Packed full of artwork, antiques and furniture dating back several hundred years, a visit feels like you’ve stumbled onto the set of Antiques Roadshow. Sadly minus the expert waiting to reveal you’re the owner of an heirloom worth a small fortune. Unbeknownst to me until the weekend, this gorgeous building attracts not just us ‘regular tourists’, but also a lot of so called ‘antiques experts’. Something I only discovered as I wandered through the house in my flip flops surrounded by people who wouldn’t have looked out of place on the cover of Antiques Weekly. As if I wasn’t feeling out of place enough,  just I was poised to ask one of the helpful attendants a question about the filming of my favourite Sunday night drama, two 60-something year old fellers beside me jumped enquired if the paintings on the far wall were the work of 18^th century artist Caneletto? Momentarily drawn into the discussion, I looked up and evaluated the paintings in question. Admittedly this didn’t take me too long as I’m not all that familiar his work, or actually.. any… artwork whatsoever. So as they all debated the paintings in their incredibly posh voices, I wandered around the room, playing on my phone. ‘Have you got any questions my dear’? asked the lovely attendant, ‘Yes I do’, I replied. ‘Have you ever been here when they’ve been filming Downton Abbey’?  What the hell, this was why I’d come to visit the house after all! Undeterred by the blatant snort from across the room I continued to grill the helpful lady questions about the filming of the show. She was very knowledgeable, and besides it’s not every day you’re wandering through the real life ‘set’ of a TV show which draws over 11 million viewers is it?

Clearly unable to bear any more of this uncultured banter the ‘60 something painting snobs’ apologised for interrupting such an important conversation to enquire about Napoleons desk and chair in the next room. Detecting more than a slightly patronising tone I smiled sweetly and replied “Certainly. By the way the paintings aren’t Canaletto’s. The light reflection on the water isn’t of his standard. It’s more likely the work of an artist inspired by him or possibly a student”.  With that thanked the attendant and exited the room….. Clutching my smart phone whilst silently thanking Google for telling me that little piece of information approximately 5 minutes before. After all, no-one likes a show off.

.Click to view slideshow.

Anyway recently I heard a politician, can’t remember which, loudly proclaim that the 2012 Olympics would be ‘The Greatest Show on Earth’! So I guess it’s only natural people stampeded to the website, because you don’t want to be the only one that misses out, do you?…. Even if you can’t name any athletes who compete in half the sports you’ve signed up for.  This is what really amused me, because when I looked at the list of sports which sold out quicker than a supermarket clears fans on a hot day, it struck me that I don’t know one single person who has ever, or would ever pay to see a game of table tennis, hand ball, water polo or synchronised swimming. Nor do I know anyone who would part with cash to watch wrestling or Judo. In fact I can actually recall my best friend’s own parents even made excuses to drop her off rather than hang around to watch her learning such a dull sport. And don’t start me on the BMX. I may be wrong, but wasn’t the last BMX bike that anyone over the age of 12 showed any interest in, last seen flying into the sky at the end of a Steven Spielberg movie?

I know sports don’t have to be sexy to be fun, believe me I know this first hand. From about the age of nine I spent every Saturday morning playing golf. (It was the bush and there wasn’t much to do). I also know I probably WILL find myself staying up late to watch telly during the Olympics for no other reason than it’s “The Olympics”. Admittedly though the sport I’m secretly looking forward to watching the most is archery, not the least because one of the American competitors, I think his name is Kevin Costner, is an incredible shot! Plus if he wins I know most of the words to their national anthem. Although I tend to get lost after the ‘everything I do I do it for you’ bit.

One of the other important rungs on the ladder to becoming a ‘grownup’ is school work experience. I remember mine distinctly. It was 1986, and someone at my school managed to cock up my placement, putting me at the local radio station instead of the TV station. I was horrified. What kind of loser wanted a job where all you do is sit in a studio and talk to yourself all day?  Admittedly, this loser has actually managed to make a career out of doing pretty much exactly that for about 22 years. Thanks in great part to the very tolerant group of people who looked after the gawky, teenage me on school work experience way back then. I know I was annoying at times, and no doubt answering all of my questions probably got a little tedious, but fortunately they saw how keen I was and took pity on me. (Admittedly the pity thing may also have been due to how bad both my hair and fashion sense were at the time). Thankfully they also didn’t shout at me when I accidentally dropped a pile of newspapers on the record that was playing live on the air on my second day. Not that I’ve carried that embarrassing moment around in my heart for over 25 years of course.  Anyway, that’s what growing up is all about isn’t it? Racking up one hideously embarrassing moment after another, so you can then look back at them 20 years later and laugh?

