valuable lesson no matter what our age.

As usual, with the arrival of exam results in this country comes an onslaught of complaints that the tests of today are easier than that of say, twenty years ago.

The explanation for this is very simple, for all the soreheads who utter such nonsense, let me point out that as well as policemen looking younger, politicians seeming less moral and teachers fewer, the reason for the exams appearing easier is that you are getting OLDER!

There has got to be a reason why people are so damned impatient today. As I affably conversed with the postmaster about my packages, I was fully aware of a woman standing behind me tut-tutting and tch'ing her way through the entire transaction.

Had I been enquiring about the brakes on the car or the price of eggs, I would have understood her restlessness. But as I was attempting to send post overseas and needed to have each item weighed and stamped for customs, her fretting was entirely out of place. Not to mention, rude!

It is possible that she was in the middle of a mail crisis. She could have been anxious to send off the latest family photos to a distant relative. Or perhaps eager to get her hands on the lastest batch of Elvis stamps, whatever her reason, I will never know. But what I do know is that no matter how much noise she made with her tongue or how many times she audibly switched from foot to foot, the postmaster could weigh no faster nor lick quicker. And despite her unwillingness to wait her turn, she was stuck behind me until I was THROUGH ! And she should be grateful I didn't appear in the nationalpapers!

We can now shop for our groceries and even have them delivered via an on-line service any time of day or night. It was bad enough that a few major food chains in this country felt the need to go from opening six days a week to 24 hours a day. But at least the bread was fresh.

What happens if when you inspect your goods, ther's something wrong with the stuff ? I don't mind waiting in for the plumber but I draw a line at having tostay in and wait for a fresh batch of tomatoes !

Bill Clinton isn't the only President to be remembered more for his bedroom performances than his official duties. The Kennedy era alone still captures headlines and is often the subject of many books all becaue the brothers John and Bobby used the White House as a first class Babe - Hut ! And maybe Jackie pulled off the performance of a woman who would rather go bald than be seen to squabble over her husband's attentions towards another woman, but can we really be force fed the idea that Hil and Bill are closer now than ever? I don't think so.

If our first lady is standing by her man, even though he seems to stand by and possibly rub up against anything in a skirt, why did she bother with, and spend all that money on, a new face, figure wardrobe and image just to accept being treated like the little woman all pregnant and barefoot in the 1950's kitchen ? And why bother with an expensive education and the determined use of her maiden name if all she was going to do was revert back to an age where husbands did what they like, and called it masculinity?

Bill Clinton's (constant) poor judgement was bad enough, but Hilary's acceptance of his behaviour is by far the greater of the two sins. If not now, then in time to come Hilary may well regret her decision when history repeats itself and she has to stand by her daughter who is standing by her unfaithful man !

With parents like this for role models, Chelsea's can't fail but to repeat the pattern, guaranteed !

The anniversary of the death of Princess Dianna is looming making it difficult to know just how to behave. Some people are still deeply affected by the loss of her and have found it hard to carry on with their normal lives. I witnessed this for myself when I recently visited Althorp where the Princess is buried. And some have put the tragedy behind them simply marking the upcoming day with a mention or two of the event and leaving it at that. Up until recently I had no emotion or pain. Just curiosity as to how the day would be spent. While I walked along the grounds of the Althorp estate and into the house where Diana spent some of her childhood, I felt something. Not quite sadness, but something.It wasn't until I saw the memorial and the floral tributes still being layed in the 100's that I realised what it was.

It was a feeling of unsettled offence. The entire "trophy sight" has been professional arranged to pull the last ounce of symapthy and empathy from you as you tour the rooms and displays on offer. From the clothes she wore the home movies of her as a little girl, the air is thick with pity. I had an overwhelming desire to leave and NOT be one of the people conned into believing that it was in any way a tribute. The brother of Princess Diana made a good start when he addressed the mourners at the funeral. He gained high regard in this country alone for kicking the royal butt with his speech about Diana not needing her HRH title returned to her posthumously because she never lost it to the people who mattered.  But it seems that within the week he was able to push the dents out of his heart and do the business. In my opinion, the shrine at Althorp is now an enterprise that alleviates Lord Spencer from having to maintain the estate by generating money for the upkeep while he plays hard in another country. If the man truly respected his sister and wanted to pay a proper homage to her, he would have made sure that she rested in a place that meant something to himself and his family. Not merely paid for a burden he cares nothing for and lives nowhere near!

