Showers, Bath, Looe

Somewhat ridiculously, renting a car for a fortnight worked out significantly cheaper than The Goat and Beloved Wife attempting to use public transport, even though the car was left parked up for a week in Droitwich. Further advantages of car rental were convenience, not having to schlepp large orange suitcases in and out of buses or trains, and being able to fly in and out of the better-located Bristol airport rather than Heathrow.

Neither would there be a need to borrow Nanny Goat’s Aygo this time. The Goat made himself useful chez Nanny Goat. As he is now the new expert in domestic waste water plumbing, Nanny Goat asked him to unblock a drain. Unlike the Crumbling Villa over Eid, the blockage this time turned out to be solidified detergent rather than chip fat. It was shifted using the traditional method of opening a manhole, getting a garden hose, and giving the waste pipe an enema. “They don’t like it up ‘em, Mr Mainwaring!” The Goat also had two goes at replacing the washing line so that all the seventeenth-century kit could be put on display to the neighbours. The first attempt involved el cheapo raffia; the second, a much more serious plastic-coated steel wire.

The Goat’s sister and brother-in-law have recently moved into a converted stone barn somewhere in the Devon boondocks. The building is probably over a century old, and stands in over an acre of land. They have ducks and chickens, and have now befriended their horse-owning neighbours and have taken up riding. They have so far completely missed the obvious opportunity for caprine companions. The entire horde, or possibly herd, trooped over one afternoon for barbecue, buffet, and beer. Plus, of course, the obligatory guided tour of the house and grounds. 

The East Wing safari park and petting zoo.

“The Master cannot come to the door at this time, Sir. He is on safari in the East Wing.

Owing to Beloved Wife’s car recently developing a noisy pulley bearing, the Goat went down to a Plymouth purveyor of spare Volkswagen bits and procured a replacement over the counter at about a third the cost and a fraction of the time it usually takes Al Naboodah in Dubai. A Goat suspects that only the bearing needs to be replaced, but a Goat has to buy the entire tensioner assembly.

Off to Tiger Treats of Looe on a sunny day next, taking Nephews #1 and #2. They protested at first when the idea was mooted, but decided to quiet their objections once they’d worked out that a trip to the karting track at Menheniot was contingent on visiting Looe first. 

Looe harbour.

Near the beach at Looe.

The Goat received a new, indestructible leather hat for his birthday from his Beloved, who then procured and enjoyed a cone of Cornish ice cream with clotted cream on top. 

One of the many Looe shitehawks.

Nephew #2 subsequently proceeded to thrash his older brother and his heavier uncle on the race track. Mind you, Nephew #1 only stayed behind his uncle because of some aggressive cornering. Nobody else of the twenty or so karts went past this Triumvirate of Velocity.

Beloved Wife is a culture junkie, and Nanny Goat exhumed a National Trust book from her personal library and suggested venues from the comprehensive list of nearby abbeys, stately homes, and castles. Beloved Wife settled on Saltram House and Buckland Abbey.

Saltram is in Plymouth, and after finding somewhere to park, the Goat and Beloved Wife wandered around the grounds, took tea and cake, and then toured the house itself. “One of the finest examples of…etc.” according to the guidebook. In the traditional way, the first Lord established the house and estate, his son developed it, and the third generation (who had never worked a day in his life and thus had no appreciation of his wealth) pissed away the family fortune on fast women and slow horses. It took many generations plus marrying into money for Saltram to recover.

Front door of Saltram House.

Chapel at Saltram. Nowadays tea rooms.

Who'll be mother?

The only goat in Saltram House.

Recorder-playing cherub in Saltram

Saltram sphinges.
(Yes, that is the plural of sphinx)

By the time the tour was over, rain had set in for the afternoon. The Goat drove over Dartmoor to Sir Francis Drake’s pile: Buckland Abbey. This is not to be confused with the entirely different Buckfast Abbey that can wait for another time. Clarissa helpfully suggested an unorthodox route through some Dingly Dell and then reported that she’d “Lost satellite reception” beneath the trees. The Buckland grounds weren’t actually out of bounds, but even though Goats don’t dissolve in the rain, getting drenched in the gardens really didn’t appeal. Drake’s Drum, which will allegedly beat of its own accord when England is in peril, will struggle because all of its tensioning ropes have been removed.

Buckland Abbey in the rain.

Commemorative etched glass.

Buckland Abbey.

Buckland Abbey stairs by
M.C. Escher.

One of four satyrs (representing
known continents)
holding up a Buckland roof.

Buckland Abbey in the rain.

Buckland Abbey from the barn.

The Goat took a very short cut across Dartmoor back to Nanny Goat’s, partly to show Beloved Wife quite how bleak the moor could be in the rain. Yes, even in August. Drenched sheep looked on forlornly, as they’d recently been shorn and must surely have been freezing cold.

