Dear Friends and Family, March 14
Our week began last Sunday at the Crufts dog show held at the National Exhibition Centre (NEC) just outside Birmingham. Crufts is one of those British institutions that hold a global caché; it is THE preeminent dog show, representing the apotheosis of dog breeding. If your dog wins in its breed or category at Crufts, you can be assured of charging a significant premium – running into thousands of pounds – for its sperm (dogs) or puppies (bitches). It’s not just a snooty, upper class convention – it represents cold, hard cash. Crufts is officially recognised as the world’s largest dog show by the Guinness Book of Records, and this year’s show attracted almost 23 000 dogs entered with 160 000 dog loving visitors going along to gawp. The event takes place over four days.
We woke very early on Sunday because Lorraine, part of the husband and wife team who own the quarantine kennel where our zoo is ensconced, had told us dire stories of nightmare parking and traffic chaos around the NEC for all major events. We left home at seven in the morning, drove right into the NEC and got ourselves as good a parking as any. As it turned out, we were pretty close to the front of the queue and stood around for an hour waiting to be let in. We also managed to buy one of our tickets on the cheap from an exhibitor who had a spare ticket; otherwise entrance was £15. The other thing I noticed was that the victuals available were not as expensive as we had expected; in typical British tradition, Lorraine had us believing that we would need to pay for any food and refreshments in gold bars. In fact, they were priced much the same as one would find on the high street. I wouldn’t know what they tasted like because – prodded by Lorraine’s dire warnings – we took our own sandwiches along.
We dashed over to the ring where the Rhodesian Ridgebacks were being judged when the doors finally opened to visitors. It is difficult to describe the excitement of a dog show. Have you ever watched paint dry? It all gets to be a bit same-ish after about 10 minutes. And one gets the impression that the dog experts are much like wine experts (if they aren’t indeed the same people); eighty percent of them are talking absolute shit, but they do it in such a knowledgeable way.
We chatted to a few people as we strolled around the Ridgeback ring – just one of 30 rings spread across five massive halls – and all of them were disappointed that that Edgar (once we got around to mentioning that we have a Ridgeback in quarantine) is not quite the man he once was. Apparently new bloodlines are highly prized, and we could have earned many thousands of pounds by getting him to do what comes naturally to dogs. I’m sure he would have felt fairly flipping important too!
We have also decided that Hazel is part Otterhound – the part that we used to call terrier. The other part stays Retriever for the time being. I also decided that I quite like Irish Wolfhounds (which aren’t much smaller than a pony).
The event is also a big commercial showpiece with everything you can imagine – and a few things you would never have dreamed of – on sale to keep your best friend happy. By lunchtime the place was a heaving sea of humanity where the people start to become as exotic as the dogs (lime green track suit, gold lamé boots and handbag, and big golden hoops of earrings that could quite adequately serve as a perch for a large parrot.) Those people who know me fairly well will know that I don’t do the crowd thing. I suppose it’s rather fortunate then that Lucia sees things much the same way. So we left, thus avoiding the predicted traffic chaos, and took a leisurely, winding drive home. And, while I really enjoyed the experience, I think I can place a tick in the box next to Crufts.
On Tuesday I went exploring again (my mother used to call it gallivanting), although much closer to home this time. I ventured out on the minor roads south of Warwick and into the Cotswolds north of Banbury. Although I had the map book on the seat next to me, my journey was more a series of arbitrary turns taking me more-or-less south. At midday, I found myself in Shipston-on-Stour, an ancient market town very near to Ann and Richard’s home in the hamlet of Winderton. So I called Richard to find out if I could take him to lunch. He told me to meet him and Ann (who was at home that day) at their home. When I got there, a large and colourful badge on Richard’s jersey advised me that it was his birthday. (I’m guessing here that the badge was daughter Polly’s idea.) So instead of taking Richard to lunch, I benefitted from an absolutely delicious lunch of fried haloumi prepared by Richard, accompanied by cheese, paté and crackers. Lunch ended when Richard and Ann went to fetch Polly from school. I then took a road which led me in to Banbury, and then another, which ran parallel to the M40 motorway, and took me all the way back to Warwick past the old RAF Gaydon air force base. The old nuclear bomber base now houses the Land Rover, Jaguar and Aston Martin plants, as well as the Heritage Motor Centre which I returned to on Friday.
