The government is at it again. Not only must pregnant women not drink, at all, but they're not allowed in the sun any more, either. Presumably in case they melt. What next, do you suppose?
Coming soon. Pregnant mothers must not laugh, in case uncontrolled guffaws send dangerously high frequency vibrations straight through Baby's vital organs.
Pregnant mothers must not dance, in case they're crap at it, thus sending the government's new Bop Manifesto spiralling into disuse before it's even been launched.
Pregnant mothers must not.... Oh, do anything, really. In fact, why don't we just cover them all with a cloth for nine months, like parrots, passing nutritionally balanced food through the bars at government-approved intervals. And for heaven's sake, don't try to cheer them up by singing, 'The sun has got his hat on,' or you'll be executed.
Meanwhile 70-year old artist and inveterate smoker David Hockney says that people 'should start standing up for themselves.' Ever tried being pregnant, Hockers? Give it go, then try that sentence again when you've finished.
Thursday, 14 June 2007
Tuesday, 12 June 2007
Bad Lindy's pit stop
It's not that Bad Lindy isn't herself without her phone, but that she's several times more of it. God knows what the vet's practice is going through, but the waiting times are said to have declined rapidly.
While she waits for a replacement, she's trying to soothe herself in the magical world of stuff, though so far without noticeable success.
"Look at this!" she says, when I fail to avoid her in the trendy kitchen accessories shop in town. Together with the trendy nail bar, roughly hewn teak table shop and six estate agents, it's sprung up to meet the locals' emergency shopping needs which, amazingly, no longer seem to include food. On the plus side, though, nobody round here is now ever more than six feet from a French manicure.
Bad Lindy is holding up a small, baby blue enamel bucket with a wooden handle. It looks like a miniature milk-maid's accessory but is labelled 'pegs' and clearly comes from the same design stable that made the lucrative decision to appeal to all our inner domestic slaves by repackaging bleach, disinfectant and washing liquid in clear glass bottles with fancy writing on the outside
"What do they think I do - milk the bloody tree for pegs when I've done the washing?" she says, balancing the handle on the top of one, outraged finger, as bucolic a figure as Marie Antoinette on steroids.
"I take it you're not buying, then."
"Buying? I'm off to the chemists. This deodorant they sold me is hopeless. Look at my pits!" Indignantly, she lifts one arm. "I'm going to stand in the shop like this until they give me a refund."
Judging by the now deserted kitchen accessories shop, she shouldn't have to wait very long.
Later, I call Vicky, who is watching as one of her children gamely attempts to pogo through the walls of her newly constructed shed. "It's almost too much fun for one woman to bear," she says.
Bad Lindy's spare man is still sending Vicky pictures of his pants, in situ. In an interesting variation of pass the parcel, they're getting progressively briefer with each text. The most recent consists of a thong so eye-wateringly small and tight that it's just as well he's not in charge of the gift-wrapping at John Lewis, because there'd be a lot of complaints. Depending on exactly what it was you were after, of course. And we're not talking peg pails.
While she waits for a replacement, she's trying to soothe herself in the magical world of stuff, though so far without noticeable success.
"Look at this!" she says, when I fail to avoid her in the trendy kitchen accessories shop in town. Together with the trendy nail bar, roughly hewn teak table shop and six estate agents, it's sprung up to meet the locals' emergency shopping needs which, amazingly, no longer seem to include food. On the plus side, though, nobody round here is now ever more than six feet from a French manicure.
Bad Lindy is holding up a small, baby blue enamel bucket with a wooden handle. It looks like a miniature milk-maid's accessory but is labelled 'pegs' and clearly comes from the same design stable that made the lucrative decision to appeal to all our inner domestic slaves by repackaging bleach, disinfectant and washing liquid in clear glass bottles with fancy writing on the outside
"What do they think I do - milk the bloody tree for pegs when I've done the washing?" she says, balancing the handle on the top of one, outraged finger, as bucolic a figure as Marie Antoinette on steroids.
"I take it you're not buying, then."
"Buying? I'm off to the chemists. This deodorant they sold me is hopeless. Look at my pits!" Indignantly, she lifts one arm. "I'm going to stand in the shop like this until they give me a refund."
Judging by the now deserted kitchen accessories shop, she shouldn't have to wait very long.