Hot pasties awaited the return of the culture vultures to Plymouth, which is a virtually guaranteed treat chez Nanny Goat. Mmmm: pastiferous delights!

Further culture was to follow. After saying their goodbyes to Nanny Goat, Beloved Wife and Goat set of towards Bristol via Bath. They located the long-stay parking and, in the sun because British weather is fickle like that, walked into the City. Obviously the Roman Baths were first on the itinerary. This is somewhere neither the Goat nor Beloved Wife have visited since the early 1970s. In fact, because archaeology is ongoing there are new exhibits on view that hadn’t been unearthed in the 1970s. As usual the water in the bath itself was completely out of bounds. Because it’s exposed to sunlight and nice and warm, all sorts of eldritch horrors live therein, and even touching the waters will give you squirty botty or worse. Those wishing to partake of the healthy, fresh-from-the-Mendips mineral water can get it from the fountain next door in the Georgian tea rooms.

Statue of Julius Caesar seems to owe a lot
 to Uderzo and Goscinny.

Roman baths and Abbey.

Ubi sunt alba mulierum?
Aquae Sulis.

The Goat had been looked up and down by a Bottom Inspector at admission to the Baths, who made no comment pertaining to the Goat’s attire. The Goat also spoke to and photographed a Roman re-enactor who passed comment regarding his unshod hooves. “It’s a bath. Who wears shoes in the bath?” In fact, she asked Beloved Wife about her mistreatment of her personal slave, and the Goat missed a trick, failing to spend the rest of the day addressing Beloved Wife as "Domina". 

At almost the end of the tour, the Goat was assured by a third member of staff that bare feet were not allowed, and no there were no signs stating this (ergo she’s obviously just made up this ‘rule’). So the Goat had to cover his hooves with his Vibram™ hobbit shoes to give the illusion that he had proper feet.

Next on the agenda was Bath Abbey, which is full of grave memorials all over the walls and floor. The BBC gives an estimate of between 4000 and 6000 bodies buried beneath the Abbey; a lady of ecclesiastical profession actually stated an exact number that the Goat cannot now remember. Audio entertainment was provided by organ practice. At one point the organist turned it up to eleven, engaged the 256-ft Earthquake Pipe, and made the building shake. 

Unlike in Worcester Cathedral, there appeared no requirement for a photography permit, and unlike the Baths, there was no mandatory requirement for footwear. One suspects that the Abbey staff may have assumed that the Goat was a discalced pilgrim. Uncultured oaf that he may be, the Goat does remember to remove his hat in church. Time did not permit taking the hundreds of steps up to the roof, so there’s something else remaining on the To Do list.

Bath Abbey.

Fan vaulting in Bath Abbey. 

Stained Glass in Bath Abbey.

The Goat paused on the way back to the car park to take miscellaneous photographs, and then to enter a Cheese Emporium, notwithstanding Beloved Wife’s protestations about aroma, car, and confined spaces. 

“Tell me, do you have any Stinking Bishop?”

“Of course Sir; it’s a cheese shop, Sir. It’s as runny as you like it.” 

Ancient engineers in Bath.
Why does the one one the left have part of a steam engine?

Finally, off to Bristol via The Crescent and The Circle for pictures of Georgian façades. 

Regency Bath: The Circle.

Regency Bath: The Crescent.

There is a kind of tradition to commemorate one’s dearly departed on the roadside where he or she ran out of talent. Such memorials consist of bunches of flowers, wreaths, Requiescat messages. The Goat was disturbed and alarmed to see Winnie the Pooh among one of these, crucified on a roadside tree. He’s reminded of a Red Dwarf episode in which Dave Lister witnesses Winnie the Pooh being shot by firing squad. 

Anyway: Bristol. The Joys of Rush Hour eventually provoked rat-running away from the ring road. As the flight out was scheduled for 0600 the following morning, arrangements had been made to spend the evening a mere ten miles from the airport. The Goat gassed up the rental car, correctly anticipating that nothing would be open at 3am, and then he and Beloved Wife were fed and entertained by Mr Thrash and Dr England. Stinking Bishop turns out to be a surprisingly mild cheese; something belied by its powerful aroma.

And that is that. Airport. Back to the middle east. Massive pile of work on desk. Huge collection of photos to review, edit, crop, and post.

“You have been playing the Total Immersion Roleplaying Game ‘England, My England’. Your score is 2.3%. Welcome back to reality.”

