Andy Einstein...

I’m spending a lot of time thinking these days. I think about all sorts of things. I won’t give you a list because it ranges from thoughts on mortality to what to have for tea, but one of the things I’m thinking about a lot is the nature of the universe. It seems that nobody understands it fully, not the astrophysicists, the cosmologists, not even Einstein apparently. The bit we do understand is less than ten percent of what is out there, the rest is dark energy and dark matter, so called not because either of them are actually dark, but simply because what they are remains in darkness to the physicists currently.

The universe is expanding and despite what Big Bang theory might have expected it isn’t slowing down as it expands, it’s accelerating. This has been proven but nobody understands why. Is it the effect of dark energy or dark matter or is it something else altogether?

Now I have a very hazy grasp of physics and I’m not good at maths and equations of any kind have always left me cold. If I could have my way numbers would be banned and those squiggly symbols the physicists use would simply be the names of pop stars. I’m a dreamer you see and whilst I have ideas I’d never be able to prove them with an equation. My mind isn’t built that way.

So why is the universe accelerating as it expands away from the big bang? Well, maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s accelerating not away from it’s beginning, but maybe it’s being drawn faster and faster to its end. I’ve never been able to get my head around the idea that the universe is infinite. All space is enclosed by something and to my mind the universe is only space. What it the universe is enclosed and whatever encloses the universe is using gravity or magnetism or some such other force to pull the contents of the universe towards its edges?

Maybe it’s a box or a sphere; perhaps it has no fixed shape at all but is a solid border. Maybe the universe isn’t infinite after all. Maybe it’s finite and bounded by a shimmering energy field that everything and everyone is rushing - faster and faster - towards. Perhaps no part of the universe has reached it yet and the great race is not yet run, but what will happen when the first galaxy gets there? Will there be another big bang for it all to start again or will we break through to wherever?

Are we being pulled rather than pushed and where are we going?

I bet Tesla would know.

Shakespeare's EU...

One of the upsides to being marooned on that legendary desert island is that I would have the time to read the complete works of Shakespeare. Every desert island has a copy apparently and given that the only other book provided is The Bible I would probably get through the plays and poems pretty quickly before reading the copy of Dandelion Wine that I was allowed to bring along as the book of my choice.

It’s four-hundred years today since the bard’s death which is a long time, but not if you consider that I’ve lived for over an eighth of it. I wonder what he would have made of the world we live in today and what would he made of the EU referendum? I’m not sure that Will would have voted to remain, but even though he probably never set his codpiece outside of England, not even Yorkshire (“Is this t’dagger ah see befoor me?”), he seems to be a man of the world in its most literal literary sense. His writes about the whole of Europe and sets his plays all over the place. How did he do that, he hadn’t travelled, did he just make it all up in his head?

Messina, Vienna, Athens, Navarre, Sicily, Bohemia, Venice, Padua, Troy, Egypt, Denmark, Scotland, Spain, and even France. Not for him a purely English tale, even though his audiences were in the main English, he took them everywhere. Maybe that’s one of the reasons he was so successful, he was telling tales about strange places like Prospero’s imaginary island.

I wonder if that's it? Shakespeare's Europe was interesting because he wore a codpiece and made his Europe up and ours is bland and relatively boring because it is made up by men in suits who lack imagination.

Right I’m off to my island to begin reading; I think there’s a tempest coming. See you later.

Rubbish…

It’s Earth Day again. What to say about it other than we shouldn't really need it though? I guess it’d be very easy to rubbish the idea given that we’ve probably left it way to late to completely put it right. But I still take out my rubbish and divide it into paper, glass, plastic, green and food waste. It’s a chore, but it’s become a habit, part of my daily existence.

I often wonder where my wine bottles go and what about all that cardboard and free newspapers? I’ve read that all of the newsprint in the UK is now made from recycled paper and that my wine bottles are made into new wine bottles (which seems pretty pointless to me). We export a lot of our other recycling materials all the way to China by sea in containers and they make it into things that they then package and export back to us.

Even so, just where does all the rubbish come from? It seems that my bins are continually full, except on bin day. In less than two hours, the waste the UK produces would fill the Albert Hall, every eight months it would fill Lake Windermere. On average, each person in the UK throws away their own body weight in rubbish every seven weeks (ten in my case). Interesting statistics, but why don’t we tackle it at source and rather than recycling not create all this needless shit in the first place?

