“This is John Tracy, in Thunderbird Five…”

A phone call at half ten on Saturday morning: Emma Jennings, says caller ID. A gruff man’s voice says hello. That’s not Emma.

“I’ve called because you’re the last person on the call register. I’ve found Emma’s phone. And her purse. And her handbag. All of her stuff.”

“Wow,” I thought, “this guy could have robbed all of her stuff, but he didn’t. How lucky is Emma?”

He was also staying in the camper vans section, so I said I’d try to ring Tracy and get the stuff back to Emma. I thanked him, and got to work. I couldn’t get through to Tracy, so I called Dem and asked Dem to try to get hold of Emma’s dad’s number – he tried to do this by calling Kelly, who didn’t have it – and we tried to get hold of Emma’s boyfriend’s number too. Pulling all the strings from Manchester, I felt like John Tracy in Thunderbird Five.

Tracy texted: “Emma’s gone to get her stuff now. She’s broken her ankle.”

A broken ankle means spending the next two days holed up in the camper van, and not seeing any bands at all. What a shit Glastonbury story.

UPDATE: It gets worse. Emma gave her fella the flick for not looking after her properly. Shit the bed.

Small talk classes

On Friday night Dunk and I nipped out for a quiet couple of pints in West Didsbury – for a change, we thought, why not – hitting the Met, Silver Apples and The Drawing Room. Outside Silver Apples, we talked about a small talk course that I’d once been on with work. It was supposed to be about influencing and negotiating skills, but that boiled down to pretty much how to do small talk. Small talk needs to show the other person you’re interested in them, but not to the extent that you seem to be prying, they told us. We learned that some subjects – holidays, sport, hobbies – are perfect for small talk because they’re very safe. Others – sex, politics, children – less so.

Dunk seemed very interested. He was just about to ask a question, when a casual acquaintance of mine passed by with his date. We hit up the small talk topics, bits about holidays, bits about football – but I could see his date getting bored. We asked her about her sporting interests, and it turned out she plays rugby. Very exciting. And she became more animated, more involved the more questions we asked her. It was an object lesson.

Ten minutes later they walked away. I looked at Dunk. He looked at me. Kings of small talk! Crown us now!

She called to find out if Michael Jackson was really dead.

After the stress of preparing for my exam, my late-ish night on Wednesday and my early start to get to Bolton for my teeth, I was zonked after work. I left at three forty, and dashed home to get ready for a real celebration – dinner with Pippa. It was a beautiful day, so I got into my cargo shorts and walked down the river, my old running route. I’ve not been out since the Wythenshawe Five, and before long I was aching to get my Nikes on and get out again. Soon.

On Burton Road I passed a beautiful girl putting on roller skates. Our eyes met, and I couldn’t help but smile. She said “Hi.” I said “Hi,” back.

Pippa and I met in the garden of the Woodstock and had a couple of pints of cider in the sunshine. She was very excited about her holiday, full of enthusiasm for camping cookers and sleeping bags. It was a whole year of Bruce, we realised. I’ve never seen her happier. We talked about the proposed (imposed?) Moss Side move with work, and I felt a lot better for her positive approach.

“I’ll buy us dinner out, if you like,” she said. Jackpot!

We went to Greens on Lapwing Lane – no anti-cargo short prejudices there – and luckily managed to get a table for two. We started with vegetarian black pudding, which was peppery, and really tasty. What was it made of, I wondered, if not from blood. Pippa had mushroom gnocchi, and I had this awesome Moroccan pumpkin and leek stew with savoury scones, it was divine. I’m so glad that Pippa and Bruce are moving to Chorlton, I don’t see enough of her.

Pip’s house is vast. The style is a bit Brookside, but it’s huge. It’s a shame she lives with a wanker, she says. We watched a bit of telly, and fiddled around with her mp3 player. Later on Emma Jennings called

“Hi Em, how are you? How’s Glastonbury?”
“Is Michael Jackson dead?”

Three or four dots

Lucinda has three or four dots that are slightly darker in the green part of her right eye, to the right of the pupil. This much I know because today I had the third part of my root canal procedure. This much I know because I was tilted back further than I had been before, and couldn't watch the clouds through the skylight window, so I concentrated on her eye instead. It's a tiny detail about her, but I like tiny details.

The procedure was really cool - it involved a blowtorch! I could taste the smoke in my mouth as Lu applied a hot tool to the deep part of the filling. I didn't feel a thing. She re-built my tooth, polished and cleaned it. It looks great, I'm really happy with it.

Part way through, Lu said that Pervy had told her that I'd said on this blog post that the last treatment was really painful. We laughed. Well, I tried to - it isn't easy with a mouth full of cotton wool, articulating paper, "suction please" and someone else's fingers.

Afterwards, I gave Persepolis to Lucinda. I hope she enjoys it as much as I did.

Do I feel lucky? Do I?

Am I lucky? Consider this:

31st May - My mock mock exam - I choose two questions from six, answering a question on sampling and a question on evaluating a research proposal.

1st June - My real mock exam - There are six questions on offer, of which I have to choose two. The choice includes a question on sampling and a question on evaluating a research proposal. The same questions that I'd answered the day before came up again. Jackpot!

23rd June - Study Leave - I write essay plans for 30 or 40 essays based on the test papers and model answers that came with my learning materials. The last batch of these includes preparing a plan in response to a question on qualitative vs quantitative individual interviews.