]}:-{>

Norse saga. Part V – Norwegian Blues

Friday 16 August

Pining for the fjords

The rain started just as we arrived at the railway station. It was just as well we weren’t late, as our reserved seats were very much at the distal end of the train. This would have offered photographic advantages, had the rear window not been befouled and filthy. It’s a seven hour trip from Oslo to Bergen, but the journey passes through some spectacular mountainous scenery and glacial valleys. I’m given to wonder what the occupants of the tiny houses dotted all over actually do for a living, outside the tourist season. There were several nutters in the 8°C rain on mountain bikes.

Photo opportunities were distinctly limited because the train’s windows didn’t open and raindrops obscured the view of the low clouds obscuring the mountains.

Mountains and lakes in the rain from the train.

Low clouds and rugged scenery.

However, we rolled into Bergen as the rain just about stopped. It’s better to spend a wet day on the train than in attempting a walking tour.

After a meal that in my case included a pleasantly gamey and slightly chewy whale steak (they were fresh out of panda), we ambled down to the harbour and booked tomorrow’s fjord cruise. Good weather was forecast for tomorrow: I was hoping that this would hold true.

It seemed that schools, or at least universities, were back on Monday, so the town centre was populated by students in fancy dress. Even the hotel had a sign apologizing about the noise of boisterous undergrads in the street late at night. We scored a room whose window didn’t open to the street. The Place to Be seemed to be a nightclub just up the road where there was a massive toga party, if the huge queue of students in bedsheets was anything to go by. Not a single toga in evidence; plenty of chitons and exomides sported by hardy Norwegians clearly very used to standing around half naked in chilly weather.

Saturday 17 August

The alleged good weather seemed to comprise dull and overcast with spots of rain. Bah! Nevertheless, we boarded the MS White Lady, which set off on its fjord cruise spot on schedule at 1000. The upper deck had a retractable Perspex canopy that was predictably not retracted, leaving only a small space at the stern for up to 100 passengers to crowd and take photographs. Most seemed content to sit in the warm on the lower deck and either look out of the windows or play with their smartphones. I resisted using the GPS on my own phone until we were well on our way back to Bergen.

The sun fought a losing battle with the clouds, only appearing for a couple of minutes, whereas the rain was much more successful. Still, between showers I got some pictures of some of Slartibartfast’s award-winning work. The scenery really is stunning.

One of the countless waterfalls.

Fjord view.

Vike church. This is just about as far north as I have ever been.
(Flying over the North Pole doesn't count.)

Looking north along Ostresundfjord.
The cliff continues at the same angle underwater to a depth of several hundred metres.

Looking south along Ostresundfjord

Lonely house. Bet they don't get troubled by many door-to-door salesmen.

A longer cruise may have been a realistic option had the weather been better, but it looked as if most of the sightseers were glad to get off the boat after just over four hours.

Next came shopping in the ancient wooden Bryggen area, the oldest part of Bergen (reconstructed on the twelfth-century foundations after it was burned to the ground in 1702.) The place is all wonky and wobbly, and looks more like Diagon Alley than anything else. Beloved Wife added to her Christmas ornament collection, and then we walked back through the open market and I picked up a pack of sausages: Venison, Whale, Moose, and Reindeer.

Bryggen, or possibly Diagon Alley

Then a little bit of shopping in Bergen’s department stores, where shop assistants were helpful almost to a fault, and back to the hotel with our booty.

Neo-classical atlantes and caryatids adorn many old buildings all over Scandinavia. Here's one of each, clearly caught taking showers.

As the weather had by now improved a little, we sauntered around the old part of the town and eventually found the bottom end of Bergen’s famous funicular railway. It starts with fun and goes up from there. It was windy at the top, but the views were excellent. The souvenir shop was full of the same old tat available at all souvenir shops in Scandinavia: Vikings, trolls, silly hats with antlers, anthropomorphic reindeer, and pelts and antlers from real reindeer.

The funicular railway.

Funicular time-lapse, viewed from the top.

Winter is Coming.

Down the funicular again, and another wander around Diagon Alley and some more shopping, before we discovered a café on an upper floor that had decent views of the harbour but glazing to keep out the wind, rain, and fishy aroma. I had reindeer patties; Beloved Wife chose Norwegian meatballs.

And then we fell into the arms of Morpheus. 

Sunday 18 August

Aargh, rain! Stair-rods all the way from the hotel to the railway station. Just as well, then, that we were able to do our fjord trip and funicular ride yesterday, when the sights were actually visible.

As the train climbed east, the weather tried to improve. I was repeatedly frustrated when trying to take photos of the glacial valleys because, every time I hit the shutter release on my camera, the train dived into one of the countless tunnels. This happened on repeated consecutive occasions. It certainly didn’t feel like a coincidence.

The weather at Finse was completely rain-lashed and foul. Finse, elevation 1222m, is the highest point on the Norwegian (and possibly the entire Scandinavian) rail system. The place is inaccessible by road. Scott (of the Antarctic) and his team trained here.