Later, I call Vicky, who is watching as one of her children gamely attempts to pogo through the walls of her newly constructed shed. "It's almost too much fun for one woman to bear," she says.
Bad Lindy's spare man is still sending Vicky pictures of his pants, in situ. In an interesting variation of pass the parcel, they're getting progressively briefer with each text. The most recent consists of a thong so eye-wateringly small and tight that it's just as well he's not in charge of the gift-wrapping at John Lewis, because there'd be a lot of complaints. Depending on exactly what it was you were after, of course. And we're not talking peg pails.
Monday, 11 June 2007
Bloody hell, you're drunk again
Good citizen that I am, it's always nice to know that when it comes to adopting a healthy lifestyle, I'm following official advice. So imagine my delight when I hear that our beloved government has unveiled an exciting new campaign. It's been given a typically inspirational title - something on the lines of, 'Bloody hell, you're drunk again,' and aims to prise middle-class drinkers out of their alcohol-soused homes and back into the wine bars where they belong, so they can get sozzled in company and then spend the night in the gutter with their friends.
I'm something of a sensible drinking expert, largely because I've done so much of it. Last night - a case in point - I hone my sensible drinking skills to such good purpose that I use them non-stop until closing time, by which point, unfortunately, I'm completely legless. This is a bit of a blow given that I've followed government advice to the letter.
As a result, I could really do with a secondary government campaign aimed at crap mothers and called, "You've done it this time, you dozy tart," which would consist of a list of handy tips on what happens when you wake up, drunk, at 3.00 am, and have no idea what you did with the children the night before.
Imagine my joy when I find the regulation issue of one child per bed. Then I find Francis - which is a relief, as I can't remember what I did with him, either.
The next morning at school, yet another excellent campaign idea comes to mind. As a class of twenty seven-year olds strikes up the first excruciating notes of, "Au claire de la lune," on the recorder, I could really do with a large label stapled to my head warning me that mixing wind instruments and alcohol can kill.
A few minutes later, I've proved conclusively that there is life after death. My only hope is that there's no such thing as eternity.
I'm something of a sensible drinking expert, largely because I've done so much of it. Last night - a case in point - I hone my sensible drinking skills to such good purpose that I use them non-stop until closing time, by which point, unfortunately, I'm completely legless. This is a bit of a blow given that I've followed government advice to the letter.
As a result, I could really do with a secondary government campaign aimed at crap mothers and called, "You've done it this time, you dozy tart," which would consist of a list of handy tips on what happens when you wake up, drunk, at 3.00 am, and have no idea what you did with the children the night before.
Imagine my joy when I find the regulation issue of one child per bed. Then I find Francis - which is a relief, as I can't remember what I did with him, either.
The next morning at school, yet another excellent campaign idea comes to mind. As a class of twenty seven-year olds strikes up the first excruciating notes of, "Au claire de la lune," on the recorder, I could really do with a large label stapled to my head warning me that mixing wind instruments and alcohol can kill.
A few minutes later, I've proved conclusively that there is life after death. My only hope is that there's no such thing as eternity.
Sunday, 10 June 2007
Well on the way to cat overload
When you’re young, eccentricity is endearing, doing your own thing a style statement. Later in life, though, things are different. Opt for individuality and it’s taken for oddness, while refusal to follow the herd is seen as the inevitable first step to lonerdom and all points south, taking in carrier bag hoarding, cat overload and shouting at complete strangers in bus queues en route.
Self-help books aren't much help. They're good at telling you how to be young and lovelorn, and positively inspired when it comes to actually being dead – covering everything from ensuring a dazzling eulogy at your funeral to obtaining probate.
But the fact that I won’t be around to read them at the crucial moment severely limits their usefulness.
No wonder the authors are at a loss. All our lives we’ve been fed images that are big on redemption and happy endings, and then we approach middle age and suddenly it’s like being cast as ‘Ugly Betty’ but without the transformation scene at the end of the series.
What worries me is how I’m going to fit in. Admittedly, fitting in has never been one of my career strengths, but then it’s never mattered before.
People like me are politely known as ‘characters’ This signals the countdown to the moment other mothers scare their badly behaved children witless by threatening to employ me as a babysitter. And there’s no convenient slot we can be squeezed into. Society, let's face it, abhors a misfit almost as much as a vacuum. For infants, the big worry is failure to thrive. For older women, it’s failure to conform.