Every year we produce about 3% more waste than the year before. That might not sound a lot but, if we carry on at that rate, it means that we’ll double the amount of waste we produce every 25 years and double the amount of waste means double the bins. Where am I going to put them all? When I was a kid we had just one tiny metal dustbin. Can you imagine that today? It’d be full in an afternoon.

We produce and use twenty times more plastic today than we did 50 years ago and from personal experience I can see how easily true that is. When did you last bring home your eggs in a paper bag or buy your meat wrapped up in bloody paper? And don’t get me started on disposable nappies or junk mail. I don’t remember junk mail coming through the letterbox back in my childhood and disposable nappies- just what were they then?

How did we get here? When did packaging and presentation become so vitally important to all our lives? Christmas is the most rubbishy time of the year. So great is or need in the UK for cards and elaborately wrapped gifts with ribbons and bows that each and every Christmas we throw away over 226,800 miles of wrapping paper. That’s enough jolly snowmen and smiling Santa’s to stretch nine times around the world!

Yes, I know I’m a grumpy old man but recycling just isn’t enough, we really do need to stop creating so much rubbish in the first place.

And that is my thought this Earth Day.

Sunny afternoon...

So I’m sat in the porch in the shade on this very warm day in my shirtsleeves sipping a far too early cold beer. Luna is in the shade too, lushly comfortable in the ceramic chimenea that the fuchsia bush has grown right over and that she loves so much that we haven’t had the heart to cut back yet. The flowers will be pink when they come, long languid blooms that sparkle in the rain and that would almost be a weed if it wasn’t for the beauty of the flowers. A hover fly buzzes close in my ear, a dog barks somewhere down the road, a hot lazy bark that carries on the heat of this sunny afternoon and almost vanishes if I want to make it go away.

On the other side of the road and high up a builder is hammering the roof of another extension. A big house already; I guess it’s another en-suite in a place that probably already has three bathrooms. I’m not going to worry about it, not on this sunny afternoon where I have hover flies and beer and a cat sleeping in the shade. I’m not even going to give the woman who parks her car outside our house while she picks up her two daughters from the expensive private school up the road a disapproving look. She’s only been there a half an hour or so. Perhaps I’ll smile at her instead.

Young men with water bottles and phones to their ears walk up and down the road talking business. I know that it is business because they use words like ‘clearly’ and phrases like ‘I’ll get back to you before the end of play today’. I can hear the birds singing above their clear words and the smooth engines of the passing cars, about one every two minutes, taking a shortcut to avoid the traffic lights at the end of the road. It must save them all of a minute or so but they’ll be busy, busy, busy, rushing to pick the kids up from after-school club or to meet their wives so that they can pick up some pasta with Parmesan and rocket from Waitrose; pre-cooked of course. From indoors I can smell the aroma of our evening meal; slow-cooked pork and herb meatballs in a cider, mustard, and mushroom sauce. I’ll add the cream at the last minute and serve over a bed of ribbon pasta. I made it from scratch, from fresh ingredients, and that has to make me far holier than those Waitrose instant people doesn’t it?

It’s great sitting here with my beer, watching the world pass and waiting for the sun to get a little less warm so that I can sit on my bench instead of in the shade. All is well,  I’m enjoying the sun, looking forward to my meal and trying to be a cat with no thought of yesterday and no idea of tomorrow.

And that is all I want to think about today, and then I heard about Prince.

Bananas...

Add caption

Bananas, bananas, bananas, bananas… laughing yet? Hilarious aren't they? Careful, don't slip on a skin.

Happy Banana Day everybody.  Yes, it’s the third Wednesday of April which officially makes it Banana day, a day of no significance or worth unless you happen to enjoy the wonders of the banana. Personally, I hate them. I hate the mushiness, the smell, the slightly slimy skin, the bruising, the way people sprinkle them with sugar and make sandwiches from them. They are a quite ridiculous fruit, a fruit with no purpose apart from being a ‘fantastic’ source of potassium. Well, so are chips and I’ll take chips every time.

So stick your stack banana till de mornin' come where the daylight don’t come at all, and you know what mister tally man? me wan' go home so tally my banana. Yeah, whatever - sorry about that, I just got carried away with the banana boat song. Banana boat song, I ask you? I don’t quite know what tallying a banana entails, but I’m hoping that it doesn’t involve hiding the deadly black tarantula somewhere discreet - which brings me to my next point.