The Queen of England is so aware that her subjects feel distanced from the monarchy that she has stooped to visiting a McDonalds in an attempt to close the divide. It isn't necessary to disclose which McD's was given this honour, they're all the same no matter where in the world you are. Or for that matter, who in the world you are.

But before you get too excited, let me quickly tell you that our Queen didn't even try the Big Mac Deluxe with Extra Double Jumbo Fries (that come fury with salt or no salt at all because the hair-do on fry duty is usually too busy playing with Carl the cleaner to remember if she has carried out her other very important job and either salts them again or neglects to salt them at all.) and a diet Coke.

So it is with certainty that if "her in the tiara" didn't sample the food, she had no need to use the toilets. Although, I do wonder if the owners of this particular establishment might just have cleaned the bathrooms for once in anticipation. I bet this is one customer that wouldn't have had to dig in her handbag for a scrap of napkin in order to dry her hands. Or pump three consecutive dispensers before she found one with a trace of pink goo left in it.

The wisdom behind the journey into our part of the world was that if Her Royal Highness visits such an ordinary, everyday place, we the people will feel "at one" with her. We will feel that we now have something in common. If this was her goal perhaps then she should have been advised to wear something a little less ostentatious than her best Sunday frock and that damned unnecessary hand bag. Perhaps a very happenin' t-shirt with RELAX printed on it and a pair of 501 jeans finishing off the ensemble with trendy Reeboks.

And suffice it to say that most of us commoners would have been spared the indignity of getting our Rolls Royce's stuck in the drive-thru. Having to remove our insignia flags before we could proceed. I mean, surely the royal advisors know that we, the people only ever drive our Mercedes to get a burger!

But despair ye not, it could have been worse. We could so easily have been forced to read about her Clinton style escapades with a fine, tight bottomed , young stable lad who was only meant to tend to the horses when suddenly he finds himself being summoned to the palace for equestrian duties at three am.(Complete with glossy photographs splashed all over the tabloids the following day.) Had her spin doctors chosen another popular American pass-time for her to imitate!

I have recently spent some time in Scotland. A beautiful place. If it wasn't for the long drive I would go there more often. But as I hate flying and the train takes even longer than the car, I'll have to be satisfied with only the occasional excursion.

It was on or about the seventh hour of this journey that I had a brainstorm. And since my husband and I had exhausted all our "quality" conversation a half hour after pulling out of the drive-way, you can appriciate that I had plenty of time to come up with this little gem! As we sat behind a huge lorry (truck) I found myself reading the graffiti that had been drawn into the dirt on its back panel. Besides the instructions to "Wash me please" (how original), I read some pretty interesting items such as: What to do in the event of a nuclear war. Now, this does depend on whether Dave is actually home and handing out the gas masks since the instructions asked you to ring him for a free one. But nevertheless I continued reading.  Did you know that Snow White is partial to 7-up ? According to the print on this particular truck she is.....and if you don't believe me or the writer, ask the 7 dwarfs so the instructions urged. Do you think there's a sexual overtone to that one? I do. Anyhow, I had come to the last offering of witticism when I had my idea, the point of this story, you knew I had to get to it sooner or later, didn't you....

Why don't transportation companies rent out the space on the back panels of their trucks to advertise products? Wouldn't this be much nicer than the dreaded bill boards that litter our road sides ? Another bonus to this idea is that the advertisements would be mobile. A person wouldn't be forced into staring at the smug grin of some Barbie Doll with a hair-do trying to sell you motor oil every day for three months. (Yeah, like she knows where the nozzle goes for that job.) And far be it from me to point out how easy it would be to reach these ad campigns if a person had a black marker and a talent for moustache art !!!

Next week in honour of my sister Cathy in Phoenix and Mary in Boston, not to mention "B" in Texas, I'm going to tell my "HUMP" story. I mentioned it some time ago when I wrote the article about the "Little Shop" and since then I have had requests to divulge the tale.......

And yet, I'm baffled. Isn't England an Island ? Shouldn't we be swimming (pun intended) in the stuff ? Isn't our H2O shortage a bit like Fergie complaining that she doesn't have enough self confidence? (talk about swimming in the stuff !) Surely if we can extract oil from the sea we should expect that extracting water for domestic purposes isn't all that difficult.

I did not need to read the article that proclaimed "Adults Too Busy to Learn". I have sad proof of this for myself. While trying to figure out what was wrong with my printer I pushed buttons and flipped switches to no avail and was on the verge of taking the thing to pieces when my 13 year old daughter, whose schedule resembles a snail taking a day off, pointed out that my problem was a lack of electricity. My printer was unplugged from the socket.