So, the next time your teenager arrives home having embarrassed themselves so badly their life  “Isn’t worth living”, tell them to laugh it off, because they’re in great company, not least because of these ‘Hall of Famers’ who I’ve had the pleasure of meeting over the past year here at JACKfm:

First there were the girls who got lost while tasked with buying a sandwich and packet of crisps in the next street….managing to return 2 hours later with a loaf of bread and 6 packets of crisps. Then there was the girl who made everyone a cup of tea by ripping open and emptying the contents of 10 teabags into the kettle. (It was nice cuppa though). Special credit also goes to the young lad who didn’t realise he was supposed to remove the post it notes attached to the parcels and write the address on the actual packages themselves before he sent them. And then there was the young lad who, when sent out on the street with a recorder to ask people  a few questions, thought it would be a great idea to pop into BBC Oxford…

To the ‘workies’ of Oxfordshire, we salute you!   To the guys at the BBC, sorry about that.

(logo is of 4LM – home of my work experience in 1986)

Either way, I find it’s happening more and more.

Take the other week. I was at a function with a friend who when I approached him, turned to me and said “You remember Sue don’t you?”

“Yes of course,” she said, complimenting me on my new blonde hair. “That’s new”, she said, “I almost didn’t recognise you”.

I smiled politely as the voice in my head muttered ‘there’s a lot of that going around’.

“How are.. you?” I ask, as I do a quick mental calculation of recent hairstyles and conclude she must be someone I’ve met within the past two years, but haven’t seen for about six months.

“Fine. You’re looking well,” she replies. (Translation: You’ve put on weight. Mental note, must have met closer to two years ago).

Feeling awkward, I turned to my friend hoping to send a silent help signal using my eyes like (just like in spy movies), but alas he was already talking to someone else.

By now her voice had almost become a distant drone as the sound of the wheels grinding in my brain got louder. How the hell was I going to find out her name?

Then I catch a flash of white. Ah, it’s a networking do, and she’s wearing a name tag! Unfortunately though, it’s pinned to her handbag (by the way, if you want to make a fortune, design a name badge that women can actually wear on a dress).

Now, all I need to do is distract her so I can see her name. So utilising my stealth-like James Bond intelligence skills, I comment on the length of the queue for coffee, then as she turns to look, I ‘accidentally’ drop my bag and lean down to pick it up. Success!

Don’t quote me on this, but I think I’ve worked out why remembering names gets worse as we get older (you can almost hear the Oxford University professors moving to the edge of their seats in anticipation can’t you?).

I believe the part of our brains that stores new names has a limit, and having lived in three countries and 14 different cities in the past 25 years, mine has simply run out of storage space.

This of course leaves me with a dilemma, do I just stop meeting new people? Or, do I hope that some of the people I’ve come in to contact with over the past few years, pass away? You know… one in, one out.

I’ll let you know when I decide… if I can remember your name.

It happened to me again on the weekend. Four times. All of them wanted to know what on earth possesses someone to pack up all of their worldly possessions (except the 10 boxes left at your mums place.. for 13 years… sorry mum), to then strap yourself into a plane for 24 hours where any movement beyond raising your left finger is almost impossible, with the sole purpose of moving to a country renowned for rubbish weather.

Having lived ‘abroad’ for over 13 years now, I’ve given this quite a bit of thought. The first thing I blame is ‘Christmas’. Sorry Santa, but imagine growing up in a country where  from an early age one of your Christmas traditions is to spray fake snow onto your windows just so you can enjoy a white Christmas …in 40 degree heat. The chance to see real snow at Christmas is stuff story books are made of!

Next on the list is ‘television’. I find a lot of people are surprised to know most Aussies grew up watching the exact same TV shows they did. You name it, I ate dinner in my pyjamas watching it. Are you being served? Fawlty Towers,  Dads Army, The Two Ronnies, George and Mildred, Some Mothers Do ‘Ave Em,  The Good Life and the legendary Porridge to name a few. How could you not want to visit a country where being in jail looked so much fun?

Then of course there’s Enid Blyton. Personally I blame her for a good proportion of the Aussie accents you’ll find outside of London. Her and her ‘lashings’ of ginger beer which were washed down with freshly baked sponge cakes that were always on hand to in case a stranger dropped by. And what about those mysterious things called macaroons? We didn’t have google when I was a kid, being able to find out what the heck macaroons are was worth a plane fare in itself!  Ms Blyton is also singlehandedly responsible for the huge amount of Aussie backpackers over here too. I mean seriously, how can anyone resist the pull of a country where, if you can’t find a bed for the night, all you need to do was gather up several armfuls of bracken to make the perfect place to sleep?

I jest, but underneath it all there is some truth. To an Aussie sitting 10 thousand miles away, England really does seem like some kind of mystical far away kingdom. Admittedly though, nowadays the reason most of us are still here is because we just can’t afford the plane fare home. 