I spent the better part of Friday morning strolling around the museum which only really covers the history of what became British Leyland. I learned, for instance, that MG actually stood for Morris Garages. William Morris, who started out as a bicycle mechanic, was later created Lord Nuffield, as in the Nuffield Hospitals. I discovered that the person who designed the iconic Morris Minor, Alec Issigonis, went on to design the even more iconic Mini. I learned that the UK motor industry now employs many, many more people than it ever did at the height of the industrial clashes of the late 1970’s and early 1980’s, except most are now employed by Japanese motor companies. What’s left of the “British” industry is now owned by Americans and Germans. I wouldn’t mind owning an MG from the 1930’s and a half-timbered Morris Minor estate (station wagon, for the South Africans) from the 1950’s. Maybe when I win the lottery, but one of those gull wing Mercedes sports cars from the 1960’s would have to come first.
As usual, I visited the zoo on all the other days. It’s getting a bit warmer, so I’m able to stay with them a bit longer before I get too cold.
I also finally managed to get the satnav device on loan from Andreas to talk to my computer. It’s an example of the dumb things some companies can do. I had downloaded the latest version of the software for my computer that allows the computer and the satellite navigation device to talk to each other. That’s the clever thing to do, right? But they just didn’t talk to each other, and I couldn’t understand why. After a number of telephone calls to TomTom, the maker of my device, I finally had it sorted. It turns out that the latest computer software doesn’t talk to the old software on the satnav device. (What company makes software that isn’t backwards compatible? This must be one of the more egregious examples of how to piss of your customers.) I had to download the old computer software and install that on my computer. The old computer software then downloaded and updated the new software for the satnav device. Then, the old computer software downloaded the new computer software which it reinstalled on my computer. Still with me? This is important, because then I was able to buy the service that downloads all the traffic “safety” cameras onto the satnav device. It makes a howling siren sound every time you approach one the thousands of fixed speed cameras dotted around the UK. The police also have to declare days in advance where they are going to set up mobile speed cameras which you can download to your satnav device every morning. So there really is very little reason for ever getting a speeding fine ever again. And, um, I’ve had a few in my life. In SA it was simple, I just ignored them. So long as you don’t sign for a summons, there’s very little they can do about it. Here in the UK it gets a little more serious. They add points to your licence; get too many points and your licence is gone. Well, once I actually get a British licence. And I’m rather impressed with the fact that we can just exchange our SA licences for UK licences which we shall do when we move into our new home in two weeks.
Tonight (Saturday) we’re going to a concert of choral works and organ music at the parish church – the Collegiate Church of St. Mary, Warwick, to be precise. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Collegiate_Church_of_St_Mary,_Warwick or http://www.stmaryswarwick.org.uk/) The church has a carilloneur who bangs on his bells every day – Elgar and Holst are his favourites. It sounds so much sweeter than the cries of the muezzin we heard rising up to us from District Six and the City Bowl everyday in Cape Town. I know a great joke about Muslims ... but I wouldn’t want to have a fatwah hanging over my head even if Jesus did expect Mohamed to go and make the tea for some visitors in heaven.
Then at 04h00 tomorrow morning (UK time) there’s the opening round of the 2008 F1 Grand Prix season being held in Melbourne. Can’t miss that. Daniel, the son of the owners of the guest house we’re staying in, tells me that he used to work for McClaren and was Ayrton Senna’s chef for three years. He’s staying here while his parents are away in India and he waits for a Zambian work permit. So it’s not like I’m going to be waking anybody up if I start shouting at the TV set.
Lucia’s just got back from having her hair coloured and we’re off to see the zoo.
That’s it for now.
Love, light & peace
Llewellyn