Just as she was educating me on the matters of the obvious, I suddenly remembered that I had unplugged it myself to use the vacuum cleaner. So, you see, had I been less active, less busy, I would have "LEARNED" this for myself. As it is I'll be lucky to remember where I put the vacuum the next time I need it!

My gem of the week: Two elderly ladies sitting in a local restaurant. Lady number one asked for the mustard. Lady number two asked her to repeat what she said. "Please pass me the mustard." "Oh", says lady two, with complete earnest, "I thought you asked me to pass you my musket."

Now, when was the last time someone asked you to pass them your musket?

Family History

Perhaps this isn't staggering news to many readers but it fascinated me to see that cousins who hadn't met in 47 years, found each other on the internet while both researched their family history. One man lives in Indiana USA and the other in Cambridgeshire here in England.Often it is only the internet horror stories that make the headlines. So it is nice to read about an all too rare happy ending.

It did make me wonder though, just how many people actually go in search of long lost family members in this way. And where do they begin ? I know that after spending over 20 years living in America I have met and familiarised myself with just about all the family I have. However, if there is someone reading this that can tell me how to start searching the family tree, please share your information with me. Because there can only be one thing nicer than finding out you have a distant cousin or aunty that you knew nothing about.....and that's finding out that you have a distant uncle with plenty of money and no other living relatives!

Let Me Entertain You!

Summer is fastly approaching. Not that you can tell by our weather but by the endless bombardment of vacation advertisement and package deals promising you heaven on earth. For me, there is no finer place than right here in England. If you love history, we have it. If it's country pursuits that interest you, look no further. Night-life is also on offer but I wouldn't know anything about that. The last time I was in an establishment that played modern dance music (I think they called them disco's) Jimmy Carter was in the White House and toe socks were all the rage.

But I have been told by numerous friends and relatives that Cambridge is a 'hapnin' place at night. And I'm sure that's a good thing !

When Mum Visits

I am expecting a visitor from the USA soon. My mother is coming to stay with us and will be spending a few weeks visiting with her grandchildren and looking around the area. I truely look forward to her arrival because no matter how old I am, I still feel like a child that needs help and assistance just to get through the day whenever she's with me. She's never actually spoken the words "HOW ON EARTH DO YOU COPE WHEN I'M NOT HERE? But I know she must think them! Anyway, it will be wonderful to take her to the sights and catch up on all the news from back home.....oh, and finally get that mountain of ironing done that has been growing and multiplying since January.

War Crimes?

I had planned on writing about something completely different this week. Particularly the flood victims in Buckinghamshire that have been billed for the rescue services of their fire department. That is until I saw an article about an old soldier.

Ken Gibson from Littleport near Ely is an ex-prisoner of war and still suffers the side effects of brutal starvation and torture he endured while being held captive in a Japanese prison camp during the second world war.

He is upset by the decision to make Emperor Akihito an Honorary Knight of the Garter during his state visit here next month. And claims to be appalled by the judgement and insensitivity of the Queen and Prime Minister. I should think so too. There is only one thing worse than watching your fellow fighters suffer and die as a result of barbaric punishment in the name of war - and that is to watch a leader from that country who upholds the mistreatment, honoured by the very establishment you fought to protect.

I have heard all the arguements about moving with the times and forging new bonds with other countries despite our historical differences. But that concept doesn't apply in this situation. Before Akihito accepts the honour his country should be forced to pay for the ill health and suffering that manymen such as Mr. Gibson still endure.

It is unacceptable that our government can overlook the insult of giving Emperor Akihito such a distinction without having considered what a slap in the face it is to the vetrans of that war.

FLOODING

I was lucky to miss out on the flooding that has swept through East Anglia. It looked at one point as if me and my family would have to live on the upper floor of our home for a while. But as luck would have it, the rains eased and the floods never reached us.

I assumed the worst was over when weather reports signalled the all clear. Whew... too close for me ! I was one of the fortunate ones. It wasn't until I watched the news that I became aware of another type of danger flowing our way....and it wasn't rain water.
The reports were warning flood victims about the "cowboy" (sorry Texans) builders and repair services that will now add to the damage by ripping off innocent people with bogus claims and repair promises. Is there life form so low ? Can humans sink to this level? Obviously so.