Nobody stops at Finse except hardy mountain bikers and hikers, military types doing Arctic training, and the cast and crew of Star Wars “Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back.” Yes, in the winter the place was and is the Ice Planet of Hoth.

Mountain bikes to rent. Only the deranged need apply.

The sixth planet in the remote Hoth system is just there, on the right. Known locally as the Hardangerjøkulen glacier

On 18th August 2013, the outside temperature was 6°C.

The weather improved as we headed east, down the mountain towards Oslo. We were treated to some glorious views of huge valleys, lakes, fjords, clouds hanging among the trees in the valleys, and on one occasion a full double rainbow.

Seven hours after setting off, we rolled into Oslo station and found our hotel. Then we grabbed a bite to eat and activated our unused 24-hour public transport cards to explore Oslo’s suburbs by tram. Beloved Wife really didn’t fancy a chilly evening ferry ride. Maybe tomorrow: I’d discovered that our train didn’t leave until 1300.

Monday 19 August

Tram to the Town Hall, which is where the ferries dock and, incidentally, where we listened to Beethoven’s Ninth a few evenings previously. Our 24-hour passes would be good until 2110, so we took the ferry over to the Folk Museum and Maritime Museum stops, but didn’t get off. I was glad I’d previously taken pictures of Oslo fortress because today there was a massive cruise liner docked right outside the fortress, obscuring all views of and from.

We got to the train ridiculously early and boarded. Ended up chatting to an American who was funding her three-month tour of Europe by transcribing the scribblings of the first four US presidents plus Benjamin Franklin into text format. We chatted and offered possibly useful hints regarding where to go and what to see.

The train went as far at Gothenburg (Göteborg in Swedish) where there was about an hour to locate the next train that would take us to Copenhagen. We ran into the same American traveller, and unfortunately a couple of unruly children whose mother seemed incapable of understanding the fundamental meaning of “quiet carriage”. At last she got out and took her noisy brats away.

It occurred to me to check where the train would stop in Denmark. The train would stop at the airport on its way to Copenhagen central, but crucially would also stop at Ørestad, a few hundred metres from our hotel. I saved about half an hour of train and metro this evening, and a further 30 minutes tomorrow morning. A celebratory beer was called for in the hotel bar. Such a pity the room was so basic, minuscule, and with uncomfortable bunk beds and a dysfunctional internet.

Tuesday 20 August

Appallingly early start in order to ensure a timely arrival at the airport. The hotel breakfast was mediocre.

I should note a hard landscaping detail: rough granite flagstones look great and offer excellent skid resistance when wet or icy, but they’re appalling to drag wheeled suitcases along between the station and the hotel, and back again the next morning.

We got airside and tried to obtain our tax refunds on goods purchased in Norway and Sweden, only to be told that the receipts would first have to be stamped by Customs on groundside. This differs from the UK where all this tax refund business has to take place airside. I sent Beloved Wife without any luggage back into the depths of the airport. She was sent from pillar to post in an obvious attempt to avoid paying any refund of VAT, but eventually succeeded and reappeared with a receipt. Huzzah!

The flights were pretty much uneventful. At Dubai airport, the taxi rank has been moved.

And when we got home, one of our rickety air conditioners refused to fire up. Chasing the landlord: something else to add to my ‘To Do’ list.

Welcome back to reality.

Post Script

If we’d booked individual train and ferry tickets on line, cost would have been around $1261. Our EuroRail passes, plus reservation fees, plus cabins on the ferry came to $1168: marginally cheaper, but with Ultimate Flexibility.  We actually used seven of our eight allocated journeys. I guess you pretty much have to max out the ticket in order to make it financially worthwhile.

]}:-{>

Eee, great!

I have previously blogged about the inevitable half-hour queue to enter Qatar after arriving by air. More recently, I noted the tendency of Immigration officials to find a fresh page in my passport every time they want to apply a stamp. The way to avoid both of these is to have an E-Gate card, a magic piece of plastic that speeds the bearer’s way through immigration and avoids a passport stamp.

Given that immediately after the Eid Al Fitr holiday, the entire population of Qatar will attempt to enter Doha through the same passport control and the queue will be out of the door and halfway to Wakrah, I really wanted to deal with this before my next international trip. And the government will be shut all next week, so today was the last available day.

According to the Firm’s Human Resources department, the procedure for obtaining an E-Gate card “is easy, and takes about five minutes,” so off I naïvely trotted.

1. Go to Doha International Airport
I parked, then asked the security guard at the door to Departures. He directed me down there to the right where, sure enough, was a door and a large bilingual sign: “E-Gate Card Issuing Office”. Bingo. The door was locked, so I asked someone in uniform when the office opened. “Eight o’clock, but it’s Ramadan, so...”

