Now that I have finally rented (alas not sold) my house that I have lived in for more than 25 years, I am gradually moving my most portable stuff to Pangolin, the 62 feet long 6.5 feet wide narrowboat I bought not long after I put the house on the market. 

On Saturday I moved some cushions, a little oriental rug, two bags of wood and three candles to the boat.  It felt like progress, so I celebrated by hanging out at the Rock of Gibraltar and ordering a Greek salad.  The salad was small and expensive (£6.45) and the oil faintly rancid, but the pub is a five minute walk up the towpath, and I guess that makes it mine.

The next morning, as I stood on Pangolin’s stern deck drinking tea and checking my batteries, someone from a passing boat shouted that the one behind me had come adrift.  I looked up to see its bow floating across the canal.  Grabbing my shoes, I stepped outside and just about managed to reach the stern line as it drifted away.  I hung on and looked for help.

I couldn’t secure the line, because I couldn’t let go in order to fetch mooring pins or mallet or reinforcements or anything.  If I let go, the boat would be completely adrift.  The canal isn’t wide or deep, of course, but it is a nuisance to lose a boat, even so.  The canal is wet and cold and rats piss in the water.  You don’t jump in if you don’t have to.

The canal and the towpath suddenly seemed remarkably empty, but after a while a woman and child in a kayak – I think the boy must have been about 12 years old – paddled by. The mother asked if I needed help, and still hanging on to the rope of the drifting boat (which weighs about 17 tonnes), I admitted I did. 

The kayak mother hailed another passerby and suggested that if young Liam, who had now managed to board the drifting boat, could throw a rope, the passerby, a woman in her late 50s or early 60s, could catch the rope and guide the bow in while Liam manned the boat and I held the stern line.  The mother in the kayak would shove the boat and shout orders.  It sounded like a plan to me.

The passerby said our instructions were very unclear and she didn’t have time.  She needed to walk.  She shuffled grumpily up the tow path.

Nevertheless, the youngster on the drifting boat, his mother in a kayak and I on the tow path, eventually managed to get control of the heavy, drifting boat.  I secured the stern line first and then hammered in the mooring pin attached to the bow line that young Liam recovered from the canal.  Liam climbed back into the kayak and he and his mother continued on their journey.

An hour or so later I was all packed up and ready to return to the task of moving out of my house.  By chance, just as I was locking up Pangolin, the unhelpful passerby was returning from her walk. I told her that she ought to check out the story of the Good Samaritan.

I thought there was a good chance I was offering her useful information.  According to the morning’s religious reports, only 16% of the British public know that story.

Sometimes the Sunday news comes in handy.

That’s what my former mother-in-law used to say when my chilren were teething.  By the time we were married none of my ex husband’s family had their own teeth (except him), so I guess she knew what she was talking about.  Looking at my shiny, new, gummy babies, I was troubled by the inevitabilty.

But I know what she meant in a way, only I’m thinking about sofas rather than teeth.  Furniture is a trouble to get and a trouble to get rid of.  I confess I have never had a happy, adult relationship with an arm chair and now I am moving, I am once again oppressed by upholstery.

When I was a young bride, every time I thought I might acquire my own furniture my mother-in-law would find that she needed a new what the Brits call a “three piece suite”.  Since I was never really a grown-up in America I have little idea if such a thing exists there.  The British version is a sofa and two chairs all in the same fabric.

I was raised to believe that matching furniture was vulgar.  I was also raised to believe that waste was wicked.  Sadly, I worked out that the only thing that could trump vulgar was wicked. 

Before you could say Jack Robinson my in-laws arrived full of good cheer and second hand furniture.  (They also brought their own toilet paper.  I never quite understood this.  I think they were worried that their only son had married a foreign wife who might have exotic habits.) 

Each time, though, I chucked out one piece, despite the wicked waste.  A sofa and one matching chair was a misfortune.  A sofa and two matching chairs looked like carefulness.