Sadly they happen quite frequently to yours truly, but last week as I stood in a dark corridor accidentally clutching hold of a human skull, I think it was safe I’d managed to outdo myself on the cock-up scale.

It all started with an innocent little trip to Paris with one of my best friends. Determined not to waste our few precious days in one of the world’s most beautiful cities we mapped out everything we wanted to see. Notre Dame, tick! The Louvre, tick! Mona Lisa, a Michelangelo, the Venus Di Milo, tick.. tick.. tick! Never had two more accomplished and organised tourists ever set foot in France. (This is clearly a complete lie, but after three bottles of red wine we would have believed anything).

Then came the Pièce de résistance, the famous Paris Catacombs. (Although as my friend hadn’t heard of them on any of her 5 other trips to Paris, it’s probably wrong to put too much emphasis on the word ‘famous’). The Catacombs incidentally are about 200 miles of tunnels underneath the city which were created when they quarried stone for the beautiful buildings. Then about two hundred years ago after running out of places to bury their dead, they relocated six million skeletons into the tunnels.

So guide book in hand, last Tuesday we caught the train to the entrance. On our arrival we calculated the line was roughly 2 hours long, so being the clever tourists we were, we headed to cafe across the road for long lunch, sauntering  back just as the line began to dwindle…..only to be told by the officials we were too late because it would probably ‘last entry’ before the line reached the door.  Deciding to risk the wait just in case, we became more and more excited as one by one the line shortened when others made the decision to come back another day.  Although to be honest, I did feel a teeny bit guilty when the couple in front left to visit the Louvre. A better person would have told them it’s closed on Tuesdays.

The line now much smaller, we managed to make it to the front with less than 5 minutes to last entry. So, cameras and torches in hand we climbed down to experience the most amazing 45 minute walk through dimly lit tunnels full of artistic displays of human bones. The sheer number is almost incomprehensible and the atmosphere almost reverent.

A quick warning though, if you ever decide to do the tour, wear shoes with a good grip. Because if you were stupid enough to wear flip flops, chances are you will lose your footing on the slippery floor, and as throw your hand out to stop your fall, you’ll probably pull a skull away from the wall. Although if you’re lucky, this will happen in a particularly dark spot, so you should be able to push it back into the wall before anyone notices.

Picture the scene. There we were just finishing breakfast when my friend picked up a jar. No sooner had we started discussing how practical they were for a single person, than she had tucked a few into her bag. Feeling guilty, I then shuffled a few from the stand at my end of the table onto hers to make the theft look less obvious. Then, almost before I could blink, she’d shovelled those into her handbag as well. By my reckoning at that stage the score stood at Hotel nil – Handbag 6.

This then sparked the following conversation between everyone at the table,

Friends: “We could have eaten them so what difference”?

Me: “But we didn’t eat them so it’s stealing’.

Friends: ‘Yes but we could have, so putting them in a bag is just the same as eating them’.

Me: ‘Given long enough a human being could eat this chair, does it mean you can put it in your handbag too’?

Not sure if you noticed, but I can be a little obnoxious at times.

Wondering what the rules are when it comes to hotel souvenir etiquette, I paid a visit to my one great source of knowledge (the internet) and tried to find out. Turns out there aren’t that many. Toiletries, the shoe polisher, paper and pens are all fair game, but if anything else ‘accidentally’ falls into your suitcase, you shouldn’t stress about the price of sending it back, because legally the hotel can add any replacement costs to your bill.

So as my criminal friends tuck into their ill gotten gains this week, I know that I for one will be sleeping easy in the knowledge my home isn’t full of contraband. Mind you my easy sleep may also be aided by the fact that every evening I’m able to enjoy a relaxing shower using the luxurious Aqua Di Parma products I nicked from the Ritz Carlton in Bahrain. You see, a friend told us if you lock the toiletries away in your room safe each morning, the staff must replace them.

After two years we’re about half way through the £500 worth of showers, gels and shampoos we brought home with us.

So what is the ideal gift to get a dad on Father’s Day? Well, failing him giving you a list, I think the best thing you can give a dad this Sunday is the knowledge he’s ‘done good’. Take it from someone who over the years has wasted a lot of money on golf accessories, gimmicky books and completely useless gadgets. Blokes aren’t like us girls, they don’t ‘need’ gifts on special occasions. Unlike us they’re lucky enough to be blessed with a trigger in their brain that says ‘that’s just tat’. This year we will have been without my dad for five years and if he’s up there watching, I’m sure a part of him is probably thankful for five years of ‘executive gifts’ he hasn’t had to unwrap.