The problem is that credible role models for older women are thin on the ground. In fact, there are just two.
Model A, the sweet little old lady version, shows no signs of being eased into decent obscurity, despite decades of honourable service as a national cliché. According to folklore she runs on knitting, cups of tea and homemade cake.
Or there's Model B, the Botox brigade, woman in denial about ageing and death and attempting to use super-strength depilatories - the modern alternative to cloves of garlic – to ward them off.
I will, no question, be to either category as Polonium 210 is to lemon drizzle cake.
Take small talk, for example. Most people don’t just accept it, but actively enjoy exploring the nuances of steam irons, say, or seasonal isobar variations.
To me, though, it’s the conversational equivalent of a near-death experience, but without the excitement of the bright lights and men in white coats. And while I haven’t given up on my one-woman crusade to introduce big, interesting life and death topics, the more controversial the better, it does mean I spend most parties deep in political analysis with the hat stand.
God knows, I've attempted to conform. For the first time in my life I recently offered to be on a committee. I wasn’t selected, though. My neighbourhood groans under the weight of so many would-be committee members that I’m convinced they’re being bred in captivity by top scientists and then released into the wild as a state-sponsored joke.
So I’ve run out of things to join, and, truth to tell, there’s little point making the effort. If sweet little old lady or Botox queen are all that’s on offer, I’d almost prefer an early death and reincarnation as a beetle, though I’d bet self-help books for invertebrates are even thinner on the ground than those for middle-aged women.
Where next? Where do eccentric women end up? Or by posting this in Blogland, have I already provided myself with the answer?
Self-help books aren't much help. They're good at telling you how to be young and lovelorn, and positively inspired when it comes to actually being dead – covering everything from ensuring a dazzling eulogy at your funeral to obtaining probate.
But the fact that I won’t be around to read them at the crucial moment severely limits their usefulness.
No wonder the authors are at a loss. All our lives we’ve been fed images that are big on redemption and happy endings, and then we approach middle age and suddenly it’s like being cast as ‘Ugly Betty’ but without the transformation scene at the end of the series.
What worries me is how I’m going to fit in. Admittedly, fitting in has never been one of my career strengths, but then it’s never mattered before.
People like me are politely known as ‘characters’ This signals the countdown to the moment other mothers scare their badly behaved children witless by threatening to employ me as a babysitter. And there’s no convenient slot we can be squeezed into. Society, let's face it, abhors a misfit almost as much as a vacuum. For infants, the big worry is failure to thrive. For older women, it’s failure to conform.
The problem is that credible role models for older women are thin on the ground. In fact, there are just two.
Model A, the sweet little old lady version, shows no signs of being eased into decent obscurity, despite decades of honourable service as a national cliché. According to folklore she runs on knitting, cups of tea and homemade cake.
Or there's Model B, the Botox brigade, woman in denial about ageing and death and attempting to use super-strength depilatories - the modern alternative to cloves of garlic – to ward them off.
I will, no question, be to either category as Polonium 210 is to lemon drizzle cake.
Take small talk, for example. Most people don’t just accept it, but actively enjoy exploring the nuances of steam irons, say, or seasonal isobar variations.
To me, though, it’s the conversational equivalent of a near-death experience, but without the excitement of the bright lights and men in white coats. And while I haven’t given up on my one-woman crusade to introduce big, interesting life and death topics, the more controversial the better, it does mean I spend most parties deep in political analysis with the hat stand.
God knows, I've attempted to conform. For the first time in my life I recently offered to be on a committee. I wasn’t selected, though. My neighbourhood groans under the weight of so many would-be committee members that I’m convinced they’re being bred in captivity by top scientists and then released into the wild as a state-sponsored joke.
So I’ve run out of things to join, and, truth to tell, there’s little point making the effort. If sweet little old lady or Botox queen are all that’s on offer, I’d almost prefer an early death and reincarnation as a beetle, though I’d bet self-help books for invertebrates are even thinner on the ground than those for middle-aged women.
Where next? Where do eccentric women end up? Or by posting this in Blogland, have I already provided myself with the answer?
Saturday, 9 June 2007
My mouse loves me
I have a new mouse for my computer. It has a little lozenge of a light on the top, inset into a silver-framed casing. At the softest of touches, the light, which is the shape of a just-formed 'oh' of surprise, blushes with surprise. Clasp it tighter and it positively glows bright red with excitement.