Many years later I stood in a furniture showroom and wept. I was nearly 40 and had never bought my own sofa.

Some time around then, my husband and I acquired a flat in London.  I don’t think I can explain exactly how it happened that for several years it was empty except for a couple of foam mattresses on the floor.  I was – and am – terrified of driving in London and have never yet done it.  My husband drove, but he didn’t do furniture.  

When my mother came to visit one year we resolved we would somehow nevertheless manage to furnish the flat together.  We got the larger items (a sofa, yay! and a queen size bed) delivered, but the budget was tight and we realised we would have to move the smaller items ourselves, by bus.

One Saturday, my mother — then in her late sixties — and I walked the quarter of a mile from my house to the village bus stop with two ladder back chairs.  I had sent my elder son earlier with the other two chairs.  We would take the small dining table the next day.

The bus driver collected our money, and nodding at the chairs asked, What? Are you taking them on an outing?

In Oxford we changed buses for London. 

At London the station attendant looked really surprised when we stepped off with our chairs.  He said, It’s the strangest thing!  A guy this morning also got off the bus with two chairs!  Is there some kind of chair convention today?

Well, those chairs aren’t mine now and aren’t my responsibility, though when I recently visited the flat for the first time in nearly ten years (because, though it belongs to my Ex my daughter currently lives there) I saluted the chairs like old friends.

Meanwhile, and two sofas later, I finally have my own furniture to deal with.  I’m moving out, and I can’t keep this stuff.  In England I will only have a boat; in the US I have nowhere of my own at all, though I am still thinking a van is a good idea.  You can’t put a sofa on a van.

I fretted for a long time about getting rid of my hard and late won furniture: my dining table that seats 12 in a pinch where I served so many family meals, the solid maple kitchen table I bought with my book money, the sofa and two chairs that don’t match that I finally had when I was single again and all grown up.

Happily, my Ex is also about to move – he’s going into a new house and willing to take my furniture and keep it for me as long as I want.  I guess it might be forever, but I don’t quite have to say good bye. 

So not as much trouble to get rid of as I thought.  No novacaine required.

Because I am going to make a real hash of explaining the Ashes to Americans.

Today is the first day of the 2009 attempt of the Brits to regain the Ashes, and I don’t think we have begun all that well, although the BBC headline was “England Make Solid Start to Ashes”.  The score is 336 for 7 – apparently the Aussies took some late wickets.

If you are already confused, that’s because it is cricket: a sport where it takes five days to play the game (which often ends in a draw), where you play in sweaters though it is summer, and where part way through everyone breaks for tea and cucumber sandwiches.

We won the Ashes in 2005 after about 20 years, but next we lost them.  Because we only play in the summer, and we only play with Australia, and we play in alternating countries and our adversaries are in the opposite hemisphere  (have you got all that?) this is our first chance to win back.

I won’t explain the rules to you, because frankly I don’t know them, though I am charmed by the whole process, and especially the vocabulary.

There are Overs, and Maiden Overs and Wickets and Sticky Wickets and Leg Before Wickets, and Square Short Leg, Silly Mid Off, and the deeply sinister Third Man.   Also I swear all the umpires are called Dickie Bird, and they look up at the clouds and consult their light meters, and employ the Duckworth Lewis method in case of rain. 

The Brits invented the game, and taught it to the colonies, and these days, mostly the colonies beat us.

It wasn’t always so.  In 1882 England played Australia on English ground and unexpectedly lost.  (Remember that at that time Australia was still England’s penal colony – where we sent our criminals.)

The newspapers screamed that with this extraordinary loss, cricket was dead.  An obituary was published in the national news and the following year something (it isn’t clear what) was burned in a mock cremation in Australia – a ball, bail, stump or perhaps a lady’s veil – and an urn with the Ashes of Cricket was presented to the English team.

Since then we have competed with the Australians for the Ashes of cricket. It is one of the most important sporting events in the UK calendar, very like the American baseball world series – except it only happens every 18 – 30 month. 