At a quarter to nine, having observed several other would-be applicants knocking on the door like cats stuck outside in the rain, I asked another man in uniform.

“They don’t do E-Gate cards here. You have to go to the Ministry of the Interior Immigration Department.”

It is beyond the wit of Man to erect a sign to that effect, or at least to remove the existing misleading sign.

2. Immigration Department – Door No. 1
Having paid the ludicrous parking charges for my stay in the airport parking, I headed off to Madinat Khalifa to look for the elusive parking space. Traffic signs direct Immigration customers through the forecourt of a petrol station, and the adjacent roads are emblazoned with “No Waiting” signs, even where there is marked on-street parking. One road is signposted as a one-way street, but it’s a cul-de-sac. So crazy, it’s like living in a Monty Python sketch.

Behind Door No. 1 was a seething mass of humanity. There was nobody at Reception, so I queued at the nearby desk and eventually got to ask for an E-Gate card. “Typing,” said the man behind the counter. “Outside.”

3. Typing
Outside was, of course, devoid of typists. I spotted a sign advertising “Typing, Cafeteria & Studio” and headed over there. Again, it was a zoo, but I finally found the one bloke behind a desk who, when he wasn’t busy doing the male equivalent of the shayla dance, checked my ID card, called up my details, printed these on to a form, and charged me QR8.

4. Door No. 1
Back to Mr Outside. This time he directed me to another desk. It seems Mr Outside works for a bank, and undertakes cashier services only. But he couldn’t tell me that the first time, could he?

5. The Business End
At the actual Reception I eventually made my way to the front of a Middle East queue (50 ft wide, 2 people deep) and explained that I wanted an E-Gate card. I was issued with a number and directed to sit and wait.

6. Biometric Data
My number came up, but it then turned out that I first needed to get mugshots, iris scans and fingerprints done. This is exactly as was clearly not explained to me by the bloke at Reception. Over to the booths where a very nice bint in black inspected my ID card, called up my details, and then directed me to stand and provide exactly the same set of biometric data that is already on the system. Why? For crying out loud, why? What is the point of collecting a duplicate set of iris scans?

7. The Business End – again
After going back to Reception, getting a second ticket, waiting, and finally approaching the desk with my form, I had almost finished. The man in white behind the counter needed to see my ID card; the same thing that I’d already shown at Typing and Biometric. Now he charged me QR300.

“Just a minute, it’s QR200 for the E-Gate card. I don’t want anything else.”

“But we will upgrade your ID card with a chip in it, and that’s an extra QR100. Next year the ID card will be combined with the E-Gate card, driving licence, and health card.”

I see: an Ident-I-Eze card.

Then 20 minutes into the “five-minute wait”, I was handed my new ID card which now incorporates the E-Gate information, and instructed to activate it at the machine “over there.”

Job done. Three and three-quarter hours, this “five-minute” job took. I have had to pay an additional QR100 to replace an ID card only two weeks after it was originally issued. The general roll-out of ID/E-Gate combined is scheduled for next year, so I get it early. But if chipped smart cards are available, why didn’t I get one a fortnight ago?

Summary: How to do it right.
1. Immigration Dept, Madinat Khalifa.
2. Go to Typing.
3. Show ID card and get a printed form.
4. Go to Door No 1.
5. Show ID card at booth. Mugshots, dabs and iris scans.
6. Go to Reception and get a number.
7. Show ID card, pay the money, get the new ID/E-Gate card.
8. Activate the E-Gate part at the machine by the door.
9. Get back to your life.

]}:-{>

The mouse problem

Dubai follows Abu Dhabi’s lead, and is, according to this article in the Gulf News, going to offer discounts on traffic fines.

Think about the purpose of a traffic fine for a moment. Officially at least, it is punishment. The money that you were saving up for your holiday, new fridge, school fees or beer is instead directed into central government coffers. That’ll learn ya! A more cynical Goat might believe that traffic fines, especially those incurred after being detected by a speed camera, are simply a means of raising revenue.

Look how easy it is to pay most traffic fines. Go on-line and quote your credit card number. Visit a shopping mall and stand at one of those fine Fine-Payment machines. Wait until the end of the year and simply add the payment on to the inspection and registration fees.

If the intention were punitive, the perpetrator would have to take time off work, attend court, and then be given a right royal runaround across town, collecting rubber stamps on official forms in order to obtain permission to pay. In truth, this punishment is reserved for those attempting to recover their security deposits before leaving the country. It is true that some traffic offences incur a version of the time-wasting palaver. According to the Goat’s spies, driving on the breakdown lane (for example) can involve an invitation to stand in front of the Police Captain to receive a dressing down and then to apologise. (Fifth Amendment inserted here for the avoidance of doubt.)