What possible need can there be for an emoting mouse that acts pleased to see me? Are we so deficient in everyday emotion that we need machines to give us a top up?
There's really no rhyme or reason to it. But it's strangely addictive, and I find myself stroking the mouse from time to time, just to see it react with apparent pleasure. "You're sad," says Beth, when she catches me at it.
I'm not so sure. Perhaps it would do us good for all our fixtures and fittings to show how much they care? A chair, say, that groans with pleasure when I sit down. A bed that gives me a hug. And a table that snorts with delight when I rub it down with a wet cloth after a particularly vicious meal.
After all, if we really are all going to hell in a handcart, we might just as well make the trip there a little bit more fun.
But here's the rub. I know full well that even if L'Escoffier comes back from the dead and designs a fully emoting cooker for me, all it will ever do is shriek with laughter if I so much as wave an onion in its direction.
Back to the drawing board. Even that, I reckon, has just started to snigger.
What possible need can there be for an emoting mouse that acts pleased to see me? Are we so deficient in everyday emotion that we need machines to give us a top up?
There's really no rhyme or reason to it. But it's strangely addictive, and I find myself stroking the mouse from time to time, just to see it react with apparent pleasure. "You're sad," says Beth, when she catches me at it.
I'm not so sure. Perhaps it would do us good for all our fixtures and fittings to show how much they care? A chair, say, that groans with pleasure when I sit down. A bed that gives me a hug. And a table that snorts with delight when I rub it down with a wet cloth after a particularly vicious meal.
After all, if we really are all going to hell in a handcart, we might just as well make the trip there a little bit more fun.
But here's the rub. I know full well that even if L'Escoffier comes back from the dead and designs a fully emoting cooker for me, all it will ever do is shriek with laughter if I so much as wave an onion in its direction.
Back to the drawing board. Even that, I reckon, has just started to snigger.
Thursday, 7 June 2007
What I did on my training day
Take an empty gym hall, 20 smiley, enthusiastic primary school teachers and a workship on music and movement and what have you got? A recipe for hell, or, as the workshop co-ordinator would undoubtedly refer to it, "'H - E -L - L,' - and don't forget to enunciate clearly. What a great opportunity to reinforce those letter sounds, everyone!"
As we arrive at the school hosting the event, droves of little girls are emerging, the weedier ones struggling with blazers so lavishly embellished with secondary stitching that the sheer weight of the embroidery could easily pile-drive them into the ground.
Before the course begins, we get a compulsory tour of the school. The head introduces us to her all-female staff. All are blond and enormous, display a great deal of decolletage and seem to have taken the term 'foundation stage' very much to heart when it comes to make-up, never mind the curriculum.
The tour is meant to impress, with each increasingly ambitious activity - French and ballet for tinies, cookery andtailored gym sessions for everyone, prefaced by the remark, "....but I'm sure it's the same everywhere," although, judging by the increasingly stupefied looks on the faces of her audience, it quite obviously isn't. The walls are crammed with the children's work: "I like reading books with information. My favourite book is the Atlas," Aimee, 6, writes in perfect, joined up
letters.
The invitation mentions the need for comfortable clothing, which is interpreted by the guests to mean pink sparkly tops worn over leotards, tailored jackets, big, fussy belts and leather gilets with elaborate beading.
Then the course begins with the chilling words, "Make a lovely big circle and hold hands." I search for an escape route, but the door is firmly closed. We walk first to the left, then to the right, singing the words of the first song, "Mrs Bunny," during which we are encouraged to point to our noses, wiggle our toes, and show off our long, long ears. I think leaping up and down and winking with one eye comes into it somewhere as well, though by this time I am in a sort of trance of horror and unable to take in most of it in.
Next, we choose a partner and, arm in arm, perform various manoeuvres. "Very good for encouraging collaborative work!", shouts the instructor, as we hop, bump hips and then parade round for the creative part, which involves choosing what creature we want to be and then being it while going forwards,backwards and sideways, still in pairs.