It would be a long time to get the Ashes back, except it doesn’t matter.  We’ve declared the Ashes were a gift and the urn is too fragile to travel.  We always keep them, no matter who wins.  A bit like the Parthenon. The sun never sets and all that.  We’re not just a pretty face, you know. 

In this picture the Aussie captain holds a replica, as he is entitled to do, since they won, as usual, the last time around.  Never mind.  We’ve got the real thing, even if it is awfully small, and even when we lose (gloriously, of course). 

But it is funny how such a little thing can stop whole countries.

On Sundays the BBC makes a point of having vaguely religious “news” and last Sunday morning’s wake me up story was how most of the population (more than 75%) say they own a Bible and it is “meaningful” to them, and yet only a fraction of those surveyed could list all 10 commandments, mention a single fact about Abraham or could tell the story of Good Samaritan.  One man noted the amazing coincidence of Jesus being crucified on Good Friday.  Another young women, an art student shown a series of nativity scenes, complained of sexism: all the babies in the pictures were boys.

Because last weekend’s other news was mainly about Michael Jackson and the Glastonbury Festival (Bruce Springsteen was playing for the first time),  I began to think about cultural literacy.   Would my mother understand this news bulletin?  Would my children?

A long time ago I had a high school teacher who said he couldn’t teach American literature any more because the kids didn’t know scripture.  He made us read a lot more than we wanted.  Later, when I went to college and took an English degree there were only two non negotiable requirements: Shakespeare and the Bible.

It’s coming to the end of Wimbledon fortnight in the UK, and I guess because Wimbledon is so perfectly British, it always reminds me of the first years I lived in this country.  I have written before about my second Wimbledon, when I had my tiny, first son in my arms and he and I dozed together to the gentle thwap thwap of tennis balls, barely visible on a little black and white tele while a commentator with impossibly clipped vowels murmured, “Oh, I say! Good shot!”

Though the broadcasters clung to standards, not all the players did; that year, for the first time the men’s singles champion, the young John McEnroe, was not invited to join the All England Club, because of his ungentlemanly behaviour on court.  (These days he is a great favourite here, though he is still teased and asked to repeat, “You can not be serious!” – that being pretty much the worst of his shocking remarks.)

One year earlier I had spent my first summer in England.  My friends, fellow graduate students at Oxford University, were as engaged with Wimbledon as Brits ever are, but the real television draw in 1980 was something else, a drama repeat just before each day’s tennis broadcast .

A friend explained, Of course everyone is watching the repeats in case they can spot a clue to who shot JR.

I asked, Who is JR?

My friend’s jaw dropped, and then he declared I must be the only person in the UK – and probably in the English speaking world  – who could be quite so ignorant. 

Bjorn Borg won the men’s singles.  I got pregnant and I got married.  My British husband filled me in on Dallas.  When our son was born my husband assured me that American cultural imperialism – of which that show was but a small example – meant I needn’t fear to raise good Americans anywhere where television reception was guaranteed.

These days I forget who shot JR and just about recall who Absalom is (the survey didn’t ask about him; he’s my bonus for extra points).   I can tell you quite a lot about Abraham, and am reliable, I think, on all the parables.  But tonight, at least, I could only manage 9 commandments.  (If you want to play this game with me I’ll tell you which one I forgot and which I remembered last, if you’ll tell me yours – no googling. Or we could play a different game where we think about what would be the best 10 commandments for the 21st century.)

As for cultural literacy, it is hard to know what counts any more.  I’m pretty comfortable in my BBC radio world, but if I read the internet I realise I don’t know a damn thing (oops that’s a commandment) that anyone’s talking about.

Well, not quite.  Moving house implies another house to go to, or other grown up accessories, the kinds of things my elderly father calls “plans”.  (As in, “But what are your plans?”)