What can possibly be the reasoning behind reducing traffic fines, then? Previously they were increased: speeding now starts at Dh600, whereas it used to be Dh200. That ‘zero tolerance yields zero crashes’ no-messin’ attitude seems to have had minimal effect.

The Goat reckons that the increased fines simply cause more and more cases of non-payment. Either can’t pay or won’t pay. It’s impossible to register a motor vehicle without paying the fines, so logically the non-payers are punished by not being able to use their vehicles, right? Of course not! The number of unregistered and consequently uninsured vehicles on the road increases. By reducing the fines, they become easier to pay. Result: fewer unregistered and uninsured vehicles. A further benefit for the government is that 50% of some income is better than 100% of buggerall.

Abu Dhabi, and soon Dubai seem to be following advice from Monty Python’s The Mouse Problem sketch. “The only way to bring the crime figures down is to reduce the number of offences.”

]}:-{>

T'weekend is comin' an' it's time for a bath

Last weekend was exhausting.

Dubai St George’s Society Ball was postponed from its traditional 23rd April, presumably to avoid clashing with the Royal Wedding, and to ensure that the Band of Her Majesty’s Royal Marines would be able to come. On the run up to the event, the Goat was chasing around for jobs, passports, visas and so forth, and with less than one week to go, it at last became apparent that You Shall Go To The Ball!

Beloved Wife’s Aunt in Abu Dhabi has a colleague who wanted to attend the Ball with his wife, but the couple didn’t wish to leave their son Kay home alone. A plot hatched that entailed the Aunt and teenager being dropped off at the Crumbling Villa on Friday morning, shopping, errands and entertaining Kay all afternoon, and then Beloved Wife and Goat heading off for a riotous evening including Roast Beef of Old England, unlimited special beverages, a military band, patriotic singing and then dancing the night away to the Royal Marines’ Dance Band. Another task was to find enough gear in the Crumbling Villa’s emporium of dive kit, tools and bicycles for four snorkellers. That was part of Saturday’s plan.

Kay, who is thirteen, spent Friday afternoon ably demonstrating how Beloved Wife’s latest toy, an X-Box Kinect, should be used. Naturally, he has set the bar so high that certain middle-aged owners of said X-Box are going to have to reset the unit or else become unbelievably fit. No prizes for guessing which is more likely.

The Ball was huge fun, with the added bonus of the Goat actually winning a spot prize. Turning the voucher into the actual prize will entail a trip behind the Red Door in Ras Al Khaimah.

So we got home at 2am, dirty stop-outs that we were, and were up again at 6am to go snorkelling.

Any excuse for the Goat to get the bike out and head off to the mountain roads and the east coast.

Kay had allegedly never snorkelled before. Fortuitously, the Goat is a snorkel instructor, and because Kay took to snorkelling like a duck to water, the pool session took about ten minutes and then everybody headed for the sea.

There were the usual tropical fish, large shoals of juvenile barracuda, but no reef sharks or turtles, and the water was a bit murky. It was very smooth though, and there was no current, so the underwater Goat with snorkel and flippers set off with Kay around the seaward side of Snoopy Island. Aargh! Oil slick!! As soon as he realised, the Goat dived below the surface and made a U-turn into clearer water, dragging Kay along. Generally a lucky escape, although the Goat needed to find some olive oil and Fairy Liquid to get the noisome sticky bituminous mess out of his hair. Due thanks to the beach-bar staff at Sandy Beach for being helpful with detergents.

After lunch, the whole party had time to flop in the pool before heading back to Dubai to drop off Aunt and Kay for their trip back to Abu Dhabi. The Goat got back on the bike, and headed south through Fujairah to Kalba. He’d not been in that area for a year or so, and was amazed by the amount of recent construction in Fujairah. It was better to refuel at Al Ghayl before hitting the mountains. The Goat once ran out of petrol on the Sharjah-Kalba road; an embarrassing exercise he doesn’t intend to repeat. A very therapeutic ride on the bendy Kalba to Sharjah road, included entertainment provided by persons unknown piloting black-windowed sports cars. They vanished beyond the horizon upon hitting the monotonous straight bit at Shawka (N 25°04.9' E056°01.6').

Meeting back at the Crumbling Villa, the Goat had changed out of his sweaty biking gear. Everyone piled into the Goatmobile to drop off Aunt and Kay for their trip back to Abu Dhabi, and retrieve Beloved Wife’s car from the Grand Hyatt’s valet parking.

]}:-{>

Less than ID-al

The Pythonesque attempts to introduce an Identity Card in the UAE seem to have entered a new and even more frustraneous phase.