Next we play air guitar ("Now's your chance, girls!") high, low, quickly and, unsurprisingly, slow. But that's not the end of it. In quick succession we also play air piano, air trumpet and air drums. "Great for sound discrimination," shouts the coordinator. But most of the teachers aren't even listening. I have a horrible feeling that this is the most fun they've had for ages, or possibly ever. While I shrink back against the wall, clinging to the climbing frame ("Great for empathising with borderline personality disorders, girls!" is the cry that should go up, but doesn't), the others are bright-eyed, red-cheeked and whooping with delight as they
career round the hall. Such is their excitement that when the moment comes to choose a leader to stand in the middle of the circle, the rush to get there first, accompanied by cries of, "ME, ME, ME!" almost results in a nasty accident.
The final part involves sitting down and playing some small drums. There aren't quite enough to go round. "If you don't have a drum, you've got a pretty good percussion instrument with your body," says the instructor, patting herself rhythmically all over. "I'll use my knees as my drums." Enthusiastically everyone else joins in.
Later on, I give one of the other teachers a lift to the station. "That was great," she says. "Sometimes you really need something like that to stop getting stale." It's a safe bet, however, that even if I grow so stale that I am covered in green mould, I will never, ever need something even remotely like that ever again.
As we arrive at the school hosting the event, droves of little girls are emerging, the weedier ones struggling with blazers so lavishly embellished with secondary stitching that the sheer weight of the embroidery could easily pile-drive them into the ground.
Before the course begins, we get a compulsory tour of the school. The head introduces us to her all-female staff. All are blond and enormous, display a great deal of decolletage and seem to have taken the term 'foundation stage' very much to heart when it comes to make-up, never mind the curriculum.
The tour is meant to impress, with each increasingly ambitious activity - French and ballet for tinies, cookery andtailored gym sessions for everyone, prefaced by the remark, "....but I'm sure it's the same everywhere," although, judging by the increasingly stupefied looks on the faces of her audience, it quite obviously isn't. The walls are crammed with the children's work: "I like reading books with information. My favourite book is the Atlas," Aimee, 6, writes in perfect, joined up
letters.
The invitation mentions the need for comfortable clothing, which is interpreted by the guests to mean pink sparkly tops worn over leotards, tailored jackets, big, fussy belts and leather gilets with elaborate beading.
Then the course begins with the chilling words, "Make a lovely big circle and hold hands." I search for an escape route, but the door is firmly closed. We walk first to the left, then to the right, singing the words of the first song, "Mrs Bunny," during which we are encouraged to point to our noses, wiggle our toes, and show off our long, long ears. I think leaping up and down and winking with one eye comes into it somewhere as well, though by this time I am in a sort of trance of horror and unable to take in most of it in.
Next, we choose a partner and, arm in arm, perform various manoeuvres. "Very good for encouraging collaborative work!", shouts the instructor, as we hop, bump hips and then parade round for the creative part, which involves choosing what creature we want to be and then being it while going forwards,backwards and sideways, still in pairs.
Next we play air guitar ("Now's your chance, girls!") high, low, quickly and, unsurprisingly, slow. But that's not the end of it. In quick succession we also play air piano, air trumpet and air drums. "Great for sound discrimination," shouts the coordinator. But most of the teachers aren't even listening. I have a horrible feeling that this is the most fun they've had for ages, or possibly ever. While I shrink back against the wall, clinging to the climbing frame ("Great for empathising with borderline personality disorders, girls!" is the cry that should go up, but doesn't), the others are bright-eyed, red-cheeked and whooping with delight as they
career round the hall. Such is their excitement that when the moment comes to choose a leader to stand in the middle of the circle, the rush to get there first, accompanied by cries of, "ME, ME, ME!" almost results in a nasty accident.
The final part involves sitting down and playing some small drums. There aren't quite enough to go round. "If you don't have a drum, you've got a pretty good percussion instrument with your body," says the instructor, patting herself rhythmically all over. "I'll use my knees as my drums." Enthusiastically everyone else joins in.
Later on, I give one of the other teachers a lift to the station. "That was great," she says. "Sometimes you really need something like that to stop getting stale." It's a safe bet, however, that even if I grow so stale that I am covered in green mould, I will never, ever need something even remotely like that ever again.
Wednesday, 6 June 2007
It's a mad, mad, macromolecular world
School reports written: 120
Number of reports praising exceptional quietness and behaviour of child who turns out to have left a term ago: One.
There are now many ways of upsetting Francis and, as Freud's my witness, I'm working my way through the the lot.