Although I have no plans, I have, nevertheless, suddenly acquired tenants and apparently they are not expecting me to be lurking in the back bedroom when they move in next month.  It seems they are also expecting my chattels to be gone.  Cupboards that haven’t been opened since 1984 need to be emptied.

Hands up who knows what a Teasmade is.

Today the UK government issued guidance that British schools should no longer teach children the spelling rule, “i before e except after c”.  It was one of the main news headlines all morning.

Haven’t they got anything better to think about, like crashing economies worldwide, wars in Iraq and Afganistan, unrest in Iran, terrorism in Pakistan, nukes in North Korea and disease and starvation in Zimbabwe (to name a few, if they are feeling bored and out on a limb)?

Apparently not.  They have other things on their mind.  The guidance says:

The i before e rule is not worth teaching. It applies only to words in which the ie or ei stands for a clear ee sound. Unless this is known, words such as sufficient and veil look like exceptions. There are so few words where the ei spelling for the ee sounds follows the letter c that it is easier to learn the specific words.

According to the BBC, the directive, issued to 13,000 primary schools recommends:

other ways to teach pupils spelling, like studying television listings for compound words, changing the tense of a poem to practise irregular verbs and learning about homophones through jokes such as ‘How many socks in a pair? None — because you eat a pear’

Never mind the suggestion that our kids should learn spelling from television listings, could someone please explain the homophone joke?

I have lived well over half my life in the UK, but I only became a citizen in 2005, weeks before the last general election and too late to register.  Tonight was my first opportunity to cast a vote as a UK national.

It isn’t a proper election, really.  For most of the country it is merely a European election, something even most Europeans, don’t care about — Slovenia turned out less than 17% last time around.  Only for a very few of us was it also time to elect our local representatives.

Even so, my village was buzzing.  It took me nearly an hour to walk the quarter mile from my house to the polling station because I kept running into people and everyone was in the mood to chat.  Each one of us clutched our polling card, sent by the Royal Mail, second class post, and headed in bold capitals: Representation of the People Act.

There are no hanging chads in England.  We are given a piece of paper and sent to a makeshift booth (not so much as a curtain) where there is a nice fat pencil.  We are enjoined to use that pencil to put an X next to one and only one candidate or party.  Then we fold our ballot and put it in a good old fashioned ballot box.  The local election results will be counted out tonight, paper by paper.  The European votes will be sealed until Sunday; by then 375 million people in 27 countries will have been offered a ballot.

I missed altogether the chance to vote for the Monster Raving Loony Party, a regular election contender in the first couple of decades I spent in the UK, but since the death in 1999 of their leader, Screaming Lord Sutch, apparently it’s no longer an option.  Tonight they weren’t on either of my ballot papers though the party is still publishing a manifesto.  (I like the idea of arming school nurses with dart guns to administer vaccinations during playtime – recess to Americans – more fun for the nurses and less stressful for the children.)

Nor have we heard much recently from the Natural Law Party, but long ago, before I had a vote, I paid taxes to fund their election broadcasts about Yogic Flying.  (I’m not complaining: they were very entertaining — I am only sorry I can’t share my memories of them, it seems they were too long before youtube. )

Tonight there were, nevertheless, plenty of other parties on the long ballot paper I picked up at the polling station:

British National Party – Protecting British Jobs.  These people exclude non whites from membership, advocate zero immigration and no imported goods (crumbs! what would we eat, wear, watch, drive?).  Their official policy is to pay all non whites to emigrate to other countries.

Christian Party – “Proclaiming Christ’s Lordship”.   I never heard of these folks, and don’t know anything about their policies but I am wondering why the quotes.  Is it a rumour? 

Conservative Party.  No tag line, but we know who they are.

English Democrats – Putting England first. 

Jury Team – Democracy, Accountability, Transparency.  Another one I have never heard of.   Jury Team? 

Liberal Democrats.  They wear socks with their sandals, drink warm beer and grow beards all round (ladies and gents).  On the plus side their economic guy knows how to waltz and has a son who is an opera star. 