On the weekend I was sitting beside a friend who was holding his four week old son. He was completely smitten and you could tell he now had one mission in life – to do everything he possibly can to help his son grow up to be happy and healthy adult. Don’t know about you, but telling your dad he’s managed to do that seems a far better present than a pair of socks.

So to my dad, and any others out there who; ran behind their child’s bike the first time they rode it (and put plaster on their knee when they fell off); who collected their daughter when she broke her ankle skating at age 13 (and bargained the cost of setting it down to a carton of beer); who didn’t get mad when you caught your daughter reading Famous Five by torchlight after her bedtime, and who was always on hand to chauffer her to countless sleepovers (yes mum I know you did too, but it wouldn’t be fitting to mention that while talking about Father’s Day), I just wanted to say, you did a great job.

Take it from someone who once had to say her final goodbye to her dad over the phone, if there ever was a day you should pick up the phone to say hello and thanks to your dad, it’s this Sunday.

Or do you?

For many years I’ve stood by and watched as several of my friends have packed up their boots, trailers and campervans and embarked upon their annual trek into the wilderness. I’ve listened as they’ve bravely told me tales of having to do without basic necessities, and I’m not too embarrassed to say I’ve even marvelled at their stories of surviving by foraging for nuts and berries.

That was until last weekend. You see, until then the closest I’d ever been to the world of camping was… well.. a store called ‘The World of Camping’. So in my naivety I’d imagined all campers belonged to a super race of humans who are all able to build a tent out of tree branches and a piece of string. Safe to say that opinion was changed for good on the weekend when I toddled off to Cheltenham to the Wychwood Music Festival. (For those of you living under a rock it’s a music and literary festival held within the Cheltenham Race Course each year).

While there I got a sneak peak at how the so called ‘professional campers’ do it when I was allowed to enter their world  (that section on campsites where you see all the super trailers and big white vans that us tent owners can only dream of affording to stay in). As I walked into their enclosure, bravely holding my fluorescent green wristband aloft for the security man to see I don’t mind telling you it all felt a bit like I was crossing the border into another country, waving my arm in a special salute to secure access. It was all so unfamiliar, and well, so big! Kind of like a campsite for the cast of The Land of The Giants. The first thing that caught my eye was how many vans were decked out with satellite dishes and awnings bigger than most apartments I’ve lived in! Then came the generators which I mistakenly thought were for a little light at night. Wrong. Nowadays these are used to power iPads, televisions, telephone chargers and games consoles. Outside was no better either. The humble campfire has been replaced with the deluxe four burner BBQ, and if you don’t want to line up with the great unwashed, you can also get your own posh wash private shower cubicle, which can be accessorised with a portable ‘loo with a view’ privacy canopy.  Sofas, carpets, fridges, the toughest thing these people had to do on the weekend was decide whether to drink the red or the white.   I’m told they call it glamping, but with all the fancy accessories and fairy lights hanging from the awnings I think they got it right when they called it camping.

Sadly it didn’t quite turn out that way. The sorry tale started back in January with my best friend’s mother calling to say she’d seen David Tennant and Catherine Tate on telly talking about their new play. Within moments I was online determined to get tickets to see the lovely Mr Tennant and whatshername in London. Unfortunately, so it seemed, so was the rest of the country. After enduring nearly an hour of the ticket site crashing, freezing and just generally being unable to handle the demand of Tennant’s adoring fans, I eventually found myself at the payment screen.

Poised to pay I noticed they’d accidentally doubled my ticket order. What to do? I daren’t press the ‘back’ button and risk losing out, so I threw caution to the wind thinking, ‘I’ll sell the extra tickets on eBay’! So, parting with nearly £500, I knew all I had to do was sit back and wait for my tickets to arrive… and wait.. and wait. After a month I phoned the box office to be told they weren’t be sending out tickets until just before the performance to discourage touts and forgers. Feigning disbelief someone would do such a thing I told them I was very concerned I wouldn’t be able to give my elderly relative the tickets for his birthday and couldn’t they make an exception? (No they couldn’t). Changing tack I emailed an official complaint a week later stating it was illegal to change the condition of sale. (Apparently it’s not). Finally after four months of waiting they arrived, and no sooner were they in my hands than I had them up on eBay. Anxious for a sale I concocted a story about having to sell them for my mother who had broken her ankle at Easter. I mean who would lie about Easter?

Finally five months of stress and worry was all about to pay off. My eBay auction was coming to its conclusion. With just a few hours to go I could see that no less than 14 potential buyers were watching, this was going to be a catfight! So as I sat practising my subtle but fitting new signature, Sue the box office billionaire, I noticed the auction had ended. Nervously I clicked on the link to see they had indeed sold….. for £10 less than I’d originally bought them for.

By the way, the name of play?

Much ado about nothing.