Without telling me, my brain has a clearance sale - 'Blue Cross day! Every coherent thought must go!' and ditches every tune except 'I don't like Mondays,' and 'Nine to five,' both of which course endlessly through my head. When I start humming them, Francis flinches. Increasingly he looks like a mature - and slightly balding - Saint Sebastian watching in sad acceptance of his impending martyrdom as his killers unpack their buy-one, get-one-free bumper packs of extra sharp arrows.
So what's the etiquette if we really run out of money? I've been giving money to the man selling The Big Issue outside the supermarket for years and wonder fleetingly how he'd react if we asked for a refund. Or perhaps Grace, the nine-year old we sponsor in Africa, might do a timeshare with Deborah on the skipping rope we sent her at Christmas.
Whistling, 'Tinker, tailor, soldier, job-seeker,' I let myself back into the house to discover Francis eyeing up his suits. Perhaps he wants to play offices. Well, it's got to be better than opening the wardrobe and sadly stroking the work shirts which are all ironed up with nowhere to go.
But, no. Francis has just had a phone call. Down at the company with the critical mass in its backyard, things have reached breaking point, owing to a surfeit of jargon that's formed an almost impenetrable jungle of verbiage between the management and the outside world.
Francis sits in a long meeting and listens while six men, all sporting matching sets of ear hair and a look of boffin-like anxiety, throw phrases like 'Parallel Structures', 'Computational chemistry and computer-based molecular modelling', and 'Combinatorial libraries of drug-like molecules, macromolecular and chemical databases,' at him.
When they've finished, they look at him expectantly. "So, you see the problems we're facing," says one.
"I'm terribly sorry," says Francis, "I haven't understood a single word you've been saying."
Meanwhile, Megadik is on the move again. Not only has it 'proved its superiority under other preparations for many times!' but it has, apparently, 'been announced by TV'. Now there's a thing. I wonder who they've recruited to announce it. Thinking about it, though, Andrew Marr's been looking awfully pleased with himself recently. And I'm sure I saw an unusual-looking coffee cup in the background of that series he's been presenting.
Number of reports praising exceptional quietness and behaviour of child who turns out to have left a term ago: One.
There are now many ways of upsetting Francis and, as Freud's my witness, I'm working my way through the the lot.
Without telling me, my brain has a clearance sale - 'Blue Cross day! Every coherent thought must go!' and ditches every tune except 'I don't like Mondays,' and 'Nine to five,' both of which course endlessly through my head. When I start humming them, Francis flinches. Increasingly he looks like a mature - and slightly balding - Saint Sebastian watching in sad acceptance of his impending martyrdom as his killers unpack their buy-one, get-one-free bumper packs of extra sharp arrows.
So what's the etiquette if we really run out of money? I've been giving money to the man selling The Big Issue outside the supermarket for years and wonder fleetingly how he'd react if we asked for a refund. Or perhaps Grace, the nine-year old we sponsor in Africa, might do a timeshare with Deborah on the skipping rope we sent her at Christmas.
Whistling, 'Tinker, tailor, soldier, job-seeker,' I let myself back into the house to discover Francis eyeing up his suits. Perhaps he wants to play offices. Well, it's got to be better than opening the wardrobe and sadly stroking the work shirts which are all ironed up with nowhere to go.
But, no. Francis has just had a phone call. Down at the company with the critical mass in its backyard, things have reached breaking point, owing to a surfeit of jargon that's formed an almost impenetrable jungle of verbiage between the management and the outside world.
Francis sits in a long meeting and listens while six men, all sporting matching sets of ear hair and a look of boffin-like anxiety, throw phrases like 'Parallel Structures', 'Computational chemistry and computer-based molecular modelling', and 'Combinatorial libraries of drug-like molecules, macromolecular and chemical databases,' at him.
When they've finished, they look at him expectantly. "So, you see the problems we're facing," says one.
"I'm terribly sorry," says Francis, "I haven't understood a single word you've been saying."
Meanwhile, Megadik is on the move again. Not only has it 'proved its superiority under other preparations for many times!' but it has, apparently, 'been announced by TV'. Now there's a thing. I wonder who they've recruited to announce it. Thinking about it, though, Andrew Marr's been looking awfully pleased with himself recently. And I'm sure I saw an unusual-looking coffee cup in the background of that series he's been presenting.
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