No2EU – Yes to Democracy.  Foreigners might have noticed that we are just a wee bit ambivalent about Europe.

Pro Democracy: Libertas EU.  Like I said.

Socialist Labour Party.  Back on familiar territory.

The Green Party.  Sandals without the socks.

The Peace Party – Nonviolence, Justice, Environment.  I’m guessing Mom and apple pie too, but I never heard of this party either.

The Roman Party – Ave!  I am beginning to think I made a mistake not supporting them.  They sound like fun.

United Kingdom First

United Kingdom Independence Party – We know about these folk.  They have several MEPs (Member of European Parliament).  Some of them are in jail.

In the end I voted for the party of the guy who married a woman from Kenya and sired an opera star.  I can’t help it.  I’ve heard the kid sing La ci darem la mano.  By their fruits shall ye know them.

More on our elections soon… There’s nothing like British politics.

Any wide awake person in the UK ought to be able to tell you that the theme of the last week or so has been ducks.

First we had an update on the long running crisis of MPs’ expense claims.  We learned that Sir Somebody or Other had claimed more than £1600 for a “floating duck house” on his pond. 
In his inevitable apologia and announcement that he would not be seeking re-election the MP noted sadly that the house “in fact was never liked by the ducks.”

The good Knight ought to have consulted the good scientists of Oxford University.  The results of a recent study to find out what kind of water ducks like best were released last week.

When offered ponds, troughs, and other opportunities (possibly including floating houses) ducks prefer to stand in a shower.

A typical headline screamed, “Boffins’ £300k study finds ducks like rain.”

Well, it was a week when taxpayers were feeling especially ripped off, what with all the MP shenanigans, and to some, I guess, this felt a bit like a last straw, since apparently we footed the bill for this too.  But I calculate that means each UK income tax payer spent less than 1.2 pence to be able to say with confidence, “Nice weather for ducks,” every time it rains – which it does quite a lot.  Sounds like good value to me.

However, the Professor of Poetry election, held once every five years, was the real news in Oxford in the last week.  The Professor of Poetry is a prestigious but largely ceremonial post, and its only formal duty is 3 lectures a year.  All current academics at the University, and every graduate, gets a vote, though they must do it in person.  Recently the requirement to wear a gown while casting your vote was relaxed, but you can still see academics strolling down Oxford’s High Street towards Examination Schools (where the election is held) with gowns flapping behind them. 

As in another recent election the first woman candidate (Ruth Padel, Charles Darwin’s great great  granddaughter) was up against the first black candidate (Nobel prize winner Derek Walcott).

Ruth Padel had become a sudden celebrity in the 200th anniversary of her famous grandfather’s birth and was the media’s current darling, but frankly she didn’t have a prayer against the much more distinguished candidate.  Walcott was the heavy favourite.

Then a story began to circulate on the internet about how Derek Walcott had been accused of sexual harassment at Harvard in the early 1980s.  Next anonymous letters were sent (only to women academics at Oxford) detailing the allegations. 

Ruth Padel declared herself shocked by such low tactics and assured the press that she had nothing to do with such dirty tricks – she was, in fact, “devasted” by what had happened to another poet, and felt “tainted” herself. 

Derek Walcott withdrew from the race, and Ruth Padel was elected.

Over the next week it gradually emerged that despite her denials, Ms Padel had been very actively reminding the world, via a series of emails to her journalist friends, of Mr Walcott’s alleged murky past.

The trail of damning evidence began when someone noticed that the very first journalist who wrote about the sexual allegations against Mr Walcott was a man called James Walsh, Ms Padel’s former lover.  A poem was produced in evidence.

“Home Cooking” in which the poet and her lover have sex on the kitchen table, was said to be about the journalist.  I can’t find a copy, but I’m guessing it’s a rhyming poem.  They cooked a duck.

On Monday, a little over a week after the first woman Professor of Poetry was elected, her resignation was announced.