Bananas are so unwholesome, even their colour isn’t a pleasant yellow and, let’s face it; you can never be sure what you might find in a bunch of those quite ridiculously shaped appendages. Fruits are meant to be round, preferably red if you can get them, but a sickly yellow and shaped like a don’t-know-what are liable to hide grubs and worms and spiders and scorpions and all manner of nasty diseases and bacteria.

Just what is it about bananas? Apparently they were scarce during the war and many people would have killed for the taste of one. Well. I would have killed anyone that tried to make me eat one. They seem to be everywhere in songs which is maybe why your red scarf matches your eyes, you closed your cover before striking, father had the shipfitter blues, and loving you has made me bananas. And of course, yes we have no bananas, we have no bananas today… Thank God.

So, that’s it. I’ve gone bananas because of bananas. Well, it was that kind of day.

Gardening blues…

By now my seeds would usually be well underway, the kitchen a litter of pots and containers, the cold frame full. Not this year though. This year all I’ve managed is a few pots of sweet peas and those sown far too late in the season – like yesterday. Here they are sitting inside polythene bags waiting to come through. We’ll see how long they take, but it’s a pretty poor show for somebody who bores everyone to death with his gardening.

This spring a combination of no time and lack of enthusiasm has gripped me for the first time that I can remember. Of course it isn’t really about the time, I could find that, but I really can’t find the enthusiasm with everything that’s going on. So no smug satisfaction at my home grown plants for me this year and no tales of propagated beauties for me to go on and on about.

I suppose there are still the nurseries and garden centres, but somehow just buying some plants that somebody else has grown from seed doesn’t really seem like gardening proper to me and bedding is just so – well bedding. Still better some colour than none and I’m sure that it will do for this year. It’ll have to really.

Who knows, perhaps it won’t look too bad.

little old ladies...

Don't worry, I won't take up too much of your time but here's something I have learnt from spending so much time in a female stroke ward. Those little white haired ladies that I pass in the street are people and a lot of them are lonely and frightened of the loneliness.

Sadly my MIL is out of it pretty much, but the other ladies who have passed through the ward in the last six weeks or so have at least some understanding still. Hopefully they will all get a lot better - go home, watch TV, climb the stairs and go to bed, make a cup of tea. I hope that doesn't sound condescending but this has really been an eye opener for me.

Here are a few things I have learnt from these ladies. Their partners are gone and they live alone with their memories. They are terrified of going home and not going home at the same time. They wait for their next visitor to turn up. They laugh at all of my jokes even the bad ones. Talking to them has helped fill the time as my MIL doesn't talk much because she is mainly asleep. Talking to them has made me smile. Talking to them has allowed me to nod a hello and chat with the other old ladies who pass by my gate on a sunny afternoon.

Anyway this is Anne and if she was thirty years younger apparently - yes, she loves my jokes and makes me blush. You know old ladies may once have been young girls after all.

Cheap wine and poetry…

Do I really want to be part of a union that locks up a comedian just for saying something in a silly poem that pokes fun at another country's leader? Do I really think it’s okay that freedom of speech is burnt on the altar simply to placate the ego of some pompous Turkish politician who has found a little power and is screwing us all for all it’s worth? Am I prepared to increasingly keep my mouth shut simply because some faceless Eurocrat decides to make it illegal for me to speak my mind in 'tongue in cheek' jest?

Well, what do you think?

I’ve been pondering hard about Europe recently. Well I think I owe it to Britain because I didn’t think too much about it back in 1975 when I voted in the last EU referendum. It was the first time I’d been eligible to vote and the young and optimistic me voted to stay in the EEC, as it was called then, along with 67% of voters. After all what had we to lose? It was only a trading agreement and cheap wine was a great idea.

So here I am over forty years later making my choice again. I’m not so young or optimistic now and what was sold to us as a trading agreement has turned out to be something else altogether. Yes, there’s plenty of cheap wine in Britain these days, much more than in the seventies, the supermarkets are awash with it, but I find myself disturbed by what Europe has become and what it means for the Britain of the future.