24th June (today) - Exam - I opened the exam paper, and was greeted by three very familiar questions. There was a question on sampling, a question on evaluating a research proposal, and a question on qualitative vs quantitative individual interviews. The question on sampling was a little different to the one I'd answered before, but the question on evaluating a research proposal was exactly the same as the one I'd already answered. Twice. And the qualitative vs quantitative individual interviews was exactly the same as the one I'd planned for yesterday

Am I lucky? If I'd chosen different questions for my mock mock, then I might have answered different questions on my real mock, and then different questions on my real exam. I wouldn't have had the luxury of writing an assessed essay that I'd already practiced twice before. That's pretty lucky, right?

1995, not such a good year for music

I remember 1995 as a year of Supergrass, The Bluetones, Pulp, Radiohead, Oasis and Blur. Watching every number one of that year on music telly made me think again. Robson and Jerome, topped the charts twice. As did the Outhere Brothers. As did two of Michael Jackson’s weakest songs – You Are Not Alone, Earth Song – and the terminally wet Fairground by Simply Red. Bleugh!

My top three number ones of the year are:

1. Gangtsa’s Paradise – Coolio feat LV
2. Some Might Say – Oasis
3. Back For Good – Take That

Farewell rose-tinted specs, the past was suckier than I remember. Fact.

Coincidence

Lindsey from work is going out with Dave Shmoo! Nuts!

Kate, Paulina, Ryan and I went to Blowout with Matt and Chaw to watch She Keeps Bees, who are going to be at the Green Man Festival this year. As we were chatting, Kate pointed out Dave Shmoo. As he came over, Lindsey said "Hello!" to me. We know Dave Shmoo from Sol's and Fuel. Tiny world.

I was half-pissed when they walked in, and ended up ranting about Moss Side to Lindsey. I'm sure she was baffled by my ramblings.

Surprise! You’re moving…!

We were asked to keep the last hour of the working week free for a ‘special team meeting,’ and when I pressed my boss for more information, all she said was, “We’re going on a magical mystery tour.” This didn’t look good.

The call centre weren’t told that much. As the time ticked around towards three, they were asked to collect their things. “We’re going out, and we’re not coming back here.” Eyebrows raised, but suspicious ones with it. We were put into cars, and driven off, not knowing where we were heading. A right turn towards Hulme, a left turn down Old Birley St… until we got to……here.


“This is one of the places we’re looking at for our new office,” said my boss, “what do you think?”

It’s in deepest, darkest Moss Side.

“We’ve got a meeting room here, which we can use for _________…”

Yes, but it’s in deepest, darkest Moss Side.

“…and the call centre and envelope machine can go here…”

Here in deepest, darkest Moss Side?

“…the kitchen has its own dining table…”

That’s lucky, because there’s not really anywhere to eat in deepest, darkest Moss Side.

“…I think it’s a really exciting opportunity.”

I think it’s a big bag of sweaty balls, if I'm being totally honest. It makes no strategic sense at all to move out of the city centre - not when we're reponsible for _________ across the whole of GM. Not when all the other teams in the __________ sector are based in the middle of town. Not when our central government contacts are based by Piccadilly. It's fucking daft.

And personally it stinks too. It's the death knell for lunchtime cultural outings to the museum. No more meeting up with friends for a vegetarian lunch in the Buddhist cafe in the Northern Quarter. No nipping out at lunchtime to visit Waterstone's. No daily contact with the city. What a kick in the balls.

Driving your staff somewhere new, and telling them that's their new office is a particularly shabby way to communicate that news.

Pea and mint risotto, raspberry meringue, sauvignon blanc

Pippa came round for tea, my second guest (after Dr Jim), and just as welcome. Pea and mint risotto is easy to cook, and less wanky than it sounds. We talked about the ongoing dental work, about last week’s news, about the move, about her arrogant housemate and her planned move to M21. Our grand old chat ended, as always, with me thinking that too long passes between our meetings.

I’d finished Maus, and Pip had finished Perseopolis, so we swapped them. As Pippa’s taxi pulled away, I was already turning pages with a smile.

Kate came home unexpectedly early, which was a nice surprise. I was a bit pissed, but didn’t say anything too stupid, I hope. Matt and Chaw soon arrived too. Chaw said that her friend Kate, who she’s trying to matchmake me with, was coming out to the dogs for Dunk’s birthday. The love-plot thickens, eh?

I have seen the light

Every time I go to a conference, I leave it with my faith in my job renewed. Like a pilgrimage to the source of true holiness, it makes me forget the sin and corruption of my godless backwater, and charges up my stocks of zeal. My heart cries out, “Hallelujah!” all the way home. And today I was filled with the spirit.

The second speaker, Peter, was inspirational. It wasn’t that he had a new approach, but that he actually did the things that he was supposed to do. The Department Of _______ insists that all of our work is evidence-led. A Google search for “evidence based practice” yields around 30,400,000 hits. But the amount of people working in my field that understand what that means… I’m not confident it’s very many.

His insistence on using research to inform decision-making should be normal practice, but it’s rare. His insistence on evaluating any research before it is acted on should be normal practice, but it’s rare. Planning the means to gather evidence about a project’s effectiveness before the project begins should be normal practice, but it’s rare.

Peter rubbished an intervention that is very popular in schools across the country.

“Absolutely no evidence that it works, none whatsoever.”

Later, during the Q&A, a member of the audience challenged him:

“We’ve done focus groups, people said they really…”

“Well, that’s great, but it doesn’t show that it works overall, what people say and how they behave aren’t necessarily aligned."

“B-b-but we’ve even rolled it out to the Army garrisons in the area, who say that it’s one of the best things they’ve ever…”

“You’re using the same intervention with soldiers and eleven year-olds?”

The challenger piped down.

And, sitting silently at the side of the room, I buzzed. More evidence means more research, i.e. more of my work being the part of my job that I like the most. Preach! Preach to my already converted heart!