I’ve been away, dealing with a spot of bother.

Last Thursday evening, one of my neighbours knocked on the door and handed me two parcels she had signed for.  I thanked her and took them in, though I was a little surprised, because I wasn’t expecting anything.

I opened the first parcel.  It was an iPhone.

I’m not, on the whole, a covetous person.  Mostly I don’t have jewellery or antiques; my car is 12 years old and I have never bought an item of clothing that cost more than £150.  But I really love gadgets, especially electronics, especially phones, especially phones with internet.  Anyone who knows me knows I covet an iPhone.

I opened the second parcel.  It was another iPhone.

I didn’t break the seal on either box for a long time, but finally I thought it might be okay to open just one of the phones.  I plugged it into my computer.  In seconds I had a text message inviting me to log in with a user name and password that was a combination of my name and my birthday.  Clearly the phone was ordered by someone who knew me well.

The next morning I began trying to find out who had sent me this gift – partly so I could let them know that the order had been accidentally doubled up and I had received two phones.  I narrowed the suspects to one: my ex-husband.  We were pretty hostile for a while but have become friends again, and he was always a generous man.  He knows I want an iPhone and besides his denial was flippant “not me, guv, maybe they fell off the back of a lorry”.

Meanwhile, lest you think I am silly, I called both banks where I have an account, and each was certain that I was not paying for any iPhone or any iPhone bills. There was also nothing on my credit cards.

By the next morning my Ex had made it clear it really wasn’t him 

I dug a little deeper and accidentally got information on the account details, protected by a PIN I didn’t have. 

I had been the victim of identity fraud.

The account name was mine.  The account number was someone else’s (unknown).  The bills for the two accounts came to more than £100 a month.  It was likely he would notice.

And when he did, he was going to be pretty upset.  My name and address would be all anyone had.

I still didn’t get how the baddies benefitted – phones had been sent to me – but I was pretty sure I needed to get rid of them. 

I tried to take the phones back to the shop, but they absolutely refused to have them and finally I took them to the post office.  UK law says that mobile phone providers have to accept returns within two weeks.  This was within two days. 

I read carefully the return instructions, which said I must affix the label to the parcel.  The label was simply a large number 2 and a barcode.

The number 2 was reassuring.  That usually means Second Class Postage paid.  The barcode was less promising.  And there was no address.

At my local country post office, which is just a counter inside a news and stationer’s shop, I brandished my parcels. I am a little confused, I said.  Is the barcode the address?

The postmistress examined them and replied with enigma worthy of any oracle, Well, some say it is, and some say it isn’t.

I asked if she would nevertheless accept the parcels and she looked doubtful.

I began to get very agitated and explain that the shop wouldn’t take them either, but they weren’t mine and they had been wrongfully sent to me and I really, really needed to get rid of them.

The other customers in the queue began to get interested.

Unsolicited mail! shouted one, Not your problem!  Chuck it or keep it!  Up to you!

I said, My name is on the account, even though it’s not my account. I don’t want to be in trouble. 

The other customers sucked their teeth, meaning this was a problem. Who knew what to do about it?  It was bound to be trouble.  I hadn’t heard the last. 

The postmistresses conferred. The big number 2 on the label was very reaassuring.  At last they agreed they would take the parcels.

I said, pushing my luck. Please could I have a certificate of posting?

Emphatic refusals.  We don’t know where it’s going, see?  explained the postmistress, reasonably enough.

Eventually, with tears on my side and heckling in the other queue, they took the packages.  They gave me a receipt that simply noted down the barcode. 

I was surprised at how light I felt when the phones were gone.

The next evening (yesterday) I arrived home to find that another neighbour had signed for a new parcel.  He handed me a Sony laptop and my heart sank.

This morning I finally understood the scam.  It’s all about credit.

I called the people who had sent the Sony.  Amazingly, they sent it without any money at all.  I have (or used to have) a good credit rating and they trusted that I would pay later.