Listen I’m no patriot. I’m a cynical bloke who doesn't believe much of what I'm fed and leaves the jingo and Churchillian claptrap for those that like to wear a Union Jack or flag of St George draped around their shoulders. But to be honest we were a very successful island nation for a very long time before we 'joined' Europe, a lot longer than we have been members of the EU. So why all of a sudden do we feel threatened by not being part of the same Europe we have spent most of our history defending ourselves against? The Romans, French, Vikings, Spanish and Germans have all had a go at us at one time or another, but we survived – incorporated them sometimes. Why should we be concerned by being outside of their gang? And they are a gang believe me, a gang who will do what gangs always do and gang up to push their view.

At the moment I’m thinking very carefully, doing my research and looking at the bigger picture in order to make an informed decision. But there’s one thing I’m already sure of, you can keep your cheap wine and I’ll keep my right to rhyme Hunt with cunt and call Cameron a pig shagger because the second we start locking up people for what they say or think we are just a few small steps away from the Gulags of Russia and the political prisons of China and I’m not signing up for that even if it does mean more expensive wine.

What have we to lose? Think about it, I am.

Keep on dancing…

Yes, Whisky, Tango, Foxtrot. WTF? WTF? What the fuck?

I don’t dance any more although I use to love it. I didn’t do the Tango (not even in Paris) or the Foxtrot (I left that to early Genesis, the group not the biblical stuff) but the Whisky I can understand. These days the whisky, or similar liquids, are keeping me afloat in a world of situations where Whisky, Tango, Foxtrot has become my default response.

Of course when I did dance it was disco and I was okay at it (sweaty, but okay) even managing a spin or two and winning a few T shirts along the way. These days I still do the same moves (on my own in front of the television) but sadly it looks and feels like ‘Dad Dancing’ and I don’t dare to try a back-flip.

Anyway – What the Fuck? What the Fuck indeed.

As I get increasingly older (I’m not far off my sixtieth year) my attitude becomes increasingly WTF. I’m all about dismissing the small stuff so that I can concentrate on the big stuff. The big stuff is hard to scream WTF at but I give it a good go and usually manage it. Anyway what else is to be done?

I think that I'll just keep on drinking and dancing - WTF!

The village idiot...

You know I’d love to be a character in the Archers, that everyday tale of country folk that in so many ways reminds me of my childhood which is probably why I listen to it in the first place. It used to be all cows and harvest festivals in Ambridge, but that’s all changed over the years and now they tackle all the big subjects of the modern age from adultery to shabby chic furniture. Yes, they seem to have their finger on the pulse – those that are still beating that is.

The ‘nice’ thing about Ambridge is that things generally turn out pretty well. Business disasters are bailed out by rich relatives, evictions are put right by altruistic local toffs with the odd country house to spare, lost dogs suddenly reappear months later with no visible signs of real harm, and even the theft of the church charity money seems to have a silver lining bringing the churchgoing community (which is pretty much everyone, no playing to half a dozen worshipers here) closer together.

The fact that it is set not too far from Birmingham and yet there isn’t a single full-on Brummie accent doesn’t seem to bother anyone. In fact most of the characters sound like they should be living in Windsor, apart from a few who zeem to come from zumwherez in Zumerzet or zum zuch place.

So that’s Ambridge, a very pleasant place to live most of the time and as I said, not too unlike the hometown of my past as long as you didn’t look behind the closed doors. Perhaps my childhood home was a fantasy too or maybe the world really has become harsher because meanwhile in the real world life goes on with it’s share of unhappy endings caused by people who only care about themselves and would never fit into Ambridge - even as the villain in the village’s Christmas pantomime.

Sometimes I wonder what sort of character I would be if I lived in Ambridge. I’m sure that I’d be a much nicer person as there would be very few ‘bad’ people around to wind me up. I’m not posh enough to be a squire or gentleman farmer, not fit enough to be a proper ‘muddy Wellington boot’ farmer either. I could be a vicar except I don’t believe in religion and I’m a little too fond of beer to work in a pub successfully. Policeman? No. Lawyer? No. Doctor or vet? No. Knife grinder? Maybe.

Given the way that some people have treated me over the years the only role that I can think of that suits me to the letter is the resident village idiot. I’m more than qualified in idiocy terms for that, just ask my father. I’m single farmtrack minded, ridiculous in more ways than you can count, taken to flights of fancy, too easily taken in by charlatans and vagabonds, far to trusting, way too easy going, easy to fool and let’s not forget forgetful. Did I say let’s not forget forgetful?