In the good old days, the Punter downloaded an interactive application form from the Emirates Identity Authority website (the ‘application application’ as Mr McNabb calls it over at Fake Plastic Souks). Then the Punter filled in the form and printed it off. All the data was coded on the printout as a 2D barcode. Then the Punter, if he had any sense, turned up at the EIDA office in Umm Al Quwain at the crack of sparrow-fart and landed at the front of the queue.

The nice lady behind the counter would read the barcode into the System, ask the Punter to clarify anything that wasn’t 100% obvious from his application form, and then send the Punter for his mugshots and dabs. The ID card would then arrive by EmPost and remain unused for all eternity.

Clearly this method was always going to be a problem for the masses of expatriates who did not have access to a computer, a printer, or either English or Arabic written language.

Behold the new system: The Punter now has to go to an approved typing centre and pay a professional typist to deal with the application form. The next step in the challenge is to find a typing centre that is on the official list and actually is processing applications. Good luck with this one.

Unfortunately, (and there is always an ‘unfortunately’ when dealing with the EIDA, isn’t there?), the poor lambs at the EIDA cannot cope with 80,000 erroneous applications. Either the Punter wasn’t clear with the typing centre or else the approved typist who works in the approved typing centre is an incompetent klutz. He and his 79,999 colleagues. Because many errors relate to the Punters’ contact telephone numbers, it’s not possible to summon a Punter to the EIDA to ask for clarifications.

Let’s get this clear. With less than a fortnight to go before the deadline to obtain an ID card, the EIDA announces that it has problems dealing with incorrect applications, most of which have been created by its own agents. Stand by for a further clarification that, although the deadline is not extended, applications made after expiry of the deadline will be accepted. This would be the second time the deadline has not been moved in this way.

And another thing. How is a Punter supposed to renew his ID card when the old one expires because of a change in residence visa?

[IRONY]Replacing the card is simple enough.[/IRONY] According to the EIDA website, the Punter trundles along to an EIDA office with his old ID card, his new passport and visa, and the payment. All the personal data – name, education, religion, political allegiance, inside leg measurement, fingerprints, etc – is already coded and can simply be transferred electronically on to the new card. There’ll be a new mugshot of course, and new residence visa details.

But wait! You have to hand in your old ID card when your previous visa is cancelled! So that means all data is lost and you have to start the whole process from scratch. Unless, that is, you held on to your old ID card which now carries incorrect vital statistics.

The solution to this poster child for bad planning and incompetent mismanagement is blindingly obvious. As the ID card is irrevocably connected to the residence visa, both should be processed in the same, erm, process. “Here is your passport and new visa; here is your ID card.” Simples.

Of course, that would take three years to implement fully. But as residence visas are shortly to expire after two years rather than three, all expats could have ID cards before the end of 2012. Instead, connecting the visa and the ID card is apparently to be phased in after 2012, once everyone is sick to the eye-teeth with the whole fiasco.

Actually, the solution is simpler still. Expats already have acceptable proof of ID. It’s called a passport. Nobody seems to want to regard the ID card as official identification; believe me I’ve tried. A photocopy of passport and visa page solves all the problems other that the fundamental one of needing to create thousands of new jobs in an invented and superfluous Authority.

Edited 23 December to add...
Hilariously, in Thursday’s Gulf News, we learn of an additional requirement to turn up in national costume. The missive, doubtless invented on the spur of the moment by a bored EIDA employee, is probably to get locals to turn up in kandouras.

The letter of the law is much more amusing. Stand by for queues of folk clad in kimonos; shalwa khamees; barongs; lunghis; plaid shirts and ten-gallon hats; lederhosen; hats with corks. I anticipate the sight of native Americans and Norwegians queuing up as if they’re auditioning for the Village People.

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Frantic corybantic antics

The Goat has been busy. Too busy, in fact, to put in writing those delightful little quirks of Life in the Lands of the Sand. The latest ignominies perpetrated by that old faithful Red Triangles Bank shall, for the time being, go unblogged. So too shall the Goat's most recent experiences with Itisalot.

Most of the Goat's frantic lifestyle derives from living in the Crumbling Villa and working in Abu Dhabi. This eats up about 14 hours a day, leaving six for sleeping and the remaining five for shopping, eating, cleaning, blogging and shoring up the Villa's most urgent crumbles. Yes, that does add up to more than 24, which illustrates the point.

Since commenting on a previous blog post about how the commute was made marginally more tolerable by having the BBC World Service on the radio, the Goat was astonished one evening to encounter classical music on 87.9MHz instead of 'Outlook'. He actually phoned the radio station broadcasting this music to be told that "We've stolen the frequency from the BBC. Shhh!"

It turns out that without notice, Auntie Beeb - or at least the Foreign Office, which apparently is the entity that funds the World Service - stopped renting the VHF band in the UAE, and listeners are obliged to use Short Wave on a variety of frequencies that change throughout the day. Meanwhile, Abu Dhabi Classic FM broadcasts on 87.9MHz in Dubai, 91.6MHz in Abu Dhabi and 105.2MHz in Al Ain. Although until last week the Abu Dhabi signal was so feeble it was amost inaudible even in the Capital.