The fraud investigation team explained to me the system.  All someone needs is your name, address and date of birth.  They don’t need to know any credit card numbers or bank details

They apply for credit and order goods.  To protect you the goods are sent only to you.  That’s the bit I didn’t understand.  I didn’t think anyone would be so bold or open. Apparently the baddies hang around the house and just sign for your goods and have them, or, more often, they wait until the next day.  They knock on your door and say, Did you by any chance get a laptop computer delivered to you yesterday that you didn’t order?

You agree that you did.

Oh, thank goodness for that! They say.  I have been trying to trace where it went!  That order was meant for me! 

And then you hand over the goods, because you are glad to have the mystery solved.

Sounds improbable, right?  When I called the laptop people to report it all, they said, Fine, thanks very much, but what about the laptop delivered last week?

I guess the baddies got that one.  I never even knew it was delivered.  Maybe a neighbour signed for it, maybe the baddies, lurking in my driveway after I had gone to work, signed for it themselves.

Either way it is creepy.

In Britain we have a delightful annual tradition called the Budget.  Once a year the Chancellor of the Exchequer comes out of No. 11 Downing Street waving a battered red briefcase, called the Budget Box, and everyone takes his picture. 

Here is the Chancellor of the Exchequer with the Budget Box.  Inside the box is The Budget.

This Chancellor is called Alistair Darling.  That is his real name.  The Budget Box he is holding belonged to William Gladstone in 1860 and that is the real box, though Gordon Brown, who used to be the Chancellor of the Exchequer, but is now Prime Minister, had a shiny new red box made by Scottish apprentices which he used instead.  In these tough times Alistair (Darling) obviously felt we needed the comforting genuine and grown up Gladstone stuff.

The Chancellor’s emergence from No. 11, like a butterfly from the chyrsallis,  used to follow 6 weeks of what was officially called Budget Purdah, when there was a total blackout on financial news.  Now we have instead several months of unattributed briefings from “sources close to the Chancellor”.  Besides, Budget Purdah is probably politically incorrect.

Nevertheless, and though the plans are widely leaked, there is still some frisson of anticipation when the Chancellor stands up in parliament.  Everyone in my office peeked at the BBC website at some point this afternoon, though we all knew that when the Chancellor sat down, the price of beer, fags and petrol would have gone up. 

Budget Day is the moment when the Chancellor announces what the tax rate for the next year will be, how much money each week people on state pensions will get, how much the government will tax retirement plans, savings accounts, capital gains, inheritance, whatever.  And just, by the way, he can throw in anything he likes.  He always likes to make it more expensive to smoke, drink and drive.  Sometimes he likes to make it more expensive to read or eat or buy clothes too.  He can make it a good plan or a bad plan for me to retire or get married or buy a house or a car or a solar panel or a pint of beer or a porfolio of shares.  He can make anything he likes more or less expensive, because he can tax or untax anything I might buy or see or plan or do.

One year the Chancellor made takeaway food whose temperature is raised above the ambient air temperature 17.5% more expensive.  At a stroke milkshakes to go became more tax advantageous than coffee to go

What larks!

When he has delivered his budget the Chancellor says, I commend this Budget to the House.  And at last he sits down.  There are a couple of hours of debate.  All political parties get five minutes airtime to explain their position to the people and then there is a division (=vote) in Parliament and the Budget is passed.  I haven’t the energy to explain Parliamentary democracy here, so you will just have to take my word for it or look it up yourself.  The Budget always passes, because if it didn’t the Government would fall.

Meanwhile, while Alistair Darling has been thinking hard about the economy, the Prime Minister has had his mind on Pariliamentary pay and allowances.  The issue is a little tedious, but Gordon Brown’s response, announced in an unexpected video on the Downing Street website has got everyone wondering about the PM’s strangely inappropriate, sudden and intermitent grins, grimaces and eyebrow gymnastics as he explained the new rules.