Yes, it’s the village idiot’s life for me; I have my own straw to chew on and everything. All I need now is to find a village with a vacancy. Anyone know the way to Ambridge? 

Bucket list...

I don’t have a bucket list. It’s not that my life has been so exciting that there’s nothing left for me to do, but the idea of a(nother) bungee jump, meeting the Queen, playing football with any well known footballer, walking the Inca trail, or making an omelette for Jamie Oliver just doesn’t do it for me. In fact the longer and harder I think about it I find it hard to think of a single thing that I really desperately NEED to do before I kick the bucket.

Yes, you might say my bucket is empty or even has a hole in it (Dear Liza, dear Liza), but personally I don’t think I want a bucket or a list of any kind.

There was a time when I lived my life by lists. Tick lists, wish lists, lists of meetings, lists of places I had to go to, list of things I needed to do, lists of the lists I needed to make. A world of lists on my computer, in my book, on scraps of paper – lists, lists, lists, list, lists.

In many ways it was really comfortable. You see my lists took most of the uncertainty out of my life and with that uncertainty went some of the worry. There’s no time to worry when you are working to a list. You are on automatic, fulfilling the things you have programmed yourself to do and if you do it well then you go to bed each evening happy and at peace with yourself; secure in the knowledge that you have completed that particular day’s list - even if you achieved absolutely nothing and have another (almost identical) list for tomorrow.

Lists are like that, they give you the semblance that you are getting somewhere even though all you are doing is preparing another list and really not getting anywhere at all.

These days I still make lists but there are less of them and usually it really doesn’t matter if I complete them or not. It’s a nice place to be; not driven, no demands, no need to worry.

And I’m getting better at it.

Can’t be bothered…

What should I be writing about? What should I be doing? It’s mid-April and I haven’t planted a single seed or even bothered to bung in a few violas. Usually by now I have my gardening plan all worked out, but you know what? I can’t be bothered.

I’m unsettled, edgy, distracted, far too hopeless to involve myself in anything. Sometimes I can’t see further than bedtime, what’s the point of looking further when there’s no... No what?

I’ve not felt this way for a very long time, but even the sketchy life plan I had is on hold while my mother in law decides what she’s doing. I’m stuck. No fault of hers and no fault of my own and the person who is at fault, the woman who ran her down, continues on her merry way without comment or fear of what will happen next.

That’s it. I can’t be bothered to write any more tonight.

Vegetables, runners and spiralizers...

Sorry about this but I need to lighten my mood so no offence intended, even though I might appear to be having a go. After all, it’s a personal matter, I could have handled it better and it’s not been a great week (slaps forehead and looks to the skies).

Anyway I have nobody to blame but myself and those bloody Manchester marathon runners of course. Who the hell would want to run a marathon in Manchester anyway? Bloody traffic diversions and for what? Looney arsed runners that's what… and yes I do know they do it for charity and not the glory of being able to tell everybody that they did it. Thousands and thousand of pounds and they keep the pasta economy running but get ORF MY FOOKING ROADS YUZ TWATS! I need to drive to the hospital on a mercy mission.

I did get to the hospital eventually, sadly not managing to take a few of those runners with me on my bumper. Another three car parking quid down the drain and if it was going to be anything like the last few days then I’m simply burning my money (not that pound coins burn very easily). My mother in law has decided, after a brief spell of something resembling life (but not as we know it Jim) to vegetabalise and sleep through my funny banter in a dribbling horror show of nothing, regardless of my patter. Well, we were warned this would happen, so that makes it all okay matron.

What we weren’t warned about was that when we got there today she was sitting up in bed with the Queen’s hair on and managing to make at least as much sense as the Queen’s Christmas speech. Of course the talk was all about bowel movements, medication, and pureed food – so not any different from the last ten years or so apart from the bedpans – but she did manage to recognise my wife and look right through me as usual. We left secure in the knowledge that we didn’t have a bleeding clue what to expect next and feeling that the treadmill we were already on had just become bigger and steeper.