One piece of helpful information the report gave was for all victims to check with the American equivalent of the Better Business Bureau to make sure that the company is listed and no complaints are filed. I'll go one better, ask on the internet. You would be amazed at how many people are willing to tell their story. In particular, the sad ones (story that is, not people)

LOTTERY MONEY

I was given another suggestion, this time by my taxi driver. She asked why England should be having such trouble with the class over crowding situation when the present Government promised to make class sizes (limiting them) a priority in their campaign.

I don't think anyone world wide is surprised a politician has difficulty in keeping a promise. But this one does seem to be a flagrant breech of trust. I have often questioned why the government allows the Lottery money to build up and then be distributed amongst unworthy, and excuse my french, ridiculously asinine and wasteful, causes such as how long it takes for a lizards tail to grow back !!!!

Our government should be intelligent enough to appreciate that the masses of people who gamble on the twice weekly event wouldn't mind so much about the doubtful likelihood of winning the jackpot if we knew that the gazillions of pounds that it raises went to the betterment of our education system. Heck, I'd even go all out and buy two tickets to see that happen ...

MOTHER'S DAY

It will be Mother's day in England soon. Unlike the American version, it is celebrated in March. This creates some very odd behavior on my part.

I always intend to send something nice to my mother but always forget when she celebrates her day....And if I do manage to get something in the post when cards are available here, then she hasn't a clue as to why I have waited so long to send her something. I can't win....

Mother's day isn't given anything like it's fair share of recognition. My mother had five of us little darlings to cook for, clean up after and ear clip into good behaviour every day for the better part of twenty years. And our day of showering her with gratitude usually required her to referee while we "did things for ourselves".

It hardly seems fair that we only acknowledge what a mother does for her children for one day a year. Even something as ridiculous as British Fashion gets a week for goodness sake! Well, a month actually if you allow for the time it takes to make the models look that scary.

No, if we are going to set aside time to commemorate what a mother means to us, we should do it right. It should be a week of not having to separate the children when they fight. Or cook a meal that nobody eats but everybody nagged for. Not having to force the laundry through it's paces until it comes out the other side all cleaned and pressed. And most important, not having to find something that mysteriously disappeared without any of the children having touched it !

Of course, one draw back to the week of bliss is that once it is all over, mothers will have to invent a "Hire a Maid Week" just to get over the break they had....

The Wonder of Ely Cathedral

For as long as I have lived in this part of England I have never gotten tired of going to the Ely Cathedral. It is a place of worship and inspiration to many. But a place of fascination for many more. When family visit from the United States and ask to see something of East Anglia, I know just where to take them. We always end up spending far more time touring the beautiful exhibits and historical offerings for much longer than was originally planned. Only once was I lucky enough to coincide one of our visits with the Christmas services and experience the choir of angelic voices along with the Yule celebration. It never fails to impress my family and friends. In fact, it never fails to impress the locals either!

The Wonder of MacDonalds!!

An establishment as internationally known as McDonald's should be a place where you can guarantee being able to make yourself understood. Not so. My order was two hamburgers, two fries, one coffee and one soda. Simple enough? Not by a long chalk. The trouble was that I was speaking to a foreign exchange student who was visiting this fine country in order to improve her English. Where better to do that then McD's I hear you say.... To cut a long story short, I ended up having to point to the pictures behind her head in order to be understood. It was the first time in all my years in England that I felt like the foreigner!

The Wonderful Weather!

For some, the word "El Nino" means nothing. And for others, it means an unholy storm that ripped the roof of their house off. It is a weather front that has been harassing the west coast of America for some time now. My sister Sharon ,who lives in California, says that to start with not many people paid much attention to the weather men when they predicted the intensity of the storms....BIG MISTAKE ! Here in England, we pay very careful attention to our honourable weather persons (I don't like to offend the ladies). I for one listen in the morning and dress accordingly. For instance, when sunshine is predicted, the brollie gets a dusting and sits by the front door waiting for use!. Equally, when a storm had been forecast for my area....we light up the bar-b-q . See, it's that easy. It does occur to me every now and then that the weather people might just know this and have a little fun at our expense. How else could anyone do that job day after day, week after week.?

The Not So-Wonderful Parking Situation!

Traffic is a problem in our fair neck of the woods. If we manage to park the car anywhere close to where we want to shop, we can't leave it for more than a few hours. I don't know about any of you, but it takes me that long to find the news agents! If the Ely of tomorrow is really going to be brought into line with the coming of the millennium, why don't the council pedestrianise the historical cities and provide us with out of town parking that allows us enough time to get from vehicle to shop without feeling as though we have taken part in the London marathon?

Anne deBondt - March 1998