Classic FM in the UK was once described by one of the presenters as "A rock-music station that plays classical rather than rock music." Is Abu Dhabi Classic FM essentially the same station? Certainly the station's theme tune is the same, and the playlist generally comprises bite-size chunks of mostly well-known pieces of music composed mainly by dead guys in wigs. Cue Monty Python's "Decomposing Composers" song.

Not that the Goat is complaining. It beats the pants off boom-tsch boom-tsch boom-tsch boom-tsch and tech-tech-tech-techno pop, and takes some of the sting out of the daily commute. Longer tunes mean a lower deejay/music ratio, and this is generally a Good Thing.

Some observations. Three-in-a-row plays take about 20 minutes, and then there's a distinct lack of back-announcing by the deejay. What was that tune? It sounded like Mozart, or one of that crowd (thank you Tom Lehrer), but from which five-act opera that he wrote when he was nine? It is immensely irritating to get to the end of a long series of pieces, only then to cut to the news or other public announcement.

And to the presenters: please, please, please note: Playing classical guitar is not something John Williams does while he's not conducting the Boston Pops. John Towner Williams wrote the music for Indiana Jones, Star Wars, Schlindler's List, ET, Harry Potter and Superman; John Christopher Williams is the guitarist and former member of Sky.

Finally, the cacophone is a theoretical musical instrument that should not be given any air time. Its name is derived from either of two origins; possibly both. Experimental music, including playing all the black notes at the same time, torturing tuneless scratching out of a violin, and beating a trombone with a hockey stick, have no place in the Goat's music collection.

Oh, and the Goat's musical taste is somewhat eclectic. Look at the screenshot from his Facebook page.

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Pythonesque

For anyone who's not aware of Mr Praline, he is the plastic-mac-wearing character played by John Cleese who either has a dead Norwegian Blue parrot or who wishes to purchase a fish licence.

Praline: I wish to register a complaint.

Official: We're closed for lunch.

Praline: Never mind that, young man. I wish to complain about this Salik tag what I purchased not half an hour ago from the ENOC station down the road.

Official: Oh yeah? What's wrong with it?

Praline: I'll tell you what's wrong with it, my man. It don't work. That's what's wrong with it. I stuck it on my windscreen, drove over Garhoud bridge and the system deducted Dh500 from my account and logged seven Salik fines.

Official: I can't help you. Please log on to the website and click on the 'Contact Us' tab.

Praline: I tried that. Your website is down. And anyway, I'm here in person. Find me someone who can deal with the problem.

Official: He is not on his seat. Please wait.

waits...

Praline: Is the person who can help me back yet. Is he back "on his seat"?

Official: No. He is on vacation for three weeks.

Praline: In that case, I shall speak to someone else about car pooling.

Official: You need a permit.

Praline: Your inspector slapped me with a Dh5000 fine the other day while I was driving to work with my friend. And the rules say that if you give your friend a lift you don't need a permit.

Official: But this is not a friend. He is a work colleague.

Praline: My colleague and I live in the same street. We socialise together. Our families go on vacation together.

Official: But you work in the same office. Therefore he is not a 'friend' but a 'colleague', so you must have a permit. No permit: Dh5000 fine.

Praline: I've had enough of this. I'm leaving. I'll cancel my utilities and then I'm off to the airport.

DEWA...

Official: You can't have your DEWA deposit back unless you can produce the original receipt.

Praline: But you've been supplying me with water and electricity for the past several years! And you won't do that unless I've paid a deposit.

Official: You are completely correct.

Praline: Therefore I must have paid a deposit.

Official: Absolutely right.

Praline: And now I've paid my final bills, I get my deposit back?

Official: Only if you produce the original receipt.

at the airport...

Praline: I'm leaving. I'd like my visa deposit back please.

Official: You must collect your deposit from airside. We can't have you getting your deposit back here and then disappearing back out of the airport, can we?

airside...

Praline: Can I have my deposit back please?

Official: You should have collected that on groundside.

Praline: Oh... Can I just --- ?

Official: No! You cannot go back.

Praline: Give me my money!

Official: We have no money. An Airbus A380 just left and all 500 passengers took their deposits. I started my shift with half a million dirhams in used hundreds and it's all gone. Will you take a cheque?

Praline: A cheque in UAE dirhams? My bank in my home country won't cash that. What is the alternative?

Official: A voucher for Dh1000 to spend in Dubai Duty Free and a free cuddly Modhesh?

Praline: Does it talk?

Official: Yes.

Praline: I'll take it.

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