Which brings me to spiralizers (I always like to finish on a must-have high). I didn’t realise until today just how deprived I am. I don’t own one you see, so I can’t make courgette spaghetti and have to stick to that terrible Italian-made dried stuff they sell in the supermarket.  How can I eat my homemade meatballs in a rich wine and tomato sauce with lashings of parmesan and really buttery garlic bread without courgette pasta? I really do need one. Gosh, every home should have one. It's as indispensable as one of those things to hang your bananas from or a George Foreman grill.

So there you have it. Not only have I had a really poor Sunday (despite the sunshine and vodka) but I am so desperate to cheer myself up that I’ve resorted to type. Sarcasm really is the lowest form of wit and with each day that passes I find myself getting lower as I rush towards my wit’s end in a handcart holding a rotting banana.

On well, who needs friends on Facebook when it’s the Durrell’s on TV tonight? Now that’s what I call real life. Do you think they have a spiralizer?

The fake Stephen King...

It's a very, very long story, but to precis Amazon have been trying to sell me fake Stephen King books for months. I have sent dozens of mails, spoken to them directly, and still they seem unable to sort it out.

Yes, I really did say fake books and yes, I really am the king of lost causes.

There are two Stephen Kings, the real one (who I love) and the fake one (who is lower and less talented than whale shit). Apparently his name, by a lucky birthright, really is Stephen King. So he dashes off crap stories and Amazon advertise him alongside the real one as if their were no difference.

Sometimes I think I should change my name by deed poll to J.K. Rowling and self publish stories on Amazon about boy wizards who won't be called Harry Potter or go to Hogwarts. Apparently Amazon would be powerless to stop me doing this or even able to put a disclaimer on the Amazon site telling a gullible audience that I am a different J.K. Rowling!

Truthfully it fucks me off and when I get like that I can't or won't give up. Here is my latest mail sent today. If you look at the bottom you will see the offending publications.
___________________________________________________________________

Dear Amazon random representative

Please forward this mail to Gaseenah M in the (I am sure) vain hope that I will get some continuity and action out of your very inept and cheating organisation. If you bother to read my file you will see that I have sent dozens of emails to you concerning the issue of you recommending fake Stephen King books alongside real Stephen King books and misleading your customers. This is obviously a fraudulent representation by yourselves as there is no way of knowing if they are by the genuine writer or the person cashing in on his name. I have been told by members of your team at various times that that the books were by the real Stephen King (they are not), that you have rectified the problem (which you have not), and that you value my feedback (which you obviously do not).

I've spoken on the telephone with your representatives a couple of times and, whilst it was lovely to listen to their platitudes, this has not got me any further either. Given the amount of time and effort I have spent on this you must by now realise that I am very serious about this issue and am not going to give in.

Today I received yet another recommendation email from Amazon. This was the second this week containing fraudulent Stephen King books. What is particularly distressing about this one though is that ALL of the fake Stephen King books available have been recommended for me to purchase in a single mail. I have pasted the contents of your mail below, but as you can't tell a genuine Stephen King book from a fraudulent one let me spell it out for you.

The top three: Crossroads, Awaken, and Descendants are all fraudulent Stephen King books written by a very poor writer cashing in on the Stephen King name. If you read the reviews of these books you will see that they are in the main, complaints from other of your customers about this fact. So I am not alone in my outrage.

The remaining books - starting from 'A face in the crowd' are genuinely authored by the genuine Stephen King and I have read them all. The only exception is 'I blame Stephen King' which is by Jason Finnerty and doesn't claim to be by Stephen King when it's not - so that is okay.

Amazon, what are you doing? You are allowing this fraud to continue, you are cheating and disappointing your customers, you are even recommending this fraudulent trash to someone who has already complained. Just how incredibly incompetent is that?

This is what I would like you to do.

1. instead of sending me your standard emails full of lies please read this mail once more and all the others I have sent to you again so that you understand fully the incredibly poor (shit) experience you are providing me and others with.

2. Give me a named contact with a direct email address so that I can have continuity of contact for this issue which has been going on for months, preferably someone senior in you organisation who might actually be able to do something about it.

3. Recognise that I am very angry about your lack of action on this matter as I have spent hours bringing your fraudulent actions to your attention in an attempt to stop you damaging your reputation and alienating your customers further.

Please get back to me on the above points immediately by email. I am difficult to contact by phone at the moment, but as soon as you appoint a case manager for this issue who I can contact directly I will arrange a call with him or her.

Lastly, please show me some respect. I am not an idiot.

Many thanks,

Andrew Height 

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